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THE GREAT BUNEY STANDOFF Part 1 |
| Written by Don Chance | |
| Friday, 07 March 2008 | |
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THE GREAT BUNEY STANDOFF Part 1 By D.L. CHANCE Buena Vista sits quietly near the top of Colorado's "Valley of the Fourteeners." An elderly town of around two thousand, give or take the occasional snowmobile invasion, "Buney" as mountain folk throughout the Upper Arkansas River country have called it for more than a hundred years, is just not the kind of place where truly newsworthy events are likely to happen. To most back country tourists coming north from Salida, Buney has always been a little roadside stop on the way to Leadville to the north and/or Aspen (but only during the high summer as the hundred feet or so of snow in Independence Pass every fall, winter and spring tends to discourage vehicle traffic most of the year) to the northwest. Buney started out life in the 1870s as a rail yard for trains coming in and out of the hundreds of remote mining camps in Colorado's central mountains. Because it was located on the fertile river valley floor alongside the Collegiate Peaks - Mt. Oxford, Mt. Harvard, Mt. Columbia, Mt. Yale, Mt. Princeton, so on - part of the longest continuous string of fourteen thousand-foot mountains in the Rockies, Buena Vista quickly became a ranching and farming center. It supplied most of the fresh provisions it took to keep the armies of hungry miners, and the legions of various other tradesmen who lived by mining the miners, from starving in the harsh and barren high country. But the mining boom eventually played out, and Buena Vista farmers eventually exhausted the available farmland by raising too much lettuce without allowing time for the soil to rest up between crops. So Buney stopped booming, too. The town settled into the kind of place most travelers passing through on State Highway 24 usually only glimpse and think how quaint and old-fashioned life must be in such a pleasant roadside community; not that they'd ever really want to live there. A small state prison a couple miles down the highway at the Johnson Village crossroads had become the largest single supplier of regular wage-paying jobs in the region. There was no other industry. Besides the mountains, the occasional glider plane overhead - or near-miss with every kind of local critter from groundhog to moose - is usually about all of Buney most passers-by remembered. But Henry Chase lived in Buena Vista, and had all his life. Henry had been known locally as Hoke for as long as he could remember, though he never cared much for the nickname. He lived at the western edge of town in a large two story lodge-style log home his daddy had built at the corner of a wooded ten-acre plot alongside Cottonwood Creek, a few dozen yards from Old Man Duggan's place, decades earlier. Hoke and his wife, Clara, raised five boys and a girl in the aging house. Its wide covered front porch was always a popular gathering place for the area children, and a pleasant spot to while away summer evenings with Clara while the kids played tag, red rover, hide-and-seek, baseball, volleyball and a dozen other energy-demanding games in the large front yard as far past sunset as Clara would allow. But Clara passed away in the early 1990s, leaving her vast collection of dimestore glass vases and ceramic figurines to collect dust in the living room. The children, who all had children of their own, were scattered up and down the Front Range from Fort Collins to Trinidad. They hardly ever visited each other or Hoke; though one or two might make their way back across Ute Pass, Wilkerson Pass and Trout Creek Pass from Colorado Springs for the occasional weekend stay when the Buney weather was at its best. But only then. They left decades-worth of clutter filling every upstairs room - every closet, every cabinet, every shelf - and most of those downstairs as well. From their brief visits, it didn't appear likely they'd ever come back and remove their stuff. So, as the last summer of the 1900s wound its way down toward an uncertain fall - and an even more uncertain changeover of year, decade, century and millennium - Hoke Chase was a lonesome man surrounded by silent keepsakes, souvenirs, whatnots, doodads and assorted knick-knacks of all kinds. Oh, he had friends in town. Lots of them. He'd served as a deacon at the Buena Vista First Baptist Church since he was old enough to pass an offering plate, and he'd known all the other regulars at the Green Parrot Bar since he was in school. Hoke had even once ran for, and won, a two-year term on the town council. He was still proud that during his term he'd helped get Roger Bascom hired as the town's police chief when the other councilmen thought the strapping young officer was too inexperienced for the top job. But sitting alone in his scruffy, and no longer comfortable, barcalounger that year, Hoke couldn't help thinking how much he'd like to get out of the mountains. Leave, and maybe never come back; because he realized how he was also dissatisfied with his life, his children, his house and, most of all, BUNEY! Not that he didn't enjoy some aspects of his existence. Fishing the many creeks and lakes, and hunting in the foothills - depending on the season - always made for pleasant time passers. He trudged home with nothing to show for an afternoon of enjoying nature as often as not; but he always saw something new and different every time he fisted a fly rod or long gun and headed out. And firing up his pickup for a visit with Clara's widowed cousin Martha, who lived down Salida way, made for the occasional pleasurable weekend. But as summer began to close out its seasonal business in preparation for autumn taking over the area's weather supply chores, four-legged game around Buney was as scarce as four-bit coffee in the cafes, and any brown trout still alive in the Arkansas after some kind of chemical spill from the mines upriver killed off most of the wild population were no longer interested in lures that had seemed so irresistible to them only weeks before. And Martha had kin visiting from Missouri, with no idea of when they'd go home. Even the large radio-controlled toy monster truck his grandson played with when visiting, and which Hoke loved to run around the yard when the kids were away because it was almost big enough for a kid to ride on, no longer gave him the same spirit-boosting satisfaction. It just sat brooding in its place at the top of the stairs, dusty and forgotten, its gleaming blue and silver colors fading in the summer sun shining through a nearby dormer window. To take his mind off his melancholy, Hoke began spending more and more of his day in his worn recliner with the television blathering incessantly away. He'd reluctantly brought in a cable TV hookup for bored grandkids back in June, but never had much use for it himself. Now, though, with little else to occupy his mind he found himself spending almost all day sitting, eating and even napping sometimes in the nineteen-inch color glow of the Korean-made Daewoo his oldest son sent out last Christmas. He didn't care for the fact it was made in Korea, and he never even tried to pronounce its silly foreign name, but the television worked well enough to replace the coffin-sized combination record player, radio and black-and-white TV that had entertained the family for so many decades before the last television repairman in town retired to a Denver constant care home with no one to keep his dingy shop open. Of more than a hundred available channels, Hoke had more or less settled on a news network which updated itself every half-hour around the clock. No matter what time it was when he glanced at the numbers tucked among other bits of information in the lower right-hand corner of the screen, he was always somewhat amazed at how many hours had passed since he last looked. But then the moment's headlines would be repeated, and he'd be lost in world events once again. After about nine days of this, something in Hoke's mind caught and held onto something the announcer said one afternoon. He blinked, as if coming out of a deep trance and, scratching at two weeks' worth of unwashed beard growth on his jaw, muscled his chair to its full upright position. He focused in on the developing story. An armed man, the on-scene reporter claimed when he realized he was on the screen, had barricaded himself in a house somewhere in Florida and vowed he wasn't coming out no matter how many police tried to force him. Hoke watched fascinated as the scene became ever more tense with every change of camera angle. Police cars, sheriffs' cars, fire trucks, and even helicopters were there, and a few bystanders were asked to describe what a nice, quiet neighbor the armed suspect normally seemed to be. When the studio anchorman suggested interested viewers could change channels and pick up his network's sister outfit, where live coverage of the breaking story would continue while he went on to talk about sports, Hoke fished the remote control from between the arm and the seat of his chair and fumbled with the buttons. He finally found the story again, but was surprised to find it being broadcast by a completely different network! Moving cautiously between channels, so as not to lose the story, Hoke discovered that no less than four networks had reporters at the scene of the standoff, and all were grim-faced and serious over the unfolding event. "We can't have citizens doing this," a police spokesman - Hoke didn't bother to read the name superimposed over the man's chest - said into a veritable bumper crop of microphones. "We'll have to bring this-" he consulted a card "-this Robert Maple out of there, no matter what it takes. We have to protect the public." "Has he shot anyone?" one of the reporters asked from off-screen. "Not that we know of," the policeman said grimly. "And we hope that doesn't happen." "Has Maple fired on your men?" another reporter asked. "No." "Has he fired at all?" a third reporter wanted to know. "There has been no gunfire from inside the house," the cop said, his face hardening. "But we are fully prepared to deal with any eventuality. We don't want to hurt Mr. Maple, but make no mistake: This is a case of a single crazed citizen flaunting the law. Of brazenly-" "He's coming out," someone yelled. Before the police spokesman could say anything else, the camera angle shifted to the now open front door of the small frame tract house where an elderly double-barrel shotgun, broken open and plainly showing it was no danger to anyone, flew out to land on the grass. The sudden snicking sound of rifles being cocked by the many law enforcement officers came clearly across the TV speakers when a balding old man dressed in sweat pants, sandals and a Bass Pro Shops t-shirt, his hands high in the air, stepped timidly through the door. "I'm coming out," he croaked, though he was obviously already outside. "Don't shoot." "Is there anyone else in the house," the police spokesman shouted from behind a tree. "No, it's just me." Someone on the scene must have given a signal, but Hoke didn't catch it. The next instant, four heavily muscled police officers wearing bulletproof vests charged up and tackled the old man. He screamed and disappeared under a pile of beefy cops while a dozen or more other policemen ran past and into the house. The view immediately cut back to the reporter, who began explaining what Hoke had just witnessed. A quick look at the other channels showed pretty much the same thing. Hoke didn't see Robert Maple again until a brief camera shot showed him bent over and weeping openly in the back seat of a police car as it sped away past a line of network news satellite trucks. Hoke clicked off the Daewoo and sat there stunned. From the few seconds he'd been on screen, Robert Maple - the name was burned in Hoke's mind - looked to be a few years older than Hoke, but he'd held off a small army of police and sheriffs' deputies for as long as he wanted. No one ever said why, and it didn't matter now. What mattered was how it had all been caught on camera for the world to see. Gazing thoughtfully at his own full rack of guns, and pondering deeply on what he'd just seen, Hoke was still sitting there hours later; long after it was fully dark outside. Then he stood, stretched, worked out a kink in his back, and went upstairs to bed. Robert Maple. Robert Maple. Robert Maple. Hoke Chase. Hoke - NO! Not Hoke, dammit. Henry Chase! Hoke rolled over and smiled in his sleep. Yeah, Henry Chase. Over at the police station, pulling a double shift because the regular night man was out on vacation and the backup officer was off visiting a sick mother in Glenwood Springs, Chief Roger Bascom looked up from his paperback western when an odd shudder suddenly shot through him. He set his reading glasses aside and studied on the strange sensation for a moment. When nothing else happened, he shrugged, eased his cheater specs back into place and re-immersed himself in the past. But he couldn't completely shake the lingering uneasiness the peculiar feeling left in his gut. Early the next morning, Hoke woke up rested, refreshed, and feeling better about his life than he had in a long time. The day was bright and sunny, and the pleasant late-summer breeze blowing through his open bedroom window seemed to lift his spirits even more. Dressed, shaved for the first time since he could remember, and on his way downstairs, he grabbed up the television remote control as he went by the recliner and lightly thumbed the world outside of Buney back into existence. Hoke listened absently to the news in the next room while he scrambled a few eggs and made toast, and chuckled at himself for what he'd gone to bed thinking. Confronting the law just to get himself a few minutes on television? Must've been nuts, he decided, to even consider such foolishness as that. Kid stuff. Robert Maple probably spent a crappy night in jail, he guessed, after what he pulled yesterday on live TV. Crazy bastard. He'd probably spend many more crappy nights there, too. Unless, of course, someone bailed him out. Hoke ate his breakfast in front of the television. He couldn't help noticing there was no mention of Robert Maple on the news, after the silly old fart had stirred up such a fuss just yesterday with one two-round shotgun he never even triggered. A decent pump-action semi-automatic with, say, six available rounds, like the matched pair of Remingtons Hoke had hanging with the rifles on his rack, would have made a much longer-lasting impression on the heavily armed cops, he expertly concluded. Finishing his meal, Hoke decided to get out and enjoy the day. Fishing would be good he decided, aiming the remote control spitefully at the television and punching the off button. And he had some ideas on a few unconventional lures that might attract an Arkansas River trout or two. Besides, fish were always hungrier early in the morning. Normally, he'd have tramped up Cottonwood Creek to a secluded spot only he and a most of the other avid anglers in Buney knew about. It was tucked into a fold of the foothills and hidden completely out of sight and sound of the town, and he almost always pulled something edible from the sparkling clear water. Usually a mess of rainbows. But, in what had to be one of the last truly beautiful days he'd see in Buena Vista until next summer, he was curious as to whether the larger river-dwelling brownies were making a comeback after that chemical spill. The river was a good mile or more away, past the downtown business area. But instead of climbing into his pickup and riding over, the day was so nice he decided to walk it. He grabbed up his favorite rod and a small tackle box and started out. Throwing a last look at his home, he wondered briefly how long Robert Maple could have held out if he'd had such a sturdy stronghold as the heavy ponderosa log house the elder Chase had built. When he passed the police station, he threw a wave at Chief Bascom, who was walking toward the building with a well-dressed man Hoke didn't recognize. Roger Bascom had been the best friend of Hoke's oldest son, and Hoke had always liked the sturdy, affable young man. Hoke was glad his stubborn determination in championing Bascom's character and integrity to the rest of the city council had worked out so well for the town. Bascom grinned and waved back. Feeling even better now, Hoke tossed howdies at other friends and acquaintances along the entire two-block downtown area. He also passed short pleasantries with people he didn't know. Some responded. Most didn't. Lots of strangers in town nowadays. Still, if Robert Maple had had more people around him, Hoke wondered, would the foolish old sumbitch have tried taking on every policeman in sight? He doubted it. Near the river, Hoke stopped and stared at the waterside picnic park, and the two network news trucks sitting under the cottonwoods there. He cautiously approached the open door of one, and nodded a greeting at the guy sitting at a complicated video display console inside. He vaguely recognized the man as a reporter with one of the big Denver television stations, but he couldn't quite place a name with the face. "Can I help you," the man asked. "Oh, I just noticed you parked here," Hoke said. "Couldn't help...you know, wondering why." The reporter smiled and came to his feet. "I see." He offered his hand for shaking and seemed to think Hoke already knew his name. "We're here to do a report about the recovery of the fish populations in the river after so many died last summer." "That chemical spill up near Leadville," Hoke said. "I remember." He pointed at the second truck. "Is that why they're here, too?" Throwing an annoyed glare at the other news vehicle, the one wearing the call letters of a Colorado Springs station, the reporter shrugged. "Probably," he said. "But we were here first." "Oh." Looking past the truck, Hoke saw several strangers with camcorders splashing around in the river, and realized he'd be wasting his time wetting a hook anywhere along this stretch of the Arkansas today. "Are they with you?" The man peered in the direction Hoke was looking, and nodded. "They're from the university in Boulder," he said, noting Hoke's fishing rod. "Taking measurements and sightings. But I doubt there's any fish sticking around here, the way they're making such a ruckus in the water." "I reckon," Hoke said. "Well, it was nice to meet you." "You too." The reporter returned to his chair and never did ask for Hoke's name, or offer his own. Hoke walked away. Then he stopped, astounded when something snapped into perfect clarity. Something in his mind - a notion; an idea; a crazy stunt that could only be dreamed up by a foolish old sumbitch - solidified into a flawless and devilishly simple thought. He returned to the truck and looked inside again. "By the way," he said, "my name is Chase. Henry Chase. I don't believe I caught yours." At the police station, Roger Bascom gazed tiredly out the window as the representative from Colorado's Police Officer Certification and Inspection Board berated him for, among other issues, allowing such questionable practices as working back-to-back shifts when one of the unpaid reserve officers could just as easily have covered the night duty. "You're the boss here," Inspector Art King said, pointing an agitated finger at Bascom's badge. "You are in complete charge of law enforcement in Buena Vista. If you're too sleepy to do your job because you allowed someone on your force to slack off, you become a danger to your town." Roger met the steady eye of the man from the POCI Board, and yawned. "This is a quiet place," he finally pointed out. "Everybody around here gets along pretty well. Except when there's a traffic accident, or something. But hell, the only stoplight we've got is right here outside my window, and that's where almost all of the wrecks happen. I really do think we'll be okay until everyone gets back." King consulted a report in his hand. "In addition to yourself, you have two full-time officers and three reserve officers in your department," he said, though Roger knew this better than the POCI rep. "And you have three patrol cars. Normally, that would be enough for a town of this size. But since there's a prison in your jurisdiction, and because you're located along the only main highway in this part of the mountains, I believe you're understaffed. Dangerously understaffed. Yours is the only police force between Salida and Leadville, and that's a distance of...let's see-" "More than sixty miles of roads that are questionable at best for weeks at a time during a hard winter," Bascom finished for King. "Not to mention helping the sheriff's department cover the highway east to the county line. I know." "So what do you intend to do about it?" Bascom shrugged. "If you can pry more money out of the city council to pay for more officers," he said lightly, "I'll be glad to hire them." Instead of answering, King looked at his wristwatch, even though there was a large clock on the wall. "It's almost nine-thirty now," he said. "I'm scheduled to meet with the police chief in Salida at ten-thirty. But I should be back here by noon, and I want you to be thinking of options while I'm gone. We'll discuss them over lunch when I return." That was fine with Bascom, and he said so. Officer Candy Watson was due to take the day duty at noon, and Bascom figured he could go straight from lunch to bed. Bascom watched King stalk out. Then he lay back in his reclining office chair, propped his booted feet on the desk, and crossed his arms behind his head. He closed his eyes, knowing he'd hear the phone ring even if he happened to doze awhile. Walking home, Hoke noticed the well-dressed stranger leave the police station and fold himself into a small, nondescript car. But he otherwise ignored everything going on around him. Odd, he thought, he didn't feel any dread or misgivings about what he was about to do. At home, he locked the downstairs doors and windows, loaded all the guns, and stacked all the ammunition in the house near his recliner. Then he turned his chair so he could watch both the front and back entries to the room. Satisfied everything was in place, he picked up the phone and punched in 911. "Police," Roger Bascom's sleep-heavy voice said. "Is this an emergency?" "Um..." Hoke's nerve abruptly deserted him. "Wrong number," he said quickly, raising his voice pitch. "Sorry." He slammed the phone back into its cradle. Bascom blinked at the suddenly dead phone and, idly wondering what kind of idiot it took to dial 911 by mistake, replaced it. He resumed his restful position, but the nagging sensation of dread from the previous night returned. "Damn," he muttered, crossing his arms on his chest. "I do need more help around here." It took Hoke a half hour to work his gumption back up enough to call again. But this time, he held onto it. "This is Henry Chase," he said boldly when Bascom answered, "and I'm barricaded in my house. I'm not coming out, no matter what!" "Hoke? Is that you?" "Roger, it's nothing personal," Hoke said, "but it's just something I have to do. So you go ahead and do what you have to do." A puzzled frown creased Bascom's brow. "What do you want me to do, Hoke?" "It don't matter to me none," Hoke barked. "But whatever it is, I'm not coming out. You can't force me!" He hung up before Bascom could say anything. "That ought'a do it," he said out loud, grinning. "Okay, if that's what you want," Bascom said into the dead telephone. Then, replacing it, he lay back and dozed off again. When Bascom still hadn't showed up a long, boring hour later, Hoke's anger boiled over. He picked up the phone again. "I mean it," he snarled the second Bascom answered. "Don't come anywhere near my house! You'll have to kill me to get me out!" "Hoke, do you have guns in there?" Bascom asked suspiciously. "You know I do, Roger," Hoke snapped. "You fired most of them yourself when you were a kid." "That's right. We used to shoot whenever I'd come over for supper and you'd cook hamburgers on the grill. You used to grill a mighty fine burger." "Yep." Hoke ignored the burger compliment. "They're always clean and ready to fire, too." "Well, just be careful with them," Bascom said. "We don't want you getting hurt." Thunderstruck, Hoke gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Don't you understand me, Roger? I'm forted up here, and there ain't nobody going to make me come out. Not for anything!" "Are you feeling okay," Bascom asked. "You don't sound right, Hoke. Do you want some company?" "I don't want to see anyone!" "No? Well you sure sound like you could use a little adult conversation." "Keep your cops away from here, Roger, and don't bring those news trucks!" "I'd invite you to lunch," Bascom went on, "but I've gotta meet up with this old boy from over at the state capitol today. How ‘bout getting together for coffee in the morning?" "Just don't come near me," Hoke hissed. Instead of hanging up, he jerked the phone cord from the wall. "Whatever you say, Hoke." Bascom hung up, and decided to take the man some coffee and donuts tomorrow anyway; after Hoke had time to get over whatever was bothering him and cool off. In the half-hour it took Hoke to fix the phone cord and reattach it to its wall jack, he did find himself cooling off. Some. When he called the police department again, a woman answered. He wanted to talk with Bascom, and not being able to do so made his anger flare up once more. "This is Henry Chase," Hoke growled, putting as much menace into his voice as he could manage. "I'm barricaded in my house, and no one is going to make me come out!" "Mr. Chase," Officer Candy Watson said slowly, "I'm sure there's something we can help you with if you have a problem." "Just don't you come anywhere near me," Hoke shouted. "I've got guns!" "Guns?" A hint of panic crept into Watson's tone. "Now Mr. Chase, you don't want to hurt anyone. Why don't we just-" "You keep away from me before you find out what I want to do," Hoke yelled. He yanked the phone out of the wall again and, jerking open the front door, tossed it onto the porch. Then he dropped into his recliner, emotionally spent. Clicking on the television, he couldn't help feeling embarrassed at the way he'd yelled at the woman. It wasn't her fault. Hell, nothing about this whole thing was anyone's fault but his own. He thought running the big toy monster truck for awhile might take his mind off his silliness, but he was wrong. He no sooner got to the top of the stairs and flicked the truck's power switch on when he slumped his shoulders and retraced his steps back to his recliner. Releasing probably the deepest sigh of his life, he gingerly stepped over the guns and dropped into the chair. Dammit, he realized, here he was acting like a damn fool, and for what? Because, like some damn spoiled child, he didn't think he was getting enough damn attention from the rest of the damn world? The way Robert Maple had? Damn. Double damnation! Hoke came to his feet and kicked his guns aside, and reached for the telephone. Then he remembered he'd thrown it out the door. Disgusted with himself almost beyond the point at which he could endure it, he decided he needed to get into the hills and think about how sorry he'd allowed his life to become. He scratched out a quick note of apology to Roger Bascom and punched it onto a small nail driven into the front door specifically for the purpose of holding such notes. Snatching up his rod and tackle, he stomped out the back door, leaving the television going. A few hundred yards up the back trail through the woods, he met an old angling acquaintance and, nodding an unspoken greeting, fell in beside the man who suddenly reminded him faintly of Robert Maple. Noticing the cell phone clipped to the guy's belt, Hoke asked if he could use it for a minute when they stopped for a quick breather. Hoke called the police station hoping to speak with the woman again, but got a recording instead. When the system beeped, he left an honest apology to Roger for any hard feelings, and especially sincere regrets to the lady policeman whose name he hadn't caught. Then Hoke and his friend resumed their walk toward the hidden fishing spot. It never occurred to him Officer Candy Watson hadn't been there to get his message because she was out hunting down Bascom. She found the chief and the Denver man seated at a Red Rooster Cafe booth, and getting ready to take their first bites of the enormous cheeseburgers the Rooster was known for. Out of breath, she leaned heavily on the table and collected herself for a moment before spilling it. "Some man, a Mr. Chase, has barricaded himself into his house," she puffed. "He claims he's armed." Copyright 2008 Don Chance |
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