It took Craig a moment to figure out what one leather assembly was. Finally he realized it was a pair of pommel bags, with a revolver holster on each one, obviously for the pair of 5½” Rugers. It and the two Ruger pistols for it went on the keeper pile.
And the western boot knife would go nicely on his left leg, under the two-magazine carrier for the PPK. Another gun he found was identical to one he already had. A Marlin 1895 Cowboy .45-70 lever action. In the cache it would go.
In the display was a loaded bandoleer for the .45-70 cartridges. He added the bandoleer to the take stack since he could use it with his current Marlin. Craig also added the 12 gauge shotgun bandoleer to the stack. The shotgun bandoleer was loaded with gleaming all brass 12 gauge shells. There was a second shotgun shell bandoleer, obviously for the Greener 10-gauge. It too was filled with all brass shot shells. A fourth bandoleer was set up for a combination of 12 gauge, .45-70, and .45 Colt, having loops for several of each caliber and gauge.
Next Craig took out a nice looking tomahawk and wondered idly if the man had used it in throwing competitions he’d heard about from some of those in the MAG that had been into Cowboy Action Shooting before the war.
He didn’t have one, so he added it to the keeper pile. On the pile too went a tan colored duster of light cotton. Craig tried it on. It was a bit big on him, the guy must have been huge, but it would do for weather too mild for the Drover’s coat, and act to keep his weapons concealed, the way the Drover’s coat did.
All the various knives went onto the pile, except for one. The yellow handled Barlow he slipped in his pants pocket.
Craig checked the cabinet beneath the display. Case after case of ammunition, and more accoutrements for Cowboy Action shooting. It would all go in one of the several caches he was planning to make, now that he was finding more things that he wanted to take back to the Retreat. At some point in time.
Craig kept looking and almost fell over when he found the working .22 long rifle scale Gatling gun in a wooden case. It held the gun on a carriage, a limber with ammunition drums, and several cases of .22 Long Rifle ammunition. It would be fun to play with, except ammunition was much too precious to waste on such a toy.
The next display case was filled with muzzle loading weapons, mostly modern replicas, much to Craig’s joy. Flintlocks, percussion, and even one wheel lock long arm. Flintlock and percussion handguns. Craig took particular note of a reproduction double barrel 10-gauge flintlock fowling piece. Again, there were all the accessories and accoutrements for the weapons. There were flints aplenty, also several thousand caps for the percussion arms, with patch material and patch punches, as well as patch lube.
Craig had to smile when he saw the cans of black powder substitute. The man had far more than had been legal before the war. The same with the cartridge reloading components in another cabinet. The small reloading bench beside the cabinet was well laid out, but the Retreat had quite a bit of reloading equipment. They were just running low on supplies. The equipment would stay.
The only reloading equipment Craig pulled to take with him were some primers of various sizes for trading purposes. But he did carefully box up and cache the smokeless powder canisters and thousands of assorted primers. The man could have opened a retail reloading shop and kept it going for months with what he had in stock.
There was one more large, tall, glass front cabinet. When he saw what it contained he wondered if the cabinets contents might be worth, before the war, collectively, what the entire rest of the vault held. Each gun in the cabinet was a one of a kind, like the Calico.
There were no less than two beautifully engraved and inlaid five barrel fünflings, four richly engraved four barrel vierlings, several engraved double barrel shotguns and double rifles, and half a dozen combo guns and drillings, one of which was identical to Craig’s own Savage 24 20 gauge/.22 Hornet combo, except for the fine bluing and custom stock it had, designed to carry spare ammunition.
The Savage 24 would go in a cache; the other nice guns would stay in the vault, except for one of the multi-barrel guns that Craig realized the utility of. It was a Peter Hoffer fünfling with side-by-side 3½” magnum 12 gauge chambers, a .22 Hornet rifle barrel below them, a .30-’06 below that, and a .375 H&H Magnum barrel in the bottom position. With the one gun he could hunt any game animal in America.
The double barrel .460 Weatherby over 10 gauge 3½ inch magnum shotgun barrel Craig decided to take, too, just on a whim. “What if I run into an elephant or something,” he said, chuckling. If he’d only known how prophetic that statement was, he would have turned brick red from embarrassment.
In a glass top base cabinet under the long gun case were several equally finely engraved and plated handguns, including factory engraved and inlaid Walther, Browning, and Beretta pistols. The only one he took from the collection was a gun he was very familiar with. A Walther PPK in .380 ACP, like his Mother’s guns, only deeply blued with etching inlaid with gold.
In the cabinets below, just as he expected, were fancy wooden boxes of ammunition for both the rare cartridges that some of the fancy guns were chambered for, plus the more modern ones. He took out what he wanted and left the rest.
There was a crate, or that’s what Craig had assumed while he was looking over the vault, that he finally decided to check. It wasn’t a crate. It was a wooden carry case. Holding a rifle like one of the men at the Retreat had. One that had helped them drive off marauders before. It was a Barrett M82A1 .50 BMG anti-material rifle with all the accessories.
The .50 caliber cartridge cans stacked near it Craig had assumed held other ammunition or miscellaneous items. It hadn’t occurred to him at all that they might actually contain .50 BMG ammunition. They did. All twelve of them. There were handwritten markings on each of the ammo cans. Raufoss. Craig wasn’t sure what it meant. The guy with the Barrett at the Retreat would know. The gun and ammunition for it would definitely go into the cache for recovery.
Not knowing what to expect, Craig opened one of three identical wooden cases stacked with the ammunition cans. Like the reloading components in the extra boxes for the Hawk MM-1, there were reloading components for the .50 BMG. Raufoss projectiles, primers, and canisters of powder. Again, three reloads for the factory loaded ammunition. Craig thought he should have guessed, having seen the .50 BMG reloading tools. But the man at the Retreat with an M82A1 already had loading tools. He’d leave the ones in the vault in the vault.
Craig had kept an eye out for a key to the small safe off in one corner of the vault. Considering what else was in the vault, whatever was in the safe could be anything. Going through the heavy desk in the center of the vault room again, Craig finally found the key. He was surprised he’d missed the hidden compartment in the right hand middle drawer of the desk. It wasn’t that well done. The difference in thickness of the overall drawer and the inside of it was obvious if one just looked.
Nervous for no good reason that he could think of, Craig went over to the small safe, squatted down and opened it. “I knew it,” he muttered. The man did nothing in a small way. There was a plain Jane Colt 1911A1 inside, beside many large stacks of gold and silver coins. These weren’t the new Gold Eagles and though the silver coins were pre-1965, they weren’t the common bullion coins that his mother had collected before the war.
These were old US Gold Eagles, Double Eagles, Half Eagles, Quarter Eagles and pristine Morgan silver dollars. Craig was sorry he’d never have the chance to see the man who had once owned all this in all his glory at a Cowboy Action Shooting competition.
It took Craig another week of twelve hour days to dig caches and bury the many items he would take back to the Retreat. He went through the vault rooms carefully again, after he had everything he thought he wanted. He took a couple more items and set them aside, and then set the black powder charges that would bring the already heavily damaged house down on the basement, sealing it, hopefully, for long enough for him to put together a recovery team to get the rest of the weapo
ns and supplies and take them to the Retreat.
As much to honor Stephan Hicks, as to take on some role camouflage, Craig moved the Glock 21 to the small of his back and wore the Buscadero belt with the Ruger 7½ inch barreled New Model Blackhawk in it, and the suspenders with twin Bond Derringer .45 Colt derringers in the holsters. The Natchez Bowie and the Whippet shotgun hung down on the off side of the gun belt. All the shell loops were filled.
What no one could see was the Calico submachine gun hanging on a sling down his back, under the Drover’s coat. He’d intended to carry the M14E2 in the scabbard on the right side of the saddle, but it just wouldn’t fit. He didn’t think he could make good use of it mounted, anyway. The Marlin .45-70 took its place.
The M14E2 was packed on the very top of one of the pack horses, where it and the ammunition would be easy to get to, if needed.
He’d switched the Savage 24 to one of the pack animals and carried the 1887 lever action twelve gauge in the left hand scabbard of the horse he was riding. Craig felt a bit embarrassed at looking like a character out of a 1950’s western, but so be it. Looking the way he did and openly carrying the weapons he was, should give him an edge if he got into trouble.
Having thought about it much over the days he was at the Hicks’ house, Craig changed his plans. He still intended to do some traveling, but he felt an obligation to the Retreat. He was beyond wealthy now, thanks to Stephan Hicks, but he wanted to do something to feel like he’d earned it, rather than just lucked onto it. He turned Clyde toward the northeast, this time traveling on the north side of I-44.
CHAPTER THREE
The inevitable had to happen. Craig was seen from afar with the pack string. It was too tempting a target. The man looked like a wannabe cowboy. Dave Holstein decided he and his small gang could easily take the man. Let some of the guys laugh at the cowboy, instead of laughing behind Dave’s back about his last name.
Dave and his small band were scraping together a perilous living trying to keep a hill farm going and doing some raiding on the side, to keep some meat in their bellies. It didn’t matter much what the guy had on the pack horses. The horses alone would give Dave the ability to roam much further afield on his raids. Everything else would just be gravy. Maybe he could even capture a few women to bring back to the farm to do the work and provide some badly needed entertainment for the few men still left in his gang.
If Dave had known what was in the packs, he would have drooled. If he knew how well Craig was armed, he would have drooled some more. If he knew Craig at all, with or without his new armament, Dave would have run off to hide.
Hide he did, but in ambush with all of his men. There was no way Dave was going to let the horses get away. He wanted everyone there to grab the lead ropes when he shot the man out of the saddle from behind a tree.
Only it didn’t work that way. When Craig got close to the ambush site, there was only one horse. The one Craig was riding. The rest were nowhere in sight. Drawing Clyde up suddenly, when he hesitated, Craig sat there a minute, searching the tree line near the road.
He’d settled the horses for the night and was coming down to a road to see if it showed any signs of traffic. But when Clyde alerted, he knew someone or something was ahead of them. Not inclined to take a chance, Craig whirled Clyde around and headed into the forest near him.
Enraged, Dave started firing, using up precious ammunition in his attempt to stop Craig. Every one of his men did the same thing until Dave realized the folly of it and called on them to stop shooting. “Come on, let’s go,” he screamed, running toward the spot where Craig had disappeared. “He can’t go fast in those woods on horseback!”
Greed and murder in his heart, Dave led the charge. It was the last thing he did. Dave had been right about Craig not being able to go very quickly in the heavy forest. Craig knew the same thing and pulled up Clyde as soon as he was out of the men’s sight. He’d turned Clyde as soon as they entered the forest, so was nowhere near the spot that Dave and his men were approaching at a hard run.
Craig shifted his right arm slightly, to lift the Drover’s coat enough for the Calico to swing around where he could get a grip on it. He was moving quickly but quietly back to the point where he’d left the clearing. He could hear the men approaching huffing and puffing, already running out of steam from their run.
Knowing it was showboating, pure and simple; Craig stepped out of the forest a few yards to the right of the group, the stock of the Calico extended and at his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. These men had tried to ambush him. More than likely they’d been raiding, stealing and killing and who knew what else.
Having tried the Calico shortly after leaving the Hicks place, he knew exactly what to expect when he pulled the trigger of the submachine gun. Men went down like they were pole axed. The heavy .45 ACP slugs did their grisly work, each man taking three or more rounds in the mere seconds that Craig fired initially. It was a little eerie for Craig, for though the Calico wasn’t totally quiet with the suppressor, it was far less than there should be for as much damage as it was doing.
Most of the men died on the spot, including Dave. A couple lived to tell the tale, as Craig refused to shoot men no longer able to defend themselves.
“Who are you, Cowboy?” one of the men asked, holding his left elbow that had been shattered by one of the rounds.
“I’m…” Craig hesitated. He smiled slightly. “I’m your worst enemy. Stay away from the area around Sullivan. The day of the raiders is ending.”
Though he wouldn’t kill them in cold blood, Craig had no compunction about leaving the injured to their own devices. To live or die was up to them and God. Craig broke camp when he got back to it and moved several miles in the late evening and early night. Then he set up another camp, sure he hadn’t been followed.
Craig took even more care than he had been, knowing how valuable to the Retreat the things he’d found were. It was bravado that had him tell the wounded ambusher that the raiding was going to end. But the more he thought about it, the more he was determined to see that it turned into a fact. And it would start at the Retreat.
To say the least, the members of the Retreat were surprised to see him, especially Sally. He’d left her after implying he might be gone for years. Here he was back in only a couple of months. But as soon as he spoke to her, she knew that he was only here temporarily. He would soon be gone again, this time probably for the years he’d implied before.
Quentin was a bit hesitant about sending a salvage convoy that far away, but Craig’s description of what he’d cached was persuasive. Craig didn’t mention the items he’d left in the vault room. Only the items he’d cached. Craig had decided that the ammunition and food that he’d left behind might come in handy someday. And it would be a shame for the collector quality arms to be used and abused if it wasn’t necessary. What had use to him and to the Retreat he’d cached. The rest would stay where it was until he needed or wanted it.
When Quentin agreed to the salvage operation he didn’t waste any time about getting it ready. The convoy was on the road in three days, heavily armed. Where it had taken Craig a week to bury everything, it took the salvage crew only two days to get everything dug out and loaded. It wouldn’t have taken that long, but it seemed everyone wanted to see everything that Craig had found.
Craig, after showing the team where each cache was, began patrolling the area. There were tracks all around the remains of the house, and it and the barn had been burned. Craig hadn’t done that. There’d been other people around since he’d left. Not knowing if it was coincidence or someone investigating the explosion, minimal as it was, that Craig had created when he brought down the house into the basement, he kept a sharp eye on things.
There were obvious indications that someone had been digging through the debris in the basement, after the fire, but things were still so jumbled up with unburned combustibles and the various hardware and appliances that a house contained that they’d given up.
; Craig debated with himself for a while about making known the rest of the items in the vault, but counted on the reluctance of raiders to expend much energy for an unknown gain. Craig kept his silence and stayed on guard.
The team was back at the retreat before the week was out, delighted with Craig’s find. Quentin didn’t question what Craig had kept for himself out of the caches. He could have reasonably kept it all, since he was on his own when he found the stuff. But Craig gave the Retreat over half of what he’d found, trading off another fourth to individuals for items he could use, or for the businesses.
And then he was on his way again, on horseback, a new resolve in him. This time he saw Sally watching him leave. He’d barely spoken to her while he was back in the Retreat.
There had been one small attempt made on the Retreat while Craig had been gone. It had been driven off successfully, but when Craig had been told about it he began to wonder. The raiders usually attacked in force; giving some of them enough time to harvest what they could and take any animals caught outside the compound. Craig began to wonder if the attack might have just been a probe, to test the readiness of the Retreat.
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