Gordon Ryan - State of Rebellion

“You know my commission as a captain in the guard makes me a federal officer.”

Jack nodded slowly. “That’s the shame of it, isn’t it? So were the twins.”

“And Kenny Bailey was in the brigade, before he was killed,” Dan added, surprised that his thoughts had turned to his brother-in-law.

“Never did like that kid,” Jack said, “but it’s a shame he had to die that way. I told you, son-don’t underestimate these brigade boys. They’ve gotten a smell of their personal brand of freedom now, and they aren’t gonna turn loose easily.”

Dan was quiet for a few moments, staring into the fire. “People always seem to think that the lessons of history aren’t relevant to our time. But time and again, we repeat the process, don’t we?”

“It’s human nature. Man has got to stretch his wings, and we foolishly think that the people back then just got it wrong and we can do it right. We never learn.” Jack yawned, picking up his sleeping bag and shaking it out. “Well, young’un, this mountaineer’s gonna get some shut-eye.”

Dan sat quietly for a long while after Jack had curled up in his sleeping bag. The younger man studied the dying fire, breathing in the fresh aroma of the forest and enjoying the setting and a sky brilliant with stars. He turned to look as Jack shifted in his bed and listened as his grandfather’s breathing became deeper and more rhythmic.

Considering that he might actually have to choose between his American citizenship and the affection he had for his California heritage-particularly the tie he felt to his forebears and Rumsey Valley-he experienced a sudden foreboding and was surprised that tears welled up in his eyes. It occurred to him that the twins likely struggled with similar emotions as they were forced to choose opposite sides in the great American conflict of their day.

He looked again at the still figure, wrapped up in his bedroll, and thought of the mentor his grandfather had been to him as he was growing into manhood. “I love this valley, Jack,” he murmured softly to the night sky, “and all you’ve made of it.”

For eighty years the old man had been plowing fields, planting trees, hauling irrigation pipe, knocking almonds, and hunting and fishing in these mountains. Jack’s father and mother, grandparents, and Colonel Howard Rumsey, his great-granddad Civil War veteran and original valley settler, were buried not ten miles from where Jack now slept. And Ellen, Jack’s beloved wife of sixty-two years. And soon, Dan knew, Jack would join them. But the voices weren’t lost. They have been genetically and emotionally embedded in me, Dan thought. And if humanly possible, they’ll remain safe in my care.

It seemed as if he had just laid his head on his makeshift pillow when a sound startled Dan awake. The light was barely sufficient to see, but the rustling in the bushes and the stomping on the ground grew louder, bringing Dan to full consciousness. He sat up in his sleeping bag and looked around just as three men in various components of military field uniform emerged from the forest and entered the clearing. Dan quickly rose, shedding his sleeping bag. He glanced quickly at Jack’s bag, but his grandfather was not there.

“Morning,” Dan said as he sat on a log, rapidly pulling on and lacing up his boots. “Early maneuvers?”

“Who are you?” one of the men asked. All three were young, and Dan didn’t recognize any of them.

“Dan Rawlings,” he replied.

“I said ‘ who are you?’ not ‘what’s your name.’ And what’re you doing here?”

“Camping,” Dan said.

The man who had been asking the questions grinned at his companions and laughed. “Don’t know much, does he?” Then he turned back to face Dan. “We’re on military exercises up on this here mountain, so’s you better just pack your gear and get off our territory before you get hurt.”

“I see,” Dan said, stalling and wishing he’d carried a weapon with him. “Is this a restricted area?”

“It is now,” the kid said. “So git.”

To Dan’s left, Jack suddenly emerged from the tree line and then held his ground about ten yards from the group. The trio of younger men quickly looked back and forth from Dan to Jack.

A quick burst of profanity was followed by, “Who are you, old man?”

“Jack.”

“Oh, another talker, eh? Well, join your buddy here and get your camp gear off our mountain.”

“Think we’ll fish a few days first,” Jack replied. “I kinda like it here.”

The spokesman for the trio stepped forward and pointed at Jack. “If I was you, I’d pack my gear and get out of here, old man. There’s no place to hide,” he said, reaching to his web belt and drawing a large knife from its sheath, “and this here K-Bar’ll pick your bones clean. You got the picture, Gramps?”

“Oh, I got the picture, sonny,” Jack said, stepping toward the campsite and nodding, a friendly smile on his face.

Dan slowly moved toward his grandfather, trying to place himself between Jack and the trio of what he could now see were unarmed men. The only weapons visible were the knives they each carried on his belt. One wore a military-style, web belt pistol holster, absent a weapon.

Angered by Jack’s refusal to comply, the spokesman moved menacingly toward Jack. “We ain’t foolin’ with ya, you dumb old man. I’m telling ya to git out, unless you want an new opening in your throat,” he said, waving the blade back and forth.

“Sonny,” Jack said calmly, slowly reaching beneath his down-filled vest and producing a silver-colored Smith amp; Wesson.357 magnum, “this here toy pistol will put a hole in your chest big enough for my fist to enter, and then,” he paused, spitting on the ground, “it will come out your back from a hole bigger than your mouth. And that’s a big hole.”

The kid stood dead in his tracks, staring at the pistol and then looking up at the broad smile on Jack’s face. For several moments, there was silence as all five men gauged the situation.

“I’ve a mind to take that pistol and shove it down your throat, Grandpa,” the kid said, his bluster returning in front of his companions.

“Well, sonny,” Jack said, spitting once again, “give it a try. I’m eighty-two years old and quite ready to die. Now you look to me to be about twenty-two or so, even if you are acting fourteen-you ready to die, too?”

Suddenly a voice rang out. “Johnson! Put away that knife,” it bellowed through the trees.

Dan turned quickly to spot two men in military dress coming through the clearing toward the group.

Dan recognized one of them instantly as a lieutenant from his National Guard unit-the one who had informed Dan of the brigade’s exercise and who had extended an invitation to Dan to join the militia unit.

“Captain Rawlings, I apologize for these men and their actions. We’ve got a group of new recruits up here, and discipline,” he said, glancing angrily at the young kid who had threatened Jack and Dan, “is sorely lacking. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you or your grandfather.”

“We’re fine, Lieutenant Hodgekiss. Thanks for your help,” Dan replied.

The lieutenant turned to Jack. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Rumsey,” he said. Hodgekiss looked toward his recruit and pointed his arm at Jack. “This man and his family settled this valley, you stupid boy. It’s people like him we’re bound to defend, not attack. When the time comes, he’ll be the staunchest Californian among us. Now get back to the HQ tent and put yourself on report for inappropriate behavior.”

“Yes, sir,” the younger man mumbled, and all three quickly vanished into the woods.

“Again, Captain Rawlings, Mr. Rumsey, my sincere apologies. You can see, sir, why the brigade could use a few more good officers like yourself to train these boys right. A good day to you both. I’ll place the lake off-limits for the weekend, and you should have no further trouble.”