SurviRal (28 page)

“Show yourselves first!” Clint yelled back.

“That doesn’t work for us. You’re the ones caught. Tell your friend to stop aiming that rifle, or our next demonstration will be directed at him.”

Clint reached over and lifted Harold’s rifle barrel into the air. Harold glared back at him.

“Lay it in front of you,” Clint said. “Like this.” He placed his rifle on the ground, but within easy pickup range. Jenny did the same with her pistol. Harold hesitated, but eventually followed suit.

“The guns are on the ground!” Clint said. “Now show yourselves!”

“Back away from them, please.”

“No! That doesn’t work for us. You show yourselves, or we pick them back up and start firing at your voices. And if you shoot us, you’ll be killing innocent Springfield homeowners.”

An agonizing moment of silence passed. Somebody behind the trees whistled. Jenny had ahold of Clint’s arm again, but with only one hand and not quite so tight this time.

A figure appeared between the trees. Then another, a few yards away. Then more. As Clint turned his head he saw men with rifles leveled at their shoulders walking forward into the clearing on every side. There were at least a dozen of them, and no gaps in the enclosing circle.

Clint elbowed Harold. “Come on. We may as well stand up.”

The three of them set their packs on the ground next to the rifles, stood, and took a few steps back. Clint wasn’t worried now. These guys obviously weren’t bandits.

The woodsmen stopped their approach. One of them lowered his rifle and spoke.

“Thank you. What’s your name?”

“Stonebreaker.”

“Jake?” A voice said from the side.

Clint turned to it. “Clint and Jenny. Jake is my brother. This is my neighbor, Harold. We’re from Denver, but own a cabin just southwest of Springfield. ”

The one who knew Jake’s name lowered his rifle. Clint recognized his large nose from somewhere.

“Hey, Clint. Didn’t recognize you. Roberto Sanchez. From the canyon ranch. It’s all right, guys.”

The rest of the woodsmen all withdrew their arms. Clint thought some of them looked downright disappointed.

Clint smiled. “How are you, Roberto?”

Roberto shrugged. “Been better.”

* * *

Roberto’s truck was in need of new shocks, but that didn’t bother Clint. He, Harold, and Jenny were only too happy to be tossed around inside the cab. They were off their feet, and surrounded by what must be the safest civilian caravan in the county—maybe even the entire state.

“Why didn’t you stay at the ranch?” Clint asked Roberto from the passenger seat.

“I’m going back.” Roberto bounced high as he took a bump in the road too fast. “Soon, hopefully. Came to town to check on my house and see how a few friends are doing. That’s when my neighbors shanghaied me.”

 “What’s this little militia group of yours called again?”

“The North Springfield Community Preservation Committee. Sounds nice and official, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. Did you have to file any papers or anything in order to organize it?”

Roberto let go with a belly laugh.

“I take it no, then.”

“File papers where? The city and county buildings are closed, the court’s suspended, and all the city officials are home, trying to protect and provide for their families. Funny you asked, though—we do actually have papers written out proclaiming our organization, and asserting that we’re acting within our constitutional rights. One of our members is a lawyer. The papers are posted in the only place that matters at the moment: in the homes of all our members. It’s a good group of guys. I hate to leave, but my boss needs me at the ranch. Lots of poachers trying to get at our herds.” After a pause he lowered his voice and added, “Some of whom wear army uniforms.”

“What happened at the Lorimer ranch?” Harold asked from the back seat.

“You know the Lorimers?”

“No.”

Clint noticed Roberto eye Jenny in his mirror before responding.

“You probably don’t want to know, then.”

“I see,” Harold said. “Sorry.”

Roberto’s CB radio crackled with a message from one of the other drivers who was turning off the road to go home. As they drew closer to Springfield, more did the same. By the time Clint saw the main cluster of town from the crossroad, Roberto’s truck was alone. That was a little less comfortable, but only a little. Clint’s cabin was now only a couple miles away.

Roberto shook his head. “Yeah, it’s too bad about the Lorimers. They’re the only victims in our self-assigned jurisdiction since our committee was organized. We’re not happy about having a blemish on our record. The raiders must have escaped north. You folks are fortunate to have avoided them. I suppose that’s one advantage of travelling on foot.”

“Any idea how many they were?” Harold asked.

“Three or four, we think. May have spent the night in the Lorimer house. They left a ‘savages’ sign, but we don’t think they were the real savages—not unless they split up into smaller groups. That’s why we suspected you of possibly being the perpetrators.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Clint said. “How did you find out about the raid?”

“Well, that’s part of the problem. The committee has to make regular patrols, and we don’t stay up all night. Only have so many of these,” he tapped the CB radio, “and they’re all mounted in our vehicles. We need to devise a better alert system, especially considering the fact our gas supply will run out soon.”

“How do we go about joining your committee?” Jenny anxiously interjected.

Roberto laughed. “I’m afraid you can’t. You’re too far south. Would stretch us too thin. It’s the next turn, isn’t it?”

“No,” Clint said. “Two more. And that sucks.”

Roberto sped back up. “The primary danger to Springfield is from the north and west. We like to think we have the north approach at least somewhat monitored. Will step up our efforts even more now, no doubt. The state border affords us a measure of protection from the east and south. That only leaves the eastbound 160 to worry about. From the chatter I’ve been picking up on the CB lately, I expect to see a greater military presence along that road in the coming weeks. You folks southwest of town should be all right.”

“Your optimism is refreshing,” Jenny said, “and appreciated. I do feel better knowing you guys are patrolling the north side.”

“Good.” Roberto shook his head again. “Just wish we had done a better job. We’re still getting it dialed in, unfortunately.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Harold said, “There’s a decent chance we took care of the Lorimer raiders for you. Two of them, anyway.”

Roberto took his foot off the gas, tilted his head, and eyeballed Harold in the rear view mirror. Clint turned his head and frowned at Harold, unsure if revealing such information was prudent. He noticed Jenny doing the same thing.

“You don’t say?” Roberto said.

“We do say,” Jenny responded, apparently deciding it was okay. “There’s two less bad guys on the road north of here, thanks to us. Wish you would let us join your club.”

Roberto slowly nodded. “Thanks. I’ll talk to the guys. Maybe they’ll be willing to work something out. No promises.”

The turn on to the gravel road by the mailbox came up. Clint could see the cabin now, just on the other side of the three aspen trees. Something white was in front of it. That had to be Jake’s truck—didn’t it?

They crossed over the pipe that spilled the runoff creek under the road to the south side. It was still running high. One more turn and they would have a full view of the cabin. They were finally here.

Roberto made the turn. The cabin came into view as a beacon of light shining through a dark storm. Appropriately, Jake’s truck was parked in front.

And standing on the front porch was Jake. He had his hands on his hips, looking as though he knew who was inside the truck.

Five minutes later, a small dust cloud followed Roberto’s truck away as Jake and Jenny hugged in front of the green-roofed log cabin. Clint noticed Jenny hold on to Jake for a much longer time than normal. Harold then shook Jake’s hand. Those two should be natural best friends.

Finally it was Clint’s turn. He grabbed Jake’s forearm with both his hands, pumped once, and held. Jake was clean-shaven today, his curly black hair freshly trimmed. Clint spoke with unbridled emotion.

“So glad to see you, brother. When your yard and garage looked ransacked, I didn’t know …what to think.”

Jake took an uncharacteristically long time to answer. He also seemed to have a strange calmness about him. Clint wondered if Jake experienced any of the same kind of trouble as he, Jenny, and Harold had. Though the smile had now faded from his face, there was a light to Jake’s eyes which spoke more than words. Clint knew he was extremely happy the three of them showed up.

“I had some problems with local thieves,” Jake finally said. “The kind that wear uniforms. Partly my fault. Probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t as pressing in my challenge of their authority. Lost most of my supplies as a result. Brought what I could save here. Come on. Let me show you.”

The three of them followed Jake around back. There was no fenced-in yard at the cabin; just a simple wire-post fence marking the ten-acre property line. Clint noticed it was mended in places. Jake had apparently been busy since he arrived.

“The berries are producing well,” Jake said pointing to the bushy vines along the side of the house. “Will be a good source of vitamins for us.”

“Looks like we have enough berries for an army,” Harold commented as he untangled his shoe from a mess of brambles.

 “Don’t say that.” Jake pointed across the immediate flat stretch of ground behind the cabin. “We’ll need some green vegetables, too. Brought all my seeds down, so I’ve got a good amount started already. The cucumbers and green beans grow fast, fortunately.”

Clint saw a row of tree branches stuck in the ground with twine tied between them, obviously the green bean patch. Sprouts were already poking up.

“The problem is,” Jake continued, “we won’t be able to preserve enough to get us through the winter. I have my pressure cooker, and a few jars, but not enough. The persimmons ripen in autumn, you know. Those will get us through the first frosts. I’ll get my winter squash in the ground in July, so we should have that fresh through the entire fall as well. But the only crop that can survive the winters here is cauliflower, I think, even in the greenhouse I’m starting to build. And spinach. That will grow well even during the deep freezes. I still have plenty of seeds for those, thankfully. The oat field is to your left. With any luck, we’ll have a decent harvest before the first frost. And we have the potatoes, of course. Most of those survived the winter, thanks to the compost I made you pack over the patch. As you can see, I’ve mounded the row, and spilt a bunch of them into new plants. That’s why the row is longer now, and the mound lower on one end. Meanwhile, we have the ones in my buckets I hauled up here. That should last us at least a month. I’ve started some tomatoes, but—”

“Jake.” Jenny put her hand on his shoulder.

“Yes?”

“You’re an angel. But you’re overwhelming me. It’s too much at the moment. After what we’ve been through, I only want to go inside, relax, and not think about anything for a day or two. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Jake looked back at Clint. “So you had some trouble on the road?”

Chapter Twenty One

“I agree with Jake,” Jenny said. “He’s looking at things from a long-term perspective. I think that’s wise. Am I doing this right, Jake?”

“Almost.” Jake looked up from the wooden box he was fastening and beamed at Jenny across the picnic table, obviously ecstatic at having converted a new student. “You need to double back sooner after starting. It helps tighten it.”

Harold shook his head. “I can’t believe you can make twine out of bramble vines.”

“Cordage,” Jake said. “Brambles are great for cordage. So is willow bark, thistles, yuccas, pine tree roots, and stinging nettle plants. We can find all of that locally, but brambles will be the most plentiful, with all we have growing here.”

“But we have two big rolls of twine,” Clint argued. “And two good shotguns, with quite a bit of shot stored. We’re hunters, Jake. Remember?”

“We
were
hunters. Now we’re survivalists. And that means conserving important materials.”

Harold laughed. “And ammunition.”

 “Especially ammunition.” Jake winked at Harold. “After hearing about your trip, you three should be the first to understand that. Security is job one. We can’t effectively defend the cabin with slingshots. But we can hunt quail with them. So it would be imprudent to waste our ammo on quail. Even birdshot.”

“Jake, I can’t hit a quail with a slingshot,” Clint said. “I’ll only scatter them.”

“Can you hit one right this moment? No. But with a few hours practice, I bet you can reliably pick them off from ten or twelve yards—which is plenty of distance for quail, and won’t scatter them anywhere near as much as a shotgun blast will. That’s what the target range over yonder is for. You should be practicing now, so we can go quail hunting. But please be careful not to step on any sunflowers.”