Fishing Tips 101

High Sticking by Wayne Eng

Note: As the blog editor for my local fly fishing club, I have included a club article to help those fly anglers who are new to nymph fishing.

Our guest speaker for the March meeting of the Klamath Country Fly Casters was Wayne Eng, a licensed guide who plies his trade on the Upper Sacramento River. Wayne cites Jim Gade, who fished these waters from 1949 to 2004, as to the origin of high sticking. "Native American Wintu women tied simple weighted flies for the trout because they got tired of digging for worms. Some of these weighted flies were adapted to a very short line technique we call today high-sticking, which was popularized by the late Ted Fay and his partner Joe Kimsey.... The technique was simple: a fly rod, a short leader, two weighted flies, which they drifted in pocket water on a short line. This system still works today as effectively as it did over a half century ago. Although we have tweaked the system with strike indicators, lead, and different bugs, the game remains the same--get your bugs down to the trout with as little line on the water as possible."

Pocket Water
"Pocket water is a mini-ecosystem, usually in faster water, created by big rocks or obstacles in the water. These rocks and obstacles create 'pockets', which provide three basic requirements for the fish: food, shelter and cover."

Rigging (See descriprtions at the end of the article)

"Strike Indicators are a visual aid to indicate the drift and take. Some usual materials are yarn, corkies, or colored line. One characteristic of yarn is that yarn floats higher for a more natural drift. It is easy to see, but sometimes yarn can be harder to cast. Some of the characteristics of a corkey is that they float lower, connect to split shot quicker, they are easier to cast, and they work great when a slightly faster than natural drift is needed. The placement of the indicator should be a little greater than the depth of the water you are fishing and above the split shot."

Reading the Water
"Rocks shape the river and create lies and habitat and concentrate the food source. Knowing how to detect feed lanes and see the rocks that create pockets will help you find the trout. There are two types of rocks you care about: primary and secondary. A primary rock is a rock above or just below the water that splits the river into right and left lanes (known as feed lanes), forming what looks like a big VEE in the water. Fish will be stationed in or next to these food highways. Generally, trout will be in the feed lane if it is slow, or they will be in the seam next to the fast water. A secondary rock is a submerged rock, which is a relatively tall rock in or near a feed lane that creates a cushion. This cushion provides a place where trout can hold with little effort and wait for food."

Presentation
"In this type of water, presentation can be more important than a specific type of bug. The reason is that trout are sometimes not as selective because they have little time to inspect the offering. By presentation we mean drift the bug in areas where the trout hold and in a natural manner so the trout think it's food."

The Three L's: Lob, Lift, Lead and Set
"Lob the cast. With a short line loading the rod downstream using water tension to cast, form a tent with the rod and fly line. Raise and rotate the rod hand and in a chopping motion, drop the forearm toward the target (usually slightly upstream). This will allow the flies to sink to the desired depth. After the cast 'lift' the rod horizontally so all or most of the line to the indicator is off the water, leaving a slight bit of slack for a natural drift. Lead the tip of the rod above or slightly downstream of the indicator. This position will help with the hook set. (When thinking of lead, think about 'Walking a Dog'. If the leash is too tight, you are choking the dog. If it is too loose, the dog can get out of control.)" The hook set is when the indicator does anything other than drifting naturally, such as slowing, dipping, pausing....When in doubt, quickly set the hook downstream by moving your rod tip towards the water. This will pull the hook into the trout's mouth and keeps the rig in the water and not flinging in the air. Remember that most tangles happen in the air and not in the water."

High Stick Rigging
(1) "The original rigging, according to Joe Kimsey who was Ted Fay's partner, consisted of a 7.5 foot 3x or 4x tapered leader. Attach a split shot for the water depth. After the split shot add a Dropper Loop. Add six to eight inches of leader material and attach the first fly. From the Dropper Loop (Google for instructions) continue for 16 to 18-inches to the terminal fly. Attach the fly with a Duncan Loop, which allows more movement in the fly.

(2) Select a 6 to 7.5 foot tapered leader from 3-5x. Add split shot. Add an additional 6-8-inces of leader and tie a triple surgeon's knot. Note: the first fly is treaded into the section of this portion of leader between the split shot and the triple surgeon's knot. In this manner, the fly may slide up and down this eight-inch distance freely. From the triple surgeon's knot add 12-14-inches of tippet and attach the terminal fly.

(3) Here is a simple but effective rigging. Add split shot followed by tying on a fly. From this first fly, tie another piece of tippet to the bend of the hook and attach the terminal fly.

(4) Dry and Dropper with Split Shot: Using a large buoyant fly such as a salmon fly or a grasshopper, add 24-inches of tippet to the bend in the hook. This tippet material should be 1 or 2x lighter tippet material. Add split shot in the center of this dropper tippet and a small bead nymph to the terminal end

(5) Dry and Dropper without Split Shot: Using a large buoyant fly such as a salmon fly or a grasshopper, add 10 to 20-inches of tippet to the bend in the hook. This tippet material should be 1 or 2x lighter tippet material. Add a small bead nymph to the terminal end."

Strike Indicator Placement and Split Shot: "The distance between the strike indicator and the split shot should is a little greater than the depth of the water you are fishing for running a 'tight line'. One advantage of a corkey is that it is easily adjusted for the water depth."

Wayne Eng, Licensed Guide
(530) 235-4018
kozmo@nctv.com

Note: Fishing readers, just ignore this novel in progress. Look to the category section to navigate through all my fishing articles. Below is a novel in progress that I am sharing with my son who is teaching in Russia.

2013

Frank's reputation as a warrior became legendary. Tribal members in Chiloquin praised his repeated conquests of Klamath Falls and the bounty he shared. He was invited to the tribal counsel, and he was honored with a seat on the Alliance Committee. He had safely moved his family and friends to Alliance land. Flushed with the excitement of battle and heavily armed, he returned to Klamath Falls daily along with his retinue of Indian braves and men that he had recruited. All were eager to fight No Face's gang and loot the city. The committee cast a wary eye on Frank's recklessness, but they withheld criticism when they saw the stockpiles of goods and materials stored in the Chiloquin High School. Frank turned a blind eye to the suffering of the people of Klamath Falls when the city sank into anarchy. His survival instincts for salvaged and scrounged goods demonstrated that he had a long-term vision, but the new strain of the deadly Ebola virus swept in from the west and blighted the region.

In less than a week Frank had lost his entire family. From the group that he had safely shepherded to the Wood River Valley, only Vivian and a young girl survived the Black Bug. Frank had not sought solace from a bottle, but in his depressed state he wandered the Chiloquin area scrounging goods from abandoned houses that did not stink from rotting corpses. He no longer kept himself clean, nor did he care. It was Vivian and two other women who took charge of the supply depot. They catalogued and indexed the goods and moved them from room to room in the old high school until they were satisfied that they had perfected a file system as good as the Dewey Decimal System. It was Frank who had suggested to Jim that the high school supply depot also become a border patrol facility. When the patrolmen arrived, Frank disappeared.

For almost two years he roamed the high desert and avoided the stench of death. When he returned from a trip, he would enter the principal's office and light the kerosene lamps. Vivian would see that the door to the old principal's office would be open the next day, and she would see the crumbs of food lightly scattered on his desk. She always kept one drawer filled with snacks. She had long quit leaving a bottle of whiskey. Frank never once broke the seal. The maps on the walls would have new pins in place, and a new notebook would be on the desk ready for her to file. She left one of the smaller classrooms that they had converted to private quarters and padded down the hallway in her slippers to start a fire in the front office. It had become the perfect place to do business from behind the counter. The Alliance Committee would sign a requisition order and send it with a young man from one of the ranches. In return Vivian and her staff would receive fresh supplies of meat, fruit and vegetables. Since every member of an Alliance Ranch had forsworn private possessions and no single ranch was to have more allotted to them than another ranch, scavenging soon became frowned upon since any of the discovered goods and supplies would then have to be turned over to Vivian and her crew. The one exception was the food delivery wagon, which moved from ranch to ranch with food items taken from abandoned houses in the area. Vivian stirred the coals in the wood stove. She saw the door ajar and noted the neat spiral notebook in the middle of the principal's desk. Next to the stove was a new pile of wood. He was back she thought. It was about time. She had grown tired of trying to follow his written instructions. She always had so many questions to ask.
She put a pot of coffee on the stove. It was Vivian's only departure from the strict rationing that all the ranches had to follow. She and her staff would quickly drink their allotted two cups before they opened for business. The coffee pot would disappear, but the rich aroma lingered long after the doors were opened. She opened one of the cupboard doors in the outer office and pulled out her stash of sugar, along with the cups. Any minute the other gals would begin shuffling in the office carrying their clothes that they would put on around the wood stove. "Vivian, pull out an extra cup." Startled, Vivian shuddered and spun around facing the principal's office. "Good morning. I didn't mean to startle you," Frank said as he stood up behind the desk stretching.
"Why were you sleeping on the floor?"
"Hell, Vivian, every time I come here you've re-arranged the place." Vivian frowned. "But all for the good. I can see that. Besides I had my horse blanket, and I didn't want to disturb you gals."
"You know better than that. Mrs. Johnson would just love to dote on you, no matter what time you rolled in. It's been months and months since we last seen you. You think you might stay awhile and help us with our organization before you head out again?"
"I'm done with the wandering. I had an epiphany a couple weeks back." Frank watched Vivian cross to the stove and load a few chunks in the firebox. She did not reply, but he smiled knowing that she would break the silence with a question.
"I know what an epiphany is Frank."
"And you're not at all curious?"
"OK, Mr. Mystery Man, you should know, however, that if your epiphany has anything to do with some of the reports we have had of your erratic behavior, I'm not sure I want to know about your epiphany."
Frank laughed. "So the legend grows. What crazy reports have you got this time?"
One-Who-Fights and Badger spotted you up in Lakeview. They were going to visit with you, but they decided to stay hidden because they were too embarrassed. It seems that you came running out of a building dressed in womens clothes with a woman chasing you in overalls. Badger said she took you down on the sidewalk and coupled with you. One-Who-Fights said he would like to give you a new name, but he hasn't entirely lost all respect for you."
"Well, those two old horny goats should have stuck around. That women was more than I could handle. I've met a lot of traveling women, but I've never met a woman like her. Every time we made love, we had to play a game she would invent. Hell, I had been celibate for over more than a half a year when I met her. Whenever I meet an unattached woman, they are either scary crazy or as big of an emotional mess as I am. The majority of them just want to be left alone. It is not easy having casual sex with a stranger that you meet out on the desert or in a ghost town. But the lusty old broad in Lakeview had a sense of humor. I'm telling you that she had me laughing right from the start. I'm walking through the ghost town peeking in the stores and taking notes when I hear a shrill whistle up the sidewalk. Out steps a woman onto the sidewalk. She pulls up her dress, flips her thumb in the air and says, "Oh, you who, going my way?"
"Thank you, Frank, that's all I care to hear," laughed Vivian. "Watch the coffee. I'm going to rustle up the girls."
"Don't you want to learn about my epiphany?"
Vivian half turned around, "Of course I do."
"I got lonely. That old lusty broad just made me lonely to get home."
"Welcome home, Frank."

After taking a couple of days off and visiting old friends, Frank returned to his work. Vivian had filed each of his traveling reports that were filled with detailed descriptions of valuable farm implements and where they were located. He caught up with the pins on his map representing ranches that had especially valuable equipment. Red pins marked the approximate location on the maps of windmills. Blue pins represented old farm and ranch equipment for draft horses. Yellow pins showed the location of natural salt licks or supplies of salt. Although unfit for social interaction for so long, Frank had not lost his goal to help the Alliance return to the nineteenth century. From his office he watched the daily orders that had to be filled. He watched with pride as the supply center functioned almost effortlessly under Vivian's scrutiny. She was an accountant at heart and a stickler for details. On the first day of his return home, Mrs. Johnson took him by the arm over to the card catalogue. Vivian and the other ladies followed smiling proudly.
"Now, Mr. Customer, what do you need today?" said Mrs. Johnson.
"Ladies, I already know how efficient you are so I am going to really challenge you."
"Go ahead, Frank," said Vivian. "If you stump us, we'll go back to work fixing the problem."
"Alright, I need a 3/8-inch bolt, nut and washer."
"Oh, Frank, that was too easy, to easy," said Mrs. Johnson as Evelyn laughed beside her. That main classification is 600 for hardware. The 620's are for nuts and bolts. 320.1 are for washers. Now follow me." Frank followed the women down the hall to what had once been a science lab. Mrs. Johnson quickly surveyed the room and found a number of large pullout drawers marked "620- Nuts and bolts". When he pulled open each of the drawers marked 620 he found boxes of bolts with matching nuts. He reached down and pulled up a three-inch long 3/8-inch bolt and nut. "Ladies, you are geniuses. But how did you decide on the main classes for products and goods?"
"Evelyn and Beth came up with the idea of placing the most important categories dealing with survival first," replied Vivian. "The one hundred classification is for all things medical and relating to health. The two hundred classification is for food procurement, food preserving, food storage, not to mention traps and fishing supplies and equipment. The three hundred classification is for specialized and protective clothing and bedding supplies like blankets and sleeping bags." Vivian laughed and turned to the ladies. "I forgot the 400's!" Weapons the ladies answered. "How could I forget that, Frank. 500 is all things for farming and ranching and 600 is hardware and so on."
"My God! That's impressive!" exclaimed Frank. "I can't believe you have made so much progress."
"Besides having each other, we have a lot of time on our hands," said Mrs. Johnson. "And we make the most of it."
"And that you do, Ladies. Group hug!" When they broke, Evelyn spoke first. She was a woman nearing sixty. Her gray hair was pulled back in a loose coil at the back of her neck. Frank noted that she had more than an ample bosom, not to mention good looks and a twinkle in her eyes. "Frank, dear, will you be eating dinner with us?"
"Ladies, given the schedule of meetings and appointments Vivian gave me earlier, I am not sure when I will be able to taste your fine home cooking."
"I had a second husband who was a wanderer," chuckled Mrs. Johnson. "We're going to keep our eyes on you. But meanwhile I would suggest you get out of those stinky clothes and take a bath, and trim that beard. You look a little like a mad man."

One of the first meetings Frank had was with the tribal leaders. Like everyone else the tribe had suffered great losses due to the Black Death. Frank had gone through the sweat lodge and purification ceremony before sitting down with the leaders. Looking around the conference room at the tribal administrative building, he noted an absence of elders. Most of the men and women leaders were in there thirties and forties. Some of the leaders in the room had no racial features of the Snake Paiute people. Frank and the Alliance had struck a deal with the impoverished Indians when Frank took over the high school. He knew most of the men and women in the room. William Foster stood up to greet Frank and shook his hand. "We've heard a lot about your journeys east and west of Alliance Land."
"I'll bet you have," laughed Frank. "And just to be sure, I want to dispel all rumors that I am a cross-dresser." The men and women around the table laughed.
Patty Chocktoot leaned back in her chair. "Frank, you don't have to explain. My old man said he too would dress up in a woman's dress if I would chase him down the street and couple with him."
"I can see that I am never going to live that down, but I can tell you this, those two old coots should have stuck around. That woman was more than I could handle."

When the laughter around the table died down, Frank struck a serious note. "I am going to go back to the bone yard. I have already had reports that No Face Mel Towers got through alive. I don't know how or why I survived, but I think it is too ironic that both of us should have some type of natural immunity. In all my travels in the high plains and deserts, I found only a few intact families that survived the virus. What's your present population?"
"Not good," James McNair said. "But we have been getting a trickling of new members who have found their way to us. Just this month we welcomed Indian travelers from Idaho and Nevada. We are only about fifty or so strong. No offense, Frank, but you know that our blood purity has been weakened for decades from whites. Now it looks as though we need to welcome anyone from any tribe in order to restart the old ways. We are returning to our roots as fast as we can."
"Does that include vision quests?"
"For all ages."
"When I came through Beatty, I had one of your fellows scare the shit out of me. I stopped in a field to let my horse graze. The grass was only a foot tall, and someone
spoke to me. He couldn't have been more than twenty feet from where I stood. When he spoke to me again, I could make out the feint outline of a form, but I never saw his face. He asked if I traveled in peace, and I said yes. He asked me who I was, and I said that I was Frank the Scrounger. He said that he had heard I was a great warrior, and then he said, 'Speak no more. Go in peace.' He spoke like an Indian right out of an old western."
"That would probably be Keeps Watch," said Patty. "He is an old man who is a veteran and an old ranch hand. He found us. He came all the way from Montana. He has a following. They call themselves Ghost Walkers. To show they have courage, they walk among the dead in Klamath Falls. I know what you are thinking. They are not scavengers looking for booze. They live aesthetic lives."
"Are they warriors?"
"Yes, they are warriors.'
"Will they fight for the Alliance?"
"We are all part of the Alliance."
"Of course, I apologize. I could use these men when I gather goods from Klamath Falls. Will you ask him to train more Ghost Walkers?"
"We will ask him," replied James.
"What do your people need most when I send teamsters east?"
"We are going to need more horses."
"Will you have some of your men travel east with our teamsters? I have the locations for a number of large bands of horses."

Frank left the meeting pleased that he had forged a valuable relationship with the tribal leaders. He knew he would need them in the months and years ahead. Before he left he had planted the idea that every able bodied tribal man should combine his vision quest with a recruitment drive throughout the West's Indian reservations. If the Sprague River Valley was to be protected, the Klamath, Modoc and Yahooskin survivors would need to adopt more Native Americans into their tribe. Frank rode back to the high school planning his trip into Klamath Falls the next day. He had already made a list of the items he would look for in the sprawling graveyard. The next morning when he rode over to the county truck yard, he found two men waiting for him.

His first trip into the city with the two men had been more disturbing than what he had thought it would be. After two years the rats and skunks and coyotes had done their work well. The insects and the sea gulls stayed on the job long after the coyotes and even the skunks had departed the city. Bleached skeletons littered the front yards of homes where the competing dog packs and the coyotes dragged bodies out of the house growling and inflicting bites on any of the weaker pack members. The black Ebola virus marched through the metropolitan areas of the West Coast. The deadly disease silently hunted down those fleeing its advance. The virus sent scouts to reconnoitering every isolated canyon and mountain valley. It surmounted all the puny barriers. It sniffed out the backpackers gathering at the trailheads and overtook them in the passes where they huddled together in small tents praying to God to protect and save them. The disease took no prisoners. Either a person died or fell sick. Even those who survived the initial attack found that they were so weakened and demoralized that they often succumbed to their fears and grief and gave up their will to live. Dead bodies lined the sidewalks and gutters of every street, as if the street department would swing by on trash day and pick them up. Between the falling ash and the rotting stench of bursting stomachs, the survivors evacuated the city limits and gathered together in rural neighborhoods after first burning or burying the bodies of the rural victims that they found scattered throughout the houses and barns in the countryside. When starvation became the next threat, they set out on the highways and secondary roads as travelers seeking succor for their impoverished souls and stomachs.

After many trips into the city of death, Frank became emboldened. Each entry from Old Fort Road past the county dump and out on Crater Lake Highway had been methodically reconnoitered for danger. In all his skirmishes with imaginary killers, no one stepped forward and challenged him on his right to salvage. He knew Mel had moved his operation to Tulle Lake and was rebuilding. He also knew from the signs that small groups of men and women were stripping the town when he wasn't there to claim it. He was alone that night. He parked the truck behind some houses on the residential approach to the Crater Lake Highway and made his way in the darkness to the publishing building for the old town's newspaper. The plant stood on a carved plateau above the Washburn Street. Eight blocks away was the contested war zone, Washburn and South Sixth Street. He made his way to the back of the building using his night vision goggles. The emergency fire ladders were unlocked and extended fully to the pavement. He removed the goggles and took out his night-vision binoculars from a pouch that he had strapped to his belt. He surveyed the hillside above him, but he saw nothing.

He touched the .45 Colt in his shoulder holster. For the second time in less than an hour he had checked to feel if the hammer was cocked once in the safe position. He could feel the weight of the Uzi sub machine gun in his pack as he mounted the ladder and climbed his way to the roof of the building. Keeping his body lower then the parapet wall, he searched in a pile of debris and pulled out his sniper rifle. This would be the last time that he would use this rooftop for a couple of months. He had hidden three sniper rifles throughout the city, but the one that he held in his hands was his favorite. Slowly he raised his head and peered over the parapet wall to scan the highway below. He listened and searched the streets for two hours before he made his move. He moved laterally along the highway in the drainage ditch before crossing the road. Once across the road, he would drop down into irrigation canal that followed Crater Lake Highway. He knew that Mel's assassins often waited in this spot for him, but he kept them off balance crossing in a number of places along the Crater Lake Highway. Sometimes he would wait the entire night and then return to Chiloquin all because he had a gut feeling, or an animal spooked or he could not hear the hoots of owls. He had no doubts that he was alone that night and climbed back down to the loading ramps at the back of the building. He walked slowly through the high grass and weeds in the dry irrigation canal. A waning crescent moon offered little possibility of detection. He moved silently out of the canal and entered a residential neighborhood.

He had already located his sniper position across the street from Wal-Mart, his target for this mission. He had already killed six of No Face's scroungers during the past two months. When they set up an ambush for him, he would retaliate with five or six men of his own. The strategy was simple enough. It was not a game of how many scroungers could be killed by each side. It was a turf battle to intimidate the enemy and keep the spoils of war for future use by one side only. Once he found his position, he would lie in wait for at least three days. From Carlson's Furniture store, he ran across the street behind Diamond Lumber. He squeezed through a whole in the fence after first carefully reaching his backpack and rifle through the narrow aperture. He ducked his head and placed his first leg through the opening and froze. A feral dog broke the night's silence with an alarmed bark. He could hear the dog's panic as he jumped back and knocked something over. The dog emitted a muted whine and slunk off. Oh shit, thought Frank. They have marked me. He slid off his backpack and took out the Uzi. He kneeled silently and put his backpack on, opened up the sling and threw the rifle over his shoulders. He saw a pen light flicker from the rooftop of Carlson Furniture Store, but he knew that they had not spotted him or he would be under fire. He rolled the black stocking cap down over his face and adjusted the eye openings. He threaded his way through the stacks of lumber and rounded the back of the sprawling lumber and hardware store. They had seen his angle on crossing the street, but they would not expect him to turn and work his way back. He cut through the delivery bays at the back of the store and crawled on his stomach towards the back of the Bi-Mart Store. From here he worked his way past the fenced yard of Halverson's Rental Store to the automotive store. He crawled his way along the wall and stood up slowly when he could look back towards the intersection. He saw men crossing the street from the county maintenance yard moving towards the Diamond parking lot.

A light flashed a number of times on top of the Safeway building. In the darkness down the street he could see two county trucks parked out in the middle of the road facing both directions. The first diesel truck sputtered and then rattled to an idle and the headlights beamed out on the intersection. The truck that was facing him started and then died. He could hear the engine turning over as he dashed across the street towards the Grange Co-Opt. He moved down the side of the building just as the second truck's lights illuminated the boulevard. The side doors were open. Both the Alliance and the Coallition had stripped the store clean of horse supplies. Broken bags of bird seed littered the floor and the store reeked of rat and bird shit. He controlled his breathing and tried to calm himself. He moved to the front of the store and looked out the window. He could see trucks and cars weaving around all the parking lots. Some of the truck beds had men using spotlights. Somehow they had been warned ahead of time that he was coming. He could see a man step out of Staples and wave both arms across his chest. When a the truck pulled up to the automotive store and shined a light on the door, another man stepped out of the doorway and waved his arms across his chest. How could Mel have so many men to mount this kind of action he thought, as he moved closer to the glass door. His foot struck an object and he tried to move it to the side. He felt with his feet and then crouched and touched the object with his hands. It was a warm body and he could feel blood on his hand. A rush of nausea swept over him as he stumbled up to his full stature. "Shhhh!" A voice sounded as the muzzle of a gun pressed into his head. "I'm a friend. Hurry! Get the man's shirt and hat on. When they drive up and shine a light on the store, step out and wave your hands across your chest. Is he dead?"
"Yes."
"I didn't want to kill him, but he caught me last evening just as it got dark.
"How did you kill him?"
"Never mind. Here comes a truck."
Frank had only the man's baseball cap on when he stepped out the door and waved the all-clear signal. He stepped back inside when the truck turned and crossed the parking lot. "Is he the only one here?"
"Yes, but when he came into the store there was another man who followed him in, gave him directions and then left."
"You're a pretty calm woman for having just killed a man."
"What does a woman have to do with it?"
"Have you killed anyone before?"
"He is not the first."
"How do I know you won't kill me if you get the chance?"
"Relax, Frank, I am not a mad murderous."
"How do you know my name?"
"They call you Frank the Sniper. Enough interviewing. We need to get out of here before day break."

The two of them moved to the side door and peered out. They could see the vehicles patrolling the streets. "Maybe we could get into the motor pool next door," said Frank.
"We'd never get out the front gate. Besides, I think that they have disabled the trucks that they don't use," replied the woman.
"They have a lot of men up on the Safeway roof, and there is no way we could make it across the parking lot. We're boxed in. Duck!" A patrol truck turned into the parking lot that separated the Grange store from a medical office building. It turned at the rear of the parking lot and slowly advanced towards the two open bay doors. A few blocks away they could hear rapid machine gun fire and the reports of shotguns. The truck sped up and slammed on the brakes broadside to the doors. A man on the passenger side of the truck leaned out the open window and pounded on the outside of the door. "Harvey! They got him. Get your ass out here. We don't want to miss anything. Hurry up!"
Frank turned his head and muffled a cough. "Just a second. I need to get my things."
"We're going to leave you if you don't get your ass out here now!"
"OK."
The man in the truck looked at the driver and said, "What the hell is the matter with him. Sounds like he's got a cold." He leaned out the window and slammed the door with his fist. It was the last thing that he was to do. Frank stepped out of the door and fired three shots in rapid succession followed by a second burst that emptied his clip. Shots continued blocks away and then stopped. The city was quiet once again. Frank moved forward, opened the truck door and pulled the man out onto the pavement. He lifted the rifle from over his head and placed it face down in the truck. The woman was by his side. He slung off his pack and pulled out the Uzi and a couple of clips. He pulled back the bolt and let it slam forward. He handed the sub machine gun to the woman and tossed the two extra clips up on the center console. He ran around to the driver's side. When he opened the door the dead driver pitched forward, and he deflected the body with his forearm. The truck was still idling when he put it in gear. The woman was already in place. Frank shut off the headlights to the truck and headed straight for the pickup truck that was slowly bouncing over the meridian in an attempt to reach them. "Lean out the window and hold that weapon tightly with both hands. Pull the trigger. Short bursts only!" Frank commanded. Someone from the other vehicle had already begun firing when Frank answered back with his .45. Just as he turned the truck across the parking lot the woman let the Uzi bark, and the entire inside of the truck cab was lit up like a handful of sparklers waved by a little kid. Frank pulled in his left arm and tucked the hot Colt between his legs. The encased muzzle rested under him, and he could feel the heat radiating against his balls.
Frank dodged some abandoned cars that had been abandoned in the middle of the road and sped down Washburn. He could hear shots ripping into the truck. He looked at the woman. "I'm ok."
"Put in a new clip."
"How?"
"Just push that button above the pistol grip. The clip is in the handle. Here." Frank reached over for the Uzi, and just as he did the track smashed into an object that he had not seen in the darkness. He swerved and then regained control of the truck. He was gripping the wheel tightly and looking into his rear view mirror at the lights behind him. "Sorry about that." When he looked over at the woman she had pulled the bolt back and slammed it shut. Both of them ducked as shots flamed out in the darkness from a man running down the sidewalk. The woman reached for the seat belt and buckled herself. She said nothing and wiggled up on the seat so that she could rest both elbows and forearm on the open window of the passenger door. She pushed the Uzi forward and leaned her head out the window. The cool night air pulled on her eyes and tears worked backwards across her cheeks. A truck was pulling out of the Chevrolet dealership. She held tightly to the Uzi and braced herself against the door. With a slight twist of her shoulder, she could feel the seat belt lock her in place. This time she aimed in front of the truck before she fired. She timed a burst as they crossed paths with the opposing truck. She looked back, but she could see little as the flames from the Uzi had destroyed her night vision. Frank was weaving the truck down the road. He had turned on his headlights as they passed the first entrance to Wal-Mart, and then they saw the roadblock on the overpass approach in front of them.

Frank turned the truck sharply into the second Wal-Mart entrance. The trucks behind him were gaining on them, and two of the trucks at the roadblock advanced. Dodging the cars left in the parking lot from better days, Frank floored the truck and sped to the entrance doors and slammed on his breaks. "Welcome to Wal-Mart," he said, as he grabbed his rifle and pack. The women slipped off the seat belt and grabbed the clips to the Uzi. Before she jumped out she checked the glove box and then lifted the console lid. "Bingo! Two more pistols and rounds," she shouted.
"Give me the Uzi," Frank said as he leaned back into the cab. He jumped back and let off a burst as a truck sped towards them. The lights of the speeding truck went out and the truck smashed into a parked car and then careened into a parked camping trailer. Both vehicles jolted and turned in a slow counter-circling pirouette. Frank took one final look and then jumped inside the total darkness with the woman.

They both stumbled and slipped over the debris that had spilled out into the isles. He stopped and reached for his night vision goggles in his pack. He was about to hand the woman a flashlight when he heard men outside the entrance. Any light would draw fire. He put on the goggles and adjusted the brightness. He put the Uzi back into his pack. The woman dropped both pistols and clips into the pack. "I dropped a couple of the clips behind us somewhere when I stumbled."
"We'll get them later. Do you have any cuts or scrapes?
"I don't think so. How about you?
"I'm bleeding. I've been shot. I didn't even know it until I got out of the truck just now. I've got a first-aide kit in my pack. Let's get to the back of the store. My night vision goggle is barely working. Hold on to my shirt. Are you wearing boots?"
"Yes."
"Good."

Frank slowly plodded a course down the isles through the clothing department. When he reached the television department he made a sharp left and picked his way across the mounds of broken glass. The broken television sets made sense to him. If he would have come in the store with the first mobs, he would have busted a bunch himself out of sheer frustration and anger. He could see the rack of bicycles when a quavering voice reached him. "If you move any further, I'm going to shoot you!"
Frank could see the man as a pale green figure through the distorted light of his goggles. Two or three figures stood behind the man, but he could distinguish no features. What he could see was that the man in front didn't appear to have his arms raised in a shooting position. He felt the woman behind him grab his shirt tighter, pinching his flesh. "Mister, you are unarmed. I can see your outlines through night-vision goggles. I won't shoot!" He could see the people slowly crouch to the floor. "You are crouching to the floor. Please stand up. We are Alliance members from the north, and if you are free travelers, we will not harm you." Frank could hear whispers and he picked up the word Alliance.
"We are escapees from the Tulle Lake Coalition," a man stuttered.
A woman spoke up in the darkness. "We are not armed. You can search us."
"That won't be necessary. Is there anywhere where we can turn on some light without drawing fire from the shooters at the entrance?'
"Yes, yes," whispered a woman. "Give me your hand. We have a path completely cleared to the rest rooms. We have light inside."
Frank could barely see the woman slide around the first man. He could see her waving her arm around in the total darkness a few steps in front of him. He reached out to meet her but their arms circled past each other and did not make contact. Frank laughed out loud. "Ok, I've got you," he said as his hand touched her shoulder. The group slid their feet across the floor in small shuffling motions. Frank reached up and tapped his goggles, but the flickering dim light slowly vanished, and he and the woman behind him plunged into the darkness with the others.

When the door opened to the women's restroom, they could see each other in the dim candlelight. Slowly the people dropped their arm from the person in front of them. One of the men walked over to a gasoline lantern. He pumped it several times and then snapped the spark mechanism. Gradually the light grew to its full brilliance and the people inside looked around at each other. One of the couples was young, probably in their mid twenties. Frank looked at the other couple and saw that the man and woman were middle-aged. The woman looked a few years older than her companion. She looked at Frank carefully. "You're bleeding. I can help. I am a nurse. Paul, get a pot of water boiling."
The woman with Frank responded. "You found water? Here? After all the pillaging?"
"We've been locked in here for more than a week ever since the patrols started moving in to set up ambushes throughout the city. There are a lot more people hiding in this city than you think. We thought the patrols were for us at first, but then we realized that it was bigger fish they were after. We can't believe all the supplies that people squirreled away in here. The first wave to get through the doors had to have flashlights or lanterns because the only light that comes through in the daytime is out by the broken entrance and exit doors at the front of the store. Thirty or forty feet back and you are in a twilight zone. At fifty or sixty feet you find yourself in total darkness. People hid food and important goods throughout the store. They probably feared that anything they walked out with would be taking away from them. One of the changing rooms was completely filled with wine and beer. We have lots of Wally water, and we have found enough food to feed an army for a month."
"We may need a month. Mel has a lot of men surrounding this building."
The other man who had introduced himself as Joel asked, "Who is Mel?"
"He is the Tulle Lake leader."
"No Face!" the man muttered. "So he does have a name."
"And a very ordinary face that no doubt he keeps hidden from his slaves and underlings," replied Frank.
"Ok, let's look at those wounds. By the way, my name is Gail. What is your name?"
"Frank."
"Frank, are you going to introduce your wife?"
Frank turned to the woman at his side. It was the first time that he had seen her in the light, and he was instantly struck by her beauty. "I am not married. I don't know who she is," Frank said as he smiled and looked into the woman's sparkling blue eyes.
"I am Tracy, Frank's new partner," the woman stated firmly, as she peered into the handsome face of the man before her.
"It's good to meet you, partner," Frank laughed. The two of them connected instantly. No further conversation was necessary.
Gail turned to the other young woman who stood slightly behind Joel and gave her a wink. "I'm Jackie," said the woman demurely.
"Paul and I met up with Joel and Jackie in a field outside of Merrill on the same night that all of us chose to make a break to Klamath Falls. Now, Frank, I am just going to have you strip down to your shorts. You're a bloody mess and I need to assess the damage, which I am hoping is superficial. If you feel weak, you can sit down on one of those plastic chairs."
"I am ok, but I am started to have a lot of pain."
"Yes, the adrenalin and shock are wearing off," said Gail. "I won't ask you to tell me what the pain level is on a scale of one to ten because I don't have any pain meds for you." Gail reached into a large nylon bag and pulled out a pair of scissors. As Frank lifted up his arms, Gail carefully cut off his pullover knit shirt which was plastered with blood. Frank winced. Gail guided him closer to the lantern. She reached in her kit and pulled up a roll of gauze and disinfectant along with a pair of rubber gloves.
"It's a nasty wound, Frank, I won't tell you otherwise. You took a bullet right down the side of a rib and lost a chunk of muscle and skin. Here, hold the pad as a compression." Frank winced with pain when he compressed the pad to his wound. His head tilted up and he sucked in air and let out a series of gasps. "Tracy, help me get Frank's boots and pants off. We're going to strip this hero like a plucked chicken. Joel and Jackie, I want you to make your way down to the clothing department. I want some loose pajamas. Make sure they are wrapped in plastic. And bring back some pillows and blankets." Gail looked up at Frank as she removed a boot. "I figured I had better send her on a mission before the poor girl feinted. Have you ever feinted, Frank?"
"No," whispered Frank as he blew out air through his teeth as Gail and Tracy removed his pants.
Gail emitted a soft whistle and clicked her teeth as she peered at the second wound. "A clean entry hole and an ugly exit hole on the outside of your leg. The good part is that it missed the bone. She reached in her bag and pulled out another wrapping and handed it to Tracy. She stood up and faced Frank. "You know, Frank, our biggest concern is with infection. We don't want blood poisoning. You will be taking old penicillin. I've got a bunch of it from the pharmacy. They trashed the place for narcotics and ignored the most important medicines. The problem is that the shelf life for penicillin is three to four years, which we are coming up on. We have plenty though. Tracy and I are going to wash you completely down with hot water and soap. You haven't been following the adage, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness.' When we are finished, I am going to clean your wounds with peroxide and bleach. You'll be seated then, and you have permission to scream or cry out like a banshee."
When Gail cut off Frank's underpants and let them drop to the floor, Tracy stepped up and faced Frank. She reached down and cupped his scrotum. "Think you can handle that, Big Boy?"
"Easy partner," laughed Frank as he winced from the pain of his expanding rib cage. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts too much."
Gail laughed, "It looks as though this partnership of yours is blossoming very fast." Paul brought over the pot of hot water and the two women went to work washing Frank from his neck down. Frank covered his privates with his hands and shook involuntarily. "I'll wash my privates, Gail," he said.
"Suit yourself. We're almost done," said Gail.
"Frank, do you need to sit down now," said Tracy as she gently wiped water and soap away from the two wounds."
"Yeah, I don't want to be a sissy, but I am starting to have a lot of pain, and I feel sick to my stomach," Frank answered.

When the two women were finished and Frank's wounds were wrapped. Joel brought in a pair of new pajamas along with some blankets and pillows. When Frank lay down on a mattress, he called everyone over to his sick bed. "How many doors are open to the store?"
Paul spoke up and said, "All the back doors to the warehouse are steel doors and they are bolted shut. The door to the garden is open, and the door out to the automotive shop is open. Counting the two front entrances, that makes four available entrances, but we have already set up a barrier as a blockade. Anyone coming through the garden entrance or the automotive entrance is going to be making a hell of a lot of noise."
"Good job. Who is the most familiar with guns?" Frank asked. A moment of silence settled over the group until Tracy spoke up. "That would be me."
The next morning the intrepid group had the doors covered. When the fighters charged through the entrance doors and dove for cover, they found glass, pitchforks, rakes and garden fence impeding their progress. When the small arms fire opened up, the desperadoes hastily retreated. They found that the spray of lead from the Uzi further impeded their dash to safety. On the third day of the siege, they heard a voice outside calling for Frank.
"Frank, I know you are in there. Can you hear me?"
Tracy nudged Paul. The two of them had taken a position behind the checkout stand. Tracy whispered, "Answer him."
"What will I say?"
"Be Frank. What would he say? What would you like to say?"
Paul cleared his voice, "What do you want Mel?"
"So you know my name."
Tracy whispered to Paul.
"I know your name. You're a two-bit gangster from Portland," asserted Paul.
"Bold words from a man trapped in a Wal-Mart store far from home," retorted Mel.
Tracy whispered to Paul during the next minute of silence.
"What's the matter, Frank? Are you speechless? It's not everyday that a man has to contemplate his impending death. My compliments to you, however. You have been a worthy opponent!" shouted Mel from around the corner.
"It ain't over until the fat lady sings, Mel. Before you get too sure of yourself, maybe you had better take a drive over to Washburn and Crater Lake Highway. Somebody used spray paint to write in huge letters on the pavement, 'Frank Lives--Wal-Mart!' Our snipers are moving in place. Your men are going to start running like jackals. Hey, Mel! Go fuck yourself. You've been an unworthy adversary."

On the fifth day Frank had been moved up to the front of the store positioned behind a solid barricade. The group rotated from position to position, but they had heard nothing for 24 hours outside the store. The afternoon stillness was interrupted by voices calling for the party inside. Spirit Warrior and Ben Middleton called out Frank's name. "Is that you Spirit Warrior?"
"Yeah, Frank. It's me and Ben. We've got snipers and Ghost Walkers all over the town, but it's empty Frank!
"Come to the front of the door," yelled Frank. "I want to make sure you're not just a spirit!"
Spirit Warrior stepped over a corpse. "Damn, Frank, you took out quite a few men," he said squinting into the cavernous dark.
"That was my woman," said Frank.
Spirit Warrior turned and looked at Ben who was catching up with him. "Shit, the Scrounger's got a woman."
"Bout time," said Ben.

Chapter 10:
The Scrounger
2010 - The End and the Beginning

Note to new readers of this blog: Just ignore the novel in progress and look at the Categories, which contain all of my fishing instruction.

Note: Hey, guys, this is the last chapter that I posted so it showed up as the first. Go to the "Category", Novel in Progress. Start with the prologue. When I complete a chapter I will post it. Keep in mind that this is not meant to be the great American Novel. It is meant to be in the tradition of Max Brand and Luke Short. Pulp westerns were my favorite when I was a young man. I know it has many weaknesses, but I have had fun writing it. If you have a favorite chapter, let me know. So far my favorite was chapter 8. You and Pauline are my only readers, unless I can hook Steve. Don't feel that you have to critique or compliment the story. Writing a novel is on my Bucket List. Rewriting the novel isn't!

For two days the grad student stayed home from his MBA program at the University of Oregon in Eugene. He huddled around a television set, the radio and his computer. His iPhone lay within reach. To everyone's astonishment, World War III had begun with unconfirmed announcements of nuclear strikes in the Middle East, North Korea and Russia. He had been text messaging with a former exchange student in China, as well as an old roommate from India, who had returned to India in the early days of the unrest. Early in the morning the emergency broadcasting system announced a nuclear strike on Los Angeles, Seattle, New York and Washington D.C. Six hours later the electrical grid flickered and died. He grabbled his clothes and threw them into a sleeping bag he kept under his bed. He folded up his laptop and was packing it, when he realized that he would never again have use of this devise that he had grown up with since grade school. He caressed the top of the case like a lover running his hands down the sides of a woman's breast. He cupped the corners of the laptop in the palms of his hand and then gently pushed the computer to its final resting place.

Five hours later he drove up to the family lumber and hardware store in Klamath Falls. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he stepped out of his SUV. He was sure that his father would be at the store rather than out on their ranch in Bonanza. The front door had been propped open. He adjusted his eyes to the dim. From behind the counter, he could barely see four or five men. His father stood up from one of the swivel chairs and called out to him. Later his father told everyone that he and his friends had been conversing in muted, faltering dialogue when he looked up to see his son Frank standing in the doorway with light streaming around his outline. To everyone who would listen, he would later proclaim that Frank's appearance at the door produced the silhouette of a savior. He didn't claim to see a halo, but he said that the sun's rays reflected off his son's broad shoulders and illuminated the entrance to the store.

"Frank! Son, over here." The older man stepped forward and embraced his son. He held on tight and rested his forehead on his son's shoulder. "What's going to happen to us, son?" he whispered. "We've been talking all day. Some of my old friends have been stopping by all day, but we don't have any idea what's going to happen now. Frank, I'm glad you came home right away. Your mother is worried sick about the family. Why in the hell did everyone have to move so far away!" the older man cried out.
"Dad, I have been doing nothing but running the situation through my head while I drove over here. I know the store and the ranch is yours and mom's, but I think it is time, with your permission, that I take charge."
His father paused before speaking. He had been pondering a lot more than what he would do with a store and no customers. "It's all yours, son. I spent my entire life building on the shoulders of my father and your mother's family, but this is too much for me. People are just walking all over town. They form in little groups, and when they don't get any assurance or vision, they shuffle slowly to the next group. It's just awful." The visitors stood up, patted the two men on their shoulders, and said they would call on the father in the days ahead.

"Dad, we have little time to talk. The first thing that you need to do is box up all the respirators and eye protectors that we have here and take them to the ranch. Stop by Home Depot, and if you can get inside, grab as many of the respirators and filters that you can find. Now, you are going to give everyone an idea, so don't take them all. Tell them there are lots of them left and then get the hell out of there and head home. We're going to have dust and ash covering us for days, maybe weeks."
"Good idea, son."
"Give me the keys to the store. When you get back to the ranch, I want you to send Juan and Gabriel back here. Tell Mom that I am fine, but I might not make it home for a couple of days. Oh, yeah, have Juan and Gabriel bring out your RV. We'll park it out in the lumber yard, and have them bring some pistols, a couple of shotguns and a rifle." His father stiffened. "Dad, relax. We've got at least a week or more before the rioting begins. Get those respirators from the shelf, see if you can get some more at Home Depot and then head home to the ranch. I'll see you there in a couple of days. Here. Take my car. I'm going to need that new Caddy of yours." The two men exchanged keys. The father asked no questions.

After locking up the store and locking the gate to the lumberyard, Frank drove to the biggest dry cleaning store in town on South Six Street. He took a flashlight out of the glove compartment. He had brought a small crowbar from his father's store that he had concealed in his sleeve. The store was closed, but he had no trouble breaking the door ajar with his shoulder and the crowbar. Very few people were moving in this area of town, and he was sure that no one had seen him enter. If they did, his movement with the crowbar had been quick. It would have looked to any passerby that he had been fumbling with keys. He walked through the winding racks of clothes until he found the uniforms that he wanted. He laid the sheriff's uniform on the counter, along with the uniform of a highway patrolmen, but what he was really looking for were flashy officer's uniforms from a high ranking officer at the air force base nearby. He found what he was looking for in a matter of minutes. It was what he had hoped for, a full bird colonel's uniform and a captain's uniform. He quickly gathered some suits and returned to his car.

His next stop was the state liquor store next store to the Sears' catalogue store. As he drove up to the store, he could see a patrol car parked directly in front of the store. He had anticipated this directive. The city father's were acting fast he thought. He drove out of sight and put on an Air Force Captain's uniform. It fit fairly well. He had no hat, but he didn't think that he would need one. He drove around to the liquor store and pulled next to the patrol car. He stepped out of his car and approached the deputy. The deputy quickly stepped out of the patrol car. His orders were clear, but the radio wasn't working and his hand-held receiver had been re-charging when the electricity died. He looked up at the handsome, young captain in the Air Force. The impersonating officer reached out and shook the deputies hand. "Good afternoon. My company commander sent me out here because we apparently have a rogue supply sergeant on his way here from the base with a bogus purchase order signed by General Wilson. I am going to wait here and arrest him with your assistance."
"Captain, I'll be glad to help you. We're going to keep a lid on this town as long as we can."
"You're not going to believe this, but we have already had a number of desertions this morning. We have one pilot who is going to be court marshaled for flying over Los Angles area, and we had another pilot that just flew off for home. No one knows if we have a real federal government. We have no communications.... It's just a matter of time."
The young deputy stared at the radio that was silent. He knew that the end was just a matter of time. There's been a lot of talk and guessing what the hell was going to happen. "City government will vote tomorrow for Marshall Law. It's supposed to be hush, hush, but everyone in the police department is talking about it. The county sheriff has been meeting with the chief all day. Are you guys still getting communication?"
"We're getting a lot of jumbled information. Is there anyone inside? I see some light."
"Yeah, the manager is taking inventory. Hell if I can figure why."
"Well, I am going inside and talk to her. The supply sergeant is thinking big. He's got a truck and a small crew. I am supposed to look at Albertson's and Safeway as well. What's your secondary order if there is an emergency? We've got a number of fire trucks stationed at the County fair Grounds. They've got generators going at dispatch, but for some reason our hand receivers aren't working or they haven't got the radio equipment set up right. They are going to use the sirens to reach us. We have the signals written down on where we are to assemble."
"Good. Well, I'll let the manager know what is up in case either of us is called away."

Frank opened the door to the liquor store. The manager was bent over inventory sheets making notations. She was a slight woman with one shoulder that drooped noticeably lower than the other. One of her eyes strayed until she lifted her head and looked at you with both eyes on level. She was not unattractive, but she was thin to the point that customers wondered what other deformity or physical ailment lay hidden behind the counter out of view. "Good evening, Captain." She paused searching the officer's face until a glint of recognitions crossed her features. Frank, Frank Holter. I thought I saw your Dad's Caddy parked outside. One of our best customers," she added.

"I am sorry, but I can't remember your name."
"Vivian. Vivian Madsen. "Your dad told me you were at the University of Oregon, not in the Air Force," she smiled.
"Vivian, you know my father owns a 1,000 acre spread out in Bonanza. Next door my uncle owns a 640-acre dairy farm. We can defend all access points to our property. Within two weeks all hell is going to break loose in this town. Looting, killing, stealing will spread across this town like a virus. We will be taking in a number of people who will be instrumental in our survival."
"Frank, I know what you want," she said looking around the room. "But how will this liquor help you survive? I don't get it?"
"Vivian, how many are in your immediate family?"
"It is just me and my two young daughters, and my mother who lives on the other side of town. What's your offer--Officer?"
"I am offering you lifetime membership in our ranching community. In return I need the keys to the store. All this booze will go a long way for bartering in the months ahead."
"When can I join?"
"Hand me the keys to the back loading door, go get your family and head out to the protection of the ranch tonight."
"Thank you," said Vivian. "For your information, we just got our big shipment unloaded yesterday.
"I'll draw you a map and write a letter. Present it to my mom or dad. It's almost dark. Lock up and leave within the hour. We will load up the contents tonight."
She handed him the keys. "What about the deputy outside?"
"We'll be gentle and send him home with a couple of cases." Frank walked out of the store and spoke to the deputy on duty. It had been only an hour or so since he departed from his father's store. Within a few minutes he had returned to the lumberyard and opened the gate. He parked the Caddy and waited. As he reviewed his next plan of action, he saw the headlights from his father's $250,000 Monaco Coach. The 400 hp Cummins diesel rattled into the yard.

The doors to the 42-foot mansion on wheels swung open when the interior lights of the Cadillac came on and Frank stepped out of the car. He walked over and stepped into the coach. Juan was at the wheel and Gabriel was seated in the passenger seat. "Hey, Frank, I never would have thought I would have seen the day when your old man would send me out in his coach."
Gabriel started laughing. "For a moment, I think he is afraid we will gather La Familia and head to Mexico."
"I've no doubt that might have crossed his mind," laughed Frank. "Hell, the few times I've been with him he wouldn't even let me drive."

The men gathered around the dining room table in the coach, and Frank reviewed his plans with his father's two Mexican ranch hands, who had been on the family ranch for years. He checked the arms and ammunition the two men had brought from the ranch. When the strategy meeting was over, he started up the large semi-truck and trailer that his father kept in the yard. Juan drove to the back of the state-run liquor store, while Frank, still in his uniform, approached the deputy. Stepping out of the sedan, Frank waved to the officer as the officer exited from the patrol car. "I've got a prisoner for you to transport when you get relieved." He pointed to Gabriel who was seated in the back seat with his arms behind his back.
Peering through the rear door that Frank had opened, the officer commented, "Well, he doesn't look too dangerous. Duck your head fellow. I'll help you out. Say, he's out of uniform! What..." The officer stood up straight and spun around. Frank had a gun leveled at his stomach, and the officer could feel cold steel pressed against his back from the so-called prisoner.

"Officer, don't do anything stupid. You know as well as I that in the next week or so crowds will be roaming the street taking pot shots at police and firemen. Most of your fellow officers will throw down their badges and go home to protect their families. If you are smart, you will do the same. Tomorrow morning someone will find you cuffed to your steering wheel. Naturally, we will take your keys. There is a nursery just around the corner. They have a big pile of chip and bark out in front. We will bury four or five cases of whiskey under the chips. You will find in the months and years ahead, those bottles will be good for trading and bartering. Just forget what I look like. If I see the piles disturbed and the cases gone, I'll know that you are thinking of your family. When all hell breaks loose and anarchy rules the day, come back to this liquor store. If you see two big X's sprayed across the back wall, look for a letter in the trash bin. We're going to need some good men."
"Good men who are duped so easy!" the man said lowering his eyes as Frank handcuffed him to the patrol car steering wheel. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking. You guys have your own holding cells."
"You were thinking what we have all been thinking. What's next? How will my family and I survive the short term, or the long term?"
"The man sighed. "I wish that you had worked me over. I am ashamed that I was taken so easily. How in the hell am I going to explain this to my sergeant?"
"How will your sergeant explain to you, and the men and women in uniform, all the deaths of slain comrades who will die in the line of duty? You cannot feed your family on altruistic values and calls to duty. That is all the city fathers will be able to offer you--duty and responsibility. You will be working for free. You and your family will be standing in the soup lines just like everybody else until one day a mob will rise up in open rebellion. If you survive, check back here. Good luck officer."

They worked hours into the night before the entire liquor store was emptied. True to his word, Frank and his two helpers buried five cases of whiskey in the piles of bark and decorative rock. Each box they marked 1 of 5 and 2 of 5 and so on. Two days later Frank drove by and saw the disturbed piles. Juan and Gabriel delivered the confiscated alcohol to the ranch. For the next four or five days, they loaded all the usable stock from the hardware store to the ranch. When their task had been accomplished, Frank joined the throngs of men and women standing in line for their daily allotment of food from the government take over of the grocery stores. Throughout the town, the police had set up scheduled meeting places where they would dispense information sent by satellite to the governor's office. Official couriers from government agencies drove back and forth from city to city with lies. Across the country, amateur radio operators went on the air. They abandoned their frequency allocations, joined forces building their own radio stations and brought in the generators. Within days they broke the real news to the nation. The truth flashed across the continent and bounced off the moon to the survivors of our enemies. Men and women dying of radiation sickness to lone operators just out of range of the firestorms huddled at their desks and spoke the truth into their microphones. Klamath Falls Super Wal-Mart became the unofficial site for national news each day at noon when the ham operators would give their reports. The crowds never stopped arriving, even when their cars and trucks ran out of gas.

Frank marveled at the city officials and law enforcement personnel and volunteers who gallantly met the challenge for survival with resolve and a spirit of humanity that transcended anything that anyone had ever experienced or witnessed. Members of local civic groups and church groups volunteered in the soup lines, volunteered to patrol the streets at night, set up road blocks and administered to the sick and injured. Klamath Falls would be a beacon of hope, even if the food supplies were disappearing from the shelves at an alarming rate. The first sign of unrest came not from hungry men and women shouting for more food. It manifested itself as a big tailgate party along a five-mile stretch of South Sixth Street with the epicenter at the crossroads with Washburn Avenue. People were not going home. The safety patrols were frightened and stayed home. But more and more people found comfort mingling with the street people, who camped along the sidewalks. When darkness came, bonfires were ignited from desks and chairs furnished by businesses, and the police surrendered the city to the darkness and retreated. In the morning the volunteers administered aid to the victims of the night. Day and night Frank moved along with the city's flow of people. He could feel the tension and the undercurrent. The heat of the July sun lingered until the early hours of dawn. The bonfires became bigger each night, and armed men took turns protecting those that sought refugee within the narrow circle of the flickering flames. And with each passing night, predators stalked their victims. Each day at noon the crowds with scarves and gauze covering their mouths would walk to Wal-Mart in the dust storms. Ashen and gray-faced they would listen to the ham radio operators dispel any ray of hope. The ham operators took turns delivering conversations and reports from all around the world and then they scurried back to their radio stations. On the other side of town, city officials reporting government dispatches were heckled and insulted.

Towards the end of July, the passing dust storms disappeared leaving three inches of ash and a long wait for fall rains. An ugly display of mob violence exploded without warning one day after the last ham operator had reported to the crowd. A few demanding shouts and cries for action ignited the crowds. People were pushed forward. The officers on duty stood their ground until they were pushed aside. Suddenly two pick-up trucks blared their horns at the crowd. They were aimed at the glass doors. Instantly the crowd cheered when they recognized the intent. The crowd separated. Men and women laughed and held out their arms to clear a path. "Back up!" they shouted. "Back up!" The trucks revved their engines until the path had been cleared. One of the trucks peeled rubber for twenty yards before crashing through the locked doors to Wal-Mart. Welcome to Wal-Mart, Frank thought as he braced himself against the tide of shoppers.

A few hours later he spotted a high school friend, who was a member of the Sheriff's Department. He had been in constant contact with Gary for a week. He had driven his old friend out to his parent's ranch and told him of his plans. His friend had remained uncommitted and silent as they drove back. Since that day, Gary had been seeking Frank out and providing intelligence reports almost daily. Gary and his partner were riding bicycles, and they were unarmed. Frank noted that they were unarmed from across the street, but he knew better. He sat on a lawn chair about twenty feet behind Juan and Gabriel. They were operating a stand selling last year's potatoes from his uncle's farm, along with this year's early onion crop. They had set up in the parking lot of what had once been Western Tool Supplies. Both Juan and Gabriel bartered with the pedestrians for canned goods and a list of items that Frank had given them. A Browning automatic, twelve-gauge shotgun lay across Frank's lap. Tucked behind his belt, a 9mm pistol butt protruded. Frank wore dark sunglasses, and his baseball cap was pulled down to his brow line. His short sleeve Hawaiian shirt was open to expose a bronze chest covered in hair. He wore Bermuda shorts and sandals, but his appearance was anything but relaxed. Gary left his fellow patrolman and rode across the street dodging the pedestrians who wandered aimlessly in all directions. He stopped to give an elderly matron the right away, as she pushed her Safeway cart in front of her down the middle of the street. He pulled to a stop in front of Frank and slid off the seat.

"An MBA candidate selling potatoes out of a U-Haul trailer. Now I'm worried!"
"You should be worried," replied Frank. "And it's a damned good thing you are unarmed. That's the most sensible thing your chief has done so far. Too bad he's so fucking stupid!
"What do you mean?"
"That Wal-Mart mob wasn't a spontaneous action. It was orchestrated. Fifteen minutes after the storming of the Bastille, I walked around back to the loading docks. Backed into one of the loading ramps was a delivery van from Hammond's Furniture. I spotted five armed men loading weapons from the sporting goods department."
"Shit! We thought they got picked up by dozens of individuals."
"Yeah, shit is right. I've got some competition is this town, and it pisses me off that I can't find anything out. I've got a network of spies all over this city, and I can't get any useful information from any of them."
"Well, I'll tell you something I've held back. I didn't think it was time to tell you yet. Frank, we've lost two undercover detectives this week. They've just disappeared. Half the force has resigned. They refuse to listen to the chief. We're now getting the same dooms day reports that the ham operators are dispensing about a mysterious biological germ that's wiping out populations all around the world."
"So, it true. How much time have we got?" Frank asked.
"No idea, but the dooms day prophets are right. It's already wiped out half the East Coast's population, and there are reports of outbreaks all across the country. We're fucked. I'm sending out my family to the ranch tomorrow."
Frank took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. God damn it, he thought. Here I'm running hardware and booze and somebody out here is really planning for the future."
"We need firepower. I'm working with a guy out at the base, but so far he is too scared to commit. Shouldn't the Sheriff Department be storing all the firearms and ammunition still on the shelves at Big R and the other stores in the city?" he asked. "What if a mob should bust through the thinly manned guards on duty outside those stores?"
"Did you know that the National Guard stores all of their ammunition and automatic weapons in our basement?"
"Did you know our team cleaned out Albertson's last night?" Frank retorted.
"Jesus, Frank, how in the hell can you justify that?"
Frank bolted up and slung the shotgun across his shoulder. Three men were looking at him--Juan, Gabriel and the patrolman across the street. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I'll tell you how I am going to fucking justify it! I am going to be feeding your family tomorrow."

"Frank, I'm sorry. You're making decisions I wouldn't have the balls to make."
"Your buddy across the street is staring at us. What's up?
"He wants in."
"How many?
"Seven in all."
"Will he be willing to be locked down in a quarantine?
"Yes.
"Will he be willing to kill any man, woman or child that penetrates the first perimeter?"
"Yes. He already laid out the same scenario when he was asking me for information," Gary said.
"We're going to have to move fast. You are going to have to get your chief moving on those other caches of weapons. Whoever this shrewd fucker is, he took down your boys with ease."
"We think we know who he is. He came into town early. He owns a string of bars from here to Portland. He is a racketeer. Portland has been after him for years, but he has never lost a license, and not a single charge has ever stuck. We know he has ties to the West Coast mob, but apparently it has never been proven. He owns two bars here. We've spotted his men, but we haven't spotted him. His DMV photograph is a couple of years old. He looks like a regular guy. So regular that even after every briefing and carrying his photograph in my back pocket, I have to look at it constantly. Ten minutes later I know I wouldn't recognize him."
"Get every weapon in town and have them moved to the basement with the National Guard weapons, and then be ready to move when I tell you."

Within 24 hours he watched as U-Haul trucks, along with armed policemen, parked outside the stores. The arms and ammunition were loaded onto the truck. Good, he thought. I will need those later when the time is right. He thought of the police uniforms and wondered if he would need them. That night he stood the first guard duty in the lumberyard while Juan and Gabriel slept in the coach. He wondered how long it would be before the mobs took over the town. When it happened, he knew that the mob would have no leader and that it would be a spontaneous uprising. The next morning Frank looked down the street and saw a wave of rioting. It came with such suddenness and ferocity that the city collapsed within hours. Here was not a scene of citizens manning the barricades defiantly in the face of the enemy. They were the enemy, and they slipped away from the citizen patrols, the soup kitchens and the volunteer dispensaries like rats scurrying from one empty larder to the next. They were hungry, and they were disillusioned. Only in the confines of their home did they admit openly their fear on being on the wrong side when the collapse came. Angry citizen shouted threats at the police and volunteers who stood guard outside the doors of the town's grocery stores. People ran up and hurled stones at the armed guards outside the Safeway. Thousands of years of pride in serving community, thousands of years of reaching out to the less fortunate were replaced with "Who will break first? When it comes, whom will I align myself with? Will I be able to kill my neighbor if he tries to take what is mine?"

Frank and his crew worked night and day loading the last of the hardware goods into the semi truck's trailer. He had been selective in his scrounging. He had already recruited his uncle to begin collecting and storing ranch and farm equipment, especially those items that weren't bound to the covenant of electricity. No more lap tops, electric drills, hair dryers, ovens, stoves, sewing machines, water pumps, phones, or lights. Plunged into darkness, he had observed how some citizens lingered over or stared morosely over those products that he or she most wanted. Many ran small generators and then spent most of their day siphoning their neighbor's cars and trucks. Frank made the transition effortlessly, but not after he and his crew commandeered a full diesel fuel truck and a gasoline fuel truck. They drove them to his uncle's farm and drove them into the barn where the creamery trucks pulled in to pump the cream. Frank gathered a small cadre of volunteers for his father's ranch, but they were running out of time, and he needed firepower.

During the previous week, he had recruited eight men who he had grown up with during his years of schooling in Klamath Falls. Scurrying around the city frantically, he could only locate four men plus Juan and Gabriel the day that he needed them the most. They gathered in his father's hardware store where he passed out the uniforms, along with some holsters he had located and traded for with bottles of whiskey. When they pulled up to the shared facilities for the sheriff department and the highway patrol, they found the gate shut with an armed officer. Frank stepped out of the car in his full bird colonel's uniform. One of his oldest friends, William Franklin, stepped out of the passenger side of the vehicle dressed as a captain of the highway patrol. William carried a brief case.

The officer at the gate was the young patrolman who had watched from across the street as he and Gary had spoken a few days earlier. "Good evening, officer. We have an official dispatch. Is your commanding officer inside or at the command center at the fair grounds?'
"He is at the fairgrounds," the officer replied. He looked at the two uniformed men and felt a sudden panic, and then he thought of his wife and his three-year-old daughter, and calmness settled over him.
"We have some documents we want to leave," William said in an authoritative voice. He opened the brief case so that the lid went up in front of the guard's face. When he closed the lid, he held a pistol pointing at the man's heart. "Don't do anything stupid. Just stay with the script. Is Gary inside?"
The young officer nodded yes and looked up into Frank's eyes. He opened the gate. Frank and William stepped through the gap in the fence. Frank turned around and motioned to the other men who had remained seated in the back of his father's car. They exited the car. All of them wore suits and ties. The small conglomerate of disparate men entered the public entrance to the building. A secretary had been busily typing. "Damn," thought Frank. How could she not have looked up and seen them? The entire office was lined with windows looking out into the parking lot. He smiled at the secretary as she rose out of her seat.
"Good afternoon, colonel." She looked up to see two other uniformed officers enter through the door just as Frank pointed a gun at her. He schussed her quiet with a finger across his lips. We are authorized to take command immediately on orders from the Governor."
"Who are you? I don't believe a word you are saying!"

This was the moment that Frank had dreaded would happen. He knew that something would not go as planned. He had known for weeks that he would some day end up killing others, but he didn't want to kill men who were sworn to protect and serve. They had agreed to retreat before they blindly killed, but Frank also had declared that he would kill anyone who tried or threatened to kill a member of his group. He swore this to the men just an hour ago, and he was prepared. Coming down the hall with a cup of coffee in his hand, Gary approached. Frank saw a look of calmness on Betty's face. She was with them he surmised as he suppressed a smile. Gary saw the four officers on the other side of the sliding window, and then he saw the nickel-plated, Colt .45 that had been slightly withdrawn as he approached.

"Open the door," Frank commanded. "We don't want anyone to die a hero today because tomorrow there won't be anyone available to put a flag on his coffin!"
"You guys look nervous. Relax. Frank, you can put away the gun," Gary said. A hand-held radio crackled on his belt. He turned to Betty and said. "Keep an eye out front, Betty. You men need to take a position outside. Frank, I have two visitors who are eager to meet you. The chief's not here, but he knew you were coming so he arranged for a negotiating session. We expect to be attacked tonight so you have little time. Follow me, and put that cannon away. These guys are already scared shitless." Gary walked Frank to the back room.

The conference room had four large tables pushed together in the center of the room with chairs pushed in and out all around the perimeter. On the wall were maps of the city and a large map pieced together from separate maps that covered the entire Klamath County. Outside of the conference room, separate halls led to the locker rooms and offices. Frank had no idea where the booking room and cells were located, or where the stairwell was to the basement. Looking down one of the halls, he saw two heavily armed patrolmen sitting on chairs in the hall. They nodded to him. He knew the entire facility would be undermanned and soon under siege, but he couldn't believe that only a handful of people would be holding down the fort. Had they moved the weapons to the command center at the fair grounds Frank thought? Two ranchers stood up and greeted him as he entered the room.

"Frank, I would like to introduce you to Don Herrington and Ralph Vandermeer. Both men are here for the same purpose that you are. They are ranchers from the Fort Klamath area."
Frank examined the two men closely as they rose to shake his hand. Both men were in their early to late fifties. From their callused hands to their weathered faces, Frank knew that these ranchers had worked their entire lives outdoor all year long. Don shook his hand with firmness and resolve. His light gray eyes and his tight face slowly relaxed, and he smiled as he looked over Frank's uniform, but he withheld comment. Frank knew he too was being studied, and for a moment he felt foolish in the uniform, but then he decided that if he had a colonel's uniform on he would by God act like a colonel. He sat down wondering what the hell was going on. Gary gave him no indication of why these men were here to meet him.

Don spoke up first. "Frank, I know both your old man and your uncle. Gary says you are a visionary that will survive this God damned mess we are in right now. Well, I don't put myself in the category of a great man, but let's just say that some men think alike. I know the sheriff. I grew up with him. I made a proposal to him last week. Your friend Gary here told him you had concerns about this stockpile of weapons. He has been monitoring you ever since his men reported your truck heading out of town every couple of days. We know you have nothing to do with this man in town who is stirring up so much unrest. Let me be direct. We want the guns. You want the guns, and somebody else wants the guns, and he has the manpower to get them today, tonight or anytime he wants."
Frank nodded his head in agreement. "Everyone in this room, along with the chief and Sheriff, know that if these guns get in the wrong hands, we are going to be dealing with a war lord. There are enough small arms in every house in this county to start a civil war, but it's the automatic weapons, grenades and whatever else that is stored here that will determine the outcome. I am a reasonable man. We may need each other. I'd like you explain what kind of operation you are setting up."
"Good. You have told Gary that between you and your relatives you are sitting on over 1,000 acres that are easily defendable. You have already recruited a number of people, including some potato farmers out your way. We too have been planning. We have a confederation of over twenty ranchers controlling over seventy square miles in the Wood River Valley." Don pushed his chair backwards and walked over to the forest service map on the wall. He swept his right hand across the map. "We are bordered by geographical boundaries unparalleled in the entire region. No one can approach us by highway without coming up Highway 97, which follows a steep mountainside right along the lakeshore for miles. Anyone approaching from Highway 140 will have steep mountains on their left, marsh on their right and twenty miles of barricaded road." He tapped his finger forcefully on Crater Lake. "No one will get into the valley from Crater Lake National Park in the winter time, and anyone crossing over from the Rogue River country has to follow Highway 62 down the rim of Annie Creek. Anyone approaching from the north down Highway 97 will have to cross the bridge at Collier Park. Until such time as someone builds a navy of shallow barges to attack us from Klamath Lake, we have a terrain and geographical advantage that can safely harbor and support five or six hundred people-- if we gather our resources and return with full haste to the nineteenth century!"

Frank let a whistle escape his lips. "You men are thinking big time."
"We have been thinking together, Frank. Everyday we bring in talented men and women to thrash out our ideas. The guns are yours for the taking. We can't stop you, but what we really came here for is to recruit you to our cause. Get your people and supplies up to Agency Lake before all hell breaks loose."
Gary spoke up. "Frank, they have already set up a quarantine. This is the last time these men will be in Klamath Falls."

"How many days would I have to get my supplies and people to you?" Frank asked.
Ralph spoke up for the first time. "We could give you only three or four days, maybe more, but at the first sign of this plague or anarchy, we'll stop you or anyone else from getting on to Alliance land. If only half of your people are in when the germ arrives, we'll use all force to stop anyone who crosses the line. It's going to be the dark ages all over again!"
Frank stood up and looked at Gary. "Get your men up on the roof with automatic weapons." He turned to William and the other men in his party who stood at the door listening to the exchange. "Juan, go out on the street and signal Gabriel to bring up the semi. I want two men hidden on the other side of the street." Frank turned to the two ranchers. "I want one guarantee. I want the entire Chiloquin High School, and what I put in there is mine until I decide how it will be dispersed."
Don looked at Ralph. "Agreed."
"What are you going to do about all the Indians in Chiloquin? Have you negotiated with the tribe?'
"Yes. They'll keep all their properties, and we have agreed to support them and help defend their claim to all the lands up on the Sprague River."
"Sounds good." He turned to William. "Will, load up the semi and head straight to the high school in Chiloquin. I want you to drive with Juan. After you have unloaded, bring back some automatic weapons and ammunition and take the old road that comes out at the county dump and then head straight to the ranch." Frank turned to the two ranchers. "Gentlemen, you have a deal."

All of the men turned when they heard running in the hall. Juan was out of breath when he met Frank and the others in the hall. "Frank, the truck is parked outside, but someone's got Biehn Street barricaded at the bottom of the hill and at the intersection. They've got a couple of trucks completely blocking the street."
"How many men did you count?"
"I couldn't see!"
Frank paused for a second. "Start loading. Gary, pull out some weapons so that all of us can be armed." He was interrupted when Betty came up from the front office.
"I've just gotten word from the Sheriff. They've got armed men who have completely surrounded the command center at the fairgrounds. Someone is demanding that they surrender peacefully or they will be attacked in three hours. The chief and the sheriff said for me to tell you to get those weapons moved now."
"Frank, what do you want me and Ralph to do after we have loaded up the truck?"
"Ride shotgun." Frank looked at Gary. "Take charge here, but don't do anything until Juan and I and William get back. Is there anyone guarding the county maintenance yard?'
"No. The gates locked. No one has bothered breaking in," said Gary.
"Good. Let me have one of your radios. Whoever this son-of-a-bitch is, he's going to learn a lesson on home rule."

Chapter

Down in the arms cellar, Frank and the three other men locked in the magazines to their AR-15 assault rifles. Frank explained his plan. Gary showed Juan and Gabriel the simple operation of the AR-15. Both William and Frank loaded up on extra magazines and passed some to Juan and Gabriel. "Shit, Frank, I never thought I'd be going into combat," Juan said.
"Too bad we didn't have these babies when the Mexican patrols shook us down, huh!" laughed Gabriel.
"Everybody take off the uniforms. We don't want to be popped by some sniper. Will, I want you and Gabriel to stay up hill from us. Keep your distance, maybe 150 yards. We're going to hop the back fence and work our way across the hillside. If we get separated, will meet up at Klamath High School football field. From there we'll travel together through residential streets. If we run into any trouble, we'll meet up at Washburn and Shasta Way. From that point, we'll move together and head for the maintenance yard. If either group gets in a firefight, the other should head for the yard and carry out the plan. We only have about three or four hours of daylight so let's make it quick."

The two pairs of men scrambled over the back fence and worked their way across the open hillside until they entered the residential section. Frank signaled to Will to follow behind them keeping 100 yards between them. Frank could see people getting up from their front porches and silently entering their homes. When he rounded a corner, he and Juan split up on both sides of the street and waited for their comrades to appear. They worked their way down to the high school. Frank looked backwards and saw Will use their pre-arranged signal to hide. He and Juan took cover on both sides of a residential street. He could hear squealing tires up the street, and then he saw the pick-up truck with four armed men sitting and standing in the bed of the truck. From a distance he could see that they were not looking or searching for him or anyone else. They were patrolling to intimidate people. Suddenly one of the men randomly fired into a house. The shotgun's report startled Frank so much that he flinched. He could hear shooting in the distance, and he lowered his head when the men passed in the truck.

The four men quickly met up and hid between two houses behind a woodpile. Will suggested that they move one block at a time covering each other. Block by block they progressed through the residential streets. They had only to take cover one more time when a speeding group of men roared passed them at an intersection. Frank looked at his watch. It had taken them almost an hour and a half to cover less than two miles. When they emerged on Shasta Way and Washburn, they were shocked that the crowds were gone, but the street was not empty. Trucks with armed men moved up and down South Sixth Avenue and Washburn. "Frank, I saw a pick-up truck just around the corner parked along side the house. I also saw someone peeping out the window. I say Gabriel and I go get that truck, and we'll meet back here. You guys jump in the back of the truck and will join the other patrols. No one will know the difference."
"You just earned a field promotion. That's a great idea. Don't kill anyone getting the keys." He watched as Will and Gabriel ran back and cut down Union Street. In less than fifteen minutes he saw the truck roll around the corner. Gabriel was driving and William was in the back of the truck. Gabriel rolled to a stop and Frank and Juan jumped in the back of the truck to join Will. When they crossed the intersection, they lifted their arms to salute a truck driving in the opposite direction. They pulled up to the locked gate. Frank hopped out of the truck and walked up to the padlocked gate. He covered his eyes with one hand and pointed his .45 at the lock. The explosion echoed across the town, along with the other intermittent gunfire. The lock and gate mechanism disintegrated. "Just like in the movies," said Frank. "Gabriel, ditch the truck in the back." Frank opened the gate and watched as Gabriel drove around one of the shops. He closed the gate behind him and ran to join the others at the front entrance to the superintendent's office. The door was old and Will had no problem kicking it open.

The four men jumped inside the office and closed the door. A small, wiry man in his late fifties stood behind the counter with a shotgun pointed at the men. He wore big overalls and a greasy John Deere baseball cap. "You didn't have to blow up the fucking gate. And you didn't have to kick in the door. I was getting the gate key when you got out of the truck. Jesus, I thought you guys were part of the gangs that are out there. The trucks are ready to go. Keys are in the ignition."
The four men looked at each other quizzically. Will was the first to speak up. "Did you know we were coming?'
"Sure I did. I've been monitoring the radio for days. It surprised the hell out of me when someone from dispatch called here less than two hours ago. They told me it was an emergency and you were coming for some snowplow trucks."
"What's kept you here," asked Frank.
"Well, I'm the shop foreman. Been divorced for a couple of years now so I just decided to stay here when all the rioting started. I've got a couple of shotguns and a shit load of shells. I figure I'll join you. I've already seen a couple of those trucks pause outside the gate so I figured it was time to go. There is some real bad shit going on outside. I never knew there would be so many ruthless, evil people in our town!"
"Yeah, we'll we drew in some demonic, cult leader who knows how to organize desperate people. What's your name?"
"Harold. Now, follow me to the shop and I'll show you the trucks." The men followed Harold through the first office and then through a door to a parts department office with a long counter covered with part catalogues. Behind the counter were windows looking into a huge shop. The ceiling was at least thirty feet high. Harold opened a side door and held it as the men filed out into the shop. "I've got two 10-yard, dual axel, diesel trucks warmed up and ready to go. The blades should serve your purpose. Ten foot steel blades, but you will have to swing them out to the left or the right."
"Do you have a snowplow that has the split plow blade that folds back?"
"Got one out back. It's a single axel five-yarder. I'll go get it."
"Harold, we are also going to need sledge hammer so we can knock out the front windows on three trucks, or at least on the passenger side. Knock them out from the inside so we don't have to contend with too much glass. We don't want a window shot out when we are hauling ass down the highway."
"Gotcha!" said Harold as he ducked through the back door.

"Will, Gabriel will drive one of the trucks and you will ride shotgun. Juan will drive the truck for me. We'll lead in the five-yard plow. You follow me, and we will have Harold follow in the rear. Aim your truck for anything that I knock to my right side. I'll aim for the gap between vehicles. If we run into one of those patrols, take them out with the automatic rifles or the truck!"
"We should hit the barricade at the bottom of Biehn Street by the Shell Station," said Will.
"Yeah, that was what I was thinking. Once we crest the knoll above the Shell Station, they won't have much time to act. Let's give those guys a hand, and get this thing done."
"You always were Mr. Cool. Out on the football field or on the court, I've never seen you rattled," said Will.
Frank looked at his best friend. He smiled and then placed his hand on Will's shoulder. "You started building me up in grade school with all that machismo bullshit. All the way through high school I felt like I had to live up to the reputation that you were promoting for me. Remember that big fight in high school after the game, I never told you that I couldn't sleep all that night, and that I had an upset stomach all the next day. I might never have felt a punch when it was landed, but I got the shakes real bad that night. Yeah, I'm scared to death right now, but this is going to be our Baptism of Fire, and I don't want anyone to see my trembling hands. Once the whistle blows, we're going to kick ass!"
"How are you feeling?" asked Frank.
"I was feeling fine until you had to spill your guts. Baptism of Fire, where do you come up with this shit?"
"I was reading the novels Mrs. Baker assigned while you were in your room jerking off. Lock and load!"

The two men walked down the hall to the shop door. They could hear windows shattering in the enclosed shop. Stepping through the shop door they could see the diesel trucks warming up. Harold had hooked up the exhaust hoses that led out the back wall of the shop. The other men were still picking up glass and tossing it out of the broken front windows. Harold opened the large sliding doors and unhooked the hoses. Will climbed up in the front seat with Gabriel. Harold walked up to Frank as he was yelling instructions to Juan. "Frank, I didn't know you would need three trucks, but I've got one parked just out back. It should start right up."
"OK. We don't push out of the yard until we are all lined up and ready. Keep your shotguns handy and loaded, but stay fairly close to Will. We have a blockade to knock out at the bottom of Biehn Street. When we get through the blockade, we are heading straight for the station house. We'll have some real firepower waiting for us there. Good luck, Harold."
"Same to you," said Harold as he flashed a thumbs up to Juan in the driver's seat and walked out the door.

Frank hoped up into the passenger seat and rested his AR-15 on the dash with the barrel poking out of the broken window casing. The dual blade on the snowplow was folded back in a tight vee in the front of the truck. "Let's roll."
"Should I knock the gate down, Frank?"
"No. It would be just are luck to catch the gate and drag it all over town." Juan pulled up to the gate, while Frank hopped out and pushed the two gates open. They pulled out on Washburn. Frank could see the two trucks following in the side mirror. So far so good he thought. He checked to make sure the safety was off one more time. He looked at his watch. It was 6:14. He looked over at Juan. Juan looked back, smiled and lifted his shoulder slightly as if to say what the fuck have we got ourselves into?

They made the turn at South Sixth Street and were approaching Diamond Hardware and Lumber when they saw the pick-up truck in front of them. It was a half-ton Ford 4x4 with roll bars. Three men were standing in the bed with rifles pointed at them. When the driver saw Frank's automatic rifle, he swerved to the right pitching out one of the men directly in their path. The burst of Frank's AR-15 caused Juan to swerve right momentarily, and then he punched the accelerator and headed the five-ton snowplow straight for the truck. Frank's spent shells hit the post section of the windshield and ricocheted around the cab. He lost sight of the truck just as Juan smashed the opposing vehicle, which sent it rolling over on its side. Before it came to a rest, it was struck again with a direct hit from Gabriel. "%$#@," yelled Juan as he pumped his arm out the window to Gabriel.

"Jesus, I about broke my wrist," said Frank as he massaged the bruise. "I forgot to put on my seat belt."
"Don't worry, Frank. No way you're going to get a ticket today." The two men looked at each other and started laughing. When they got to the overpass, Gabriel was honking his horn and signaling to pull over. When they came to a stop, Will came running up to their truck and jumped up on the running board. "Frank, Harold's a sitting duck if one of those trucks come roaring up behind him. There's no way he can be protected.
"You're right. Put him in the middle. Tell him to push anything out of the way on my right side. Climb up the ladder here and see if you can get inside and have enough room to shoot out the back." Will scampered up the side ladder and dropped back to the running board.
"Good idea, but I will have to hang on to one of the corners. I think I can brace my legs on the sand dispenser, but if the truck veers at the blockade I might get hurt."
"Forget it. Move Harold to the middle position. If you see anyone moving up on you from the rear, honk three times and pull to the left so you can use the truck as cover. Gabriel, if trouble comes up from behind pull slightly to the left. Shoot from behind the truck. Okay. Let's keep the speed down and stay close together." Will dropped to the ground and ran back to Harold. Harold pulled his truck up and pulled in front of Will's truck. "Keep the speed down to 25 miles per hour. If we get hit from behind, stop immediately."

The convoy crossed the bridge and slowly wound their way up 6th Street to the Main Street intersection. Frank's stomach was in knots. This was the intersection he dreaded. When they crossed, they could see a number of men out in front of a bar with their truck parked out front. The men looked up from a block a way and waved. Another raised his rifle and gave a rebel yell. Juan and Frank waved back. Neither one of them made a comment. Juan made a slow right hand turn on Pine Street, and the other trucks followed. He looked back at the last truck in the mirror, and then he looked ahead to the Safeway parking lot. At least a half a dozen trucks were idled, and men were outside taking a break. Frank instantly recalled Hemingway's famous quote, "Everyman is a captain in calm seas." He could see guns leaning up and across tailgates as the men sat eating and drinking.

"We're going to take them out, Juan. But we are going to wave and smile as we do it." Frank leaned out the broken window and gave a loud rebel yell and raised his clench fist. He could see men waving and pointing in their direction. "Juan, stay close to the building. I can already see that Will is drifting to our right. Wave at them, Juan, and then floor it!

Just as the AR-15 jumped in his hands, Frank thought to himself, "Don't flock shoot. Pick one target and take him down. He did just the opposite. He sprayed across the group from left to right. He was still holding down the trigger on an empty magazine when Juan slammed into the first truck, which in turn slammed into another truck. He looked out the side window to see three men crushed between two trucks, and then he realized that he was squeezing the trigger so hard that his finger ached. He reached to the floor and grabbed another magazine. The roar of the truck and the screeching sound of steel scraping and pushing upended trucks was deafening. After the initial impact, the truck slowed, but Juan kept pushing trucks to the side at 20 miles per hour until they reached the other end of the parking lot. "Stop the truck!"

Frank jumped out of the truck. Anyone with a gun in his hand, he shot. Men were running down the street. The other two snowplows pushed trucks and cars to the side until they too came to a stop. Many of the men in the parking lot were unarmed with their hands in the air. "Turn around and run. If you look back, I'll shoot you!" Frank yelled. Men began running in all directions. When Juan and Frank got to the back of their trucks looking for a target, they could see Will and Gabriel advancing on a group of men huddled by the entrance doors to Safeway. The carnage was sickening to Frank. At least four men were badly wounded and calling for help. They would never survive. No one would be available to perform surgery. Harold was still firing his 12- gauge shotgun at the men fleeing unarmed from the parking lot. "Hold your fire!" Frank yelled. Harold sheepishly lowered his shotgun and walked over to the other four men who stood guarding eight or nine men at the door.

One of the men defiantly stared at Frank. He was a biker. He had a bandana wrapped around his head, a drooping mustache and tattoos running from his exposed chest up his neck and across his baldhead. He was a tall man and overweight. "Will, I want you to aim at this man's heart. If he so much as flinches, take him out." He looked at the man. No emotion or fear registered on the man's face. Frank stepped to the man's left so he would be out of the line of fire should Will squeeze off a round into the man's chest. "Turn around." He thrust his gun barrel into the man's chest, and the man slowly turned around. Hold out your arms. Now, if you want to live to see another day, do as I tell you. I am going to put a .45 in your hand. When you take it, I want you to lift your arm directly over your head. Then you are going to go out through the parking lot and finish off each of the dying men."
"Jesus Christ, Frank. This is going too far."
"They don't have a chance. Some of them will suffer for days, and all because some wanna-be-warlord fired them up." He addressed the man with the raised arms. "If you think they have a chance of living, let them be. Every move you make will be slow and deliberate. If not, you'll have bullets ripping through you before you can ever find a target."
"Fuck you. Do your own dirty work, Asshole."
"You're right. I'll start with you." Frank pushed a lever with his thumb and the barrel slammed forward driving a bullet into the chamber. He pushed the safety off and stepped back.
"Ok, I'll do it," the man said calmly.
Frank pulled back the barrel ejecting a shell that fell to the asphalt. Carefully, he placed the gun in the man's right hand. "Bring it up slowly." The man walked over to the first wounded victim. He slowly lowered the gun and flipped the lever forward. The arc of the gun pointed at the man's chest and he pulled the trigger. Keeping the gun at his side he walked from one wounded man to another pulling the trigger when they were a few feet from the gun's barrel. He never assessed their wounds. The blood flew up covering his pants and his body. When he was finished, he walked back to Frank with the gun held high over his head. The man still kept a blank look on his face, but his eyes revealed the hatred he felt for Frank.

Frank calmly looked at him and said, "Turn around and keep the .45 straight up in the air. Lean into the wall with only your right arm. No. Keep the .45 in your right hand. Keep your left arm behind your back. Now step back. Step back further! Now work your finger out and away from the trigger. Will, are you ready to shot this bastard if he tries anything stupid?'
"Yeah. I'm ready."
"Juan, Harold, get these men to move over further. Frank kept his eyes on the man, and he could hear the prisoners shuffle further out of range. He stepped forward and removed his .45 from the man's hand and stepped back. "Turn around." The man turned around and faced Frank. "Juan, take my rifle."

"Now, turn your head and look and see the poor bastard that you missed." Frank pointed to an overturned truck. See that man who is struggling to pull himself free of that overturned blue Chevy, you missed him! Keep an eye on him, Will." Frank walked over to the man. He was barely conscious. He was missing an arm, and the blood pooled beneath his torso. When the wounded man looked up into Frank's eyes, he saw the muzzle of a gun. He never heard the shot. Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a new clip. He hit the release button and the clip slid out the bottom of the handle. He slammed in the new clip, pulled back the barrel, slipped off the safety switch and walked back to the man who still stood with his arms raised.

"I am going to ask you two questions. If you answer them, you walk free. Who is your leader and where is he?" The man pulled in his cheeks when the top of his head blew off. The spit that had formed in his mouth ran down his chin as he slowly collapsed backwards. "Let's get going. We have a blockade to run. Everyone check your weapons to make sure you are loaded. Harold, we don't have far to go so I want you to take up the rear position again. Gabriel, as soon as we crest the hill, gun it, but make sure you can make the turn. Don't waste too much ammunition. I don't think we will need to do much shooting. This was their staging area." Frank had been right. When they crested the hill, the men stationed behind the trucks started scattering as Frank laid down a barrage of fire. Juan aimed the big truck's parted blades in the center of a gap between two trucks. The two pickups bounced to the side and then were catapulted again when Gabriel collided with it. When they pulled into the station, they found the semi loaded and heavily armed men guarding it. In the parking lot next to the semi were three M-60 machine guns and boxes of metallic link-fed rounds. Going out of town would be easy Frank thought.

A consensus quickly emerged as to how the convoy would be staged. Two snowplows would head for Chiloquin with the semi between the two snowplows. Each of the two snowplows would be armed with an M-60 machine gun. Few shots were fired when they cleared the barricade. Frank peeled off from the convoy. Gary followed him with two patrol cars armed with automatic weapons. Frank had reviewed the plans with Juan and Will and the two ranchers. The weapons would be unloaded into the Chiloquin High School, and then Juan and Will would return to the ranch in Bonanza. Frank and Gabriel would take the other snowplow and head out to help defend the command station at the fair grounds. It was dark now and Frank was puzzled that the gunshots were subsiding across the city. When he got to the command center, he found that the siege was over. The small group of dedicated law officers emerged from the command center. Frank gave Gary a salute and motioned for Gabriel to head for the ranch. They stopped at his father's hardware store. Frank fired up the coach and followed Gabriel to the ranch. He had a lot of explaining to do, but before he followed Gabriel out the lumberyard gate, he went to the bathroom and heaved his guts. He wiped his mouth and looked down at his hands. They were not shaking. He had a lot of goods and a lot of people to move and a short time to do it.

Chapter 9
Blood Brothers
2025

Since spring Everett had been working out of the former Wilson's Cottages up on Annie Creek, along with three other range riders, an old sheepherder named Pedro and their surly cook. They watched over the cattle and horses and mended the miles of fences and gates that had previously been six or seven separate ranches. The previous evening one of the youngest workers at the Resort Ranch had been sent to relieve him. Everett's name had been drawn in the lottery for a two-month stint as a border guard. Everett saddled his horse the next morning and slipped him a carrot before swinging up into the saddle. He had long looked forward to this day. It was a milestone in his life, and he had been preparing for it since he was fourteen. The young man who replaced him stood outside one of the cottages taking down a halter from a peg. Everett spun his horse around to face the young man. "Hey, Todd, you're going to get all the shitty jobs. Just do them right and keep your mouth shut and you'll do fine. Marcus will ride you hard for a couple of days, and if you don't whine, he'll ease up on you."
"Thanks, Everett. Good luck on border patrol. From what I hear you're the one who is going to get the shitty jobs. Probably more so since you're related to the Boss!" I hear you will be on duty with your brother."
"Yeah, it will be my first tour and his third. I know he will have some dirty tricks to play on me. See you in sixty days." Everett swung his horse out on the old highway. He thought of young Todd. He had been assigned to the Resort Ranch from the orphanage last year at age fourteen. He had been spending the summers on the ranch since he was twelve, and everyone liked him. He thought of his own assignment.

At age fourteen, Boss had assigned Everett to the Resort Ranch in Fort Klamath. From the time he had been a little boy, he and his brother had lived at the Border Patrol Ranch. Since Boss was rarely home, Hank became the caregiver and surrogate parent. When Hank joined Boss on the trail, he and Jacob had been dropped off at the Resort Ranch, while his brother had been dropped off at Nicholson Road Ranch. When he turned twelve, he and his brother had been assigned to these same two separate ranches, which were a few miles apart. Everett thought of all the trouble he and his brother had caused through the years. Boss was constantly being summoned to a ranch meeting when either he or Jacob would just leave and walk two miles to visit his brother. Both boys knew how to work, and they would work together at whichever ranch they were at. In time the two ranch foramens gave up chasing down the missing boy. As they got older and immersed in their work, the two boys settled into a routine of rotating the visits on Sundays. Everett had fond memories of growing up on Agency Ranch with his brother and hank and Jim. The Agency Ranch hosted the Border Patrol facility, and Boss was in charge of both.

In the old days Everett's home ranch had been the Crater Lake Resort. Offering a number of teepee style cabins, the resort abutted the rodeo grounds. The Alliance assigned all of the grazing lands of Annie Creek for summer pasture. Everett turned in his saddle to look back at the obscured cottages nestled in the aspen grove alongside of Annie Creek.

He reflected that the timing couldn't have been better. It was mid June, and when his name had been drawn from the big fruit bowl at the monthly drawing in the dining hall, he had finally been picked as a lineman, eight months after his eighteenth birthday. Best of all he would avoid the back breaking mowing and stacking of hay from early morning until supper at seven. As a lineman he had new status. He could select any of the ranch horses that he wanted for his personal mount. He would stay with the big paint. He reached down and patted the horse on the neck. He had trained the paint for three years, and although it wasn't his and belonged to the ranch, he broke the rules and adopted Rusty within a couple of months after he was foaled four years ago. He had made a claim on something that wasn't his, but no one seemed to mind, and certainly no one protested at the ranch meetings. He had a seven-mile ride to Resort Ranch and than another six miles to the Border Patrol Ranch. He would stop at his home ranch to check in with the foreman. From Annie Creek to the Border Patrol Ranch was only a three-hour ride so he would most of the afternoon free to hang out with his brother and Hank. Carving its way down a red-rimmed canyon from Crater Lake National Park, Annie Creek meandered across an alluvial plain dotted with pastureland and islands of aspen and cottonwood. From the first time he had seen the gateway to the park as a young boy, he had been drawn to Annie Creek. "Come on, Rusty, we've got a new job ahead of us."

He had been to the Lineman Headquarters many times since he and his brother's departure at age twelve. What was different this time was that when he arrived he saw his name on the duty roster posted inside the mess hall. Early in the building's history the facility had been an Indian Agency Headquarters. In time it passed to private hands, and then it had become a charter school. The buildings had seen better days, but they were still comfortable enough for the men. Because it was a male bastion, the ranch had attracted a lot of old cowboys, who had shied away from being assigned to a ranch with women and children. They became permanent workers on the ranch supporting the men who would ride border patrol. The Boss had greeted him on his arrival and assigned him a bunk. He gave the boss a big hug, and the two men briefly caught up with events since the last time they had met. Everett looked at Boss and thought that he had hardly aged through the years.

He picked up his bedding and some personal supplies from the supply clerk. As instructed, he had traveled light with only one change of clothes, rain gear and some personal items. Many of the men who trickled in that first day he knew from surrounding ranches. They met in small groups and treated him just like one of the regulars. As a first time Lineman, he knew what was in store for him in the initiation phase. Some of the young veterans that he had spoken to had been quite disappointed in the lost emphasis on the initiation of first time linemen. Others were quite happy to see the tradition of hazing lose some of its former intensity. As the years passed, the general tension eased and the men had less enthusiasm for breaking in a novice.

The one exception, however, was Crazy Bill, who was so unpredictable that he would ignore a new lineman from one ranch only to pick and bedevil another to the point that sometimes one would break down from the pressure and be excused from duty. As he lay on his bunk waiting for the supper bell, he watched the new replacements arrive and the Linemen trickle in, gather their personal gear and prepare for the ride back to their home ranches. Their 60-day stint was over, and they wasted no time getting ready to head back to their home ranches. Most would ride back to their home ranches the next morning. No ceremony marked the changing of the guard. Everyone knew the routine. Thirty men looked over seventy square miles. They worked in pairs two days on and two days off. Even Everett had been familiarized with the routine one week a year since his fifteenth birthday. They had been Junior Lineman, and they had spent two weeks during the summer training, tracking and visiting every line shack in the valley. Now he was eighteen, and he would be joining his brother for his first tour of duty.

As he lay on the bunk looking at the arms rack in the center of the bunkhouse, Everett couldn't help glance at his bunk number and than the corresponding number nine on the arms rack. In the center of the large room between the wood stove and a large table, the 30-06 rifles were standing up in a wooden rack with a revolver tucked into a holster that hung from a hook. At the base of the rifle stock, two boxes of ammunition had been arranged next to the rifle stock. The boxes were worn and the letters faded. Some of the boxes had been taped. Each box had an inscribed number that matched the arms and the bunk. Prior to leaving for their home ranches, each Lineman had to return all supplies and arms to the supply clerk and account for every bullet, rifle, revolver and binocular. Tomorrow morning he would be an armed Lineman.

A piece of chink from between the logs bounced off his pillow. He turned just in time to see his brother Jacob duck below the trailing blanket on the top bunk from down the row. "Hey, you bow-legged dingaling, whad you do, sneak in the back door. Jacob, a tall, lanky youth, crossed the bunks that separated them. Known as one of the best wranglers in the area, Jacob had been walking bowed legged long before he broke his first horse. At 19 with his reputation cemented, no one kidded him anymore about being bow-legged but Everett. The two brothers shook hands in the manner that they had done years ago with Boss around the campfire. They were brothers bonded in a blood ceremony. They tussled a bit and threw some feint punches.

"Hells, bells, the foreman had me working past noon," Everett said. "One of our cowhands rode in this morning and said about a dozen horses were missing from the herd. What's really weird is that Tom and I spotted the horses a few days earlier grazing north of Nicholson Road, where they always hang out. Todd was pissed that I had to report today. It just don't make sense. We haven't had a play on Alliance stock in years. It better not be that Brownsboro bunch over the pass, or there's going to be hell to pay."

"I doubt it. They might drift into banditry once in a while on the travelers, but they're not stupid."

"Yeah, this being my first duty cycle, I figured I'd better not piss off the Boss by being late," replied Everett. It's really good that we finally got drawn together. It's too bad what you said about not volunteering to partner up on the same Line Patrol."

"If we're lucky will get the same day off. Boss is usually pretty good about those requests."

"I can't believe this is your third duty cycle. I think Carol must be dropping in more than one slip of paper in the cookie jar with your name on it."

"No shit!" said Jacob. "After my second tour I shot my mouth off that I didn't mind the duty at all. Told Todd and Carol that I would probably apply for one of the permanent positions if one comes available. It sure looks suspicious me getting drawn three time in a little over a year, but any time away from Peterson and Brogan is a real treat. Hey, there's the dinner bell. Boss will give out assignments. I just hope that I don't get guard duty up on Sprague River with the tribe. Last time Charlie and Daniel pulled me off my assignment chasing down a bear. Charlie's dad, who is the head honcho for the tribe, caught us and gave me a simple choice. I could break horses on my days off or he could give Boss a report that I was AWOL. Man I worked my ass off on those mangy critters."

"Yeah, I'll bet you're hoping for the Hagelstein assignment. I saw you mooning over that new girl, Sally, at the dance at Williamson River."

"If I did get that assignment, and I got you for a partner, there would be trouble with a capital T if my little brother decided to get competitive."
"Well, if you recall, I danced with her just as many times as you did, maybe more."
"Yeah, but who walked her back to the shuttle wagon and got a sweet kiss?"
"Bullshit. You were too busy sucking up to the Scrounger trying to get some hooch."
"Maybe, little brother. Maybe it was a dream, and just maybe I fluttered a young ladies heart. Come on. Lets go get some steak and spuds, and no matter what Boss says about initiation, your ass is grass."

As they two men stepped out of the bunkhouse heading for the chow hall, they were met by Boss, who had just crossed the small footbridge over the creek. The spring fed creek, no deeper than a foot and four feet wide, separated the mess hall from the other three buildings. For all of his reputation as being the Boss and the Enforcer, from a distance his stature and build would command no attention from a passerby. Moving closer the chiseled and weather beaten face of the boss showed little signs of laughter or amusement. Perpetually squinting, he had sharp features. His small nose had been broken, but it was barely noticeable. His brown eyes where piercing but not threatening. He had a sharp chin that ran straight back to his throat without a hint of sag. He kept his lips drawn tightly until he smiled, and then you could see an even row of teeth with a few exposed gaps off to the side. His muscled chest matched his large hands and wrists, but when he reached out and shook hands with the two young men, Everett noted that his hand shake had never varied from the time Everett was a little kid until now. It was firm but always friendly. In fact, it was the only time that the Boss seemed to smile was when he greeted someone and shook hands. His flat stomach and strong arms gave him the appearance of someone who easily took command. Everett noted the Boss' attire. No matter how dirty he got on the trail, his shirttail never fell out, buttons never came undone, and his clothes never seemed to acquire that worn look.

"Well, Jacob, Everett, looks like you'll miss the opening ceremonies, such as they are. Seems like your home ranch lost some valuable Alliance horses yesterday. Your ranch foreman wants you and Jacob to head up to Sevenmile Creek and scout the area. It's doubtful they would have gone west into the timber, but that's what he wants. They're working two men tomorrow morning from the ranch. I want you two to head out right now and camp tonight at Blue Springs. Apparently, they spotted some wolf tracks and think they may have scattered that bunch above the West Side Road. You've got about eight square miles to find them. We've notified the Four Mile Ranch just in case they get by you."

"Ah, Boss, can't we wait until the morning? This is Everett's first assignment. I promise I won't let him get drunk at the campfire, and we'll be on our way before sunrise."
"Sorry boys. We don't want to take any chances. Now, you two men are two of our best trackers so I am giving you a direct order. If you spot drivers, I want one of you to head to the nearest ranch and get word to me as fast as possible. I want the other one to hold way back and leave a good trail and good messages like I taught you. Pick up your weapons and your bed rolls, and Hank will have some hot beef sandwiches for you to eat on the way up there, along with some full saddle bags."
"Boss, what the hell is going on? We've had wolves split a herd before, but they re-group."
"Don't get your imagination fired up. We haven't had a rustling in four or five years, not counting the squatters. My guess is that you will find them up the Sevenmile Creek drainage in that pastureland above the old Miller Ranch. Keep an eye out for the other boys who will be working their way south to join you. Now, having said that, keep a sharp eye for any sign of trouble. I could be wrong. And don't take your time. I've got a lot of work lined out for you two in the next 60 days. Head on down to the barn first. Hank wants to see you. He's still trying to spoil you two. My guess is that your horses will already be saddled, and he'll have some goodies tucked away in your saddlebags." The two boys crossed the footbridge and waved back at Boss. Boss smiled at the two of them and raised his voice. "And don't be getting into any trouble like you usually do!"

The boys returned to the bunkhouse and gathered up their assigned arms and ammunition. When they reached the barn, they found Hank busy saddling their horses. In addition to their blanket rolls and saddlebags, Hank had a daypack for each of them. He looked at the two young men who stood in front of him grinning. "Boss says that I spoil you two, and I suppose I do, but this is no picnic you're going on. I've got a bad feeling about this. Boss doesn't want to alarm you and get you so uptight that you can't read sign, but he also doesn't want you to lackadaisically walk into trouble unprepared. Here he comes. I ain't said nothing."

Boss walked into the barn. "I figured I had better fill you in on some events that have been taking place lately, even though I am sure those horses are causing alarm for no reason."
"They're no longer boys, Jim. If you're going to send them out to do man's work, then by God they should know everything they need to know," Hank said. The two young men looked at each other and then looked back at Boss.
Boss pushed his hat back and rubbed his forehead. He looked around the barn. "Let's go over there and grab a hay bale to sit on. Seems like I never have much time to sit down. You're right Hank. I have been thinking about it all day. I never thought I'd be picking two of my own to go on an assignment like this, but I also know that I don't have a lineman here as experienced and prepared as you two." The men sat down on the hay bales. "The Central Alliance Committee has been secretly negotiating with No Face in Tulle Lake through his emissaries. We have no intention of withholding information from the Alliance members, but at this time we really don't know who we are dealing with or what he truly wants. I've told the committee what he wants and what we are going to have to do, but so far no one is listening to me. We don't even know what his name is, but we know that he is ruthless. The closest anyone has got to him is the Scrounger and his wife a number of years back. Frank says that he got a good look at him, and Marie was too far back in the store to make out any feature, although she is certain that the man who spoke to them was not the man in charge."

"We've already lost two men who tried to infiltrate their territory last spring. They left one of the men hanging from a tree out at the junction of the West Side Road and Highway 140. We found the other mutilated body in the middle of the highway out by Hank's Marsh." Whoever this man is he has built a small empire from Malin to Tulle Lake through terror and starvation. Maxine says it's a feudal system, and he is operating it like a warlord. I guess we're like separate tribes warring against each other from across a river. Neither the Alliance nor their side has the manpower or resources to control Klamath Falls, so we have been having some deadly skirmishes for years fighting over that bone yard."

Everett spoke up. "Yeah, the rumor mill has been really going to town at our ranch. People are saying that war is inevitable. We know for a fact that the Scrounger and his wife still sneak into K-Falls sometimes because we have seen them heading out with their wagons and armed men."

"Well, for the Scrounger it's personal. He declared war against them from the beginning. He refuses to come to the Central Committee meetings. He is an independent and stubborn, but he is fearless and smart. I'll give him that. I've worked with him a number of times, but until the Alliance declares war, he is free to do his own thing. He made that agreement with the original founders at the very beginning."
"Jim and I have supported him from the beginning days, but no one was in the mood to fight against this man when the whole world was dying. Now we're looking at an enemy that is ten times stronger. A starving rat scurrying across a field in Merrill sends up an alarm all the way down to Tulle Lake. Some say he is the ghost of Captain Jack."
"Boss, do you think these guys are probing our defenses?' asked Jacob.
"We've both been playing that game for a couple of years now. But we have been on a year-old truce while we negotiated."
"Which ran out last month," added Hank.
"There's been a lot of grumbling at our ranch," said Everett. "We think the Central Committee is overstepping their bounds by not keeping all the ranches informed."
"Yeah, we're aware of that, but most of the time we don't know what the hell is going on either. Every time we make a compromise, they up the ante with more demands, said Jim."
"Our ranch wants to make a proposal that we use carrier pigeons throughout the Alliance ranches," said Jacob. "Boss, did you know that our Phillip exchanges pigeon posts with Garvey over on the Goose Bay Ranch every day?"
"Yes, we think it is a good idea. It will be voted on at the big assembly at the Fourth of July Picnic. We are finally beginning to realize that we are not as defensible as we thought. We're even considering setting up signaling towers using Morse code," said Boss. The afternoon quiet was replaced with the clanging of a large bell. The two young men said nothing and looked to Hank and Jim.

"That's the assembly bell," said Hank. "We don't hear it often, but when we do it ain't good news."
"Jesus, what now," said Boss. "Hank, raise the red flag and catch any of the guys that are heading home early and tell them they have an extended tour until we know what's going on. Everett, mount up and head down to the river. We got a number of linemen who are fishing on their day off. Don't worry about finding everyone. Fire three shots when you get there and head straight back to the dining hall for an assembly. Jacob, go meet with the cook and tell him you and Everett will need three to four days of provisions for after the meeting."

*****

The replacements filed into the dining hall and mingled with the men who had arrived from their assigned stations. The assembly bell rang outside. The mood inside was somber. As the men took their seats around the tables, conversations quieted when the boss turned from the maps on the wall and approached the pine lectern. "Gentlemen, we just received word from the Alliance Committee from a courier, Jack McGrady. Most of you know Jack, and in a few minutes I'll let him bring you up to date on the emergency we are facing. The letter he has delivered from the committee authorizes me to divulge all the information that I have regarding our negotiations with the warlord in Tulle Lake. Essentially, we are at war as of this morning. Although I was aware of some of our Alliance seniors starting a pigeon exchange program between Hagelstein Farm and Williamson River ranch, I had no idea that it was already in place until about an hour ago, and I congratulate the two gentlemen who went ahead and began this valuable program. What we know from the carrier pigeons is that Haglestein Farm, and our border patrolmen at Algoma have been attacked. Casualties have been heavy. The report says that they have withdrawn the attack. It seems that our tribal members showed up and counter-attacked. There is no reason for us to fly out of here after a retreating enemy who probably has already reached Klamath Falls. Jack will fill you in on the details, but first I want you to know the events that preceded this attack.
"We have been negotiating for over a year. They want freedom of movement on Highway 140 to Medford. As you know, that would take them right past Rocky Point Ranch and the Induction Center. Secondly, it would also give them access to Big Meadow, our rendezvous and trading meadow with the Medford survivors. They want a guaranteed trade agreement--their potatoes for our beef. As most of you know, we do not have a large enough surplus to trade with them and Medford farms. They are also threatening to cut off our salt trade with the coast. Without salt, we cannot survive. In fact salt has become a trade standard for all inland communities without access to salt. Unfortunately, the salt that we can acquire in this region is too toxic. And to add final insult to their demands, their supreme leader is demanding a yearly tribute." The crowd momentarily turned and looked out the window as a wagon pulled up in front of the dining hall. "A lot of spontaneous violence has erupted between their side and ours through the years. Because we recognized the futility of an open war between equal adversaries, we did not believe their leader would be stupid enough to openly attack us."

A middle-aged man rose up from one of the back tables by the door. "Jim, when we were recruited, we were told that the Alliance had natural, geographical barriers to protect us. It was a God damned lie! My family and I were one of the first travelers that were recruited. Six months later I lost my entire family to the Ebola virus. Everyone in this room has suffered horribly from the Black Death, or the Black Bug as some call it. Now I am married again and have a little girl, and you stand before us and tell us that we are at war, and that a barbarian from the south just walked in and killed off our comrades, our friends. They call you the Enforcer, the Boss. I want to know why you weren't prepared, and what you are going to do now!" The man was visibly shaking with anger. He looked around the room at the silent men. Lifting his palms face up and turning his head from side to side at the seated men, he shouted, "We've got a right to know!" The man's face was contorted and red. He stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at Jim. "This man and his crew are supported by all of us. We collectively subsidize this ranch. I for one want some accountability."
"Fair enough," said Jim. He looked at the man who was taking his seat. The Boss showed no visible sign of anger or animosity as he walked over to the maps that covered the wall. "Our last census showed that we had 248 Alliance members and approximately 111 members in the confederated Indian tribes. Our new recruit count is 51. That means that we have almost 400 Alliance members. This population of men, women and children is spread over ten ranches, one orphanage and a supply depot, not to mention 70+ square miles. Each ranch has voted on how many of its members are fit for border patrol. Roughly speaking, that number is about 26% of the entire population, or to be precise 104 fighting men. Every month one or more ranches complains about the number of rotations per year each of you men have to pull throughout the year. Now, our intelligence reports has the Tulle Lake Gang, which operates mostly on forced labor, to be no more than 500, in fact that is a liberal estimate. Engaging in a war would be the end of each group's ability to survive. Justin, I know you. You are a good man, and you have reason to be angry, and I am going to try and not get defensive. Yes, I feel responsible, but in all fairness I think that the blame is shared fairly equally," said Jim.

"Bravo! Bravo!" A tall, heavily built man stepped through the door. Approaching his late 30's he was a handsome man, but at that moment he had a menacing scowl on his face. He carried himself with authority as he stepped through the door and surveyed the men. "You!" He pointed to the man who had just sat down. "Stand up. Stand up I said." The man quickly rose to his feet and turned to face the man who stood framed in the doorway. "Now, let me just say that it's a good thing Boss is a gentlemen because if you ever point an angry finger in my direction, I'm going to break it off and shove it up your ass. Now, what Frank doesn't know, and I only learned yesterday, is that our Darth Vader, or No Face as everyone calls him, has formed a partnership with a warlord from Redding. Close to a hundred heavily armed men joined the Tulle Lake Gang. These killers have been terrorizing northern California for years, and now they are coming for us.
"Before anyone starts wringing their hands or peeing their pants, you should know something. The only reason this madman hasn't attacked in full force before is because for every one of our fallen comrades, we have retaliated with vengeance. While you Boy Scouts ride around and scout the territory, who do you think has been doing your dirty work? How many spies have you shot lately? How many men have you assassinated this year? How many mutilated comrades have you buried lately?" Frank asked. And by the way, No Face has a name. It's Mel Towers. He is a gangster from Portland who owned bars throughout the state, including two in Klamath Falls. When he couldn't handle the carnage and chaos in Portland, he and his men settled in Klamath Falls and then Tulle Lake. He is ruthless. He shows no mercy, and we won't either when we capture him."

"Frank, we're glad to see you. You made some good points, even though you were a little hard on Justin. The Alliance is founded on cooperative farming and ranching. No one is really prepared for butchery and barbarism. Men, most of you know I was a marine sniper in the old days. What Frank has just told you is true. We have fourteen men who have been doing some heavy lifting for a number of years. We know that there are rumors and names for our group, but you wouldn't be farming and ranching peacefully for so long if we hadn't been working to protect the Alliance."
Justin rose up from his seat and Jim stopped talking. "Frank, Jim I apologize for my angry outburst. We all know about this group of men who ride in the night. It is true that we have a name for your group. It is also true that the majority of us would just as soon not know much about it for fear we will have to do our part. It makes me sick what lies ahead. I can't believe that we are going to continue the insanity. We'll do our part. We have no choice." Justin sat down and the attention returned to the Boss. He turned to Jacob and Everett who were seated at a table close to him. "One of you men grab a couple chairs for Frank and Jack." Both of the men returned with chairs that had been arranged around the perimeter of the dining hall "Frank, Jack, why don't you join me up front so everybody can hear you." The two men moved to the front of the room and sat down on the chairs to the right of Jim, who stood at the lectern.
"I can tell you personally that I am sick of it, and I know Frank and his wife would like to go on being our official scroungers without worrying about being shot. It ain't pretty what we have had to do, and as far as I know no one takes any pleasure in exacting payment for crimes against the Alliance. Many of you know Frank as the Scrounger, the supply manager. What a lot of you newcomers don't know is that he has been battling this bastard since 2010. Over and over again we have warned the Alliance of the looming danger this madman poses, but year after year our warnings have been ignored. I am going to turn the meeting over to Jack. He'll fill us in on what he knows. Jack."

"Sometime this morning, we had a two-pronged attack against the tribal lands in the Sprague River Valley and at Hagelstein Farms. We are now sure that the rustled horses were meant to cause alarm and shift the border patrol to the Annie Creek area. We think that was a botched operation on their part, mainly because we didn't discover them missing the first day and give chase. About ten o'clock this morning, a gang of about thirty mounted men hit the Hagelstein Farm. They came up Old Fort Road. We're guessing they sent in some assassins in the night and killed the Harry and Ben at the Bottleneck." A groan escaped from the crowd. These were men they had worked with. Men that they had been waited to arrive that very evening. "We were just plain lucky. Four young tribal men were in a hunting party when they decided to head for K-Falls to do some scrounging. They spotted the armed riders. The party split. Two worked their way ahead of the riders to warn the farmers, and the other two men cut across the mountains to Chiloquin. We had a rider come in from the tribe to give warning, but he had little to report.
"We have had three reports from courier pigeons to Williamson River Ranch. A rescue party was sent out immediately. As many of you know, the farm voted to offer single quarters for couples during the summer. The houses are spread out along Algoma Road for five or six miles. "One of the Indians, Charlie Cooper, rode into the farm and started firing warning shots. He personally picked up two of the youngsters and rushed them back to the headquarters. Most of the members were in the fields working. They dropped what they were doing and began running for the headquarters, which in some cases was four or five miles away. The shuttle wagon had already returned to headquarters, but the teacher was just getting ready to leave so he took his buggy out and loaded up some stragglers. Most of the draft horses were already working. Running Walker climbed up the cliffs at the Bottleneck and began firing at the riders when they approached. Our last report..." Jack bit his lip. His already red eyes began to tear. He wiped them and took a deep breath. His chest rose and many of the men in the hall lowered their heads and looked at the floor until Jack continued. "The killers rode down on the fleeing people and slaughtered nine workers. I don't know if my Becky is alive or dead. This was only the second year for their charter, and now they have lost a third of their start up group.
"They torched the fields and rounded up all the horses that they could and drove them back to K-Falls down Highway 97, according to our last pigeon post. I have a rider in front of me who is reporting to the committee right now. That's all I know, so if you will excuse me I am going to head back to the farm." The men gathered around Jack and comforted him as he headed out the dining hall. Boss looked at Frank and shook his head. It was a day they both knew had been coming, but it still caught the two men by surprise. Jim turned to Hank, "Why don't you find Jack a fresh mount, and make sure he has a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches. He's got a long ride ahead of him."

"Men, I am going to turn the meeting over to Frank. We've got a lot to do in the weeks and months ahead. It would be foolish for us to react now. I am sure that No Face or Mel wants us to rush right in to his turf, especially since his first attack was only partially successful. One last thing, Frank and Hank and I have been summoned to a Committee meeting along with all the ranch foremen. I'll leave it up to you to select a seasoned patrolmen to run this operation when we are gone. Follow the same routines with one exception. I want you and your partner to sleep in shifts. We haven't had to do it in the past, but it is now a requirement. In the next couple of days, many of you will want to attend funerals. We'll pull in some substitutes for you." Jim moved to the front bench and gave a motion for Jacob and Everett to move apart. He sat down between them and patted their knees, while giving his full attention to Frank who had moved up to the old lectern.
"I'm trying to think where to start. I guess I should start with my wife. When she heard the news mid day she and Vivian went to work. These two women are the heart and soul of the supply storage and armory in Chiloquin. They have been prepared for this day for over ten years. The wagon is full of automatic weapons and pistols, along with grenades. Tonight you will be assigned these weapons on a long-term basis. Keep the revolvers you have been assigned if you want an extra weapon. It's up to you. Keep in mind, however, that you are adding extra weight to your packs, and you won't always be riding.
"Our Indian Alliance members are spread really thin in the Sprague River Valley. In addition to the two or three members that are here with you now, they have what we call the Ghost Walkers. They pretty much operate like our Crazy Bill, who so far no one has seen for a couple of weeks. The Ghost Riders ride alone or in pairs for weeks on end. They are master stalkers and assassins. They have been our best spies, and so far not a single one of them has been discovered or killed. They have been as close as a half a mile to the Tulle Lake headquarter buildings. These men have been known to lay camouflaged in a wet field for three or four days without moving except to slowly stretch out their cramped legs. The tribe calls them Ghost Walkers, but in truth they are runners. They are armed only with a knife, a hatchet and a traditional spear. They have been our eyes and ears for almost a decade. One of these men, Victor or "Restless One" is near seventy. He picked up the second group of riders from Tulle Lake and followed them all the way up to the junction with the Sprague River Road. When they camped for the night, Restless One walked right into the camp and slit the throat of one of their sentries. Then he cut the picket line for their horses and scattered them. He continued his walk up river warning his people. They lost no one. They did lose a bunch of horses.
"I know we have lost loved ones and friends, but from a tactical point, and that is what I have to look at, we escaped a crippling blow. I am sure they have a party driving those stolen horses along the Sky Lakes Trail to Highway 140 and then down Dead Indian Road. From there my guess is that they will take the Clover Creek Road to Keno. Somewhere along that path is an ambush. We won't take the bait, but you can rest assured that those horses will be returned to the Wood River Valley. Now, I want to address an issue, and Justin I don't want you to think that this is addressed to you. We are at war. You men will do what you are told to do. If you want to challenge an order or question an order, you will do it in private. If you can't follow the military rule of order, you need to resign from the Alliance and leave. I know that you follow full participatory democracy on the ranches and farms and there is lots of debate and discussion, but until we are at peace again, you will be soldiers, and you will act like soldiers, and in the end the Alliance will be preserved. Thank you men, and now if you will excuse me I have to get on to Fort Klamath."

Boss rose to his feet and addressed the men. "Your first assignment tonight is to familiarize yourself with the new weapons. No one goes back to their home ranches. Dinner is almost ready. After dinner I want you to vote for one captain and two sergeants. The Committee and I will honor these appointments. Your elected leaders will have full military power to make assignments and to be sure they are carried out. Chose these men wisely. Whoever is elected captain, I want you to send couriers to Fort Klamath each morning and each evening. Are there any of you guys who has served in the armed forces?" Three men raised their hands. Jim looked across the room at the raised hands. "Before you call it a night, I want you three men to give a crash course on military conduct, and that begins with calling your elected officer "Sir." You will address the two sergeants as "sergeant" followed by their last name. Ok, men, that's all. We won't keep you out of the loop. The couriers will keep you informed of everything that I learn. When I come back, you'll refer to me the same as always - Jim or Boss. From here on out you will address Frank as Captain Frank. Everett, Jacob, I'll see you in my office right now. The cook stood at the kitchen doorway, "Grab a tray boys, dinner is served. You boys are lucky. Frank brought along two cases of whiskey. Some of you boys have never had a drop so you may want to pass."
"Yeah, right," said a young man, and the others laughed and loosed up as the talk of booze echoed down the line of men, some of whom had never tasted anything stronger than beer since many of the ranches had voted to be dry.

Jacob and Everett followed Jim to his office in the back of the dinning hall. It was a small room with a desk, two chairs and a small bed. On each side of the wall stood two bookcases that held books and memorabilia. The boys looked at their artwork still pasted or pinned to the wall over the bed. The paper was faded and yellow from where they had been posted years ago. Next door their old bedroom with the bunk beds and center table still remained the same, waiting for one of the boys to stop over and visit. Hank's bedroom was next to the boys' old room. "Well, guys, we are at the point in time that I have dreaded for years. I am asking you both to be strong and smart. I've done everything I could to prepare you two for what lies ahead. I can offer no guarantee that one or more of us won't die. Although we are blood brothers, you know I have always thought of you as my sons." The two young men nodded their heads. "Later, when I get back, I am going to assign you two to different platoons. Neither one of you will be assigned to me. We can't be distracted constantly looking after a brother. In the heat of battle your first responsibility is to keep on fighting and not get yourself killed. Then you look out for your comrades and try and keep them alive. The assignment that I am giving you for the next couple of days will probably be the last assignment you will have together.
"Frank is right. Those horse thieves are going to be working those horses along the Cascade divide in the Sky Lakes area. I want you to harass them all the way. Scatter the horses if you can, but don't go after them. Both of you know that country. I want you to hit and retreat--hit and retreat. Take one or two of the men out and then beat a hasty retreat to your next ambush site. From all accounts you will be going up against some dangerous men. Watch your back trail because one or more of them will be dogging you. Am I clear?" The two young men nodded their heads and said yes. "Jacob, you better tell Everett the rest."
Jacob looked at Everett and saw a puzzled expression on Everett's face. Sometime tonight or tomorrow or the next night, we are going to have company. I sorta of got together with Crazy Bill the last time I saw him. I told him that when he saw your name and my name on the duty roster, he was to play a little trick on you, you know like an initiation."
"I knew you'd pull some shit like that," laughed Everett. "I know you like a book, inside and on the cover. So, what did you plan?"
"That's just it. He comes and goes, usually at night. No one has seen him at night."
"He'll find you two," said Jim. "You don't have to worry about that. My guess is that he already knows more than we know about the incursion against us. Just don't get spooky and take a shot at him if he sneaks into your camp at night. Tell him the order I have given you, and for God's sake, don't worry about the horses. We can get them later. I just want them to know that when they invade our lands, they pay a price. So far they really don't have much to gloat about. We are going to reverse the tables on them. They wanted to inflict a lot of damage on us to demoralize us, to get us to strike back without planning. Give me your word you will do just as I have told you and nothing more." Both men murmured their agreement. "OK, take the West Side Road. I want you to ride all night. Take an extra mount and go up the Cherry Creek Drainage. That may or may not put them behind you on the trail. If the signs show they have already passed, then return here at once. They are sure to have two or more riders following behind setting up an ambush. You know you wouldn't stand a chance to close in on them from behind so get back here as fast as you can. That's an order Sergeant Everett and Sergeant Jacob!"

"Aw, come on, Boss," said Jacob. "We're two young to be sergeants. I don't want anyone giving me shit because you picked us."
"Between the two of you, you whipped about half of them and intimidated the rest. Besides, everyman in that room knows that you can outride, outshoot and trail better than every man in the room. You are going to be surprised at how grateful those older men will be to be assigned to your platoons. I've got to get going, guys. Give me the Three Musketeer handshake." They all laughed and clasped their hands around Jim's gnarly hand.

The two newly appointed sergeants headed up Highway 62 and made the turn to Medford on Loosley Road. In three hours they took a stretch at the line shack at Blue Springs. They watered the horses and continued on West Side Road. In five hours they made it to the road that led to Cherry Hill trailhead. On the trail they walked their horses. At dawn they found that they were still two miles from the intersection of the Cherry Hill Trail and the Donna Lake Trail, which changed to the Sky Lakes Trail. It would be here at this intersection by Upper Lake that they would find sign or the absence of sign. They changed their mounts and hobbled the tired horses in a small clearing that offered a couple of days of green grass. From their saddlebags they pulled out large pieces of tubing from old truck inner tubes. The material had slits through the leading edge. Attached to the bottom was a piece of carpet. They covered the feet of their extra horses and tied each piece snuggly to the horses' ankles, being careful to not tie them too tight, which could cause irritation or cut off circulation. Removing their rifles from their scabbards, they quietly led their fresh mounts the remaining distance to the converging trailhead. About a quarter of a mile from the intersection, they tied up their horses and moved off the trail. They advanced slowly. One of the men would advance while the other stayed behind and covered him through his rifle's scope.

"Nothing," said Jacob when he returned to an outcropping of rocks on the side hill above the trail. We can't move up the trail because they have two trail routes to take around Deep Lake. We've got to hit them here first."
"Damn," said Everett. "It's as thick as an old dog's puked hairball. Look at the downfall. We're going to get one shot, and then all hell is going to break lose. Anyone who gets past us is going to kick it in gear. The riders in the rear are going to take that ridgeline and work down on us. If they have a map they are going to know we parked our butts on the Cherry Hill Trail. We could be flanked and cut off from our horses!"
"Yeah, yeah. You're right. I'll move up the trail on this side about three hundred yards. Sure as hell, with only a dozen horses, they'll have them packed pretty tight. You wait for the riders on drag to appear. Take out at least two of them, but lay down a steady stream of fire to jump them up my way. I'll take the front riders and then run down to meet you at the horses. If they have riders in the rear we'll pick out an ambush spot back down the trail."
"Jacob, I'm not saying that I can't do it, but I feel sick to my stomach about shooting a man without warning."
"When did you ever wait for someone else to throw the first punch?"
"It sure as hell is not the same."
"These fuckers are hired killers. You've heard the stories about the outside."
"I know. Don't worry. I won't hesitate. All the years of practice with Boss shooting at those...."
"Fucking bastards," both boys chimed in together. "Not targets," laughed Everett, "Fucking bastards!"
"Well, Little Brother, it's time to take out some Fucking Bastards!"
"You're not feeling a little queasy? Not at all?" asked Everett.
"Sure I'm feeling a little shaky. You know I don't have any claim on Sally. And just for the record, I never kissed her either. All last night I kept thinking about Jack's girl and wondering if Sally made it. When I lay down the scope on one of those bastards, all I will be thinking about is my breathing and the slow pull of the trigger--just like Boss taught us. We're going to need some rest. I'll stand first watch. We'll hear clattering hooves a mile away so I will have plenty of time to work my way up the trail and find a good spot.
"You always have to play the big brother and take charge, don't you?'
"Damn straight. I am a year older, which makes me a first sergeant. Go ahead. I'll wake you in a couple of hours.
"Alright, first sergeant. Just remember we follow Boss' orders.

Chapter 8
The Founder
2025

Maxine stepped out of the guesthouse and surveyed the community of newcomers making their way to the old Rocky Point Fire Hall, which was now the communal dining hall. She exchanged pleasantries with a number of small groups that winded their way down the tree-lined lane. She sipped her herbal tea and just waved or nodded her head to the shy ones. The volunteers had been arriving all spring from California to Washington and as far east as Nevada, Idaho and Montana. She marveled that the Alliance recruiters could cover so much ground. Sipping her tea she looked at three young cowboys jostling and joking their way to the dining hall. Of the three, only one looked up and caught her eye. He smiled and tipped his hat at her. Speaking to herself softly, as she tipped her teacup to the gallant cowboy, she said, "I wonder how many Montana cowboys we'll get this year. God knows we need them." She saw Peter, the General Manager of the Rocky Point Guest Ranch, heading her way. He waved to her as he briskly walked up the paved lane that rose up the side of the hill from the marshy bay below. He was a queer one she thought. Small of stature, a balding head and stooped posture belied the commanding respect he earned from the guest ranch members who had voted Peter three years running for the position of General Manager. He was both friendly and firm. He was bright and scholarly, but he also had the reputation of being one of the hardest workers on the ranch. His best leadership trait, however, was his organizational skills and his ability to quickly bring about a consensus at the general assemblies. She put her teacup on the rail and stepped down to greet Peter.

"Maxine, its great to see you for our 2025 year Induction Assembly. So, you were here all yesterday mingling with some of the volunteers, what do you think of this year's crop?"
"Peter, I won't lie to you. Some of them look worn out, and in some cases I found really abused and scared people."
"I know, Maxine, but..."
"But you are an optimist, and a believer in collective healing."
"It is true. We have a 70% success rate at the end of each year. Maybe more last year. The recruiters did a good job, Maxine.
"Pete, I don't doubt that. Yesterday I did meet some really talented guests, but it looks to me that the quota of 50% women is slipping a bit."
"It is getting harder for the women folk to get this far without hardships. Two of the recruiters have not returned."
"Yes, I am aware of that. The Committee is greatly concerned. We are painfully aware of the danger and hardships our guests experience. Pete, things are not going real well on the other side. I'll give you a full report after dinner. But, now, lead the way. I am ready and eager to meet the new inductees. At least the "Question and Answer" session has been getting shorter each year. Between the Alliance and the Mormon communes, we are getting a fine reputation."

Peter and Maxine walked past summer homes of the past that were now occupied by skilled artisans and craftsmen. Receiving allowances and support from the Alliance, the ranch now occupied a special community of craftsmen and organizers for the spring volunteers. When they entered the dinning hall, the room was packed. This year she would be speaking to three different groups. She and Peter stepped up on the raised platform. She took her seat and looked across the room as Peter introduced her as the daughter of one of the founding fathers. Yes, she thought to herself. They do look exhausted, and she knew that some had been violated in body and spirit to the point that they looked older than their years. She noted a good percentage of teenagers and young orphan children. Many of the children seated close to the platform smiled. They had already learned that she was affectionately referred to as the Librarian, a role she had assumed when she became the first Alliance secretary and archivist. Peter broke her thoughts with, "Ladies and gentlemen, children, and all those with hope for the future, may I present Maxine, an Alliance founder, our librarian and the architect for our communal living model."

The audience broke in to applause, but Maxine quieted them instantly. "Thank you, Peter. Welcome to the Alliance Induction Ceremony for the year 2025. Some of you have been here working with the Rocky Point Induction Center for weeks, while others have only been here for a few days. Many of our recruits are still on their journey to reach the Wood River Valley safely. From the bottom of my heart, I welcome you and invite each and every one of you into the brotherhood and sisterhood of the Alliance. Most of you have had the time to participate in small workshops. Those of you who have been here for weeks have already been immersed into our Alliance culture. You already know that we are an alliance of communal farms and ranches. We have had and continue to have serious problems in developing the structure and culture of our system. But as many of your grandmothers may have said, the proof is in the pudding. Only the Mormon communities that are scattered across the West rival our successful model for survival. You were recruited because you have the skills and knowledge to enrich our ranches and farms. You may leave at anytime with clothes and provisions. If you brought horses or live stock, you may leave with what you came to us with. If you are still with us next spring, and you have a vote of confidence from the general assembly at the ranch that you will be placed at, you will become an Alliance member. At that point in time all of your livestock will be considered Alliance stock. We do not allow private property. As your recruiter undoubtedly told you, we have modeled the Alliance on some of the tenants of Marxism, but we are most closely drawn from the Israeli communal farms, or Kibbutz. Because some of you have only recently arrived, my talk will be a "Question-Answer". In the past I found it tedious to spend hours outlining our beliefs. Peter will keep up with the discussion and remind me if some major point has been omitted. Children are encouraged to ask questions. I see hands are already up, so let me begin. But first, may I remind all of you that we use first names. We refrain from titles of any kind. Please address me as Maxine, and be sure to give us your name."

"Yes, the gentlemen with the green John Deere hat. Yes, you sir."
"Maxine, my name is Jack. You said that the Alliance was roughly based on communism. I don't have any problems with that term anymore." The adults in the audience laughed and looked around to see many others smiling for the first time. "What I want to understand is that I keep hearing about democracy. I don't see any of that on the outside. How does it work in the Alliance?"

Maxine turned to Peter and said, "Peter, if I hadn't picked that man myself, I would have thought you had some plants out there in the audience to get me launched."
Again the audience laughed. Maxine smiled and surveyed the room. "Jack, thank you. In the Alliance we have 100% participatory democracy. Our guiding principle is the belief that group decisions should hold primacy over individual interests. All decisions that affect group membership are brought to discussion or debate at the general assembly, which is held each Saturday evening. Every issue will be voted yes or no or in some instances delayed for further study or consideration. Every adult member has an equal vote. No decision that affects the group's welfare or group harmony can be made by a group leader or by a committee. Majority rules, and if you are out courting, taking a nap or you decide to skip a meeting, you lose your opportunity to influence a group decision."

Maxine pointed to a young woman in the second row. "Maxine, what if it is a passionate debate that has divided the group--I'm Cindy."

"Thank you, Cindy. Most of the really controversial concerns are debated in small groups or between individuals for days. Once you are part of a group, you will come to realize that these divisive issues bring out the best in a group that knows their survival depends on cooperation and group consensus. Before I forget, I want to remind you that as a volunteer for a year you may not vote at the ranches that you will be assigned. Now, to fully answer your question, let me remind you that after property rights, our most cherished belief is that once a group decision has been made, individual protests are highly discouraged and counter-productive. Individual subordination to the group is essential to group harmony. I would be less than honest, however, if I didn't tell you that some of our members find great entertainment in these hotly contested debates. I am not a sociologist, but I can tell you that a lot of tension and aggression is vented at these general assembly meetings, but in most cases the issues are quite mundane and pragmatic."

Maxine quickly pointed to a man in the back. He had long black hair and a full beard with a hint of gray around the area of his chin. He was tall, muscular and had a stern countenance. "Maxine, my name is Richard. I survived two warlords in Portland. In the old days I was a fisherman. I liked the sea because I didn't have to be around so many God damned crazy people. What I have seen, and what most of these people have seen, is pure insanity and human butchery since the Black Days. You probably have a few of those butchers in this room. I just want a job where I can be left alone to work. I am not a violent or aggressive man, but I have had to kill a few of those lunatics when my own life was threatened. You may think your recruiters and screeners have weeded out these psychopaths, but I am not so sure some of them haven't got by you. So, Maxine, what does this shining example of humanity do to punish or shape deviant social behavior?
"Richard, I can only hope that you are not subtly referring to yourself because from here, you look like one scary dude, and yes, we have been somewhat sheltered from those lunatics that you have described, but in the first years we had to resort to vigilante mentality to protect our borders from some of those lunatics and their followers. We are neither proud nor ashamed of the actions that we took to keep this valley safe from plunders. Deviant behavior is censored by group pressure. Honestly, we seldom get those crazy people that you have described. They are weeded out early, but mostly our recruiters spot them right away. Our biggest problem in starting up a new ranch or farm is dealing with shirkers or malingerers. They are the real threats to a group's survival. The general manager usually pulls them aside and counsels them. The greatest fear for a member is to be brought up before the General Assembly and censored. If that doesn't work, and we find the person redeemable, we place them on another ranch to give them a second chance. We have had to banish a number of people. Capital crimes, of which we have only had a few, are tried before the Alliance Committee. Again, the worst sanction is expulsion from a ranch. Now, Richard, may I have your permission to use you as an example to have a little fun here?"
"Yes, Mam, I mean, Maxine. Only a woman of your stature could have fun with me." The crowd was slow to react and than guffs of laughter echoed around the steel building.
"Thank you, Richard. My point is that on any given ranch personal conflicts are inevitable, and sometimes the group may feel that a member's behavior or attitude is an affront to group harmony. Suppose a ranch, which has a number of children, recruits you because of your prowess as a hard worker. Because of your great contribution to the welfare of the group, the membership tends to ignore your swearing. Now, lets pretend that you also have anti-social tendencies. Over time, they become irritated at your gruff demeanor and coarse language. A number of good-minded individuals attempt to counsel you, but their counsel is ignored. Now here is what the children of one ranch did to modify a man's behavior. Let me add you to the scenario and change the character and plot just a little bit. During the evening discussions and Saturday night entertainments, you are barely seen. You stand in the shadows and grumble. The people refer to you as Blackbeard the Pirate. One Saturday the youngsters provide the entertainment. They produce a play, "The Three Billy-goats Gruff." Now, oddly enough the troll under the bridge had a long black beard, similar to yours, Richard. One of the first lines that the troll roared was, 'I am going to get you crazy, God-damned lunatics if you cross my bridge!' Trip-Trip--Trip-Trip-Trip-Trip! As you can see, Richard, censorship by the group can emerge in a number of ways besides the serious option of making an open complaint at a general assembly meeting. Now, having pointed out your proclivity to coarse language, I might add that I am sure that you will fit in quite well on any ranch that recruits you. Our recruiter thinks very highly of you, and we know you will be a valuable asset to the Alliance. Let's take a short stand-up break, and then I want to address the role of women in the Alliance.
***
As the crowd slowly took their seats, Maxine returned to her spot, and Peter pushed a tall stool in her direction. She sat on the stool and smiled at the crowd until they grew quiet. "If my father had had his way, the Alliance would be a feudal system, he and his other cronies would be the new cattle barons. But my father raised his daughter to be an independent thinker. I did my homework. I managed to find two books on the Kibbutz model of collective farms. Now, keep in mind that the first communal farms in Israel were started in the early 1900's. As the spirit of Zionism grew across Eastern Europe, Jews began to migrate to Palestine where they were drawn to the Kibbutz movement. Kibbutz simply means group. Influenced by Marxist belief and the importance of an egalitarian state, women demanded equality and an opportunity to contribute to the group's survival in productive jobs rather than service jobs such as meal preparation and laundry. Although all work is treated equally and no one is rewarded above another, service work typically became the domain of women and teenagers, primarily because of motherhood. To allow women to work in the fields or on the range, and to keep women on an equal footing, child rearing would have to be the responsibility of the community and the parents. Children were placed in a children's house or dormitory where they spent the night together and were cared for during the day by service workers. Parents would assume responsibility from 3:30 or 4pm until bedtime. Parents would also be responsible for the children on Sundays and holidays. Nursing mothers would be given free time to nurse their babies throughout the day. Eventually, however, most Kibbutz farms gave up the children's dormitories in the 1970's and 80's.
Only one of our ranches uses a children's dormitory, and that is our Mallard Cove Ranch. Most of the ranches do not have enough children to follow this model. Mallard Cove Ranch runs the children's orphanage so they have enough children, along with two mansions that are close to each other. The role of mothers here at the Alliance has taken a similar path as the Kibbutz model. Mothers tend to end up in the kitchen, in the sewing center and doing laundry. Everyone must do their fair share for group survival, but mothers are treated with great respect on our ranches. They and their children are the future of the Alliance, as are the orphans that we adopt. When an orphan child reaches the age of 12, the child is adopted by a ranch, but before they are officially members of a ranch, they will have spent many holidays and short visits with this same ranch.
Before I end my talk with a discussion about married couples, I want to address our belief that at this time in our new history, private ownership of land would be counter-productive and lead to a feudal system of land barons and indentured servants. Each year we are hearing reports of indentured servitude and outright slavery in California's central valley and in Oregon's Willamette Valley. We know that some of you have experienced these brutal conditions. It is the reason that many of you have found your way to our valley. It is also our belief that work should not be rewarded based on some ranking system when the most menial of tasks are essential to a ranch surviving or flourishing. For this reason, menial or distasteful chores are done collectively on Saturday. Each ranch is different in this respect. Some examples are laundry, latrine duty, communal cleaning and woodcutting.
Regarding married couples, a married couple may share a room, but married couples are not provided with houses. During the winter we must conserve wood and pack in as many people into a house as possible. In the spring, however, married couples may occupy houses that are within a reasonable proximity to the dining hall and ranch headquarters. We call this period of the year the Honeymoon cycle. Now, we want you to file out of the dining hall in single file. You will be met by the door by an Alliance trainer. He or she will count off twenty guests and take them to a nice spot where they will simulate a General Assembly. You will be role playing and grappling with the issues and concerns that our first Alliance ranches had to decide. Once you have come to a vote, your trainer will outline the collective decision made on each of these issues by our founders. The topics will be dating, courtship, sexual mores and marriage. The other topics are not nearly so entertaining. Another topic will be leadership and the third topic will be on supplies, hygiene and the distribution of goods to each ranch. I will be stopping by and visiting as many groups as I can. Please ignore my presence. Again, I want to thank all of you for becoming Alliance volunteers. I wish you the best, and my hope is that you will join us next spring. Oh, I know that you have already been told that you will be selected or appointed to a ranch at the Alliance Fourth of July Picnic, but what many of you have not been told is that you will have a great time. If you haven't had the opportunity of late to just have fun, plan on it at the picnic. Good luck!
After a loud applause, Peter took charge and lined the assembly up in a single file as they exited the dining hall. Groups were walked to pleasant spots in a communal park where they sat cross-legged in a semi-circle around their discussion leaders. The new recruits introduced themselves and gave a little introduction about themselves. Some merely gave their name and stated what region they had come from. The discussion leader outlined the format for a general assembly meeting. Maxine separated herself from Peter and quietly approached a group. Sitting down in the back, she glanced around the group and saw the cowboy who had nodded to her that morning. He caught her eye and gave her a wink. My God, what audacity she thought. After six years of mourning the loss of her husband, child and her father, she had only recently begun to notice men. Of course, she, on the other hand, had been noticed by men the entire time, but she had been almost ruthless in turning back any advances to the point that the entire Alliance knew and understood that she was off limits. She thought of her banter with Blackbeard that morning. Only at that moment did she acknowledge to herself that she had been attracted to the hairy giant. And now this.
A cowboy had just winked at her. Had she blushed? Had she smiled or had she shown no sign or acknowledgement of the gesture? She was really not sure. The position of the speaker allowed her to look at the cowboy's profile without getting caught. He was handsome and well built. From the twinkle in his eye and his easy smile, she knew at once that he wasn't one of Blackbeard's lunatics. The discussion leader brought up the first topic - sex. She was a crusty, old broad who had been a company dispatcher for a power company. Somewhere in her fifties, Maxine also knew she could just as easily be described as a lusty, old broad. A big bosomed women, and a bit flirtatious with the younger men, Maxine knew she would have no problem arousing a lively debate on sexual attitudes in the Alliance.
Shifting her weight to pull up her mother-hubbard dress that restricted her ability to shift and lean, Sally surveyed her group. Hello. My name is Sally. I was a recruit just like you four years ago. My job over the next couple of days is to orient you to our Alliance communal living practices that have been shaped by consensus through the years." Pointing to a young man who was in his late teens, she said, "Young man, I have selected you to be one of the members in our mock general assembly. I want you front and center." The young man flushed and awkwardly moved through the seated group to take a position in the inner circle. "You will play the role of a gallant young range rider, a cowboy. Yes, you will fit the part well. You are handsome, tall but not dark. No matter." The young man blushed again and avoided eye contact, as the others around him noticed his discomfort. You will not be religious nor will you take any moral high ground. In short, you will be a horny young man. You will act the part of...of a stud trapped in a high corral running around in circles and throwing up your head so your mane whips from side to side as you charge the corral fence that separates you from the mares." Pointing at a woman who was caught laughing with her hand to her mouth, Sally gestured for her to join the group. The woman threw her head back in feigned shock at being called to the front. "Be kind. Be kind, Sally. Give me a part that I can relate to easily. Nothing too challenging," she laughed.
"Challenging, indeed. You my fair-haired lady will play the role of a very religious, almost puritanical, fundamentalist Christian. Now remember, although the Alliance has strict secular rules, we honor those who wish to worship by themselves or with others on Sunday. You my dear must play the role of a strict fundamentalist who espouses the holy beliefs of the Old Testament. Argue well, my dear, because I will be your adversary. And now I need an older, matter of fact, hard working foreman type. Yes, you sir. You look the part. Join my other two volunteers up front. And now I will ask for a couple more volunteers. You-you and you! Very good. Think of a role or type of person that you will play, and at the end of our skit, I will ask you what type of person you played. OK. I will serve as the general manager of our ranch. It is Saturday evening. I open up the meeting to discuss many complaints about the issue of sex and morality. It has caused a great deal of consternation and confusion because no one had brought it up earlier. And may I add that this was a real issue for the first Alliance Ranch. May I remind you that world chaos began towards the end of 2010. The Black Bug ravaged the world in 2011 through 2012. The Alliance started a new calendar in 2011 and instead simply referred to it as year one. Most of us have just ignored it and gone on with the real calendar year. Ah, hmmm! The meeting is now open. It has been brought to my attention by a number of concerned members that there is a great deal of sexual impropriety going on at the ranch, and it is an affront to the morality of many members. We need to discuss and debate this issue without malice or accusation. In short, we need to develop a code of conduct for the Alliance." Sally leaned forward and looked at the young woman who was to play the part of the fundamentalist. "Who will speak first?"
"I will," the young woman replied. She stood up and faced the gathering. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore an old blouse and blue jeans and sandals. She was in her late twenties or early thirties and attractive, but her acting skills were considerable because her eyes were cold and she had no smile on her face. "I am not one to preach fire and brimstone, and hell and damnation. I understand the basic needs of human beings, but we evolved a morality over thousands of years. Although we have never followed it completely, we have developed a moral compass, and yes we created laws that protected women and children. We had laws that sanctified marriage and brought strength and dignity to families and communities. Sexual permissiveness undermines group unity. It divides groups. It can cause jealousy, anger and violence. Without a rigid set of practices, we could easily slip into Sodom and Gomorrah, which could threaten our very survival on this ranch. We need to follow Judaic-Christian beliefs. I am not saying we should banish those who would betray these beliefs, but they should suffer some consequence, and yes, I belief in forgiveness and redemption. I urge all of you to codify our sexual attitudes and conduct to discourage sexual relations between unmarried adults!"
"Who will speak next," said Sally.
"Do we have to stand up like that firebrand," the foreman asked.
"No. You do not have to stand if you do not choose to do so," replied Sally.
The foreman turned to his audience, but his back was to the group so he reluctantly rose up. "We got heifers and bulls on this ranch in the prime of their lives. There are some that say the world's population has maybe dropped to five or ten percent of what it used to be. I know that the second wave of the Black Bug damned near took out half of the community that I was with. I lost half of my family on the first wave and lost all the rest on the second wave. To the best of my knowledge, I have no relatives. I have only my comrades in this group. I don't know the medical reasons why, but on the outside you don't see too many pregnant women. Since we are a family here, I would like to see some more young ones here. If it takes a village to raise a child, than I would like to be one of those villagers that help to raise some little ones. Now, regarding jealousy and rivalry for affection, it has always been with us. People suffer and than move on. I think that if an unmarried woman gets pregnant and she doesn't want to take the sperm donor as her husband, or vise-versa, than we all step in as supportive parents. I for one would like to be a surrogate grandfather. That's all I have to say about it."
"Thank you," said Sally. "How about we hear from our young cowpoke?"
"Aw, do I have to?"
"Yes, young man. You have heard two good arguments. Where do you stand?"
The cowboy stood up. His aw-shucks imitation of Gary Cooper was unknown to him, but he had that same quality Sally thought. She knew he would play the part when she first laid eyes on him. My, my, she thought. This young man will be snatched up by an Alliance gal in no time. "Well, I think both arguments that I have heard so far ring true to me. I am only eighteen so I haven't had much practice, err I mean experience with women. I have spent the last four years just trying to keep my brother and my two sisters alive. In the end, I lost all of them." The young man lowered his head and wiped away a tear. I know what it is like to love and be loved. My family gave that to me. I ain't had the time or will to experience any other kind of love. I guess I would want to take the whole idea of marriage pretty seriously. Casual sex to me plus an unwanted child seems to just add on to the misery most youngsters have experienced. The children on the other side don't know nothing except pain and misery. I came to this Alliance to escape some of that misery. I would sure feel bad seeing a child born here without the full commitment of both parents, but I also wouldn't want to see a couple punished because they were lonely and sought each other out. I suppose I will have to hear from some others before I could vote."
"Thank you for sharing," said Sally. "How about one of you young women speak out."
A thin, young woman stood up. Her face was drawn tight. "No man will ever touch me again. You may be civilized here compared to the other side, but women are chattel out there, and they are more than likely manipulated here for the same results. And as for the stallion analogy, we are not animals. We learned that group censorship was a powerful tool to shape behavior. Let there be strict codes of conduct. Although I am not religious myself, sexual relationships outside of marriage should be punished." At that the young woman sat down.
"Thank you, and thank all of you for listening. Sally looked up at Maxine. She saw Maxine raise an eyebrow and smile. Let's take a vote. I know that some of you did not have a chance to speak. After the vote you will all have a chance to have a few minutes of exchange before we move on to our next topic. Since we began our discussion with a view for restricting sexual relations to marriage only, let me begin with that argument. How many believe that sexual relationships should be limited to marriage partners only? Raise your hands." Sally began counting out loud. When she reached twelve, she said, "The group has decided. There will be no sexual relationships on Alliance ranches. Unmarried mothers and fathers will be punished, which would, of course, necessitate another discussion on what forms of punishment would have to be administered. Now, let me tell you what the Alliance decision was on this issue." Maxine rose and gave a quick wave to Sally.
"Actually, our foreman here most closely represents the original views of the founders. Basically, when a man and a woman request a room together, they have announced to the group their intent to explore marriage. This period of commitment can be broken off at any time, but if the couple conceives a child, it is an announcement to the group that they have decided to wed. Couples who fool around on the side, well, that is their own business. If the girl gets pregnant and a marriage is not announced, the group adopts the child as their own. So far we haven't had but a few divorces, and affairs are rare. After all, it is pretty hard to hide any behavior on a communal ranch. Lets take a ten-minute break, and than we will tackle the less-emotional topics."
The cowboy who had caught Maxine's eye quickly caught up to her as she crossed the lawn to a group still in session. She acknowledged him with a brief smile, as he caught up to her and fell in step. "So, Maxine, as a founders daughter, how did you cast your vote on that most delicate issue?"
"I don't believe you have introduced yourself, but judging from your attire and your hat, I'd say you were a cowboy."
"My name is Monty, and yes, I am a cowboy of sorts. Actually, a fourth generation ranching man.
"No doubt from Idaho or Montana. Our recruiters have given up on Nevada."
"Yep, you guessed it. I am from Montana."
"Monty from Montana. It has a nice ring, Monty Montana. So, Monty what brought you here?"
"Well, there are not enough people left within 500 miles to share the ranch. Most of the stock froze to death the first two years after the war. After I heard about the Alliance in my travels, I met one of your recruiters up on the pass at Big Meadows. I figured my degree in agriculture from Bozeman State might have some value."
Maxine stopped. Lifting her hand to shade the sun she said, "We are lucky to have you, Monty Montana. It is nice to have met you."

Monty looked over at his group, which were assembling for the next vote. He stepped backwards while he talked. "It's been nice to meet you as well. I need to get back to my group. Say, as a founder, how did you vote on the sex issue?" he grinned.
"Let's just say I argued for responsibility," Maxine replied.
"Well, I hope I run into you later."
"Bye."
Maxine turned and headed for the next group, which had apparently moved on to the issue of leadership. Unlike Sally, most of the discussion leaders gave straight lectures followed by questions. This group respectively listened to how the group selected their leaders, how the work committee or Labor Coordinator made up the daily work assignments and how the Alliance worked in specialized craftsman and trade people like the black smith shop and the supply depot. She looked up to see Peter scurrying across the lawn to meet up with her. She turned from the group and met him. He was out of breath and obviously alarmed. "Maxine, we just got a message from Alliance Headquarters that an emergency meeting has been scheduled for tomorrow evening. Apparently we have been attacked again."

2013

Spring arrived in the valley gradually. White front geese dotted the fields. Their excited honks and calling woke other wildlife to the promises of warmth to follow. The fields were fallow and broken with the outlines of cows and calves that had starved to death during the winter. Unlike horses, they lacked the know-how or innate ability to paw through the snow in search of grass. Just before he had turned off Highway 97 onto Modoc Point Road, he had seen a small herd of shaggy horses wading through the standing water in the fields to reach the first green tendrils of spring. He slowly drove past the algae plant and the old mill houses that had been falling into decay for years. Passing the last shack, he rounded the curve and picked up speed. In the distance ahead he could see the outline of his parent's ranch. Other than the small herd of horses and a couple of straggling cows, he saw no visible signs of life until he saw the smoke rising from the old homestead. He could see the smoke rise from the bunkhouse, and he knew that what he had expected for over a year was true. His parents were dead. Pulling into the driveway in a battered 4x4 Ford pickup, he came to a stop between the bunkhouse and the barn.

Molly, his father's Australian sheep dog, had been curled up on the bunkhouse porch on an old blanket. She barked aggressively at the rattling diesel truck. When the man stepped out of the truck, she bounded forward with recognition, and then she hopped to the side and growled, all the while wagging her tail. The man crouched and opened his arms. Molly bounded into his outstretched arms, sniffing his chest and armpits. Convinced as to his identity, Molly whined and muzzled under the man's chin. Two young boys rose up from the backseat rubbing their eyes. A man appeared at the doorway with a shotgun in his hands. He leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped down to greet Mitch and Bee's youngest son. "How have you been, Jim?
"Pretty good, all things considered."
"I guess I'll get the bad news over right away. Your mom and dad are dead. They're buried in the family plot."
"Yeah, I kinda knew that all along. I figured that both of them would go together."
"I see that you've got two young ones with you."
"Yes, we lost a little girl along the way. Come on out fellows. We're home." The boys scrambled over the center console and maneuvered past the steering wheel to stand behind their protector. The taller of the two boys was a towhead and six years old. He leaned over Jim to reach an outstretched hand to Molly. The shorter boy who was almost seven was olive-skinned with chestnut hair and large brown eyes. He slid around Jim with both of his arms extended to Molly. He fell to his knees and laughed when Molly licked his face.
"No offense, Jim, but it surprises me to see a thirty-year old, single marine with two children. I guess you have a soft side that I never saw before."
"Hank, I know a lot of marines who have a soft side. It reminds us of why we fight." Jim paused as he watched the two boys playing with Molly.
"Are you going to adopt them?"
"For awhile, until I can find a substitute mother. I figure we have two little mavericks to take care of until I can find them a family."
"Jim, your dad wrote you a letter. It's on the kitchen table. I hope you don't mind, but I read the letter when I got back from Arizona. I knew it wasn't for me, but I was feeling lonely and I guess more curious than I had a right to be."
"It's no problem. You've always been part of the family for as long as I can remember, Hank."
"Your dad had a dream that one of his children was on the way back to the ranch. It's funny but when I read the letter, I automatically assumed it was you. When I got here it was a couple of months after they died. Your dad buried your mom, and then he cut fences all over the property and scattered hay all over the ranch until he probably got too weak. I found him in the barn inside a hastily made coffin. He must have been sick as a dog when he crawled in that coffin and closed the lid. I still get the creeps when I think about it. Your old man was tough as nails. He was damned if he would die in bed and stink up the house. He wanted to make it real easy for you when you got here. I buried him next to your mom. Jim, it couldn't wait. It was starting to thaw.
"Thanks. You did the right thing. I guess I'll spend some time in the house. Why don't you take care of the boys for a while? I'll come for them in a couple of hours. I'll visit the gravesite in the morning. Mind if I keep Molly with us tonight?"
"She's yours now. I've got a wild Australian male sheepdog that keeps circling the place. Each day Molly and I get a little closer to him. He is taking food from my hand, but he jumps back as soon as he grabs it. I keep Molly on a tight leash. He whines and barks and jumps all around us. He follows us back to the house, and than he just slinks away. I understand him. He wants companionship, but he is so distrusting after being alone so long all he can do is whine, run away and than return and start whining all over again. I've touched him, but not for very long. I figure Molly and I will win him over in a few more days, or however long it takes. Boss, I know this isn't the time, but I sure hope you have some plans."
"Hank, I'm not your Boss. You have as much a claim on this place as I do. I've been away for years. I never had any intention to take over the place."
"Well, you're here now, Boss. In a day or two we'll put our heads together and make some plans. Fort Klamath has an organization called the Alliance. After we lost so many people to the plague, the Alliance re-grouped. We've gone from a cooperative model to a communist model. It ain't bad though. I'll tell you about it later." Hank returned to the shotgun. He unloaded the magazine and slipped the shells into his pocket. You boys come with me for a while. I've got a surprise that I want to show you in the barn."

The man called boss reached down and petted Molly. She was watching Hank lead the boys into the barn. She whined and looked at the Jim. "Go on girl, but we are going to need you for moral support tonight." He watched as Molly bound after the two little boys. He crossed the dirt turn-around and entered the house through the mudroom off the kitchen. Out of old habit, he pulled off his boots and lined them against the wall, where his father and mother still had boots and shoes lined up neatly under the clothes hooks. He looked for his father's wool cap and coat. His father's hook lay bare, and the man realized that they would be on his father in the coffin. He noted that nothing had changed, and he wondered if Hank had been dusting. The house looked just as he knew his mother would keep it--clean and tidy. On the table he could see the open letter in his father's handwriting. He picked it up momentarily and then laid it down. He decided to just take a walk through the house and absorb the silent voices of his family now deceased. In the living room, he saw where his father had stacked all the family albums and the family Bible on the coffee table. He visited each of the bedrooms and lingered only in the bedroom that he had shared with his brother Thomas and his little brother Ben. The door to his parents' room was wide open. The bed had been neatly made, but he realized that for the first time in his life his parent's marital bed lacked a handmade quilt. He retuned to the kitchen table. The sun, low in the horizon, crested just above Pelican Butte. He pulled up a chair and picked up his father's letter.

Dear Son,

I had a dream that one of our sons was on his way home. Your mother and I are sad that we couldn't be there to greet you. I guess you are one of the lucky ones. Of course, we hope that other family members will be able to make it back to the ranch. Some people say that the Black Bug worked too well and that it was only supposed to knock out a portion of the population. I wonder how many rats they killed to figure out the kill ratio? I would have given my own life if I could have saved your mom, but she took ill first. I held her in my arms all last night, but in the morning she quietly passed away. We heard from the travelers that once a person had contact with the bug, they have three to four days to live. Judging from your mother's story, I think it is much shorter so I have lots to do. I have no fear of death. Without your mom at my side, I don't have much to live for. Yesterday rustlers drew me into an ambush up by the hay barn by the road. I killed two. I was pinned down without a chance of escape when your mother roared up in the flatbed truck. She drove out into Peterson's field where she could get behind them. You would have been proud of her. She laid down a steady, methodical fire with my 30-06 Remington. She said she wounded one, and I don't doubt that she did.

You are going to live in tuff world. I can't give you any advice. I've been attending meetings in Fort Klamath. We are forming a cooperative alliance. So many of the ranches in the valley are owned by corporations and out of state owners that we have decided those lands will be common lands. For so long we thought we were immune from the black bug. We quarantined the entire area, but it slipped in amongst us. By now we probably don't have an alliance. Do whatever ya hav to do to stay alive. I wish that I could get everything out of my heart and into this letter. Your mom tried to give me some thoughts to include in this letter, but she fell ill, like I am now. We love you. Don't worry about holding on to the ranch.

Love Mom and Dad

Jim wiped the tears from his eyes and placed the letter back on the table. He looked out the window as the last rays of daylight lingered over Klamath Lake. On the mantle above the fireplace, he took down his grandmother's oil lamps that his mother kept for decoration and in times of power outages. They were filled with oil. His mother didn't like to use them because of the soot that they produced. Jim carried two of them to the kitchen where he found the kitchen matches in the same drawer that they had always been kept. He looked through the stack of candles, flashlights and batteries and smiled when he remembered how organized his mother had been. He opened the pantry and laughed out loud at the stock of provisions. Before he pulled any food out, he would check with Hank. He was sure Hank was already feeding the boys. It was a ranch custom.

When he stepped through the bunkhouse door, he could smell the canned stew bubbling on top of his grandmother's nickel-plated wood stove. The boys were on the floor petting Molly. Molly had obviously tired of all the attention. She opened one eye at Jim when he entered the room and settled back to a feigned sleep while the two boys gently stroked her. On the sink countertop, Jim could see empty cans of stew and beans so he knew he had been expected for dinner. "Smells good, Hank."
"Well, if I had known you were coming with two boys, I'd have baked a cake. I'm serious. I've learned all the tricks of heating and baking on this old stove. Tomorrow we'll celebrate with fresh beef and spuds."
"Boys and I got used to just carrying a can opener with us every where we went. We traveled fairly light. The entire back of the truck is filled with gas cans, ropes and winches. We would spend days breaking up and removing abandoned cars and wrecks off the highway."
"Where did you pick up the two boys--you said you had a little girl too?"
"You won't believe how many travelers are out there. They're like zombies moving up and down the highways and interstates. They're scavengers. Mostly they just travel alone or in small groups."
"Are they dangerous?" asked Hank.
"No, not really. A lot of them are just waiting for death to stalk them. The true survivors are holding up waiting for the smoke and ash to clear. I'll tell you this. If I had stopped to be a Good Samaritan, I would have never got home. It hurts real bad to turn a deaf ear to peoples' suffering, but after a while I just learned to blot them out of sight. I found the two boys huddled together in a van that I was getting ready to push off the side of the road. They are not related, but an older woman had taken pity on them and had kept them alive. She had been dead for a couple of days when I found them. The little girl was given to me from a dying mother. She was with us for less than a day. I buried the poor little thing outside of Bend."
"It's not much better here," muttered Hank as he ladled out the food into four bowls. "OK, boys, come and get it."

After dinner the two men cleaned the dishes. Jim admired Hank's improvised water delivery system. The two boys were tiring. Jim said goodnight to Hank. He picked up both boys, one in each arm and headed for the ranch house. Molly sighed and returned to sleep. Suddenly her ears were alert and she stood by the closed door. Hank listened for the soft whine outside. "Well, I reckon you won't run off with that rascal now that you have those two boys to faun over you all the time." Hank opened the door, and Molly jumped across the veranda and disappeared into the night. When Jim reached the mudroom door, the two boys wiggled out of his arms, eager to explore their new home. The oil lamps cast a soft glow across the living room. He blew out the candle in the kitchen, crossed into the living room and blew out one of the oil lamps. He picked up the other one and beckoned the boys upstairs. He opened the door to his old room. After Darin went off to college and he joined the marines, his mother had made the room into a guest room. The two single beds were made. They were covered with his mother's quilts. Draped over the foot of each bed was another, smaller quilt. "Ok, Boys, get out of those filthy clothes." Jim quickly checked under each of the covers to make sure rodents hadn't made a home. "Hop in, guys.

The two boys jumped under the covers and pulled the blankets and quilt up under their chins. "I never asked before, but did either one of you used to say prayers before you went to sleep?" Both Everett and Jacob shook their heads.
Jacob spoke up. "My Nana used to say prayers. I used to say them with her when I stayed over at her house. I don't remember them....Yes, yes I do. Now I lay me down to sleep...to sleep...."
"I pray the Lord," Jim interjected. The two boys joined in repeating him. "My soul should keep. If I should....Let's stop there," Jim said.
"Jim, why do people pray," asked Everett. "My mother and father didn't believe in a God.
"Well, people pray for hope and forgiveness, and they pray for guidance. Most of all they pray that God will protect and look over the ones they love."
"Do you pray, Jim?" asked Jacob.
"I used to. Maybe I will pray tonight. This is my home. You heard Hank say that both of my parents died from the Black Bug. Looks like you and Hank are the only family that I have now."
"Are you going to be our Dad?" asked Everett.
Jim paused for a moment. He had been asking this question himself. Standing between the two beds, he looked down at the two boys and smiled. "I don't think that I can be your dad. I am going to be gone a lot. But I will be your big brother, and I will look after you as long as I live. How's that?'
"Right on!" said Everett.
"Yeah!" said Jacob. The two boys reached across between the two beds and slapped their palms together. Jim laughed, and then he became serious.
"Do you fellows remember your parents?" he asked. Both boys quietly nodded their heads up and down. "Tonight I am going to remember my mom and dad. In fact, I am going to sleep in their bed, and I am going to remember them until I fall asleep. I haven't cried in so long I can't remember, but I know that I will cry for my parents tonight. Now, since I found you, I haven't seen either one of you cry or talk about your parents and family. Instead of praying each night, I want you to think back and try and remember your parents and the good times that you had before the war. If one of you cries, I want the other one to go to his side and comfort him. You won't need to say anything." He stood up from the bed that he had been sitting on and reached for the lamp that he had placed on the dresser.
"My mom left a tiny light on in my room. It was in the wall," whispered Everett.
"To keep away the Buggy Man!" Jacob laughed. He looked at Everett and saw the furled brows and tight lips descending over Everett's face. "We need a light," Jim. He looked to Everett for support.
"Yes, that was in the olden days. Those little bedroom lights kept the Buggy Man back in the shadows where he couldn't get you. But you boys have been sleeping in total darkness for some time, and do know why the Buggy Man hasn't bothered you?"
"Why?" the boys yelled out in unison.
"Because in the total dark he doesn't know exactly where you are. He is scared to death that you are going to sneak up on him in the dark and grab him, so he runs away each night when the light goes out. He knows that if he gets scared and gets poopy pants he is really going to get in trouble with his mother. It's time to go to sleep. You can see my room right from here. I'll wake you up in the morning for a real family breakfast."

He pulled a quilt out of the linen closet and covered the queen-size bed. He blew out the light and said goodnight one more time to the boys. He knew it would be an emotional night, but with the door open, he knew that he would not cry. That would come later when he least expected it when he was alone. A few hours later he heard the soft scuffle of little feet. He flipped up the covers, and the two filthy, little boys burrowed into his bed. As they squirmed under the covers and settled, Jim realized that it had been a long time since any of them had a bath. Tomorrow would be a brand new day.

***

"Hey, sleepyheads, get up. Breakfast is almost ready. Hank left some temporary clothes for you on the chair in the corner." He could hear the muffled thumps of the two boys leaping from bed. They weren't shocked when they came downstairs and saw the fried eggs waiting for them. Hank had shown them the chickens and told them of the eggs the previous day. They boys entered the kitchen dressed in flannel shirts. The sleeves had been cut short and they grinned from ear to ear. "Go tell Hank that breakfast is ready. He is over in the bunkhouse washing your clothes. Never mind. I can hear him coming.
"Good morning," Hank said as he stood in the mudroom pulling off his boots.
"Good morning," rejoined the two boys and Jim.
Hank took a place at the table. The boys were fed first. They each had two fried eggs, a bowl of fruit cocktail and some Graham crackers with jelly. But they didn't take a bite until they had finished off a cup of hot chocolate. While the boys were eating, Hank filled Jim in on the condition of the valley. "As I was saying last night, our first organizational attempt was modeled after a cooperative. But when the Black Bug hit, we lost most of the ranchers and almost all of the local residents in the Oregon Shores development."
"How many people do you think are left in the Wood River Valley?" inquired Jim.
"It's hard to guess. We're getting forty to sixty or seventy people attending the New Alliance meetings. I figure we probably have another hundred here and abouts. But a lot of them are in bad shape. We get travelers trickling through the area. We've got one man that we call the recruiter. He interviews the travelers and recruits the ones that can help us. He keeps saying we need to expand recruitment, but so far we can't seem to catch up with all the decisions we have already made. We have what we call a scrounger. He and his wife have been amazing. They are like two packrats. They keep squirreling away food and supplies in the Chiloquin High School. They've got four armed guards to protect the supplies. They don't bother attending the meetings. I heard that they told an Alliance Committee that when the Alliance got their act together come and see them. So far they've been real stingy about giving anything out. But of course, we rarely need anything." Hank laughed. "Some of us keep raiding the same houses. Somebody came up with the idea to mark the front door when all the food was gone. It started off that we would write 'No Food!' Now we just draw a circle with a letter F inside the circle followed by a diagonal line. It's hard to tell how long the food will hold out. We have been slaughtering the cows and distributing the meat."
"How about the fuel supplies?"
"Some of the ranchers commandeered some fuel trucks in the early days. We've got a former accountant who is getting ready to give the Alliance a report sometime in the next week or so."
Jim spoke up suddenly. "We're going to need horses right away. I saw a bunch yesterday not too far from Highway 97. We're going after them right away."
"Well, Boss, it's hard to explain all the rules that we have made. Every decision has been posted on the walls in the old school in Fort Klamath. The one out on Nicholson Road. Those horses aren't yours to capture or claim. Actually, according to the new rules this house and ranch doesn't belong to you anymore. Everything belongs to the Alliance, and its share and share alike."
"Boys, how about you go outside and play now. Hank and I will come and get you when we are ready to take a drive around the area." The two boys went outside slamming the door. Jin winced and then chuckled out loud remembering how his mother had handled door slammers. "Well, Hank. I am going to have to put you in an awkward position to choose between me and the boys and this so called Alliance. Now, let me finish. Regardless what your decision is, I will always count you as a friend, but no one is going to take this ranch from me, no matter how good their intentions."
"I'm with you Boss. We've been spinning our wheels since most of the early leaders died. They've got some damn good ideas though. I think you should hear them out before you charge into them."
"You're right, of course," said Jim. "It's just that I have come so far and survived so many obstacles that when I hear an Alliance is laying claim to this ranch and all roaming livestock, I'm ready to take up arms."
"Boss, I think you will have to do that no matter what happens, Alliance or not. We're entering some ugly times. We have been hearing about War Lords in California and rumor has it we have one not so far away. Your father almost got killed right here on the ranch."
"When does the Alliance meet?"
"We have been meeting on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Most people stay at the Aspen Inn Motel, and then we walk as a group to the old school house. Do you remember Maxine Zimmerman? Her old man owned that big spread out by Crocked Creek."
"Yes, Maxine was a year ahead of me in school. Everybody was sweet on Maxine. What's she up to now?"
"Her father was one of the first organizers for the cooperative idea, but he died when the blackness hit the valley. Maxine was the only one who survived in her family. She has been the inspiration for the new Alliance. In fact she has run most of the meetings and keeps notes. Every decision made is posted on one of the bulletin boards. They call it the Alliance General Assembly. Issues are discussed on Wednesday. Thursday morning the issues are constructed into a motion and then the assembly votes. Anyone who doesn't show up is bound by the assemblies decision."
"What's today?"
"It's Tuesday."
"Well, let's reconnoiter the area today and show up at tomorrow's meeting."
"You're still wearing your dog tags, and you're packing a 45 in a shoulder holster. Are you going to leave them home?'
"Nope."

Jim visited the family cemetery alone. When he came back, he noted that the truck had some large duffle bags tied down, along with a tent and a box containing an axe and all the makings for a campfire. A cooler was tied down on top of some fuel tanks. The boys' clothes were still damp, but they were ready to pile into the truck that had been their home with Jim for weeks. When one of the boys opened the door, Molly exploded into action landing on the driver's seat and than jumped into the back seat. Hank drove while Jim took notes and sketched out ideas for the defense of the Alliance boundaries. Hank knew that the Boss had already made a commitment. Their first stop had been the regional forest service ranger station out on the highway. It was abandoned and unlocked. Jim went in and rifled through all the cabinets until he had all the regional maps that he would need. That night they sat around the campfire up on Sevenmile Creek. They had no hotdogs or marshmallows to roast. Hank had pointed out a ranch house that didn't have the "no food inside" message. Hank checked it out for dead bodies and then gave the signal for the others to join him in the house. They took what they needed for the next couple of days, and they found clothes for the boys.

Jim stared into the fire and poked the embers with a long stick. He was glad that Hank had thought of camping instead of staying at the Aspen Motel. The boys had struggled dragging a log up next to the fire pit. They had taken their seats. Hank reached over and handed them some sweets that he had put aside. Jim cleared his throat. "Last night you boys asked me if I was going to be your dad. I said I was going to be your brother. Does either one of you know what a Blood Brother is?"
"Ah, for God's sake," Hank muttered. "Jim, that's Hollywood bullshit. You might scare the hell out of the boys."
"I don't think so. We need a symbolic gesture so powerful that it binds us for life."
"You mean you need that," interrupted Hank.
"Yes. I need that. Did you know that I was engaged? My bride to be was pregnant. I was up fishing Crawley Lake by Mammoth when the bomb blast took out southern California. That was it. No more dreams of a wife and child. These two boys came into my life for a purpose. I know that." The boys had been listening intently. They were somewhat confused and studied each man as he spoke. "Everett, Jacob, we are going to take a solemn oath tonight to be Blood Brothers. When we mingle our blood together, which will just be a few precious, symbolic drops, we will have made a solemn promise to look out for each other for the rest of our lives. After we share each other's blood, our commitment to each other will be for life. We will be a brotherhood that will be as strong as if we were born of the same mother. Do you understand?' The two boys nodded their head. "We can do it later when you are older and understand better, or we can become brothers tonight."
"You had better explain the ceremony before they take a vote," Hank said as he shook his head. It was the first time that he had detected a weakness in the Boss, and yet he could not define the weakness. He couldn't believe that Jim would be sentimental.
"To be Blood Brothers I will make a tiny cut on my palm, and than I will make a tiny cut on each of your palms. When we grasp each other's hand our blood will flow together. We will be blood brothers. Each of us will be our brother's keeper. Maybe Hank is right. Maybe the time isn't right." He looked up at the two boys. Jacob looked at Everett and stuck his palm out and Everett followed suit. Jim reached into his boot and pulled up a knife. The blade flashed out and picked up the reflections of the fire. He reached over and stuck the tip of the blade into the embers. Without hesitation he made a slight cut on his palm. Three small beads of blood poked out from the slight wound. "It won't hurt. The blade is so sharp you won't feel a thing. The two boys stood up and faced him. With a flick of the blade the marine had made two tiny wounds on each of the boys palms before they could react or pull back their hands. "Squeeze your palms to bring up a little more blood." He noted that Hank had stood up behind the two boys with his palm extended. His knife flicked across Hank's palm bringing up a slight flow. Jim turned again to his own palm and opened a wide, flowing wound. He cupped his hand so the boys could not see the flow.

"Place your palms in my hand. Now squeeze each of your palms together. Hank, place your palm down on the boys hands. I want you to repeat after me....
"From the blood of my father and mother...
"I join my blood with my new brothers...
"We are brothers for life...and we swear to protect and care for each other until...
"Death.

"We are bonded together forever. Nothing can break this bond--not the plague, nor any enemies. To Brotherhood!"
To Brotherhood they shouted, but it was Hank's thoughtfulness that produced the first aide kit. It was Hank who washed and disinfected each palm. Hank tucked the two boys into their sleeping bags. "Tomorrow you get to explore a little town while the Boss and I attend a meeting. You can join us anytime you want in the old school house, but I suspect that you will want to play with Molly outside. He returned to the fire and watched as Jim got up and walked over to the two boys and knelt by their sides.
"Goodnight, brothers."
"Goodnight Boss," said Jacob.
"Goodnight, Jim...Boss," said Everett.

At first light Jim had shaken the boys out of their sleeping backs. He packed them into the back seat of the old truck and covered them with a sleeping bag. He wasn't sure if either one of them had fully woke up. He noted that Jacob had peed in his bag during the night, something that he had been doing since he found the two boys. Well, I won't ever make a big deal of it he thought. Hank had shrugged it off immediately and tucked the wet bag down between two gas cans. They parked out in front of the schoolhouse, which was only a few miles down the road from where they had camped. He had rolled up the windows a bit, and Molly coiled up on the driver's seat. He and Hank had a couple of hours to go over all the posted decisions, and he asked a lot of questions of Hank. The walls that had separated two of the classrooms downstairs had been knocked out. Chairs had been gathered from all over the tiny town. They had been arranged in a semi-circle. Hank and Jim nodded at the early arrivals. At 8:30 Maxine stepped through the door. She felt the presence of the two men before she spotted them sitting on the far side of the room.

Her eyes focused on the marine. He wore a marine's cap, a green tee shirt and an old field jacket that lay open. She could see the chain around his neck and the outline of his dog tags, and she noted the shoulder holster with the colt .45 flat against his side. He wore blue jeans and issue boots. The only thing out of place she thought was his haircut. It was too long, and she could see the jagged spots were he had attempted to give himself a haircut. She saw the stripes on his jacket, the square jaw and the crow marks around his eyes. From his large hands and muscled arms to his small waist, the man communicated danger. She smiled because she knew that there was no threat that would come from Jim. She had known him all her life. She crossed the room and gave him a big hug when he smiled and stood up.

"You've come at the right time, Jim. You were right, Hank. You said he was coming and here he is.
"Well, if I had come any later, I wonder what the hell else you would be taking from me. I never thought I'd see the day that a Zimmerman would turn communist!'
"Did you ever think you would see the day that the world would go up in smoke and very few people would survive?"
"No, I still can't believe it. Maxine, I've come up here to volunteer my services, but I am going to state right from the get go that no one in this group now or later will ever take my ranch away from me. If you can't accept that right now, I'm walking."
"Jim, you were never a hot head before, and as I recall you were never impulsive." She took his arm and guided him to where she sat and conducted the meetings each day. Her eyes twinkled as she looked up into his gray eyes. "Haven't you ever heard of a ninety-year lease? We gave one to old man Anderson. He threatened to kill every one of us until we offered to care for him. He can live out his days on his grandfather's homestead. The truth is that when he dies, we won't have any use of his old place. Now, I am sure Hank has filled you in on what we are organizing. I am going to introduce you to the group. I am sure you have some ideas already, Sergeant. But I want you to pitch an idea for me. We need an orphanage. I've got the place already marked out. If you champion that idea, I'll make sure that there is no question regarding ownership of your ranch. Let's just say there always has to be at least one exception to the rule of law."

At nine o'clock exactly Maxine brought the meeting to order. There were no stragglers. She introduced Jim as a childhood friend who had returned home to help his people. At the phrase "his people", Jim looked across the room and winked at Hank. He stood up to address the audience. He could see his two boys, his two brothers, framed in the doorway. One of the ladies pointed to a table against the wall and told them through signals that they could climb up and sit on the table. The two boys slid to the back wall and watched Jim. He had a commanding demeanor that even without the remnants of a uniform would mark him as a leader.
"Good morning. A few of you know me. My parents owned the Rockin' H Ranch just off Highway 97 on Modoc Point Road. I've been away. I've been a marine for almost twelve years. I've studied your model and read your decisions. My father's ranch hand, Hank Wheeler, has filled me in on your progress since I arrived home. I am going to be real blunt with you. Your model of full participatory democracy and rotational leadership positions isn't practical at this point in time. You have an idea that each Alliance ranch or farm will vote on a ranch manager, and yet you haven't bothered voting for an interim leader to get this Alliance started. I want to list some of the things that you need to do immediately. That means tomorrow. Now, I promise I won't pull a sour grapes routine if you don't buy into all of my ideas. But make no mistake, if you squander time tomorrow, Hank and I will return to the ranch and work for our own survival. Those two young lads sitting over there are my adopted brothers. If you can't make up your minds on getting to work, well, then Hank and I and the two boys will find lots of work on our ranch.

"First, I understand that at one time you had a blockade on Highway 97 in Chiloquin, one at Hank's Marsh and one out on the highway by Rocky Point. You will need some guard shacks and barriers placed in those spots a day from yesterday. Drag some trailers up to those points.

"Second, you are going to need to support me and a small number of men who will patrol Alliance boundaries, as well as man the guard stations.

"Third, I hear you have an exceptional scrounger who has already set up a supply depot in the Chiloquin High School. I want he and his wife here at next week's meeting. It's about time we stopped running around the countryside with our can openers hanging out of our back pockets." The audience relaxed. They had been waiting for a leader to emerge and they warmed to his humor because they too were tired of being scavengers.

Fourth, I understand you have a recruiter. Is he here at this meeting?" A man held up his arm. "Can you give us a quick report?"
"There's not much to report. I gave up my efforts when this august body couldn't make a decision as to what to do with my recruits."
"How soon before you can get back to work?"
"Will you feed them and shelter them after I invite them to join us?"
"Consider it done."
"I'll be out on the highways this Friday."
"Good man. I'll talk to you later about my needs. We need a planning committee by tomorrow. I will be on that committee representing security. I think it is a given that Maxine should chair that committee. Between now and tomorrow, start thinking of three or four more people that you trust and respect for this committee.

Next, we need to take in as many children and teenagers as we can support. We need an orphanage. I'll want Maxine to be in charge of that tomorrow. We also need to recruit old timers. They will be our salvation as we return to the eighteenth century. Finally, I am wondering why you haven't selected ranch sites. Maybe you have. I am also wondering why woodcutters aren't stacking cords of wood all along Modoc Point Road from Rocky Point to the junction with Highway 97. I looked at your organizational model. Each ranch will have a work coordinator or a committee to make work assignments. I expect that by tomorrow there will be a work committee, and that by Saturday we will have work assignments posted on that bulletin board over there. Sunday is a day of rest. Ladies and gentlemen, we need to get to work.

People mingled in small groups and some of them moved outside. Two men passed the table where Jacob and Everett sat. "First meeting and he's giving orders. Who in the hell does he think he is?" the man asked. "He's the boss," said Jacob quite innocently.

Chapter 1
The Teacher
2025

He was simply called, "Teacher." He had been in that role for twenty-eight years before the Black Days. He was still a teacher of sorts, but now he set up apprenticeships for young men and women throughout the Alliance. He had been riding in a buggy for four hours down Modoc Point Road. He had stayed the night at the Williamson River Ranch, and his trip would amount to almost ten miles, a distance he expected to cover in just a little under five hours. Not bad he thought. I have returned to the nineteenth century, and I am traveling two miles an hour with Betsy. He had stopped at the checkpoint at Modoc Point Road and Highway 97 and passed on news to the two young guards. He daydreamed as he soaked up the sunshine of early spring. It was said that the basin had upwards of 300 days of sunshine, and at his age he welcomed every one. He had long sense blocked out the clickity-clack of the iron horseshoes on pavement followed by muted softness as they passed over drifting sand and grass. He knew that it was silly to drive down the right side of the road, but force of habit kept him between the shoulder and the centerline. Once in awhile he would deliberately cross to the other lane or ride the fading yellow divider line, but he would soon tire of his liberation. Besides it took more concentration to defy old conventions. He was more relaxed following the old ways, the old rules of the road.

Lulled by the rhythm of the horse, Andrew recalled the last young men that he had been responsible for when he had been an outdoor instructor in Montana. He remembered the trouble that they got into, and he decided that he would leave this portion of the story out, knowing that he would have young members listening to his story after dinner. He laughed out loud as he recalled the events. It was Sunday morning when he drove up to the cabin. He could hear Marvin yell to Scott, "Get out of the bathroom. The shit is about to hit the fan." Andrew remembered walking through the doorway and surveying the room. He had said nothing. It was a trick that he used in the classroom, along with his Queen Victoria stare. It worked in the classroom and it worked at that moment. Scott could not contain himself. The silence agitated him, and he was the first to speak. "Andrew, you've got to let us explain. You didn't even let us say anything when you brought us back here last night."

"Scott, all of you need to just be quiet and listen to what I have to say. Yeah, I know some of the problem wasn't your fault, but you guys placed yourself right in the path of trouble. I know you were defending yourself, but I also know that there is no greater fool than an eighteen year-old who has been drinking. You broke our rules, but more importantly all of you showed poor judgment. No, no, don't say anything. Let me be frank. For two years the owners have debated whether or not to shut the school down. They barely break even, and the liability insurance increased almost twenty-five percent this year alone. The only reason they have kept the program is that it is good PR, and they get to pitch their club membership and condominiums to your parents when they come to your graduation ceremony.

"Now, I have talked to one of the owners of Three Rivers Resorts this morning on the telephone, as well as the chief-of-police. The charges are going to be dropped for all parties involved, with the exception of one of the local kids who was booked for felony assault with a deadly weapon. You're lucky that no one was in possession of alcohol at the time of the arrest. The charges of public intoxication and participating in a civil brawl have been dropped. However, we have a local lady judge who is going to demand a letter of apology to the City of Hamilton, and she will be sending letters home to your parents by registered mail. Although, I am not going to send you home for breaking the contract, I've got to tell you that I am really disgusted with all of you."

"Scott, you've got your entire, God Damned life to drink, and yet you had to drink until you were shit faced and then start a near riot. You've got a problem, young man. I am here to tell you that you pose a real risk to the owners and a risk to me as well, because I am responsible for you. You are not eighteen. I'll need to talk to you in private after this meeting.

"Andrew, I know I screwed up again, and I'm not trying to piss you off, but didn't you ever drink at our age?" asked Scott.

"As a matter of fact - no! I never drank in high school until I finished up with my varsity sport in the fall of my senior year. I didn't give a shit that all my friends broke their letterman's contract on drinking. I didn't, and I sure as hell didn't think you guys would break your contract either.

"Ok, it's Sunday. Monday morning I will be back and we will continue with our planned float trip. But before we launch, I will be taking you to the post office. I'm leaving this slip of paper with you with the judge's name and the court address. You will write a letter of apology, all of you, to the City of Hamilton Fair Commissioners. And you will send a letter home to your parents explaining why you were in a fracas. I suggest that what you lack in honesty and candidness in your letters home, the police report will clarify and expand. Each of you will also write me a report of what happened. I want the who, what, where, how, when and why. Spare me the apologies and the moralizing, and most importantly, spare me the rationalizations or excuses for your rodeo rumble. No report and you can pack your bags. One last thing, your report will go in your fishing journal. Assigning a writing assignment almost brings tears to my eyes. I will expect some good writing. They won't be graded, boys. See you Monday."

Andrew recalled piecing the story together later. Apparently Marvin got up from his bunk and said, 'I can't believe that bullshit. Big, fucking deal. So we had a few beers and got in a fight. Fuck it. I'll pack my bags before I write a groveling letter of apology.'"

'He didn't say it had to be an apology. He said he wanted a report,' countered Brad.
'Fuck you,' said Marvin.
'No, fuck you, asshole. You and Scott were the ones who got us into this mess,' said Brad as he stood up and pointed his finger at Marvin. Marvin bolted across the room. He towered over Brad. With two long steps, he stood in arms reach of Brad.
'I noticed that you didn't turn down the beer Scott gave you. Did you!' He poked Brad in the chest and pursed his lips.

Wayne later told Andrew that he had stepped through the door while Marvin was ranting. Wayne was about five foot ten in height and was built heavily in the chest with a small waist. Because of his quiet personality and shy smile, he never presented himself as a man who could leap into action. But at that moment they all knew better having seen him in action the previous night. Marvin stepped back from Brad who had not given any ground. 'So, Marvin, now you're going to pick a fight with Brad, who already has a black eye and bruises all over his back because he stuck up for you. Way to go big man.'"

Marvin knew he was out of line. He knew he had been in the wrong and caused a lot of problems for the group the previous night. He didn't want to cross Wayne. Even though Wayne was only a few years older than the other boys, he was still somewhat of a mystery to them. He was supposed to be their chaperone when Andrew went home, but he spent a lot of the time ducking out on them during the evening and going to an old trailer that he stayed in that was parked in the woods behind the corrals. Each night he would tie up a couple dozen flies to sell to the local fly shops. Wayne had filled Andrew in on the action in his trailer the next day. Andrew could still see the old trailer and fly tying equipment spread across the counters and table.

"Yeah, Dan, I'm in trouble with Andrew thanks to you guys. I was in this program for two years when I was in high school, and both summers none of the groups did anything stupid like you guys. If it wasn't for Andrew knowing every outfitter in Western Montana, and the fact that I want to get my independent guide's license next year, I'd say the hell with you guys and walk. I'll tell you, as far as I am concerned, you broke the contract and you should be sent home. End of story. And another thing, clean this shit hole up. I know the maids who have been cleaning up after you each day. You're not at home where if you bend over somebody will wipe your ass."

Andrew smiled to himself recalling Wayne's version. They were spoiled boys. Before he had left the boys' cabin that night, he had asked Scott to join him outside where he learned the rest of the story. Scott had told him that they heard about the fair and rodeo and naturally wanted to go to town with Wayne, who apparently had a date. Andrew could still see Scott in his mind sitting on the porch as he told his account of the escapade.
"Come on, Wayne, we're not stupid," Scott said. "We've seen you with Cindy at dinner so we know you've probably got a date. Hey, just let us ride in the back of your truck," said Scott.
"No way. I don't even know what time we'll head back."
"So do what the dorm guys do if they are inside their room making out with some hot chick and they don't want their roommates barging in cooling the romance, leave a sign on the door, or in this case on your truck, and we'll hang back in the shadows," Marvin laughed.
Brad added, "Yeah, you can buy Cindy one of those helium balloons and tie it to your antenna."
"You guys are idiots. I am not going to make out in a dusty parking lot. Besides this is our first date," countered Wayne defensively.
"This is perfect," said Scott. "If you bring us along just for the ride in and the ride back, it will take the pressure off both of you. It will be more relaxed."
"And we will get to check out some Montana cowgirls. What do you say, Wayne?"' asked Marvin.
"I know I will probably regret this," Wayne replied. "I am leaving at 7PM. You know where my truck is parked. One thing though, Cindy wants to be back around midnight because she is leading a trail ride right after breakfast. She has to get up early to get all the horses saddled. I don't want to come looking for you, and I sure as hell don't want to have to leave you behind to fend for yourselves. I want you to meet back at my truck at a quarter to twelve. Agreed?"

Scott said that they all agreed and piled into the bunkhouse. He called for the first shower. They were waiting at Wayne's truck when he and Cindy showed up. No introductions were needed. Cindy worked with the wrangler, and they had met her on a number of occasions. She was a sophomore at the University of Montana. All of the young men in the group fell in love with her the first time that they saw her. She was everything a Montana cowgirl should be. Long legged with tight Wrangler jeans and polished boots, her single braid reached past her silver-studded belt. She had probably replaced her usual John Deere baseball cap with a white Stetson. Later Marvin commented that she wasn't a 10, but that she was damned close. Scott said that Cindy was excited because two of her cousins would be competing in the barrel racing event the next day, and she was eager to see them. They piled into the back of Wayne's old Chevy pickup. Twenty minutes later they cruised all around the fairgrounds looking for a free place to park. Finally, Marvin reached into his wallet and pulled out six bucks. He handed the money to Wayne through the open window.

'Hey, cheapskate, the parking is on us.'
Wayne and Cindy both laughed. Wayne paid some old American Legion guy the six bucks and entered a private field. Before Wayne had set the emergency break, if he even had one on that old truck, the boys had leapt over the side yelling the usual stupid remarks like, "Don't do anything we wouldn't do!"
"Make sure you're back here on time," Wayne yelled out to them.
"Don't let the carneys take all of your money," Cindy laughed.

Scott said they headed for the main gate where they came upon an entrance gate for the rodeo participants. Suddenly, Scott said that had a plan, and he didn't divulging it to the group. He said that a couple of stock trucks and a 4-H float waited to be let into the rodeo grounds. The float rocked from a half-dozen junior high and high school students who were yelling and laughing at everyone they recognized out on the street.

"I'll meet you at the beer gardens," Scott said as he stepped out on the street to get around the float. Scott said he planted his rump on the tail end of the float with his legs dangling. A couple of the kids started to say something when the float lurched forward. The kids laughed with renewed enthusiasm and just ignored Scott.

Andrew remembered the beer gardens. They were enclosed with a waist high wall made of rough cut lumber painted white, surrounded a large concrete patio. As many drinkers sat on the ledge of this short wall as on the picnic tables inside. The front of this beer corral was a converted trailer with a service counter. On each side of trailer was a high wood, planked fence to complete the enclosure. On two sides of the enclosure were openings manned by enforcers. They were old. Beer drinkers were carded going in and out if they left the enclosure with a beer in hand. Discarded paper cups littered the entire area. On one side of the beer gardens was an agriculture building with booths and displays inside. Scott said that as the group approached the beer gardens, he saluted them with a large Pepsi cup filled with beer.

"What took you so long? I'm on my second beer," said Scott.
"Yeah, right," one of the boys said, looking at the Pepsi logo on the paper cup.
Marvin reached out for the drink, and Scott handed it to him. Marvin took a long guzzling drink, wiped his mouth, and handed the drink back to Scott. "O, yee of little faith," he said looking at the others. "So what's the scam?"
"Too easy,' said Scott. "You've got kids all over the place drinking beer. I watched a couple of guys just walk up to the wall and pick off some beers that were just sitting on the ledge."
"Are you drinking someone else's beer?" asked Brad.
"Yeah, right, Numbnuts, the guys at the gates and the cops watch everyone out on the food corridor. No one pays attention to this side. Follow that path to the pissor, if you want to steal someone's beer. They just leave their beers out on the grass when they go take a leak. The teen rats clean up here.'
"OK," one of them asked. "How did you get your beer?"
"Easy," said Scott. "Wait until some young guys get up to leave. After they clear the gate, hold up six bucks and ask them to buy you one beer, and then meet them over there in the corner. Tell them to just put it on the ledge and walk away."
"Six bucks for a beer?" laughed Marvin.
"They cost four bucks, and look at the size of them. It's close to a God damned quart," Scott countered.
"That beer cost you six bucks!" retorted Marvin.
"What ever. Do you want a beer or what?" asked Scott.
They agreed if Scott would conduct the transaction. He told them it would cost them seven bucks apiece. He argued that it would take a few more bucks to get someone to buy four beers. They reluctantly agreed and moved back against the agriculture building to watch Scott in action.

His first contact was two guys and a girl who were all in their early twenties. Scott approached them within feet of the old man who sat guarding the entrance. He flashed his wad from his right front pocket. The old guy must have been deaf. The two guys were playing to a single audience, the girl. They sneered at Scott from both sides, and it was obvious that some unpleasant comments were being made. Finally, the girl tugged on one of the young rednecks, and all three stumbled down through the food bazaar.

Scott said his next contact was two young cowboys. Scott handed over the money, and both of the cowboys headed back to the beer garden. Scott moved over to the corner that he had pointed out. All of the guys were drawn to the corner as well. Scott kept looking all around for police or some adult who would spot them and finger them to the security or police, but no one was paying attention. Each of them picked up their beers from the ledge. He thanked the two cowboys and watched as they returned to the order line again.

"Cheers, gentlemen," said Scott. "Let's go sit up against the Ag building where we can smell bull-shit and watch all these cow-boys puking their guts up." He said he drew out the word cowboy and placed the emphasis on "boy". They found a spot between two buildings. Scott said that it was the path to the men's room. It was only 8 o'clock, and already guys were straggling and stumbling to take a leak.

Andrew remembered how freely Scott had told his story. Scott held nothing back, and, of course, he was emboldened when Andrew had laughed out loud. "All right. We're out of here," said Scott. "But not without one for the road." He sent Brad over to a food concession. Brad bought three large Pepsi cups of ice water for a buck. When he got back to the group, Scott took the cups out of the carrying box and drained them. "You guys go take a leak, while I get our shit-faced cowboys to buy us another round. Aw, don't worry. This rounds on me. My mom slipped me two hundred bucks, and my dad slipped me a hundred when I left. I'll meet you around on the other side by the rides. Don't hang around here. I don't want to draw any attention."

Scott told him that Marvin and Brad headed for the men's room. According to Marvin and Brad, some of the urinals were broken, and someone had taped two pieces of masking tape in an X pattern over the urinals. Both were over-flowing with re-cycled beer. A drunk was using one of the broken urinals as a target; Marvin and Brad told Scott later.

"The crosshairs are too danged high," the drunk complained to his friend. He stood weaving in front of the urinal laughing and turning his head to watch his companion laugh behind him. The toes of his cowboy boots, worn from rough use, absorbed the dripping urine. A few men coming and going chuckled, but for the most part everyone gave the two drunks a wide berth. Brad was coming out of one of the stalls, when the drunk stepped back, shook himself a couple of times and tucked himself back into his pants. He struggled with his zipper, spun around, and in the process lost his balance and crashed head long into Marvin's chest.

The cowboy's head had been facing down. As he bumped into Marvin's chest, the stiff brim of the hat pushed the back of the hat up and off the young cowboy's head. Both men simultaneously grabbed for the hat, and in the process it was crushed.
"You dumb, stupid son-of-a-bitch. Look what you done to my hat," the drunken cowboy yelled. Marvin stepped back and attempted to apologize, but he was cut short. "You think this is some damned imitation?" said the irate cowboy.
"I'm sorry, man," Marvin said as he backed up.
"This is a genuine, third-generation, beaver felt hat." The man turned to his friend. "Jake, I think we ought to kick the milk right out of this mamma's boy."
"Hold on. None of us wants to fight in this sorry shit house," said Brad. The two cowboys slowly realized that Marvin was not alone.
The drunk grinned when he looked at Brad's stature. He gave a stupid grin to his friend. Marvin spoke up again. "Besides being stupid, you don't know how to count."
Marvin quickly looked at Brad and then at me. We stepped forward. The flow of people in and out of the concrete lavatory stopped in anticipation of a fight. Marvin pointed to the drunk and then at the drunk's friend. "One, two. Then he taped his chest and pointed to us. 'One-two-three!'

The cowboy called Jake grabbed his friend by the shoulder and pointed him to the door. "Yeah, we know how to count. We know how to count real good."
"No one touches my hat, asshole," said the drunken cowboy, as they exited the men's room.

They decided to skedaddle. They cut through the buildings and came out by the kiddy's rides. Scott said he saw them and walked over carrying a box of four large Pepsi cups complete with lids and straws. "Where in the hell have you guys been?" he asked them. "These are heavy," he said as he passed around the beers.

"We had a bit of an altercation with two drunks in the pissor," Marvin said.
"Nothing worth recounting," replied Brad slurring his words. Scott said they walked passed the Zipper ride sipping their disguised beers. With the crisis passed, and the relief of escaping a fight, beer silliness caught up with them.

"You touched my grand pappy's hat, you sorry-assed flatlander," drawled Brad. He started laughing so hard he couldn't finish. Sucking on his straw, beer gushed through his nostrils and he spewed beer on the dirt, as they all jumped away.
"You're as fucked up as those other guys," laughed Marvin, while Brad tried to regain his composure.
"Yeah, mama's boy, I'm going to kick the milk right out of your mama."
"You dumb shit," Marvin said. "That's not how he said it."
Scott said he was laughing with the rest of them, but it was clear that he couldn't stand not being part of the story. He told them to finish up the beers.
Scott said he tilted up his remaining beer and started chugging. His Adam's apple bobbed on each swallow, and he never broke for air.
Marvin had already anticipated the challenge and was chugging down his beer. Brad and Marvin began chugging with little success. Brad conveniently spilled half of what was left in his cup. During the whole time, Scott said he laughed heartily. "Did you like those beers? Didn't they seem a little warm to you guys? But still good, right?"

"You jerk," laughed Marvin. "I'm going to kick your ass if those beers weren't bought by the cowboys."
"Maybe they were, and maybe they weren't," laughed Scott. "Like you said, it was a lot of money for four beers. Even if they are super sized!"
"Aw, man, you've got to be kidding," Brad said. "You have no idea what germs or bugs could be left on someone's cup. Do you know how many new forms of hepatitis they have added letters too?"
Scott said he told them that "booze is alcohol, and alcohol kills germs so relax."
"I'll relax when you tell me you're just kidding."
Scott told them that he had been kidding but he couldn't stop laughing.
"That's reassuring," Marvin mumbled. Brad walked along in silence. Scott said that they walked to the end of the rides, when he spotted three good-looking ladies their age. They were heading towards the stock corrals, but not before they checked out the guys and did the usual giggling routine.

Scott said that he and Marvin reached them first. Andrew remembered that both of the boys were charmers. Scott said the introductions swiftly covered the usual high school affiliation, bands, and interests. Brad and Dan hung back watching their two friends and their lady counterparts probe each other with questions. Remembering Scott's account of their encounter with the two young ladies, Andrew thought that it was a scene that he had watched all through high school, and it still mystified him how comfortable some guys and girls managed this dance.

Andrew looked through Betsy's ears at the road ahead. She had slowed down so he gently flipped the reigns and she resumed her gait. He wondered what the youngsters at the Alliance ranches really understood about schools, especially high school, and he wondered how long it would be before the Alliance was plagued by homemade beer and moonshine.

Andrew drifted back to his recollection of the boys. Sitting on the porch steps to the cabin, he remembered laughing out loud and encouraging Scott that evening so long ago. Scott went on to say that the girls laughed and conducted their interview, as they slowly headed for their rigs. The girls were barrel racers, and they were headed back to their trucks and stock trailers to check on their horses. They walked passed the outdoor venders, past the racetrack and out into a large field where dozens of trucks and horse trailers parked. Many of the truck rigs were accompanied by campers and trailers. A line of lights stretched for a hundred yards. Under the lights the cowboys and cowgirls and their parents set up pens or had their stock tied to the backs of their trailers or trucks. People milled about here and there talking about the upcoming competition and just finishing up the care of their animals. One of the girls Scott followed was showing off her horse, which was corralled in a series of stock fencing chained together. Scott said that they were all leaning on the fence looking at Betty's horse, when Scott spotted cowboy trouble walking up behind them. "He poked Brad who turned around. Scott said that he softly muttered, 'It's going to be the OK Corral, and we are outnumbered.'"
He hissed at Marvin and Dan to get their attention, but both of them were so engaged with the other two girls that they ignored him. The two guys from the men's room were almost upon them. Swaggering and grinning, they led a five or six man pack of restless young cowboys spoiling for action.

Scott said that he knew they would not escape a fight. They were on the tail end of the corrals, the race announcer's voice was booming across the field, and no one with any authority would come to their rescue. "The cowboy who had had his hat crushed stepped forward in arm's length of Marvin and Scott, with his friends flanking him on both sides. "So, Mr. Wiseguy, who says he knows how to count, I think we need a new counting lesson," he said as he began pointing at each of them and counting out loud. 'One piece of shit, two pieces of shit, three and four." He pointed to his chest. 'One shit-kicker, two shit-kickers, three, four, five and six shit-kickers." In that moment Scott said he picked out an opponent. Suddenly, a wiry young man with a military haircut butted in to the exchange. Scott said his muscles bulged under his tee shirt, and he was itching for the fight to begin.
"You out-of-towners fucked with the wrong guys, and now you assholes are going to have to deal with a marine."
"'Fuck the marines," Scott said, as he leapt into action. He threw a weak left-hand punch to the marine's head, ducked in low and threw a right uppercut to his groin. It was a glancing blow that turned the marine sideways but didn't take him down. He grabbed the neck opening of the marine's tee shirt just as he counter-punched with a high and glancing blow that he took mostly on the shoulder. Crouched low he came straight up the marine's chest with his head and connected with the marine's jaw. It was not a planned head butt, but it worked. Just as the tee shirt ripped, Scott said that he still held on and grasped the shirt in his left hand. He shot out with another right and another right to the man's gut. The marine deflected most of the blows. The marine stumbled backwards and tripped, as Scott shoved him up on the hood of a parked car. Scott had a clear shot at his stomach, which was visible through his tattered tee shirt. He took the shot. He went down quiet, and Scott said he watched him roll off the hood of the car to the ground, but he couldn't bring myself to kick him on the ground.

Scott said that he turned around to see the other combatants. Some where on the ground, some were madly throwing wild punches, someone was pushed halfway through the stock fence, and he was kicking back with some authority. Scott said that he found himself choking on the dust and confused that people all around where screaming and yelling and snorting and grunting like penned animals. It started four against six. But Scott said that when he surveyed the combatants, there were more than a dozen young men fighting and cursing each other.

He said that he watched as two men that he had previously not seen punch and kick at each other. Suddenly, a man in his early twenties stumbled out of the melee with his fist cocked. He was drunk, but he looked like a formidable fighter. He looked around and spotted Scott. Before he could take a step in Scott's direction, Scott looked at him and purportedly said, "Fuck off!" To Scott's surprise the man turned around and went back into the center of the fight. Then Scott saw Brad. He was on his hands and knees crawling. A much larger cowboy had him by the belt with his left hand while he drove in punches from over his head squarely on Brad's back. Scott ran to Brad's defense when some guy much smaller than him, and a lot less sober, blocked his progress with a roundhouse punch. Scott's last look at Brad was to see him stumble to his feet. His belligerent opponent met his match in Wayne, who suddenly arrived to their rescue. Wayne forcibly broke up a number of fighters, successfully taking out a few who refused to cooperate. Scott said that he could hear approaching adult men yelling to break it up.

It was all confusing, Scott had said. He couldn't grasp the entire scene because he had a pest who was trying to duke it out with me. Scott kept landing jabs to the pest's face, but he knew it was the waning moments of the fight. It was an uneventful, conventional boxing match. Scott knew he could move in and hurt him, but the police and security had arrived. Scott said that he told the young man that they we were both going to get busted, but the man kept moving right into the path of another jab. It was really quite stupid. Finally, a cop stepped in and parted them. By this time, the cops and the security guards yelled and jabbed and smacked the fighters with their batons if they were deaf or impervious to the riot's ending and the threat of arrest. The last fighters were handcuffed. Anyone who broke up cooperatively was told to stand next to the corral fence. One young cop stood menacingly next to this group. He kept them at bay and subdued with his baton, which he pointed at their chests. When anyone protested his innocence, the young cop would scowl, jab the young man in the chest and yell, "Shut the fuck up!" If I want you to talk, I'll tell you when to talk."

After about an hour of police interviews, Andrew's young warriors were loaded up and taken into the police station. A little while later he had been awakened from a sound sleep when Wayne called his home. Those who were over eighteen were cited to appear in court and told to leave the fair grounds. Those who were under aged were transported to the city jail. They had to show their identification in a conference room where they were searched and all of their personal possessions were placed in a large envelope. They didn't book them, however, so they had some hope that formal charges wouldn't be brought against them. They placed them in holding cells until a parent arrived. A couple of the guys were taken to the emergency room for stitches. Dan said that it was strange to be sitting in the same cell along with some of the guys they had just been fighting. Everyone seemed embarrassed or contrite when Andrew arrived to take custody of the boys. Yes, they were genuinely contrite, Andrew recalled.

Crossing Hagelstein Bridge, Andrew took the entrance road to a series of farm and ranch houses now under the protection of the Alliance. Algama Road made a six-mile loop off Highway 97 as the contour of the mountains slipped backwards to form what had once been a very large bay but was now broad, flat farmland. This vast tract of land had been claimed from the lake when the railroad decided to follow a straight line and built a railway berm from Haglestein Park straight along the shoreline until it met the mountains again. In all, nearly a dozen homes nestled themselves against the rocky slopes. Twice as many barns, hay storage barns and shops were scattered on both sides of the road. It was the furthest community farm from Alliance Headquarters. He was at the farm to pick up a young man who had been selected to become an apprentice to the Alliance Iron Works. He had met the young man last summer at the Alliance Spring Gathering, when the young man had been interviewed by a committee and put through a number of tests, along with a handful of other young men who desired an escape from ranch or farm duties. In two days he would head out with Lance in his buggy for a long day's ride to Alliance Headquarters. Tonight, however, he would be the guest speaker, which meant sharing his story with the communal group. He wondered if he should give the short version or the long version. He would judge his audience closely and embellish or constrict his story based on their reaction or his own enthusiasm for a tale he would just as soon forget. Nonetheless, he knew he was compulsive in the re-telling of his personal survival story of the dark days. From past travels from one ranch to the next, he had gained the reputation for being a storyteller. Older survivors were under represented on most of the ranches, and the young people most liked to hear about the Olden Days, particularly past their own experiences of growing up. Their survival stories often contained more suffering than what he had endured. He chuckled to himself on how easy it was to entertain in an age free of television, radio and video games. Sometimes he would get so sidetracked on an anecdote that he would forget where he was in his narrative, and the audience would always laugh and re-direct him.

Pulling into the yard, he was greeted by the group foreman. "Hey, Teach, how was the drive this morning?
"Well, the traffic was piled up at the junction. Damn near got a ticket for speeding, but it was a fine drive." Both men chuckled at the lame attempt at humor. It seemed to him that the older you were, the more prone you were in making references to the past. Somewhere in the transition to old age, he mused, seniors find themselves looking backwards, while young people look forward. Oh, what the hell, he thought. I still look forward. Looking backwards was more about loss than giving up on the present. As he got out of the buggy emitting his usual moans and groans, he thrust his arms skyward and stretched his back. The foreman took the reins and led the mare to the barn. Over his shoulder the foreman said, "You missed lunch, but the cooks will rustle you up something to hold you until dinner. We took a vote last night, and there was overwhelming support for you being our guest storyteller tonight. Some of us have heard some of your stories before, but a good re-run is hard to beat."

Teach headed for the communal dining room. It had been a large, insulated workshop in the past. At one end of the large hall the wood stoves and fire pit bustled with women cleaning up after lunch, while others prepared the evening meal. They greeted him with warm smiles and offers of food. He sat down at the table and bench closest to the food preparation area and exchanged pleasantries with many of the women who he knew personally from his four or five visits a year. After his lunch, he wandered the dining hall looking at the new children's bulletin board. A four by eight sheet of plywood hung on the wall. The children were making a giant collage of what life was like in the past. Tacked and glued and nailed to the sheet of plywood were relics of the Olden Days when electricity influenced leisure and customs. Records, a Barbie Doll, photographs, a blow dryer and an assortment of photographs and oddities demanded attention, including a rainbow of credit cards. The ranch had only a few adopted orphans and a handful of children born to the ranch women. Tomorrow he would talk to their teacher and exchange teaching ideas and lesson plans and library books from the other ranches. Until the evening meal, he was free to roam and visit, but he knew where his guest room was located and felt a nap would refresh him.

That evening immediately after dinner, he met with both the Planning Committee and the Work Committee. Although he had no authority to evaluate or judge the effectiveness of ranch progress, through the years he had become an ombudsman for the ranches relaying their concerns to the Alliance Central Committee. He looked out at the workers clearing the tables. Kitchen duty was so disdained by both the women and men that assignments were rotated. Coffee, a rationed luxury, was being served in his honor, along with the pride they felt for Lance's acceptance into the black smith program. At the completion of his apprenticeship, he would be a valuable asset to the communal farm. He wiped his face on a cloth napkin and thanked the men and women around him for their pleasant company. A middle age woman approached him. She smiled as she approached and gave him an enthusiastic embrace as he got up from the bench.

"Well, teacher, we have looked forward to your visit for quite some time. Before you leave, I would like to introduce you to Debra. She would make a fine nurse and midwife."
"Now, Rebecca, you know we won't have such an opening for some time. Not because we don't have the need. It's just that Jane can't do her job and handle anymore students than she has now."
"I know. Just the same, I want you to meet her. Come along. I'll introduce you to the group. We are in our third year of operation, and we sometimes feel off the beaten track, so visitors who are story tellers are always welcome." They headed for the corner where a chair had been set up in front of a large rock hearth. Stools and musical instruments surrounded the hearth. Rebecca introduced him and took her seat in the audience. Children were hushed as he took his seat on a padded stool.

"Good evening. Many of you know me as Teach or the teacher. I prefer to be addressed simply as Andrew, but somehow the moniker has stuck. I arrived at the Alliance in year 2014. Why I survived is a mystery. How I survived is a grizzly tale of mayhem, bloodshed and horrifying death. Unlike most of you, I experienced the Black Death in relative isolation--far from the maddening crowd. Like most of you, the Black Death took my entire family, but that is a story I am unable to tell. Most of you saw horror on a scale that I still can only imagine, but the horror I discovered defied logic. What we had instead was the occult. Now, if I ramble, or get off the topic too much or forget where I was, just shout out some directions. A lot of years have gone by since the Blackness, but in telling you my story I want to also step back in time to give you young ones a bit of an idea of what we all refer to as the Olden Days. I had been a high school English teacher, and during the summer I was a fly fishing guide in western Montana. At the beginning of the black summer, I was approached by my outfitter.

"Andrew, I've got a little problem that I am hoping you can resolve for me."
"Tom, I need two days off to recuperate. Six guiding days in a row is more than I can handle any more."
"No, take the days off." I looked up in surprise. "Well, the other day I heard you mention that you would miss teaching. I just got a call from our youth leader that he has a family emergency, and he can't teach the fly fishing school. I am really desperate. There is no way I can find a replacement for Dan with only a week until the boys arrive," John continued.

"Man, that's a five week, 24-7 assignment more fitting for a college student than an old fart like me. It's intriguing, but I'd find it too exhausting. I need my space, and besides Pauline doesn't see me much as it is. Tom, I couldn't do it. The teaching part would be fun, but I don't want to be nanny to a bunch of spoiled, rich kids."

"I shifted one of the young men to Steve's group. He was ok with that. And before you say no, let me tell you that you could go home at night when you are not in the back country. I also have a past graduate who has been one of our students for two summers. Wayne just finished his first year of college. He's working in a fly shop in Bozeman, but he said he would take the job in a heart beat."

"How are you going to handle the supervision at night to placate the parents? I asked.
"Wayne will baby sit at night. Besides, the four kids you would have are two high school graduates, a seventeen year-old and a 16-year old. I have already contacted three families and given them the option of a refund. I told them I could find an excellent replacement but that he was a married man and would not be bunking with the boys. They didn't have any problem with that. Two of the couples were heading out on a vacation and didn't want their plans altered.

I picked up a pack of leaders and entered it into the ledger under the counter. "We would have a lot to negotiate. I am no starry-eyed, back-packing, college kid. I won't follow Steve's "Survival-Montana program." Steve was the other guide school leader. The program was set up with two groups of boys and their two leaders. The groups alternated staying at the guest ranch. While one group stayed at the ranch, the other group hit the road with a Suburban and beater truck that pulled all the equipment. For the students the road trips were the most fun. For me it would mean uncomfortable nights crammed into a small tent fighting with the inevitable leaky air mattress. Still, it would get me into the backcountry, although I was not sure I was quite up to the task. Hell, I knew it would be hard work, but a light backpack and a mountain trail wouldn't kill me I thought.
"Agreed."
"Buddy and Banjo will come along on the wilderness back-packing trip. I'm too out of shape to carry a 60-pound pack twelve miles."

I knew John was weighing this demand, but I was inflexible on this point. It would be somewhat of a risk. My donkeys would not be covered on his live stock insurance policy. It was a liability risk John didn't want to think about. "I'm a little worried about that," said Tom. "Didn't you tell me the little one was still a little wild and had a tendency to kick?"
"Only if you are stupid enough to walk behind him within kicking range, and only if he gets startled," I replied with obvious sarcasm. "Banjo has a measure of dignity for a wild, BLM ass. He doesn't want man, beast or dog to be sniffing his butt. Tom, they're both good animals. Your wrangler can assess them in a ten minute meeting."
"Any other demands," asked Tom.
"There ain't no vice principal in these here parts," I drawled in my feigned cowboy imitation. "Out West we got a simple discipline policy for smart-ass city kids."
"You know we have had very little problems in the past with these kids. You've worked with them in the past for the fly fishing lessons," said Tom.
"I know. You haven't mentioned pay, however."
"I'll have a generous contract ready for you tomorrow," said John.
"Deal." We shook hands.

The week went by quickly as I prepared lessons and an itinerary. I read the contract the boys and their parents signed regarding drugs, alcohol and general rules of conduct while they stayed at the lodge and were under the direct supervision of their camp leaders. The boys began arriving at the Missoula airport on Saturday and Sunday. I resisted the urge to meet the early arrivals, preferring instead to just wait until Monday after breakfast when the outdoor school began its first session.

At eight o'clock Monday morning, I parked my truck behind the bunk house. I had just had breakfast with Wayne, my young assistant. I liked him immediately. Walking across the manicured lawn in front of the lodge, I was offered a ride by one of the office assistants in a golf cart. I declined. Stepping out of a golf cart to meet the students would not be a good first impression. I passed by the corrals and made my way to the bunk house that they used to house the boys. Steve's group had already started a week earlier and they had already moved out for their first camping and fishing trip. My group would have the cabin for a week and then we would pack up the trucks and hit the road for our first outing. Stepping up on the wood, planked porch of the bunk house, I could hear laughter inside, which was a good sign. The boys had had 24 hours to break the ice with each other and wander around the lodge, ride horses, fish the stocked pond or play a few rounds on the putting green. I knocked on the half-opened door and entered the main room of the bunkhouse. Just like the first day of school, I thought. The boys all turned quiet and waited for the introduction.

Hey, guys, I'm Andrew, your fishing instructor and guide for the next five weeks. You have already met Wayne, my assistant. He'll join us later. He's got some paperwork to fill out this morning. OK, I need you to introduce yourselves." The young men stood up and gathered around me. Each of the young men stepped forward and shook my hand and gave their name. "I've brought an outline of all the fly fishing and rafting skills you will learn in the next five weeks, as well as an itinerary of our fishing trips both operating out of the lodges and our wilderness trip." The young men grabbed chairs, and I could see the enthusiasm on each face. The one thing all of these young fellows had in common was a passion for fishing regardless of where they lived. Most of them had found the Rocky Mountain School of Fly Fishing on their own on the Internet. Many of the fathers had found the school for their son through a magazine or a fly fishing catalogue.

Another common denominator these young outdoorsmen often shared was that they were all hard core anglers from early childhood, some even from families who had not fished for more than a generation. I have often commented that hunting and fishing is a primordial urge that can surface in the oddest family structures. I knew of one young man from a wealthy family in New York who announced to his startled parents that he was quitting college to go to Montana to be a hunting guide. It was no different a hundred or two hundred years ago. Some men are born too hunt and fish. Many of these men would compromise their passion to hunt and fish with jobs, careers and families. A very small number would resign themselves to low wages, long hours and unsettling relationships with wives and girlfriends in order to spend their lives outdoors fishing and hunting. In a lifetime of fishing and hunting, I never once worried about the little problems in life that slowly kill you when I was staring at a dry fly drifting on the surface of a Montana river, or when I peered out over my decoys from a camouflaged boat.

Looking at the boys I couldn't help feign an introductory method I had learned at a teacher's conference. "Alright, since we are going to be together for five weeks, we need to develop group cohesiveness. We need to learn about our differences and respect each of the diverse personalities in the group." I saw the quick glances between a couple of the boys and the eyes rolling back on one young man's face. I have prepared a number of ice breakers starting with my favorite, "Three Truths and a Lie." Only one of the boys looked me in the eye. The others sat staring at the floor. After an agonizing pause I said, "Do you want to skip the bull-shit ice breakers?" The boys laughed heartily, and I began my first session.

OK, let's just introduce ourselves and tell the group why you signed up for this school along with some background info on your fishing experiences to date. I'll start.
I'm Andrew. I'm 63, and I retired as a high school English teacher here in Montana last year. I started my guiding career when I taught in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and began, interesting enough, teaching a summer fly fishing program in an Orvis endorsed lodge similar to this one. I fished and taught in Wyoming a couple of years until I realized that I was in the wrong state for fly fishing so I moved to Montana. I guided for almost twenty years, took off a number of years, but now I've got the guiding itch again. In all probability this will be my last year of guiding - it cuts too much in to my own fishing time. And besides, rowing a boat all day up river is just too much work. OK, now here's the catch. Each one of you has to end your personal introduction with this formula: I aspire to _____. I plan on catching____ I want to fish ________.

One of the boys spoke up. "You forgot to fill in the blanks for yourself."
"All right, wise guy, you are next after me. I aspire to build the perfect combination duck hunting boat and fishing boat out of aluminum. I plan on catching a ten-pound northern pike on a fly rod, and I want to fish for stripers this fall in the San Francisco Bay. You're next."

The first boy was tall and lanky with straight, blonde hair. He continually pushed his hair back behind his ears, but it never stayed more than twenty seconds. He was outgoing and always looking for an excuse to laugh. I had seen this character in every class I taught for over thirty years. This kid would always be the last one to settle down and get back on task. Regardless of the name or physical appearance, this type of kid was always both a problem in class as well as the supplier of often needed comic relief. You had to love these kids, but on some days they could wear a teacher out.

My name is Marvin, Marvelous Marvin to my friends. I won't tell you what the ladies call me..."
"Misfit Marvin!" piped up one of the boys, which set the group to laughing. I laughed as well. Not because the bravado or retort was clever but because Marvelous Marvin had already pulled the group together and they felt comfortable.
"You're a real comedian, a smart-ass, and a wanna be piscatorial purist," responded Marvin with a grin.
"Hey, Andrew," spoke up one of the boys Marvin had addressed. "You're the English teacher. What the f--- did he just say?"
"He said you are a smart ass who wants to enter the fraternity of dry fly anglers." And now this brings up a teaching moment. Gentlemen, in this outdoor classroom, we don't use the f-word, nor do we make reference to any Oedipus entanglements."
"The M-F word," interrupted Marvin.
"Thank you, Marvin. Anyone using those words in my presence will be volunteering for KP or camp cleanup.
"So, Andrew, what four-letter words can we use?"
"Most of the Saxon words will be acceptable?" I said.
One of the boys spoke up, "I thought it was Anglo-Saxon."
"Notice which of those groups comes first. When the Anglos defeated and subjugated the Saxons, the Anglo language became the formal spoken language. The Saxon language was considered crude." I looked across at the young men and smiled. "So, in this camp, you may use SOME of the Saxon words such as shit, crap, piss, but only under extreme hardship or provocation, and never in the presence of another adult."
"That's it?" asked Marvin. "How about Dimwit?'
"Fine."
"Retard?"
"No."
"Butthead?"
"Fine."
"Son-of-a Bitch?"
"You had better smile when you say that in this country. Read The Virginian.
"Will you be making literary references for the next five weeks?" asked Marvin.
"Sometimes, but I never had the gift or talent for remembering literary quotes. Nor was I any good at remembering titles. Good English teachers can pull a quote out of thin air at a moment's notice. And yes, I know that I have just resorted to cliché, but I am retired. Now, continue introducing yourself. We have an introductory fly tying lesson right after the introductions," I replied.

"I just graduated from high school. I live in Sacramento. I've been a bass fisherman all my life on the delta, and during the summer I fish for trout in the Sierras. Oh, I almost forgot the formula intro," said Marvin. "I aspire to meet a squaw named "Do-What-You-Want-To-Do" and fall in love. I plan on having her show me how to catch hungry rainbows on ant larva dug from an ant hill, and I want to fish or F_ until I am exhausted." The boys burst out laughing and shouting. Andrew and the remaining three knew no one would match Marvin's colorful introduction so the rest of the intros would be straightforward and brief.

All eyes were on me, and I could not disguise my amusement, but I straightened up, frowned and addressed Marvin who was still soaking in the admiration. "Marvin, you clearly do not live in an area with native Americans. If you did, you would know that the word squaw is a derisive insult to Native Americans."

"You're kidding."
"When the fur trappers arrived in the Rocky Mountains they were often the misfits and psychopaths of the societies they left. The word squaw referred to a woman's genitalia."
"Wow, man, I was just making a joke. I never knew that. Sorry, Chief," said Marvin.
"Apology accepted, although Do-What-You-Wanna-Do might be a little less forgiving," I stated arching one of my brows. I looked at Marvin and knew from the lad's reaction that I would like this kid, just like I had liked all the Marvins that came through my classroom all those years.

Brad was the next one to speak up and introduce himself. He was a thin, narrow-shouldered youth with sandy hair. His eyes were slightly close together, and I could see a slight laugh line and a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm from San Diego. I'll be a senior next year. I'm pretty much just a bass fisherman. I don't want to meet some girl named "Do-What-You-Wanna-Do," but I want to Do-What-I-Want-To-Do."

"Hold on, Pilgrim. We've got some rules here," I drawled with my feigned imitation of John Wayne. Only one of the kids recognized the imitation, and I realized I was getting too old for teenagers.

Brad quickly added, "I aspire to catch a Bull Trout. I plan on catching fish on flies that I have tied, and I want to fish in the wilderness where my mom can't reach me on her cell phone!
"Bravo," responded Marvin.
I nodded my head and knew immediately that Brad would out fish his peers. "You're next," I said, pointing to a quiet, dark haired youth. I noticed that the young man had not laughed as hard as the others during Marvin's exchange with the group. He had giggled and then covered his mouth, as if he was not sure of himself in a newly formed group. He seemed shy but not reserved.

"Hi, I'm Dan. My father is a surgeon. We live in Los Vegas. I've not really fished all that much, but I want to learn. This trip is a graduation present from my parents. My dad wanted me to go on a Grand Tour of Europe, but my mom sided with me for the first time ever. My goal is to catch at least one big trout."

"Glad to meet you, Dan. I'll have you catching trout in no time. "You're next." I nodded to a young man leaning his chair back against the knotty pine wall. One look and I knew he was a young man with a sense of humor, probably a jokester. He had red hair under a baseball cap. He was slightly over weight. The sparkle in his eye and the half forming grin told everyone that Scott would be the one to match wits and humor with Marvin.

"I'm Scott. I'll be a senior next year. My parents sent me to this camp because I got into some serious shit last summer. I've been on probation for a year, and this is my reward for being a good boy. I aspire to harpoon a skateboarder, stalk a grizzly, and drink a Moose Drool beer, while I am here in Montana."

"May I remind you of the contract that you and your parents signed, "I said.
"Yeah, I was just kidding, except about the skateboarders. I have been reformed."
Brad laughed, "Oh, yeah, what about last night after the bon fire?" Scott took off his cap and whacked Brad who ducked and continued laughing.
"Do I need to know any of this," I asked, but all of the boys said no. Now, the last member of our group." Wayne walked in and took a seat. "Wayne, we're just finishing up on introductions." I nodded to the last boy.

"Well, this school prides itself on making fly anglers out of lowly worm dippers, we make men out of boys, and you better behave yourselves, because if any of you give me a hard time, you're going to be on the oars while I fish."
"OK, the last introduction is from Wayne. I know you have spent some time with him, but I just met him at breakfast"

"Yeah, I'm Wayne. Andrew, I've already given my life story to these guys, but I'll tell you what I forgot to tell you at breakfast. I'm from Tampa, Florida. I just dropped out of my first year of college at Montana State in Bozeman, but I haven't told my parents yet. In my junior year of high school they made a bargain with me that if I earned at least a 3.5 GPA they would send me to this junior guide school. I was also here last summer after I graduated. Last year I attended Bozeman State. I've been working in a fly shop, and I am thinking about becoming a full time Montana fly fishing guide this fall and maybe take a few classes during the winter. I plan on catching a lot of air on my snowboard this winter...What was next?"

"I want to fish ..."
"I want to fish and make a living at it," Wayne finished.
"Don't plan on getting rich," I laughed.
"I know all about rich," Morgan countered. "Rich gets in the way of fishing."
"Hard core," responded Scott.

"OK, everybody take a break, and I'll meet you in the classroom behind the office in fifteen minutes. We are going to start with the basics of fly fishing, and then you are going to tie your first leader and tie up your first fly. Bring all of your equipment.
I headed out the cabin door. It looks like a good group I thought to myself, but there is always one who will have to be the pain in the ass or the one who challenges leadership. I wonder which one it would be. Of course it doesn't have to be that way. Most of my classes throughout the years were free of trouble makers. I wondered why I was anticipating problems for no apparent reason.

Chapter 2

"The first week was mostly instructional with fishing trips to the local creeks. Our classroom was actually a conference room we used when management wasn't promoting condominium sales or resort membership. Leather chairs surrounded a large oval table. The walls were decorated in a tasteful cowboy motif. The picture window framed the Bitterroot River. It was during the evening campfire that I really got to know the boys. The first visit to their evening campfire outside their quarters was, to be expected, rather formal and awkward. I could see the outline of four youths around the campfire. Wayne must be with the other young workers at the resort, I thought. I had heard raucous laughter coming from the boys seated around the fire, but on my approach the laughter subsided. Adults and certainly old farts like me could not enter this circle of teenage intimacy without being invited, and that in itself is a rarity. I pulled up a chair and we all gave the customary greetings.

"I asked the usual questions of how their dinner was and if they had enjoyed the fly fishing tape that I had left for them to watch. "Tonight I want to talk to you guys about our road trips and our wilderness trips. Everyone will pull his share of the chores and labor, and we all look after each other. I am not your surrogate father, nor do I relish playing the role of protector and guardian. I'm too old to fit into this group, but I also don't want to be excusing myself early in the evening so that young men can bull shit around the campfire without being intimated by an old guy. So, here's the camp rules. No one goes fishing until all the camp chores are done. When the fishing is over for the evening, we sit around the campfire. What is said at the campfire stays at the campfire." My four charges nodded their heads in agreement.
"I expect we will learn a lot about each other around the campfires. In the tradition of Brett Harte and Mark Twain, I also expect to hear some good stories. Everyone has a good story to tell. If you can't think of one, make one up. You may tell the complete truth, embellish the truth or fabricate a story, but it will be considered bad camp manners to judge someone's veracity.
"Finally, I will be handing out some spiral notebooks. I will want you to occasionally write a fishing log. The camp director told me he has had some complaints from past parents that they rarely received any letters from our young participants. If you have had a great day float fishing, I want you to record the day. What river were we fishing? Describe the scenery and the water conditions. What flies did you use? How many fish did you catch? What was the biggest fish that you caught? Who did you partner up with on the raft and things like that? These pages will then be used to send to your parents."
The boys groaned and mildly protested. Scott asked if I would be grading the journal entries. "No, I won't, nor will I get after you if you don't do any writing. Ask your parents to save the letters. I think that they will be valuable to you later in life "Andrew, will you be journaling too?" asked Dan.
"You bet I will. Fishing has been a central theme in my life. I have been writing a lot lately on my fishing and guiding years, as well as writing about the people and events that have shaped me. Call it a cumulative record of screw ups punctuated by occasional surprises and successes. It would be pretentious to call it a memoir. In fact I will be journaling about this fly fishing camp. The campfire stories will help jog my memory." We sat for quite some time in silence. Looking through the flames of the campfire, I could see heads dodging curling smoke. Dan had pulled over an old picnic table and was sitting on the table top. I was the adult outsider. I had already told Marvin to leave his IPod in the cabin so already I was feeling my age. Christ, I'm forty-five years older than these guys. I had also noticed that Wayne had excused himself to spend time with the young staff members at the lodge. At that moment I realized it could be a long five weeks, if I didn't break the teacher role that seemed to manifest itself in everything I said and did.
Marvin forced everyone to jump back and break from the fire's spell when he suddenly dropped a large log on the fire. Sparks flew everywhere and Scott said, "You Jerk. Now somebody has got to talk."
"You just did. So how about a story from you," sneered Marvin.
"How about if I tell a story about a weirdo," replied Scott.
"Sounds good to me," I said. "How about a weird place or a weird person?"
Brad spoke up. "How about a weird place that we have lived or stayed?
It didn't get much of a response. Everyone sat quietly reflecting on the subject. Marvin leaned forward in his chair. "I've got one, but you raised the subject so you should go first." With that we had established the campfire protocol.
Brad nodded his head in agreement and slowly put out his hands near the fire to rub them against the radiated warmth. We had already learned a few things about Brad. His father was a surgeon who lived in Dallas. Brad lived with his mother in Santa Fe. She was an architect. Since his parent's divorce, he spent his summers with his father outside Seattle. "When I was in eighth grade, my parents leased a condominium while our house was being built. We were on the second floor. The entrance to each condominium was designed in such a way that you would only bump into a neighbor on just one portion of the stairs. We rarely saw anyone or spoke to any of our neighbors. The only people we would see would be the people around the pool in the evening. It was not an adult only complex, but my sister and I never saw any kids. It was eerie. Now, I need to tell you that the security was always around in this gated community. One afternoon after school, I was sitting out on the deck. Below us is a large commons with a pool and recreation room in the center of what looks like a city park. Looking through the trees to the buildings across from us, I could see police swarming up all the stairs with guns drawn in broad daylight.
"I jumped to my feet. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Police storming homes just doesn't happen in our community, let alone at Oak Ridge. I could see that the police were confused. Suddenly, one of them pointed in my direction. The man in charge pointed directly at me. Everyone was pointing in my direction and running across the lawn, past the pool and heading to my building. They had their guns drawn and some of them were cocking their head to the side as they ran to communicate on their shoulder mounted microphones. The first man to run up the stairs had a battering ram. I was really freaked. I just stood there facing the front door.
"Police! We have a warrant. Open up!'
"The battering ram slammed against the door, but it wasn't my door they were storming like the Oakland Raiders. They were battering the door next to me! Then I heard a shout down below. The police were also storming the apartment below us. The manager had opened the sliding glass door with a master key, and the police charged into the apartment.

"It took me about ten minutes to open my door and peek out. I saw a steady stream of police officers and men in suits. They were leading two men downstairs in handcuffs. The manager told me to stay inside, but when he left I walked around the corner to the opened door. Cops were everywhere, and none of them said a thing to me. A woman was inside photographing a huge pile of jewelry on a coffee table. Then a detective came up to me and told me I would have to leave. I asked him what was going on, and he told me that they had just taken down the biggest burglary ring in the city's history. Get this. The guy next to us had a brother who lived in the condominium across the commons. The two brothers ran an exclusive catering business. They would cater some rich man's party and then case the joint for the alarm system and what he had to steal. Later they would go back and clean the place out. The two brothers had been sitting down taking inventory of all the jewelry that they had accumulated over a number of heists. When they walked past me in handcuffs, they had white gloves on both hands. Now here is the best part. Later we found that their mother owned the condo downstairs. She owns one of the trendiest restaurants in the city. So, here we were living around a pack of thieves. And all of these people had successful, legitimate businesses! I couldn't believe that something like that could happen there. My parents were freaked, but they had signed a six month lease."
"We had a next door neighbor who hung herself," added Dan without any attempt to outdo Brad. "Everyone said it was so weird because women usually don't kill themselves with guns and stuff like that."
"Or a noose," said Scott. He had been around Dan just a couple of days and knew the story was over unless he coached it out of him. "So, did you get to see the stiff?"
"Yeah."
"No shit! So what did she look like?"
"I got a pretty good look from my backyard. A friend of mine and I pulled the trampoline over next to the fence when the cops and firemen arrived. First the cops showed up because someone had said that they hadn't seen Mrs. Ferguson for days. Then the fire department showed up, which was really strange because Mrs. Ferguson had been dead for days, and the paramedics couldn't do anything for her when she was ...dead." Dan knew he had everyone's attention, and he lowered his head to cover a slight smile.
"Did she stink?" asked Marvin.
"Shut-up. She didn't stink. I'm telling my story, OK. The strange part was the cops and firemen looked like they were at a tailgate party for some football game. They were all talking and shaking hands, and here was Mrs. Ferguson hanging from the timbers in her breezeway between the garage and the house. Finally, one of the firemen got up on a step ladder and cut the rope. Everyone just went on talking, and no one gave the fireman a helping hand. I'll never forget the sound of her body hitting the concrete. The body slumped to the side, and her head hit so hard it sounded like a dropped watermelon from two stories up."
"Gross," said Scott.
"That's really weird. I've never seen a dead body," said Brad. "Hey, Andrew how about a story of some weird person you recall, maybe from your childhood.
"That would be too far back in his memory bank," laughed Marvin.

Chapter 3
"I knew immediately which childhood friend I would share," he said as he paused for dramatic impact. Andrew shifted on the stool and peered out at his audience. Some of the candles were being lit, and his audience was settled and waiting for his next bit of trivia or an amusing anecdote or just the continuation of his story. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "In the Olden Days there were a lot of people - a lot of crazy people - a lot of dangerous people. So far we have only had to banish three individuals in the Alliance, but in the Olden Days we were stuck with them. My childhood nemesis was extremely bright and dangerous. In short, he was a sociopath!"
Three or four hands shot up from children in the audience. Andrew looked at the waving hands and smiled. He pointed to a young girl sitting on the floor with her legs crossed under a brown smock. "Teacher, what is a sociopath?"
"Thank you for asking. What is your name?"
"Sarah."
"Well, Sarah. At one point in our history, sociopaths were considered evil. They would harm other people and have no remorse or guilt. They were a threat to any small community. Later society decided that these people were born without a conscience. They were incapable of feeling sadness for the bad things that they did. Sometimes the bad things are small and just annoying, such as stealing. But sometimes sociopaths are very smart and clever, and they control other people and make everyone fear for their lives."
A teenager raised his arm and spoke forcefully from across the room. "We keep hearing rumors about a War Lord in the Link River country. Is he a sociopath?
"Yes, I believe he is. But it is not my place to discuss external threats to the Alliance. When the time comes, I am sure that you will be invited to a ranch meeting or Alliance Open Meeting. Well, let me return to my young sociopath, and keep in mind that every commune, while not having any sociopaths, always has its share of crazy people and eccentrics.
Andrew leaned forward and hissed the word sociopath while exaggerating his enunciation. "I told this story to those boys that summer, so let me share it with you. But first, without thinking or hesitating, I want you to point your finger at the craziest person in this audience." Immediately the youngsters and most of the adults were pointing their fingers at someone close to them. "Ah, hah," said Andrew, "Just as I suspected!" His audience laughed and than settled down and waited for Andrew to continue.
"When I was in fourth grade, we bought our second home. Heading to see our new house, we traveled on Workman Mill Road north and then east around the Whittier Hills until we arrived at the Sunkist community called Hill Grove, which consisted of a small grocery store with an attached soda fountain and a barbershop. Across the street on the west side was a closed hardware store. Directly across the street from Hill Grove Market was a "Five and Dime" store, which carried clothes, household items, gifts and toys. The store was run by two middle-aged sisters, who were both cheerful and kind to youngsters ogling the packaged marbles, kites, tops and Jacks. They show cased all of the toys under a large window. And for you youngsters, don't forget that tomorrow after breakfast I will be teaching marble games. Adults are welcome. I digress.
"Next to the store was a small post office and a building that people paid their electric and water bills. Kitty corner to this rural merchant center was the Sunkist packing plant, the only employer of labor in the entire area. Seasonal and non-seasonal workers lived in the area surrounding the orange packing plant. Down the street from the plant was a shoe repair business, a 76 gas station and a few other small businesses. The orange groves and avocado groves came right down from the hills to meet the residential homes and few businesses of Hill Grove. Directly behind the packing plant was the Southern Pacific Railroad line.
"Across the tracks were about twenty homes, all occupied by Mexican families. I remember seeing young Mexican children present a slip to the grocer for staples. He never turned them down and always respectfully inquired of their parents or grandparents. The slips of paper were placed under the till drawer. He had one other regular employee, a thin man with a deep voice and an extremely large Adam's apple. I liked them both, and my parents held the owner in great respect. Beyond the tracks were miles of alpha fields. Closest to our new home was a field of roses, a half mile long and a quarter mile deep. This four year crop was organized by ten yard rows of yellow and then scarlet and pinks. It was a wonderful palate of color. Hill Grove was rural, beautiful and doomed.
"My father by all the standards of the times was neither short nor tall. He had strawberry blonde hair that was naturally wavy. He had a likeable smile, a slightly enlarged nose, which was the family trademark, and my mother always described him as a ladies' man. Although it was true that he was attractive and charming to the ladies, it is also true that when he walked into a room at a social gathering, people would gravitate to him. Years later my mother would say that my father always wanted a bigger and nicer house to help remind him that he had made it. That day he wanted to stop by Hill Grove Market to buy some lunch supplies so that we could eat lunch in our new, empty house. In front of the old hardware store was a huge, empty lot across from the grocery store. Gazing out the window I saw Brian Nelson peddling his bike furiously across the vacant lot. My father had slowed down considerably upon entering the crossroad intersection that made up Hill Grove, and I was able to study this potential friend closely. He was my age. I was both drawn and repelled by his actions. Was he showing off racing our family car? His head was flying from side to side as he stood up to pedal, pushing his legs downwards as fast as he could. He was breathing heavy, perhaps running from demons. He was impervious to our presence, however, so I just studied him as we slowed down to park. What a strange kid, I thought. I would meet him later when we moved in, and from the very first sight of him, and throughout the next four or five years, I would be drawn to him out of curiosity and then be repelled by his perverse ways.
"Our home was part of a small tract of homes built by a local citrus grower named Jewett. He was the first desecrater of our newly found rural tranquility. He carved out 28 houses at the corner of one of his groves. We were the third buyers on Marwood, a dead-end street with six other homes, not counting the two corner houses. Our home, 14809 Marwood, was directly across the street from the Potocki family. Gerald, the husband, could always be found sitting or squatting on his hams on his front porch drinking beer during warm weather, even though he had built a very nice patio in the back. He was a big man with bulging muscles. His long, jet black hair was greased and combed in the fifties look, which was straight back fenders with the front pulled down. He put up bill board signs, had a raspy deep voice, smoked heavily, drank tons of coffee when he wasn't drinking beer and generally wore blue jeans and white tee shirts. He was always buying and selling the family car. He and his wife had two sons, JJ and Jimmy. Jimmy was a year younger than me in school.
"Most families in those days had one car, unless the wife worked. His wife Tina was a chain smoking, coffee addict. Throughout the house and the garage could be found old, half-filled cups of coffee with drowned cigs. Her kitchen was always messy, and to my shock, she served coffee to her children at breakfast with a half cup of milk mixed in. She wore no makeup, kept her hair long and stringy and always wore old flannel shirts over dungarees. I never observed or saw any femininity or sexuality until years later when she stopped by the house to ask my mother for a hat pin. She was going to a funeral. I stood admiring her in shock with my mouth agape. She was gorgeous in a tight fitting black dress. When she left, my mother turned to me and said, "Are you surprised that she is so good looking?" Yes, I replied. Tina was the mother of JJ, her youngest of two sons, who boldly took a dump on our front yard just as my father finished seeding it. Gerald, sitting on his front porch sipping a beer, just laughed, called his son to him on the front porch, and never got up to remove his son's "welcome to the neighborhood gift".
"JJ was a perverted little boy. One winter afternoon Jimmy and I were playing marbles in his garage. We were not playing for keeps. Instead I talked Jimmy into practicing set-ups with a boulder. I wanted to practice shooting a boulder that was placed between the legs of the set-up man. I found it frustrating when a set-up kid would spread his legs and then move the boulder around like a magician. To consistently win I had to hit the boulder, as soon as the kid lifted his cupped hand from the boulder. It was difficult, especially if there were five or six shooters in the field. Jimmy was a lousy shot. It would take him four or five attempts before he would hit the boulder. I would lift the flat of my hand on top of the boulder. Out on the streets, if a shooter fired and hit the boulder while the set-up man still had contact with the boulder, it was the shooter's loss.
"With my palm and fingers stretched out, Jimmy would be poised to fire as soon as my hand lifted a fraction of an inch. Over and over again, I would begin to lift my hand and then with one finger I would roll the boulder to the side. Jimmy would fire one or two marbles to the phantom position. I laughed harder each time. Finally, it was my turn. No matter what he did I would manage to hit the boulder with my first shot. If I missed my left hand had two or three marbles that fed the right just like the magazine in a semi-automatic rifle. Jimmy had been quiet the whole time. Finally, he attempted every deft move that he tried before and failed. I held fire waiting for the precise moment.
"Keep your eyes on the boulder, Jimmy. It's all mine." Had I looked up I might have seen Jimmy looking at his little brother JJ standing behind me. Jimmy just froze with his hand cupped over the boulder. It would be the easiest target yet. Suddenly I felt a warm flow over the back of my neck. JJ had peed down my back. I rose up in shock while Jimmy laughed hysterically.
"You little bastard," I yelled. JJ was too young to smack, and he ran inside the house. I wanted to sock Jimmy, but I rushed home to shower and told my mother. She just shrugged and said they were a different kind of people.
A young man who was sitting in the audience next to his bride raised his hand. "Andrew, our youngsters and teenagers don't remember what it was like to live in a neighborhood. They cannot understand people living next to each other as separate living units. They ask us how it was that they could live independently right next door to a neighbor that they may or may not be friends. We have explained the use of money and the economy, but few of us have any memories of what it would be like to live in a tract home, or how you resolved disputes. Maybe you could tell us about neighborhood living."
"Oh, my goodness. Where should I begin? First, no one could truly rely on your neighbors to help in a time of crisis. Mostly, neighbors did help their neighbors up to a point. If the mother or father took ill and died, the survivors could not move in with their neighbors. They would have to plead their case to the government, or they would have to move away and live with a relative, perhaps a long ways away. In those days children moved far away from their parents. Disputes between neighbors would simmer for years until one of the disputes would escalate to a level that the police would get involved. We had no group meetings to resolve these disputes in those days. In my own case, we had a neighboring house on our right that had only ten feet separating our bathroom window from their kitchen window. On that side, two of our bedrooms matched up with two of their bedrooms. In the summertime, when the windows were down, we could hear plainly all their problems and day-to-day living as they could ours. We were privy to all their fights and family violence as they were of ours. Consequently, we avoided any contact with them. On the left side of the house, we had a small patio and a fence that separated our patio with our neighbor's patio. For years my mother maintained a feud with this family over some trivial matter, and yet as children we were friends with their children and went it and out of both houses. It was strange. Now that you have me thinking about my childhood neighborhood, let me describe these people.
"Tract homes are a study and contrast human fragility. Someone suggested that authors create extreme examples in juxtaposing characters. I am not so sure that writers exaggerate. In my own case, our neighborhood was made up of a lot of crazy, dysfunctional families. Twenty-eight families lived on three short streets in Hill Grove's first tract home development. You would never run into these families on family television shows like the Nelson Family or Leave It to Beaver. Hidden away in each house were some real horror stories.
"The Mad Dutchman lived just outside the tract. He was a grouchy old man who spoke with a thick accent and wore wooden shoes outside. He did not like children to pass by his house while he worked in his tulip garden. When we were small he would terrify my friends and I. He would yell across the street and accuse us of stealing the fruit from his trees. It was true that we raided fruit from neighboring trees in the vicinity during the summer, but even the local teenagers stayed off his property. He was a sour man who one day went berserk and nearly beat his wife to death. He went to prison. His flower beds died, and then we children realized that we had never seen the wife outside.
"Across the street from the Mad Dutchman lived a shoe repairman. His wife worked in the local library. They had an older daughter living with them, and they all seemed so proper and dignified in their custom built home from the 1930's. They seemed very private. The outside of their house was covered in vines and shrubs and the large willow trees kept prying eyes disappointed. Unlike his wife who was dour and certainly unfriendly in the library, her husband was a polite and friendly shoe repairman. His shop behind the house was spacious and filled with large, machinery befitting a shop in a large city, not in a rural community. From time to time, the shoe repairman would just disappear without explanation from his wife, who would take your repair ticket and charge you for the repairs or return shoes un-repaired. It seemed to happen once or twice, and then one day he was gone and the shop was closed. Everyone forgot about the shoe repairman. A couple of years later, his wife looked out the window and saw a light in the shop. Her husband was back and tidying up his shop. He stayed for a while and repaired shoes, and then with no explanation from himself or his wife or his adult daughter, he was gone forever.
"The very first house on Ridgeway, the vertical stem of the tract, was occupied by a timid and extremely thin milkman. His wife was younger, and I considered her attractive, much too attractive to be married to a shy, mild deliveryman who went to work very early in the morning and went to bed very early in the evening. He was reclusive by nature. They had an older son in the Navy and a Danny who was a year or two younger than me. Danny was an easily manipulated kid who was constantly taking advantage of by neighborhood boys, including myself. He would take the outfield in a game of baseball, he would go sneak some cookies from his mother's kitchen or he would just quietly go home if you told him you didn't want to play with him anymore. He never seemed to mind or protest. I would hang around him for some time until I grew bored with him, and then I would stop playing with him for great lengths of time. He never minded, or so it seemed. Months later if you called to him to join in a game of 500 or kick-the-can, he would join, as if we had parted company the previous day. My father was greatly troubled by Danny. When he would leave for work at 6 am in the dark, he would see Danny walking the streets or just standing in the shadows. No matter how early he got up, he would see Danny. When he revealed this information to my mother and me, I didn't know what to say or think. I was in sixth or seventh grade. It was unfathomable to me that a boy that age could get up that early and walk the street before school. I never mentioned or inquired of Danny about his nocturnal wanderings. It was too private, too strange. By the time I was in high school, Danny had become an invisible, solitary young man.
"We had an Okie family move in across the street from Danny's house a year or two after everyone moved into the neighborhood. It was the first home to be re-sold, and the prospect of a new family occupying the house was exciting. We eagerly waited to see what the configuration of children would be. The husband was a tall, lanky man who wore a cap right out of the thirties. He was a painter, and he and his wife had a passel of snot-nosed kids. I was repulsed by the whole lot, especially when I found out that one of the younger girls was dared to eat shit for a dollar, and she did. While new home construction was under way surrounding our track, the father was stealing construction materials and lumber until his entire house was filled up. He got busted and the family moved away leaving the house vacant for some time.
"This family was replaced by a welfare family. The father was a tyrant, who was constantly in pain from amputated legs and cancer that was slowly killing him. His special medical bed was in the living room where he was strategically located next to the hall where he could smack his children and stepchildren when they walked through the narrow passage. The mother was a slatternly woman devoid of humor or joy, taking care of perhaps eight children, all of whom were named with the beginning letter R. Everything she cooked was fried in animal lard. She bought huge blocks of lard and always had one in easy reach. The kitchen was plastered in yellowish, brown grease which seemed to be splattered everywhere. I actually became nauseated each time I passed through the kitchen to reach the backyard with Roger. The kitchen door was broken, and hundred of flies walked across dirty dishes and hovered in the air. It was like something out of a horror movie. I was in seventh or eighth grade when Roger showed me a trick that would become one of his standard parlor tricks that he showed off to every new person he met. He was a fat kid with large rolls of fat on his stomach.
"Stay here. You got to see this." Roger went back into the kitchen. I looked around the backyard which was devoid of grass. In its place were the littered remains of broken toys, torn garments and garbage. I was ready to bolt when he emerged from the kitchen. He had taken his shirt off inside. He was laughing in anticipation and plopped himself down on a lawn chair. Leaning back in the chair, his chin rested on his chest, he pulled up a massive roll of fat. He was giggling the whole time. With his other hand he spread a finger tip of rotten grease on his belly button and then sucked up his gut as high as he could.
"I watched in stunned horror at Roger's belly uncertain what he was doing. As the flies circled his belly, I knew the feat he was attempting. When a fly landed in his belly button, he sighed and gently let his fat roll across his belly button like a Venus Fly Trap. Each time he would roar with laughter when he lifted up his fat roll and let the fly escape. It was too much. I was becoming more selective with my friends, and Roger was making me uncomfortable. I hung around with him for a couple of years until he became a pathetic beggar who ingratiated himself on others by performing stupid antics like doing a flip off of a diving board and deliberately performing a belly flop at a party --anything for another beer. By tenth grade I no longer associated with him.
"His brother Ralph was a high school drop-out a few years older than us. He couldn't hold a job and hung out at Tina's all day, or so it seemed. He would sneak into his home late at night to avoid his stepfather, and his mother would feed him with the provision that he be out of the house before his step father got up in the morning. At seventeen he looked aged and very unhealthy. He had a scraggily beard that he would pick at until he had scabs and bald spots. After many beatings and unbearable living conditions, he ran away. Not too far I might add. Tina and my mother befriended him. My mom let him stay in our camping trailer while Jane worked with social services. He was, nonetheless, turned over to the juvenile authorities and classified as a run-away and incorrigible. After a short time in a juvenile detention center, he was released back to his mother. He left home again and drifted into drug dealing to support his own habit. He was rapidly killing himself. I never learned what happened to him, but I am sure he never saw 21.
"The oldest son was Raymond. Raymond was a character right out of a Steinbeck novel. He was a handsome young man who had impeccable hygiene. He worked after school and bought his own clothes, which he washed and ironed. He wore kaki pants and wool shirts. He never tucked his shirt inside his pants preferring to show off all the neatly pressed creases down the back and side of the shirt. He had wavy strawberry colored hair and loved music. The old man left Raymond alone. Raymond never let his step-father upset him, and he never resorted to retaliation like Roger would do once he was out of his step-father's reach. The level of insults and invective screaming from the old man and Roger gave me an impression of what an insane asylum would be like. Ralph was immune to it all. On numerous occasions I watched as Ramon showed compassion to his step father and treated him with a measure of respect. One day I was drawn into a conversation with Raymond and the old man while I waited for Roger to get ready for an outing we had planned. This miserable son-of-a-bitch was actually interesting to talk to, and I enjoyed his company until the drugs wore out and I watched him become a fiend again. Ramon gave me a nod that it was time to go, and it was at that moment that I saw the greatness of Raymond, who was perhaps 17 at the time.
"In his junior year Raymond bought a beautiful late 40's convertible, either a Buick or a Pontiac. And even though he had a girlfriend, he took Roger and me to a number of movies. Since his girlfriend didn't like musicals, he took Roger and me to see Porgy and Bess. I was immediately drawn into the movie, as was Raymond. We both had to shut Roger up, as he was making stupid comments. On the way home Raymond turned to me and said that he knew I would appreciate the movie. I was in eighth grade and he was a junior, perhaps a senior, and yet we talked about the movie at a level that I had never talked about a movie before. He was a gem and a prince. He later married and did everything he could to help his brother Roger, but each time Roger would take advantage of him.
"Next to Roger's house was the Larson family. The parents spoke with a Swedish accent. They did not associate with anyone and built a fence around their front yard with a wrought-iron gate to the entrance of their home. Plain looking people, they produced a beautiful daughter who was, in my opinion, completely sheltered from the world. A couple houses up the street was our cul-de-sac street consisting of six houses. Aside from the Potocki family, our family was probably the next most dysfunctional family of the original homeowners, but it was really difficult to tell. The Anderson family across the street was intriguing. The old man was a welder and a collector. His garage was packed full of antiques and collectables, including a stuffed Eagle, which even at that time was illegal. His wife Alice was a friend of my mother. When we attended Catholic grade school, Alice's only child, Barbara, joined us in our daily commute to school. She had large curls and was pampered by her mother.
"One day while I was in the Army, my mother witnessed the old man chase Alice out on the street brandishing a butcher knife. The authorities took him away to an insane asylum for years, and Alice had to go to work in the new plastic factory which had been the old Sunkist plant. But the most interesting of all the neighborhood characters was Brian Nelson, the boy I saw madly pedaling across the parking lot on my first visit to Hill Grove.
"Brian looked, and talked and acted like Eddie Haskell on the television show, Leave It to Beaver. I know. I know. None of you survivors are old enough to remember those early television shows.... Brian was very smart. He and his sister attended Catholic school. Both parents were professionals of some sort. They had wall-to-wall carpet, which no one in my circle of friends had, and they had antiques. Brian was devious, and I knew that any mischief I got involved in with him would go unnoticed, unreported and unpunished. He was slick. He was also smart enough not to involve any of his followers in his neighborhood burglaries or his penchant for peeping into neighbor's windows late summer nights. He was extremely manipulative and far too clever for a sixth grader. I knew he was intellectually superior to me, but I was smart enough to withdraw my friendship when my gut instinct said, "Get the hell out this kid's world." I did, however, learn the basic tenants of capitalism from Brian.
"During the fifties kids were expected to "Go outside and play." Yes, there were cartoons on after school and American Bandstand, but my mother didn't want her children to be sitting in front of the "Boob Tube." So, now instead of the boob tube you've got the boob storyteller. Most of the mother's felt the same way. After school they were finishing up their chores and getting dinner ready, which in our case was 6 PM. My father would like to arrive home just in time to open a can of beer and sit down to the table for dinner. If you went to a friend's house, the mother would always answer the door. It was considered rude of children to run to the door ahead of a parent. "Can Johnny come out and play?" was usually responded by "Andrew, get your jacket and go out and play with David." Most of the time, however, I had only to walk a block or less to find kids my age playing out on the street or on the front yards. In those days of Southern California living, seasons were established for kites, marbles and yo-yo's.
"Little League Baseball was in its infancy, so children had a lot of time to play their own neighborhood games, such as 500, a batting-catching game. The batter up would hit the ball and a group of boys would jostle and push for the best position based on the batter's known batting ability. A fly ball caught was 100 points. A one-bouncer was 50 points. Anything else was considered a grounder and worth only 25 points. When you acquired 500 points, it was your turn to challenge the batter. The batter would lay the bat down full length on the pavement and step back. The challenger would wind up and fire the softball like a bowling ball straight at the bat. When the ball hit the bat it would fly up in the air. If the batter caught the ball in the air, he would continue batting and the challenger would lose 100 points. Most of the time the batters were happy to relinquish the batting role eager to rejoin the melee of the street action, especially if there were five or six kids in the field.
"So, that reminds me. Last year I taught 500 to this group. Are you still playing?"
Most of the children in the dining hall yelled out "Yes". One boy yelled out, "Keep telling the story, Teach."
"OK. The games were intense, and everyone cringed when some mother would come out on her front porch and yell out some kid's name and at the word "dinner!" We would know that the game would fall apart within twenty minutes with more mothers or siblings yelling "Dinner!" Of all the games we played from fourth grade to eighth grade, marbles ruled! Throughout my school years including high school, I was a mediocre athlete. However, I was an exceptionally good marble player. In fourth grade I was runner-up for my entire school, grades three through sixth. When the top player had to go out of town, I was called upon to represent Durrefy Elementary School at a city wide regional tournament. It was thrilling, even though I was eliminated during the first round by fifth and six graders who were amazing. I stayed all day watching these games called "Pots." The game, developed by the Chinese centuries before, was simple. Now, let me give you just a short description because tomorrow I will teach you all the rules.
"Draw a circle in dirt after first removing any debris. A packed, clay surface was best. Concrete was too fast and asphalt pavement interfered with accuracy. Each player would ante up a set number of marbles. Someone in the playing field would take all the marbles in their cupped hands and drop them in the center of the playing circle. Any marble going out or touching the line was placed dead center in the circle. The first shooter had a great advantage, as the goal was to shoot a marble (a shooter, as in my best shooter or my aggie) at a marble in the circle thereby knocking it out. The marble knocked out of the circle was a keeper. You kept the keepers in an empty pocket. When the last marble was knocked out of the circle, players would count up their keepers, and the player with the most keepers would declare himself the winner and strut his stuff. The order of shooting was determined by lagging your shooter to a line. Whoever got closest to the line was the first shooter etc. Lagging was a skill I practiced almost daily during marble season.
"I didn't know of another player who practiced lagging, which was downright stupid because when you lost your marbles (as in your count, your lifetime winnings), a good player could go into a depression that would last for days or until he got his count back to where it had been. Hence the term, "Loosing your marbles" or going insane. Now, how the hell did I leave my Survival Story to be talking about marbles," he asked his audience.
A man in the front table spoke up, "Andrew, you were telling us about a weird kid named Brian, just like you told the boys around the campfire."
"Yeah, yeah. I haven't forgot Brian, but thanks for the reminder." The audience laughed good-naturedly.
"Good players, like me, soon found that we were banned from neighborhood games so we had to wander around into unfamiliar neighborhoods to enter games. Sometimes fights or squabbles would break out when you cleaned out a big pot in another neighborhood. You would be challenged that your knuckles had touched the line, and therefore, all your winnings on that shooting round would have to be returned to the pot. Kids would push and shout and fall to their knees to find a knuckle imprint touching the line. At the beginning of the game, players would have to decide if "Eagle Claws" would be acceptable. I always preferred Eagle Claws, a position where the shooting hand rested on top of the non-shooting hand. Your fingers rarely touched the line, and you had the advantage of leaning over the line in the air. Most boys never objected to Eagle Claws because you had to hit a marble square on; otherwise, your shooter would take a hop and leave the circle. It was uncanny how good I was shooting from the Eagle Claw position, as well as resting my hand on the ground.
"The first shooter has the advantage. If you hit a marble square and your shooter stops dead and sends the keeper out of the circle, you can shoot again. Like the game of pool, once your shooter is in the circle you keep knocking marbles out until you miss. In school you were not allowed to play for keeps, which was just another un-enforced rule of the playground. By eighth grade I had acquired over a thousand marbles that I had won, along with close to 130 boulders. Besides Pots there were two other games we played, Poison and Set-Ups.
"Poison was a game for sissies. A player would dig five cupped holes in the dirt; the fifth hole in the middle of the square was deemed the "Poison" hole. Everyone would ante up in the "Poison" hole. You would lag for start. The goal was simple. You had to shoot from one hole to the next in a clock-wise rotation. When you missed a hole, your shooter would remain in the position it rolled to a stop until your next turn. However, the following players could hit your shooter far out of the playing field and not lose a turn. After circling the four corner holes a set number of times, the shooter would shoot to the Poison Hole. If his marble landed in the hole, he won all the marbles, end of game. If he missed, however, he had to start all over with the rotations. Naturally, everyone following would shoot at the near winner if he was close to the hole. Sometimes the near winner would be driven all over the backyard like a swarm of angry bees chasing an intruder away from their hive. It was too cutthroat and relied on little shooting skill so I generally passed up those games.
"Set-Ups was a game for chumps. In my entire career as a marble hot shot, I only bought one small bag of marbles, and that was the "Cat Eyes" when they first came out while I was in fourth grade. I never bought a boulder in my life. Every boulder I had was won in a game of Set-Ups. Some spoiled kid whose mother bought him marbles would sit on a sidewalk and spread opens his legs. He would establish a shooting line, usually fifteen to twenty feet back. Shooters would ante up one marble to play the game, if there were any hot shots in the field. Lacking any hot shots, players would walk away if they were asked to ante up. The kid with the boulder would carefully set the boulder down between his legs covering it with his hand. If the kid was a mean little shit, he would move the boulder around and then suddenly lift his hand. Ideally, the kid with the new boulder would attract at least six or seven shooters or he would declare no game and get up and move away. In 1957 a boulder could be traded for six good marbles.
"By seventh and eighth grade I could hit the boulder with my first shot. I would yell out "Mine!" and lunge for the boulder, as in some cases the boulder would be hit after my first shot. I was soon banned from all Set-Up games. "Andrew's out!" they would yell. I would sneak around and wait for a game to be set up. I would bend over and sneak up behind the front line and fire between other shooters. If they didn't see me and yell, "Andrew's out" the win would be mine. Sometimes the Set-Up kid and the entire line would wait until I left. My life-time count never included marbles that I won in Set-Ups. My pride would not let me count ten to twenty marbles from a bunch of marble flunkies. I kept my life-time winnings in an old fishing tackle box with the best boulders in the top tray.
"Now, about Brian. I took great pride in beating Brian Nelson regularly in marbles. It frustrated him greatly, and I reveled in each victory. Finally, he too quit playing me. Instead he used me as a pawn in his own game to increase his lifetime count. By this time I was obsessed with my count and had to start ranging out looking for games where someone didn't yell, "Andrew's out" or "Archer is out!" His offer was uncanny, brilliant, a masterpiece of childhood cleverness. Since we attended two different Catholic schools, he offered to provide me with start up capital, ten marbles a day. Any daily loss was his, but I would have to split my winnings 50-50 with him. He had absolute trust in my honesty. On the few days that I would lose or have a poor net gain, I would fret and grieve the loss. But here was an opportunity to win with no chance of a loss. For weeks I would hand over half of my winnings until I realized I had succumbed to greed, since I rarely ever lost. During marble season I would go to school with ten marbles and two shooters. Sometimes both pockets would be stuffed with marbles at the end of the day as I tallied up my "count." I can not remember the actual conversation when I broke the news to him that our partnership was over. I do remember that we were both pissed, and this break in our partnership began a rivalry that nearly ended in death.
"Early one morning I awoke in terror. The invasion had started. A few blocks from our home the greatest tracked vehicles known to man were off-loaded and fired up to conquer Sunkist orange groves. Like a formation of tanks, they lined up with their monstrous diesel engines rattling. Spewing black exhaust, they waited for the signal to advance and annihilate thousands of mature orange trees. The clamor and rattling of horse power echoed around the hills.
"I gathered in the kitchen in shock, asking for an explanation. My parents were hardly talking. They moved to the front porch in the early morning light. They, the invaders, surprised us in a dawn attack. The orange trees that completely surrounded us were to be destroyed to build 380 new tract homes, none of which would have a single tree in the front yard or backyard. None were to be spared. Fireside Homes -- how apropos. By the time I got home from school all the trees had been knocked down and pushed up in huge piles. They were already burning. For days we could barely breathe. Ash covered our cars, our lawns, and for a week my mother could not do our laundry and use the clothes line in our backyard. In the name of the father, the son and our holy progress, I yearned to move back to Lee Vinning or Bishop. It was the end of an idyllic country lifestyle that I would fleetingly chase my entire life.
"After the ashes were spread, a secondary force of gigantic earth movers shaped the landscape. They leveled and graded the tract. This was followed by the ditch digging machines to install septic tanks and storm drain systems. The maze of ditches inspired a neighborhood dirt clod war. It started out conventionally with clearly defined codes of conduct, but like all wars the spiraling violence in the face of a challenging adversary meant that the end would justified the mean. And this mean was none other than Brian Nelson, a very serious foe who was out of control and dangerous. I never had a fight with Brian. Both of us knew that I could take him. What I worried about was the retaliation factor if I ever beat him up. I knew he had a coolness about him that wasn't natural. One day we were playing Mumblee Peg on his front yard. It is a simple game. Two players face each other about three feet apart. Each player has a pocketknife that he throws close to his opponent's feet. If it is more than a foot away when the knife sticks in the ground, the throwing player gains no advantage. If it is less than 12 inches from either foot, the opposing player must slide his foot across until it touches the knife. He must then reach down, pull out the knife and hand it back to the thrower, who would get to throw again. If the knife didn't stick, the thrower would lose his turn. The object of the game was simple -- keep your opponent stretching out his legs until he could no longer keep his balance and would fall.
"I made a cross the body throw and stuck my knife right in the toe section of Brian's tennis shoe. To borrow an old cliché, the knife was buried right to the hilt. I was horrified. I knew I was in BIG trouble. Brian calmly reached down and pulled out my knife and handed it to me. He calmly walked over to the front porch, sat down, and slowly removed his shoe. "You missed," he said. "The blade went between the toes. I only need a band-aid to stop the bleeding."
"After a few days of running the ditches and throwing dirt clods, the war became serious. By this time we had three warriors in each opposing camp. The construction company had begun to drop forms for the foundations across "no man's land." The war commenced each day after school, and my side was winning. One afternoon Brian caught me deep in a trench and clobbered me. It was a reckless move on my part. I was bored with lobbing dirt clods thirty feet to a barricade of concrete forms where Brian and his soldiers took cover. One night I built small cannon out of two-by-fours and plywood. The barrel was square. Off to the side of the barrel was a two-by-four with wheels and a footrest. Attached to each side of the cannon was a long piece of inner tube, which created a large sling shot.
"It was not really that efficient. Half the load of dirt clods would hit the side of the square barrel and ricochet everywhere. Nonetheless, it lobbed a hell of a lot of clods to the enemy, and their General was outraged. I had successfully launched a secret weapon, and Brian was not to be out done. The following afternoon after school we met at the same spot. The cannon was propped up at an angle so that the grape shot would clear our barricade. We had already calibrated the distance. We had stones ready to throw. When we saw the enemy, we taunted them and insulted them. They never said a word. They walked up behind their barricade carrying long sticks with large rubber bands knotted together.
"I yelled, "Fire!" and the battle waged fiercely. I had made inner tube slings for my two companions so that they could sling rocks and clods over our barricade without exposing their head to enemy fire. We were making such a racket that we didn't notice that the enemy was holding their fire. "Hold up," I said. We slowly peeked over the barricade. Out of the corner of my eye I watched something shoot past Jimmy's head at an amazing speed. It went by so fast I couldn't identify the projectile. "I hissed, "Duck." "What the hell are they doing? Did you see that, Jimmy?" Jimmy just shook his head no, but at that moment we were under serious fire. One of the incoming bullets stuck the top lip of the barricade and fell at our feet. Brian was slinging large nails at deadly speed using the sticks with rubber bands. The nail boxes were right next to the forms. It was deadly fire. I had only two choices. I could surrender or call for a cease fire. I called out the latter. Brian called out, "Cease fire!" We both stood up facing each other. I challenged him to continue the battle on our street after dinner. He accepted. We both knew that that the game was out of control, and I had to find a solution that would save face for both of us. I had the distinct feeling that Brian would put a nail through someone's brain and go to a children's prison without dread or remorse.
"I knew that without barricades neither side would fire at each other. We would stand facing each other stupidly until a parent intervened. I knew I was in for a grounding of two to three weeks, but I knew someone was going to die or become seriously injured. Without parent intervention, I would be building Brian's nail guns the next day. After dinner the six of us met in the middle of the street directly in front of my house. We had our cannons and slings. Brian and his friends had their rubber band, nail launchers. We no sooner squared up when Gerald Potocki dropped his beer on the front porch and charged into our midst. Mr. Potocki didn't bother lecturing. He grabbed all the weapons and threw them up on his driveway without saying a word. After the last batch was discarded, he walked back to the group. His son Jimmy was on my side. We were all sick and fearful of a neighborhood parent meeting and the punishment that would follow. Mr. Potocki walked up to his son Jimmy and whacked him in the back of the neck nearly knocking him down to the asphalt. Jimmy's father turned to us and said, "Now, get the hell out of here, and don't ever pull this crap again!" We scattered. He never told my parents. Nobody died, and I made a clean break from Brian.
A young boy who sat leaning against his father's legs interrupted the story. "Will you be teaching us all those marble games before you leave?"
"Yes, I will, and I will be leaving enough marbles for all of you youngsters, not to mention introducing you to some new games before I leave. So, I have been giving you the long version of my story. Many of you are too young to know what life was like in the Olden Days, especially my olden days. Sometimes I spend more time on the Olden Days than I do the Dark Days. Should I continue lapsing into the past or get on with my survival story?"
One of the elders raised his hand. "Andrew, we have taught our children parables. We are greatly alarmed with the recent events and a War Lord within striking distance of Alliance lands. Did you intend that this story be a parable?"
"It is horrible to contemplate conflict so soon after the collapse of the Earth's populations. My story is a childhood story, but if there is truth in that story than it should be examined later. I am well aware of the shock that has spread throughout the Alliance, but we have only to look at ants to understand our present condition. Ant colonies, like our communal ranches, are mostly harmonious. Everyone does their job for the good of all. In the ant world, however, growth is rarely achieved without bloodshed and loss. They are constantly fighting other colonies, mostly over territory. Their internal strength, however, is their well-developed, altruistic practices, and it is this that we must take comfort. If my story has a moral, it is this. Note that the two warring packs of boys, of which I was the leader of one, met openly on our street to force parents to intervene. Perhaps with all that we have suffered, opposing groups will step back or ask a third party to mediate their dispute.
"OK. Enough about my childhood during the 1950's, which in looking over this crowd I can't spot a single person who shared those times. So, enough of ancient history. But my point is that life in the old days wasn't as nice as what you may read in books. Just think about how many loonies lived in my small neighborhood. Let's take a stretch break and I will continue with my story."

Chapter 4

"The next morning after breakfast we loaded into one of the vans at the lodge and headed to Big Creek, just outside the town of Victor. The forest service road climbs up the valley past apple orchards, above the rolling incline of pastureland, and winds around an abandoned mine. Reaching the top of the grade, the mouth of the canyon is a chasm of towering granite. The diagonal cleft plummets to the creek below, the boundary line between public and private lands. I pulled the van over in a small parking area right in front of a plunging precipice. The view up the narrow, glaciated valley is spectacular, and everyone spilled out of the van to inch their way to the edge of the cliff. From the flat shelf, we could look straight down across a two hundred yard lava rock garden. A few hundred feet down we could see the remnants of an old wooden irrigation sluice box that carried water around the canyon wall to water apple trees nearly a hundred years ago. In front of us a lone, lodge pole pine leaned against the granite wall. Its branches, with the exception of the canopy, were broken off from each succeeding storm that lashed its trunk against the cliff.
"Gentlemen, the creek down there is where we begin our lesson." When the last 'no way' and 'bull crap' echoed down the canyon, I turned to the young men and said, "If my two boys could make it down there when they were six and eight, you big boys can make it."
Marvin turned to Wayne who stood grinning next to me. "He's kidding right?"
"Wrong," said Wayne. "He's serious."
"Holy, shit!" stuttered Brad. "How are we supposed to get down from here?'
"See that lodge pole pine right in front of you, look at the base and you will see a feint trail leading down to the rock garden." The boys were incredulous and started laughing. "We climb down the branches of the tree to the base of this rock we're standing on. I continued" Although I had actually fooled a fishing client years ago, the boys weren't buying it. "Ok, if you look right over there, you will see a gap behind those trees. We will actually slide on our butts until we hit the rock garden. That's the easy part. Walking across that boulder field is the real danger, and I am serious. Don't jump. Test your footing on each rock and be prepared to shift or move fast if one of those boulders spins or pivots. Get your gear and follow Wayne. I'll be the rotten egg. It's been years since I climbed down this slope so don't eat lunch without me. Rod tips in the air!"
The boys grabbed their daypacks and fly rods and inched their way down the cliff with Wayne taking the lead. Scott tried to walk upright and soon discovered that the declination on the mountainside was just as steep as it looked from above. The loose dirt brought him back to earth with a hard thump. They were across the rockslide and into the trees down by the creek before I had returned from locking the van, setting up my fly rod and slinging on my daypack. I met them at the bottom twenty minutes later and had to suffer their laughs of derision. After a long rest, I began my lesson. I sat on a large rock with my feet in the cold, mountain water. The slight breeze and the gurgling from the creek kept the boys leaning toward me as I deliberately lowered my voice in that wondrous, outdoor classroom.

"This is a creek. Any smaller and you can call it a crick. For the most part, it isn't wide enough to accommodate two casters, but you can take turns and play leapfrog. The basics for creek fishing are following six simple steps. First of all, you have to get wet! Position yourself in the middle of the creek, and keep moving upstream after two or three casts to a likely holding spot. Second, keep your fly floating at a natural speed. Better yet, keep your fly along the seams and in slow pocket water at a slower speed. Third, unless you are using a Hopper, present your fly gently on the water. Four, keep excess fly line off the water. Five, and most important, don't let the current drag your fly under. Better yet, keep your fly line off the water entirely, and keep your fly high and dry! Six, keep a low profile and make the first cast count!
"Ok, I checked my lunch sack that we were given this morning, and I noticed an especially large chocolate chip cookie. I am willing to bet someone my cookie against theirs that they will miss the first two fish in a row right here in front of us." Right there I said pointing with my rod. "Any takers?"
"How do we know a fish is where you just pointed?" asked Marvin.
"I know that there is at least two or three fish where I just pointed. What do you say, Marvin, would you like that cookie of mine?"
"What if it doesn't come up for my fly?"
"It will," I said. "And remember you have to miss two fish to lose the bet. All you have to do is catch a little cutthroat and release it with your hands."
"Go for it!" said Scott.
"Wayne, how hard is this?"
"You said you were an experienced angler. Andrew is right. There are probably three or four small cutts within twenty feet of where you are standing. When one of them rises to your fly, raise the rod tip and set the hook. It's that easy," Wayne said.
"Am I being set up?" implored Marvin.
"Nope," said Wayne. "I'd go for that extra cookie, and then maybe Andrew can climb out of this canyon at the end of the day. It would sort of be like a win-win for both of you."
"Ok, Andrew, you're on." Andrew was closest to Marvin and gave him a high-five.
I assured Marvin that I would most certainly take his cookie if he missed two fish in a row. "Alright, I want you to stand right behind that flat rock. Since you are in the middle of the creek, and the trout are facing upstream along that current seam, all you have to do is make a short cast right in front of you. All you are going to do is dab your fly and follow the six steps. Start with step six and crouch. Now take a few steps forward and fish that riffle right down the middle of the seam."
Marvin crouched down real low and moved up the creek a few feet. He had tied on a Royal Wulff so he would have no problem following the fly as it drifted back to him. Everyone was hushed in anticipation. Marvin made his first cast and stuck his fly on a branch off to his right. Everyone laughed.
"Don't move," I yelled. "Stay crouched and ease backwards. Now, raise up your rod tip and pull down all the line until your fly is actually in the first guide. Now shake the rod tip gently. There you go. You just saved yourself a fly. We won't count that cast, Marvin. Get back into position and cast again."
Marvin moved up to his former position. The water swirled around his knees and he had to lean on some rocks to keep his balance. I looked at the boys lined up the creek snickering. "Ok, you guys, win or lose, you are going to critique Marvin's efforts using the six principles of creek fishing. Catch a big one, Marvin."
Marvin made his second cast and plopped the fly about a foot from the seam. "Gently lift up your fly and drop it right in the slot this time." He did and in a flash a trout broke through the surface film and dove back under the water. Marvin had not moved. He stood up stunned as the line floated back and wrapped around his feet.
"He missed it!" said Marvin.
"He missed it," I replied. "I don't think so. Did you see him come up from the bottom or did you only see him when he broke the water, took the fly in his mouth, spit it out as something foreign and headed back home. All in a split second I might add."
"I only saw the splash on top, and then he disappeared."
"Well, buddy, where are your polarized sun glasses to cut the glare?"
"Oh, man, I left them back in the cabin."
"Strike one," I said. "Marvin, get the next fish and you will be rewarded with great accolades, your peers will bow to your superiority, and I will reward you with a big chocolate chip cookie. Don't let the pressure get to you, Marvin. Follow the six steps."
Marvin crouched again and cast his fly. This time he raised his rod tip as I had shown him so that the fly drifted back to him at the natural speed of the current. He was ready. The fly had drifted no more than a foot when a small trout darted out from behind a jutting rock along the shore and slammed his fly. Marvin was wired so tightly that his reflexes matched the trout's speed. He flung up his rod tip so fast and high that the trout flew into the air and landed downstream. The fish was gone, and I had won, fair and square, an extra cookie. Marvin redeemed himself on the next cast and caught a nine-inch rainbow. The boys were up on their feet ready to fish.

"Wayne, you take Marvin and Scott up the creek a ways and help them if they need it. I'll start here with Brad, Andrew and Dan. When you're ready for lunch, just hold back and wait for us to catch up. The day went exceedingly well. No one in the group caught less than a dozen fish in three hours of fishing. I kept my word and called in the bet, but I only ate half of Marvin's cookie. It had been another rewarding day on a Montana creek, which we had all to ourselves. That night the boys had free roam of the lodge facilities. Of the three lodges in Three River Resorts, the Bitterroot Lodge could not be compared to the other lodges. The two partners had bought the ranch years ago when it was a hunting guide school. Situated right on the river, they had added a number of small cabins that catered to a select group of fly fisherman during the summer and fall. They leased out the hunting school business to a local outfitter who taught backcountry hunting and horsemanship along with guided back trips throughout the summer. My students stayed in a small bunkhouse behind the corrals.

Well, this is the part of the story that my boys got in a little trouble. You youngsters share a different life. Most of you are orphans who were taken in by the Alliance and picked to join this Alliance farm. Some of you barely remember your parents, but you have been adopted and loved by most if not all of the commune members. My young charges were sent to this camp by their parents for a summer adventure. In the Olden Days we had a lot of problems with alcohol abuse, both in the adult population and the younger generations. Drug and alcohol addictions created a lot of social problems, problems that we, at least for now, do not have to worry about.

Well, let's stop here for the night. I'll finish tomorrow, but I have to tell you that the story takes on tragic proportions from this point on."

The communal members drifted back to their rooms while the Entertainment Committee members stayed behind to re-set the chairs and tables for breakfast. Andrew stretched and kidded with a man much younger than he that audible sounds of pain or discomfort should be stifled if he was to convince everyone that he was still in his 60's.

Chapter 6

"Good evening."
"Good evening," responded the workers and the children.
"After last night's storytelling, I am sure the work committee struggled on whether to invite me back. Tonight I promise to be more succinct, partly because of the nature of the events, partly because it is a painful chapter in my life, and partly because if I go into too many details I am sure I will become morose, perhaps maudlin. To clarify the events, let me say that as soon as the boys arrived at the resort, we were torn whether we should continue the program with the events unfolding worldwide. We called all of the boys' parents, but they followed the plea of our President to resume our normal activities. As many of you may recall, he said, 'we will not allow fear to consume our lives; we will not allow enemies to demoralize us or change our daily lives. We will be resolute in our defense to all internal and external threats. Our fortitude will be manifested in going to work each day, sending our children to school, worshipping in our churches and synagogues and continuing with our daily routines.' Well, at least it was something like that. Had he known or we known what was to follow, I for one would not have planned a trip into the wilderness with five young men.

I would have stayed with my family. It was beyond anyone's comprehension that a chain of independent events could threaten humanity. On Monday after the rodeo incident, I decided to put it all behind me and take the boys on their pack trip into the South Fork of the Flathead River in the Bob Marshall wilderness. I had no idea that we would face death and then discover that the world was ending. Before I continue, I want to acknowledge that most of you saw greater loss and deprivation than I. It is why we invite members, when they are ready, to tell their story to the group. For some of you, there will never be healing, but we know the power of catharsis. We know the steps in grieving. I have never fully told my story. It pales in comparison to the suffering most of you have experienced. Nonetheless, suffering cannot be placed on a scale like pain. Like most of you I tend to recycle this nightmare over and over.

"Well, let me continue where I left off with my young outdoorsmen. That following Monday we packed up and headed for the Bob Marshall Wilderness to fish the South Fork of the Flathead River. My two donkeys, Buddy and Banjo, were in the trailer. Wayne drove the Suburban and Scott and Dan rode with me. Since we had got a late start in the morning, we didn't reach Meadow Creek Trailhead until dusk. Fifty miles of dirt road from Hungry Horse to Spotted Bear Ranger station shook the trucks across the washboard road. I felt real sorry for my two donkeys, as they had to brace themselves the entire bumpy road. When we got to the trailhead, each camping spot had a manger and a tie-down post. I had brought carrots for the donkeys, but I had not brought enough for the treatment each one of the boys wanted to give them. A couple of the boys pitched tents, while the rest just slept in their sleeping bags on top of drop cloths. I had mistakenly thought that I could sleep on just some hay I had collected, but by the middle of the night I was sore. When I got up to take a leak, I found that Wayne was also up and giving the donkeys some attention. He was too excited to sleep. He convinced me to take the time to dig through the trailer and find my air mattress. I slept soundly until dawn. We ate a simple breakfast, packed the donkeys and checked each other's packs for proper fit. No one had a pack that weighed over twenty pounds. The donkeys carried all but our personal clothes and fishing gear. Passing over the Gorge Pack Bridge, we saw the raging waters below fed by record-breaking snow pack.

"I had prepared the boys for our first stream crossing. My two donkeys had not crossed a creek over three or four inches deep. When we got to Mid Creek, I told them it would be on-the-job training. Sure enough, they balked. I tried each one separately, but they refused even when I lightly whipped their hocks with a small buggy whip that I carried just for these moments. I said, "OK, we're going to unpack them and carry everything across the creek. If we have a rodeo here, I don't want our supplies and gear floating down the creek. Take off your boots and put on your sneakers.' Everyone crossed over and dropped off their packs and returned for the panniers and duffle bags that were tied down on top of the two panniers. I was holding the two lead ropes. Both of those rascals refused to even get near enough to the water to drink, and it was a hot day and we had already covered at least four miles. Suddenly, I heard a clatter of hooves behind us. I looked up to see an outfitter with a pack team of mules. We were in a creek draw so he didn't see us until he was right upon us. He never slowed down.

"He led that team of about eight mules right past where I sat with one boot on and one boot off. What a clattering reverberation of steel shoes on granite boulders. Even the turned over boulders under the water managed to echo a muted rumble across the narrow canyon walls. They passed by my donkeys within a foot. When the last mule entered the water, the wrangler was already up the embankment and shrouded by pine boughs. I'll be darned if Buddy didn't just jump in right behind the last donkey and follow him straight into the creek. Meanwhile, Banjo spooked and jumped away from the water. There I was with one boot on and one boot off holding donkeys by their lead ropes while they headed in two different directions. When I got them under control, I looked down at my feet. One was wet and one was dry, and you can pretty well guess that the foot with the boot was the one that was wet. Both donkeys crossed the creek without much fanfare, just like they had been doing it all their lives. We crossed Black Bear Creek without incident and camped at the meadow about a quarter of a mile away. We had traveled only eight miles, but those youngsters weren't giving me a hard time about going any further that day. The next day we packed up and hiked six miles past the fork to Black Bear pack bridge and continued up the trail on the east side of the river. Passing Independence Park we rounded a corner far up on the mountain and saw what we had been looking for in both fishing and camping.

"Throughout the two-day hike, we rarely glimpsed the river far below. When we did, it was usually a view that we could gaze down on for less than a hundred yards, and than the trail would wind away from the precipice and fall to the backside of the rim. Rounding the corner about two hundred feet above the water, we could see the gorge open up to a small valley. Directly below us the sparkling water funneled into fast riffles that joined one after another until they compressed to form a Class IV white water section leading into the gorge. Ahead we could see two islands with numerous braids and channels. Best of all we could see shallow, brownish-yellow water sliding over golden rocks and pebbles. Following these lines of water with our eyes, we knew they would hold lots of smaller West Slope cutthroats. We could see the braided channels curving across the bleached piles of rock and tumble into quieter pools of green water, where we knew the big ones would lie waiting for food to bump along the bottom and drop into the feeding holes. Across the slopes on both sides of the river, bare strands of gray lodge pole stood like silent sentinels attesting to a fast moving forest fire that had swept over one rim, dipped into the valley and rose like the branches of a grape vine, as the fire shot up the other slope leaving vast stands of green timber. From where we stood, we picked our campsite.

"It was a good campsite with plenty of feed for the donkeys. Taking a spur trail to the campsite, we crossed a spring-fed creek that meandered through the brush at the base of the mountain to where it opened up into a backwater eddy. Here we would find a sandy, shallow spot to bathe. The conifers spread down the mountainside and marched to the river, which was less than a hundred yards away. A small meadow marked our camping spot next to a dry channel where cottonwood trees sent their roots down to absorb water. We were happy with our discovery. A fire pit lay nearby without a single piece of foil or eggshell to shame some slob packer that had visited the site that season. We set up our camp, tended to the donkeys, ate a hurried early evening meal and charged for the river with fly rods in hand. It was a glorious evening of fishing, and the next day it proved to be even better for every member of our party. I would later look back on that afternoon of our second day in camp and realize, superstitiously or not, that by breaking a thirty-year oath to catch and release fish, I had doomed our party.

Andrew paused. He anticipated the eagerness of the youngsters who quickly raised their hand. Many of the adults were schussing the youngsters through tight lips and whispering to them to put their hands down, but Patrick had said that he could be interrupted at any time, and he rather relished the exchange that he knew his last comment would provoke. He acknowledged a young man who was perhaps in his early teens. "Yes, young man, what is your question? He smiled.

"Teacher, why would you catch a fish and not eat it? We are taught that all bounty is to be killed and shared as equally as possible," said the young man earnestly.

Andrew weighed the question before speaking. "Is it not true that on many of the ranches you allow deer to come down to feed in the pastures unmolested? I have seen coveys of quail hiding in the underbrush next to barns, and yet no one shoots them. I have seen geese come right up on the lawns of some Alliance ranches with their goslings, and yet no one charges out the door to slay them. Why do you suppose this is?

The young man stood up straight. He had been asked a question that hinged on ethics; perhaps even morality, and he wanted to answer it with thoughtfulness. He knew that everyone was listening. He quickly reviewed in his mind what his teachers and the elders would say regarding this very serious dilemma. He knew that the teacher was right. On their farm, they had some pet deer. Although no one had ever said that they could not be killed, he had always accepted that those deer where a part of their lives. They brought enjoyment to all who peered from a window or worked the fields. "I believe," said the young man, that we protect some animals because they remind us of the gifts we receive from Nature. In letting them live, we can study them and appreciate their ways. Maybe in letting them live, we feel less sad when we hunt and give chase to animals that we must kill for food. It is also true, however, that in times of hunger, we would kill our pets to survive," said the young man resolutely.

"Well spoken, young man!" Andrew clapped and the assembly followed him. The young man was both proud and embarrassed and took his seat. "Now, let me ask someone else a follow up question. Living in the past, in the olden days before the dark period, I was never hungry. I had no reason to kill a beautiful trout for my supper. What other motivation would I have to release a fish unharmed? Yes, I will ask a younger person this time. Andrew, in his fondness for little girls having never had one, pointed at a little girl who had been patiently holding her hand up the entire time.

"We catch fish to eat," said the little girl, and the audience laughed. I've caught two fish!" she proudly exclaimed.
"And how do you feel when you catch one and it gets away?" asked Andrew.
The girls shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows. "We just keep fishing," she announced.
"Very good, young lady. "We keep fishing because it is fun. And the ones that got away or the ones that I would release would be out there waiting for me on my next fishing trip. Keep in mind that in this valley alone, we had perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand people. Klamath Falls probably had a population of 50,000 people. Think what would have happened if everyone killed all the fish that they caught!" Andrew took a drink of water. The audience was obviously waiting for him to continue his story.

"By late afternoon, I was exhausted from scrambling over rocks and wading in the water over slippery rocks. I had caught so many beautiful cutthroats from 12 to 16 inches that I was ready to head back for camp and check out the donkeys. Earlier in the day I had agreed with the boys that we would kill one fish each for a side dish that night. The law said that we could catch two fish, provided that they were less than 12 inches in length. This was a law to protect the larger fish that were of spawning age. I asked Wayne to catch one fish for me that evening. I told them to be back before darkness. I reminded them that we were in grizzly country. I told the boys that I would have a fire going and everything ready for dinner.

"At night I picketed the donkeys close to the tents. Our campfire pit was no more than forty or fifty feet from some of the tents, but our meal preparation area was over a hundred yards away. At night we would hoist all the panniers holding food up into a tree. Before it got dark, I had the lantern ready, as well as my flashlight. All the food that we would need that evening I had organized and lay out in the grass. I had built a small fire pit and had hot coals ready as evening approached. On a rock I had salt and lemon-pepper, along with foil, ready for the fish. Wrapped in foil, we would put them on the coals for no more than five minutes. When I could no longer see steam escaping from the foil, I knew they would be ready. As it grew darker, I became worried. The boys had not returned. They had been giving clear instructions to fish together playing leapfrog over the best water. I had also told them to work back close to camp as the sun set. That way they could re-fish a good run at dusk, which was close to the campsite. Every member of the party carried a pepper spray canister on his belt for protection against bears. Turning on my flashlight, I went looking for my canister. I had taken off my wet pants when I had returned to camp and changed into a pair of sweat pants, as the evening chill set in quickly once the sun set. I found the wet pants where I had left them hanging from a small pine tree. I pulled out the belt, threaded the belt through the holster loops and adjusted it to my waist.

I had read a number of books on grizzly attacks in North America, and although they had not been required reading for trekking into the wilderness, it seemed prudent that I should review the attacks and killings before I ventured into the grizzly country with five young men. As darkness descended I became more worried, although in truth I knew exactly what was transpiring out on the river. These young men were doing exactly what I had done to my family so many times. They were catching fish, lots of fish, and they all waited for someone else to make the decision to return to camp. How far had they advanced up the river? It had taken me at least thirty minutes to return to camp, and they were still charging up the river long after I had retreated to camp. I shouted a number of times. I strained to listen for a reply. Growing hoarse, I sat down on a fallen log and waited. After another ten minutes had past, I noticed that my two donkeys had quit grazing. Side by side they were facing the same direction and their ears were straight up in the air.

I could hear the muffled sounds of someone approaching. Shining my light between the trees, I watched as Brad and Dan came into the aura of my flashlight. "Where in the hell have you guys been? Where are the others?"
Brad, who was the smaller of the two boys, spoke up immediately. His face, flushed from running in the dark, showed no emotion. Dan, on the other hand was clearly in shock. He just stood there waiting for Brad to tell all that he knew. "Those other guys crossed the river at a shallow spot. We yelled to them that we had better head back. They yelled back that they were just going to go around a bend and that they would only be a few minutes. It was already getting dark. Wayne came up behind us and told us that we would catch hell for being so late. He had been fishing a side channel and really had got into a pod of fish. I pointed to where the other guys had crossed the river. He stood there whistling really loud, but it was at least seventy or eighty yards to where the river bent ninety degrees and disappeared behind a canopy of trees. We could barely hear a yell back from the other guys, and then we realized that we were hearing screams. Andrew, they were really bad screams."
Dan quietly interrupted. "Andrew, we think something horrible has happened. Wayne told us to head back to camp. We watched him wade across the river. He put down his rod and took out the bear spray. He walked around the bend very slowly, and just as we were about to leave..." Dan trembled and his voice trailed off.
Andrew, we saw a body float around the bend and get hung up on some rocks," continued Brad. "We hesitated a moment and than we charged into the water. Dan slipped in the water and lost his rod. We were half way across when we heard Wayne yell out. He said, 'Go back and get help! Go back, now!" We took off running, but we fell so many times in the dark that we missed the trail to camp. What are we going to do for help?"

"I can't say I jumped to action. Nausea swept over me. I kept thinking of what I was going to say to one or more sets of parents. It was my fault, and I knew that it would haunt me the rest of my life, but I also knew that we had to act and not waste any time. "Brad get a couple of flashlights from the tents, and throw those pack saddles on the donkeys. Don't forget to put on their blankets first. I'll cinch them up when you are finished. Dan, you're going to stay in camp--no arguments! Clean up all this food and pull it up in the tree. Get your flashlight first. After you get all the food secure, I want you to walk up the slope. Follow the trail up river about two hundred yards and find a climbing tree up on the slope. Be sure you have an angle where you can see up the valley to where you guys were last fishing. Take some rope with you and tie yourself to a limb. You will probably be up there all night. Don't come down until one of us finds you in the morning. Now, this is important. Look for us along the river. I will signal you with my flashlight. I want you to signal back so we can see your position."
"How should I signal?"
"Just turn your flashlight on every ten minutes until you see us flash back at you. Give us about thirty minutes before you signal. Later, when we are on our way back. I'll signal you. When you signal back, I'll flash my light x-number of times to tell you how many people in our party. Stay in the tree until we come for you."
"Ok," Dan replied.
"Dan, "if you believe in God, say some prayers for us. When we get to the crossing, I'll signal you one more time."

"I left Dan cleaning up the camp food and returned to Brad. He had the donkeys saddled and had the cinches and straps ready to cinch up. "How many flashlights do you have?"
"Three."
"Good, dump everything out of the panniers but rope, one of those stoves, some extra clothes, particularly jackets and a sleeping bag. I'll find the first aide kit and matches." I kept thinking that I was forgetting something. I asked Brad but he just stared at me. And then it came to me. It was dark and we would need torches. While I cinched up the donkeys, Brad packed the container of white gas, and he threw in some pine bough branches. The donkeys did not like to travel in the darkness, and they would periodically stop and survey the darkness. After a while a nearly full moon crested the mountains. Looking back to camp I could barely discern the area I had asked Dan to climb a tree. I signaled with my headlamp. Within seconds, Dan had signaled back. The pinpoint of light blinked high up on the mountain, far above the trail I was sure. He had picked a good vantage point. In another fifteen minutes we came to the crossing, and I signaled Dan one more time.

"I had Brad soak the pine boughs with white gas. I tried to get the donkeys to cross, but they refused. Banjo jumped away from the water and it was all I could do to hold on to him. At that moment I realized that it wasn't the white gas that I was trying to remember to bring. I had forgot the hobbles! Quickly, I pulled the rope out and made a makeshift hobble for both donkeys. I told Brad to stay with the donkeys, and than I tied a rope from Buddy's saddletree to form a loop about two feet from the ground. I told Brad that if he heard a bear, he should use the loop to climb up on the packsaddle. No record exists of a bear charging a man on horseback. I wasn't sure that applied to donkeys, but I wasn't going to share that with Brad.

Standing in the shallow water, I yelled out to what I hoped would be more than one survivor. "Hello," I yelled out. "Is anyone over there?" I could hear a faint voice over the murmur of the running water. I checked that I had the other flashlight in my hip pocket. I had a coil of rope around my neck. I lit one of the torches and made my way to the other shore. I moved up the bank towards the bend in the river. My eyes strained to see any movement in the water. It was light enough from the full moon that I was sure that I could see no body or bears in the shallow water ahead. I yelled again.
"Andrew! Scott and I are in a tree. Marvin's dead. He was killed by a sow and her two yearling cubs. Scott was mauled, but he played dead. He keeps passing out on me. I've got him tied down with his belt and mine. He is in really bad shape. Wait, wait! He says he has been playing dead because he thought I was a bear. Andrew, I think he is delirious. He just passed out again. I can feel his pulse"
"Wayne, are the bears nearby?"
"I haven't seen them for maybe an hour. They dragged Wayne's body into the trees down by the bend. Where are you?"
"I am about 20 yards from the bend. If I go around the bend rather than through the trees, how much shoreline will I have?"
"It's about 10 yards at the bend from the shoreline to the trees," yelled back Wayne. From the bend, the shoreline is gravel and rock and it gets wider and wider. I am in a tree about thirty yards from the bend. I can barely see your torch from here."
"Wayne, I am going to light the other torch and come and get you. If anything happens, stay in the tree. Brad is across the river with the donkeys, and Dan is up in a tree on the mountainside above the camp."

I lit the second torch. My hands were trembling so badly that the two torches flamed up on every involuntary shake. I held my breath when I passed the bend. Wayne shouted out his position and I advanced to the tree. It was a fully expanded tree with branches nearly to the base. Although grizzly rarely climb a tree after a human, unlike the brown bear that pursued a young woman ranger to the top of a tree where she plunged to her death, there have been reported instances when grizzly cubs climbed fairly high after their prey before they turned around and returned to the earth. Wayne had picked a good tree. Moving up the height of the tree, the branches became further apart and open. I climbed up a ways and then tossed up the rope. I told Wayne to tie a bowline knot around Scott under his armpits. I had him first pass the rope over the branch above him. I tied the other end in a bowline under my arms. In this manner, Wayne lowered Scott down while the weight of Scott pulled me slowly up the tree. By the time Scott was close to the ground, Wayne was already there to pull him free of the branches and untie the knot. I worked my way to the ground, untied the rope from under my shoulders, wrapped it around my neck and looked at Scott. He choked and moaned, and we realized that he slowly was returning to consciousness. I could see terrible wounds across his back extending across his buttocks and down his left leg. He had lost a lot of blood, but we had to move him immediately across the river. I knew that within yards of us, Marvin's body lay half buried by forest duff and decayed bark. We had no time to waste.

I had tossed the two torches on the ground, but only one was still lit. I broke off a branch from the tree and lit it from the other torch. Wayne and I carried Scott in the two-man carry position. We bent down and each picked up a torch and made our way in a straight line through the trees to the crossing point. Brad soared in my admiration when we saw the bon fire he had started across the river. We could see the two donkeys tied to a drift log, and we could see Brad scurrying around building the fire higher. When he saw us, he came rushing out to help us. When we laid Scott by the fire, we could hear woofing and coughing in the trees on the other side. The sow and her cubs had returned to protect their prize. I asked Brad if he had signaled Dan, certain that he had. He said yes, and I suppose the fire told Dan that we would stay put for the night. The two young men gathered firewood for hours while I administered first aid to Scott.

He was badly wounded. The slash across his neck had just missed his artery. His scalp was laid bare above his left ear, which had been ripped off. His wrists were mangled where he had protected his neck. From his shoulders to his thigh, he had lacerations and puncture wounds, and I was sure that one of his ankles had been broken when the sow or one of her cubs had dragged him. Apparently, Wayne had rounded the bend to see the sow and her cubs feeding on Marvin's body out in the shallows. Scott lay on the boulder-strewn beach playing dead not twenty yards from the bears' attack on Marvin, when he had ran out into the river to save himself. Seeing Wayne round the bend, the sow launched a false charge. Wayne held his ground with his canister ready to fire. He had been ready to let loose a spray of cyan pepper when the sow veered off and barked at him. The two cubs dashed behind their mother. Wayne turned his head slightly from the sow's gaze and slowly walked towards Scott. He had already picked his escape tree. Reaching Scott, he bent down to talk to Scott, and then he made his first mistake.

From his crouched position over Scott, he looked up and made eye contact with the sow, and she charged. When she was twenty feet from Wayne, he pulled the trigger and enveloped her with a cloud of pepper. She stopped her charge, coughed, shook her head and than charged again. This time she was ten feet away when Wayne pulled the trigger again. She was moving so fast she charged into the two men, stumbled over them, and then ran back to her cubs. Out of range of the pepper spray, she and her two cubs paced back and forth between the two men and the body of Marvin. Scott was conscious, and he pulled out his canister, while Wayne dragged him towards the tree. He hoisted Scott up to the first branch, when one of the cubs charged. This time he sprayed too soon and found little of the pepper rushed out from the nozzle, but Scott was ready and emptied his canister, never thinking to pull back and save some pepper for later. The two men worked their way up into the tree as darkness fell.
We decided to sleep in shifts, but in truth no one slept. We crouched near the fire. Buddy and Banjo stared across the river with the ears erect all night long. At false dawn, I remembered to signal Dan. He was awake in his tree and signaled back. I reported the death of one of our group with five separate flashes. Suddenly, we fell silent as the entire western skyline grew brighter and brighter. Confused, we turned and looked Eastward as the first glow of dawn rose up the backside of the mountain. It was true. The unthinkable had happened. One of our western cities had been incinerated. We said very little. Each of us pondered the fate of our families, regardless of where they lived. At daybreak we saw no signs of the bears across the river. I re-administered Scott's wounds. I re-positioned the dangling scalp and wrapped his entire head in a triangular bandage. Throughout the night he had been in shock. We placed him in the sleeping bag, and when he was conscious, I gave him water and some aspirin. We wasted no time preparing to leave. While we prepared to leave, Brad kept the fire roaring. To my great surprise and relief, Brad had tossed the ax and saw back into the pack the night before. We quickly began fashioning a travois using the rope and the sleeping bag as a litter. Using clove hitches, half hitches, square knots and grannies, we had Scott tied onto the travois in a little less than two hours. Making our way back to camp, I placed Wayne out in front with my canister of bear spray while I led Buddy. We had lashed the travois to Buddy, and Banjo was left free to follow, but he did not like walking behind the travois and would dart out to the side of Buddy any chance that he got. Behind us Brad and Dan followed with pepper spray in hand. "Andrew, they're following us. I spotted them twice now so I am not mistaken."
"How far back," I asked.
"Maybe a quarter of a mile or less."
"Wayne, take control of Banjo. If they close the distance, I want to close up in a semi-circle and get in a tight group. Wayne, I want you on my right flank, and Brad I want you on my left flank. Remember what you learned last night. Don't waste spray on a false charge. Don't fire your canister until I give you the order. They can veer off in a false charge ten feet away. We'll fire at 20 feet!

Twenty minutes later they had circled around us and broke all the rules of engagement between grizzly bears and humans. Not only did they not retreat from humans after being sprayed heavily with pepper the previous day, but now the sow and her cubs launched a frontal charge without warning. They covered sixty yards in a manner of seconds. Fast enough to take down a running elk in short distances, they charged straight at us. Brad had leapt to the front and stood with Wayne. Banjo jumped out of Wayne's grasp and charged the bears. He started bucking and kicking up his rear legs with forceful kicks at the charging bears when they were twenty yards away. And than his moment of bravado was followed by a hasty retreat to the rear. Distracted the sow and her two cubs pulled up momentarily thirty or forty feet away. Wayne and Brad held the canisters in front of them with their arms fully extended. The sow stood on her hind legs, and then she dropped back to all four legs, took a couple of hops and charged.

"Not yet! Not yet! Fire!" Both canisters opened up with a green cloud of pepper. The sky had turned dark, and with the shifting fog of green we could see the three grizzlies running into a willow thicket towards the river. Surprisingly, Buddy had held his ground. I looked behind us to see Banjo running towards us. He lunged side-to-side kicking his rear legs into the air like a triumphant warrior. It was the first and only time that we laughed as we retreated from the wilderness.

We found camp and re-united with Dan. He was stiff and sore having spent a sleepless night straddling a tree branch. We filled him in with the passing events and broke camp without eating. By the time we had reached the main trail, we could see a half a dozen outfitters leading their clients and trains out of the mountain. Soft ash was falling from the darkening sky. One large party passed us without saying a word. Another party cursed us as they tried to pass. We were holding traffic up. Pulling the travois, Buddy was slow and steady on the trail. Hundreds of feet up the side of the mountain, it was impossible for anyone to pass. One foot over the edge, and riders would plunge to their deaths. Twice the downhill side of the travois slipped over the edge. Brad followed behind me, and each time the tree branch would slip off the trail, he would yell out an alarm, and I would struggle with Buddy to pull he and Scott from the abyss. Reaching a bend a wide spot in the trail, we pulled over to rest and calm our nerves. The raining ash unnerved us. Finally, two rangers on horseback over took us. I told them of the rogue bears and that later travelers who were making their way from deeper in the interior should be protected.

The lead ranger leaned across the saddle horn and pushed his baseball cap back. His eyes were red, no doubt from the ash, and his sullen demeanor had more the look of a mortician or for that matter a corpse than a government employee who had taken a sworn oath to protect people when they were hurt or lost. "Mister, I don't know how to respond. Before our satellite communication dropped, we had reports of World War III. Washington has been obliterated, as well as New York. You saw the sky over Seattle early this morning. We can't say for sure, but we think that our government has collapsed. There is no emergency broadcasting system. It is silent out there, and we are all heading home to our families. I wish you the best of luck, especially your young man in the travois." He clicked his tongue, spurred his horse gently and passed us. Behind the two rangers another pack team had caught up with us so we let them pass. One of their clients was a lady. She kept repeating, "God is good. God will guide us through evil times." She made no eye contact with any of us, and we watched the big Belgian mules sway up the trail kicking up fresh dirt to meet the falling ash. We covered our mouths with scarves and followed the passing group. Soon they disappeared in front of us.

We knew that we had escaped the jaws of death from the sow and her two cubs. What we didn't know was that fate and just plain bad luck would overtake us high in the mountains. It defied logic. It went beyond bad luck, and it suggested that evil had spread throughout the land in the demonic form of falling ash. I have no idea what took place on the trail ahead of us. We knew we were in trouble when we heard the pounding hooves of frightened mules charging back down the trail. We froze. We had a steep cliff that plunged down the mountain to the gorge below. On the uphill side, the slope was so steep that it would be difficult to scramble to safety without a root or a low-lying bush to grab. Wayne let go of Banjo's lead rope. Seeing the charging mules ahead, Banjo leapt up the side of the mountain splaying rock and dirt in all directions. Banjo was in four-wheel drive. His haunches dug into the side of the mountain and he cleared the trail. Wayne jumped up and grabbed his tail, dug in with his boots and lunged for a bush ten feet above the trail. I must confess that I was not as quick to action. I threw up my arms and screamed at the charging horses, and then I dropped over the edge. The lead mule slammed into Buddy and they both veered off the cliff in slow motion. I saw it all as I slid on my belly clawing the dirt that ripped at my fingernails. Buddy and the mule turned over and over until they dropped off a rock shelf and fell a hundred feet to their deaths. I never saw the travois or Scott. Maybe I had refused to see Scott plunge off the side of the cliff. Maybe I just blocked it out of my mind. I had come to a rest just above the rock shelf. I called out for Brad, but I had no answer. Wayne called out to me and told me not to move.

Banjo had slid down the trail and slammed into the second charging mule. Apparently the blow or collision had saved Banjo's life because the second mule just stepped off into space and disappeared to my left. I never saw it. Wayne had held onto the bush until the melee had settled. A number of mules had stumbled and fallen to the ground. Some of the mules had saved themselves by climbing a few feet up the side of the cliff. Wayne said the bush he was holding pulled free from the earth, and he slid down right next to a shaking mule. Wayne went from mule to mule until he and Dan had gathered up enough rope so that Wayne could scale down the cliff and help me. I tied the rope under my arms, and Wayne worked his way back up to the trail and between the two of us I was able to work my way back, although I had to stop a number of times to catch my breath. I hate to admit it but I was going into shock. I was trembling so bad Dan had to step up and help me remove the rope. The mules stood eerily calm after such a disaster. Maybe they too were in shock, or maybe they had overcome their panic and fear and stood patiently waiting for someone to lead them away from death. At any rate, I was amazed at their calmness, since I had to roll myself up on the trail directly between hooves the size of a catcher's mitt. Once I had caught my breath and controlled my trembling, I asked about Brad.

Wayne said, "It's bad Andrew. When the first mule slammed into Buddy, I saw Brad reach out to Scott as the travois slipped off the trail. It whipped sideways in the air and I think one of the poles slammed into Brad's chin, and he too slipped off the edge of the cliff. He dropped straight down a hundred feet. I've already spotted his body. He didn't go over the edge into the gorge."
"Show me," I said. We walked down the trail a few feet and peered over the edge. Brad's twisted body could be seen below. His legs were splayed apart with one of his legs twisted backwards. His head, barely visible, was wedged between two jagged rocks.
"I'll go down and see if he is alive,' said Wayne.
I placed my hand on Wayne's shoulder. "No. He is dead. I won't risk another life. It's too risky. And if he is still alive, I do not have the strength to help you bring him back. He was a brave man, but he is gone, and we need to survive." We picked two mules to ride and Banjo followed us. When we reached the trailhead, Wayne and I loaded Banjo into the trailer along with a small mule that seemed to have called Banjo his brother. When we got to Hungry Horse, a steady stream of vacationers from Glacier National Park crawled down the highway. We pulled in with the rest. When we got to Missoula, Wayne said goodbye. He returned to Bozeman where he had a sweetheart. It was a strange parting. We shook hands and said nothing. In fact we had said nothing during the entire drive back to Missoula. The last I saw of him was when he flagged down a car heading east. I stayed with Dan by the interstate while he held out a sign for Las Vegas. I family stopped. They were headed in that direction. I waved goodbye and then I returned home to my family.
In eight months the Black Ebola ravished Montana. I lost my wife and two children. I turned Banjo loose and headed for Northern California to see if any of my family had survived. By the time I reached Interstate 84 and the Dalles, I was sickened by what I saw. I turned off at Highway 197 and found myself at the guard station at Collier Park. Jake Simons interviewed me, and a few days later I was part of the Alliance.

"Well, that's my story, and as the saying goes, I'm sticking to it. I would like to call it a night. Lance and I will say our goodbyes in the morning." Many of the elders gathered around Andrew as he stood up and stretched. They reached out and laid hands on him. Some murmured words of encouragement. Others just gave him a hug. He was the teacher, and he was exhausted from telling his story.

Prologue
2013 - In the Beginning

Note to new readers of this blog: Just ignore the novel in progress and look at the Categories, which contain all of my fishing instruction.

Note: Hey, guys, when I complete a chapter I will post it. Keep in mind that this is not meant to be the great American Novel. It is meant to be in the tradition of Max Brand and Luke Short. Pulp westerns were my favorite when I was a young man. I know it has many weaknesses, but I have had fun writing it. If you have a favorite chapter, let me know. So far my favorite is chapter 8. You and Pauline are my only readers, unless I can hook Steve. Don't feel that you have to critique or compliment the story. Writing a novel is on my Bucket List. Rewriting the novel isn't!

Dad

Prologue to Alliance, a novel
copyright 2009 David Archer

The rancher stepped off the back porch and pulled his gloves out of his Carhartt overalls. He zipped up his coat and walked across the mud and snow caked dirt turnaround to the barn. Firing up his four-wheeler, he checked his basket and made sure that he had the necessary iodine and lanolin. The rope was neatly coiled at the bottom where he had placed it the evening before with the calf puller neatly coiled on top. It was 6:30 in the morning as he prepared to drive out to check on the cows. Molly, his Australian sheepdog, pranced about in anticipation. He looked over at Jake, the oldest of his two dogs. Jake had his head resting on his two front paws. His head was partly out of the doghouse in the stall. When he looked at Jake, Jake acknowledged him by raising his two eyebrows and then avoiding eye contact. "Well, Jake, I never thought I'd see the day that you would sleep in on me, but by God you deserve your rest." He had made the same run somewhere around two o'clock in the morning. Stopping at the first gate, he unhooked the gate, drove through it and returned to set the clasp, just as he had done it thousand of times and his father before him. The third gate was open, and he turned the machine and drove across the frozen pasture to the willow-lined creek that meandered down to Upper Klamath Lake.

He knew where his cows would be. With the passing of the last storm, they would seek out shelter in the willow lined creek bottom. They would push their backsides up against the tree trunks and huddle under the branches to protect themselves from piling up with snow or frost. These soon to be mothers had left the standing herd in the frozen pasture, where they waited their allotted 20 pounds of hay each day. The cows approaching labor instinctively sought shelter far away from the other cows. They would be wary of the other cows. One of these mothers in waiting might attempt a kidnapping of her calf only to abandon it later, when she in turn went into labor. Mitch drove along the beaten path that followed the creek. He saw the isolated cows patiently waiting for their delivery time. He located his first Hereford. She had just dropped her calf probably within the half hour. He got off the four-wheeler and pointed his flashlight at the calf to check and see if the calf's nose was healthy and pink. He reached into his basket and pulled the iodine bottle and rag out to wipe the navel area to protect against infection. He checked to see if the calf had been licked clean to the point of being dried. Most importantly, he looked for signs of pneumonia and made sure that the hair on the calf's muzzle was curled and wet, a sure sign that the calf had begun nursing.

Each year after calving season, he would tally up his losses from stillbirth to abandonment. Each year he fervently hopped that he would not have a bummer or orphaned calf. Trying to match an orphan calf with a mother cow that had lost a calf was not as easy as might be thought. But each year he would have a Holstein ready and waiting in the barn. It always saddened him when he had cows that would walk off and abandon their calves. The thought made him reflect on his own sense of abandonment and isolation in a world gone mad. He shook off his sadness. He had been in a state of depression for three years. Even his wife, who always remained positive and looked towards the future, could not pull him out of his funk. His mind had been so cloudy and the moroseness so strong that he had taken to write a chore list each day and carry it in his breast pocket. He turned his attention to the cows. He always looked for those cows whose milk bags were tight as a drum. Her teats would need to be massaged with lanolin until her calf could nurse. After two or three days, the cows would bring their calves to the herd in the feeding area. He had already found a beaten path from the willows to the herd that milled out in the pasture where he fed them twice a day. He knew what he'd find later at daybreak, the small, wet and twisted body of a dead calf. He leaned forward, lowered his head to the handlebars and wept. He wept for his own children and their children, and he wondered which one, or any of them for that matter, would be able to return to the ranch. He sobbed uncontrollably as the image of his four adult children appeared to him. Had any of them survived? He had dealt with life and death in both his animals and his family all his life, but the inhumanity and stupidity that they faced was inconceivable to him. It was as if his entire herd had dropped their calves and just walked away chewing their cuds as the calves bleated their confusion, their suffering and their longing to be loved and protected. "You fucking bastards!" he yelled out as the first rays of light broke out across the hills surrounding Chiloquin. His four-wheeler had died. He fired up the engine and the headlights came up to full power as he wiped his eyes and looked across 240 acres, which had been in his family for three generations. He had one final area to check. It was at the far edge of his property close to Modoc Point Road.

He crossed into the next pasture following the contours of the gentle sloop. The rise and fall of the land away from the lake was deceptive. Hollows and shallow ravines dotted the landscape. In the crevasses and drainages, seeping springs saturated the earth with water that slowly meandered to the lake. This wet ground nurtured the willows and although trampled on and shredded, these natural windbreaks provided some cover for his pregnant cows. He inwardly shook his head regarding his outburst. What's going to become of us? What's going to become of the land? He knew that he and his wife Bee were just going through the motions. They both avoided any talk about the ranch's demise now that the region and the federal government had collapsed. There would be no market for their calves. There might not even be any hope for their personal survival in the years ahead. Father of three sons and a daughter, he was glad that he had not pushed any of them to take over the ranch. Having thought that he also knew it was true that he wished at least one of his children had made it back to the ranch during this horrific period. Moving up a slight incline he headed towards a hay storage, an open sided barn, which was fully stacked with last year's surplus of hay. Suddenly, a ray of sunlight skipped across the top of the white underside of the barn roof.

Mitch slammed on the breaks of the four-wheeler so suddenly that Molly almost ran into the right rear tire. She gingerly sidestepped and froze her ground. Mitch slowly reached for his rifle in the scabbard. It was an old 30-30 that belonged to his grandfather that he used to pop off shots at lopping coyotes crossing his property. The early morning rays of light had reflected off a truck window or mirror parked behind the hay. Oh, God he thought. Don't let it be that bunch he had chased away a few weeks ago. He had caught them in the act of rustling one of his cows. He had driven right up amongst them without drawing his rifle. They had been adamant in their right to one of his cows.
"Mister, you know as well as we do that eventually people are going to starve to death. You have no market for those cows, and half of them will die off this winter."
Another man stepped forward and reached that uncomfortable distance where he could reach out and strike or grab at Mitch. "We're sick of eating canned food. It's a God Damned disgrace that you are ignoring an entire population in your own backyard who need fresh meat."
A third man, who had a stocking cap pulled down low and had his chin stuck down in his coat collar to the point that he was unrecognizable, scowled at Mitch. Mitch could hardly make out the man's features. "You and the rest of your stingy ranching pals are going to have carcasses all over your fields. What are you going to do when your hay runs out? My guess is that you are going to just let them drop dead rather than sharing with us."

Mitch's face flushed. He knew there was some truth to their charges, but he also knew that these men were lazy men unwilling to help in the running of the ranch or in sharing in the bounty of what the land could produce. They would rather fire each other up with righteous indignation and than go out and do some cowardly act and call it God's will that they protect their family. "I haven't seen any of you men at the meetings held in Fort Klamath. We posted announcements throughout your subdivisions, but I haven't seen a single one of you there to offer advise or join us. Until such time as you want to become part of the solution, if I find you rustling my cows, I'll shoot to kill. In the meantime, if you come to the ranch house like a neighbor, I think I could help you. God knows we're all suffering and confused. We don't need to ignite a war in the Wood River Valley. So, gentlemen, none of you have reached for those side arms under your coats, and I am certainly not reaching for mine. I am leaving now. If you show up at a meeting, I'll not mention this confrontation." Mitch had put the four-wheeler in reverse and backed slowly away from the men. That was two week ago. He had later told Bee that he didn't think he would ever actually shoot a man for stealing a cow, but on the other hand, it really pissed him off that it could lead to a violent confrontation. "Oh, shit," he thought. Maybe it's just a traveler parking behind the hay to rest, but he seriously doubted it.

He levered a round into the chamber and slid to the rear of the four-wheeler in a crouching position. He looked at Molly. She was snarling and her hair all along her back was standing up. Worst yet, she was facing behind him. Quickly he looked around for cover. A pile of old railroad ties were tossed up in a pile about ten yards away. It was an ambush. Mitch exploded into action just as a shot came from the hay barn. As he ran to the railroad ties, he was sure that he had been fired upon from someone behind him hidden in a clump of willows. He lunged the last few feet on his stomach and took cover. When a bullet rang out and pitched a clod of dirt sideways six inches from his left boot, he pulled himself into a tight ball and pulled up his rifle. The shooter in the willows could not hit him, but he was pinned down. He pulled up the lever again and ejected a shell. It was an Accelerator. It had a small piece of lead with a plastic sleeve. It was meant to speed up the velocity and shoot straight. It was mainly a varmint round, but properly sighted it would kill a man easy enough at these distances. He returned the round to the magazine and levered in a new shell. He pushed the rifle through a narrow opening. He could not see the entire barn, but he had an open shot at where he figured the man was hiding. He caught sight of a narrow slit between two bales of hay at shoulder height. He knew the bales had been moved, and peering through that dark slit, he was certain that a man was sighting the railroad ties searching for him. He pulled the trigger slowly. He heard a shrill scream, a second of silence and than a volley of lead poured his way from the willows and from the other end of the barn.
One of the shots split a timber next to him and sent a large sliver ricocheting off his brow. He reached up and touched the welt and felt the blood. He crouched lower as the firing continued. Turning slightly, he looked for Molly and saw her crouching low with her tail between her legs. She was heading down the path that they had taken. He looked at his watch. It was almost 10:30. Bee always met him at the hay barn with coffee and a snack. Had she heard the shots? He was sure that she would. Had he left his 30-06 in the gun rack in the truck? "Oh, Bee, for my sake and yours, check the gun rack. Oh, God, God, protect her."

He turned to look up at Modoc Point Road about a hundred yards from his position, but he could not see far enough behind him. He knew he would not be able to see her if she stopped behind him. She would use the scope and use the cover of the truck. Of that he was certain. His thoughts turned to the shooters. They had found the slot he had fired through, and wood shavings were flying all around him. If they made a frontal assault, he would have to stand up and fire, and he knew the willow sniper would pick him off. He shifted his weight and tried to spot where the willow sniper was hiding. At that moment he heard the roar of their old Ford flatbed. He heard the screeching sound of tires spinning on ice and packed snow. What the hell was Bee up to? She obviously wasn't on the paved road. And then he knew what she had done. She had rammed through one of Peterson's gate and was flying across the field to take up a position behind their barn. The truck noise ceased, as did the riffle volleys. A rifle shot blasted from Peterson's field, and than another and another. No one was firing at him so he quickly popped up his head in the direction of the willows. He dropped before the shot was fired. I've marked him. He heard the unmistakable rattle of a diesel truck fire up behind the barn. He pushed himself up on his knees with the rifle to his shoulder just as a man rolled over, jumped to his feet and started running from the willow-lined ditch. Mitch fired three times before the man dropped, and than he turned his attention to the barn.

He rose up on one knee straining his eyes through his grandfather's peep sight. He could hear the truck moving off. Standing up he could see the old white flatbed truck out in Peterson's pasture about 300 yards from the hay barn. Bee was still methodically firing at the retreating truck. Mitch held his rifle in the ready position and slowly advanced on the figure he had shot. The man was writhing in pain. Mitch recognized the man as the one with the stocking cap. He had it on now, except in his fall it had shifted so one side of his head, which lay exposed to the cold morning air. Mitch's bullet had struck the man in the hip before glancing upwards to tear through the man's stomach. The man's eyes were glazed and he drooled steady streams of saliva from his mouth. Mitch hesitated for a moment, rolled the man over on his stomach and shot the man in the back of the head after he had retreated ten paces. Bee's truck was stuck and he could see her walking across the field towards him with the rifle slung over her shoulder. He found the first man that he had shot, and he was dead. He walked out to the road to meet Bee. He slogged through the borrow pit and held up a strand of barbwire while he pressed the bottom wire down with his boot. Bee passed the rifle to Mitch and crawled through the wire gap and shook off the snow that clung to her jeans.

"You saved my life, Bee," Mitch said somberly.
"Maybe. Let's go home, and we'll talk later," she softly replied. The couple, hand-in-hand with their rifles slung over their shoulders, walked down the road towards the ranch house, which was about a half-mile away. Molly and Jake greeted the silent couple at the top of the driveway and danced around them in excitement. Their excitement ebbed and was replaced by confusion when they didn't get their ears rubbed or their chins scratched.

They had said very little in their walk back to the house. Mitch had excused himself to go to the bathroom while Bee put on a pot of coffee. She could hear Mitch vomiting through the closed door. Her own hands were trembling so badly she could barely place the coffee cups on the table when the coffee was ready. She was a short, well-built woman in her fifties. She had kicked off her boots and winter coat in the mudroom. Her wranglers were still wet and covered with mud. She had stepped into the soft, cushiony Minnie Mouse slippers one of her grandchildren had given her. By any standards, she was still a good-looking woman. Her auburn hair was graying at the temples. She removed her granny glasses to wipe a tear as Mitch entered the kitchen. Her body ached and she felt that she might vomit any minute, but it wasn't from the fire fight and hour earlier. She was sure she had wounded one of the men, and it didn't bother her the least. What bothered her was her struggle to tell Mitch a truth so terrible that she couldn't get out of bed that morning. When she had finally dressed and was pouring the coffee into the thermos, she heard the rifles shots and knew that their lives where shattered. She remembered the lines from Shakespeare's Macbeth. "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player. That struts and frets his hour upon the stage. And then is heard no more. It is a tale ...."

She had memorized those lines in high school for an extra credit assignment, but she was unable to continue. Her memory froze when she looked at her husband. He held his mug with both hands and stared into the inky darkness of the brew. Bee knew that he wasn't looking for a sign, but she saw the sign. Mitch's hands were trembling, and the sable rings of silvery light moved from the center of his cup to crash and disappear at the rim. Bee looked at the rings and thought of Johnny Cash's song, "Will the circle be unbroken, bye and bye Lord bye and bye. There's a better home awaiting in the sky Lord in the sky. She dropped her dishtowel on the counter and stared out the window. She thought to herself that she was dying and all she could think of was lyrics and quotes. All her life people had told her that she should have been a literature teacher. Mitch was not poetic. Mitch was literal and about as straightforward as they come. She turned around to face him and tell the awful truth that she had been holding from him.

"I never killed a man before," said Mitch as he looked up at Bee who was now taking a seat at the kitchen table. My God, Bee, what's the matter?'
"It's not what you think. I probably killed a man today too, but I won't lose any sleep over it. They were the same men weren't they."
"Yes, I recognized the second man that I shot. I shouldn't have shot him. He was running away. I didn't even think. I just shot him. I had to put him out of his misery. He just stared at me with blank eyes. Bee, I don't know what the hell is the matter with me. I finished that poor soul off and I never hesitated or flinched."
"They tried to kill you, Mitch. They've turned into animals just like the town rats did when they went on a killing spree in Klamath Falls."
"Bee, you know they were right. I should have just told them to take whatever number of cows they wanted. We're not going to make it, Bee. I can't do it alone even with your help. I wonder how many bales we will put up next summer without electricity to run the pumps. Brady Summer said that half his fuel is contaminated with water from condensation. He said gas was only good for three to five years. I spend half my time running around the hills siphoning fuel from abandoned cars. I just don't see how long we can hold out."
"Mitch, I'm getting real sick. I think you had better help me to bed. We'll talk there."
Mitch helped his wife to their bedroom. It was a sunny room with a southern exposure. Rays of light streamed through the ice sickles and danced across one of Bee's quilts. He helped her pull off her jeans. The bed had been made, and he rolled back the quilt and blankets and helped her into bed. Pushing back a lock of hair on her head, he was shocked at her ashen complexion. Her eyes were sunken back in dark shadows. He hadn't noticed that. He hadn't noticed her at all downstairs where he had sat staring into his coffee cup. He was shaken to his core when he noted how sickly she was looking up into his face. She wet her lips and swallowed with difficulty. "I'll get you some water," he said as he rose from the side of the bed.
Bee grasped his arm and held him. "No," she said as she slowly shook her head on the pillow. "I have terrible news to tell you, and I need to get it out in the open right now." Mitch knew, at that shocking moment, that it was all over. It was not a matter of how many seasons that they could endure on the ranch; it was a matter of hours.
"What happened, Bee? We set up a strict quarantine. Every rancher in the valley stepped forward and swore on the Bible.
"Yes, we swore to God we would stand together, but I for one had my own secret doubts if one of my children called out to us in the night. You swore that you would send your children away. Did you mean it then? Or did you think that the odds were against you ever having to face the prospect of sending one of your own back into the darkness."
"I knew I would break my oath to God and my neighbors if one of ours showed up. Who was it, Bee? And I hate to ask, but how long have we got together?"
"I have maybe two more days, but according to the travelers, I won't be able to talk or know where I am or who I am in less than twelve hours. Mitch, we need to write a letter in case one of our children make it back."
"Who was it, Bee?"
"Four or five days ago I went to visit Sarah. One of her grandchildren opened the door and let me in. Sarah came out from the kitchen flushed, almost like I had caught her doing something bad. The poor women just broke down and sobbed. She led me to the kitchen window and pointed to the tracks in the snow that led out to the old bunkhouse. She held up her apron to her mouth and pleaded that I should leave. Mitch, they had tried to quarantine their daughter Bess. She apparently came down Highway 97 from Bend. She probably ditched her car and walked the last couple of miles in the dark to their ranch. They had been leaving food trays next to the door, but when there was no response, Frank went inside. That's all I know. I haven't seen any lights from the house last night or this morning.
Mitch eased himself down on the side of the bed again. He began rubbing his temples. He removed his glasses and carefully placed them on the bed stand. "I am sorry, Mitch," Bee said in a faltering voice.
"It wasn't your fault, Bee. It was inevitable. I don't blame Frank or Sarah. I know I would have done the same thing. You know, Bee. I don't even have it in me to cry. Seems like I have been doing so much crying lately that my tear ducts are pooped. After everything we had heard, I secretly hoped we could build a barrier against the Ebola scourge, but I also had my doubts."
"The travelers call it Black Scour and the Ebola-beast," whispered Bee.
"Yes, some are calling it the Black Bug. Well, I wonder who else is infected. So much for the Wood River Valley Alliance. We thought we had it all figured out. We thought we were isolated enough to stand tall as the world collapsed into insanity and death. Bee, that man I killed. He looked a lot like you are looking right now. I'll get some paper and a pen. You know, from our intelligence gathering from the travelers, its been said that the survival rate is anywhere from ten to twenty percent. Bee, I had one of those dreams like when you were pregnant with Thomas. I have been thinking about it all day before I told you."
Bee became animated and half-raised her head off the pillow before she collapsed back. "Another dream, Mitch? Tell me. Are you sure about it like before?"
"I am sure that it is as true as the first one. It was in color and had the same intensity. Not a thing about it was illogical or fantastical."
"Start with the first dream, Mitch. I know I used to tease you about the dream, but when you told me that morning thirty years or more ago, your conviction showed in your eyes. I believed you with all my heart."
"I remember the phone call as if it were yesterday. You had been staying with your sister Mary Jane in Portland for another appointment with that fertility expert. What was his name?"
"Doctor Fitzgerald."
"Yes, well apparently he had given you the good-news, bad-news scenario that you were pregnant."
"When he told you that you would not carry the baby to full term, you became so upset that you stormed out of his office."
Bee smiled. "Yes, he told me that I had gone two many years without a period, but that this was a good sign. He gave no chance for the pregnancy. He even predicted how long it would take before I had a spontaneous abortion. I was furious. I wanted to slap his smug, arrogant face. I stared at him coldly and than marched out of his office and headed home."
"I can just imagine you gunning the old Chevy out of the parking lot. No wonder the doctor called me and told me you were extremely upset. I had to wait five hours for you to get home. I remember your sister calling and wondering why you hadn't arrived at her place.
"I don't remember much except crying all the way home."
"When you drove up in front of the house, you slammed on the brakes and flew right past me. You said, "Don't talk to me. Leave me alone. Later, when I went in to the bedroom you refused to talk to me again and said that you would talk to me in the morning. That was the night that I had the most powerful dream of my life. I woke up in the early hours going over the dream, and I knew that we would have that child that was just beginning to form. I knew it without a doubt. I just lay in bed for hours waiting for you to wake up."
"Tell me the dream again, Mitch. Tell it to me just as you told it to me so many years ago, and than tell me your new dream."
"It was early summer, and I was on the upper Williamson River fishing one of my favorite holes. I was crouching on my knees facing up river. I had tied on a caddis fly. The morning sun was burning off the low-lying fog that swirled along the bank of the river. A light breeze gently moved the fog. I had marked an overhang of grass and a partly submerged log just ahead of me. I waited for the fog to shift so I would not miss my target on my first cast. I knew that I would pick up my first rainbow of the morning on that cast. I lifted up the line from behind me and snapped my wrist to play the line out. Then I made a nice smooth cast with a perfect loop. The fly dropped exactly where I wanted it, which was just ahead of my target along a thin seam that pulled the fly down within inches of the outstretched log. My rod tip was down almost touching the water as I gently worked the returning line through the rod's eyelets.
"Suddenly, I looked up in alarm. The fog mutated into a black veil that quickly enveloped me. The wind blew my hat off and the gentle spring creek turned into a raging torrent of water with waves lapping over the bank. I stood up in terror. In front of me I saw a basket bobbing in the middle of the stream. I could see a baby wrapped tightly in the basket. It was my baby! I threw my fly rod down and waded out into the river. Instantly, the water rose and crashed against my chest. I was close enough to almost reach out and touch the basket, but then I lost my footing. I screamed when I saw the basket pick up speed and disappear in the wave troughs. I struggled to shore and began running trying to catch up with the baby. Looking ahead I saw a footbridge. My heart was racing and my lungs were ready to burst, but I made it to the small bridge just before the basket carrying the child arrived. I threw myself on my stomach and stretched out both arms to save the child. Just as my fingers touched the basket, the water level dropped and the baby was sucked under the blackness of the bridge.
I jumped up and frantically ran along the bank looking for the perfect spot to jump in the water and rescue the child. I ran faster and faster, and the water velocity picked up so that I was just even with the basket. If I dared launch into the water, I knew that I would, more than likely, land behind the child. During this frantic dash, I was screaming to God to save my child. Instantly I knew what to do. I stopped running. The raging waters stopped. The sun came out, and I stepped into the water and pulled my child to my heart."
"Poor Thomas," said Bee. "It was touch and go during the delivery. He was wrong side up and stuck in the birth canal with the umbilical wrapped around his throat. Each time I would have a contraction, the fetal monitor would flat line on the oxygen. But of course I didn't know that then."
"I knew it," Mitch replied. They had a doctor ready to perform an emergency caesarean. I still remember all the nurses and doctors that were gathered in the room. I was worried, but I had faith in the dream. I knew the baby would exit the darkness under the bridge."
"We had a beautiful baby boy, and I made sure that I sent a baby announcement to Doctor Fitzgerald." Bee looked into Mitch's eyes. He was still in the past savoring
that moment. Bee gently brought him to the present. "Mitch, I'm hurting awful bad. Tell me about your new dream. Don't stop to interpret it or explain the dream's meaning. Tell it to me exactly as you remember."
"Bee, it's funny, but in telling about Thomas' birth and the dream I had, I know this one is also true. Honey, one of our children is on his way home."
"Which one, Mitch. Who is it?"
"Remember how I told all of our friends about the dream and how skeptical they were. One of them had asked me if it was a boy or a girl. I instantly said it was a little girl, and yet at the moment of this pronouncement I knew that the dream had not revealed the baby's gender. Boy, did I get razzed when it turned out to be a boy. Remember how I told you that when I saw the scrotum appear I blanched thinking there was something wrong with my little girl. Bee, I honestly don't know which of our sons was in the dream. I am embarrassed to say that I filled in a face, but our son's identity was never revealed in the dream."
"Go on, Mitch. Bee groaned and pulled up her knees. Finish the dream and than bring up the stationary and a pen.
"It was much shorter than the other dream, but it was in color like the other dream, and in recalling the dream I could find not a single sequence or spatial order out of place. I was in the barn early in the morning. I had picked up a bummer on my rounds and was drying her off in the barn. Nellie was in her stall feeding. I pulled up a stool and dragged the calf to my lap. It bawled out so loudly that Nellie paused in her eating and looked at the little guy in my lap. I had a teat and was squirting some milk on the calf's mouth and rubbing it in with my finger. In no time I had her sucking on my finger. She was struggling to stand up on her own just as I got a hot teat in her mouth. I was laughing so hard I knocked the stool over when I stood up. When I had sat down on the stool with the calf, I had knocked my Stormy Kromer cap off. I was picking it up when I saw Jake and Molly wagging their rear ends and whining. When I followed them to the door, they bolted in a full run across the pasture, yipping the whole way. I could see a figure in the distance, just an outline as the sun was to his back. The man waved and said, 'Dad. Hey, Dad.'"
"I yelled back, 'Hey there yourself!' I waited and waited, but he was a long way off, and I was puzzled on how long it was taking for him to reach me. Just before he disappeared in a ravine, he waved to me once more." I woke up Bee. "I've been thinking about it all day."
"Yes, yes. I knew one of them out there was on his way back. I just knew it. It would be a sin to try and guess which one it is. I'll not jinx your dream, Mitch. You shared it at the perfect time. I'm ok, Mitch. Go write that letter and than come back and hold me.
Mitch wrote the letter and then returned to bed to hold Bee. She moaned and convulsed the entire night. Early in the morning hours she expired. Mitch completed his ranching chores. He fed the cows and opened all the gates on his ranch before returning to the house. Molly and Jake had not followed him downstairs. Both lay at the foot of the bed in silent mourning. Before going into the house he had started a bonfire at the family cemetery. When the embers had died down mid-day, Mitch pulled back the earth's frozen crust with the claw of his backhoe. When the plot was finished, he dug another hole next to it. He parked the backhoe in the barn and headed for the house. Mitch got through the kitchen on his way to the stairs when he collapsed in sobs. Jake came to the top of the stairs and looked down at him. He lowered himself on his haunches and rested his head on his front paws that lay over the top step. Mitch stopped crying and wiped his eyes on his sleeves. He would have plenty of time for crying later. "Aw, Jake, I've lost the love of my life. I've lost my children." When he got to the top of the stairs, Jake sat up and Mitch scratched Jake's ears before he moved into the bedroom. "You take care of Molly. I know you'll do it." You were the best dog that I ever had he thought. He knew he had said that with the passing of all his dogs, but he knew Jake really had been the most loyal and highly trained of all his dogs since childhood.

He entered the room. He had already wrapped Bee in her favorite quilt, a double wedding ring pattern in soft pastels. He carried her to the feed sled. His Belgian draft horses where harnessed and nervously pawing through the snow. He gently lifted Bee's body up on the sled and slipped into the seat. Taking the reins, he gave a soft click of his teeth and twitched the reins ever so slightly. Girl and Boy knew the way, but they were surprised when he called out "hee" and headed them to the family plot. When he returned to the house, he sat down to write a letter to his son, the son who was on his way home.

What's in this article?

* A review of the top trout producing lures
* Fishing Tips from Sierra Tackle Shop Managers
* Tips and Techniques for Using Lures in Streams
* Using a Fly Rod Un-conventionally (Like the Old Timers)
* A Killer Technique (NO BULL!)

Through the years I have not kept up with the continuous introduction of new spoons and spinners. I follow the minimalist approach to fly fishing and lure fishing. It has saved me lots of money, allowed me to organize my tackle boxes more intuitively and, most importantly, it has kept me from befuddlement trying to remember when, where and how to effectively fish all the lures that I have crammed into a tackle box. I wasn't surprised to see that my old standbys from the fifties and sixties still reigned supreme in John Merwin's Field and Stream article, "50 Greatest Lures of All Time," published April 2006. When I checked to see if my All-Time Favorite Lure for Mammoth Lakes circa 1959 was even mentioned, I was delighted to find the red and white Daredevle Spinnie ranked in the number two position, just below the Curley Tail Grub. My next favorite lures, Mepps Aglia, Panther Martin, Kastmaster and Little Cleo, were all ranked high. Along with a Super Duper lure, these were the lures that I used exclusively in my youth when I wasn't using a fly rod to dab a red worm in a small crick.

Field and Stream published a follow-up article a year later with "50 Best Lures." For the trout recommendations, they listed (in order of preference) a baker's dozen: 1. Wiggle King Flatfish; 2. Rooster Tail; 3. Panther Martin; 4. Mepps Aglia; 5. Norman Deep Tiny "N" crankbait; 6. CountDown Rapala; 7. Yo-Zuri Snap Bean crankbait; 8. Al's Goldfish; 9. Needlefish spoon; 10. Phoebe spoon; 11. Float and Fly trailer; 12. Marabou Micro-Jig; 13. Mister Twister Jig. Everyone has their confidence lures and their secret, unorthodox perversions of angling tradition that they often don't even share with a brother or best friend. I will share my, honest-to-Goodness, fish catching abomination later in the article.

Recently I surveyed two tackle shop managers in the eastern Sierras for their recommendations. Both shops have long standing reputations for offering good tackle selection, friendly service and outstanding tips and information. Jeremy Ross of Ernie's Tackle and Ski Shop in June Lake and Jim Reid of Ken's Sporting Goods in Bridgeport echoed some of the recommendations of Field and Stream, as well as suggesting tried-and-proven trout catching techniques for the Sierras. In the survey that I submitted to them, I asked them to rank spoons and lures with four rankings. Number 1 was a top choice. I asked them not to differentiate between which lure was the top lure in their number one choices. Keep in mind that I also included bait in this survey. Both men listed CountDown Rapala and Thomas Buoyants as a number one choice. Both managers recommended inflated nightcrawlers and PowerBait as a number 1 pick. Salmon eggs came in 2 and 3, as did Kastmaster lures, Little Cleo lures, Daredevle lures and float-and-fly combinations. Both Jeremy and Jim ranked the Mepps Aglia and the Rooster Tail as a number four choice.

For bait Jeremy Ross recommended PowerBait or Gulp or Rainbow. He also recommended original Rapala lures in silver and rated them as a #2 choice. Other lures that he recommends to his customers are Trout Teasers, Tasmanian Devils and Panther Martins, which I forgot to include on the survey. He noted that June Lake has excellent shore access, and he noted that fly fishers in float tubes and kick-boats do well early in the morning and the evening with Woolly Buggers and Matuka streamers. Jim Reid of Bridgeport recommends trolling from Rainbow Point to the dam with flashers and crawlers, Rapala, or Thomas Buoyants both early and late in the season on Bridgeport Reservoir. He also recommended Worden's Flatfish as a #3 choice. When fishing from the shore or a stationary boat, he recommends CountDown Rapala, Buoyants, and Kastmasters near the dam. He said that the best side of the reservoir for shore anglers was northeast from the dam to about a ¼ mile south.

Tips and Techniques

An old adage among lure fisherman is that lures are designed and packaged to attract buyers. Don't believe it for a minute. Most lure companies spend a great deal of money on scientific research. If you fished and fished a lure and never caught a fish and than lost it on a snag, are you going to rush out and replace it? The movement of the spoon or spinner has to be realistic; it has to reflect light, and the color of the lure needs to match a particular color of water, such as brown, green or blue. One simple rule to remember is that if you are fishing at dusk or very low light, fish will see a dark silhouette against a lighter skyline better than if you use a light colored lure. If you are fishing in bright light go white. If you are fishing in the dark go black. Mepps recommends using "silver on bright days; polished brass (gold) blades produce best when it is overcast. Try copper in streams after a heavy rain, or in dark, stained water." Into this equation must be factored the depth and the color of the water and how much current exits. The following lures are recommendations for stream fishing patterns and lake patterns, but first let me review some general information.
As I have outlined in my article on fly fishing creeks and again in using baits on creeks, let me reiterate a key factor on catching trout in moving water. Get in the water and wade upstream!

Reasons to Get Your Feet Wet and Fish Upstream
1. Fish face upstream. If you are behind them, you can catch them directly in front of you.
2. If you can see to the bottom of the creek, they can see you! Approaching a creek or stream from the bank often spooks fish.
3. It is much easier to cast to a pocket, pool or small riffle from the center of a stream and maintain a slow retrieve. Best of all you are in an ideal position to cast effectively towards either bank.
4. Wade fishing in a stream also allows you to cast directly upstream which creates minimal arm, rod and line movement that might otherwise spook a fish. Trout have great peripheral vision. Often they lie in broken water out of sight, but if they don't see the angler blended into the bank cover, they often see a flash of line or arm or rod movement, which warns them that a predator is near. Even while you are wading in the current, it is paramount to keep your shadow off the water in front of you. I often crouch in the water behind a boulder to make a short cast to a pool above me.
5. In many instances, where there is heavy brush or trees, it is difficult to reach choice water from the bank. If you are wading upstream, you have an easier shot at often over-looked water that bank anglers pass up because they can not penetrate the tangled bank barrier.
6. Finally, once you are in the water, keep moving! Bank anglers typically spend too much time sitting on a comfortable rock or log. Fishing is a game of percentages. How many perfect casts to good holding water can you achieve in an outing? If you have made two or three casts to a pool without eliciting a strike, move on to the next spot.
7. I am always amazed at how I can walk up a stream under the cover of moving water without spooking fish, but when I walk along a meadow bank I spook fish way ahead of me just from the vibration of my footsteps, which is another reason to be out in the current. An exception to casting and wading upstream is if you locate a shallow pool that is difficult to approach upstream. Remember that trout face upstream in current so they are often spooked by a lure working from the downstream position right past them. However, in slower water the trout will cruise in all directions so the approach is not critical. Another exception to wading upstream and casting upstream is when you are on a river or large stream. In this situation you can make an effective downstream cast by quartering the stream.
Cast downstream in a quartering angle. In other words, stand facing the opposite bank. Draw an imaginary line from your feet to the opposing bank. You now have half the stream above you and half the stream below you. As you face the bank, the stream flow is coming from your left down stream past your right side. Now, divide the stream below you in half. This quarter demarcation is your target angle for the opposing bank. Cast as close to the bank as possible. If a trout is on the far bank, he will see the lure coming at him broadside and "swimming" out and away from the bank, as the current sweeps the lure out towards the faster water. Sometimes if you plant it right in front of the trout, your cast will trigger a reaction take. Often times they will follow the streamer as it drifts downstream and begins to sweep out into the deeper water. They will hit the lure just as it swings out from the bank and slows down.
8. If you walk up to a pool, target the tail-out first. Trout will often drift back to the tail-out and hide under broken water or behind small rocks waiting for food to be pushed up from the bottom of the pool into a zone of compressed water. Approach the tail-out quietly and with a low profile. Make your cast land softly. The next target is the center of the pool. Allow your lure to flutter down to the bottom of the pool, and don't be surprised if you get a take on the decent. Just as bass anglers use a spinnerbait sometimes in a jigging motion off the bottom, good spinner anglers will jig up the spinner from the bottom once or twice before retrieving the lure back towards them. The next pool target is to place the lure or spinner above the riffle or small waterfall that feeds the pool. Trout will often lie in wait for bugs and insects to drop from the plunging waters into the pool.
9. ALWAYS target bank cover, rocks, submerged logs, foam lines and broken water where you can not see the bottom. (Guess who is hiding down there waiting for dinner?)
10. If you snag your lure on an underwater object, reach down and retrieve it. After all, you are already wading. Snagging a lure is another reason to use a single hook when fishing a creek or a stream. Often you can retrieve the lure by simply pushing the eyelet of the rod tip right down on the lure and shaking it.

Recommendations for Lure Fishing in Streams or Rivers

For best results when fishing a stream, both for hook-ups and less snagging, use a single hook on a spoon or spinner, and bend down the barb for easy release. The Thomas Buoyant lures work well in small streams, unlike the heavier Kastmasters that sink too rapidly. Use a Thomas Buoyant in a red/gold combination or a blue/silver combination in a 1/6 oz. or a ¼ oz. You want a slower retrieve with an occasional twitch. I would also recommend the Mepps Aglia #2 or a Mepps Black Fury #2. Field and Stream recommend Al's Goldfish for heavy, fast water or a Phoebe spoon for slower retrieves on a shallow stream. Generally stick with 1/16 ounce lure for small creeks and 1/8 and ¼ ounce for larger streams and lakes.

Recommendations for Lure Fishing on Lakes

If you plan on fishing a lake from the shore, you have a primary decision to make. The heavier pound test lines do not cast a lure as far as a smaller, lighter line. A four-pound test line is generally all that you need for fishing most alpine lakes and creeks. Changing your reel spool to a two-pound test line will significantly increase your casting distance, but it also comes with the potential for "the big one that got away story." Be sure to buy high quality lighter lines. Be sure that your rod is rated for 2 to 6 lb. lines. Never use a snap swivel on your lures unless you are trolling. The snap swivel frequently alters the designed motion of the lure. If you are in a boat or the lake is sufficiently small enough to hike around it, always target the major inlet first thing in the morning. Other target areas are other creek inlets, points, drop-off ledges, weed beds and banks with good over-hanging cover. Use larger lures, especially more heavily weighted lures like the Kastmaster, and concentrate on your retrieval pattern. Generally, a steady retrieve punctuated by a pause and a twitch is the most effective retrieve to start. Vary your retrieves and your count down, but really give a pattern a chance before you switch. If you see fish working the surface, switch to a bubble-and-fly technique

Recommendations for Fishing Jigs on Small Streams and Rivers
Or How I Became an Un-Conventional Fly Fisher
Or Back to the Future of Fly Fishing.

I am like Rip Van Winkle. I have been asleep for far too many years regarding new fishing techniques and the resurrection of old methods. After retiring as a teacher in Montana, I headed to the Modesto area of California to finish out my last few years as an educator. I went with the clear goal of buying recreational toys and boats before I actually retired. When I realized that my trout fishing opportunities required extensive driving, I took up bass fishing. Living in Ripon, I was just a few blocks from the Stanislaus River. I soon discovered what great fun it was catching smallmouth bass while floating in a kick-boat. I used my fly rod and small Gitzits or tube worms. When I got back to Montana for a visit, I excitedly told a local fly shop owner my great discovery. He went to the book shelf and pulled down two books that he recommended that I buy. OK, so I didn't re-discover or invent anything! My success with lead-head jigs, curly tail grubs and tube worms on both trout and bass and delivered with a fly rod has been an outstanding journey. Hey, sometimes the casts are not very pretty when I am slinging heavy tube baits on the end of my fly rod, but the results have been greatly rewarding.

Don't hesitate in using curly tail grubs, white mini-jigs, marabou jigs or tiny Rooster Tail lures on creeks and streams regardless if they are delivered with a fly rod or a spinning rod. Small marabou jigs in white and red are my first choice. All of the above can be purchased. I have come to the close of this article, and it is time to reveal my honest-to-goodness trout catching abomination. A few years back I landed a 7-pound rainbow in Klamath Lake using a fly rod and a 1-inch crankbait. My soft-plastic confidence bait for bass is a tube bait. (I prefer the original Gitzits.) I was heading back to Montana, and I began wondering how they would work on a Brown trout that had never seen a crawdad. It was early summer and I was fishing a canyon fork of one of western Montana's famous rivers. The salmon fly hatch was over, but a few golden stoneflies were still whirling up the canyon. Because the water was too deep and fast to wade, I crawled down the embankment to a tail-out of a large pool. I cast upstream without success. My stimulator drifted below me as I surveyed how I was going to approach the main pool. Just as I was about to lift my fly, I saw a dark shadow rise and then silently retreat when he saw my presence. It was a really big fish. I had been made so I retreated to the shore and had lunch and began wondering what I should present this fish sub-surface.

Munching on my sandwich, I remember that I had packed a number of tube worms in my vest. I had been optimistic when I packed them. They were two to three inches long! Nonetheless, I changed to a stout leader and put on a speckled, brown tube worm and marveled at the long tentacles that so effectively work on bass. Would it work here I thought? I crouched back to the water's edge and made a perfect drift through the dark crevice three times without success. Just downstream was another dark crevice about four to five feet deep. I lobbed out the lead-head jig hook with the Gitzit and saw a flash of silver boil up from the dark. If he had headed downstream through the fast riffle, I would never have landed him. Instead this big Bull trout buck pushed up into the pool. When I landed him, he measured 25 inches.

I fished the Gitzit in varying sizes and colors ranging from tan to brown to green. On Rock Creek I landed many Brown trout ranging in size from 12 to 17 inches; on the Bitterroot River I landed only a few rainbows, but on Idaho's Lochsa River I had outstanding fishing catching many 16 to 18-inch cutthroats. The only difficulty that I encountered was that the smaller fish in the seven to ten inch range would bite the tail, and I could not catch them. Sure I could have added a stinger hook, but I was having too much fun catching larger fish. I swore I wouldn't reveal this secret, but according to my Google analytics, readers seldom read more than a page and a half of any article on my web site. If you have got this far, give a Gitzit a try. This summer I plan on packing Berkley PowerBait dough in the tube and try some different colors on the rainbows in the Bitterroot River

What's in this article?

*Stream Strategy and Productive Spots to Fish
*How Much Gear Should You Lug Up that Canyon Creek?
*Rigging for Worms, Salmon Eggs and Power Bait in Both Streams and Lakes
*Fishing with Live, Natural Bait
*Fishing with Live Grasshoppers the HemingWAY (Read Hemingway's "Big Two- Hearted River," or read my synopsis.)

It is with some hesitation that I review the basics steps for bait fishing. I have been a catch-and-release adherent since the 1970's. But I must remind myself that much of Sierra trout fishing is "put-and-take" harvest fishing. So much pressure is put on the resources that generous weekly stockings in creeks or small streams are frequently harvested in three or four days. Perhaps you have brought your family from southern California on a camping trip to the eastern Sierras. How can I hold judgment on your desire to share a trout dinner with your family, as my generation did back in the 50's and 60's? Please kill only what you will eat fresh, and never take them home in a cooler to reside in a freezer until they get freezer burn or lose their flavor. When you are ready to fish for fun, go to a lake and fish with a fly and bubble. You will have more action, and best of all you can easily release the fish unharmed. Keep in mind that if you catch a trout on bait and they swallow it, there is a high probability that they will not survive. Once they bleed around the gills, they eventually bleed to death. Fishing with lures and flies with pinched barbs allows the lure to be easily removed from their mouth or jaw. Forgive me for this lecture. Old principles die hard after fishing for wild fish for over forty years. If you are new to fishing, just enjoy the sport along with a camp dinner of trout and fried potatoes. However, when you move to a stream with wild trout, plan a camp dinner of hot dogs held over a campfire with a freshly cut willow stick, and don't forget the marshmallows!

Stream Strategy and Productive Spots to Fish

I would suggest that you read my article on fly fishing on creeks. I am not trying to convert you to fly fishing so much as to provide a review of the holding water that trout seek out for both feeding and sanctuary. Keep in mind that a fly rod is an excellent rod for bait fishing on creeks and small streams. Unless the creek is a "crick" and so small that you only have to sneak or crawl through the willows and brush to "poke and dab" at a likely spot, get right in the water and walk upstream like fly anglers do. I can not recall seeing a bait angler in the middle of a stream using the same approach as a fly fisher. Why would a bait angler limit his opportunities? Regardless of what bait you are using, get out in the middle of the stream so that you will catch more fish, catch bigger fish, cover more water and make more progress!

Reasons to Get Your Feet Wet and Fish Upstream

1. Fish face upstream. If you are behind them, you can catch them directly in front of you.
2. If you can see to the bottom of the creek, they can see you! Approaching a creek or stream from the bank often spooks fish.
3. It is much easier to cast to a pocket, pool or small riffle from the center of a stream and maintain a natural drift with your bait. Best of all you are in an ideal position to cast effectively towards either bank.
4. Wade fishing in a stream also allows you to cast directly upstream which creates minimal arm, rod and line movement that might otherwise spook a fish. (Trout have great peripheral vision. Often they lie in broken water out of site, but if they don't see the angler blended into the bank cover, they often see a flash of line or arm or rod movement, which warns them that a predator is near. Even while you are wading in the current, it is paramount to keep your shadow off the water in front of you. I often crouch in the water behind a boulder to make a short cast to a pool above me.)

5. In many instances where there is heavy brush or trees it is difficult to reach choice water from the bank. If you are wading upstream, you have an easier shot at often over-looked water that bank anglers pass up because they can not penetrate the tangled bank barrier.
6. Finally, once you are in the water, keep moving! Bank anglers typically spend too much time sitting on a comfortable rock or log. Fishing is a game of percentages. How many perfect casts to good holding water can you achieve in an outing? If you have made two or three casts to a pool without eliciting a strike, move on to the next spot.
7. I am always amazed at how I can walk up a stream under the cover of moving water without spooking fish, but when I walk along a meadow bank I spook fish way ahead of me just from the vibration of my footsteps, which is another reason to be out in the current.

Productive Spots to Fish

Most fishing books spend chapters discussing and diagramming trout lies and holding water. Let's look at it from a fish's perspective. They want cover to hide from predators. That could mean hiding below broken water, hiding directly below a foam line, holding behind or to the side of a boulder or just lazily resting in shallow water with a canopy of overhanging branches above them. Next, a trout wants to be in a spot where it can find a food source. This could be off to the side of a boulder where the force of water plunging past the boulder funnels insects past the boulder and down a bubbly seam of water. Big Moe will be just behind the boulder waiting just beneath the bubbling foam. But a smaller fish or two might be directly underneath the seam or foam line. A prime lie is a spot which provides both good protection and a steady source of food. The point here is that the trout will be facing upstream waiting for food to come to them. Casting above a trout and allowing your presentation to drift naturally to the waiting trout is the key to success. A final reminder is that if the fish are down on the bottom of the stream bed protected from the fast water, where should your bait be?

The next factor that a trout must consider when picking a home or prime lie is to find a spot that it doesn't have to expend more energy than its calorie intake! I remember diving for abalone along the coast of northern California when I was in my twenties. We would drop an anchor from our inner tube and swim down fifteen to twenty feet through the kelp. The currents and rip tides were so fierce that I could see and feel myself propelled sideways so fast that I wasn't gaining much depth. My partners told me to grab a piece of kelp and pull myself down to the bottom! Meanwhile, over the top of me waves were crashing towards the beach. What a surprise awaited me when I reached the last five or six feet of water. It was relatively slow water compared to just a few feet above, and when I found a ledge or a large rock, it was like being in a swimming pool. Rainbows like fast, shallow riffles. They sink to the bottom and rest in a trough or behind a rock and await their dinner. Brown trout and cutthroats prefer slower water that offers cover and deeper water to escape to in an emergency situation.

Everyone knows to fish a pool, but don't over-look the head of the pool. Often a pool will have a small riffle or ledge that the water plunges down into the pool. Trout will lie in wait for food at the base of the ledge or drop-off. At the tail-out of the pool, water surges upwards from the deeper pool to meet a riffle or run. Trout will often drift back into this shallow water to pick off insects that are pulled down into the pool and then re-emerge in the shallow tail-out where the water is compressed and the food sources likewise. For a couple of years I guided Sam Lawrence, the founder of Budget Rental Cars. We primarily fished the Bitterroot River in Montana. A hatch was on mid-day, and a few simpers could be seen at the tail-out of a pool just below some over-hanging willows. Sam picked off a nice fished as we drifted by the tail-out. We pulled up downstream where Sam landed a nice rainbow, and then we hiked back to the tail-out. Usually, trout will move into the tail-outs under cover of darkness or cloudy weather or a rain storm. Sam walked up behind the tail-out and landed four big trout in less than a half hour. He picked off the first fish closest to the end of the tail-out and worked it downstream in the riffle water. Than he hiked up to the same spot and made a short, deft cast just a little further out towards the pool. He caught the next fish, and then he went on to catch two more really big trout. Sometimes you get lucky, and sometime trout break their own rules for survival!

The greatest reason for fishing a small stream as a beginner is that you gain much knowledge about where the fish are holding. Small streams and many creeks have the same holding water as larger rivers - riffles, pools and runs. My mother taught me the greatest fishing lesson that I have ever learned at age five. We lived in Bishop, California. Near our house was an irrigation ditch that during the summer held many smaller trout. We would see them on our daily walks. They would dart ahead of us in the waving grass and disappear. I begged her to take me fishing until one day she agreed. She cut a willow branch, tied one of my father's fly fishing leaders to the end of the willow branch. Her rigging was simple enough. She tied on a small safety pin to which she molded a piece of Velveeta cheese. She picked a nice shady spot along the ditch, tossed out the offering, and than we sat down for a picnic lunch. Eating my baloney sandwich, I looked down in the water at the Velveeta cheese resting close by. I was five years old, and I knew I was participating in a farce. We had already scared the fish away. I knew they would not come back and bite an offering directly beneath my gaze, and I knew we needed a real hook, and that we would have to be sneaky in our approach. It was a revelation. My mother was not the perfect woman. She was flawed. Worse, I didn't know if she was patronizing me or she was just plain ignorant. I only recently shared this experience with my 90-year old mother. She just laughed and said, "I didn't know anything about fishing, and I probably figured you didn't either."

How Much Gear Should You Take Along?
A cheap or expensive fishing vest is essential. Toss in a small, hinged fly box with compartments for split-shot, hooks and swivels. Add a pair of needle-nose pliers and nippers to cut line, as well as a pocket knife. Add a spool of tippet material. Drop in some mosquito repellant into one pocket, along with a mosquito head net. Toss in a bottle of water and an apple into the back pocket. Finally, pick a pocket to store your bait. When I was a youngster, you could buy a curved, tin worm can with air holes in the top. It had rings to thread your belt through. To be on the safe side, I would bring a small box of lures and a few wet flies. A hemostat attached to a retractable pull string is really essential for removing a hook and releasing a fish unharmed. Now, you are ready.

Rigging for Worms and Salmon Eggs on Moving Water (Hook, Line and Sinker!)

The two most popular baits for stream or creek fishing are red worms and salmon eggs. It doesn't get any easier than this. Use a short-shank number 8 or 10 hook. Embed the hook completely inside the worm. If you are fishing a slow stretch of water, you may not need a split-shot for the worm to drift naturally on the bottom. If need be, attach a small split-shot about 10 to 12-inches above the hook. If your weight is impeding a natural drift along the bottom, change out the split-shot with a smaller one. Cast upstream and allow the bait to drift through a prime lie. Keep a taunt line, as any slack in the line and you will not be able to detect subtle bites. Your bait is drifting back to you as you slowly lift the rod tip and reel in excess line. Suddenly your bait stops tumbling along the bottom, but you did not detect a tick at the end of your line nor a sharp pull on your rod tip. Maybe you are stuck. After all you have already replaced your hook and sinker when it became lodged in a crevice. Your instinct is to quickly snatch the bait off the bottom. But just as likely a trout has gingerly sucked in your bait in the corner of its mouth and it has moved back to its former position or lie. Lift the rod slowly upwards to determine if there is resistance and a fish on the line. Otherwise, if you react too quickly thinking that you have got stuck on the bottom, you might just rip the bait out of the fish's mouth without embedding the hook. If it is not a fish and your bait breaks free, you may simply lower the rod and allow the bait to continue drifting. Learn to be patient when fishing fast, tumbling water, as snagging the bottom is quite common.
A cricket rigging begins with 1 or 2 BB weights followed by a #14 Snap Swivel. Attached to the Snap Swivel is a two-pound test, 18-22-inch leader terminating with a #10 worm hook.

Rigging a Wet Fly on a Spinning Outfit for Larger Streams

You don't have to be a fly fisher to use a wet fly or streamer pattern on a river. Simply add a medium size casting bubble to your line and fill it full with water. (They have a retractable stop plug.) After the bubble add a #14 Snap Swivel. (Now the bubble can not slide forward.) Add 5 to 6-feet of two to three pound test leader. At the terminal end add a streamer. Cast downstream in a quartering angle. In other words, stand facing the opposite bank. Draw an imaginary line from your feet to the opposing bank. You now have half the stream above you and half the stream below you. As you face the bank the stream flow is coming from your left down stream on your right side. Now, divide the stream below you in half. This quarter demarcation is your target angle for the opposing bank. Cast as close to the bank as possible. If a trout is on the far bank, he will see the streamer coming at him broadside and "swimming" out and away from the bank, as the current sweeps the fly and bubble out towards the faster water. Sometimes if you plant it right in front of the trout your cast will trigger a reaction take. Often times they will follow the streamer downstream and hit the fly just as it swings out from the bank and slows down.

Rigging for Worms, Salmon Eggs and Power Baits in Still Water--Unlike a stream where you want your bait drifting on or near the bottom, in a lake you will need to keep your bait visible above the weeds or mossy bottom. You need to float or suspend your bait one to two feet above the bottom with a marshmallow, or if you are fishing with a nightcrawler, you may want to inflate the nightcrawler with air from a device that most tackle shops carry.

Rigging a Worm: Add a ¼ oz. Egg Sinker to your line. Directly in front of the Egg Sinker add a #14 Snap Swivel with an improved clinch knot. Attach a two-pound test, 18-22-inch leader . At the end of the leader add a #10-14 worm hook. Just add worm! If the lake is weedy, use an inflated nightcrawler to float your bait above the weeds.

Rigging Salmon Eggs: Add a ¼ oz. Egg Sinker to your line with an improved clinch knot. Directly in front of the Egg Sinker add a #14 Snap Swivel. Attach a two-pound test, 18-22-inch leader. At the end of the leader add a #10-14 worm hook or a treble hook. Before you attach the egg(s) run a miniature marshmallow through the hook up to the eye of the hook. The marshmallow will float the egg up off the bottom. If you use PowerBait dough or trout bait, it floats. Be sure to test the amount that you apply to the hook to be sure that it floats and negates the weight of the hook and the line.

Rigging a PowerBait Creature: Add a ¼ oz. Egg Sinker to your line. Directly in front of the Egg Sinker add a #14 Snap Swivel. Attach a two-pound, 18-22-inch leader. At the end of the leader add a #14 dry fly hook and attach a scented PowerBait creature, such as a minnow, grub or lizard.

Note: I would like to thank Carolyn Webb of Virginia Lakes Resort for the above formulas. It has been too many years since I last used bait. Carolyn teaches children the merits of catch-and-release using the fly-and-bubble technique.

Fishing with Live, Natural Bait
After almost thirty years, I met up with my favorite childhood cousin, Steve Odell. Steve grew up in Lee Vining where his father was a deputy sheriff. He took to fishing Lee Vining Creek at a very early age. He is a bait fisherman from the old school, which is to simply gather up natural fish food such as crickets, grasshoppers and ----ant eggs! I had taken a different path in my angling life preferring to fly fish. When Steve told me about an Old Indian woman named Nellie who was the best angler in town, I was ready to listen. Nellie had the reputation for knowing how to catch fish even when they weren't on the bite. Nellie gathered up her fishing gear and with Steve in tow went hunting up ant hills to raid the ant eggs. After she taught him to ignore the ant bites and stop crying, off they went to one of the Virginia Lakes. Steve said that the fishing was fantastic and that lesson changed his perspective on how to fish. He said some tourists gathered around when they began catching some big fish. When they asked what Nellie and Steve were using, Steve said they were using ant eggs. Some of the tourists just shook their head in disbelief thinking they were having their leg pulled. Recently I was reminded of Steve's lesson from Nellie when I read an article on bait fishing in the free 2007 Eastern Sierra Fishing Guide. If you pass through Bishop country, be sure to pick one up as it is an excellent fishing resource.
The author of the article, "Getting Back to Nature", suggests gathering up the ant eggs early in the morning when the ants are cold and lethargic. He recommends threading three or four ant eggs on a fine wire #14 hook. He also suggests adding a bit of Styrofoam first to keep the eggs off the bottom as they are easily damaged. If you are fishing with children, make an adventure out of gathering up crickets, grubs, beetles and ant eggs, and fish with the real thing! It will probably be a lesson that both you and your children will never forget.

Fishing with Grasshoppers the HemingWAY
(I'll post this information next September when I can get some good photographs.)