by Steven Bird
Chapter Thirty-Four
Several weeks later...
As Jessie pushed his chair away from the dinner table at Jack’s home, he looked at Angela and said, “That was a damn fine meal. The best I’ve had in, well, years.”
“You’re welcome. It’s nice to have a semblance of normalcy around here again. I can’t believe how fast the town seems to be recovering from the hell that Peronne put us through.”
Looking to Jack at the head of the table, Jessie said, “Well, with Mayor McGuigan here in charge of things, I’m sure it’ll all work out just fine. How exactly did you con the rest of the people here into giving you that job, Jack?”
“It’s not something I was aspiring to be, trust me on that,” he replied. “I just want to help get some legitimate local leadership established, and get a militia made up of all of the people, the entire population of able-bodied adults, up and running, so that we never run into a problem like Peronne again. We will never be disarmed again. We will never let anyone, elected or not, run roughshod over our individual, God-given rights, ever again.”
“Amen to that,” Jessie said, as he raised his glass with everyone in the room joining him for a toast.
That evening, after everyone had gone back to their own homes and retired for the night, Jessie sat on the front porch with Jack, quietly taking a sip of home-brewed beer, made by one of the locals. Breaking the silence, Jessie said, “I just wish Leina hadn’t slipped away in the middle of the night like she did. I mean... I understand. She’s never going to be able to rest in this world without trying to find her children, but she didn’t have to go on her own.”
“Now, Jessie, you know as well as I do, that sometimes people need to set out on their own for a mission that even they know, they probably won’t complete. As a matter of fact, that sounds like the story of someone else I know,” Jack replied, taking a sip of beer. “Damn, that’s good stuff, all things considered.”
Noticing that Jessie had suddenly become tongue-tied as he stared blankly at the wooden porch floor, Jack added, “As a matter of fact, it seems to me, like you’ve got such a thing stewing in your mind right now. You know, you don’t have to leave. We just happen to have open, the position of sheriff, who will, of course, be our militia leader as well. Do you know anyone around here that has the qualifications to fill such a position? I think I might know someone who does.”
Rocking his chair back and forth, patiently waiting on Jessie’s reply, Jack asked, “So, Sheriff Townsend, do you know anyone who holds such qualifications?”
Looking up at Jack, Jessie replied, “Sheriff Townsend died a long time ago. I’m just Jessie, or J. T. now. And you’re right, I know exactly how Leina must have felt when she left, leaving nothing but a goodbye note behind.”
“You’re not gonna leave a note, though, are you?” asked Jack.
“I... I’ve got to...”
Interrupting him before he could finish, Jack said, “I know, Jessie. I know. Your soul will never rest either, just like hers. Just promise me, if you ever find room in your heart to be a part of a community again, that you’ll consider us here at Fort Sumner. We’d be honored and lucky to have you as one of our fellow citizens.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll always keep you good people in mind and in my heart. Take care of Angela, or rather, I guess I should tell her to take care of you.”
With a laugh, Jack replied, “Yeah, that’s a more appropriate statement these days. She’s something else.”
“You did well, my friend. The world needs more parents like you, if we’re going to make it through all of this.”
Answering only with a smile, Jack tipped his glass and took another sip of beer, as he and Jessie gazed out at the stars, enjoying each other’s company, for what they both knew was the last time.
~~~ The End ~~~
A Note from the Author
As I sit here before my keyboard, having completed my eighth book, I reflect upon what an amazing journey it has been. I’ve met a lot of people along the way, both in person and online, who have greatly inspired me to continue down this path. People from within the industry as well as readers have made this a true labor of love for me that I plan to continue for my foreseeable future. I thank you each and every one for that, from the bottom of my heart.
If I have not had the honor of making your acquaintance and if you like my work, please find me on Facebook at http://facebook.com/stvbird
and at my blog at http://www.stevencbird.com. You can also follow me on Twitter at http://twitter.com/stevencbird. In addition, my Amazon author page can be found at http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Bird/e/B00LRYYBDU/ where you can see all of my available work.
I look forward to hearing from each and every one of you, and may God bless you and your loved ones in all of your future endeavors.
Just as Jack and Jessie shared a drink in the final chapter, I raise my glass to each and every one of you, and offer you my friendship and thank you for yours in return.
Respectfully,
Steven C. Bird
About the Author
Steven Bird was born in Harlan, KY in 1973, where he lived until joining the U.S. Navy in 1992. He spent the next thirteen years living in Northwest Washington State, where he served on active duty for eleven of those years. After leaving active duty, he completed twenty years of service in the Navy Reserve retiring as a Navy Chief Petty Officer. While in the reserves, he pursued a civilian flying career, serving as a flight instructor, charter pilot, turboprop first officer, jet first officer, jet airline captain, and he currently flies as the chief pilot and captain for a corporate flight department based out of Knoxville, Tennessee. He has served in both military and federal law enforcement capacities and holds CFI, CFII, MEI, and ATP pilot certificates with numerous jet type ratings, as well as a bachelor's degree in eBusiness.
In his spare time, Steven has been involved in off-road motorcycle racing, competitive shooting, hunting, fishing, hiking, and myriad other outdoor activities. He currently focuses his free time on his family as a happily married father of three. He and his wife Monica have a farm in Deer Lodge, Tennessee, where they raise their own fruits and vegetables, in addition to raising horses, donkeys, chickens, Katahdin sheep, American Blackbelly sheep, and various breeds of cattle.
Steven Bird is a self-sufficiency-minded individual with a passion for independence and individual liberty. He puts this passion into his writing where he conveys the things that he feels are important in life, intertwined with action-packed adventure and the struggles of humanity.
The Tree of Penance
Society Lost, Volume Three
By Steven C. Bird
The Tree of Penance
Society Lost, Volume Three
Copyright 2018 by Steven C. Bird
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, copied, or shared without expressed consent and prior authorization from the author.
Published by Steven C. Bird at Homefront Books
Illustrated by Hristo Kovatliev
Kindle Edition 7.24.18
Edited by:
Carol Madding at Hope Springs Editing &
Sabrina Jean at Fast-Track Editing
www.homefrontbooks.com
www.stevencbird.com
facebook.com/homefrontbooks
[email protected]
Twitter @stevencbird
Instagram @stevencbird
Table of Contents
Disclaimer
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
&
nbsp; Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Disclaimer
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real events or persons, past or present, living or dead, are purely coincidental and are not intended by the author. Although this book is based on real places and some real events and trends, it is a work of fiction for entertainment purposes only. None of the activities in this book are intended to replace legal activities and your own good judgment.
Dedication
Where do I begin? The Tree of Penance is my eleventh book, and along the way, I’ve encountered and befriended many wonderful people. The SHTF/TEOTWAWKI/Prepper/Survival fiction crowd is one that generally follows the aphorism - a rising tide lifts all boats. It’s a very supportive group of people who I truly consider to be family. The list is far too long to name them all, for fear of slighting someone who doesn’t deserve to be left out, but trust me when I say: I thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart.
And as for my true motivation with everything I do in life, I thank my beautiful wife Monica, our son Seth, and our daughters Olivia (Livi) and Sophia (Sophie) for being my lighthouse in the storm. You each keep me on track and make me the man I am today. Without you, I wouldn’t be me. I love you all.
Chapter One
Working his horse through the brush, a heavily weathered man with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper beard nudged his old sorrel quarter horse’s sides with his boots, urging it across a small stream. “It ought to be up this way, Mack,” he muttered, referring to the snare he’d set in the hopes of catching one of the furry critters that frequented the area for dinner.
Reaching the other side of the creek, he rode up and over the bank to find a man lying facedown in the mud. The man’s clothes were wet from the previous night’s rain and his skin was pale; almost as if he had passed away during the night. To be sure, the old man held Mack’s reins in his left hand and swung his leg over the saddle, dismounting quietly. Tying Mack’s reins to the branch of an oak tree, he slipped his old top-break Smith & Wesson revolver from its well-worn brown leather holster and crept over to the man, watching for signs of a trap with every step.
Kneeling beside the man, he held the old Smith & Wesson chambered in .45 Schofield in his right hand while nudging the man with his left. Moving back after giving him a slight push, Isaac watched for any signs of life. Not seeing any movement, he placed his left hand on the man’s back and quietly felt and listened for a sign of breathing. Feeling a slight rise in the man’s back from a weak inhalation, he turned to Mack and said, “He’s alive, boy.”
Standing and looking back to his horse, as if to have a conversation about what to do next, he said, “Now what? Do we take this feller in and risk it? Or just let him die?”
After a brief pause, he said, “This is where you’re supposed to tell me to climb back on and we get the hell out of here.”
Sliding his Smith & Wesson back into its holster, he used both hands to roll the injured man over onto his back. Placing his right hand on the pistol grip of his old top-break revolver and watching closely for signs of movement, he looked the man over carefully. Estimating him to be in his mid-forties, Isaac noticed the man had a scraggly beard that didn’t fill in all the way. He was wearing a threadbare brown Carhart jacket and a pair of olive-drab green cargo pants with dark brown leather cargo boots.
Turning back to his horse, Isaac said, “I’d say this feller’s got a little Indian in him based on his complexion and a lack of whiskers.” Looking back to the injured man, he said, “Oh, what’s this?” as he pulled an old, battered Colt single action revolver from the man’s holster which was previously obscured from sight by the mud and the unconscious man’s position on the ground.
Holding the gun up to get a good look at it, he said, “This damn barrel is crooked as sin. The cylinder is out of alignment too. I think the pin is bent—and empty, of course. Not that you’d wanna shoot this damn thing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this thing was run over. Now, why the hell would a man carry around a pistol that he can’t shoot? That’ll just make you look like a threat and get you in a heap of trouble in a hurry.”
Feeling the unconscious man’s forehead, he said, “He’s burnin’ up.” Pausing for a moment, he looked over to Mack and said, “He’s not one of them, and since you didn’t talk me out of it, I guess we’ll take our chances. We’d better get him back. He won’t last long without help.”
Standing up and walking over to Mack, he said, “I just entered my fifty-seventh year on God’s green Earth, and the last few feel like ten. I really don’t feel like pickin’ this fella’ up and puttin’ him on your back. You’d end up hauling two broken-down men back if I did. I’ve gotta figure out somethin’ else.”
Taking a small hatchet from his saddlebag, the man began harvesting the materials he needed to build a travois to drag behind old Mack.
~~~~
After a half hour’s work, he was proud of his creation. Using two poles made from young tree trunks, several branches, and a heavy-duty survival poncho stretched over it all, he stood back and said, “Who needs wheels? Right, boy? This better not tear my damn poncho. I’m not sure he’s worth that level of investment just yet.”
With a long pole extending out of each side of the contraption and secured to the sides of Mack’s saddle, Isaac took the man by the arms and pulled him up and onto the travois, tying him securely with the rope he always kept hanging from his saddle.
Swinging his leg over Mack, he patted the loyal old horse on the neck. Adjusting his position in the saddle, relative to the intrusive poles of the travois, the man said, “Alright, ol’ boy, let’s drag this sumbitch home. I sure as hell hope I don’t regret this.”
Chapter Two
Ducking behind a tree, Jessie opened the loading gate of his Colt revolver, spun the cylinder, and mumbled to himself, “Damn it to hell,” when he saw six dented primers whirl past as the cylinder slowed to a stop. With his cartridge belt now empty, and his rifle and the rest of his supplies still tied to his old horse, Eli, who now lay dead from a sniper’s bullet at least one hundred yards away, Jessie began looking for potential escape routes.
Being surrounded by trees with ATV trails running in what seemed like every direction, one route didn’t seem any better than the next. I’d better stay off the trails, he thought.
Making his move to leap into the cover of the woods just ten yards away, the bark of the tree behind him exploded from a hard-hitting, high-velocity round. Immediately sprinting away from the tree, he heard another shot ring out with the bullet whizzing by his head.
That bastard ain’t gonna keep missing forever. He’s too close.
Finding cover behind the roots of a tree that appeared to have been blown over in a recent storm, Jessie peeked through the roots that reached out like the tentacles of a cluster of octopi. Seeing movement between two trees in the distance to the northwest, he whispered to himself, “That’s one. He wasn’t the shooter, though. Not from that direction.”
Continuing to scan the area as best he could from his limited vantage point, he saw another man to his southwest. Dammit, they’re closing in.
Looking behind him and seeing no movement in that general direction, Jessie made a break for it, running through the woods at a break-neck pace.
Immediately hearing several ATV engines start, followed by the sounds of the vehicles tearing through the woods from all directions, he knew they were getting closer by the second. Damn, how many of them are
there?
Hearing several shots ring out, Jessie ran toward the thickest area of the woods for cover, jumping across an ATV trail in front of him. Being unable to pinpoint its exact location in all the commotion, Jessie was blindsided by an ATV traveling at a high rate of speed, knocking him ten feet off the trail. With the wind knocked out of him, Jessie found himself lying on his back with his head spinning from what felt like a concussion. He opened his eyes, blinking several times in an attempt to focus. Through his momentarily blurry vision and the mental haze from the impact, he could see a man step toward him, staring down at him.
“Why’d you run, dumbass? When you make it harder on us, we just make it harder on you.” Turning toward the others, the man shouted, “I’ve got him! He’s over here!”
Taking advantage of the man’s attention being on his cohorts, Jessie drew his knife from his belt, and with the speed of a snakebite, he slashed the blade across the man’s calf, slicing through the large muscle and causing the man to drop to the ground, screaming in agony. Rolling over on top of him, Jessie stabbed him repeatedly in the chest until the man’s writhing ceased.
Struggling to his feet, Jessie felt for his Colt, only to find that it must have been knocked from his holster during the collision with the ATV.
Staggering toward the trail with his head still spinning from the impact, he saw his beloved Colt pistol laying on the trail behind the ATV. Quickly picking it up and shoving it into his holster, Jessie turned to run when he felt a sting in his side, followed by the crack of a gunshot in the distance.
