Hell’s Angels. A Strange and Terrible. Saga by Hunter S. Thompson

Most of the Angels are obvious Anglo-Saxons, but the Linkhorn attitude is contagious. The few outlaws with Mexican or Italian names not only act like the others but somehow look like them. Even Chinese Mel from Frisco and Charley, a young Negro from Oakland, have the Linkhorn gait and mannerisms.

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Basically they’re just like Negroes. By themselves they’re no more trouble than anybody else — but the minute they get in a group they go all to pieces, they really do.

— San Francisco policeman

Just before dusk on the first afternoon a sudden scrambling tension swept over the camp. People had been coming and going for several hours, but with no sense of urgency. The odd welcome at the beer market had undermined the sheriffs edict about keeping away from the tourists, and many of the outlaws rode over to sample the hospitality. The atmosphere at Willow Cove was festive. New arrivals were greeted with shouts, kisses, flying tackles and sprays of beer. The deputies were taking pictures. At first I thought it was for evidence, but after watching them urge the Angels to strike colorful poses and dive into the lake with their clothes on, I realized that the cops were as fascinated as any first-time visitor at the Bronx Zoo. One told me later: Hell, I wish I had a movie camera, this is the damnedest thing I ever saw. People wouldn’t believe it unless they saw pictures. Wait’ll I show these to my kids!

Just before lunch, for no obvious reason, the tempo changed abruptly. Barger and several others went into a huddle with two deputies, then jumped on their bikes and disappeared down the trail. About ten of the outlaws left the camp in a group, all looking grim. Moments later two police cars left. Most of the out­laws seemed content to let Barger handle whatever was hap­pening, but about twenty gathered around Tiny, in the middle of camp, and muttered darkly at the news, on the police radio, of an attack on a motorcyclist. They didn’t know who it was, or even if it was one of their own. (A motorcycle hill-climb-and-scrambles event was scheduled the next day near Yosemite, and there were many respectable bikes in the area. Somebody said a group wearing Seventh Sons colors had been seen near Mariposa, but none of the Angels had ever heard of that outfit, or knew if they were outlaws.)

When a gathering of Angels and their allies get word that a motorcyclist has been attacked, it comes as an ominous signal that some enemy is on the move. Barger and his escort were gone for almost an hour, and many of the others would have gone out to look for them if Tiny hadn’t insisted on waiting for further word. I recall somebody cursing the untenable position: Jesus, look where we are! The bastards got us trapped out here! There’s no way out except that one path!

Willow Cove was a natural Dunkirk. I watched the two remaining deputies; the moment they left, I was leaving too. . . their departure could only mean that things had gotten out of hand somewhere else and that the Angel campsite would be next. I didn’t want to be there when the vigilantes came whooping through the trees.

But the deputies didn’t leave, and just before dark Barger’s patrol came back in good spirits. Dirty Ed, it seemed, had been riding peacefully beside the lake when five friendly-looking youths, on foot, had flagged him down. Always conscious of public relations, he had stopped to chat. What followed, according to one version, was an unconscionable bushwhacking:

Are you going to compete in the scrambles tomorrow, one of them asked.

Just as Ed was about to answer no, the sixth man snuck up behind him.

He knocked me clean off my bike, cringed Ed. Hit me with an eight-foot length of two-inch pipe. My head exploded. I thought I’d been hit by a locomotive!

The six young men had been drinking. The only reason I can figure for them doing it was to make a name for themselves, com­plains Ed. They were ‘Joe Citizens,’ and had been drinking for about five days. The other ‘citizens’ in the campground were afraid we would come back and stomp them. Some of them were so scared they started folding their tents and moving out. ‘Rather Switch Than Fight,’ they said.