Chapter 1

Small town living has disadvantages. There won’t be a 10-acre mega-mart selling every conceivable form of celery. But there probably is a roadside entrepreneur selling celery picked that morning. And at half the price of the celery imported from Peru.

Also, being in a small town allows for a full community participation in special events. The local school play might not be boffo on Broadway, but mom and pop are certain that their little darlin’ did a damn fine job and is the next Brando or Streisand.

Then, if the town is small enough and remote enough, there are the events that the primary purpose is to draw in tourists. And, as gently as possible, separate those out of towners from their hard-earned vacation dollars.

Elk City was concluding its annual Founders Day celebrations. A week-long extravaganza. It was designed for that very purpose. It included a fisherman’s breakfast, square dances, a parade, a craft, and farmers market.

Suzy and I contributed to the festivities in several ways. I was tasked to flip pancakes for the fisherman’s breakfast. While Suzy served coffee. I think she got the better deal. She could circulate through the crowd, talking and socializing. I was stuck next to the mayor. Orville Barck is an all right sort. He has tried to make a living selling and renting farm equipment. I can assure you the gift of gab he gained as a used car salesman was what put him in the mayor’s office. That and the fact that nobody else wanted the job. It is possible to get a landslide victory when there are only 200 voters in the district, and nobody else wants the job.

When Orville found that I was apolitical and hadn’t voted in the last election, he tried his damnedest to change my mind. The best he could get out of me was an assurance that I would think about it when I had the time.

Suzy and I had also been conned into setting up a trapper’s camp setup. We set up our box tent inside Mabel’s corral. This was because we were using our animals as part of the display. It was a neat layout if you ask me. We had even borrowed some steel-jaw traps from the museum.

I’m not a trapper, never been one, never needed to be one. I understand the economy behind it. However, leg grip traps are not my cup of tea. I’ll hunt an animal. Searching for sign, tracking, stalking, and killing. The only difference between me and any other predator is that I have a firearm. I know some people don’t agree with me, deny that shooting is more humane. Those same people have never watched a cougar rip the guts out of a mountain goat and then wait for it to die. Me, my preference is one shot, and in that instant, the animal is dead. I’ll never leave a wounded animal to suffer.

Be that as it may, I had borrowed a selection of traps from the museum. I was the resident Mountain Man, and I was tasked with displaying and explaining a trapper’s camp. I had a lot of low lander city dweller questions and a few negative comments. I would smile and move to the next question. But I had decided this was the first and last time I would put up with this. They’ll need to find someone else next year. I’ll be heading to the high country and go fishing.

It was the last day, and we were getting ready to head for home. That morning we had struck camp and cleaned up. The gear was packed, and I was saddling the horses while Suzy settled accounts with Mabel.

I had just adjusted Margarite’s cinch belt when Shadow started his low warning growl. He was behind me, and when I turned, there was a group of young people gathered at the corral gate. I wasn’t too concerned. They appeared to be high school or early college age. I figured they had some questions about what I was doing. I should have relied on Shadow’s assessment.

“Hi guys, can I help you?”

“Yeah, asshole, you can let your slaves go.”

I was dumbfounded. I understood the words, but the way they were spoken was confusing. “Excuse me?”

From a different source, “Fur is murder, let your slaves go.”

This was followed by a chorus of voices, yelling and screaming at me. It was impossible to separate who was saying what. The gist seemed to be that I wasn’t a nice person, and these folks wanted me to turn my stock loose. I think that the only thing that kept them on their side of the fence was Shadow. He had gone from his warning growl to a full-blown attack bark. Fortunately, I was able to grab his collar. And doubly fortunate that I had his leash and was able to hook it on.

This seemed to inspire even more anger in the group. It was amazing to me that such a small group could make so much noise. Vulgar, mean, insulting noise. I remember some of the Iraqi mobs that could have learned how to spew verbal hate from these kids.

While all of this was going on, the kids screaming, the tourists watching and taking pictures, the locals standing with their jaws open, I saw Suzy and Paul approaching from different angles. Suzy from Mabel’s, Paul from the jail.

I can tell you the truth. I didn’t quite know what to do. I was packing my 1911 and Bowie. My Henry and the shotgun were in their boots on Margarite. I could have fought a minor war with all the firepower I had available. But I knew that was the absolute worse thing for me to do. If I were to pull a weapon, any weapon, even a slingshot, would have been a red flag for this crowd. I would if I had to. But things hadn’t gotten to that level yet. I couldn’t retreat, which would probably cause these crazies to advance. Opening the gate and scattering the livestock. I was actually in the best place possible. That is with Shadow by my side. It was him more than anything else that was keeping the mob at bay.