As they pulled up in the driveway and stopped, the screen door opened and the barrel of a shotgun poked out. “Don’t got nothin’ you want here. Now scram, before I get pissed and shoot!”
The sensei brought his weapon up and ready, but Travis signaled him down.
Travis opened the door of the van and got out. “Hey, Will, you old codger, it’s me, Travis. I’ve come home to roost.”
Will Snead peeked around the door, sticking his scrawny neck out like a curious tortoise. His watery blue eyes suddenly brightened as he recognized his friend. “Well, I’ll be damned. Travis! It is you!” Then he looked behind Travis to the others. “You doin’ tours of the poor folks now?”
“They’re friends, Will. Now, you gonna invite us in, or shoot us?”
Will stepped out and brought the gun down, brushing back the last wisps of hair on his balding head. “Alright. Come on in, come on in.”
Half an hour later, they were sitting around the big kitchen table drinking some of Will’s precious coffee. The triumphant homecoming had been dampened somewhat by the old man’s account of the slaughter of his neighbors and the acquisition of their property. The group sipped their coffee in silence as Will continued his story.
“They drug them from their home and told them they had to leave, just like that, with a handful of belongings and a fistful of useless paper money. I’m not surprised ol’ Jeb did what he did.
“I went back the next day. They’d buried Jeb and his wife in a common grave by the shed and looted the house of anything valuable. A few days later, a team of carpenters showed up to fix the place. Now there’s a crew over there twenty-four hours a day. They’re a mean, rowdy bunch; been over here a couple of times, just to check me out and let me know how important they are. Since they took up residence, I’ve lost a sheep and one of my dogs. I know they killed ’em, but I can’t prove it and, even if I could, what difference would it make? Like the Chinese say, ‘To whom do you complain, when the Emperor steals your wife?’”
Travis sat looking out the kitchen window at the valley below as Will spoke. The Emperor, he thought; it seemed a damned appropriate term from what he’d been hearing. Well, he would just have to let the future bring what it would. They all needed to rest, relax, and recover—and that was about all he planned to do in the immediate future.
Christina made the preacher comfortable on the couch in the living room, and changed his bandages after redressing Carlos’ arm. They were both healing nicely.
While she worked, the others unloaded the van and stored the equipment.
Pretense dispensed with, Travis and Christina moved into one bedroom, while Carlos and Todd bunked with Will in the other. The preacher and the sensei took the small guesthouse. Ra thought he was in heaven, with so much land to roam and Will’s female Labrador to play with. By the end of the day, when Will served a supper of fried chicken and fresh mashed potatoes, life was beginning to feel pretty good.
As he sat at the table, looking at Christina and his close friends, Travis was just about as content as he could remember feeling. “A toast,” he offered with a glass of Will’s homemade mulberry wine, “We made it, my friends. We made it.”
“Praise the Lord,” echoed the preacher as he threw down his wine in one gulp, using his good arm. “Not bad, Will,” he said, smacking his lips, “not bad at all. You got any more of this?”
After dinner, and another bottle of wine, Travis and Christina went for a walk. They reached the yard as the huge yellow moon rose above the distant trees. Hand in hand, they strolled the perimeter of the pasture bordered by pines and oaks in front of the main house. Christina paused to gaze up at the moon. “Travis, I can’t believe we’re finally here. It’s even lovelier than I’d hoped. I keep thinking I should pinch myself just to make sure I’m not going to wake up on my bunk in a lurching, rolling sailboat again.”
“We’re here, sweetheart, and we’re here to stay,” Travis said emphatically.
Christina, catching his tone, stopped and took his hands, looking into his eyes. “Travis, do we have to become embroiled in this political war? Couldn’t we just sit back quietly and wait for the federal government to reorganize and take care of guys like this Rockford?”
Travis looked away. “Yeah, maybe. But I’ve never been in a critical situation in my life that the government took care of for me. Besides, guys like Rockford don’t get better with age.” He drew a breath and turned back to Christina. “I’ll try not to get in anybody’s way and I’m not going to make trouble, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone take my land. I don’t care what their reasons are.” Then, suddenly recognizing his intensity, he calmed and his face softened. “It’s okay, Chris, we’ll be all right. I’ll be a good boy—I’ll go fishing with the preacher, raise my chickens and my vegetables, and enjoy every minute of it as long as I have you.”
The old homestead had fallen into some disrepair, with only Will living there, so the next week was spent in a leisurely effort of restoration. Fences were mended, the barn was cleaned and organized, the chicken house was redone, and Will and Christina went to work clearing and planting the garden. Toward the end of the week, Travis and Todd cleaned the fishing gear in the shed, then took off for the Ouachita River. That afternoon they returned, sunburned and hungry, with enough smallmouth bass for supper. Todd was ecstatic, and beamed with pride when he displayed the fish and Travis recounted their adventures.
Life seemed to be settling down. They’d had no contact with the outside world and that suited them fine. Travis and Christina had what seemed the perfect romance, and Todd, as he had intended, was becoming their adopted son.
The sensei practiced with his swords in the early morning and had begun to teach Travis and Todd the art of Iaido. The preacher was up and moving about with the aid of a crutch that Carlos had carved for him.
Everything seemed too good to be true—and often times, when a situation seems too good to be true, it is.
CHAPTER 18
With all the new occupants at the homestead, it wasn’t long before they needed supplies. The group decided on a trip into Mena, which was the closest town of any size. It would also afford them an opportunity to pick up on any news, local or otherwise.
Everybody wanted to go except Will, who made it quite clear that he didn’t care if he ever left the property again. He did, however offer a handful of silver dollars with which to barter.
“Here, you take these,” he said. “Hard money’s the only kind worth anything now.” Travis hesitated but the old man insisted, thrusting out his hand. “It’s okay I still got a few more. Sara and I used to collect coins and stamps. The stamps ain’t worth a shit now, but the coins have been keepin’ me afloat.
Early the next morning, everyone loaded into the van, and half an hour later they were at the outskirts of the small community. Diesel fuel for the generator, seeds for Christina’s garden, a handful of tools, shotgun shells for bird hunting, and some kitchen supplies were the main items on their shopping list. Travis figured they would start at a local hardware store, if one was still in business. That and the barbershop were certainly the best places for information in any town.
On their way into Mena they had noticed several military vehicles on the road; there were more in town. Most of Mena had survived the cataclysm. Repairs were being made on the few buildings that had suffered minor damage, and people moved about freely, talking and bartering goods. There were far fewer weapons on prominent display than many of the places they had been through, but an air of caution and watchfulness still prevailed. When they reached the hardware store, there was a Jeep and a small canvas-covered transport truck parked out front. A group of men in camouflage uniforms were gathered around the entrance.
Directly across the street was an open-air market, selling fruits, vegetables, homemade jams, poultry, etc. As they parked the van, Christina leaned forward and told Travis that she and Todd would try the market for some fresh vegetables, and the seeds she needed, whi
le he and the others took care of their business.
In an attempt to appear civilized, they opted to leave their weapons in the van. With Ra inside, no one with any use for their extremities would try to steal anything.
As Christina stepped from the vehicle, the soldiers, almost as one, turned their heads. There was a low whistle from the center of the group. She smiled, then continued across the street with Todd. A sharp command from the platoon leader brought the men back around, and he dispersed the majority of them while Travis and his people exited the van and headed for the hardware store. Travis entered the store followed by a limping preacher with his crutch, but as the sensei started into the building with Carlos behind him, the officer and his remaining soldiers stepped in front of the entrance, blocking the door.
“Whoa, Bubba, this is a restricted area. No foreigners,” he said. Looking behind the sensei to Carlos, he added, “That goes for you, too, Taco.”
“We’re with them,” Carlos said, pointing to Travis and the preacher in the store.
“Don’t care who you’re with,” replied the officer sarcastically. “If you weren’t born here, you don’t buy here. Now, if you’ll just head due east for 120 miles, you’ll hit the inland sea. Cross that and you can do whatever the hell you want on the other side. Am I making myself clear?”
The man’s two companions closed in around him to emphasize his words, their guns in hand.
The sensei paused, studying the men, when the one in the center raised his rifle in a menacing fashion and growled, “Did you hear me, you slant-eyed son of a bitch?”
Not wanting a confrontation, the Japanese turned to go back to the van. But as he did so, the man behind him raised his weapon, intent on providing a little encouragement with the butt of his gun. The weapon had just begun its forward motion toward the older man’s back when he spun, hammering the stock aside with a powerful forearm block. The sensei immediately sidestepped and, with the blade of his hand, chopped the man still holding the rifle on the side of the neck. The movement was so smooth and quick that the fellow actually looked puzzled as he collapsed to the pavement. When the soldiers on either side of him reacted by moving away from the door and raising their weapons, he grabbed the barrels of both the guns and held them away and up. In almost the same motion, he roundhouse kicked the soldier on his right squarely in the head. Before the sensei’s right foot had even touched the ground, his left foot was in the air, delivering a vicious sidekick to the chest of the other soldier. In no more than six or seven seconds of violent ballet, the three khaki-clad figures lay inert on the ground around him.
Inside the store, another ballet of sorts was unfolding. There were two soldiers in the back, purchasing supplies when the ruckus started. Dropping their goods, they charged down the main aisle, rushing the sensei, who was framed in the doorway. But as they ran by the preacher, paying no attention to the injured, older man, he swung the heavy, solid oak crutch in a swift, horizontal arch, catching both of them solidly in the forehead. Their feet went out from under them as if they’d run full bolt into a low-hanging tree limb—which, in essence, they had.
The preacher looked down at the cold-cocked men on the floor, then admiringly at his crutch. “Damn, that’s some fine wood, that oak!”
The owner of the establishment walked over to Travis and the preacher, shaking his head and grinning. “I don’t know what you boys need, but if it ain’t too expensive, it’s on me. I haven’t seen anything that entertaining since lightnin’ struck ol’ JJ’s chicken farm exhibit at the county fair. Don’t care much for these fellas and their attitudes, anyway, and they take too much and always pay late, if they pay at all.”
Travis took out his list. “If we could get these few items I’d really appreciate it, and we should be pretty quick about it. I’d like to be gone before these guys come around.”
The man took the list and looked it over. “No problem. I’ll have it for you in two minutes.”
As the shop owner was finishing with their order, Todd came dashing across the street and stumbled through the doorway, out of breath. One look at the lad’s expression was enough to tell Travis that something was seriously wrong. “What is it Todd? Is it Christina?”
The boy nodded vigorously and pointed to the other side of the street. “Show me,” Travis said. “Preacher, you get the goods loaded, and be ready to get out of here. Sensei, Carlos, let’s go.”
Todd led them to the far side of the open-air market where there were some old storage buildings. Behind them was a large, dilapidated barn. When they neared the barn, they heard Christina cry out. They rounded the corner of the entrance to see her being dragged into the back of the old structure by two of the soldiers who had broken away from their comrades earlier.
The two, with their backs to the barn door, were so intent on Christina that they failed to notice Travis and the sensei charging them until it was almost too late. The Japanese took the one on the left, Travis the one on the right. Carlos stood by the door. The sensei spun his man, kicked him twice in the ribs before the fellow could blink, then struck him hard under the chin with the palm of his hand. The man’s head snapped back violently, and he crumpled like a rag doll. The other soldier saw the sensei grab his friend and turned to face Travis, pulling a knife. He was smaller than Travis, but there was no fear in his eyes. He was trapped, but he wasn’t going down easy. When Travis saw the knife, he stopped his forward momentum and backed up slightly. The soldier moved forward, weaving the weapon. Travis had crouched, preparing to meet the man’s attack when suddenly he simply stood up and stepped back. The soldier had just enough time to look puzzled before the blade of a shovel smacked him squarely on the back of the head, knocking him face down into the dirt. Travis smiled and looked across at Christina who angrily tossed the shovel on top of the unconscious soldier. “A piece of advice, buddy,” she said bitterly. “Never try to screw a Miami attorney.”
Travis had just stepped around the soldier to Christina when a hard, gravelly voice from the barn doors yelled, “Nobody move!” In the opening stood four more Arkansas militiamen with their guns leveled at Travis and his companions. One carried a rope. The officer in the middle, with the harsh voice, looked at the two men on the ground, then at Travis and his friends. “I don’t know who you boys are, but you’ve caused your last bit of trouble here.” Behind them appeared their battered companions, the ones the sensei had dealt with earlier, pushing the preacher along. They shoved the old shrimper into the center of the barn, and he moaned with pain as he struck the ground.
The others moved into a semicircle around Travis and his group while one of them threw the rope over a beam. The leader stepped forward. “You boys are about to get a taste of Provincial Government justice. In your case it’ll be your first and last. As for the lady, we’ll save her for questioning . . .”
Travis charged forward only to be stopped by a rifle butt to the side of the head, felling him.
The man looked down. “Don’t be in such a hurry to die, mister. Hell ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
They dragged Travis to his feet and slipped the noose over his head. One of them pulled an old milking stool from a nearby stall and forced Travis to balance on it while the rope was drawn tight, making him stand on his toes. Then they tied it off on a post.
The leader walked over to Travis and stared up at him, smiling. “Say hello to the devil for me,” he said, and kicked the stool away. Christina cried out, and the sensei charged forward to catch and support Travis. But just as the weight of Travis’ body tightened the noose, the deafening thunder of a Thompson machine gun shattered the silence in the old barn. The rope, as well as the beam that held it, splintered and split, dropping him into the sensei’s arms. As the startled soldiers spun around, a line of automatic weapon fire stitched the ground up to and between the feet of the officer, who instinctively dropped his gun and put his hands up. Another burst of a Thompson echoed out, and the dirt in front of the other militiamen shuddered from the i
mpact of heavy .45 caliber slugs. The soldiers immediately threw down their weapons and raised their hands.
In the doorway, flanked by two huge, almost identical-looking men cradling machine guns, stood a man with long blond hair, bright, iridescent blue eyes, and a droopy “Custer” mustache—William J. Cody. Travis, working the rope off his neck, couldn’t believe his eyes.
Cody quickly surveyed the scene, his eyes stopping on Travis. “Well, I’ll be damned! Travis Christian! You been hanging around here long? Bad joke—sorry. You okay, buddy?”
“I am now,” replied Travis as he jerked the noose over his head and threw it down.
Cody noticed the blood on the side of Travis’ face, and his eyes flashed back to the soldiers. There was an angry glint in those iridescent orbs. “Which one of you hit that man?” For a moment no one spoke, but a burst from the Thompson at their feet brought fingers pointing to the leader. “Cover them,” Cody Joe said casually to his friends as he walked over to the officer. Stopping in front of the fellow, he smiled disarmingly; then, without a word, slammed the butt of his gun between the man’s legs with enough force to lift him off the ground. The soldier’s eyes went wide with pain and surprise as a guttural scream escaped his mouth. He hit the floor and doubled up in a fetal position, moaning, not moving.
Cody turned to Travis. “You feel better now? I do.”
Travis chuckled. “Yeah, I feel much better.”
“Okay, Travis,” Cody said, “have your people get their weapons.” Then he turned to the soldiers. “Now listen, boys, I want you to take your clothes off—every goddamned piece. You’ve got thirty seconds. Anybody with a stitch of clothing on after that, I shoot.”
There was a moment’s hesitation from the soldiers. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven,” Cody yelled as he raised his gun, and the men began tearing at their clothing. Cody looked at the officer on the floor, then at Travis. “I’m not worried about that one. He’ll be lucky if he’s walking in a week and he’ll never sing bass again.”
The New Madrid Run Page 22