Before he retired, Twin Cities cop Charlie O'Neil stood erect and unbleeding after several gun fights with mob gunsels � some of whom were trying to collect on the mob's contract on him.
After he retired to Montana, the contract was still out, so he always "carried" � either or both a PPK and a 9mm Sig Neuhausen.
His house and shop were a few miles west of Alberton on old two-lane highway 10. Going to town for his mail one morning, he faced only a semi pulling the grade in compound low. Nothing going in his direction � until some dude came-up behind him in an attempt to cross Montana on his coffee break.
The dude had four options �
� head-on into the semi
� wait for Charlie and the semi to get out of his way
� rear-end Charlie
� run Charlie off the road
He chose the fourth, but Charlie wouldn't let that happen. He straddled the center line until he was about to head-on into the semi. The dude had to lay rubber with a screech, dip his front end, and wait for room to go around Charlie.
When Charlie and the semi cleared the road, the dude screeched past Charlie's old car. As he passed Charlie, he shook his fist at Charlie and yelled at him.
He got more angry as he sped down the road. On the flat, with marshy ground on either side of the road, he stopped athwart the center line, got out of the car, and stomped back toward Charlie.
Charlie knew better than to pull-up close behind the dude's car, and he knew better than to sit and wait in his own car. He stopped with plenty of space ahead of him, got out of his car, and stood looking over the top of the open door.
"God damn you, you mother-f*cking old son of a bitch!" the dude cooed. "I'm going to beat the f*cking sh�t out of you!"
Dumpy little Charlie, who looked like everybody's grandfather, just smiled, picked-up his home-made elk-butchering knife (a long piece of sawmill blade) from behind his seat, slammed his car door, and walked toward the dude.
"And I'm going to hang your liver in that tree [pointing]."
The dude skidded rubber off his boot heels, ran back to his car, and left more tire rubber behind. He went out of sight soon, and Charlie never saw that car again.
I never asked him but always wondered what Charlie was carrying that morning. Probably the PPK, which the dude most likely would've sneered at and tried to take away from Charlie. Whatever. I'm sure that Charlie just didn't want to be bothered with the inevitable hassle of leaving a bleeding hunk of meat on the pavement.
When I told Bill Jordan of the incident, Bill grinned � and agreed that its deadly element wasn't Charlie's short sword but his calm, sweet smile.
