2. After the implementation of Communism in Russia starting in 1918, hunger and starvation increased until in 1922 it was estimated that over 33 million Russians were starving and 5 million died. Starving hordes would fall upon villages and cannibalism was common. (The Naked Communist, W. Cleon Skousen)
Chapter 16
MARBLE CANYON
February 22nd
We rode on into the dark. It was three miles to the bottom of the valley and I turned north. At the lower elevation it was warmer and most of the snow had melted. From here it was ten miles to Marble Canyon. From the Big Cut to the bridge there would be no trees to provide cover while we traveled. It was best to keep riding and use the darkness to our advantage.
To avoid more ambushes I stayed off the road and the going was slow. The breeze of the winter’s night cut into us. The sky was clear and the cold stars lit our way. We rode silently and I thought of my forefathers who had ridden this very path more than 130 years ago. It was as if life had made a full circle. They came riding horses pushing a herd of cows. Like now, the times were harsh. There was no government to lend them a hand. Whether it was storm, sickness, injury or death, they faced these things alone.
A gust of wind swept by and I pulled my cowboy hat on tighter. The gust passed and it became calm. I like the quiet of the night. The creak of saddle leather and the click of horse hooves on stones were all that could be heard. In the starlight I could see the Navajo woman riding beside me. How long had it been since a woman had ridden by my side? Too long.
The thoughts of my ancestors re-entered my mind and a peaceful feeling stole over me. It seemed as if they were riding with us. I could feel their spirit, men that had lived in a hard and wild land and the women who had loved them. Nature had blessed the Bonham men physically. Their bodies wore like fine steel blades, honed to a keen edge that held sharp through the years of life. Women of beauty, strength, and quality were drawn to them. Those women, when not bearing children, rode beside them. Gratitude filled my heart. My ancestors had given me so much. They had given me a heritage of strong families, of self-reliance, of hard work, and of freedom.
They loved freedom. I was sure their hearts were pained to know what had become of their country. There was a feeling that came to me and I took courage from it. The spirit of freedom welled up in me and I was determined to live free or die. They had lived free, without a yoke upon their shoulders, and I would too. The nuclear strike that our country had suffered was a double-edged sword. On the positive side of the blade, it had leveled the playing field between a massive government and the common man. The common man, the simple man, if he had it in him, could now rise up and grasp freedom. Now was the day, now was the time. More than anything, I wanted my children to understand what real freedom was. To have them experience it, to taste it and to love it as I did. That was the heritage I longed to give.
By three thirty a.m. we arrived at Navajo Bridge. I liked the hour but I did not like this spot. The hour was good as it was an hour where most would be asleep. The spot was bad because it was one of the few places one could cross the mighty Colorado River. Here the sheer canyon walls were close enough to span with a bridge. The canyon was deep, probably a 1000 feet from bridge to water.
The physical geography of this remote country had great advantages once you were on the right side of the river. The surrounding desert, the river and the canyon make a great natural barrier from the highly populated regions of southern Arizona. To the southwest, Death Valley was a great barrier against California’s vast population. Even between Las Vegas there was a large desert and a mountain range. If one was prepared, it was hard to find a place better than this in a day such as this.
There was a bridge at Page and the Glenn Canyon Dam to the north. To the south, you had to get past the Grand Canyon and make it to the Hoover Dam. There were two foot-bridges in the very bottom of the Grand Canyon. That crossing was not easy anytime but in the winter it could be a killer.
Here at Marble Canyon, there were now two bridges, both called Navajo Bridge. The original one was so narrow that two semi-trucks could not pass without knocking their mirrors off. That bridge was now for foot traffic only. The new bridge was wider, still only two lanes, and had been built next to the old one. The Marble Canyon Trading post lay past the bridges on the other side of the canyon. The trading post and restaurant sat on the right-hand side of the road. On that same side of the road was a gas station and a few motel rooms. Across the road stood the old rock lodge and a few small warehouses for the river runners.
I had ridden past here within five days after the first strike.. At that time, the people were looking worried, but the place was still holding together. By now, half the community of nearby Bitter Springs would have come here.
The strong among the Navajo people in this part of the reservation would know where to go in order to hunt for food. That is, if they had a rifle and bullets. To hunt, they must cross the river here at Marble Canyon. The large deer herds lived 30 miles west of the river on the Kaibab Mountain. There were desert bighorn sheep and small deer herds under the Paria Plateau within a mile of here. All of this was cut off by the canyon and swift water of the Colorado. The bridges were like tunnels into a spider’s hole with the lure of food on the other side.
What food the restaurant and gas station had would be gone by now, or commandeered by a “strong man” who could gather a gang behind him. I knew human nature and was sure there would be a strong man with a gang.
All I wanted was to get my little band across the bridge and away from Marble Canyon safely. Once across I was only three days from home, home and the twins. I was worrying about them. They were smart girls but a father always worries about his kids. That instinct to protect and defend one’s offspring was not limited to mother bears. I was no mother bear but I was loaded for bear,1 and now was the time to draw upon some of those resources.
From my left saddlebag I drew out a black nylon case the size of a rifle scope. Unzipping it, I withdrew a night vision scope. In moments, I had the regular optics on my AR swapped with the night vision. I turned it on and raised the rubber shroud that covered the front lens. I put the rifle to my shoulder and looked through the scope. The dark world came to light in an eerie green color. The darkness had just become my best friend.
I left Cat to tend the baby and horses in the draw north of the bridge. Sandy offered to take an over-watch position on the ridge above them. For the second time in 24 hours I moved out to probe a bottle neck.
From the canyon wall above the bridge I scoped all that I could see. The two bridges had a simple beauty and simplicity to them. They arched across the black expanse of the canyon. At the far side of the bridge were the rock buildings of the Navajo Interpretive Center, basically, a rest stop with a bead stand and one rock building. The large rock building had small barred windows and a heavy door. It was the secured room that held all the interpretive items. From there, the road wound up a small rise to the trading post.
Indeed a “strong man” had taken control, for I could see posted guards. Whenever a vacuum of power accrued in nature, there were those that rushed in to fill that vacuum. Like removing an old dominate bull from the herd; the young bulls fought to gain that domination. No rule of law, no equality under the law, just brute force.
Some bull over there had enough strength to make men stand watch in the middle of a cold winter’s night. There were two men with rifles standing at the far side of the bridge. They had blankets wrapped around them trying to stay warm. The message was clear, the bridge was now a toll bridge and the fee to cross would be more than a pretty penny.
I could see that there was another guard by the trading post. It was going to be hard to get my outfit across the bridge and past the trading post. I moved my scope back towards the bridge and I saw a small figure dart out of a shadow and run across the road. It crouched in the bar ditch alongside the road then moved slowly down towards the Interpretive Center. It was a little gir
l. She paused and then moved forward tentatively, disappearing behind the rock building.
She must have made some noise because one of the guards left his post and started to the building. I was worried for the little girl, hoping she would hear the approaching man. The man had reached the building and at the last possible moment the little figure slipped around the corner and fled up the road. With my night vision I could see this plainly but the guard could not and the girl made her escape under the cover of darkness. I watched as she re-crossed the street and disappeared. I now knew where she had come from. She was hiding in the culvert that ran under the road.
That little girl needed help. I worked my way down the slight hill to the start of the bridges. On the far side there was one guard on each bridge. I took the older bridge and, keeping low, I started across. The clean bridge deck made it easy to move quietly. Keeping close to the bridge’s railings, I was more than half way across when I could see the outlines of both guards with my unaided sight. I slowly moved closer till I was within fifteen yards. In the still night my low voice carried easily.
“Boys, I have you in my cross-hairs. If you want to see another sunrise drop your rifles and raise your hands.”
They both had seen all the sunrises that they cared to see because they started to raise their guns. From this distance the two head shots that I made were easy. They fell without a sound. The AR’s sound suppresser kept the sound of my gunfire muffled. I moved forward up to the Interpretive Center. There was no one in the open area but I was sure there were people in the rock building. On the outside of its heavy door a strong lock and hasp was bolted on. I walked past it and up the road where I had seen the little girl disappear. I was moving without a sound and was within a few feet of the culvert’s opening when I heard the child. She was sobbing softly.
“Little girl,” I called very quietly. The crying ceased immediately. “Little girl, please don’t cry. I will help you.” No reply.
I tried again, “I think you are alone and scared. I won’t hurt you.”
If I were that little girl, there would be no way I would come out to some strange man in the dark. I needed help. I hated giving up ground that I had cleared but I needed a woman’s voice. I double-timed it back across the bridge to get Sandy. I had Cat remain with the horses and took Sandy back with me.
Back at the culvert, I took an over-watch position on the bank as Sandy made an effort to coax the little girl out from under the road. She did much better than me. With a soft and tender voice Sandy soon had the little girl out of the culvert and into her arms. In a world that was becoming ”past feeling” it did me good to see some tenderness.
The child was scared but was able to talk to Sandy. They were talking softly and I could tell that they were speaking in Navajo. In a few moments Sandy brought the girl with her and joined me.
“Her mother is locked in the rock room with some other women,” Sandy said. “The little girl said that they shot her dad and another man. Other people are being kept at a warehouse behind the lodge. She says that every night men get three women from the rock room and take them to the lodge. In the morning they bring them back.”
Marble Canyon had become a nasty web that snared the unwary. Those caught in the web were preyed upon. Like a den of vipers, it needed cleaning out. I left Sandy to take the little girl back across the bridge and headed to the trading post. My night vision gave me great advantage. In front of the trading post the guard was sitting on a bench asleep. Across the street on the porch of the lodge was another guard.
I chose to eliminate the sleeping guard first and I needed to do it quietly. I unlaced my Kenetrek riding boots and took them off. I was wearing two pair of thick wool socks and was able to move without sound across the graveled parking lot. To be cautious, I circled behind the trading post. I could not afford to miss a stray guard. The restaurant was attached to the west side of the trading post. As I neared the back of the restaurant, I could smell the stench of rotting flesh. With my night vision I scanned the buildings. By the back door of the restaurant was a pile of human bones that had been poorly butchered. These parasites were supplementing the food from the restaurant with cannibalism.
I completed the circle and came back to the front of the trading post. The sleeping guard was deep in the shadows of the porch that ran the length of the building. He was sitting on the bench by the front door. Like the other guards, he too was wrapped in a blanket. His head was tipped back and he was snoring softly. On his feet was a pair of expensive dress shoes which stuck out from a pair of nice slacks. Cradled in his folded arms was a single shot 22 rifle.2 It was clear to see that this man was not a resident of Marble Canyon nor did he hike up from Bitter Springs, for he was a white man.
Most likely he was someone passing through and got caught here in the nuclear strike. He had been able to align himself with the strong-man who had cobbled together this band of leeches at Marble Canyon. I was sure that a month ago most people did not know what was really inside the heart of this man as he hid behind his business suit. Years ago I had heard a saying, “From a distance all trees look like evergreens until winter comes.” Likewise most men, from a distance, look to be decent. It is not until a man is put to the test, that what is in his heart comes to the surface.
This man had chosen to be part of a group that kept people locked up against their will; people that they used. I thought of the little Navajo girl. Quietly I leaned my rifle against the wall and drew my bowie knife from its sheath. It was a fine knife with an eight inch blade made of Damascus steel, steel that had been folded more than five hundred times. I put the razor edge to the man’s throat at the same time I put a hand to his mouth and leaned upon him. He was gone to his Maker without a sound.
I wiped the blade on his blanket and re-sheathed my knife. The man was left sitting as I had found him and I crossed the road to the warehouses. They were a few single story buildings used to store the boats and gear for river runners. In front of the largest one sat a man in a camp chair. That would be the building where the other prisoners were kept. This warehouse was behind the lodge and I risked the muffled noise of another shot from my AR. With another head shot, the man toppled out of the camp chair.
I moved up behind the warehouse. Against the outside wall I came upon half a dozen five gallon propane tanks. That gave me an idea. I slung my rifle over my shoulder and picked up a tank in each hand. Quietly I moved to the back of the lodge. It was an old rock building with a high foundation. There was a large access panel that opened to the crawl space beneath the lodge. It was easy to open and I set the two propane tanks under the building. I needed to wait until the women were out of the lodge, then I intended to blow it. But I wasn’t going to wait for light to get my crew past this nasty place.
Keeping to the darkest shadows, I circled wide and came to the front of the lodge. Here I could see the last guard and the red reticle of my night scope came to rest on the side of his head. I pulled the trigger and he dropped without a sound. Quickly I went up the steps and dragged him off the porch. I dragged him behind the cars that were still parked in front of the lodge.
Although still dark, the eastern sky was getting lighter with the dawn. I needed to hurry. I started at a slow run and headed back across the road to where I had left my boots. Putting them on, I was off again.
I crossed the bridge and called out quietly as I approached the horses. Cat answered my call and Sandy came down from the hill with the little girl. Picking up the girl, I sat her on my horse as the women got on theirs. I handed the reins to Sandy and Cat took the lead rope of the pack horse. I did not want to get caught out here in the light. I led out on foot, scanning the deepest shadows with my night vision scope.
We came to the bridge and the clip clop of the horses hooves carried through the still of the night. Once across the bridge we stopped at the Interpretive Center. I gave Sandy a few minutes to explain to the women inside what was going on. She then told them to step away from the door
and I put a couple of rifle rounds through the lock. We soon had the door open and the women prisoners made their way out. The little girl kept calling, “Ama, Ama,” I assumed that it meant mother in Navajo. The last women to leave the dark room answered back. The child leapt off my horse and ran into her mother’s arms. I felt anger inside of me as this little girl no longer had a father. There were a few more snakes here that needed their heads chopped off.
We gave the two rifles from the dead bridge guards to the women and asked them to remain at the rock building. I swung onto my own horse and led my crew up the road and past the trading post. I did not stop until a quarter of a mile past it. There I left my little troupe and rode back to the warehouse that held the prisoners. Here I dismounted and spoke through the door. There was a man’s voice that replied and I repeated what I had done at the rock building. With the lock shot off, the door opened and about a dozen men came out. They smelled bad.
None of these prisoners did I know. They were being fed upon by the strong but that did not make them good. They were desperate and I could trust none of them. The largest man was the one who had spoken to me through the door and I gave him a rifle. The rifle was from the dead guard lying on the ground. It was a 22 magnum3 and I emptied the bullets from the gun before I gave it to him. He could load it after I was gone. I explained to him what I had done that night. Then I told him about the propane tanks under the lodge. He quickly understood how they could be used to blow it up after the women were out.
These people were starving and I could not feed them. To them my horse was food and I had the feeling that it was time for me to be gone. Grabbing the pommel of the saddle, I swung up without using the stirrups. Taking the reins, I backed my roan up getting some distance from the men. I then turned the reins and put spurs to my horse. The roan spun away and we left at a run.
Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom Page 12
