Where Mercy Is Shown, Mercy Is Given - Duane Dog Chapman [0]
Duane “Dog” Chapman
with Laura Morton
TO ANYONE I OFFENDED WITH MY MOUTH
“We make a living by what we get.
We make a life by what we give.”
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
Contents
Epigraph
Introduction
Chapter 1
“Duane, Duane. Big Daddy, wake up. You’re dreaming again.” Beth…
Chapter 2
The impact of what happened in Mexico was hard on…
Chapter 3
Beth was positive something wasn’t right. She instinctively thought things…
Chapter 4
It had been a crazy couple of years for Beth…
Chapter 5
Once we had new legal representation, things began happening. Alberto…
Chapter 6
“Duane,” Beth whispered.
Chapter 7
When I was a young boy, my mother would often…
Chapter 8
Although we were already wrapped for the season, the network…
Chapter 9
My life has been filled with trying moments when my…
Intermission One
Chapter 10
When I started out as a bounty hunter in Denver…
Chapter 11
Bounty hunting for Mary Ellen was never dull. Some of the…
Chapter 12
When I was a young boy, my grandpa used to…
Chapter 13
Although I was slowly mending fences in the African-American community,…
Chapter 14
People rarely like to admit they’ve made a mistake, especially…
Chapter 15
Jail is a wake-up call for most people. But once…
Intermission Two
Chapter 16
“Your momma sure does have some sexy panties,” I said…
Chapter 17
One of the greatest benefits of being on television is…
Chapter 18
There’s a famous saying, “The difference between a wise man…
Chapter 19
The greatest feeling in the world for a bounty hunter—especially…
Acknowledgments
Other Books by Duane “Dog” Chapman with Laura Morton
Copyright
INTRODUCTION
July 17, 1971
It was an unusually hot summer day in Colorado. I tried to beat the heat by taking a ride on my Harley from Denver up to Boulder. I roared along the interstate for thirty minutes, and as I rolled over the last ridge before the exit, the majestic foothills of the great Rocky Mountains came into sight. The flatirons are breathtaking, especially when the summer haze beats down on their jagged copper-colored edges.
Life was good. I was in the Devil’s Disciples, had money in my pocket and my chopped Harley under me. When I pulled into town, my engine rumbled loudly as I slowly cruised along Broadway, Boulder’s main strip. I couldn’t help but notice people turning their heads to check me out. I stopped at a red light, placed my feet on the pavement to balance my machine, and then looked to my right. I recognized the guy on the bike next to me. It was Magic, a member of a rival gang, the Husky Hustlers. I was in no mood for trouble. It was too hot, and even though I never backed down from someone like Magic, I didn’t have the fight in me that day. At least, that’s what I was thinking when I opened my leather vest to show Magic my .45 automatic. He saw the gun and looked me right in the eyes as if to say, “Yeah, so what?” Magic was tough like that.
When the light turned green, I took off, but not before pulling the hammer back on my .45.
Blam.
I shot him.
I didn’t feel a thing as I watched the bullet pierce his chest. It appeared to be moving in slow motion as I pulled away. I kept riding as Magic fell to the street, splattering his bike and brains all over the pavement.
It was an unwritten rule in our gang that if you pulled a gun, you’d better shoot. What’s the point of shooting to wound? There is none. You had to aim to kill or be prepared to take a bullet for your hesitation.
I knew I’d killed him. I punched the throttle so that the sound of my engine would drown out the thoughts of prison racing through my head.
Police cars sped past me as I made my way out of town. The last image of Boulder I recall that day was the spinning red lights of an ambulance in my rearview mirrors.
I made my way back to Denver in less than twenty minutes. I was flying down the highway. I spent the entire ride figuring out what I would do, where I could hide, who I could tell, and what I would say if I got pulled over.
I wasn’t worried about being popped.