Ann had a gift of speech and persuasion. Since the failed meeting where Jake Bonham had successfully undermined her, she had applied all her talent to his destruction. In every speech she vehemently spoke of the rebellion and selfishness of those who controlled the food production. With skill, she painted Jake Bonham as the face and cause of their suffering.
With the minds of many steeped against Jake Bonham, it was time to move against his ranch. If Jake’s ranch had been at the end of the valley, or out of the way, he could have been dealt with later. But his reputation and the location of his ranch required that he be subjugated first. It would be like chopping off the head of a snake. Making an example of the Bonham ranch would help motivate the rest of the farmers and ranchers to cease their rebellion.
Combined with the fifty soldiers that came with the DHS agent from Kanab, there were now over two hundred and seventy men willing to take up arms against their neighbors. To Ann’s chagrin, there had also been a movement of the people who opposed her. She had reports of them moving from the valley up to the Bonham ranch.
Chapter 26
RETROSPECTIVE
Beat your plowshares into swords, and your pruninghooks into spears …
—Joel 3: 10
March 11th
Standing on the porch, I looked across my little valley as the old cattle truck rumbled through the wooden gate. It had made a number of risky trips loaded with food storage. It was the food storage of the families that now filled my little valley. These families had come from the communities below and their tents now dotted the meadow.
They had fled here for protection from Ann Rafferty’s vicious propaganda, a propaganda initiative that was now backed by armed men. Men that had been our friends, men that were still our neighbors. They were now willing to take our lives if we did not give them our food. Without the backing of Zackary Williams and DHS, Ann Rafferty could never have organized a force even half the size that now threatened us.
Zackary William’s father, the old bishop, was now walking towards me. He moved slowly and he was more stooped than I had ever seen him before. The conflict that had come to Long Valley weighed heavily upon him.
“Hello, Jake,” he called out.
“Howdy, Bill. How are things coming along?” I asked him.
“We’re getting settled in. Thanks for letting us come here. There is no better place to make a stand than your ranch,” he replied.
“What’s the count?” I asked.
Bill pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it.
“There are forty-three families. That is forty three fathers with rifles and there are another twenty six boys that are armed and can fight. That is sixty nine men under arms,” Bill answered.
“That’s good Bill, that’s good. That cuts the odds down to ‘four to one,’” I said. “Come on in and sit down, my old friend.”
Bill folded the paper and put it back into his shirt pocket. He did not immediately come up the steps; instead, he leaned his forearms on the hitching rack and rested.
“You know that they hate you, don’t you?” he asked.
“Hate me? Who?” I asked as if I was surprised but I was not.
“Everyone left in Long Valley, that’s who,” he replied. “They don’t like me or the other ranchers and farmers who have moved up here, but you’re the one they hate. Ever since you took the steam out of Ann Rafferty’s kettle at that town meeting, every hungry person blames you. Ann has successfully campaigned against you, telling them that if you had not divided the community that we could have all worked together. And, with shared sacrifice, we all would have had food to eat. You are the face and focus of their suffering.”
I had studied the economic collapse of countries and hate was part of a natural progression. It was usually fanned by those in government as they struggled for their own survival. They need division. By promising to give to one group, they sought power to plunder another group. By promising to make things fair and equal, they could remain in power and stay fed.
“It is what it is, Bill. Come on in.”
He came up the steps and I led him into the house. At the table I spread out my map of the ranch. For the next hour and a half we reviewed the defensive plans that we had been crafting. The old man had fought in Vietnam alongside my father and I valued his wisdom but there was no question who was to make the final decisions. This was my home and my ranch. As long as these good people respected the sovereignty of a man on his own place, I was willing to fight by their side in defense of what was our own.
It was plain to see that Ann and our neighbors would come against us. They could not wait us out. We had food and they did not. Before they got organized, I had helped the ranchers and farmers drive every head of livestock out of Long Valley. We had moved them to the top of the Glendale bench, mostly on my ranch. It was the most secure range with the long sandstone ledge of the bench to protect them.
It would be months before food could be harvested from any of the fields that fell into Ann’s control. The fields still needed to be planted and tended before they would produce. There were no farmers left to do the work. Those that were left had neither the knowledge to farm nor the seeds to do so. Even if they had both, they had not the food to sustain their lives till harvest. They were in desperate straits. They had to turn upon us if they wanted to live. Had they asked, we would have freely given even more, but they had not. They demanded that all food production be put under governmental control. We were to give them that which sustained our families and then trust them, trust them when they said that they would take care of us.
Night was coming on and I rolled up my map.
“Bill,” I said, “I know your prophets have taught for years to store at least a year supply of food and to grow gardens. You have preached it for years yourself. How is it your people could go to your church year after year, professing to believe that your church was led by prophets, and not follow their teachings? Now some of these same people are willing to kill me and my family to take my cows. How did that happen?”
My old friend sighed and his head dropped down. I wished I had not said anything. I knew human nature, I knew how it happened.
Standing up, I put a hand on his shoulder, “Bill, you’ve done all you could to warn these people. Your hands are clean. I’m sorry it has come to this, neighbor against neighbor. We stand on the side of freedom, and as you stood with my father, I am proud to stand with you.”
The old man raised his head and looked at me, “Jake, no man lives forever. When he goes he hopes that his life was worthwhile. He hopes that he has left the world better than he found it. Your Dad and Mother can rest at peace in their graves because you walk the earth. You are an honor to their name. How did my son become the opposite of who I am?”
This was the first time he had ever spoken of Zackary to me. I had known that it was a source of sorrow to him and now I could see it plainly on his face. Not only was it neighbor against neighbor, it was father against son.
I was at a loss for words. I wanted to say something to strengthen my old friend but could say nothing.
Bill stood up, “When I was in ‘Nam with your Dad, he had a feeling that he would never come home. He asked if I came home, and he did not, that I would look after you. With your grandparents, you didn’t need a lot of looking after, but it has been a delight to be your friend. You have brought me a lifetime of joy.”
With that he walked out the door.
Chapter 27
HOPES AND DREAMS
March 12th
The next morning I awoke before light. I could hear the Navajo woman preparing breakfast in the kitchen and could smell the frying of eggs and some beef. From the day we had arrived back from New Mexico she had taken on the household duties. I lay in the dark, enjoying the sounds of a woman in the house. It was a simple thing, the swishing of a woman’s skirt, the sound of pans on the stove, the humming as she worked. It brought contentment to my heart. Afte
r the last years of being by myself at the ranch, it was nice to feel that loneliness fade.
She did not sleep in the home with the rest of my family but chose to spread her bed in the grain room of the barn. She came into the home early to prepare breakfast and in the evening she did the same. I seldom spoke at length with her but enjoyed having her close. Today I would do more. I would ask her to ride with me as I checked our defensive placements and cut the range for tracks of any intruders.
Sitting up, I placed my feet on the floor. Taking the glass chimney off the kerosene lamp next to my bed, I struck a match and lit the wick. Placing the chimney back on the lamp, the light increased in the room. I then dressed in my wranglers and shirt. I pulled on my boots with my spurs still on them. By habit I buckled on my chaps and then my 44-40 Colt. Standing there dressed as was my norm, I knew that today may be the last day I could dress this way for some time. I must shed the wranglers, the chaps and the spurs for my 3-D camo gear.
I withdrew the camo from the bottom drawer of the dresser and laid it on the bed. The material was soft to the touch and that was important. When passing through the limbs of brush and foliage it made no sound. There were leaves of the same material that were sewn to the jacket, pants and cap. That helped break up the outline of the body much more effectively that plain camouflage color. From the cap that would go on my head to the boots I would place on my feet, the pattern was matching. It was the pattern and color that best matched the foliage of the ranch. I had painted all my AR rifles and attached scopes with the same camouflage colors.
There was one item that I had worn most of my life I was struggling with. I found it difficult put off my 44-40. I felt out of balance when I did not have it buckled around my hips. It was like a child’s security blanket and I did not feel comfortable without it. The only times I did not wear it was when I took a bath, went to bed or walked into a church. Except for church, it was never far from my hand. I did not have to make that decision today and now it was time for breakfast.
The family had already gathered to eat and was waiting when I entered. Sitting at the head of the table I took the time to look at them before we said grace. I loved this. I loved sitting down with my children to eat. Life passed so quickly that it was easy to miss the important things.
It would not be many days before the valley would come against us. Would I get all of these, whom I loved, through it alive? Would any of us make it? The odds were four-to-one against us. I had to believe that we could all make it. We held the high ground. We were defending. We were well fed. All these things helped to even the odds. Still, I would cherish every moment I had with my family.
After we had finished breakfast, the family pitched in and the dishes were quickly done. They drifted off to their various responsibilities and I remained in the kitchen. Sandy had tarried, taking her time drying the last of the plates.
I sat down on the edge of the table with my feet resting on the seat of my chair. I sat there, relaxing, as she put the last plate away. She then picked up the broom and started sweeping the floor, a floor that was clean and did not need sweeping.
There was a feeling of contentment and ease in the room as she went about her work. She was dressed in the same velvet skirt that she wore the first night that I had seen her and her hair was braided. The black hair was long and the braid came to the small of her back. Standing in her moccasins I judged her to be five feet, four inches tall. She was trim with a fine figure. Again I marveled at her physical beauty but it was always her eyes that most mesmerized me—vivid green eyes that were filled with light.
The aura of the woman spoke of a person that was not trivial or shallow. I still did not know her age but it had to be far beyond what her physical body manifested. In the time that she had lived here I had quietly observed her maturity. Her character was manifested as she had worked around the ranch, as she interacted with my children, and as she gave of herself to help others. She was not selfish. That always enhanced one’s beauty.
I judged her to be in her thirties. There is a certain maturity that comes only with time and experience and I saw it in her. I thought of my wife. I missed her and I had been missing her a long time. It had been hard for her to spend time here at the ranch. With the drive, ambition, and talent that she possessed, this ranch did not provide a good window to showcase it all. We spent time between Albuquerque and the ranch when our family was young. But as her career advanced there, and my responsibilities increased here, our time together became less and less.
The small town school of Long Valley offered our children a more conservative education and that is where we decided they should go. They naturally spent more time at the ranch and with me.
From the time I first fell in love with her to this very day, I had always loved my City Rose. I knew that she loved me … and her job. She could have easily supported the whole family from her career in Albuquerque but I could not accept that life. I was too old school, too old fashioned. A man is always at his best when he is taking care of a woman—when he is caring for a family. It gives him a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to work hard, and something to come home to in the evening. On top of that, this ranch was my heritage; the land was sacred to me. In the city I was like a wild animal that was endlessly pacing in its cage, an animal that unceasingly sought the homeland of its birth.
I had comforted myself in the illusory dream that my wife would come home to the ranch and find contentment here. The loneliness was eased by the joy I found in my children. That could not last, for they each had dreams and lives of their own. It was a year ago that our youngest, Cathy, struck out to paddle her own canoe. That is when the evenings at the ranch became very long. My books helped some, but the nights would find me sitting in the house with nothing but the ticking of the antique clock to break the silence.
Sandy put the broom away and turned to face me. She looked at my left hand and I realized that, again, I was turning my wedding band with my thumb.
“You loved her, didn’t you.” It was not a question; it was a statement.
“Yes,” I replied.
“From the looks of your daughters, she must have been very beautiful.”
“She was,” I answered again. Those two simple answers were the first I had spoken to anyone about my wife for a very long time. It was a subject that even my children knew was off limits, but I did not find Sandy’s comments intrusive.
She walked across the room and put her hands on my knees. Looking at me with those green eyes she said, “Cowboy, I would like to ride with you when you go out today.”
She could not have known how welcomed that request was. She was mirroring my own desires. To ride this wild and beautiful land, to share it with a woman who would love and appreciate it as I did, was an old but unfulfilled dream.
“I would like that, Sandy. It may be the only chance I will have for some time. You change into some jeans and I will saddle you a horse.”
The sun had crested the eastern rim of the basin and was spilling its yellow rays of morning on the land. It was a beautiful morning, like so many others. In many ways, it was as if nothing had changed. My kerosene lights worked as they always had. The water flowed to the house and barn just as it did a hundred years ago. My table did not lack for food. The ranch stood, as yet unaffected by the turmoil of the land.
I could wish that the world would pass us by and leave us alone, but it would not. It could not. The world was passing through a cleansing fire and the unprepared were abandoning their remaining virtues in their fight for survival. In a day or two, our neighbors would be coming to take our food, which meant our lives. But this morning, that all seemed far away.
In my personal string of horses I ran five head. From that string I picked a dandy bay that was a nice moving horse. I saddled it up and was just throwing my saddle over the roan when Sandy appeared. She was in her wrangler jeans and wore a blue blouse that KayLee-K had given her. From the hitching rack she untied the reins of the
bay and smoothly swung onto its back. She watched me as I finished drawing the cinch tight on my horse and then mounted the roan.
We rode up the trail to the rim of the basin where we met Dan. It was so good to have him here. He was strong, emotionally and physically. I could count on him to hold the line. Dan supervised the defensive emplacements and was currently rotating men on six hour watches. The men not on watch were working with axes, clearing tree limbs and brush beyond the rim. They were eliminating cover for those who would attack us.
On the rim there were thirteen emplacements that compassed the small valley. Each one was a well camouflaged trench that could comfortably hold five men. They were roofed with scrub oak and other natural foliage. They had shooting ports made of natural stones that blended with the ground. The emplacements were situated where they could give crossfire support to the other emplacements. With five men in each, all the men that had come to our ranch could be engaged in the fight.
This small valley rim was naturally a superb position to defend. It was the high ground with no place for snipers to get above us. Psychologically and physically there were great advantages. No emplacement would feel isolated from the others. Each of the thirteen emplacements was in the line of sight of the other as they ringed the basin. The distance between emplacements ranged from 50 to 150 yards.
The widest part of the valley, from rim to rim, was under a 1000 yards. The ranch house and barn inside of the basin were of stone. Inside these the women and children would be safe from rifle fire if any part of the rim was taken by our neighbors. From both the barn and the house, supporting fire could be given to any part of the rim that might be overrun. There were a number of women that were excellent shooters and they were given rifles.
Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom Page 18
