Secession: The Storm (5 page)

Zach’s father reached across the bench seat and shoved his son to the floor. “Stay down!” he repeated.

In a flash, the old pump shotgun was out of the Ford’s gun rack, the seasoned weapon occasionally employed in pursuit of hungry coyote or an errant prairie dog. Zach could remember the fear in his father’s eyes, his shaking hands struggling to load shells into the scattergun’s tube. And then he was gone, the pickup’s open door bringing the sound of multiple gunshots roaring into the cab.

Zach couldn’t stay on the floorboard. It was an impossible demand.

He watched his father rush to the policeman’s side, quickly dragging the wounded officer to the rear of the police cruiser and out of the line of fire.

For some reason, Zach’s naive mind assumed it was over… that the danger had ended. He could see his father was rendering aid to the cop, and the incoming shots had stopped. Zach wanted to help, too.

Reaching for the door handle, movement from ahead stopped him cold. Two men appeared, advancing toward his father with raised weapons. Zach knew they were bad guys in a glance. He bellowed a warning, “Dad! Look out!”

It all became a blur. Mr. Bass glanced up from the stricken man he was assisting, reaching for the nearby shotgun just as the first criminal fired his pistol. Zach remembered his father flinching, a slight hesitation in his reach, a pained expression in his eyes.

The 12-gauge sang its song, a cloud of white fire and smoke erupting from the muzzle. Zach had never seen his father work the pump so frantically.

And then it was over… the cloud of dust, cordite smoke, and confusion drifting away in the early morning breeze. Horror filled the young Bass’s eyes – four men were lying on the ground.

He was out of the cab and sprinting to his father as fast as his legs would answer his panicked brain’s instructions. Pale gray skin like he’d never seen on a person before, the color of his dad’s countenance initially startled the boy. The raw flesh and pulsing crimson on his pop’s shirt explained everything.

“Radio,” came a croaking voice. “Call for help on the radio,” the policeman said weakly, pulling Zach out of his trance.

The young Texan located the microphone, hooked to the dash above a cluster of lights and knobs. He’d seen enough television to know how it worked. “I need help!” he shouted after pressing the button. “My dad and the policeman have been shot. They need help.”

“Who is this?” came a strong female voice. “This is a law enforcement frequency. You shouldn’t be playing on here, son.”

“My name is Zach Bass,” he responded in a rush. “My dad and I were driving into town. The policeman told me to use his radio to call for help. There are men shot all over the road. Everybody’s bleeding.”

“What policeman?” the voice responded. “Where are you?”

Zach threw down the microphone and sped to the rear of the car. He looked at the officer’s name tag, seeing the words, “Sgt. Hargrove,” engraved in the shiny metal. But Zach couldn’t read yet.

He rushed back to the mic and again pushed the button. “The policeman’s name is S-G-T-H-A-R…” the young voice continued, spelling out the letters. “And we are going to Fort Stockton,” he finally finished.

The dispatcher was still skeptical. “Where are your parents?”

“My mom died a long time ago, and my dad is bleeding behind the police car. He’s dying! Please send help right now!”

“Okay… settle down. I need to know what road you’re on. Do you see any signs along the pavement?”

Zach looked up, not being able to see anything. The windshield of the cruiser was a spider web of shot-up glass. Poking his head outside, he glanced up and down the flat road but couldn’t see anything that would help.

“No,” he broadcasted again. “I can’t see any signs. I’m on the road that goes from our ranch into Fort Stockton…. That’s all I know.”

There was a long pause before the now-softer female voice came through the speaker. “Do you know your home address?”

Zach smiled. His father had made him memorize their address a long time ago. He blurted it out with pride.

After a few moments, the dispatcher responded. “Okay, I know you’re on Highway 112. I’m sending help right now. How many men have been shot?”

“Four,” Zach responded. “My dad used his shotgun on the two bad guys that had already shot the policeman. But pop got hit, too.”

“Can you tell me where they are bleeding? Are they breathing? Talking? Moving?”

It occurred to Zach that all of the men around him might be dead. He might be alone, and that concept was more frightening than all of the blood and violence. After glancing around at the remote, desolate landscape, he started crying.

The young boy tried to answer the radio’s question, but could only sob into the microphone.

“Stay with me, Zach. Hang in there,” sounded the kind voice. “A lot of policemen and ambulances are on the way.”

Zach dropped the microphone, hurrying back to his father. He noticed his dad’s chest still heaving, but the pool of blood under his father’s prone body was much larger.

“Dad? Dad, can you hear me?”

A wave of relief flushed over Zach when his father’s eyes fluttered. It took several moments, but the elder Bass finally focused on his son’s anxious face. The old rancher managed a slight smile. “Hi, Zach,” he whispered.

“Dad, the lady on the radio said help is on the way. She’s sending ambulances and more police.”

“Good, son. You did good,” came the whispered response.

Zach sat down on the pavement, not knowing what else to do. He lifted his father’s wrist and squeezed tightly, wrapping both of his small hands around the older man’s palm, waiting for help to arrive.

As time passed, he found himself watching his father’s labored breathing, praying each exhalation wouldn’t be the last. The entire world was defined by his dad’s expanding and contracting ribcage.

One of the criminals lying in the road eventually moaned, the animal-like growl bringing the realization that the bad men weren’t dead. Zach hefted his father’s shotgun, changing his position so he could watch both his dad and the wounded villain. The lad was familiar with how to use the shotgun, having watched his father fire and clean the weapon.

The child had no idea how much time passed before he heard the first siren. Soon afterwards, the quiet, desert morning was completely inundated with the wailing of approaching responders.

The first to arrive was a deputy sheriff, the uniformed officer rushing forward with his gun drawn and sweeping the area. He spied Zach sitting with his legs crossed, the loaded 12-gauge resting in his lap while he held his father’s hand.

“Drop that weapon!” the deputy commanded in a stern voice, pointing his pistol at Zach.

“Not until those crooks are dead or gone,” Zach responded, never taking his eyes off the nearby shooters. “Those men shot my dad.”

The deputy took a step backwards, his posture making it clear he was preparing to engage the boy. He inhaled deeply and screamed, “Drop that weapon now!”

“No,” Zach calmly replied. “I have to protect my dad,” he said bravely.

Another man appeared, moving to the deputy’s side and placing a calming hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. With a motion of his head, he made it clear that he didn’t want a pistol pointed at the young boy – shotgun or no. The new arrival was wearing a white western hat, string-tie, and jacket. There was a silver star with five points prominently displayed on his belt.

“What’s your name, son?” asked the hat’s owner.

“Zach, sir.”

“Zach, I’m a Texas Ranger. I need that weapon, son,” the lawman said gently, approaching cautiously with his hand extended outward.

Again, Zach nodded toward the two criminals in the road. “Not while they can still hurt my dad,” he replied with valiant resolve.

The ranger seemed to understand. Diverting to the prone bodies, he bent and checked each, kicking away their handguns. He then rose and then looked Zach in the eye. “I give you my word as a ranger, Zach, they aren’t going to hurt your dad anymore. Now please hand me that shotgun.”

Zach studied the approaching lawman. There was a projection of confidence, kindness, and earned authority in the man’s demeanor. It made the boy feel safe. It was the first trust he’d felt since his father had been wounded.

Zach nodded, lifting the scattergun as if to hand it over. As soon as the ranger took possession of the firearm, he moved to the wounded police officer and then Mr. Bass, broadcasting a status on his radio the entire time.

Police, ambulances, and even a volunteer fire department’s EMT unit began arriving. Vehicles, shouting voices, and running men were everywhere.

When the two EMTs tried to reach Mr. Bass, Zach wouldn’t budge. Again, the ranger stepped in, pulling the worried son gently away while promising the ambulance crew would help his father.

Amidst the whirlwind of activity, lights, and rushing responders, the ranger managed to get Zach to take a seat in his truck. Slowly, with a kind tone and careful words, he pulled the story out of the frightened boy.

When he spotted his father being lifted onto the stretcher, Zach tried to exit the cab. “Don’t worry; we’ll follow the ambulance in my truck. I promise I won’t let it out of my sight,” reassured the lawman.

And he kept his word.

The senior Bass survived the encounter, as did the state trooper they had rescued. But Zach’s father had taken a bullet to the spine and lost the use of his legs.

Being confined to a wheelchair was too much for the once able-bodied and powerful rancher. Over the next few years, Zach watched helplessly as his father’s outlook deteriorated as much as his lower body. Bitterness, hard liquor, and remorse ruled the Bass household. Despite the awards and appreciation heaped upon the handicapped man, he couldn’t deal with the stigma of being dependent. Mr. Bass’s health dwindled away, declining until pneumonia finally took him to the grave just three years after the incident.

Zach’s grandparents assumed the responsibility of raising the youth, the elderly couple moving back to the ranch from their retirement cottage in the Texas Hill Country. It was a struggle, but throughout it all, Zach knew he was loved. He also knew from that point forward that he wanted to be a Texas Ranger.

As the years passed, Zach replayed that fateful day a thousand times. The two men who had attacked the state trooper were escaped convicts from Oklahoma. With a stolen car and firearms, they were making a run for Mexico. Both had been lifelong criminals, neither surviving the encounter with Mr. Bass’s 12-gauge.

Of all the memories and impressions, it was the ranger’s presence that most impressed the young Bass. He began to read and study everything he could find about their organization. While other teenagers were interested in cars, the latest music group, or social media, Zach studied and read everything he could about the history and legend of the Texas Rangers.

Maturity led to understanding. Fate had been cruel that day, the odds of the encounter occurring in the remote lands of West Texas in front of father and son beyond calculation. It was a struggle for Zach to avoid the pitfalls of blaming God or feeling cursed for the misfortune.

A key weapon in his fight to remain optimistic was the memory of the ranger’s actions that morning. Zach fully understood the difference between the deputy’s pistol pointing, near-panic response, and the calm, in-control attitude of the senior lawman. It was a dichotomy that he often referenced when presented with challenges throughout his high school years. It was a model of exemplary, strong character - an example of ultimately good judgment.

Baseball was the other salvation in Zachariah’s life. Tall and lanky, his frame wasn’t suited for the more popular sport of football. But his whip-like arm could heave a rock or ball with dizzying velocity.

By his junior year in high school, Zach was drawing the attention of national scouts. As he began the 12
th
grade, the primary decision facing the young man was college or semi-pro. While the future was bright and clear, the decision troubled him. His grandparents pined for school; his pocket longed for the dream of money and the satisfaction of being paid to throw a baseball.

Toward the end of his senior season, Zach was putting the finishing touches on a three-hit clinic he was throwing against a rival team. The final out had gone down swinging, and after a brief celebration at the mound, the victorious pitcher headed for the dugout to pack his gear.

He was a few steps away when a tall, thin man appeared in his path. Zach recognized the gentleman immediately – a face forever engrained in his memory – the ranger from that day on the road.

“Hello, Zach. Nice game,” greeted the lawman.

“Thank you, sir. Are you…” Zach questioned, the shock of the encounter making him doubt his own recollections.

The man nodded, smiling warmly. “Yes, I am. Do you have time to take a walk with me?”

“Yes, sir,” the young man managed, a thousand questions tumbling through his mind.

“I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Zach. I travel out this way now and then, and I’ve tried to make a point of catching a few innings or driving by your family’s place. I retired last month from the Texas Rangers, and in all those years, that day out on 112 sticks with me more than any other.”