Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom

by LaVoy Finicum

  When it came to guns, there was a mixed lot. Mostly deer rifles with the most common cartridges being 243, 270 and 30-06. These rifles would hold only four in the magazine and one in the chamber. That meant that a person would need to reload after every five shots.

  Bullets were the worry. Some men came with only a box or two of bullets, twenty bullets to a box. Others came with several hundred rounds per gun. It was heartening to see the men share freely with each other to create a balance of bullets between them. They went so far as to exchange their deer rifles so that each emplacement had guns shooting the same caliber.

  That was the way things should be. No man was being forced or required, but of their own choosing they worked together. A spirit of brotherhood and camaraderie was engendered amongst the families. If one was to die, it would be an honor to die amongst people like these.

  Of the forty-three families, only three of them had AR-15s. One family had only one AR rifle and the other two families had three ARs each. Those were the families that had been the most forward looking and had prepared accordingly. That was a total of seven rifles with high capacity magazines, not counting the six I had for my own family. There were nearly a thousand rounds of .223 for each of these rifles. These guns were not divided up but remained with the families.

  With multiple magazines that held 30 rounds each, it was obvious that the AR-15s had a great advantage in the event of a mass attack, something that was imminent.

  Between Dan, the Bishop, and myself we had reviewed all the men who would be fighting beside us. Those that we considered to have the most backbone we divided up so that each emplacement would have one. These were made captains of five. They each chose the four other men they wanted in the trench with them. Naturally, the captains who were fathers chose their sons to be with them. Dan and the Bishop each took an emplacement as well as being captains over five other emplacements.

  It would take starvation and anger to drive a people to come against such a stronghold.

  Sitting our horses atop the rim with the morning sun in our faces, I looked over my little valley. I was bound to this place. It was my heritage, it was the land of my forefathers, it was my home. Without the right and control of property there was no freedom. Here I would live free or die. I would not be the first in my family to die in a last stand for freedom. I thought of the Bonhams who had fought for the liberation of Texas and the one who had died at the Alamo. This was our Alamo; this was our “line in the sand.” We would soon be surrounded by those who hated us with no backdoor for our escape. My prayer was that our success would be better than the Alamo’s. At four-to-one, our odds were better than what they had, so I had hope.

  I told Dan that Sandy and I were going to ride out and cut for tracks of any enemy reconnaissance that may have come to spy out the ranch. With that, I led out riding south. We rode through the hills and deep gullies that were covered with thick pinions and cedars. For an hour we rode till we met the ledge of the Glendale Bench curving to the southeast. We then rode along the top of the sheer ledge for another twenty minutes till we came to a gnarled cedar tree clinging to the lip of the ledge. It was large and very old with only a few limbs that had enough life to give forth green foliage. At the base of the tree were three smooth stones the size of a watermelon.

  Drawing rein at the tree, I asked Sandy, “What do you see here?”

  She looked around at the vast expanse of the land that lay below the bench. She then looked at the sandy ground, the old tree, and then the stones.

  “Those stones are out of place. This is sandstone country and those are hard rocks from a riverbed.”

  “That’s right and I noticed the same thing when I found them thirty-five years ago as a kid. They had been placed here years ago by the ancient Indians. For several years after I found them I would ride by, stop, and ask the question: Why would someone make the effort to haul these heavy stones from some riverbed up to this point? Then one day, as I stood on the edge, I noticed a faint toe-hold chipped into the face of the ledge below. If you lie on your belly and look over the edge, you will see more of them going down. Do you want to see for yourself?” I asked.

  Sandy cocked her head slightly and raised an eyebrow, “It’s a long way to the bottom of that ledge.”

  “It is. I call this Poison Pointe.”

  “Poison Pointe? Why call it Poison Pointe?” she asked

  “Because one drop and it will kill you,” I laughed at my own joke.

  She did not laugh so I asked again, “Are you game?”

  With a smile, she rose to the mild dare and dismounted. I held the reins of her horse as she shimmied out to the ledge. The closer she got to the edge the lower she got to the ground until she was scooting on her belly. A chuckle escaped me as I watched. I knew how unnerving it was to look over such an enormous drop.

  “I see them,” she called out. “But they’re not so faint. They look pretty good.”

  “They are,” I replied. “I re-chipped them myself. You want to go down?”

  “You must be insane. Make a slip and you will fall forever, or as you put it, “’one drop will kill you.’”

  “That it could,” I answered. “What if I tied a rope to you?”

  Sandy scooted back from the ledge then kneeled up.

  “That’s still insane.” Then looking at me, she asked, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I now dismounted my roan and tied both horses to the tree. Then I took the lariats from off the saddles. The first I tied to a massive branch of the tree. The second lariat I tied to the first. That gave me about sixty feet of rope.

  “This is just enough rope to get there.”

  “Get where?” She asked looking a little more worried.

  “To what is at the end of those hand and toe-holds.”

  Walking over, I knelt beside her, “Do you trust me?” I asked

  She remained kneeling with her hands on her thighs. Her face was not far from mine and for a full minute she remained there studying me. I could see her mind weighing me in the balance.

  “I trust you,” was her reply. She made no preconditions, no recommendations and no requirements.

  I slipped the rope around her waist and tied it with a bowline knot. I then pulled the loop over her chest and under her arms. Stepping to the tree I took a dally around the stout limb with the loose portion of the rope. The woman was indeed game and was putting her life in my hands. Without another word she went over the edge as I let the rope out. She disappeared, and keeping tension on the rope, I continued to let it out. All sixty feet were let out before the rope went slack. She had made it to the thin edge that could be seen at the end of the hand and toe-holds.

  “Untie the rope,” I called out, “and I’ll come down.”

  Without tying a rope to myself, I went over the ledge feeling for the hand and toe-holds. Going over without a lifeline always made me feel that life was on the edge and indeed it was.

  I soon descended to the thin edge which allowed one to step to the right and into the mouth of a large cave. Sandy was leaning against the wall of the cave smiling. The cave went back about fifty feet with the roof ranging from fifteen feet high at the front to ten feet high at the back. At the back of the cave were the rock walls of an Indian dwelling. The sheltered walls of the ruins were intact. There were three doors and five rooms. In front of the first door was a large metate for grinding grain. The rock was worn deep from much use and a large grinding stone sat in the center of it. It sat there just as its owner had left it so many hundreds of years ago. There was an ancient peaceful feeling to the place. Whenever I come here, I tread with respect for those who had lived here before. This had been a place of defense and refuge. Now, more than ever before, I could relate to them.

  Taking Sandy’s hand, I led her back to the rooms. Each of the rooms were small, ranging from seven to eight feet square. Against the far wall of the first room was a large Indian pot about two feet in diameter. It was grey in color and
rounded up to a small mouth. Next to the large cooking pot were several other smaller pots. I picked up one and handed it to Sandy. It was a beautiful one made of red clay with fine black lines decorating its sides.

  “This is simply wonderful,” she said as she turned the pot in her hand. I was enjoying sharing this place with her.

  “Could these have belonged to some of your people?” I asked

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  I led her to the next room and this room had nothing ancient in it. It was filled with large tin cans containing wheat, rice, and other grains. There were tin cans that contained shortening sitting aside other containers filled with supplies. Leaning against the wall next to the door was a hard plastic rifle box. This I picked up as we left the room.

  At the very back of the cave was a seep of water that trickled into a bowl chipped into the rock floor of the cave. I stooped down. With my hand I swept out the water and wet sand that had accumulated in the bowl.

  I led Sandy back to the mouth of the cave. Close to the edge there were two stacks of flat stones. The stacks were about five feet apart and two feet high. Facing each other, we sat upon them. It was plain to see that the Indians had placed them here for this very purpose. The vast vista lay open to the south. The towns of Kanab and Fredonia could be seen in the distance from this lofty perch.

  I opened the rifle case to a Colt AR-15 inside. It was mounted with a Night Force scope. There was a gun cleaning kit with some Remington gun oil. I screwed the cleaning rods together and then broke the rifle down. I cleaned and oiled it thoroughly while Sandy looked on silently. When I was done, I re-assembled the gun and closed it back in the case.

  We sat there quietly for a while till Sandy broke the silence, “How many people know of this place?”

  “You mean besides you and me?” I asked

  “Yes.”

  “None,” I answered.

  “You’ve taken no one else to this place before?” She said with raised eyebrows.

  “Not even my own children. It is my own special place,” I replied.

  She turned to look again at the beauty of the land that lay before us and said. “This is a good land. A land made for raising strong children.”

  With that she fell silent again and a distant, wistful, look came upon her face. Time passed and I said nothing, reading her face and the emotions that were written there.

  I could discern much of what I saw. This was a woman who had hopes and dreams of her own and I recognized those dreams for they were the dreams of my youth—the dreams that a person has of finding someone to love, of raising a family, of building a life of happiness. Those dreams were as old as time itself.

  At length, her black eyelashes blinked twice and she mentally drew herself back to the present. Rising from her seat, she came and knelt before me. With her knees resting on the sandy floor of the cave, she crossed her arms on my thighs and laid her head upon them. Her face was turned to the open expanse. I gently stroked her silky black hair, enjoying the quiet closeness of the woman.

  In this moment there was no rush, no pressure, no urgency. She spoke again. “Jake?”

  It was the first time she had called me by my name.

  “Jake, you are a good man. You are a good father. You have a good family. I want what you have. I want you.”

  I said nothing as hundreds of thoughts flowed through my mind. Her words were gracious and full of yearning. I had been blessed with a good family and understood that desire. Her other desire I also understood. That desire to belong to someone, to be loved, to be missed. What was to become of this woman and her dreams? I was drawn to her and the loneliness that had been so much a part of my life was eased by her presence.

  But I could not guarantee even the ability to keep her alive, let alone her dreams. Her dreams, my children’s dreams, within days could be cut off from the land of the living. Even if some of us survived, my chances were very slim. I knew that to the best of my ability I would stand between my family and our angry neighbors. Did she know that she was pinning her dreams on the slimmest of hope?

  Slim as that hope may be, I wanted her to experience the joys that I had. To experience the joy that comes to a couple with the birth of their children. To watch those children grow, to watch them embrace the good, to taste of life for themselves.

  Live or die, I wanted her to be able to experience the same. I did not believe that I would live to be part of her dreams. But with my life, my cows, my garden, and the defense that my ranch offered, I could increase her chances, my children’s chances, the chance that they would live to raise a family in a free land.

  Raising her head with both of my hands, I lightly kissed her lips and said, “Never give up hope.”

  Chapter 28

  THE LONG VALLEY WAR

  March 15th

  The flashes of light coming from the valley were easily seen from the top of the Bench close to the ranch. That was the signal that we looked for. It came at 3:00 in the morning on the 15th of March and it came from a sympathetic neighbor. The enemy was on the move and so was I.

  It had been only fifteen minutes ago that the knock on my door in the dark of the early morning had set me in motion. I had dressed in my 3-D camo then caught up my roan. With the saddle on my horse, I was now pulling the latigo tight on my cinch. Without putting a foot into the stirrup, I grabbed the pommel of the saddle and swung up onto the back of my horse. The roan was already moving out and I leaned down and grabbed my rifle that was leaning against the hitching rack. My roan was my go-to-horse. He was in his prime and the coldness of the night gave fuel to his desire to run. I let him go. With a shake of his head and his long mane flowing, he hit the dark trail at a run. He knew the trail well and I gave him his head.

  The time had come. The waiting was over. I loved the feel of the roan’s powerful muscles moving beneath me as he ran. I couldn’t help but notice the brightness of the stars above me. The taste of the cold air on my face was pleasant and it reminded me how much I loved life, how much I loved this land.

  In a few short moments the roan had carried me to the rim of the basin. I could tell Dan was already moving all the remaining men to the emplacements. I would like to have grasped his hand and speak to him again about anything—everything—to tell him again that I was proud of him, but that time was past for now. Forever?

  For another five minutes I let the roan run. He showed no desire to slow and resisted when I pulled him in. With a firmer pull on the reins, he gave his head and broke gait. He dropped to a high trot that ate up the ground. He would have me in position in plenty of time.

  Using two old cattle trucks, the organized force from the valley would be shuttling men to a staging area six miles up the valley. This is where the valley rose up and the Bench bent down, allowing access again to the top of the Bench. This was no surprise to us as their plans had been leaked to us by our sympathizer. Besides, there was no other good plan that the natural geography could offer them.

  I meant to create havoc at the inception of that plan. They intended to make the staging a two-step process. They were having all the men moved to the first position at the valley and Bench intersection. Then they would make the second shuttle to the designated spot from which they would launch their strike. They would be in place to make that strike from the east side of our basin as the sun rose. The sun would be to their backs and in our faces.

  The first staging area was a place that afforded them good cover and protection. It was unwise to risk any aggression against them up to that point. It was between the first and second staging areas that I hoped to slow them.

  I brought no one with me to help engage in this guerrilla warfare. First, it left me free to know that any movement I saw would be from hostiles. This would allow me faster reaction by not requiring me to discern friendlies from hostiles. Second, it left all remaining forces to strengthen the basin.

  An hour passed and the roan brought me to my desired position. The high sandy r
idge where I stopped ran above the dirt road, the dirt road upon which the cattle trucks would soon be moving men to the second staging area. In the darkness the pinions and cedars were dark shadows on the ridge. The starlight made the dirt road a pale ribbon that weaved like a snake below me.

  I slid out of the saddle and stepped to the head of the roan. He pushed against me with his soft nose as if he was wondering about the strange clothes that I wore.

  I scratched his forehead, “I thank you, boy, for the lift. You have ever been a faithful steed.”

  I respected him more than any of my horses. I thought of when I had broke him years ago. He was the first horse since my youth that had unseated me and dumped me on my head. He was a wonderful bucker when he chose to do so. Never did I forget that, but he also would give me his all when I asked for it. He had a deep heart, what we cowboys called “having bottom.”

  Stepping back to the saddle, I undid the cinch and pulled it off. His back was wet with sweat. Returning to his head, I unbuckled the throat latch and slid the bridle over his ears and he opened his mouth, letting the bit drop out.

  In bewilderment the roan watched me as I stowed his gear beneath the limbs of a cedar tree.

  “What are you hanging around for ol’ boy? Get out of here.”

  The roan did not move. I walked up to him, wrapped my arms around his neck, gave him a hug and then slapped him on his rump. With that he spun on his hocks, and with dust kicking up in the dim light, disappeared into the darkness.

  I moved off the skyline of the ridge and down till I was within 150 yards of the road. With a large sage brush to my front and scrub oak to my back I waited. This position I had chosen weeks ago and it was good. The rains had cut a small ravine between the sage and oak which allowed me to lie in it. Even in the light I would be invisible to the eye as long as I remained still.

  Beneath my camo jacket I had on my tactical vest. The right side of the vest had six 30-round magazines for my AR. The left side had my 45 Sig Saur auto with two extra magazines above it. Along with my 45 auto, I still had my 44-40 Colt revolver strapped to my hip. I had been unable to part with it and the weight of it resting on my thigh was comforting.