I was glad to have Marble Canyon behind me.
_____________________
1. “Loaded for bear”: An old term used to mean that a person was armed for danger.
2. Single shot .22 rifle: A .22 caliber gun for shooting small game such as rabbits. A single shot must have a fresh cartridge loaded into the gun after each shot.
3. The .22 magnum: A step up in velocity over the .22. The cartridges are not interchangeable between guns.
Chapter 17
HOME
February 25th
The weather warmed and the snow melted as we traveled the remaining distance to the ranch. It was late afternoon on the third day since we had passed Marble Canyon. Riding our tired horses, we crested the east rim above my little valley. I pulled my roan to a stop and took in the view. I never tired of this place. It was a peaceful place. It was a place of security and it was the land of my fathers. It was home.
With heads hung low, our weary horses stood resting quietly in the warmth of the setting sun. The hunting hounds that I had posted around the basin had caught our wind before we had come into view. They had set off their alarms of deep bellowing barks. With a whistle and a voice command, I brought their barking to a halt.
In this changed world there was no place to become careless. I was not even going to ride into my own home without being careful. Whichever twin was on watch would have spotted us by now, and once we were recognized, we would ride in.
I waited patiently and continued to look over the basin. Everything seemed to be in place until my eyes crossed over the knoll below the house. The little Bonham cemetery had a fresh mound of earth. A new grave had been placed in that sacred spot. Who was it? Was it KayLee-K or HayLee-H? I had just retrieved one daughter. Had I lost another?
The door to the ranch house opened and one of the twins stepped out onto the porch. She was waving us in and I urged my horse down the trail. We were riding towards the house but the person on the porch could not wait. She jumped from off the wood walkway and starting running to us. It was KayLee-K.
“Dad, Mom!” she cried out excitedly. “Dad, Mom, Cat, I knew you would make it! I knew it!”
As she ran towards us, I could see her face with her long blond hair flowing behind her. She looked and acted so much like her mother. She was full of life and energy. Memories of twenty-five years ago raced through my head. Memories of when her mother and I had been together a generation ago.
KayLee-K came to a sudden stop just before reaching my horse. I knew what had happened. I could see it on her face. There was shock and bewilderment as she saw that the woman on Mom’s horse was not Mom. She stood there with her mouth half open.
I swung down from the saddle and stood before her. Words would not come to me as I watched the pain come across her face. It was the pain that comes from the loss of a loved one; the pain that was common to the lot of mankind, but to the individual, it was always personal and poignant. I wished I could take the pain away. That somehow I could bear it for her, but I could not. I could only support her in it. That support would be received by KayLee-K only when she was ready, and she was not ready.
She took a step backwards, away from me, and straightened her shoulders. Like all my children she was emotionally strong. I nodded towards the fresh mound of earth in the cemetery.
“It’s little Jamie.” KayLee-K answered my unspoken question.
“They are here? They made it?” I asked as a mixture of emotions flooded over me. Every day I had silently prayed for Dan and his family. The fear that I would never see my son and his family again had been at the back of my mind every day for the last 29 days.
Relief coursed through me mixed with the knowledge that my son had lost his daughter. I had gained my son and lost my granddaughter. KayLee-K now stepped towards me and placed her hand upon my arm.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said.
I looked into her blue eyes. There were no tears. They would come later when she was alone or with HayLee-H. She, at this moment, was thinking of others and how they would be feeling. I was amazed at the internal strength.
With a nod of my head, I led my horse past her and walked to the white picket fence that circled the cemetery mound. I dropped the roan’s reins over the hitching rack that stood by the gate of the picket fence and opened the gate. Walking to the fresh mound, I squatted down upon my heels. The freshly turned soil was dark in color. The dark sandy soil was common upon the knolls of old Indian dwellings.
I picked up a handful of moist dirt and let it fall through my fingers. Dan had taken a slab of sandstone and chiseled Jamie’s name, her date of birth and her date of death upon it. James was the name of my father who I had never known and Jamie was the name of my grandchild that I would never get to know.
I remained next to the grave for some time, alone with my thoughts, when I heard the cemetery gate open and close. I turned my head to see Sandy Yazzie walking up the path between the head stones. She paused by the three headstones that were planted next to my great grandfather’s. She ran her hand over the nearest one that was marked “Navajo Warrior.”
After a moment, she came and sat upon the ground beside me. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She sat there quietly and never spoke. I did not feel that I had been intruded upon. It was much the opposite. It was comforting to have her close.
We remained there as the darkness closed upon my little valley. Dan had come and taken my horse to the barn. The stars began to appear in the night sky and someone lit the lamps in my home. At last I stood up. Reaching a hand down, I raised Sandy from the ground. A single word had not been spoken but an understanding had passed between us. It was a feeling of gratitude for each other, that and something more.
We entered my home and a hot dinner was already upon the table. A fire burned in the open hearth. Dan was sitting upon the hearth and Jill was in the rocker next to the fire. She was holding the baby girl that Cat had rescued. The little infant was nuzzled to her breast, nursing peacefully. In this world of chaos the hand of Providence could still be seen.
I looked around the warm room at my family. All that could be gathered in was gathered in.
I was grateful.
Chapter 18
ANN RAFFERTY
March 2nd
The gymnasium at the high school in the little town of Orderville was packed and charged with emotion. Like unseen electricity, it could be felt as I walked in. It had been 33 days since the first strike and real hunger was already being felt by some in the town. The town council had been holding regular meetings to deal with the crises.
It was against federal, state, county, and city law to carry a firearm but I walked in carrying my AR-15. As usual, I had my great grandfather’s colt revolver strapped to my hip. The old ways died hard with me. The pistol was old but in good condition. It had worn out three separate holsters and I had made the fourth one. I had patterned it after the previous holsters which all were double loop Mexican style. The belt had cartridge loops for 30 rounds of 44 caliber bullets. All the loops were full. Over the belt I had slid magazine pouches for my AR; three pouches that held two, 30-round magazines each. That was six magazines plus the one in my rifle. Each magazine was loaded with 28 rounds. I did not like to keep the magazines loaded to the max. (I felt that the life of the magazine springs would last longer if I didn’t completely compress it with a maximum number of bullets) Seven magazines times 28 equaled 196 rifle rounds for my AR.
Fred, the town marshal, had been posted at the door and made a token effort to stop me when I entered. Everyone knew everyone in this small town and I knew Fred. He was a decent guy, a guy that didn’t really agree with all the restrictions that had come in the last several years, but a guy who had a family to feed. His job required him to enforce the gun laws and his job was his security. When he had seen me coming with my guns, he had stepped forward and spoken to me. I did not answer and I did not pause, I simply walked past him. He would
have had to draw his gun and shoot me in order to stop me. As I said, he was a decent guy and I knew he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
I had made it back from New Mexico in time to attend the big meeting. The mayor and city council had been passing resolutions to “relieve the suffering” of the community. The resolutions dealt with the consolidating of food resources. All those who had food resources, production, or storage, were resisting. It had reached the point that those who were resisting had forced this meeting. In turn, the council had turned to the Department of Homeland Security for support.
People were confused. The unprepared were scared. Ann Rafferty was the mayor of Orderville and she was one of the unprepared.
Ann had moved here from California a dozen years ago packing all the charm and good looks of a movie star. With short dark hair and a figure that filled out her business skirts nicely, she was vivacious and energetic. Beneath the looks and charm was a shrewd politician. She did not look confused or scared; she was laying the groundwork for her own survival.
I knew it, and I also knew where the real power behind the town council lay. The power was not in the council nor was it in the mayor; it was in the DHS agent who had a seat at the table. His name was Zackary Williams and I had known him from his birth. He was the son of my father’s best friend. At the age of 36 he was 11 years my younger and he was a beast. He was a beast physically and mentally. He was also a local hero. As a youth, he had played as a fullback and a center linebacker for the high school football team in Kanab. When he was just a sophomore, the team was second in state. His junior and senior years, they were state champions. He had been the power house that drove the team.
After high school, he was successful playing for Florida State. His physical size peaked while there when he hit 245 pounds and stood at six foot four. He was drafted first round by the Detroit Lions. This he turned down to enlist in the military and became a Navy Seal. That surprised the folks here, but not me.
I had watched many of his games in high school and I saw something that most did not. He loved to hurt others. The game of football was a good mask for that dark trait. That trait had a dark twin and it was the love of power.
After only three years with the Seals, he was recruited into some contract army1 of the government. From there he emerged to a high place in the Department of Homeland Security. It seemed to be a strange road he traveled, but wherever Zackary Williams went he rose to the top.
Before Zackary was born, his father and my father were best of friends; my father, the cowboy who lived up the hill and his father, the farmer who lived in the valley. Our fathers grew up together, went to school together and then off to Vietnam to fight. My father, James, returned in a body bag on the same plane that his father, Bill Williams, flew home on.
For obvious reasons, most did not underestimate Zackary ’s physical strength. And while most knew that he was smart, they would still underestimate his native intelligence. But when it came to the dark side of his ambitious drive, it took a man with some wisdom to see it.
He sat quietly at the end of the table where the town council was seated in the middle of the gym. Ann Rafferty was speaking and she was emboldened by the presence of the DHS.
“If we pull together as a community we will make it through this crisis. We have a great pioneer heritage that we can draw upon. The very name of our community, Orderville, was named after the United Order that our pioneer ancestors practiced.2 They shared and shared alike. Those who had gave to those that needed. They were equal in all things. The selfless ideal of, ‘from everyone, according to their ability, to everyone, according to their needs,’ is what will carry us through this time of crises.”3
I was a student of history, both of the pioneers and of the world. Ann Rafferty, with her good looks and pretty smile, has just falsely woven together the early Mormon pioneer approach to helping others with Karl Marx’s beliefs.
The difference—one ideal was enforced at the barrel of a gun, while the other was freely entered into with the freedom to leave. Both had failed. Now, once again, a pretty face with a convincing voice was telling us that this time it would work. Not only that it would work, but that it was the only thing that could save us in this time of crisis.
Never in the history of the world had Communism worked. When it was enforced by Lenin and Stalin in Russia, millions died. In China under Mao, 45 million died in a four-year span of time.4
The last façade of a representational form of government in our little town was being torn away.
“We are all neighbors,” Ann continued, “and if no one is selfish and we care about each other, we will be okay. Under federal statute, number: 13603,5 in case of an emergency, any resource may be held and used for the benefit of the country. The Department of Homeland Security will be in control of the operations, in the using of these resources, to care for the families of our communities. We are most fortunate to have our own Zackary Williams to be the leading agent for Homeland Security in our area. He is one we all know and can trust. ”
Applause and a murmur of approval erupted from three fourths of the crowd. They were the unprepared.
The remaining fourth was a polar opposite. Like the positive and negative terminals of a car battery being crossed, the unseen sparks of anger could be felt.
Zackary William’s father was the old Mormon bishop of this community and that old bishop was my friend. He was one of the few living connections I had to my dead father. I knew that for years he had been re-emphasizing the teachings of their prophets to store food.
Over half of the community had tired of him and dismissed him as being a radical while another quarter listened politely, making token efforts to lay up food storage. Only a few in the community took him seriously and put their heart into preparing against a time of need.
It was that small percentage of people that were now being demonized as selfish and uncaring in this meeting. I stood at the end of the gymnasium bleachers with my back to the wall. Keeping my back protected was a habit. Zackary Williams was dressed in military fatigues and had watched me walk in.
I remained there, quietly listening to the propaganda for another twenty minutes. This, in a microcosm, was the culmination of the generational march of tyranny in America. The individual no longer had a right to a firearm for his personal protection or for the protection of his freedom. He had no right to control his own property. Property was to be controlled for the good of the whole.
For years I had watched this wolf stock our liberties. Tucked away on my ranch, I had avoided much of the coercion that the government placed upon the American people. I sorrowed for my country. Half of our country had accepted the mothering of an “all caring” government. That was the half that did not pay any income tax and most of them received a payment of one type or another from the government. They believed that the assistance and entitlements they received would never end. They refused to open their eyes and do simple math. It was easier to believe the fair promises of the politicians.
Half of the other half was distracted. Only the remaining quarter of our country really stood for freedom anymore. We were the minority but a man’s freedom comes from God and not from a majority. I had had enough.
My AR was cradled in my left arm. The chamber was charged and I clicked off the safety. Ann Rafferty was still talking as I walked out onto the floor. I walked towards the table and Ann started stumbling over her train of speech as she watched me come. Zackary Williams was at the left end of the table and I passed to the right side. I did not stop until I had circled behind Zackary. This way my rifle barrel was always pointed in his general direction. He pivoted his chair and faced me. I did not take my eyes off of him nor did he take his eyes off me. He had only a side arm, the new 40 caliber Glock.6 Ann was completely disconcerted as she struggled with the choice to turn and look at me or keep speaking to the audience.
She stopped talking and I had everyone’s attention.
“This once was
the land of the free,” I said. “A man used to be sovereign in his own home and his property was his own. Just because the majority of you here need food, it gives you no right to take my cows, Bill’s farm, or Jack’s orchard. I do not care what the federal statute says or what your town council resolutions are, my cows are my cows.
“It is not right that a man should steal from another, nor is it right for a group of men to vote for a government agency to do their stealing for them. If a man needs help he can ask for help. And when we freely help each other we become good neighbors. Once you take a man’s choice from him, you take his freedom and our freedom is more precious than our lives.”
This time there were hearty approvals from the farmers and ranchers of the crowd. Ann Rafferty regained her voice.
“You are being treasonous, Jake.” She blurted out, her face turning red. “We are within the law! I thought you were a family man. How can you turn your back on the starving children of our community?”
“Because it is law, Ann, does it make it right?” I returned. “I have food and you do not. Instead of asking for help you have used this council and the muscle of the DHS to try and force from me my food for yourself. You throw the children in to make it sound good. But history teaches us that the children get fed only after those in power get fed.”
I was not going to debate more with her. “Bill, Jack, and all of you that have ‘food resources,’ let’s meet right now out in the parking lot.”
Without hesitation, Bill led out and a stream of people followed him. This was not the way Ann had anticipated things. Zackary sat still with his hand not far from the handle of his Glock. In all my speaking I had not taken my eyes from him and my finger rested upon the trigger of my AR. I knew he was fast and the town mayor had just branded me as being treasonous. In the mind of many here, he would be upholding law and order if he shot me.
Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom Page 13
