Part 50, page 168

Transcript

The scan is the source; the transcript is machine-generated from it.

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[Fashion photograph of woman in short dark dress]

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But Jack wasn't saying a damn word more about it. "You just help me find my money, James, and you'll get your cut. But don't ask too many goddam questions." A deep rift developed between the two men. My father, by nature a deeply suspicious man, grew increasingly worried. "What are we getting ourselves into?" he asked me over and over again. In a few short days the skyjacking had grown from the job of one lonely man to a conspiracy with vast tentacles. Were we already, perhaps, accessories-after-the-fact to a federal crime? But Coffelt took me aside and pleaded: "You've got to keep your father with me. This is my last chance." His biggest worry was that the authorities would finally catch up with him and that he would either be killed or die in a cold prison cell. Our journey became a battle of wits and emotions in which I was pulled between the two men — taking sides now for one, then for the other — until the loneliness of our quest and the haunting isolation of the vast western expanses began to get us down. My father threatened to abandon the trip and return home. But the desperate Coffelt, with a sinister portent in his voice, counter-threatened: "You know too much already, James." The end came on July 12, 1974, when we returned to camp after a long day of searching for the bag of money. We had been in the search area for about a week. Coffelt had taken us to the place where he had hit the slope and showed us the broken tree limb he had crashed into. We could still see the long skid marks where his heels had plowed into the loose rocks. Climbing back up the slope he nearly died, coughing up blood and choking horribly as he gasped for air. He and my father had a terrible fight over where we should concentrate the search. My father wanted to start from where Coffelt had landed and backtrack from there. But Coffelt was afraid we would be spotted by forest rangers — a lookout tower was visible in the distance — and he wanted to begin the search farther to the west, in the dense forests at the base of 11,000 ft. Mount Hood. "I know my money's there," he cried angrily. "You're looking in the wrong place." But those forests were so thick with blow-down and debris and tangled underbrush that it was impossible to see one another from ten feet away. Even in broad daylight the forest floor was blanketed with darkness. The chances of spotting a faded bag of money there seemed hopeless. Coffelt returned to Seattle, claiming he needed to recuperate for a few days. Then, the very next day an astonishing thing happened. While we prepared for dinner a car suddenly appeared on the rutted trail in front of us and sped past. Beside the driver sat a passenger cradling a rifle between his legs. The car's license plates read KANSAS — Coffelt country! Shortly down the trail the car stopped

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78 OCTOBER 1983/LAS VEGAN MAGAZINE

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DB Cooper-20773