Kin
Chapter One
“Lets set up camp,” I said.
I might just as well have said, “Sit down and relax and I’ll set up camp.”
Jess had been quite a hunter and fisherman as a teen and in his early twenties. The walls of his den had several deer heads, three boars and even a black bear. Then he got married and his wife put her little foot down.
I can only suppose that Jess limited himself to one-day outings. Either that or he was the designated camp gold brick and shirker.
I could also be charitable and suppose that worry had reduced him to quivering partial catatonia. But no, catatonic folks don’t raise Hell and find fault with everything.
“Do you think that we’re in the Hinterlands yet,” he asked.
I quoted an old Zen aphorism.
“It is like: you cannot go more than halfway into the woods,” I said.
“Sure you can,” he objected.
“Nuh-uh, once you pass that halfway point you’re headed out of the woods—not into them.”
“I didn’t ask for sarcasm,” he snapped.
“Yes, you did.
“Look, there are some wooded areas around here in the Flatlands, but they’re of rather limited extent. Four days hiking in the Flatlands would have us crossing a road, highway, railroad tracks or something—not to mention housing and cropland,” I said.
“We’re in the Hinterlands alright,” I added.
Damned nation! Jess was the one who grew up in the Shadowlands—areas that were in the shadow of the Hinterlands even if they weren’t exactly in the Hinterlands proper.
“How far do the Hinterlands go?” Jess asked.
“Jess, I never talked to anyone sane who had ever been so far as The Crack. There is a lot of territory in the Hinterlands. I also imagine that if you actually passed through The Crack, that there is The Other Side’s equivalent of Hinterlands and Rimlands and Shadowlands…
“ Beyond those there should be a whole other Flatland World,” I said.
“Why do you always take our meals out of your pack? That means that your pack gets lighter every day while mine stays the same weight,” Jess said.
“Dude, it is like: I packed nine freeze-dried meals and a bit of extra into your pack. That means that if we get separated that you have three days worth of grub—a bit more if you economize—before you’re back to hunting, gathering and starving.
“I’m packing far more and heavier grub in my pack and I’m overburdened for walking around in the hills—particularly for a man in his late fifties.
“Quit griping. They’re your daughters,” I told him.
I hadn’t heard from Jess in almost twenty years. Then he calls—all blubbery—and said that someone had kidnapped his daughters and taken them into the Hinterlands, where no Flatland law would have a prayer of finding them—even if you could convince a Flatland law that the Hinterlands exist.
Pond and Honour! I may not have liked Jess much—not since we were teens—but I never doubted that he had a pair until now.
I’d contrived to set up camp with a good deal of daylight left. After I put up a tarpaulin lean-to collected wood for a small cooking fire I went scrounging.
I’m no Euell Gibbons but I managed to grab handfuls of plantains, sour grass, dandelion leaves, poke, wild garlic and other weeds for our supper. Then I saw a big fat possum waddling on the ground.
“Why do you waste time with that foul tasting crap?” Jess said when I’d returned.
“I done told you: maybe there’s two hundred calories—maybe three—for each of us here—not counting the bit of olive oil that I’ll use to cook it. We’d end up eating the oil in something anyway.
“There is also various vitamins and minerals—not to mention fiber.
“If our food gives out or we loose it, every bit of tissue this wild stuff spared us from having to burn earlier, will be that big a gimmie come famine time,” I said.
I moved outside our little campsite. I wanted to scald and cook the possum—which Jess hadn’t seen yet—with his skin on. That wouldn’t be too challenging in a kitchen with a stove and running water. Outside it was a bit harder.
I meant to scorch what hair that I couldn’t “scald” off. That’s a bit of a misnomer anyway since water boils at about two hundred and twenty degrees and you want to remove hair at about one-forty. Water that is too hot “sets” the hair and makes it Hell to remove.
And I didn’t have a thermometer anyway.
The smell of hair singeing isn’t pleasant and I didn’t want it hanging over our campsite.
I waited until I’d removed the hair to gut the possum. I put him on a stick to roast slowly over our fire. Had we been starving, I’d have boiled him to capture every bit of fat. I’d also have saved his entrails to bait traps with.
Since I found the idea of eating even the liver from a possum unappetizing, I buried all the entrails well away from camp.
“Eating possum is country,” Jess said.
He said “Country” with the same supercilious tone that black folks use when they say, “Ghetto.”
I don’t often dis backcountry folk, but when I do mean to disparage I mispronounce the word as three separate syllables for emphasis: “Kun—Tun—Rhee” as in “I loathe Kun-Tun-Rhee Music,” for instance.
“You’ve eaten it before,” I said.
“See, that’s why I never liked you. I’ve tried very hard to shed that hillbilly image, but you revel in it,” Jess said.
I reckon.
“Jess, there aren’t any hillbillies—not real ones like the stereotype. They’re creations of the entertainment media. Except, I guess the folks in the Hinterlands come closer than anything or anyone in the Flatlands.
“You say that you want to get away from your backcountry heritage, but you build a home in the back yard of the Hinterlands. Explain that to me,” I told him.
“I inherited that land Shard. I figured that it was far enough away and I was a bit short of cash to build my family the type home that I wanted them to have.
“Karen grew up in the Shadowlands just like me. She hated everything backcountry and even she thought we’d be far enough away,” Jess pleaded.
Jess’ pleas to absolve his conscience made me tired—extraordinarily tired.
I thought of Karen. She was very petite and she was always dressed elegantly with plenty of make-up and jewelry. Her nails and lipstick were always candy-apple red and I don’t think that she owned a pair of pants.
She was the type woman who always enunciated very clearly, always spoke exaggerated Standard English and was quick to correct anyone’s grammar.
It kinda blew my mind to think that she’d grown up in the shadow of The Crack.
We ate well and slept late. The demands of the trail were wearing Jess down.
When I played football in high school, there was a poster on the wall that said:
“Fatigue makes cowards of us all.”
I think they attributed the aphorism to Vince Lombardy.
That isn’t precisely true. Take an out of shape, fifty-something cubical worker and get him exhausted and he will commit acts of cowardice that he never would consent to at his best—not even with the threat of death and torture.
I don’t care how exhausted that you get him, I can’t see this tactic working very well against a Navy SEAL or an Army Ranger. Those dudes are like on a first name basis with pain, hunger, exhaustion, cold and death.
Sure, you might manage to wear the odd one down occasionally, but not as a general rule.
Jess had a two-day head start on getting exhausted when he’d called me. He’d sat sleepless by the phone while he worried, failed to eat, and chain-smoked while guzzling black coffee.
I hoped that rest, calories, carbohydrates and something tasty to eat would shore up his fortitude.
Taking something along to use as a tasty treat to restore flagging spirits on the trail is an old trick. Truth be told, I’ve always had a bit of the “pack horse” mentality—meaning that I tend to carry far more than most lightweight campers or survivalists recommend.
I was relieved to shed a couple cans of peaches and some sugar and flour. I made fried peach pies in the skillet all flavored with a bit of bacon grease just like my grandma used to make them.
“We’re burning daylight!” Jess shouted immediately upon awakening.
“That is an amazing breakfast Shard! Peach fried pies. Good thick slices of jowl bacon, coffee and Tang. Man, that is really a special meal on the trail,” I thanked and praised myself in sarcasm.
“We have to catch those kidnappers!” Jess replied.
“Face facts Jess. The kidnappers want you to find them. They didn’t have to tell you that they were Farsiders. That goes double for telling you what route to The Crack that they were going to follow.
“They will be lying in ambush somewhere up the line,” I said.
“You’re sayin’ that we should give up? Do you want to quit and go home?” Jess demanded.
“Nah, cowards theorize with the goal of staying alive firmly in mind. We let them ambush us if need be—but hopefully we will have spotted it beforehand.
“Our goal is to avoid or shoot our way out of the ambush and either take a prisoner to interrogate and/or track the survivors,” I explained.
“Do you think we can?” He asked.
“Probably not. The thing is, no better strategy presents itself. I’d be a coward to let those shabnasticators carry off my little cousins without so much as a ‘How do you do?’ Now wouldn’t I?” I replied.
“Thing is, lets walk into this lion’s den well rested, wide awake, well fed and fully armed,” I said.
“I never used to like you Shard. You’ve always been a touch crazy,” Jess said.
“I reckon,” was all that I said.
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Did you ever watch the movie “The Outlaw Josie Wales”?
Folks carried multiple revolvers back during the War Between the States. I read that Quantrill’s Raiders basically settled on four cap-and-ball revolvers and two of the much cheaper single shot pistols. The theory was that a man who can’t handle a cavalry charge with twenty-six rounds probably couldn’t handle it with anything.
Everyone didn’t get behind the twenty-six round rule. I read that Jessie James often carried more than a dozen cap-and-ball revolvers—divided between his person and his mount—during the war.
The Josie Wales movie is the only one that I know of that portrays that fairly well. Wales is portrayed carrying four revolvers on his person as well as three more on his horse’s pommel—though he never uses the pommel guns and you have to be looking for them to see them.
Once cartridge revolvers came around, apparently everyone was content with no more than two—or at most two showing and a smaller hideout or two. I’m not sure why. Only a master prestidigitator could reload a single action fast enough to use it again in the same gunfight.
Maybe cause there wasn’t a war. Cavalry charges were unlikely and Winchester and Marlin Lever Actions holding ten or eleven rounds of .44-40 or .38-40 were available.
Be that as it may. I had an ideal gunfighter’s rig made up some time ago. It had four high-riding .357 double action revolvers—Smith and Wesson Model 19s. Two holsters were strong side—right and left—and two were belly button cross draw holsters—also right and left.
I wanted everything about the rig to be perfect. Each revolver was round butted with stag grips and a highly polished stainless Tyler “T” grip.
The hammers were bobbed. No one but a splooge thumb-cocks a double action revolver.
I’d had each barrel cut to precisely four and five-eighths inches, Mag-Na-Ported and bright nickled.
How much difference is there between a standard four-inch barrel and a four and five-eighths inch barrel? Not much, but as I said, I wanted them perfect—and for me, that was the perfect barrel length for a round butt K Frame.
I never planned to actually wear the rig—except for a few moments on the range. It was just something that gave me pleasure to have assembled and to look at and handle.
There is just something about stag, or horn, bone or ivory—even some exotic woods. My thumbs and fingers never seem to tire of stroking them.
Anyway, when I got Jess’ frantic call, I decided to don the gunfighter’s rig in earnest.
“Too heavy!” everyone is set to bray.
The four guns, holsters and the matching stag handled knife come to just under twelve pounds with all guns loaded along with four spill pouches with reloads.
Isn’t it worth carrying an extra twelve pounds when on foot to be “Pistolero”?
“Pistolero” to me is the equivalent of a modern day Samurai. I didn’t mind taking on a near hopeless mission for kin, but I wanted to die as Pistolero—as a Warrior.
Hell, I used to wear a ten-pound weight belt under my shirt to try to help me keep my weight in check all through my twenties. It might as well have been a four .357 gun belt—for weight.
I grant that my ten-pound weight belt was far easier to hide than the gunfighter’s rig would have been. But the gunfighter’s rig wasn’t meant for concealed carry.
And of course I had a stag handled Ruger Bull-Barreled Mark II Semi-Auto in .22 that I carried in a shoulder holster to shoot small game.
Jess had surprised me when I first got to his house. He had a J-Framed S&W .32 in one front pocket and a Beretta .25 in the other. He had become such a city-slicker splooge that I’d have reckoned that he was gunless.
He still had his six-inch Colt Python .357 and the six and a half inch Ruger Convertible Single Action in .357/9mm that he’d had since we were teens. I’d insisted that he bring both. Sure a Python can be reloaded quickly, but not by Jess. He never practiced speed reloads.
If Jess was to be any practical help at all in our social engineering, I expected it would be with the Marlin 336 Lever Action .30-30 that he carried. It was the rifle that he could shoot thrown objects with as a teen. It was the rifle that he’d taken all his deer, boar and bear with.
People like Jess are such a total waste of skin, but he was kin.
Maybe I shouldn’t talk. Jess’ family had been Shadowlanders for many generations. My paternal grandma had been a Shadowlander, but she’d moved away at seventeen and had never considered going back.
O we visited her sisters and cousins now and again and they visited us. Sometimes she’d tell me weird tales about the haints that walked in the Rimlands and the Hinterlands and every once in a great while they forayed into the Shadowlands, but it was rare and apparently it is far rarer today than it was in Grandma’s day.
But she only told stories when she was in a certain mood. I never managed to solicit a tale from her if she wasn’t already in the mood.
My mother didn’t believe, but she insisted on throwing in her sarcastic peanut gallery observations.
“Why would anyone want to live like those inbred country Jakes,” she’d say.
“Take your hands out of your pockets. Don’t use ‘ain’t’. Don’t drop your ‘Gs’.
“Do you want people to think that you’re a country Jake?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, I would like for folks to think that I was a country Jake. It’s far better than being taken for a cityite,” I’d think to myself.
I rarely said it aloud though. I wasn’t afraid to have my face slapped, but I was just as happy to avoid it.
Grandma died and all of her brothers and sisters died too. Without the old folks to tie the clan together, it fell into little more than nuclear family subsets. My father wasn’t close enough to his second and third cousins to make the trip very often and soon we stopped altogether.
I promised myself that one-day I’d live in the Shadowlands and walk the Hinterlands often.
It just never worked out for me. That’s one of the things about the Hinterlands—you never really forget, but it gets gradually pushed back into the unused dead storage part of your memory.
Then one day I realized that much of my life had passed and I’d never owned a house or even a few acres of ground and that I hadn’t thought of the Hinterlands in a very long time.
Then Jess called asking for my aid.
Maybe Jess should be grateful that I was willing to drop everything and join him on his Kamikaze mission to try to rescue his daughters.
I say “maybe” he should be grateful. Truth be told, I was grateful to him for thinking enough of me to ask. And I looked upon the mission as a wonderful opportunity to go armed and to be caught up in something that mattered.
I have no fear of death—far from it.
Life is sexually transmitted and invariably fatal and it isn’t worth getting into a dither about.
******************** ************************ ***********************
I decided that we should take the whole day off, but I insisted that Jess put in some stretching and a bit of walking without his pack. He squawked, but a bit of activity brings about recovery faster than total immobility.
I also had him practice dry-firing his pistols a bit. We really worked on a smooth transfer from an empty Python to a loaded Blackhawk and I gave him some pointers.
“Try to work on it a bit every morning and night. Work on smooth and forget about fast. Under fire, if you can manage to be even halfway smooth, you’ll be as fast as all Hell,” I told him.
The next day, a couple hours of walking brought us to a log cabin and small barn on the side of a hill.
.....RVM45
