Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom Read online

  “Home. That word sounds good,” the old man said. “My home is in South Carolina but I have a poor feeling down in my bones that I shall die away from home and my kin.”

  The man leaned his timeworn body against the suburban and looked at the girls more closely. He had ancient eyes and a gentle face.

  “So, you are trying to make it to your home, to your kin. I am an old man with most of my days behind me and few before me.”

  In a wistful manner the old gentleman looked away. When he looked back he resumed. “When you are old you have regrets. You wish you had helped others more, been a little more thoughtful, a little kinder. But, at least, I have this day. If you two gals would like, you may take my room. I shall stay in my suburban and watch while you sleep.”

  There were no other rooms to be had and the old man insisted. The girls accepted. With their bikes and packs, they locked themselves in the room and slept. They slept for several hours and arose to the kindly guardian still keeping his watch. With a kiss on his cheek, they thanked the old man and were on the road again by mid-morning.

  Home called to them, home beckoned them on. The twins kept up a pace that ate the miles away. It was growing dim in the evening of the second day as their bikes coasted down into the little town of Orderville. In the center of the town they stopped at the road sign that read Alamo Road. It was the sign that marked Dad’s dirt road; the road that led up the mountain and ended at the ranch. The girls could not help but give each other a ”high five.” They had made the three day trip in two.

  It was only two miles further and they pushed on. Soon they stopped their bikes to open the large wood gate into the meadow basin. It was getting difficult to see far but they could make out their home on the far side. A lone figure could be seen standing on the porch. There was a bark and the dog that had been sitting by the man leapt off the porch. Streaking across the dark meadow, the black dog, with white mane and feet, had reached the wood gate before it could be closed. Like happiness and excitement all wound up in a bundle of fur, the dog could not contain its joy as it jumped on HayLee-H.

  After HayLee-H had given her faithful dog a just greeting, the girls peddled up to the front of the house. Looking down from the porch was their Dad. Nothing could soften the granite like features of the cowboy more than his children. This time there was more than joy showing in his face, there was relief and gratitude for silent prayers answered.

  That evening a spirit of joy filled the inside of the strong stone house. Warmth from the open fire and food off the hot stove gave a sense of security and peace to the twins. Yet, there was no rest in their father’s eyes. All was not safely gathered in. The girls knew he had planned for such a time as this for many years. The several root cellars that were dug into the side of the hill behind the house attested to that planning. The depth of the provisions and supplies in them, coupled with two hundred mother head of cows, made the ranch a refuge beyond measure. That was not even mentioning the orchard and garden, watered by free flowing water.

  In the last 48 hours, the nation of affluence that the twins had known was plunged into darkness. In another 24 hours, no large city would have control of its populace. But here, here nothing was different. There was no dependence on outside sources for light, power or water, thus no disruption. There was no panic, no rush to a store, no wringing of the hands. But, there was the worry. Cat and Mom were not here from Albuquerque and Dan’s family was not here from San Diego.

  * * *

  The twins awoke to the sound of horses tied to the hitching rack in front of the house. It was before light of a stormy winter’s morning. Bundled in blankets from their warm beds, the twins walked out on the porch. The frost of their breaths could be seen in the light of a kerosene lantern hanging on a wood peg by the steps. There were four horses tied to the hitching rack. Dad’s roan and Cat’s roan, each saddled. There was one of the pack horses with a pack already lashed down. Then there was Mom’s, the dandy buckskin, saddled with her saddle on it.

  Dad was strapping on a different rifle scabbard to the off side of his saddle. It was a shorter but wider scabbard than the one for his 270 Winchester.1 Leaning against the post with the lantern, was a scoped AR-15 made by Colt.2 Chambered for the .223 or the 5.56, it had a collapsible stock and a Surefire sound suppressor on the muzzle. It was the scary and now very illegal, assault rifle. It was just one of a half dozen that he owned. The girls were not scared of the ”scary assault gun.” In fact, they were very proficient with them.

  Dad had considered going with the larger .308 caliber3 but most of the ranch terrain was wooded, hilly, and with a lot of scrub oak. There would not be many long shots where the .308 would dominate the smaller .223.4 To help split the difference; Dad only bought the high quality, Hornady V-max5 in a 69 grain bullet. They held a tighter group and were lethal. He used the cheaper 55 grain FMJs6 for practice only.

  Dad was finished now and walked up the steps to pick up his rifle. Before doing so he gave the twins their final instructions.

  “Until I get back you girls will need to rotate six hour watches, 24 hours a day. As I explained last night, I’ve repositioned the dog houses of the hunting hounds.”

  Pointing to where Red’s doghouse had recently been moved, 150 yards to the East, “I’ve put Red where the cow trail tops over the cap rock.”

  Pointing down the small valley about two hundred yards where the dirt road entered into the ranch house basin was Dad’s favorite hound. She was of a Walker breed and he called her Belle.

  “Belle is down by the gate and I’ve put Blue on the other side of the meadow.” Dad pointed across the valley about 600 yards. There was Blue, Dad’s blue tic hound resting on the roof of his doghouse. All the hounds were chained to their doghouses. Hunting hounds could not be left to run loose.

  “You can see,” he said, “I have spread the hounds out to help give warning if someone tries to come into the basin from any side. This house is built like a fort. The furthest shot you may have to take will be from here to Blue’s dog house. Keep the 270 by the front door in case you need to poke holes at something over there. When one of you does the chores the other keeps watch. Never leave this house without your rifle with you.”

  Their father quit speaking for a moment as he reviewed his mind to see if there were any other instructions he should give. Finding nothing, he drew a deep breath and let it out.

  “Now girls, I didn’t raise you to be stupid. Keep your heads about you. If the Hand of Providence be with me I should be back in about a month’s time. Now let’s take a knee.”

  With that the twins knelt upon the front porch and listened to a father implore God that He would watch over his girls until he returned. Standing up he hugged them both, stepped off the porch and walked to his horse. Stepping into the saddle, he smiled one more time at the girls and rode off. He was leading the pack horse with the two saddle horses tethered behind, nose to tail.

  The girls were not stupid, therefore, they understood that this morning could be the last day they would see their father. But they had each other and they had hope. Always hope.

  _____________________

  1. The 270 Winchester: Winchester, name of a rifle manufacturing company. The number 270 stands for the caliber of the bullet that the rifle shoots. 27 caliber with the weight of the bullet typically being 130 to 150 grains and is shot at the speed of about 3100 feet per second. The 270 Winchester is a popular deer and elk rifle.

  2. The AR 15 is the military looking rifle that is currently being targeted by gun control efforts because of its looks and its ability to carry high capacity magazines. It looks like an automatic rifle but is only a semi-automatic. It shoots a .223 caliber bullet typically 55 grains in weight or the military 5.56 millimeter if the barrel is stamped with the 5.56.

  3. The .308 is a 30 caliber bullet and that weighs typically 150 grains to 180 grains. This has been one of the common bullets used for years by NATO. Many snipers also used this cartridge.
/>   4. The .308 cartridge shoots slower but has much greater foot pounds of energy than the .223 cartridge.

  5. Hornady V-Max is an expanding or frangible bullet that is devastating on game such as coyotes.

  6. FMJ is the acronym for “full metal jacket.” It is not an expanding or frangible bullet and does not cause near the tissue damage.

  Chapter 11

  DAN

  January 28th

  Morning came to Phantom ranch. It was time to go and I led my family out of the rock cabin. Winter brought its own beauty to this canyon. There was no snow down here but high on the rims it was blanketed in white. I wanted to stay longer for little Jamie’s sake but that was not wise. The chopper had not come yesterday with food supplies and it would not come today or ever. There was not a large stock of food here and it was best if I avoided any rangers.

  We were able to slip through the buildings to where our bikes were hidden above the boat beach. There below, I saw what I had hoped would not be there, two park rangers. Even more to my disappointment the head ranger was in full ranger mode, checking all the boats and boaters.

  I had to get my family and bikes on the boats. Pushing our bikes from the rocks, we were on the beach before she saw us. The ranger’s eyes lit up, with a hand on her holstered pistol, she raised the other in a stopping motion.

  “How dare you bring bikes into this park! Where is your hike permit?” She demanded. It was clear we had just violated her backyard and we stood in need of severe correction.

  Using all the powers of reason and logic, coupled with my best diplomacy, I was able to neither convince her of my story nor dissuade her determination to correct my behavior.

  The other ranger, a younger man, had joined her side. Following her lead he also had his hand upon his gun.

  “Turn around and put your hands behind your back. The only way you are getting out of this canyon is in our chopper and then straight to jail.”

  Her face was turning red as I was not complying and not complying was the greatest crime of all. How serious or trivial a regulation might be was not the concern. The paramount concern to the government was compliance. Compliance above all.

  The lanky boatman was standing on a boat pontoon looking at me. Bringing his hands up a little, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I don’t know what to do?”

  I did. I was getting my family on that boat. The lady ranger had stepped closer to the front of my bike and was starting to draw her gun. I slammed my bike into her and she sprawled backwards onto the sand with the gun flying from her hand. The other ranger had drawn his side arm and I was covering him with my Kimber. It was a Mexican standoff.

  The lady ranger was struggling to her feet and before she could rise, I stepped sideways to where her gun lay in the sand and kicked it towards Jill. All this I did while keeping the male ranger covered by my pistol.

  “Drop your gun,” the ranger demanded but did not have a convincing tone and he definitely did not like having a gun pointed at him.

  After I picked up the lady ranger’s gun, I did not stop walking. I walked straight towards the standing ranger. I did not stop until our muzzles were within inches of each other’s chest.

  “Mister Ranger, I am not putting down my gun.” Sweat broke out on his forehead. He rightly sensed that his life was on a razor edge. “I am going to put my family on that boat. The only question is if you are left alive to see it.”

  The ranger’s gun barrel was trembling in his hands. With my free hand I laid hold of his gun barrel. With little resistance, I took it from his hand.

  With boaters standing wide-eyed, the lanky boatman quickly had my family and bikes on his boat. Meanwhile, I had the rangers taking a relaxing seat on the beach.

  “You are in big trouble now,” the lady ranger spat. “You have no idea how many felonies you have committed. By the time you get out of jail your children will have children.”

  Looking at the lady ranger sitting upon the sand, I felt pity for her. A park ranger she may be but she was no rugged individualist. Packing 50 pounds more than her frame should, this woman’s physical abilities were not up to the world that was about to crash upon her. She believed that her position and authority still gave her power; that she would soon call down the might of the Federal Government which would turn over every desert stone till I was apprehended. The chance that she would still be alive by the time the snow melted off the rim was small.

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I wish that the world you think still exists out there actually did, but it doesn’t. If it did I would not be down here in this canyon with my wife and small children.”

  For a moment, the angry, demanding, face of the ranger relaxed as she truly contemplated my words. One could see that she was weighing them in her mind. Then she shook her head no and the angry expression returned.

  “You are the biggest damn liar I have ever seen. How can you tell a whopping lie with such a straight face?”

  There was no hope for her and I was going to make sure I got down the river with my family. I hand-cuffed her right hand to the right foot of the other ranger then took their keys. By the time they could hobble back to the ranger station for another key and gun, we would be around the bend.

  The boats were moving away from the shore. I ran down the beach to the water, jumped upon the pontoon and threw the key into the river. We were away.

  Between the rapids, the deep water was smooth as we drifted through the canyon. Each hour that we moved down the river we passed the rugged side canyons that would have been difficult in the extreme for me to get my family through. The hand of Providence had rested upon us.

  All day we floated and with each passing hour I was that much closer to home. Ralf was the tall boatman’s name, and as we drifted, we spoke of country and freedom.

  “If all that you say is true,” Ralf said, “it will be chaos ahead. But I’m okay with that. I am so tired of what has been happening to my country. Permits, permission, licenses and approval needed for all that we do in our lives and on top of that fees, fines and taxes. We are told what we can eat and what we can’t eat. I have friends that are in jail now because they gave some raw milk from their cow to a neighbor.1 It’s like we do not own our own bodies.”

  The way this man lived, in many ways, I was sure, was much different than the way Dad lived. But, I knew that Dad would welcome him gladly. The man had given aid to us and Dad would hold that dear. Next to that, the man believed in freedom. Men who understood and loved freedom were always welcomed at the ranch.

  On the boat ride he quoted Thomas Jefferson several times in our conversations. Ralf was a man who wanted to be left alone. He didn’t want any help and “kindly” guidance from “big brother.” Live and let live.

  “Man should be free to make his own choices,” he said.” “We should be free to make stupid choices if we want and then be allowed to experience the full weight of those choices. Too many times the government steps in and tries to separate man from the result of man’s own choice.”

  We hit a small rapid and the spray of water misted over us. Ralf guided the boat easily through it as he had done the rapids many times before. He was good at what he did and one could see that he loved it. He loved guiding his boat on the river with no one looking over his shoulder.

  He continued, “It’s like drugs and food. If a man is stupid enough to do drugs, as I was when I was younger he should be free to do so. He has no right to hurt or injure another in those choices and if he does not hurt or injure another, what business is it of the government? If I was to relax in the evening and smoke a joint in my own apartment and then go to bed why should I have to worry about ‘the man’ kicking in my door and hauling me off.”

  The young couple who had helped us the night before were in our boat and the lady joined in. “We have to have laws to protect the public from the drugs. What if you were wasted and then went out and drove your car. Someone could get hurt.”

  “Haven’t you ever he
ard of drunk drivers?” the boatman replied. “If a man drinks and then puts another at risk by driving he should be stopped, no question. But how many people relax in the evening with a cold beer and never go out and put others at risk. We don’t throw them in jail.”

  “But drugs destroy lives and cost the country billions to deal with. Crime and gangs thrive with the illegal drug business,” the lady returned.

  “Alcohol destroys more lives every year, by far, than illegal drugs, but because it is not illegal, gangs can’t use it for their profit,” the boatman retorted. “Do you have any idea how many billions of dollars the government spends each year fighting the losing war on drugs?2 The casualty that every American suffers from the ‘war on drugs’ is the loss of personal freedom. And where does it stop? They say transfats are bad for you, and too much sugar is bad for you, so places like New York outlaw or limit them. My friends are in jail because the government says raw milk might be harmful to you and you cannot share it with others. Don’t you ever want to grow up and be responsible for yourself?” he asked the young lady. “You can’t give someone else the responsibility to take care of you without giving up your freedom also.”

  I had always been a supporter of the war on drugs. There was no doubt that it was a losing war and the boatman had a point.

  The young man joined in this time, “But you have to try and stop unhealthy choices or we all suffer. It drives up the cost of health care tremendously.”

  “Like I said at first,” the boatman replied patiently, “government tries to separate man from the consequences of his stupid choices. They take money from the producing people of the country, who weren’t stupid, to pay for the health care and rehab of the ones who were stupid. The stupid guy loves the government who is now helping him by using the money of the Americans who were not stupid. He begins to feel like he has a right to be helped and his loyalty grows towards the ‘giving’ government. He does not develop an appreciation for the working man whose money has been taken to help him.”