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LAND OF THE FREE
A NOVEL
BY
S. L. KECK

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1996 by Stuart Lee Keck All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
 

They knew they were living on borrowed time, borrowed money, borrowed resources, yet, they continued blindly on.  Looking back it seems as if they didn't care, couldn't be bothered, or maybe felt it was their destiny.  Winter was coming and without all those modern conveniences, which they all took for granted, came fear as well.  Fears they never conceived possible, far greater than the minor concerns that plagued them in the past.

They used to worry about money, image, sex, and a gauntlet of minuscule concerns which seem so trivial now that if humor was possible you would have to roll on the ground with laughter.  Now they're worried about food, water, shelter, their enemies, things about which they never conceived of worrying.  That was before the dollar became so much wallpaper, before electricity and gasoline became a memory, before the words 'stranger' and 'enemy' became synonymous . . .

Red Mountain near the Canadian Border, Northwestern Washington

It was dusk and the light was fading fast. A soft rustle in the brush caught Stan Dunbar's attention, standing at the tree line at the edge of the clearcut. Camouflaged and still, he blended in with the cedar, hemlock, and fir background, almost invisible. With another rattle of leaves, he spotted the small Blacktail doe stepping from the scotch broom into the open. She was thirty yards away and he preferred a closer shot. As she fed closer to his position, he was careful to avoid looking directly at her, knowing the danger of predator spooking prey with direct eye contact.

Closer and closer she browsed as Stan anticipated several days of good venison for his family's table. He used to bowhunt for sport as well as for food, but that was in better times. Game was far more plentiful in those days before rural people began hunting year round. It was rapidly getting to the point that deer and especially elk were few and far between, hunting pressure was only going to get worse.

Within twenty yards of Stan the doe stepped behind a bush. Drawing his Long bow, he waited for her to emerge. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand as the wind shifted behind him and he knew that would give him away. At the same instant the silent dusk was broken by the clatter of breaking sticks and underbrush as the doe burst away in leaping bounds.

"Damn it," muttered Stan as he quietly let off the draw on his bow. It was almost dark now and Stan knowing there would be no more opportunities for game this day headed down Red Mountain for home. As he walked down the logging road made one hundred years before by men who had harvested the old growth giants that had once stretched from San Francisco Bay through British Columbia, he contemplated their legacy. The coniferous timber around him was punctuated with hardwoods and huge thousand year old cedar and Douglas fir stumps left by those first loggers of the northwest.

The temperature dropped rapidly as full darkness fell under a cloudless, star filled sky. Stan's breath trailed behind him as miniature, white clouds as he navigated windfall tree trunks and ferns in the old road. The road was steep and treacherous, but Stan traveled down the mountain without difficulty due to his familiarity with the region. A mile farther the terrain leveled and the forest thinned, climbing over a dilapidated four strand barbed wire fence, Stan entered his neighbor's winter pasture.

Stan crossed Fred Vander Hoppin's spread cautiously to avoid spooking his cattle. As Stan neared his own place, he heard the yipping and mournful cries of a pack of coyotes near by. Climbing over a well-maintained fence to his own land, Stan stopped and listened for a minute. The Columbia Valley was quiet, except the occasional bark of neighboring ranchers' dogs. Stan started to move through a thin stand of trees toward the house and barns.

"Hold up there, Mister," a young voice commanded from the shadows, accompanied by the sound of a pump shotgun action chambering a shell.

Stan stood still, focusing toward the familiar voice. "That you Peter?"

"Yeah, it's me Dad, any luck on the hunt," Pete replied as he unloaded the Remington 870 shotgun.

"No, afraid not, I had a close call on a doe, but the wind betrayed me at the last minute."

"We'll be having grouse for dinner anyway, Dad," Pete stated proudly.

"You didn't use any of those 12 gauge shells did you?"

"No, Dad, I got three with my sling shot. I knew you'd be mad if I used the shotgun," Pete answered quickly.

"Way to go, Son, We won't get fat on three grouse, but they'll be a sight better than just vegetables on the table."

Stan and Pete walked across the yard toward the hay barn in the dark. "Did you feed the stock yet Son?"

"No, I just finished splitting wood and fetching water for mom before you came home."

As the two of them entered the barn, the horses and cattle nickered and bellowed for hay. Stan lit an oil lantern. While Stan broke thirty bales of the grass hay to the ninety Herefords, Pete gave two to the three horses and one mule.

Pausing a moment to listen to the animals munch contentedly on hay both Stan and Pete reflected to themselves. Stan thought about how helpful Pete was becoming as he grew into his teens, but worried what kind of future his son could look forward to. Pete would turn fifteen next month and he had grown fast being only four inches shorter than Stan at six foot one inch. He was a strong boy despite his rangy, slight frame inherited from his dad. Pete took after his mother's looks and disposition, being a quiet and easy going lad. Stan knew Pete was far more tolerant of others faults and indiscretions than he had ever been and was proud of him for it.

Pete thought about how he missed public school and seeing his friends every day. He appreciated the time his mom spent every day teaching his sisters and him their schooling, but it was just not the same. Everybody's lives were so much different now, even the livestock missed the grain they used to get.

"Let's go up to the house, Son," said Stan as he blew out the oil lamp and led the way out. As they walked along the circular drive toward the one story ranch house, they passed the late model Ford pickup and Station wagon. They were rapidly becoming over grown by weeds. Pete forlornly looked at them as they passed thinking that he may never get a chance to drive a motor vehicle of any kind.

Wood smoke drifted down from the chimney. Candle and lamp light lit the windows of the small house. Stan and Pete wiped their boots on the stoop and entered the house. The Dunbar's home, while not large, was comfortable. The house had three bedrooms, two baths, and was furnished modestly. When the electricity was lost last year, the one hundred foot deep well could not be operated. So Stan had built water storage reservoirs and cisterns that caught rain water. One storage tank caught rain from the house roof providing running water for the house and overflowed to an accompanying cistern that provided water to an outside hand pump. Another storage tank caught rain from the two barns and shop roofs providing water for a large stock water tank that overflowed to an accompanying cistern that provided water to a hand pump as well. Stan hoped that between the large capacity of these cisterns and the frequent rain of northwestern Washington that the water needs of his family and livestock would be met. Only time would tell.

The Dunbar home had been heated and lit by electricity also, but lamps, candles, and two wood burning stoves, one in the kitchen and one in the living room now met those needs. The stoves also provided their means of preparing meals. Refrigeration was accomplished by a root cellar. Clothes were washed by hand. Many of the conveniences of the past were now only a memory.

Stripping off their boots and coats to the cozy warmth of the house they smelled dinner cooking on the kitchen wood stove. "Daddy, look at my kitten," exclaimed Liz as ran up to hug Stan and her brother. Stan smiled looking at the kitten his daughter had dressed with skirts and bonnet from scraps of cloth her mother had given her.

Elizabeth at seven years old was still innocent and carefree. To her life was one exciting discovery after another. Taking after her mother, her skin was fair and her hair the color of golden wheat. Stan picked her up and hugging her sat in a chair in front of the wood stove. The living room was furnished in an old west decor and the walls were adorned with taxidermy mounts of all kinds. The Elk, Deer, Bear, Pronghorn Antelope, Javalina, Coyote, Rocky Mountain Goat, Wild Turkey, Canadian and Snow geese mounts were testimony to the sport hunting enjoyed by Stan in better days. Space on the walls not occupied by taxidermy displayed prints of old west scenes by the painter Charles Russell.

"How's my little angel today?" asked Stan as he hugged his daughter.

"I'm fine, Daddy, did you get anything hunting today?",asked Liz her face beaming with love that all little girls hold dear for their fathers.

"No Elizabeth, I didn't have any luck, maybe tomorrow."

Stan felt the soft nuzzle and warm breath of Jenny as she hugged him from behind.

"Welcome home, Husband," she whispered in his ear. "Don't worry about the hunt, your son was successful today with his efforts."

"So my nose tells me, Wife, Pete's getting pretty good with that sling shot. What have you prepared to go with those grouse?"

"Summer squash and potatoes from the garden, bread baked this day, and the last of the sweet corn that mule didn't steal," replied Jenny.

Stan sensed a trace of bitterness remaining from the recent incident of Sarah the mule breaking into the garden and eating her fill of sweet corn. Knowing better than to reopen the subject, Stan merely nodded and kissed Jenny on the cheek. "Sounds great!"

As Stan sat with Liz and her kitten in his lap gazing at the fire, he thought about the coming winter. Would the weather be mild or brutal? Would there be enough food for his family and his livestock? Would others having less than they come with trouble?

Pete interrupted his father's thoughts. "Hey Dad, the Simpson's mare had her foal today. Can I go over tomorrow and check her out after I finish my chores?"

"How did you find out about that?"

"Gloria Simpson made a call on me today and she brought us a pumpkin pie," interjected Jenny. "Al Simpson's birthday is the day after tomorrow, He'll be seventy-two years old."

"Al is getting on in years, I guess I should make a point of checking on the Simpsons more this winter," said Stan. "Pete, if your mom doesn't have any extra chores for you, it's all right for you to visit the Simpsons. Just make sure you're back before dark and take that sling shot with you."

"Dinner's ready, come and eat," called Jenny from the kitchen. Pete and Liz ran to the dinning table.

As Stan sat at the table, he admired the meal Jenny had prepared. "Liz would you say grace?"

Liz smiled and began, "God thank you for this food, please bless Mommy and Daddy and Peter and my kitten Suzy also God, Amen." "Amen," repeated everyone and began to pass the serving dishes.

As the Dunbars enjoyed their meal it began to rain outside. At first it was a light drizzle, but soon it began to pour. Lightning and thunder crashed outside the house. Shortly the storm waned and the rain became a steady fall.

As they finished their dinner Jenny asked, "Who wants pumpkin pie for desert?"

"I do, I do," rang out Pete and Liz.

"That sounds good to me," replied Stan.

Liz jumped up from the table and fetched the pie from the kitchen counter. Jenny served up generous servings to each of them and asked, "Does anyone want cream on their pie?"

Everyone declined and Liz said, "I wish we could still get ice cream." No one said anything, but Stan, Jenny, and Pete just glanced at each other thinking of things each had once taken for granted.

Changing the subject Stan remarked, "It was a lot cooler today than it has been, I think it might snow soon."

Jenny recalling her conversation with Gloria earlier that day added, "The Simpsons think we're due for a hard winter."

"They may be right, it's been more than five years of mild ones for us, but we've prepared for it the best we can."

"We'll be alright Stan, you've done everything humanly possible to provide for our needs."

"I hope that eight cords of wood are enough to last the winter, in the past we would use four, but that was before we used wood for cooking as well as for heat."

"It will be enough dear. I'm sure."

"Pete, do you want to stand the first watch or the second?"

"I'll take the second Dad. You took it last night."

"Alright Son, but make sure you dress warm and wake me if you see or hear anything unusual! You had better get off to bed and get your rest."

"Okay, Goodnight everybody."

Liz, Jenny, and Stan said good night to Pete as he went to his room. Jenny picked up Liz saying, "It's time for you to be in bed too little girl."

"Aw do I have to, Mommy?"

"Goodnight my little angel," said Stan as he kissed her cheek and Jenny carried her off to her bed.

Stan pulled on a pair of insulated coveralls, rubber boots, and an oversized Australian oil skin to shed the rain during his watch. Stepping into the bedroom he went to a large, heavy duty gun safe and dialed the combination lock. Opening the safe, Stan removed an early model Colt AR-15 similar to the military M-16 except being a semi versus fully automatic rifle. Placing two clips in his slicker pockets, he inserted another clip into the rifle and left the bedroom. Kissing Jenny at the front door Stan stepped out into the rain.

Walking a bit from the house, Stan paused a few minutes allowing his eyes to grow accustom to the dark. Once he could see some what, he moved quietly into the timber surrounding the house and outbuildings. Stan would take a few steps, stop, and listen several minutes. He worked his way north along his property boundary patrolling the edge of his place and the adjacent ranches belonging to his neighbors.

An hour or so into his watch the rain petered out to a fine mist and the temperature began to drop significantly. Cold arctic air was moving down out of British Columbia, the border was just two miles north of the Dunbar spread. Large scattered snow flakes began to float down as Stan started on the western side of the hundred sixty acre section that had been the Dunbar ranch for two generations.

By the time Stan completed his first circuit of the ranch there was three inches of snow on the ground and it was coming down harder by the minute. Stan thought ruefully about the Simpson's prediction of a hard winter coming true and shrugged off the anxiety that brought him. It was only early October and this part of the country rarely had snow prior to January due to the proximity of the warming waters of the Puget Sound only thirty-five miles away.

As Stan began his second tour he stopped to check a thermometer attached to the exterior wall of the old pump house. He was surprised to find the temperature at just two degrees above zero and according to his pocket watch it was only ten P.M.. Cold weather had never phased Stan much, he actually enjoyed it to some extent. By the time Stan finished his second round there was better than a foot of snow on the ground and it was after midnight. He decided to wake Pete and call it a night, tomorrow would probably be a long day.

Entering the house, He found the wood stoves burning out. Stoking both stoves with cured maple, Stan lit an oil lamp and slipped into Pete's bedroom. Shaking Pete gently Stan whispered, "Pete, wake up, Son. It's time for your watch."

Pete groaned drowsily and rolled over. "Okay Dad I'm getting up."

"You'd better dress warm, Son, there's a foot of snow on the ground and it's coming down hard." Stan left the lantern and walked to the kitchen, putting the coffee pot on the stove. By the time the coffee was hot Pete entered the kitchen and gratefully accepted the steaming cup Stan offered him. "It's been quiet, Pete, but wake me if you see or hear anything unusual," said Stan as he headed off to his and Jenny's bedroom.

Stan slipped off his clothes down to his thermal underwear and slid into bed alongside Jenny. Jenny murmured softly in her sleep and snuggled up to him. Out in the living room Stan could hear Pete slip out the front door. Stan lay in bed thinking about Pete being out in the storm. He knew Pete was a sharp young man and could take care of himself, but he regretted the necessity of maintaining a night watch. The Dunbars had learned the hard way that since the collapse, drifters and city dwellers raided local ranches and farms for whatever they could get. Cattle had been killed three times before Stan began maintaining the watch. Once Pete and Stan began the watch, they chased off a few rustlers and they had stopped coming. Stan listened in the dark to Jenny's even breathing. He became drowsy and drifted into a light sleep.

A rifle shot echoed across the Columbia valley accompanied by the faint light of dawn. Stan immediately woke and bolted from his bed. As he hurriedly pulled on his clothes and boots, Jenny burst into the room.

"Pete is headed for the Simpson ranch. He said the shot came from that direction. I tried to stop him, but he jumped the fence and bolted through the timber before I could."

"Calm down Jenny, was he armed?"

"He has your AR-15. Please hurry Stan, I'm scared!"

Stan removed a sawed off pump shotgun from the gun safe, loaded five rounds of bird shot and handed it to Jenny. "Stay in the house, if anyone you don't know comes around don't be afraid to use this." Stan grabbed a Winchester Model 70 bolt action rifle with a Leupold 3 x 9 scope from the safe. He loaded four rounds of 150 grain 300 win mag cartridges in the rifle and stuffed a box of cartridges in his breast pocket as he headed towards the door.

Pete was breathing hard as he ran through eighteen inches of snow laying below the timber between home and the Simpson spread. He was positive the shot he'd heard was from their south pasture and that it wasn't a hunter's shot because Al Simpson didn't allow hunting except for one or two neighbors. As Pete approached the edge of the tree line to the Simpson pasture another shot rang out. This one was much closer and sounded more like a shotgun than a rifle to Pete. Several more rifle shots followed the shotgun blast. Pete was spooked now and slowed to a walk. Hunched over Pete crept behind the last large Douglas fir at the pastures edge. Peering about the pasture through the dim light Pete could not see anything a first, but then he caught movement to his left. Pete could barely make out the outline of a dead Hereford steer with two men kneeled behind it. One man was raising up to fire on the opposite tree line. Pete knew he did not have a clear line of fire at the two men and was reluctant to give away his presence. Pete couldn't see who these men had pinned down at the opposite tree line, but he suspected it was Mr. Simpson. Pete decided to try to work behind the men along the timbers edge. He just hoped Mr. Simpson could hold on a little longer.

Stan hurriedly threw blanket and saddle on a roan gelding as he heard the flurry of shots from the Simpson place. After tightening cinch and pulling on a snaffle bit bridle on the nervous horse, Stan slung his rifle over his shoulder, stepped into the stirrup, lunged into saddle, and kicked the horse to a gallop north towards the county road and the Simpson ranch. Stan pushed the animal for all it was worth, something he rarely did. Daylight was coming fast and more gun shots were echoing across the valley. Stan knew something horribly wrong was going down and recklessly charged to the commotion.

Coughing with a racking pain, Al Simpson knew he was in serious trouble. As he wiped his mouth, he looked at the pink frothy blood on his sleeve. He knew that meant his lung or lungs had been hit by the large caliber rifle bullet that had passed through his chest and out his back. It felt like his shoulder blade was broken as well. Occasional shots ricocheted of the large cedar his back leaned against as he struggled to maintain consciousness. Al was angry with himself for grabbing his ten gauge shotgun instead of the Winchester Model 94 level action .30-.30 as he ran out of the ranch house at the sound of the first shot. He had run along the edge of his pasture and past the hay barn to spot the two men standing over one of his herefords they had just shot. When he saw them he'd immediately snapped off a round in their direction, but he was outside the effective range of the shotgun. The men though surprised had both wheeled around and returned a volley back at him. One shot knocked him back five feet and to the ground. Al had crawled behind the large cedar tree and returned fire, but he was still out of range and they had sought shelter behind the steer. Al worried about Gloria, hoping she wouldn't do anything foolish like get involved in this shootout. Al knew he couldn't hold out much longer.

Pete had worked his way along the tree line until he was almost directly behind the men shooting at Al. Pete was frightened, but he knew he had to try to stop them. The two men were approximately two hundred yards away and though Pete would prefer to be closer prior to firing, particularly since the AR-15 he carried had open sights and no scope. There was no further cover between Pete and the rustlers, so Pete decided to remain at the tree line and shoot from here. Pete assumed a prone position alongside a large cedar, rested his rifle barrel across one of its' large roots, sighted in on the men and began to shoot rounds in a rapid rate. He saw one of the men grab his leg as a .223 round struck home, other rounds peppered the ground and carcass of the steer. Both men scurried to the opposite side of the hereford and began to return his fire. Bullets struck the ground and cedar tree Pete lay behind. A ricochet grazed Pete's left arm making him cry out and drop his firearm. Pete picked up the rifle, ejected the expended clip and inserted another. His arm though numb wasn't bleeding much, but he didn't seem to have full use of it. Pete wondered why Al Simpson wasn't firing at the rustlers now since they were exposed to him since they moved. Perhaps he was dead worried Pete.

Reaching the county paved road at full gallop Stan turned the roan east. Only a quarter of a mile from the Simpson ranch road Stan heard a renewed flurry of gun fire. This time he could distinguish the sharp rattle of his AR-15 accompanied by deeper booms of larger caliber rifles. Stan urged more speed from the gelding as he realized his son was involved in the fray now which sounded like a full scale war across the usually peaceful valley. Turning south on the Simpson ranch drive, Stan could tell the confrontation was in Al's south pasture below his hay, stock barns and corals. Upon reaching the barn area Stan reined in the panting sweat covered gelding and leaped off at a full run around a corral. More gunfire drew Stan's attention to the rustlers position approximately three hundred yards directly south of him. Stopping next to the corral and associated head gate, Stan worked the bolt of his Model seventy and using the corral rails as a rest touched off a round into the closest rustler. The man flew ten feet head over heals in a spray of blood, flesh, and bone. With no hesitation Stan jacked another cartridge into the rifle chamber, sighted in on the second man and squeezed off his second deadly shot. This round struck the shoulder of the rustler previously hit in the leg by Pete. Stan paused at this point observing both men through his scope for any further sign of resistance. As seconds passed silence fell over the valley and Stan felt shaken with massive levels of adrenalin coursing through him.

Movement to Stan's right at the edge of the pasture attracted his attention. Swinging his scope to that direction Stan saw Pete standing up and walking towards the rustlers prone forms. Pete had slung his rifle and was grasping his left arm with a bloody right hand. Seeing that Pete was wounded startled Stan and he jogged out to meet him. Stan stopped over the first rustler he'd shot and fought off a wave of nausea as he glimpsed at the man's limp form. The dead man's eyes stared into space, his torso ripped open releasing steamy vapors. While Stan had been a Vietnam Era veteran, hunted for years, and butchered many animals, he had never killed a man before. He struggled with many contradictory emotions staring down at the rustlers mangled body. Stan had acted instinctively during the course of the mornings events, but now that the confrontation was over he was torn between the inescapable events and his regret on having taken these lives. A soft groan to his right drew Stan's attention to the other rustler laying by the dead steer.

Stan hurried to his side and knelt to examine his wounds. The man had been shot in the right thigh and by Stan's shot in the left shoulder. He was bleeding severely. Stan knew if he couldn't stem the bleeding soon this man would join his partner in the after life. Stan removed the man's belt and applied a tourniquet above his leg wound. Next Stan removed the dead rustler's down coat and cutting large handfuls of the down from the coat applied them to the shoulder wound. Stan used strips of the nylon to tie the down insulation tightly to the gunshot wound. Pete walked up as Stan finished this process.

"Is he going to die?" asked Pete in a shaky voice.

"I don't know son, he's pretty bad off," replied Stan as he stood to examine Pete's wound. "Sit down on this steer and let me take a look at your arm." Stan pulled his son's jacket off and tore away Pete's shirt sleeve, revealing a minor graze wound. Stan quickly applied a tight field dressing and helped Pete put his coat back on.

"Dad, they were shooting at somebody over at that tree line," said Pete pointing to the east. "I think it might have been Mr. Simpson. Whoever it was shot back for a while, but they stopped."

"OK son I'll check it out. Are you up to riding over to get Doc Ryan?"

"Yeah, I'm alright, but Dad, she's a veterinarian."

"Don't worry about that Pete, just hurry along and fetch her back here. These men need attention fast. The roan gelding is over by the corral, hurry now."

As Pete took off for Doc Ryan, Stan hurried over to the eastern timberline of the pasture in search of Al Simpson. It only took a minute for Stan to find Al and when he did Al didn't look good to him. At first Stan feared that Al had died, but upon closer examination, he found a faint pulse and very shallow breathing. Stan noted the frothy blood on Al's lips and knew he was lung shot. A loud clatter of hooves and wagon wheels drew Stan's attention. Stan waved the buckboard over as they approached at run. The driver was Fred Vander Hoppin and on the seat next to him clung Gloria Simpson.

"Whoa," yelled Fred as he reined in the team of percherons. Gloria jumping off the wagon before it came to a complete stop, rushed to her husbands side. Panic and terror in her eyes as she knelt by Al brought quiet sobs and tears.

"Al's still alive Gloria," Stan tried console her. "Fred help me get Al on the buckboard and up to the house." Fred and Stan lifted Al as gently as they could and placed him on the back of the wagon. Gloria hovered over him taking off her coat and placing it behind his head to act as a pillow. When Al had dashed from the house she was paralyzed with fear, but the gunfire had spurred her to action. She had grabbed her coat and ran out of the house to the Vander Hoppin ranch. She had found Fred hitching his horses to his buckboard. He was already coming to their place to investigate the shots. By the time they returned it was over and Gloria was terrified that Al would die. Gloria couldn't picture life without Al.

Stan and Fred climbed aboard the wagon. As Fred prodded the team in motion, Stan directed him to the injured rustler. "Let's put this guy on the wagon also. We'll take him up to the house as well," Stan said.

"I don't want that trash in my house," Gloria shouted angrily.

"We can't leave him out here in the snow, Gloria."

"Like hell we can't."

"He's going and that's that," Stan insisted.

Gloria didn't say anything further, but she glared viciously at Stan as he and Fred loaded the unconscious man into the wagon. Stan understood Gloria's hate towards the men who had brought so much misery to her life, but he wasn't about to leave a man to die in the snow even if he did deserve it. As they drove up to the Simpson house the seriously injured rustler moaned, Al was deadly quiet, and Gloria looked alternately from her husbands form with concern and the rustlers with intense loathing. Stan made a mental note not to leave her alone with the man. He feared she would finish him off if she had the chance.

Fred drove his rig as close to the house as he could. He hadn't said much at this point, but then Fred wasn't much of a talker anytime. Stan and he hurried around the rig and carried Al to the house. Gloria opened the door as they carried him in and laid him on the kitchen table. As Gloria attended to Al, Stan and Fred carried in the other man and laid him on an island counter in the kitchen.

"Gloria do you have any plastic of some kind?" asked Stan.

"Why?"

"I need it for Al's wound until the Doc gets here. Al has a punctured lung and I think we can help him breath a lit better."

As Gloria retrieved some plastic wrap, Stan and Fred pulled off Al's coat and shirt. Stan used his pocket knife to cut away Al's longjohns from his chest. Then as Fred held Al upright, Stan wrapped the plastic around Al's chest several times. This seemed to make Al breath a little better, but they all knew he would need medical attention soon.

Stan pulled Fred aside saying, "I better go out and take care of that other man's body and gut that steer before it spoils. I sent Pete after Doc Ryan and they should be back soon." As Stan turned to go he added, "Keep an eye on Gloria around the wounded rustler, she acts like she'd cut his throat given the chance."

"Alright Stan, you can count on me," replied Fred though he didn't look to happy about the circumstances. Fred Vander Hoppin was a sixty one year old bachelor and was none too comfortable around women folk. When it came right down to it he really wasn't relaxed around many people period. Fred's family had been ranching in the valley longer that anyone else. His grandfolks emigrating from Holland had homesteaded in the area when the old growth forests still grew on the surrounding mountains and had just been cut in the valley itself. Fred was the last of the Vander Hoppin family and not concerned about continuing the line.

Throwing a shovel, tarp, rope, hack saw and axe on the Fred's buckboard Stan drove the team down to the remains of the steer and the dead rustler. Spreading the tarp in the back of the buckboard, Stan picked up the dead man with a fireman carry and laid him out on the tarp. Covering the man up, Stan couldn't shake the uneasy emotions associated with killing the rustler. Stan looked down at the tarp wrapped body and wondered who the man was, where he was from, and how many would grieve his killing.

Putting off these thoughts Stan turned to deal with the dead steer. Meat was too valuable to allow to waste so Stan went to work on the dead hereford. After gutting the steer, Stan tied the rope through the gambrels of it's rear legs and attached the team of percherons to the rope. Stan drove the team to the barn, tossed the rope over a stout beam and using the draft horse team hauled the carcass off the ground. Stan quickly skinned out the steer, removing the head and forelegs in the process. With the cold weather the carcass could hang several weeks without any attention. Stan closed up the barn as he left to prevent coyotes from getting at the hanging meat.

Pete rode as fast as he could manage with his wounded arm down the county road to the Ryan place. Pete had down played his injury to his dad, but now that the numbness was wearing off it was being replaced with deep throbbing pain. The Ryan place was about three miles down the county road from the Simpson ranch and Pete hoped that Catherine Ryan was there. The mornings events kept turning over in Pete's mind as he rode. He couldn't quite believe what had happened. Only the dull ache in his arm reminded him it was not some bad dream.

Galloping into the Ryan place, Pete jumped off the gelding and wrapped the reins to a hitching rail. Pete ran to the Ryan's front door and knocked loudly, "Doc Ryan come quick, hello Doc, are you here?" hollered Pete. Frank Ryan, Doc Ryan's husband, came around the corner of the house.

"What's going on son?" Frank asked as soon as he saw the Dunbar boy. The front door opened revealing Doc Ryan as Pete relayed the mornings events.

"I'll hitch up the horse and buggy while you get ready," called Frank as he jogged back around the house.

"Come in the house Pete," ordered Catherine Ryan, "Let me take a look at that arm."

"I'm alright, let's just get going," urged Pete.

"Young Man, we'll be there quick enough, take off that jacket and sit down at the dinning table here." Doc Ryan examined Pete's injury. Seeing that it was superficial she cleaned the wound thoroughly, applied a couple of butterfly sutures, rebandaged his arm and gave him a tetanus booster. "This arm will be sore for a while, but it should heal without complications. Just make sure you keep it clean to prevent infections."

"The buggy's ready to go dear," called Frank from the front yard.

"I'll be right out," replied Catherine as she gathered the medical items she might need. Pete went outside and climbed back on to the roan as the Ryans hopped into their buggy. They headed for the Simpson ranch each lost in their own thoughts.

Stan drove Fred's buckboard back up to the Simpson house and went inside. Gloria and Fred were standing in the kitchen over Al. Both of them looked awkward, wishing there was something they could do for Al, but they had done all they could. Stan walk over to the injured rustler, loosened the tourniquet on his leg momentarily and then reapplied it. As Stan checked the bandage on the man's shoulder, he regained consciousness and opened his eyes.

"Where am I," the wounded man muttered weakly.

"You're at the Simpson ranch house, Mister. What's your name?"

"Yves Demers."

"Well, Yves, you took two slugs, a doctor is on the way, so just lay still and keep quiet."

"I'm sorry," answered Yves feebly.

"Save it, just rest easy," replied Stan. "Gloria, I'll go out and feed your livestock now. Are they all down in the south pasture?"

"I think so," replied Gloria hesitantly.

"I'll taken care of that," said Fred as he put on his coat and ball cap.

"Thanks Fred," answered Stan. "Gloria, do you mind if I make some coffee?"

"I'm sorry, I should have offered you something already. I'm just--well I--" Gloria began to sob softly. Stan went to her and putting his arm around her shoulders he lead her to a kitchen chair.

"Hang in there Gloria, Al's a tough old bird, he'll pull through this, you'll see."

"God, I hope your right Stan. I don't know what I'll do without him. There's coffee on the stove."

Jenny paced nervously in her kitchen. The sounds of gunfire at the Simpson ranch had long died away leaving mind numbing anxiety. Jenny was torn between the desire to go to the Simpson's ranch and Stan's behest for her to remain home. Jenny thoughts drifted back to the events of the past three years.

After forty years of tax and spend government growing larger with bureaucracies which solved none of the problems they were started to address, the people's faith degraded gradually. The elected senators, congressmen, and presidents began to last for only a single term. The message still didn't get through to the officials in the District of Columbia or the capitals of each of the fifty states. The economy dipped into severe depression and inflation ran rampant as the faith of the american people in their government declined more and more. Then with the american dollar falling radically against foreign currencies, Wall Street and the stock markets collapsed totally. This stock market crash made the crash of 1929 look like a joke. The dollar was virtually worthless and the american economy was basically reduced to a barter system.

The federal government attempted to maintain control of the situation by nationalizing the majority of the nation's infrastructure and industry. The Constitution of the United States of America and the Bill of Rights became meaningless. These actions resulted in widespread civil revolt. Added to rioting due food shortages in every metropolitan area, electrical blackouts, and extreme shortages of all basic commodities, the nation was plunged into total pandemonium.

Alaska was the first state to break away. The Forty Ninth state adopted an ordinance of secession declaring itself an independent, self governing nation. Washington D.C.'s response to Alaska's act was basically the same as its' response in 1861 to the secession of the Confederate States of America. The federal government called for troops to put down the rebellion. Lacking the maritime resources for the level of amphibious operations required, refused overland access by a hostile Canadian government, and suffering phenomenal levels of desertion within the military community the federal government found itself unable to respond effectively to Alaska's insurrection. The lions share of formal US military units, reserve forces, and national guard units stationed in Alaska defected to their home state's stand, giving the fledgling nation a respectful force on land, sea, and air.

Characteristic to the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics at the time of its' collapse finding itself helpless to prevent the breakaway of republics, Washington D.C. found itself powerless to prevent Alaska's secession. While the federal government was unable to stop Alaska's secession, it had not officially recognized it's existence either. Other regions of the nation dealing with the same problems and totally disillusioned with the federal government promptly followed suit.

The Northwest and Southwest regions of the former United States of America observing Alaska's success each formed lose associations declaring independence from the former nation. States seceding to the Southwest Confederation were Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, Arizona, Nevada, and California. Those states aligning themselves in the northwest were Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington. Surprisingly the Canadian Provinces of Alberta and British Columbia had declared independence and alliance with those northwestern states as well. These two newly formed regional alliances had yet to draft constitutions or formal laws, still struggling with the problems that instituted the former nations breakup.

While Washington D.C. had failed to respond effectively to Alaska's secession, the breakaway of those former lower forty eight states drew immediate response. On top of all the other crisis situations going on, full scale civil war was instrumented from Washington D.C. between the eastern "Federalist" states and the newly formed alliances. The US military, a shadow of its' former self and divided closely between the four opponents resulted in a drawn out affair. After a year and a half the battle lines were drawn roughly along the Rocky Mountains.

The Federalists were emphasizing their campaign in the southwest convinced that success there would guarantee victory in the northwest as well. They currently occupied large areas of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico, and the entire former state of Texas, but rumors leaked across the battle lines indicated extensive underground movements resisted the occupying Federalists.

Jenny ceased thinking about the past and present concerns she couldn't do any thing about. Looking outside briefly she shrugged her worries off and began to prepare a meal.

IF YOU LIKE CHAPTERS ONE AND TWO, BE SURE TO LOOK FOR THIS NOVEL ON THE SHELVES OF YOUR LOCAL BOOK STORE!

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