Death by Falling
                        Copyright 1994 by Dave Laird

Hello Everyone!

He is neither fat nor thin, attractive or homely. In fact, in the imperfect
lighting of the argon-helium lighting along what passes for Springdale's
main street, were you to momentarily glance at Sid as he stands in front of
the Reservation Tavern, surreptitiously sneaking sips on a bottle of pain in
a brown paper sack, you would be unlikely to approximate his age, as he has
a face that nearly is ageless, smooth and unlined, yet with a haunting sheen
to it, as if he had suddenly stepped forth from some unspeakable private
hell that had left its mark.

To most of the residents, Sid is just another floater in a summer of a
surplus of drifters, all who materialized out of nowhere, heading in no
particular direction, with the exception that nearly all of them usually
spend an inordinate amount of time waiting at one of the three taverns in
town. Some cease their rambling days right here in Springdale, either
conveniently moving in and setting up housekeeping with any available woman
they can find. Usually within a year, they have become upstanding members of
the community in their own minds. Some, perhaps after one or more
visitations from Marshall Wallace Goldstar, the Town Marshall, wisely decide
to move on, perhaps to someplace where less questions are asked that smack
of exculpation and have a little more of a neighborly welcome.

Within hours of his arrival Sid was pulled over because of a busted
taillight lens and extensively questioned by Marshall Goldstar, and since he
was free of any felony arrests or unpaid traffic tickets, Goldstar is
content to leave Sid be, for the moment, since with the Rodeo coming to town
in less than two weeks, there are bigger challenges in the wings.

Despite the fact that after a period of a week in town, Sid was able to
acquire a job from Bill Halverson out on the reservation as a haying hand,
as he now stands, feigning nonchalance in front of the Rez Tavern sipping on
his bottle once again, he can feel Goldstar's cold gray eyes on him from his
traditional parking spot in the town squad car over by the Grange parking
lot.

Finally the power of Goldstar's .45 caliber stare is too much for him and,
with a deep sigh, he stows the bottle beneath his faded chambray work shirt
and strolls on inside the tavern.

"You'll be leaving that bottle you got stashed underneath your shirt up here
with me while you're in my goddamn tavern." Tavern owner Bud Riley meets him
just inside the front door, a deeply furrowed scowl sharpening his face.
"It's that or else you go back outside and finish it off, because with the
Town Marshall in town, I don't need a ticket for you having an open bottle
of whiskey in my bar."

As Sid fumbled momentarily and finally produced the bottle and the brown
paper bag, he stammered, "Do I get it back when I leave?"

"Shit yeah!" Bud Riley gave him the benefit of what passed for a smile.
Broken glass or perhaps a mangled chrome bumper would be sweeter. Still, he
brazened it through, and collecting the bottle, added for the benefit of
everyone within earshot, "But if you go back outside with the sumbitch and
get your ass busted for driving with an open container in your car, don't
come whining around my goddamn door at no four in the morning. Since I hear
you already met the Town Marshall, don't underestimate that sumbitch. He'll
give you a ride to Colville quicker than a goose will crap on your shoe."

Sid subconsciously filed Bud's comment about four in the morning away. Half
of surviving was knowing who was awake and where they lived.

Within a minute, the hush that had fallen over the bar when Bud took his
bottle away dissipated and the normal buzz of a typical Saturday night
resumed. Sid paid for a beer and wandered back to the rear of the tavern
where a desultory pool game was underway between two of the Parlee family.
There, he sat down on the only unattended bar stool in the tavern,
contemplatively sipping his beer, and to all outward appearances, was a
study in serenity, a virtual stoic, and within minutes hardly anyone turned
a curious glance his way again.

Yet, beneath his exterior calm, his mind reeled back and forth in what was
for him old and predictable ways. On his way back to the pool table, Sid had
noticed Ray Blanchard, Senior pull out a fat wallet, filled almost to
overflowing with bills, to pay for another pitcher of beer for his table.
Blanchard, a registered member of the Spokane Tribe of Indians, had just
sold an old weather-beaten swather to some guy from Elk for the magnificent
sum of $860, so tonight he was waxing benevolent.

Careful to avoid any untoward or overt interest, Sid made note of
Blanchard's mannerisms, especially the fact that he was pretty drunk, and
then continued his careful surveillance of everyone else at the table. A
glance at Blanchard's oldest son gave him a momentary start. He was unlike
any Indian that Sid had ever seen. Huge arms and hands the size of baseball
gloves, he was intimidating enough. When he stood up to get the beer, at six
feet eleven inches tall, he towered over everyone in the bar.

That one would be a handful, Sid thought wryly to himself, and continued
watching, much the same as a weasel watches a chicken in a coop; never
ceasing his covert vigilance, studying but not being noticed, until it
becomes time to make the first move. He was a patient, thorough man.
Patience and thoroughness were the marks of success, and he was a successful
at what he did.

The hour drew late, and several glasses of beer later, when Bud warned him
it was time to finish up and go home, he made his first move as carefully as
the weasel first touches the chicken wire fence, exploratorily, testing,
curious.

Finishing his beer, he rose from the barstool, as if to leave, and then
reeling as if drunk, he briefly bumped into Blanchard, then his wife,
Marcia, who likewise were preparing to leave.

"Oh, sorry," he murmured, looking as dazed and befuddled as if he had way
too much to drink. "I think I had a little too much to drink."

Then, with the practiced air of one alcoholic meeting another in the
euphoric befuddlement of beer-induced haze, he focused his wavering eyes on
Blanchard's for the first time, and stared at him, as if trying to clear up
his vision.

"Say, do you think you could give me a ride back to the Reservation? I think
I've had too much to drink and I can't handle another ticket."

Blanchard, somewhat wary, asked, "Aren't you the fellah that just started
working for Halverson's Ranch as a haying hand?"

"Yessir. That I am. I just got an advance on my salary today, and the first
thing I did was come into town and get drunk. I'm really messed up if I get
arrested my second week on the job."

"Oh, I suppose." Blanchard sighed agreeably. "You can ride with me in the
truck and I'll drop you off right at Halversons, since they're right on my
way home."

Still the flawless performer, he managed to stagger into at least half a
dozen people as he followed Blanchard unerringly out to his new pickup truck
parked less than a dozen feet from his own old battered road-weary truck.
Now, if the kid doesn't come along for the ride, he thought icily.

The stage was set, the curtain was rising, for it was just he and Blanchard
who were riding in the truck. Everyone else, including his wife, were riding
in Junior's Suburban parked another twenty feet down the darkened sidewalk.
This is almost too easy, he thought to himself, as they passed Goldstar's
squad car unmolested, heading south out of town toward the Reservation.

A few miles later, as they turned on one of the many road which ultimately
would take them onto Tribal Reservation land, Blanchard cheerily asked, "Did
you hire on at Halverson's permanently, or are you just helping out with the
haying season?"

As quickly as the weasel will strike, unerring and certain in its grace, the
knife he'd carried all evening in his right boot leapt to his hand, and he
stuck it into Blanchard's ribcage.

"Now, hand me that wallet you're carrying, slow and easy, and you won't get
hurt."

He slowly turned the knife, making certain that Blanchard could clearly see
and feel the knife, scarcely inches from his heart.

Blanchard slowed and finally stopped the truck, holding both hands up. His
voice was rippling with panic, and fear dripped from his words.

"I'll get the wallet out with my left hand. No tricks. You can have it all.
Shit, my life's worth more to me than a measly stack of money."

"Do it!" he commanded, his voice harsh, devoid of its humanity in the plush
cab of the pickup truck as its motor was idling smoothly, purring,
expectant.

Slowly, Blanchard reached down and behind himself, as if retrieving his
wallet. Just when Sid could begin to taste the wonderful feel of all that
money, cascading into his hands, Blanchard's hand, instead of appearing with
an overstuffed wallet, reappeared with a revolver.

The glare of the muzzle blast was the last thing he recalled, as the bullet
passed completely through him, lodging halfway through the metal exterior of
the pickup door behind him.

Ray Blanchard leaned carefully over Sid's still body, keeping the gun
trained on him the entire time, and felt for a pulse that faded into
nothingness almost as soon as he found it.

Lights shone briefly on his truck from behind, and his heart lurched, went
into overdrive, and then calmed back down as soon as he realized it was
Junior and his wife. When Junior casually strolled up to the window to ask
just what the hell he was doing parking in the middle of the road like that,
his gentle giant of a son nearly fainted on the spot as Ray briefly turned
on the dome light and showed him Sid's body.

It is a mark of men that live on the Reservation south of Springdale, that
they are adaptive. For if they were not so, they would have been beaten into
total submission decades ago, and probably live in tract homes outside
Spokane and practice the White Man's religion.

Sid's body was unceremoniously dumped in an abandoned mine shaft nearly
thirty miles away before the sun began to tinge the eastern sky. With him
went his knife and hat. Down, down, down everything fell, until nearly a
minute later, their arrival at the bottom of the mine shaft was punctuated
with a brief WHOOSH of pain. The silence was only broken by the sound of
their feet moving through the ryegrass, and then there was no more.

Oh, sure, there were questions asked later, especially when Halvorsen's
called the Town Marshall to see if Sid had been taken to jail. Others,
including the Sheriff's Department, asked about Sid's pickup truck that
remained parked in front of the Reservation Tavern for about a week, and
shortly thereafter disappeared, as well. Yet, no one pursued their questions
with any vigilance, especially when one of the young hands at Halvorsen's
remembered seeing Blanchard's pickup stop briefly at the base of the
Halvorsen's driveway early that morning.

There are always drifters that come and go, as seasonal as the geese that
already fly their unerring pathways overhead. Springdale is full of
transitions, much the same as it has learned to be adaptive from the Spokane
Indians who frequent its taverns and bars.

Dave