The FBI saw him as a bank robber and gun trafficker. But I knew Jim, and I saw a different side of him. He was a caring husband and father. As a friend, he was solid and dependable in every situation. I have often wondered if the law’s definition didn’t reflect an attitude derived from an old Roman proverb that says "You are only as great as your enemy."

My friend was more than the epitome of the criminal biker. His peers considered him a warrior. His character was like that of a Louis L’Amour hero. He was as wild and independent as the Indians that once roamed the mountains and prairies. He rode his steel horse alone on the black ribbons that now cover the ancient trails.

Jim stood over 6 feet tall. His body was lean and muscled from constant motion. His aquiline features were chiseled by years in the wind. His blond, shoulder-length hair was kept impeccably clean and unbound or pulled into a ponytail. Indians say that in the "old way," a warrior wore his hair unbound when he came in peace. I wonder if Jim knew about this practice. His Viking blue eyes looked like they could pierce dense fog or a person’s soul. Sometimes his eyes looked like those of a slain hero – wide open as he sailed into Valhalla to receive his reward for maintaining his honor and dying with his sword in his hand.

The idea of dying for his principles wasn’t foreign to Jim. On at least one occasion, when he was surrounded by the FBI in a remote cabin, the threat of being killed became very real.

Jim’s wife, Krystina, and their daughter weren’t at the cabin when the siege began. The FBI had Jim surrounded and it didn’t look like there was any chance for his escape, but his honor would not allow him to surrender. His nemesis, FBI Special Agent Kusulus, later admitted that he assumed Jim would rather fight it out than give up. It was classic James Hood.

The siege lasted for quite some time and shots had been fired from both sides. Near the end of the standoff, a fire "mysteriously" started at the cabin. I’m sure Jim thought the moment of truth had come. He must have felt that he had been beaten, something he had never before accepted. As the fire raged around the cabin, Jim continued to take shots when targets made themselves available. He said later that he’d kept up the fire so they couldn’t rush him, which seemed strange since the house was burning down around him.

The FBI assumed Jim had been incinerated along with the cabin. But he had crawled under the waterbed he and Krystina shared. He stayed there until the heat from the fire popped the mattress and water seeped down to keep him cool and filter the air enough to allow him to breathe. After the evening darkness fell, the fire burned itself out. Krystina found Jim amid the ashes and still-smoldering bed frame. Although he was singed and struggling to breathe, he was able to escape, much to the frustration of the "The Greek" (Jim’s nickname for agent Kusulus).

"The Greek" had pursued Jim since the "million dollar Indian jewelry robbery" four years earlier. The robbery took place at an art gallery and trading post in Cameron, Ariz. Since then, "The Greek" had had Jim surrounded or in custody five times, but he escaped each time.

Krystina was an attractive woman who commanded attention when she entered a room. A soft glow radiated from her face and complimented her happy eyes. She told me Jim made her believe he loved her unconditionally. She felt safe with him. Jim was protective of Krystina in many ways, sometimes to violent ends. Several people heard Jim whisper to Krystina that he would never let anyone hurt her. He maintained that love for Krystina and their 3-year-old daughter, Wildflower, not by effort, but by enthusiasm and action.

Jim existed like a caged wild sparrow that doesn’t understand anything other than its imprisonment. It doesn’t occur to the bird that tomorrow may bring new hope. Eventually it dies of a broken heart. For Jim, there wasn’t a tomorrow or yesterday, only the moment at hand. You were his friend or his enemy. In an instant he could go from total joy to violence. There was little in between.

A good example of Jim’s zeal for life and love was Christmas morning. He laughed and danced as Krystina and Wildflower hunted for the presents he had hidden. He planned for weeks where to hide the gifts and notes that gave hints of where to find the next present. He rushed behind the searcher, giving extra hints of hot or cold. For that moment, nothing else mattered. It didn’t occur to him that he was on the FBI’s most wanted list or that "The Greek" lay awake at night thinking of how to apprehend him.

Occasionally, though, he did recognize the severity of his situation. "I can only go forward," he said once. "There’s no where else for me to go, after I’ve gone too far."

Jim excelled at whatever he did. No one could deny that he was the most efficient lone bank hold-up man that ever held a bag and gun. He was also in the stolen gun trade. Jim organized an extensive network of thieves that did the actual robberies because he was uncomfortable with the idea of stealing from an individual. After he procured a significant number of weapons, Jim negotiated with one of the most notorious outlaw motorcycle clubs in the United States. To my knowledge, Jim Hood was the only non-member to do "business" with this particular motorcycle club.

One Sunday morning, Jim had a big deal in the works with one of his operatives, an enlisted Army man stationed at Fort Carson, near Colorado Springs, Colo. The scout informed Jim when there was going to be a shipment of decommissioned M-16s taken to the steel mill in nearby Pueblo, Colo. Once the weapons reached the steel mill, they were taken to the blast furnace to be melted down. This is where Jim had another operative break down the rifles and smuggle them to another location. Jim then took the shipment to be sold to the motorcycle club officers.

On that day, Krystina said Jim was in an exuberant mood. His "Pueblo people" were good friends and he was looking forward to seeing them again. But unbeknownst to Jim, one of other operatives had been apprehended for a minor offense and gave up details of the Pueblo trip to save his own skin.

The trip started as usual, with Jim, Krystina and Wildflower leaving home in their white Buick and heading toward Pueblo, some 50 miles away. The road from Colorado Springs to Pueblo is straight highway and steep hills. At the top of one of these hills, they saw the road block. Jim didn’t know if it was set up for him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He turned off the road and plowed through a barbed-wire fence into the open prairie. Local sheriff’s deputies, FBI agents and "The Greek" followed.

Jim did the only thing he knew how to do, refuse to give up. He said once that he’d rather die than go back to prison. Escape was the only option in his mind. Bullets struck the car as it raced over rocks and yucca plants, spewing dust in all directions. Krystina screamed. Wildflower cried and begged her daddy to stop. Jim shouted at them to "Shut up!"

Then, suddenly, he stopped the car. He sat and waited for the deputies and agents to catch up.

In all the years they’d been together, Krystina had never seen the look that was in his eyes. They were soft and gentle as he dropped his gaze from her to the weeping Wildflower. He brushed away the tear-soaked, blond strands of hair from her eyes and whispered, "It’ll be okay."

A rush of air was sucked out of the car as the door was pulled open. The gust blew Wildflower’s almost-white hair back into her eyes. What looked like a sea creature’s tentacles were actually the arms of several men that reached inside the Buick and pulled Jim out.

There were indiscernible shouts from all the figures with drawn guns. Jim fell to the ground with a grunt. Men piled on top of him. There was the clicking, rasping sound of handcuffs as they were placed on Jim’s wrists. Then someone screamed, "He’s got something in his hand!" Others shouted, "Get it, get it!" "What is it?"

"The Greek" said nervously, "Watch out!"

A deputy pressed one knee into the back of Jim’s neck, his pistol drawn, cocked and pointed at Jim’s head. As if in slow motion, the deputy squeezed the trigger.

The gas from the ignited gunpowder blew out of the barrel of the .357, onto the back of Jim’s head. It parted his blond hair. The hollow-point bullet passed through his flesh and skull and came to rest in the dirt where Jim lay face down.

Surreal silence draped the area. The deputy blinked his eyes and licked his lips. Wildflower stopped crying. Smoke drifted into the air and mingled with the smell of soap, gun powder and blood.

Jim’s clenched fist slowly relaxed to reveal a yellow Bic ink pen.

Did the "Ultimate Outlaw Biker," finally give up? Was he tired of running? I wonder if Jim didn’t make the "ultimate sacrifice" by giving up to protect his wife and daughter. He understood what the cops would probably do to him.

"The Greek" looked at the pen in Jim’s hand, then turned his gaze toward the growing red pool that drained into the gravel under Jim’s face. James Harold Hood was undeniably dead this time.

Most people spend their lives blowing down the road like an old newspaper. They live their life without the fortitude to stand up and hold their ground. But Jim chose to walk against the wind.

Commentary on Against the Wind - by 'Redneck' Steve

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