We were about to blast the last one when the bikers opened up on us. Knowing the walls of the trailer wouldn’t stop anything, I dropped to the ground. The pain in my leg was so bad, I thought I’d been hit again.

When the shooting petered out, I struggled to find some way to sit that didn’t hurt. The Fiends must have been in bad shape, too, because the next thing I knew, Jesse and one of them were going back and forth, negotiating safe passage for the other bikers and myself. I was too dazed to feel much relief about leaving and worried I wouldn’t have the strength to get back to the truck.

A motorcycle carrying a pair of Fiends drove off, and then it was my turn to go. Jesse said if he wasn’t at the truck by dawn, I should leave without him. In that case, I asked, what about Edgar? He quickly and coldly told me I should kill him. My God, I thought, this truly must be hell. I was dealt another blow seconds later, as I prepared to leave the trailer. I warned Jesse not to forget about the fat man I’d shot, said he must be close to healed by now.

“He won’t be healing,” Jesse said.

I asked what he meant.

“He’s not a rover.”

Hoping he was mistaken, I made a beeline for the body as soon as I limped out of the trailer. There the man lay, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and dead, dead, dead, and I was confronted with the awful fact that I’d killed a human being.

I’m not sure how I kept going after that. Some instinct for self-preservation kicked in and powered me out to the highway. Every step was agony, and my existence narrowed to the task of keeping moving. Prayer helped, but my plea got simpler and simpler, until in the end it was just, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” repeated over and over.

I hardly recall reaching the truck, Jesse’s return, or the ride to the motel. The trek had done me in. I truly believe I was straddling life and death, and death seemed like the better option. Jesse dressed my wound properly, and a long, dreamless sleep followed. My leg still hurt when I came to, but I could sit up without feeling like puking, and I managed to hobble to the bathroom on my own.

The sun set while I’ve been writing this. Edgar’s watching television, and Jesse is stirring on the floor. I killed a man helping him get his revenge and was almost killed myself, so I hope he keeps his promise to let me go. I’ll say a prayer now for the soul of the dead man and another begging forgiveness for his murder. I doubt they’ll earn me any grace, but maybe they’ll get me through the night.

July 7, 1976, Outside Truckee, California