Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom

by LaVoy Finicum

  I was fifty yards out and this was too easy. The tight groups of men were in the most optimal setting for getting shot. Their leaders were identified by standing together in the firelight.

  A large, solid cedar tree was forward and to my left. Its branches were high and its trunk was thick. I moved up behind it taking a knee. This tree would give me cover from bullets that would soon be fired randomly into the dark. With my sound suppressor on my AR there would be no muzzle flash to give away my location.

  The crosshairs glowed red in the green light of my scope. I put the crosshairs on the base of the throat of the DHS agent and pulled the trigger. His hand that had been emphasizing his words stopped its motion. He froze in place for a moment, then toppled head first into the fire.

  The five men were slow to comprehend what had happened and two more of them were falling before any moved. With a shout, the remaining three turned to run towards the resting men. The last one had not made six strides before they all had bullets through them.

  The men in the groups came to their feet not sure what was happening. They could not see in the dark as I could and I let it rain upon them. My bullets came like hail driven by a furious wind.

  Fear jumped through the grouped men like electricity. The closest group started shooting blindly, their muzzles flashing in the dark. The furthest group to my left started shooting in the dark. Like an unseen hand moving over the group furthest to my right, they turned and started firing at the group to the left. All the firing in the dark gave the impression that they were under a full scale attack.

  The group on my left returned fire at the muzzle flashes coming from the group on my right. The groups in the middle were caught in the crossfire and began shooting in both directions.

  There were no leaders to bring order to the chaos and it spun out of control. Like throwing gasoline on a fire, I fanned the flames onto any group that looked to come under control. I focused my fire on them and they would re-erupt.

  In amazement, I watched a full scale massacre being self-inflicted … well, mostly self-inflicted. I was already through three, thirty-round, magazines when, in desperate panic, the remaining men broke and fled. By instinct they ran back the way they had come and I went after them.

  I was like a predatory shark in the dark waters of a night ocean. They could not see me strike and the fear was palpable as they fled in confusion. These men had pursued me hard at the beginning of this day, seeking to cut off my life, now I had become the pursuer and their lives were being cut off.

  Through the night I pursued them, as they fled back across the bench. Panic drove the men as fast as they could go and they retreated the six miles back to the canyon with the disabled cattle trucks. I had been going for nineteen hours but at this moment I was not tired, I was driven.

  As I pursued, I could hear the men in the back wheezing for air as fear made them push their lungs to the bursting point. They were the older men, the men that were less conditioned, and they were the first to fall under my fire. The younger men, the men with better lungs, outdistanced them.

  When a man steps across the line and engages in physical violence, the time for preparation is over. The men in the rear of those that fled were not prepared and they fell fast. With each momentary stop I made to fire my gun, the young men in the front gained more ground. At length there were no more old or slow that I had not killed.

  I could not overtake the rest of the men as they continued their flight down the dirt road, but the Bench was my backyard. I had grown up on it and knew every draw, every ridge, every cow trail, deer trail, and anthill. The dirt road made a loop to the right and then back to the left as it prepared to descend into the canyon where the cattle trucks had been left. A half mile before the road started the loop to the right I cut off, taking a sand ridge to my left.

  The intensity of the night fighting drove the exhaustion from me. My body was firing on all cylinders and I let my legs stretch out as I ran down the ridge. Cutting across country this way, I would head the fleeing men. The sandy ridge continued to descend and curve to my right as it neared the sheer ledge of the bench. It became steeper and several times I was sliding downward like a snowboarder on snow. The canyon with the trucks opened below me and I was beyond the cattle trucks.

  Sliding to a stop behind a car-size boulder, I collected myself and my wind. This was another good spot with the road forty yards below me. The road was in the bottom of the canyon and there were no trees or rocks big enough to give cover to a man.

  My breathing had almost returned to normal when I heard the men coming. In a ragged trot about two dozen men struggled past the trucks. More than half had dropped their guns in their efforts to keep ahead of me. As they neared the point below my boulder I opened fire on them, starting with those who still held rifles.

  It was too much for the broken men. Crying out, they raised their hands, pleading for me to stop. I stopped.

  Some men were down, not moving. Several writhed on the ground. Of the ones that remained all had their hands up with half of them falling to their knees. One of the men that were standing called out.

  “Jake, Jake Bonham, is that you? Don’t shoot any more. Please don’t shoot.”

  I recognized the voice. It was Ted Richard. He had graduated from high school the same year that the twins had. I had always liked the boy and had enjoyed watching him play ball.

  “It’s me, Ted.”

  “Don’t shoot, Jake, we’re done.”

  “Tell me, Ted, why should I quit shooting?”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Jake, look at us! We are all that are left. My dad and brother are dead. What do I tell my mother and my sisters?”

  “Ted, did I come to your town? Did I come to your home? Did I come there and try to kill your family and take your stuff?”

  “Jake, we had no food, you did and you broke the law by not sharing.”

  With those words that he spoke, I felt like shooting him. We had shared. We had given and were still willing to give.

  “Ted, you’ve just about convinced me to start shooting again.”

  That caused the men to cry out again, pleading to me.

  “Is that the truth, Ted? Is it the truth that I and the other ranchers and farmers didn’t share?”

  There was a long pause.

  “No. I guess not,” came the reply after the pause, “but people were still hungry.”

  “Ted, I know your family. I know that you’re a Mormon and that your prophets and your bishop have been telling you folks a long time to store up food. I know that in your yard you have a fancy truck, two four-wheelers, and a nice boat. I know that during the summer your family spends most weekends water-skiing at Lake Powell. In the winter you all have fun snowboarding at Brian Head. Now that you’re hungry, you, and people like you, pass some law claiming that the fruits of my life’s work now belongs to everyone.” I was getting mad.

  My glowing crosshairs were fixed upon him. In this dark night, in this setting, the sophistry of socialism peeled away and the truth of natural law stood clear and firm.

  Ted slowly lowered his hands as his head dropped down.

  “I know you’re right, Jake. I think deep in our hearts most of us knew that we were wrong to attack your ranch. Because of our suffering it was too easy to believe what they were telling us, telling us that you were the cause of all our suffering.”

  I did not reply and let minutes drag out. The men that had been writhing on the ground were still and I figured them dead.

  “Jake,” Ted started again, “can we go home?”

  “Are you all willing to swear by all you hold dear not to take up arms against us again?” I asked.

  “We swear, Jake, we swear,” he replied readily with all the men nodding and giving voices of agreement.

  “All right, Ted. You and the boys leave your guns and go home.”

  Their guns were already on the ground, and with relief, the remaining fifteen men headed down the road. Ted was the last
to leave and before he turned to go he lifted his head and asked hesitantly, ”How is your family, Jake?”

  I knew what he was really asking. He had grown up going to school with my twins. They were friends and he particularly liked HayLee. He had never gotten up the courage to ask her out before she had left for college. I marveled at how hunger, fear, and hate could drive good people to do horrible things.

  “She’s dead,” I answered the real question.

  He dropped his head again, unwilling to walk off with the others.

  “Head on home, Ted,” I said.

  “Home? How do I go home and tell Mom that Dad is dead, that her son is dead …”

  With the thought of HayLee lying dead on my bed, I interjected, with a cutting edge to my voice. “… or how they helped to bring death to my family.”

  At my words, his head dropped even more and his shoulders sagged. For a moment he said nothing, then I heard a sniffle. The magnitude and personal impact of what his actions had helped to wrought was sinking in. Here in this dark night, the lies and hate that he had taken refuge behind, that had given him a false sense of justice, could no longer cover him and he stood naked.

  In a voice that quavered with emotion, “We were so hungry, Jake, so hungry and scared.”

  If this young man ever lived through these trying days how would he ever be able to move past the memories of what he had done. As I looked upon him, into my mind flowed the memory of an old man giving relief to an enemy, of a young woman running to the aid of an old man.

  My heart began to melt. I wanted this young man to live. I wanted him to be able to rise up, to move past, to raise a family of his own.

  Unzipping the inside pouch of my tactical vest, I pulled out all my energy bars and set them on the boulder before me.

  “Ted, I’m going back to the ranch. It may be hard to see this boulder next to me but on top of it I have placed some food bars. When I leave, you are welcome to them. Then, in two days from this coming morning, meet me at your bishop’s old barn. I will have half a dozen head of cows there for a start. If you want to begin to make things right, start by taking care of the children and widows that are left.”

  I started to retrace my steps back up the sandy sides of the canyon when I stopped and called back to Ted.

  “One more thing. Make sure Ann Rafferty is there. No Ann, no cows.”

  The picture of the bowed head, sagging shouldered young man was still on my mind when I returned to my ranch in the greying light of a new day.

  Chapter 31

  FREEDOM’S COST

  What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated.

  —Thomas Paine

  March 16th

  In the grey light I walked down the trail entering the basin. Again, I stopped where the path crossed the small stream and knelt down to drink. After I had quenched my thirst, I remained kneeling by the flowing water of the spring. I liked the sound of the flowing water as I rested. The exhaustion that I had felt so many hours ago returned and rested upon me with a multiplied weight.

  Kneeling there, I looked at my camouflaged pants, my tactical vest, the AR in my hands. They were all so foreign to my normal attire. The only thing that was normal was the old 44-40 buckled to my waist. Except for the old pistol, I wanted everything off; as if by shedding these clothes I could shed the actions of the last 27 hours.

  Putting the butt of the rifle on the ground, I used my gun to help push myself up to a standing position. I started to walk past the barn towards my house when in the deep shadow of the barn there was a movement, a slight movement. I stopped. I could not make out what was in the dark shadow but I sensed a person there, a person that had been waiting, waiting a long time. The feeling of danger was not there. I stood there longer and the understanding of who was in the shadows came to me. It was Sandy.

  “Cowboy,” the soft words floated quietly through the air, “I am glad that you have returned. Your God has watched over you.”

  My God watching over me? My best friend was dead, my daughter was dead. Had my God watched over me? I searched my heart. Inside was pain and hurt, but no bitterness, no hate. Standing in the pre-dawn light, my mind reviewed the past night and day. I thought of the self-inflicted massacre of my enemies. I thought of the powerful example and lesson seared in my mind by the death of those I loved.

  There was no other answer, my God had watched over me. Even now, in this moment, He had placed one here who gave me comfort. Her simple words, her closeness, eased some of the hurt and weariness.

  I wanted her closer. In this day of pain I wanted more of that comfort. To have someone to lean upon, a safe harbor for a wounded heart, but I could not go to her. For so many long years I had leaned upon no one, confided the deep feelings of my heart to no one, how could I do it now? I did not know how.

  “My God has watched over me, over us all.” I stood there a moment longer, then, without another word, walked away.

  Inside the house it was darker, with no light lit in the great room. I stepped to the door of my room and pushed it open. A single candle burned on my desk. KayLee-K was still keeping vigil over her sister’s body. By the light of the candle I could see relief come over her face as I entered but she did not rise, nor did she speak.

  I went to my dresser and pulled out a clean set of clothes. A new pair of Wranglers, a clean white shirt, my black cowboy boots (no spurs), my black string tie, my white hat with the black band and small silver Conchos. They were my go-to-church clothes.

  I left and went to the main washroom, bathed thoroughly, shaved, and dressed. The last thing I put on was the gun around my hip. It felt comfortable and I felt normal.

  I went to the porch. The morning sky was clear overhead but tall thunder clouds loomed far off to the southwest. The sound of the old cattle truck could be heard as it sat idling by the barn. Men were loading the bodies of their dead on it. The bodies were wrapped and tied in bedding. The last body loaded was that of the bishop. A few women with all the small children climbed in next. There was no room for anymore. The rest walked behind as the truck was put into gear and slowly moved down the dirt road to the wood gate. They were going to bury their dead.

  I had told Dan of the night’s outcome and I could see that my neighbors felt it was worth the risk to bury their loved ones in their own cemeteries. I could understand that.

  Not all of them left. A few remained on the rim to keep guard. I knew why they had remained and I was grateful. We would not have to worry while we laid our loved one to rest.

  I went to the horse pasture and caught up HayLee’s palomino. That was the Bonham tradition. Then I caught up KayLee-K’s palomino, that was not tradition but it was fitting.

  I led them to the hitching rack by the barn and began to groom their golden coats. It was springtime and they were losing their winter coats so I brushed them till no loose hair remained. Then I brushed their white manes and tails till all the tangles were gone. They were a beautiful matched pair of horses.

  Next I wiped all the dust from both saddles of the twins and put them on the palominos. I returned to the house, to my room. KayLee-K had wrapped her sister’s body in the finest quilt of the home. Around the body, the quilt was tied with long silk hair ties that the girls had used for their hair. On the bed next to the body sat HayLee’s boots and hat. These I picked up and took outside.

  Back at the rack I placed the hat over the pommel of HayLee’s saddle. The boots I tethered together by a leather lacing. I placed them over the seat of her saddle with a boot hanging on each side.

  Now I led both horses to the hitching rack that stood next to the gate of the cemetery. Before I tied them to the rack, I looked at the great old cottonwood trees that over-watched the cemetery. They were beginning to bud out with the coming spring. How many years had these
trees stood and witnessed the short lives of man, of their comings and goings on the earth I did not know. I did know that in generations past they had seen other Bonham horses, saddled, with no riders, tied to this hitching rack.

  KayLee-K came down the path from the house. Pausing at the garden plot, she picked up a spade then continued on. She had not yet put on her Sunday dress and she stopped where I was tying up the palominos. As she ran her hand down the neck and mane of HayLee’s horse I noticed a tremble in that hand. Embarrassed by what she thought to be a show of weakness, she quickly withdrew her hand. Turning from the horse, she brushed past me and walked through the picket gate. Her emotional gate was closed with all the pain locked inside.

  She started to dig and the spade easily turned up the damp dark earth. I leaned against the gate post and watched. I waited as she dug and the mound of fresh earth piled up next to the open grave. KayLee-K was almost knee deep when I could wait no longer.

  “KayLee-K, it’s my turn. This is the last thing I can do for HayLee. I’ll finish the grave.”

  KayLee-K did not object but I was the only one of the family that she would have given up the shovel to. The protection that she had around her fallen sister was felt by all and all respectfully gave KayLee-K space. At this time, I was the only one able to approach HayLee’s kindred soulmate.

  I extended a hand and helped her from the grave. Taking KayLee-K’s place, I resumed the digging. Digging a grave for a fallen loved one is the final acts of love and service that can be rendered in this world. I needed to finish the grave; I needed to do this for my daughter.

  Except for the sound of the spade sinking into the earth and that earth being tossed on the pile, it was quiet and peaceful. The call of a mourning dove could be heard in the branches above. I continued to dig and the grave became deeper. I was nearly done when something clinked against the blade of the shovel. It had a different sound than when the shovel would strike a small rock and I knew what I had hit.

  Kneeling down in the grave, I continued to dig, carefully and more slowly. As I removed the dirt the bottom of a large Indian bowl revealed itself. It was turned upside down and the surface was smooth and grey. With my hands, I carefully dislodged the bowl from its centuries old resting place. This was not the first ancient Indian artifact to be uncovered on this knoll.