by Steven Bird
As she added a few pieces of split firewood to the old wood stove and stoked the coals, she noticed the absence of rustling in Brave’s stall. Brave would normally greet whoever awoke first with a few snorts to get their attention, but this morning, she heard nothing but silence.
Walking over to the horse stall to investigate, Cindy found Jack, the pack-horse, standing alone. Brave was simply not there. In a panic, she ran to the center of the barn, looked up to the loft where Jessie slept, and shouted, “J.T! J.T! Brave is gone! He’s missing!”
Hearing no reply, she began frantically climbing the ladder to the loft as her father awoke, and in a startled voice, asked, “Cindy! What’s going on?”
“Brave is gone, Daddy! Brave is gone!” she yelled as she scurried up the ladder. To her dismay, she found Jessie’s bed neatly made with a note and a cigar box lying on top of his old, hole-ridden blankets. She sat down on Jessie’s makeshift straw bed and picked up the note as her father joined her in the loft.
“What’s going on? Where is he?” Mark asked.
Fearing what it might say, she turned and handed the note to her father, who slowly took it from her hand, and opened it. As he sat down beside her on the bed, he began reading the letter aloud,
“Dear Mark and Cindy,
I thank God every day that you stumbled across my little homestead in the mountains during both your time of need and mine. When you arrived, I was at the lowest point in my life. I simply did not have the will to go on in this world. Your companionship helped me to make it through the winter as well as helping me to push aside the demons that still haunt me to this day, giving me hope for the future. Hope for what? That I do not know. I only know that whatever lies out there in this world for me is not on this mountain, so I must go find it.
I have a sister that I haven’t spoken to in years that I have set out to find. I do not plan to return, and even if I did, the likelihood that I would actually make it back would be low. Considering that, I would like to give you both a few things:
First, my homestead. Inside the cigar box you will find the deed to my property, as well as a detailed letter to whomever may be responsible for the administration of such things in the future, explaining how I left the property to both of you to do with as you wish as the rightful and legal owners. Who knows if any such future administrator will honor my decree in the absence of legal proceedings, but I pray they will.
Second, for Cindy’s upcoming eleventh birthday, the box also contains a beautiful gold necklace that used to belong to my wife. It is the only thing I saved from the home. Cindy’s smile has become the light of my world, which was previously filled only with darkness. Please wear it and keep it always.
Third, inside the box is a detailed sketch of the property with locations of caches of supplies, firearms, and ammunition. I hadn’t previously told you the location of those items for myriad reasons, but now that you will be here alone, you’ll need to take security very seriously, and you’ll need to be equipped to handle situations as they arise.
All I ask of you in return is to do for me these few things: First, take care of Jack and the flock and help them to rebuild and thrive. If you take care of the animals, they will reward you with an abundant livelihood. Jack is an old boy, but he still has a few good years left in him. Give him a sense of purpose, and he will be a good asset and companion. Second, once the snow melts and you’ve got your primary needs taken care of for the spring, I ask that you clean off the spot where the ruins of my cabin now lie, and plant a flower garden there in memory of my wife and children. Fill it with the beautiful wildflowers of the mountains, and when it blooms, remember that there is beauty all around you even during the darkest days.
Do these simple things and the homestead is yours. Do not be disheartened by my absence; rather, celebrate the fact that God brought us together during our darkest days to comfort and care for one another.
Your friend forever,
Jessie Townsend”
Mark’s voice trembled with those final words. A tear rolled down his cheek as he looked into Cindy’s watery eyes. They shared a moment of silence as they began to realize the incredible gift they had been given. Mark was now sure that he had been led to this mountain, if not for their sake, then for Jessie’s. It was then that he realized, “Jessie Townsend. J.T.’s name was Jessie Townsend. Sheriff Jessie Townsend, from Montezuma County. He’d faded away after the election was stolen from him. No one ever really knew what happened to him. The irony is, losing that election probably saved his life. If he would have remained the sheriff, he would have more than likely gotten caught up in all the mess and killed like his replacement.”
~~~~
With the sun just barely cresting the mountains, Jessie looked back in the direction of the homestead as he eased back on Brave’s reins, bringing him to a stop in the middle of the snow-covered road. He felt bad for slipping off into the darkness of the pre-dawn morning without an explanation, and without saying goodbye, but the Walkers were becoming too much like family to Jessie, and after what he had gone through, he knew he had to cut things short and be on his way before his feelings compromised his plans.
Turning Brave around, he patted him on the neck and said, “Well, buddy. See that smoke? That’s from the stovepipe in the barn. That’s the last sign we will see of the homestead. From here on out, every day will be a new, unknown challenge. Let’s go see where this world takes us, boy.”
Chapter Fifteen
As Jessie and Brave worked their way down the snow-covered road from the mountains, they traveled slowly and methodically, surveying the area around them as they went, in an attempt to avoid any potential threats along their path. Jessie had taken only basic items with them, not wanting to over-burden Brave with a heavy load.
In his saddle-bags, Jessie had brought along a several-day supply of MRE’s, a few pounds of uncooked beans and rice, a small container of salt, a magnesium fire-starter, and a mess kit. He had also packed ammunition for his Colt revolver, which he still wore on his side, his AR-15, carried on his back in a hunting backpack with an integrated rifle scabbard, and his bolt-action Winchester .30-06, carried in his saddle-mounted rifle scabbard.
Secured on top of his saddle-bags, he kept a bedroll and a small tent contained in a zip-up dry bag, as well as his lightweight compound hunting bow with a full quiver of carbon-fiber arrows, tipped with razor-sharp broadheads. As an avid hunter, Jessie was highly skilled in the use of a bow and felt its stealth might come in handy during the unknown journey ahead.
As the day progressed, Jessie was relieved to see only the tracks of wildlife through the snow, although he knew the further down the mountain he went, the likelihood of encountering a two-legged foe would significantly increase. Having not gotten much rest the night before due to his preparations, Jessie decided to make camp early and get a full night’s sleep before going too far down the mountain and entering what he considered to be the danger zone. Having been isolated on the mountain for more than a year, Jessie felt hesitation about encountering others.
Stopping to give Brave a break from trudging through the snow with a load on his back, Jessie dismounted and said, “C’mon, boy. Let’s get you a drink of water.”
Leading Brave off the road and out onto a hillside clear of trees, Jessie pointed off to a pile of large rocks that had been working their way down the hillside with the help of the forces of nature for what he assumed were centuries. “Let’s set up camp on the backside of those rocks, buddy. Not only will they give us a good wind break, but they’ll also provide concealment of our camp in the event someone else is out and about.”
Leading Brave across the hillside to the rocks, Jessie marveled at their size and shape. “These things are much larger than I thought from way over there.”
Securing Brave’s reins to a small tree growing next to the rocks, Jessie climbed the giant rock pile to gain a view from the vantage point they would provide, some fifteen feet above ground level. �
��I can see over the trees from here,” he shouted down to Brave as if he could understand.
This will do, he thought to himself. We know nothing is uphill from us and I can see in most directions for at least several miles from here. Licking his finger and holding it into the air, he thought, and the wind is blowing from the west, making these rocks an ideal shelter for Brave since he won’t have the luxury of sharing my tent.
Climbing down from the rocks, rejoining Brave down below, Jessie led him around behind the rocks to seek shelter from the wind. Removing Brave’s saddle and saddle-bags, he started to set up camp. After laying his tarp out on top of the snow for waterproofing, Jessie began erecting the tent up on top of it, lashing the tent to the cracks in the adjacent rocks and one small tree. Tugging on the tent to test its security, he said aloud, “That’ll do.”
First things first, he thought. We need water, then food, then fire. With those priorities in mind, Jessie removed his mess kit from the saddle-bags and unfolded his portable backpacking camp stove. Removing a Sterno fuel canister from his kit, he popped the lid off, lit the contents, and placed it in the center of the stove, which shielded the small flame from the effects of the surrounding wind.
Taking his stainless steel bowl from the mess kit, Jessie used it to scoop up a heaping bowl of clean snow and placed it over the stove, melting the snow into drinking water for him and Brave. Once the snow was melted, but before it became too warm, he removed the bowl, poured himself a small cup of water, and then placed the rest in front of Brave, who quickly lapped up every drop, as he was thirsty from the day’s trek down the mountain.
Not wanting to tap into his food supply early on, Jessie removed one of the arrows from his quiver and unthreaded the knife-edged broadhead, replacing it with a simple field point. No need to damage these broadheads early in the trip, he thought. It would be overkill anyway.
Rubbing Brave’s muzzle, Jessie said, “Wait right here, boy, I’ll be right back.”
Disappearing into the woods, Jessie began to scan the surrounding snow for signs of small game. Following what seemed to be natural lines in the terrain, Jessie quickly stumbled upon what appeared to be a well-used game trail meandering through the woods. Taking a seat, leaning back against a large Ponderosa pine tree, Jessie sat still and silent, becoming one with his surroundings.
Taking a good look around, Jessie noticed that the tree was riddled with tiny holes. Damn pine beetles, he thought. There’s going to be nothing left of this place before long.
Returning his focus to the task at hand, Jessie sat perfectly still and listened as every sound of nature resonated with him. He could hear the activity of a tree squirrel, and with his eyes closed, could see a picture in his mind of its every move. Jessie had always felt at home in nature, and this new world was putting that aspect of his life to good use.
After approximately a half-hour of sitting and listening to the sounds of nature all around him, a brown mountain cottontail rabbit exposed its position just twenty yards ahead. As the rabbit hopped to and fro, searching for plants to eat hidden just below the snow’s surface, Jesse slowly and deliberately brought his bow to bear, nocked his arrow, clipped his mechanical release into place, and silently came to full draw. Using the upper pin of his fiber-optic sight for such a close range, Jessie held his breath and slowly applied pressure to the trigger on his release as he floated the pin on his target, sending the field point-tipped carbon-fiber arrow flying at his unsuspecting prey at nearly three hundred and twenty-five feet per second.
With a direct hit, the rabbit jolted from the impact, making a complete backflip, coming to rest just a few feet from where it had been standing. The rabbit lay still and silent, killed instantly from the impact of the arrow that had passed clean through the animal, burying itself deep in the snow.
With a smile on his face, happy for both acquiring a meal as well as making a clean, humane kill, Jessie approached the rabbit, knelt down and said with a whisper, “Thanks for the meal, little buddy.” He then pulled his knife out of its sheath and quickly field-dressed the animal, tossing it into a plastic sack he had brought along and carried in his pocket. After a few moments digging through the snow, Jessie retrieved his arrow, wiped it clean, and then began his short hike back to camp to prepare his evening meal.
As Jessie walked back to the large rocks where he and Brave were camping for the evening, he collected what roughage he could to feed Brave. Being the tail-end of winter with spring just around the corner, the grasses had yet to begin their seasonal growth cycle, and in the mountains, had yet to begin to peek out through the remaining snow.
Arriving back at the camp with a large bundle of roughage under his arm, Jessie positioned it for Brave to eat while he prepared his own meal.
Quickly skinning the animal and removing the unwanted parts, Jessie skewered the critter on a green tree branch that he skinned with his knife. The green nature of the wood would prevent the skewer from catching fire too easily while he roasted his prize over an open flame.
Using his firestarter and char cloth to get a small campfire going, Jessie used two forked sticks on opposite ends of the fire to support the skewered rabbit while it cooked.
Leaning back against a large rock while he tended to his dinner, Jessie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. With the Walkers no longer serving as his company, Jessie felt the need to tell the story of his journey. Not that he expected anyone to ever read it, but the pain he still harbored deep inside gave him the ever-present desire to share his thoughts, as a release of sorts. Prior to the arrival of Mark and Cindy, he had felt trapped within his own mind. His thoughts had become a prison, but with their friendship, he had once again felt the need to reach outside of those prison walls and communicate his feelings. With no one else around, he felt a journal just might fill the void.
As he sat down to write, he held the pen in his right hand with the notepad on his lap and felt a total loss for words. This is just silly, he mused. I feel like a teenage girl with her diary. Laying it aside, dismissing his desire to share his feelings, he once again began to tend the fire and his meal, only to be drawn back to his journal. Picking it back up, he put his pen to paper and began to write:
When I was a young boy, I would sit down and watch the old western movies and long for the freedom they had. Living that open-range, cowboy way of life seemed like the ultimate life to me. Don’t get me wrong, I knew I wanted to settle down and have a family someday. That’s just who I was deep inside, but at the same time, the freedom of riding the open range always captivated me.
As a child, I lived by everyone else’s schedule. My parent’s work dictated most days, and if not, it was school and chores throughout the week with church on Sunday. Saturday was really my only day to be me. I would often play in the woods with nothing more than a stick for a toy. That stick could be anything I wanted. Sometimes it was a rifle, other times it was a sword, or maybe it was even something magical. Either way, my imagination, not the toy itself, led the way.
When I watched those old westerns, I would see how the cowboys on a cattle drive would face perilous journeys along the way, fighting off bandits and the Native Americans they called Indians, even though I personally took issue with that, as they traveled.
It wasn’t their struggles that lured me to their way of life. It wasn’t the concept of the cowboy versus the Indian as Hollywood put it; it was their freedom from the clock and the calendar. When cowboys in the old days set out on a cattle drive, it would often take them months to reach their destination. Their only deadline was the oncoming winter or other such things, but along the way, things like where they ended up that night, was all up to fate. They didn’t have to be somewhere the next day, leaving their wonderful world of freedom behind. They were totally immersed in it. The day of the week didn’t matter to them, and the only time that mattered was based on the position of the sun to light their way.
To me, despite all of the hardsh
ips and horrors that came along with those glory days of riding the open range, that freedom from society, that freedom from the calendar or clock, was like a magnet drawing in my soul.
So here I sit with my horse, looking out into the wild of the Rocky Mountains and the vast expanse of America that lies before me, and for the first time in my life I am without a calendar and without a clock. If it weren't for the turmoil going on in my own heart, I would, for the first time in my life, in some twisted way, be free.
I celebrate this freedom with deep heartache and regret. I wish more than anything to be back in that small cabin with my beautiful wife and children, but alas, that is not the hand I have been dealt. I have nothing in my life left except the glimmering hope that my sister is out there, still alive, just waiting for me to find her. I will pursue that glimmer of hope to the ends of the Earth, and if God were to take me before I reach her, so be it. At least I will experience true freedom during the journey.
Jessie closed his notebook and slipped it back into his pocket, tucking the pen securely into the spiral binding. Almost ready, he thought as he admired the smell of his dinner as it cooked over the fire.
Once his meal was safely cooked, he held the end of the skewer while he shaved off a few slices of meat at a time onto his plate and enjoyed the simplicity and the beauty of the evening.
“We’re gonna be just fine, boy,” he said to Brave, who almost appeared to understand, replying with the toss of his head.