Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom Read online

  ONLY BY

  BLOOD

  AND

  SUFFERING

  REGAINING

  LOST FREEDOM

  ONLY BY

  BLOOD

  AND

  SUFFERING

  REGAINING

  LOST FREEDOM

  LAVOY FINICUM

  Copyright © 2015 by LaVoy Finicum

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or use in motion pictures and otherwise), without the prior written permission of publisher of this book.

  Published by:

  Legends Library Publishing, Inc.

  Rochester, NY

  www.legendslibrary.org

  [email protected]

  877-222-1960

  This book is a work of fiction; all characters are fictional.

  ISBN: 978-1-937735-94-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover and interior designed by Jacob Frandsen

  Dedicated to God

  The Author of Liberty

  Oh beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife

  who more than self their country loved

  and mercy more than life.

  “America the Beautiful”

  “The fight for freedom is God’s fight … When a man stands for freedom he stands for God. As long as he stands for freedom, he stands with God. And were he to stand alone, he would still stand with God … Any man will be eternally vindicated and rewarded for his stand for freedom.”

  Ezra Taft Benson

  An Enemy Hath Done This

  Thanks

  To my wife and children, to my father and mother, to my brothers and sisters, and to my friends and family all, I wish to express my deep gratitude for their thoughts and input, for the love and memories that have inspired me to write this story.

  Warning

  To my friends, neighbors and citizens of this great land, please reflect on the events written herein. As most of us have known only peace and plenty, it is hard to believe that such things as war and famine can ever happen here. Nevertheless, the history of the world both ancient and modern teaches us otherwise. Whenever a dominant nation of the earth collapses, the record is one of horror and suffering.

  Atrocities greater than what is written in this book were personally experienced by one of my own family members. It would be unwise to cling to the unfounded confidence that “it won’t ever get that bad.”

  It is my belief that freedom will arise again in this land, but only after much blood and suffering. This is my witness and my warning.

  —LaVoy Finicum

  CONTENTS

  Cat

  Dan

  Cat

  Dan

  The Twins

  Cat

  Dan

  Cat

  The Ranch

  The Twins

  Dan

  Cat

  Dan

  Dad

  Justice

  Marble Canyon

  Home

  Ann Rafferty

  Long Valley

  Zackary Williams

  Kanab

  Page

  Sandy Yazzie

  Antibiotics

  Ann Rafferty

  Retrospective

  Hopes and Dreams

  The Long Valley War

  Friends

  Sorrow

  Freedom’s Cost

  Ann Rafferty

  The Society

  Judge of the Quick and the Dead

  Red and Blue

  Crossing of Swords

  Freedom

  Chapter 1

  CAT

  They shall every man turn to his own people, and flee every one into his own land.

  —Isaiah 13:14

  January 27th

  The lights of Albuquerque lay two miles to the east of me as I trudged up the hill using the faint silhouette of the power lines to guide me in the dark. Being my father’s youngest daughter, his training kicked in, and I paused to listen to my surroundings as I adjusted my tired grip on the 45 Sig Sauer.1 Peering into the dark, I strained my eyes and ears to determine if I was alone. Sensing no one else, my eyes look down upon the city of Albuquerque.

  Even though most of the city lights were on, I could see areas where it was dark, having no power. The glow of burning buildings could be seen in some of the blacked out areas. The police, with help from Luke Air Force Base, had tried to maintain control of the city but had finally abandoned all of downtown. Cutting through the center of the city, I-40 formed a temporary line of demarcation. The psychological barrier of law and order had completely evaporated in south Albuquerque. The gangs that were already strong in the city had free rein, while many of the youth gathered in packs like wolves. Both the hardened gangs2 and the youth bands preyed upon the weak and defenseless. The adrenalin of anarchy rose up in them. The appetite of animal instinct was whetted to an insatiable level and all those who fell into their hands suffered horribly.

  This I learned firsthand, just a few hours ago. Mom’s beautiful two story home with the attached three car garage lay in the affluent neighborhood of Albuquerque’s Northeast Heights. In this gated community there had been a false sense of security. The small but prestigious neighborhood was closed off by a six foot high wall made of precast stone. The home owners had hired security guards to keep them safe but the guards had shown no courage, melting away like snow on hot rocks when the gang scaled the walls. How many of them there where I did not know but it was enough to hit many homes at once. They came just as the sun dipped beyond the dark clouds that were gathering in the western skies. Mom lived just inside the west wall of the community and her house was hit at the same time as the houses next to hers. …

  * * *

  “Mom, Mom,” I spoke softly into the night as the first flakes of a winter storm began to fall. “Why did you trust the politicians and turn in your gun? How could you ever believe the government would keep you safe?”

  I pushed back the tears that wanted to come to my eyes. No time. No time for that. The familiar words of my father came to my mind, “Move forward, always, move forward.” Turning my back to the lights of Albuquerque, I picked up the dark shoulder bag and resumed my westward walk, keeping the power lines over my head to guide me.

  How did Dad ever marry Mom when they were so opposite? Guns went as naturally with Dad as the cowboy boots he put on every morning. He wore his gun as often as he wore his cowboy boots, an old 44-40 Colt, single action revolver,3 just like the ones in the western movies. The handle was hand carved from a single piece of rose wood. The deep maroon colored wood was polished smooth by the calloused hands that had held it. The steel of the gun had never been left un-oiled and with the years of wear from the holster it had developed a patina that accented the quality of the gun. It was always buckled around the narrow hips of my father in a double loop Mexican style holster.

  Mom, on the other hand, didn’t want anything to do with guns. When the federal government offered the mandatory buyback program, she dutifully turned in the 9-mil Sig Sauer Dad had bought her.

  Dad was a cowboy from Southern Utah, and although it was Mormon country, he was not a Mormon. To me, he was handsome with his chiseled face and strong jaw.

  As a young man, he had come to Albuquerque to attend the University of New Mexico. He had been invited to try out as a point guard for the basketball team at UNM, but was not good enough to be offered
a scholarship, but still a pretty big deal for the little town of Orderville whose high school population was under a hundred students. And that is where he met Mom. Dad’s dark hair was always covered by a quality Stetson cowboy hat. Mom never covered her golden blond hair. Her skin was lightly tanned with a flawless complexion. She had contrasting black eyebrows and long lashes that framed deep blue eyes. Even though there was not another woman to parallel her beauty or popularity on campus, she had been swept away by the southern Utah cowboy. The southern Utah cowboy was equally swept away by the City Rose that came to be my mother. But now she was gone.

  * * *

  Four men of the gang hit Mom’s house fast and professionally, two at the front door and two at the back door. With some sort of battering ram both doors were breached simultaneously. With the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood, they swept quickly into the home. Holding a mixture of semi-automatic pistols they quickly cleared each room of the downstairs as efficiently as any swat team.

  I had been resting comfortably on my bed up stairs reading and the noise jarred me to my feet. For a second my mind tried to put meaning to the sound of shattered glass. Then I heard Mom scream from her master bedroom downstairs. Fear rose up in me and my heart started to race. I ran to open my bedroom door when I heard the voice of my father in my head. “Stop. Think. Don’t be stupid.”

  I turned back to my bed and slipped my hand between the mattresses. Withdrawing my hand, it was clinging to the 45 Sig Sauer. Another scream from Mom drew me back to the door and I opened it. Stepping out onto the balcony that overlooked the great room, I saw a man standing in the middle. He wore a blue bandana around his head and a dark tee-shirt with no sleeves, his left arm wrapped in tattoos. By both hands he was holding a semi-automatic pistol. His body was facing my balcony but his head was turned towards Mom’s master bedroom. My mind kept rejecting what my eyes were seeing and what my ears were hearing. This couldn’t be happening.

  I drew my pistol up and, like so many times in practice with paper targets, I put the front sight of my gun on the center mass of the man. Then I froze. I could not pull the trigger. This was a live human being … I should just scream at him to leave.

  My movement on the balcony must have caught his attention. He spun around, looked up at me and at the same time his pistol came up and fired. The noise in the enclosed space was deafening, the bullet hitting the banister in front of me, sending wood splinters flying. The shock of the sound and flying splinters caused me to jerk my trigger. My bullet hit the grand piano next to the man and I kept pulling the trigger. I was not aiming, just pointing my gun and pulling the trigger. My bullets hit everything but the man who fled the room.

  I emptied the Sig’s magazine, my last shots punching holes through the wall where the man had disappeared. When the Sig’s action locked back upon ejecting the last round, I did the same as the man and fled. I rushed from the balcony back to my room, locking the door behind me. Like fingernails on a chalk board, another scream from Mom raked through my ears. I was scared but the adrenalin in my body propelled me forward. My mother was being hurt and anger mixed in with my fear. I was moving quickly but my mind seemed to register every detail as the adrenalin coursed through my veins. In one movement, I pulled my black, single strap, bug-out-bag4 from under my bed, slinging it over my shoulder. In a second movement, I dropped the spent magazine from the Sig Saur, grabbed a fresh one from the drawer of my night stand and slammed it home. Pressing the slide release on the pistol, the action sprang forward, charging the gun. The third movement was to open my bedroom window and step out onto the roof of the attached garage. I could hear screams coming from the house to my left.

  Slipping out of the house this way was not new to me, as on occasion in my childhood, I had gone this way to meet friends after bedtime hours.

  Sliding to the edge of the roof, I made the short step down to the top of the awning that covered the veranda on the back side of the house and from there, an easy drop to the ground. Once more Mom’s scream came from her master bedroom. Racing around the corner of the house I had a good view of her bedroom. Two men were in the room. She was struggling to free herself from the first who had ripped much of her dress. The second man was standing by the door entry, looking back into the great room. To their fate they both made good targets and this time I did not hesitate. The sights of my gun acquired the chest of the man assaulting Mom and I pulled the trigger. His body recoiled from the impact and my next shot hit the man at the door.

  Mom was not a highly paid executive because she was slow of mind. A keen mind coupled with drive and beauty had propelled her upward in her career.

  She quickly grasped what had happened and raced to the now broken window that I had shot through. Forcing the window open she saw me standing on the lawn. Putting a leg over the window sill, she leaned towards my outstretched arms when a bullet hit the small of her back. Two more hit her upper back as she fell into my arms and slid to the ground. I blindly returned fire through the open window before dropping down beside her. Switching the pistol to my left hand, I slipped my right arm under her and tried to raise her, but she did not move. The beauty of her body remained but she was gone. She was gone, taking with her any remaining hope of ever returning to live with Dad at the ranch.

  Kneeling there, with her head in my lap and gun in my hand, I was stunned. Then the words of my father formed again in my mind.

  “Move!”

  Quickly, but tenderly, I lay mom’s head on the grass. Coming to my feet, I started to run for the stone wall at the back of the yard then stopped. I could not leave Mom like that.

  On the veranda was a large terracotta pot of beautiful winter flowers. Fear caused me to crouch low as I came to the pot and pulled a large yellow flower from it. Back to my mom I went. With pistol in right hand and flower in left hand, I knelt beside her. With the hand holding the flower, I brushed a lock of golden hair from Mom’s face then placed the flower behind her ear. With emotion and pain welling up inside me, I leaned over and kissed her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  Voices came from inside the house and my level of fear jumped higher.

  Stay and protect mother’s body or run?

  I ran. I ran like a deer fleeing for its life. To the wall I sprinted and threw my bag over it. Without releasing my grip on the pistol I somehow managed to climb the wall and drop to the other side. I was now outside the gated community in a desert area of the city and running wildly. Within 50 feet I stumbled into a dry arroyo choked with brush and tumbleweed along its banks. It gave me some cover but I did not stop in my flight. The sandy wash bed muffled my running steps and it was a good quarter mile before the arroyo passed under the first paved street. I had been fleeing downward towards the city and the Bosque of the Rio Grande. The Bosque was the thick growth of cottonwood trees that flanked both sides of the Rio Grande River ravine.

  Stopping at a covert that passed under a street I tried to listen between my ragged gasps of breaths. I could not hear anyone chasing me but it did not matter, I fled again. Within the next 15 minutes buildings, streets and sidewalks replaced the open desert. I climbed out of the arroyo and started walking down the street that led to the Montaño Bridge that crossed the river. I did not relax my grip on the Sig Saur as anyplace in the city was now dangerous after dark. Like a homing pigeon, by instinct, I was headed west to my father’s home on his ranch in Southern Utah. That was just under 5oo miles and I was on foot. For a 19 year old girl, alone, on foot and traveling in wintertime one would think it insane, but I was my father’s daughter. He had not left me unprepared.

  * * *

  All of that had happened but a handful of hours ago. How many hours I did not know for sure. But I had made it across the Rio Grande River and exited the west side of Albuquerque out onto the high desert of New Mexico.

  The night was wearing on and I was tiring. The adrenaline was finally spent in my body and the muscles in my right hand ached from holdi
ng the Sig. Forcing myself to relax just a little, I stuck the pistol into the top of my jeans. Working my stiff fingers back and forth, I looked up into the night sky. Even with the snow falling I could faintly make out the power lines over head.

  “It can’t be much further, Cat,” I said to myself. My name is Cathy but everyone calls me Cat. I knew what I was looking for, for I had been there with Dad.

  _____________________

  1. 45 Sig Saur: A quality German made, 45 caliber, semi-automatic pistol. The term “45 auto” is often used to describe any 45 semi-automatic pistol. A semi-automatic gun is automatically cocked after each shot but must have the trigger pulled between each shot. A full automatic will continue to fire as long as the trigger is held down.

  2. According to FBI reports, gang membership in the United States has increased from one million in 2009 to 1.4 million in 2014.

  3. 44-40 Colt Single Action Revolver: 44 stands for the caliber of the bullet being shot and 40 stands for the grains of black powder that were loaded into the case of the cartridge. Single Action means that the pistol’s hammer must be manually cocked between each shot. Old time gunfighters could shoot a single action revolver as fast as the modern semi-automatics.

  4. “Bug-out-bag”: “Bug-out-bag” is a term used for a bag or pack that is stocked with three days of food, water and emergency supplies that is ready at all times for a person to grab and go.

  Chapter 2

  DAN

  January 27th

  I had always thought that the Old Cowboy was a little crazy, a little radical, a little over the top—a man frozen in a time gone by. I was his son, the oldest child of Jake Bonham. Now the words and counsel he had tried to give me over the years seemed to be the only sane ideas in a world that was quickly descending into chaos. For the last few months Dad had called me every week asking me to pack up my family and leave San Diego.