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An Old Man Saved a Biker's Wife - Then Next Morning, 800 Hells Angels Arrived at His House
The rain had stopped, but the blood on Silas Pendleton’s porch had not completely washed away. Pale morning light filtered through the tall pine trees surrounding his isolated northern Arizona cabin, illuminating a dark stain between the weathered wooden boards. Seventy-two-year-old Silas stood in the doorway wearing an old brown-and-black plaid flannel shirt, dark work pants, and worn leather boots. His lined face remained calm as a massive bearded biker approached from the muddy driveway.
Behind the biker waited a seemingly endless crowd of motorcycles. Hundreds of American men and women in dark leather stood among the trees, their chrome machines filling the clearing and the mountain road beyond it. At the front of them was forty-two-year-old Tommy Callahan, president of the Iron Saints Motorcycle Club, a broad-shouldered white American man with deep blue eyes, short brown hair, and a thick beard. His wife’s emergency signal had ended at this cabin during the night, and he had ridden there believing he might find only her body.
Silas studied the fear beneath the biker’s hard expression.
“They ran her off the road after her prenatal appointment,” the old man said softly. “She crawled here alone.”
Tommy’s breath caught. “How are my wife and baby?”
“They’re alive—and waiting for you.”
Tommy looked through the small cabin window. His wife, Chloe, sat near the fireplace with a cream blanket around her shoulders and a newborn child against her chest. Her blonde hair was tangled, her face was pale, and a thick bandage covered her wounded shoulder, but she was awake.