Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom

by LaVoy Finicum

  I traveled for several hours and could tell evening was approaching due to the dimming of the overcast day. I needed to find a sheltered place to stop and build a fire. As good as my coat and sleeping bag were, their combined insulation was still not enough to keep warm in the cold of the winter night. I would need the extra warmth of a fire.

  At some point I had crossed onto the Cañoncito Indian Reservation. I had topped a low ridge to see a small, poorly built home a hundred yards below. Smoke was rising from the stovepipe of a wood stove. I would need to swing wide of the house to keep from being seen by anyone. I was still standing there when the door of the home opened. I squatted down to keep from being seen. A man in jeans and no shirt stepped out onto the front steps of the house. He was holding something in his right hand. Throwing the rifle scope on him, I was aghast to see him holding a baby by one leg. Taking one step down, he tossed the baby out into the snow. I could hear the little one let out a cry of pain. Hopping back up the step, the man slammed the door behind him.

  I was shocked. Like throwing out trash and nothing more. Dad had tried to tell me how dark this world could get. “America,” he would say, “has been a great and noble country. It has been good because, on the whole, its people have been good. But for the last hundred years, as a people, we have been drifting away from the standards that our forbearers lived by. Cat, my daughter, when things come undone you will be amazed at how fast things become vicious.”

  He was right, I was amazed. For generations my country had known nothing but ease and affluence. There had grown an attitude that because we were born we were owed things; we all had a right to our share of the pie, no child should go hungry and, “no child should be left behind.” Well, that child down there in the snow was being left behind. Where was big brother now? I was sure Child Protective Services was not on their way to make sure that baby was not going to go hungry. Who would help? I knew the answer to the question.

  “This may not end well for you, Cat,” I said to myself. I could not leave the child in the snow and it needed to be helped soon.

  Muffled cries turned to whimpers, then stopped. Laying the rifle and pack next to the trunk of a cedar tree, I drew out the Sig from its holster.

  The element of surprise was what I was counting on. It was not hard to guess what was happening inside of that house. That baby had a mother and that man was not its father.

  Coming in at an angle to the house, I came quickly to the corner. Ducking under the front window, I came up to the door. I paused, my heart was racing and my fingers trembled. It may seem strange, but I was feeling regret. My regret was that if I never came out of this house alive, Dad would not know why or how I died.

  Drawing a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped in. The man who had thrown the child was leaning back on a dirty couch, his bare feet propped on a coffee table of empty beer cans. A fresh cigarette hung from his mouth. He never had a chance to rise as my bullet took him just above the mouth.

  “What the hell was that?” came a man’s voice from the bedroom to the right. The door was ajar and in two quick steps I pushed the door open with my foot. Both of my hands had a firm grip on my pistol and as the filthy, naked man rose off the bed I put four rounds through his center mass. Quickly stepping inside the room, I closed the door behind me. If there were others in the house I did not want to make myself a target for them. My element of surprise was over. Time to move and keep my head about me.

  Stepping up on the bed, not looking at the women lying in it, I pulled open the old single pane window. Quickly I slid out of the window and stepped on to the ground below. Keeping low, I started around the outside of the house. At each window I would raise enough to peek inside. The first was a bathroom window. The small window had dirty blinds but was open enough to see inside. No one was in the bathroom. The next window was the remaining bedroom. It was dim inside but I could see a man in a dirty tee shirt and underwear standing at the door. The bedroom door was cracked open and he was standing there with a shotgun pointed towards the bedroom which I first had gone into. I took one step away from the side of the building and leveled the 45. With my first shot the man fell against the door jam and I shot him twice more before he slid to the floor.

  I recharged the pistol with a fresh magazine. Then I circled the whole house and determined that there were no others. Holstering the Sig Sauer, I retrieved the baby from the snow. The child was clothed in a one piece sleeper that was wet from the snow and a full diaper. The little body was shivering and the skin was cold. Holding the infant, I scanned my surroundings quickly and hurried to the house. Laying the little one on the floor by the wood stove, I removed all the clothing. Wiping the little baby girl’s bottom clean, I then picked her up and held her close to the warmth of the stove. She was no more than four or five months old.

  Darkness closed upon the house and for half an hour I tenderly cared for the infant. The shivering stopped and the baby started rooting for milk. I laid the child upon my coat and in the dark I returned to gather my rifle and pack at the tree. Returning to the house and using my flashlight, I located a cupboard full of government issued welfare baby formula. With a baby bottle that I cleaned, the baby was soon nursing.

  I had not returned to the first room where the mother lay sprawled upon the bed. I was not sure why I delayed but I did not want to go in. But go in I must. Carrying the small one, I opened the door and shone my light upon the woman. She feebly turned her head towards us. I knelt with the baby by the side of the bed. With effort, she reached out a hand and stroked the infant’s head.

  “Please care for her. Her name is Vondell.” The broken women withdrew her hand and turned her face to the wall. She was quitting. I sensed that the woman felt her baby now had a chance and, as a dying mother, she could now let go. I heard a deep breath leave her lips as her body relaxed for the last time.

  I returned to the small wood stove and put more wood in it. I left the stove door open and the flames gave a comforting light to the room. Unrolling my sleeping bag, I laid down with the baby in my arms.

  As a whirlwind, destruction had come upon our land.

  I took comfort from the little babe that slept in my arms. The firelight played softly upon her peaceful sleeping face. I was a nineteen year old girl that, only a day ago, had rested comfortably in her own mother’s home. Now I lay on a floor in a strange, dirty house, holding a baby, with dead bodies lying around. The child and I both had one thing in common; we had both just lost our mothers.

  “Dad, I wish you were here.”

  Chapter 9

  THE RANCH

  “Be thou prepared, and prepare for thyself, thou, and all thy company that are assembled unto thee, and be thou a guard unto them.”

  —Ezekiel 38:7

  January 27th

  Like an old pocket watch where the hands of time had stopped in the year of 1885, the ranch house, barn and corral looked the same. They sat on the sunny side of a basin, which basin was less than half a mile across. The ranch house was nestled halfway up the gentle slopes of the basin. The thick walls of the house were built of sandstone, which stones came from the cap rock that rimmed the basin. Above the house about 30 yards was a free flowing spring.

  It was this water upon which the ranch had been established. From the spring, the water flowed down to the rock barn and corrals in a small ditch lined with flag stone. Below the corrals the water flowed to a small orchard of mature apple trees. From the same spring, another ditch, also flag-stone lined, ran to the house. It actually passed through the house giving the house “running water.” It entered the back side of the house and into a large, dark room that was walled off by adobe walls. It was called the cool room. The cool room was entered off of the kitchen space through a door made of heavy rough cut lumber. From this room one could draw water for cooking and cleaning. The coolness of the room was great for preserving food. There were often several quarters of beef or venison hanging in it. A person could cut himself a fresh s
teak for breakfast or dinner.

  For the day and age in which the ranch house was built, it was years ahead of the Mormon homes that were down in the Virgin River Valley. Not that the Mormon homes were not well built, they were. Many were made of red brick and had a New England look. As nice as they may have been built, none of them had indoor running water with a cool room.

  The stream passed out from under the foundation at the front side of the home. It ran under the wood porch and pooled in a rock water trough at the hitching rack. As the water overflowed the water trough, it ran to the small vegetable garden below.

  Beyond the vegetable garden there was a gentle knoll that rose up. Large, ancient cottonwood trees sent down massive roots into the earth and in summer, the trees gave a refreshing shade to the knoll.

  The knoll was fenced off by a white wood picket fence. The fence kept cows and horses off. A path led from the rock house to a small hand gate in the fence. Beside the path and before entering the gate was a small, old, but very sturdy hitching rack. If one were to open the picket gate and walk upon the knoll, one would see broken pottery, flint and pieces of arrow heads lying upon the dark sand. A people had lived and passed away in this little valley long before the Bonhams arrived. They had buried their dead on this knoll and so had the Bonhams.

  The cowboy’s grandparents and great grandparents were buried there, along with his father and mother.

  Each mound of earth had its own story. On the right side of his great grandfather was the burial mound of his wife, the cowboy’s great grandmother. On the left side of his great grandfather were three old mounds with no names upon their rock monuments, just a description, “Navajo warriors.”

  The cowboy’s great grandfather had been mortally wounded in a fight with the three Navajos that had raided across the Colorado River. He had made it back to the ranch before he died. His dying request was that the three Indians he had killed in the fight be brought and buried next to him. No one knew why it was so important to him, but it was.

  Below those burials lay the cowboy’s father and mother. He never knew his father and barely could recall memories of his mother. Those memories were tender and sweet. His father died in Vietnam and his mother in a car accident two years later.

  The grandfather raised the cowboy from a young child. The old man was tough, hard as nails, but he loved the child dearly. When they rode the hills together, when they ate, and in the quiet evening hours, the “son of a Texan” taught the lad. The old man died on his 81st birthday when he was thrown by a young horse he was breaking.

  Having come from Texas, the Bonhams brought features to their home with a Spanish taste. It stretched out, a single level building with a flat roof that sloped to the back of the house. The roof was of clay dirt and over two feet thick. On top of the clay, Spanish tile had been placed to shed the water. The tremendous weight of the roof was supported by massive fir timbers. Those timbers were reinforced in the middle by another timber supported by several large posts.

  As one would go through the front door they would enter the great room. One’s eyes were first drawn to the massive horns mounted over the rock fireplace on the far wall. They were the horns of a Texas longhorn bull. The bull had come with the Bonhams when they had migrated from Texas generations ago.

  The very next thing that one’s eye turned to was the large library of books that flanked both sides of the fireplace. If a person took the time to peruse those books they would find an abundance featuring political thought. There was also a wealth of the classics, Tennyson to Dickens. Next to the classics one could find a treasure trove of old history books. Among the history books was the personal history of the Bonhams in Texas. Two brothers had fought to liberate Texas from the oppressive government of Santa Anna. One had ridden with Sam Houston and the other died in the Alamo. The love of freedom ran deep in the blood of the Bonhams.

  To the right of the great room were the kitchen and dining areas. There was both a wood and a propane cook stove against the adobe wall. In front of the stoves was a long, strong, wood table flanked and headed by sturdy wood chairs. All these were polished by many years of use.

  Still to the right, a hall passed by the adobe cool room and down to two large bedrooms.

  To the left, a door opened to the main bedroom. Next to that door on the wall was an ancient ticking clock. Its hands and swinging pendulum were recharged each month by winding the springs of the clock using a large brass key. Over the top of the door was an old 44-40 Winchester rifle1 resting on wood pegs. A worn leather cartridge belt with its loops full of 44 bullets hung from a peg driven in the left door post.

  Going through the door, one entered a bedroom that was big, considering the day in which it was built. The head of a fine bed, with frame made of dark oak, lay against the wall to the right. Against the far wall was an iron claw bath tub sitting next to a small potbelly stove. That wall and the wall to the left had large windows from which one could see most of the outside basin. In front of the window to the left sat a small wooden writing desk. On that desk sat only two items. One was a picture of a beautiful woman with long, wavy, golden hair. The other was a large, and much worn Bible.

  The only thing that was out of place from a hundred years ago was a simple set of training weights comprised of a bench and rack with a stack of weights for the bar. Next to the bench was a pair of running shoes. The weights were well polished and the shoes well-worn from regular use.

  Everything of the house and ranch spoke of care and pride of workmanship. Pride of workmanship—that was a Bonham tradition. The house was fronted by a long wood porch that was also covered by a Spanish tile roof.

  It was upon this porch that the cowboy known as Jake Bonham stood. Dark hair streaked with silver hung collar length, under a black cowboy hat, a hat that was pulled tight against the winter breeze. He cast his eyes hopefully down the dirt road that led from his ranch basin to the small town of Orderville. He leaned against the porch post, hands in the pockets of his Levi coat. It was cold. With thermals under his wranglers and leather chaps over them, it was still cold. It was lonely too. At the age of 47, the years seemed to be picking up speed.

  It had not always been this lonely. There had been the wonderful days of raising his children. They had become top hands, each one of them. They could rope, ride and shoot with the best and they made him proud. Looking at the meadow below, he could see the matching palomino quarter horses he had given to the twins. Like the twins, those two horses always stayed together. Beyond the palominos were the other horses. Dan’s was a strong bay. Both Cat and his were red roans, all quality quarter horses. Then there was Haley-H’s border collie which lay at his feet. The dog shared in the man’s loneliness, waiting for the return of her master.

  A tender look crept across the hard face of the cowboy as pleasant memories passed through his mind, memories of working the cattle with his children. With his mind now stirred by such memories, he could see the fall round up. He could see the children bringing the cattle out of the pinion and cedar hills, driving them into the large sturdy corral. The twins, on their palominos, roping and dragging the calves to the branding fire came into his memory. He and Dan throwing and holding the hefty calves as Cat ran the iron. His mind’s eye could see the smoke curl off of the hot iron as Cat laid a “quarter circle v” on the calf’s hide. Good times, good memories.

  One by one the children grew up and moved away.

  The memories faded and loneliness again replaced the tender look on his face. With his thumb, the cowboy turned the golden wedding band on his finger. There was another horse that could still be seen in the fading light of the winter’s evening. It was a beautiful buckskin with dark stocking legs, dark mane and tail. Like the fading light, the hope that the horse’s rider would once again return, drifted away into the dark.

  The cowboy looked once more down the dark valley, the road no longer visible. It had only been one day since the nuclear strike. Where were his children, where was hi
s wife? The twins should be the first to arrive but it would still be a couple of days, if all went well.

  Turning his back to the darkness, with Spanish spurs jingling on the porch boards, the cowboy and dog walked into the house.

  _____________________

  1. The 44-40 Winchester rifle shot the same cartridge as the Colt 44-40 revolver. For the early day cowboy, this combination made him a formidable fighting man.

  Chapter 10

  THE TWINS

  January 28th

  There was an inch of snow on the ground and it was a blessing. As their eyes adjusted to the dark, the white snow made it possible for them to see the road ahead. It was a good thing that the sisters were in top condition for they were able to push on through the night and they did.

  As another stormy morning arrived, they peddled into the little tourist stop called Big Rock Candy Mountain, named because of the unique colors of the canyon ledges that rose above the lodge. There was a small, single level, log motel building with doors opening towards the highway. HayLee-H and KayLee-K let their bikes coast to a stop in the parking lot of the motel. Motel door No. 4 was open. The parking space in front of the door was occupied by a new Chevy suburban. The hood was up and an old man was standing on a chair, leaning over the fender poking around at the engine wires.

  Seeing the girls he looked up and smiled. Without saying hello, he looked back down and resumed tinkering with the wires. “There was a time when a feller, with just a little smarts, could always get his outfit a runnin’. Now nothin’s a runnin’.” In frustration, the frail man stepped carefully off his chair and closed the hood. “It looks like you girls have the right idea. Where are you headed on those bikes?”

  “Headed home,” Haley-H said, “but just right now we need a place to sleep a few hours.”