by T W Powell
Bobby Ray and Ike stepped up to the podium and saluted the General who returned the salute. The Adjutant then stepped forward with two small black cases. MacArthur removed a Distinguished Service Cross and Purple Heart from one case and pinned them on Ike and shook his hand, then MacArthur pinned the other Distinguished Service Cross on Bobby Ray.
Junior’s Prayer
Junior was comfortable with his bedroll lying on several layers of corrugated cardboard. The old scale house was shut up pretty tight. Even though it was early April, it would be cold tonight, probably down in the mid-30s. Bobby Ray was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
Junior chuckled to himself, “I gotta talk to that boy about his snoring.”
Junior silently began to pray, “Dear Lord, forgive me. I killed a man today. I couldn’t let that Collective bunch get their hands on that boy. If they got hold of me, they would kill me real bad and make a big deal about it. Give me the wisdom to know when to kill and the strength not to kill.”
Tears were now running down his cheeks, “Your ways are not our ways. Running into this boy was not a coincidence, I know you – at least a little bit. You’ve got something up your sleeve and that something probably involves me.”
Junior then sat up, “I’m all in, Lord, do what you will. Bless all those fighting for the Cause and God bless America.” With that, Junior laid back down and slept like a baby.
Kingston
Miss Daisy was not at all happy carrying the extra weight of the BAR ammo, but Tom was extra nice to her which quelled her objections – somewhat. All three horses were also packing heavy loads, so the Jacksons took it slow and easy along the trail. They once again stopped at Gillman Springs to water Daisy and the horses.
Suddenly, the animals stopped drinking and looked intently at the brush a little higher up on the alluvial fan. Daisy was jittery.
Tommy stroked Daisy’s mane, “Steady Girl, what do you see?”
Tom replied, “Don’t think they’ve seen anything yet, but they sure sense something. Boys, get your pistols ready.”
Tom carefully slid his AR-15 from his saddle scabbard and pulled back the cocking handle, “There’s something up there in the brush, I make it to be about 100 yards. Boys, take hold of those animals really tight.”
Tom slowly crept toward the brush. When he got within 50 yards, he picked up a baseball sized rock and chucked it into the brush. He wasn’t completely prepared for the result. A cougar, at least 7-feet-long and probably weighing in at well over 200 lbs., sprang from the brush. At first, the cat bounded in Tom’s direction, but then did a 180 in midair when Tom raised his weapon.
“Man, that’s one big, old, smart cat.” Tom exclaimed as the cougar beat a hasty retreat.
Tom yelled back at the boys, “He don’t want nothing to do with us and we sure as hell don’t want anything to do with him. Hold those horses and Ol’ Daisy steady until he’s gone.”
Once the Jacksons were certain that the cougar was gone, they continued south along the base of the Toiyabe Range, crossing the many small snow melt creeks that flowed roughly eastward out of the Toiyabes and down into the desert playa on the valley floor.
A little further south was the small settlement of Kingston, built along Kingston Creek. Kingston once sported a Bed & Breakfast, a Baptist Church, a Saloon, several dozen homes and a few ranches. Now a few ranchers were about all that were left.
Pastor Williams was still hanging on. He took the cross down off the church and removed the sign out on Kingston Canyon Road. He pretty much gave the church the same treatment that Tom Jackson had given Stonewall Ranch; it looked completely abandoned.
Tom Jackson glanced to his right and noticed the sun was setting behind the Toiyabes, “Boys, I don’t think we can make the dugout tonight, let’s go to church.”
A double-wide house trailer served as the parsonage for the church and Pastor Williams had given the trailer same camouflage treatment. The Jacksons tied the animals to some cottonwoods out back.
“Boys keep your pistols handy. I’ll go see if Pastor Williams is home.”
Tom walked to the back door and knocked. A couple of floodlights came on. A few seconds later the back door opened.
A short, sixtyish, thin White man in a flannel shirt and jeans opened the door, “Tom Jackson, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Good to see you again Pastor. My boys are back there in those cottonwoods with the horses and Miss Daisy. We were on our way home from Austin and we’re packin’ pretty heavy. Darkness crept up on us and I was wondering if we could bed down somewhere around here for the night.”
“Did you say Miss Daisy is with you?”
“Yep, but she’s really packing a load and I don’t think she’s very happy about it.”
“Let’s put Daisy and the horses up in my pole barn. Since most of the neighbors pulled out, some big cats have been prowling around these parts.”
“Yep, we had a close encounter with one earlier today up at Gillman Springs.”
“I’ll give Daisy and the horses a good ‘once over’ in the morning.” Pastor Williams was also Doc Williams, the local Vet.
“Tom, I’ve got a couple of spare bedrooms in the house. Have you men had any supper?”
Tom and sons were getting a little hungry, “Is that an invite, Pastor?”
“Yes Sir! How about some elk steaks and baked potatoes? I’ll put the potatoes in the oven, defrost the steaks in the microwave, then chicken fry ‘em and smother ‘em with milk gravy.”
“Microwave? I didn’t know Kingston still had power.”
“Kingston doesn’t, but I do. I’ve got solar and wind with enough battery to run my fridge and freezer. For emergencies, there’s a propane generator, but only for absolute emergencies, propane is hard to come by. Supper will be ready in about an hour. There’s two bathrooms. Go ahead and get cleaned up, but you’ll have to heat your water here on the cookstove.”
“Thanks Pastor, we’ll be in after we unload the horses and Daisy. Boys bring my rifle and those two pop guns in the house. Don’t forget the ammo.”
Pastor already had his wood cookstove fired up as it served double duty as a heating stove. He always kept a big pot of hot water on the stove for washing and to humidify the house.
Now he began working his kitchen magic. He baked the potatoes right on the wood ashes. Thin elk steaks were pounded with a tenderizing hammer, rolled in flour, then pan fried in a little lard. Elk has very low fat content. Overcooking will result in very dry meat. Lard solves the fat problem and makes fantastic gravy.
The secret ingredient in Pastor’s gravy was goat milk. When the steaks were golden brown, Pastor removed them from the frying pan, then added a little flour to the elk and lard drippings and made a roux. Then he slowly stirred in the rich goat milk. Salt, black pepper, and a touch of cayenne finished his gravy masterpiece. He smothered the country fried elk steaks with gravy and served them with the oven baked potatoes.
Before they sat down to eat, the Jackson boys bowed their heads as Pastor blessed the food, “Lord, thank you for bringing friends together and bless this food you have provided. Watch over these men on their homeward journey and guide us in the path of your righteousness. In Jesus’ holy name we pray. Amen.”
Pastor Williams passed around a pitcher of iced sweet tea, a real treat, no beer here. The Jacksons stuffed their faces. This was their kind of food and Pastor Williams had perfected his recipes over many years in the Valley, eating what the Valley and the Good Lord provided.
After the boys turned in around 10 p.m., Tom and Pastor Williams chatted in the living room. Pastor was not a member of the Resistance; he was more like a friend of the Resistance.
“Have you seen any of those Collective ass holes around here?” Then, Tom remembered he was talking to a preacher man, “Pardon my French.”
“Not really, although a pickup came through town about a week ago and was stopping at each house and building. Looked like they were giving the place t
he once over. Could have been sightseers, or maybe squatters looking to shack up in an abandoned house.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open, Doc. Any gossip in the community about our Collective friends?”
“There’s always rumors. What’s bothering you, Tom?”
“Doc, I don’t really know. If I did know, I probably couldn’t tell you. If need be, will the few folks remaining around here fight?”
“What choice do they have? They’re White, mostly Christian, and landowners. A couple of families are LDS. You know The Collective has a real ‘hard on’ for Mormons.” Pastor Williams just shook his head in disgust. “It’s their tight families and self-reliance that The Collective hates.”
Just then a beam of light flashed across the boarded-up living room window, “We have visitors. Doc, dowse the light and wake the boys.”
Tom peered out from between the boards covering the window. An old Land Cruiser was slowly making its’ way through town. Two Militiamen were up front, and another in the backseat handling the spotlight. Doc led the half-awake boys into the living room.
“Doc, you got a rifle, or a shotgun?”
“Both.”
“Go get em. Double-Aught in the shotgun!”
Doc Wilson pulled a Winchester .308 bolt action rifle and a Mossberg 500 pump action 12-gauge shotgun from the gun safe in his bedroom. He loaded the shotgun with double-aught buckshot.
Tom continued barking out orders, “Boys get your pistols. Don’t cock ‘em unless I say so. Doc, do you still hold services over there, in the Church?”
“Yes, but we have a protocol of sorts. We clean up after services, by that I mean, we mess up after services.”
Tom was watching the visitors’ every move, “They’re getting out and walking around the church house, trying to see through the boarded-up windows.”
By now, Doc had the shotgun leveled at the front door. Tommy and Adam had their Glock’s in-hand, but un-cocked. Adam had brought the AR-15 from the bedroom and handed it to his Dad.
“Looks like two of them are busting into the Church. The other one’s heading this way with a flashlight. I think he’s got a pistol.
“Tommy, Adam, cock your pistols, but keep your finger off the trigger.
“OK, Doc, stay right where you are. If anybody comes through that door, blast ‘em. No hands up, no prisoners, just blast ‘em until you’re sure they’re dead.”
“Gotcha Tom.”
“Tommy, you watch that back door. Keep your pistol pointed at that door. Same rules apply, shoot until you’re sure they’re dead. Adam, you’re backup. If you hear anyone screwing around with a window, shoot ‘em. If either Doc or Tommy go down, take their place. If Doc goes down, grab that shotgun.”
Tom laid down the AR-15, cocked his Glock and grab one of Doc’s big butcher knives. “I’m goin’ to slip out the back door and work my way around front. Doc, give me about 30 seconds and then bang loudly on the front door.”
“Tom, won’t that bring him to the door?”
“Exactly! Now, you three mark your target before you shoot. I don’t need an ass full of buckshot, nor a 9mm round in my chest. Don’t shoot unless I’m dead and you’ll know I’m dead if that Militiaman is still alive a couple of minutes from now.”
Tom slipped out the back door and silently made his way around the house. Right on schedule, about a half minute later, Doc thumped the front door three times with the butt of the shotgun.
The Militiaman ran up the front porch steps and yelled out in broken English, “You come out with hands up!”
That’s when Tom made his move, up the steps, knife in hand. He dispatched the Militiaman using much the same technique that Junior had used earlier along I-64.
“Doc, open up.” Tom was standing there holding the limp body.
Doc opened the boarded up front door and Tom kicked loose the bottom board so they could pull the body into the house. Tommy and Adam stared at the body. It was sill twitching.
“Dad, is he dead?” Tommy was in both awe and shock. He had never seen a dead man.
“Just about. Now you two take a good look. This guy is your enemy. If it were up to him, you would be dead, or in a slave labor camp. If it were up to him, his friends in The Collective would take Stonewall Ranch. I don’t even want to imagine what would become of your Ma, Grandma, and Gabby if he had his way.
“Pastor, I don’t want any gunfire, unless absolutely necessary. Give me another 30 seconds, then holler out in broken English. Try to imitate this piece of shit. Holler out that you found something. Got it?”
“Yes, I got it. God help us.”
“When the other two come this way, I’ll take whichever one is bringing up the rear.
“Doc, when you see me make my move, open the front door and level that shotgun at the lead man.
“Boys stay out of the line of fire as much as possible, but back up Doc with you pistols.
“Doc, when you open that door and get the drop on him, tell him to drop his weapon and get down on his knees. If he doesn’t, shoot him. If you shoot him, make sure you kill him.”
Tom then slipped out the back door once again and hid in some brush out front.
Thirty seconds later Doc made his acting debut, “Members, come quickly. I find something in this trailer house. Come quickly!”
“We’re coming Member Julio.”
Two figures dressed in camo came running around the church toward the parsonage. A tall, thin Militiaman brandishing a machete was in the lead. A short, fat Militiaman with a drawn pistol was huffing and puffing, trying his best to keep up. That was Corporal Jackson’s mark.
About 50 yards from the front porch, Jackson sprang out and swept the fat Militiaman’s feet out from under him from behind, then sank the butcher knife deep into his abdomen as they both fell to the ground.
Doc opened the front door, drew a bead on the tall Militiaman and yelled, “Peoples’ Militiaman, get your filthy hands up and get down on your socialist knees. Drop that damn machete and keep your mouth shut.”
The Militiaman turned his head and saw his dying fat friend down on the ground and Tom Jackson getting up with pistol in hand. The remaining Militiaman then promptly dropped to his knees, threw away the machete, and put his hands in the air.
“Doc, Boys, get out here and keep your guns on this Collective son-of-a-bitch.”
The boys came running lickety-split.
“Stay back a little way, boys.”
The Militiaman was a twentysomething black man, “You White folks don’t shoot. I’m an American. I just do this to get along.”
Doc was a little slower than the boys but was now out front.
“OK, Doc keep that 12 gauge on this Black traitor, but stand back a way. You boys remember, never get too close to your prisoner with a weapon in hand. He wants you close, but you can kill him from afar.”
Tom picked up a small Ponderosa Pine log from a nearby wood pile, walked up to the Militiaman and smacked him upside his head; not hard enough to kill him, but hard enough to get his attention.
“Both your fucking buddies are dead. We know you fuckers don’t believe in God, so if you don’t answer my questions, I’ll send you to join your fellow Members in oblivion, comprende?”
The Militiaman was dazed and lying on the ground, “Ask me anything, but you got me all wrong.”
This just enraged Thomas even more. He kicked the Militiaman’s ass with all his might.
The Militiaman screamed out in pain, “Man, are you crazy? I said I would cooperate.”
“Why are you assholes snooping around up here?”
“We were sent to recon this little town. Our orders are to check out all the houses, see which ones are empty and estimate how many White folks are still living out here. Just a general recon.”
Tom kicked the Militiaman in the groin. “Why? After all these years, why now?”
“I don’t know. We just follow orders.”
“Where is your base of operations and
when do they expect you back?”
“We’re scheduled to return to the Pony Express in Austin tonight. Our Coordinator will meet us there tomorrow morning.”
With that, Thomas pulled out his 9mm intent upon double-tapping the Black Militiaman in the back of the head.
Pastor screamed, “Thomas, that man is your prisoner!”
Thomas held his fire remembering his Oath, “Yes, you’re right. I don’t care what this Prick says. He’ part of The Collective and we can’t let him get away. He would sell this whole town down the river. Any idea what we can do with him?”
“I’ve got some rope and collapsible dog kennels. Let’s bind his hands and feet, lock him up in a kennel, then lock the kennel up in the pump house.”
“Pastor, that would be fitting accommodations for this piece of shit.”
After the prisoner was secured, they checked out the Land Rover. It was ancient and poorly maintained. It had been converted to CNG and was full of trash. Several maps were lying around on the dashboard and floorboard.
“Boys get a plastic trash bag and scoop up all this trash. We’ll go through it later for intel.
“Pastor, is there someplace in the house where you can hide these maps and this bag of God knows what?”
Pastor grabbed up the documents and trash bag and headed to the double-wide, “I’ve got just the place for them, Tom.”
Tom, Tommy, and Adam loaded the two bodies into the Land Rover. Then, Tommy and Adam saddled all three horses back in the pole barn.
Adam stroked Daisy on the forehead. “You can stay here and rest tonight Daisy, but we’ll need you tomorrow.”
Tom drove the Land Rover and the boys followed on their horses leading Little Sorrel by the reins. Tom drove straight up NV 376 to the US 50 junction, then turned left. From there, US 50 was a steep, steady uphill grade.
A short distance up the grade, Tom stopped the Land Rover.