Chapter 5

Assuming that was the case, I intended to make sure I'd be back here with my trailer. And I'd have a chainsaw, a real axe, and some wedges this time. I'd also have anything else I could buy today that I thought might help. First though, I was going to have breakfast.

When I'd eaten and was back to my truck I unhooked my trailer and took off south on Farm Road 92, passing through Silsbee and on to Lumberton, which was bigger. Just inside the Lumberton city limits I saw a U-Haul place and pulled in.

I was about to go on a shopping spree deluxe and I didn't have time to try cramming shit into the camper shell, it was practically full anyway. I rented a twenty-four foot box trailer, for a week, and had to make myself not laugh at the thought.

The man running the place had been more helpful than he realized. I asked if he knew a place that sold chainsaws and he gave me directions to a large locally owned hardware store. I headed that way, intending to buy every chain saw in the place.

Somehow, someway that I can't explain, sanity beat its way to my forebrain. I couldn't go around buying everything in sight. Even with cash to burn, which I happened to have, I'd end up in jail for observation. At least I would if I went on a wild shopping spree that got me too much attention.

It sobered me and I knew it was right. The last thing I needed was to end up being questioned by the police.

When I got to the store, I asked to see the manager and when he came up I explained that I needed to buy quite a few things. Then for the big if, I wanted him to call my bank to make sure my check was good. It was unusual, but I could see the dollar signs in his eyes and he agreed.

I had cash aplenty on me, but flashing it would cause more attention than writing a check. Plus, with the manager - the owner actually - giving the ok, talking would be held to a minimum.

I went about my shopping because it was only eight AM and no banks were open yet. I left him my driver's license and pointed out my truck with the U-Haul so he could get my tag number too.

Finding the chainsaws, I selected two Stihl 880s, the most powerful they had, and then picked up two sawchain splicing kits, a dozen round files to sharpen the chains, and a full two hundred and fifty foot roll of saw chain to fit. I didn't bother with any chain oil because I had other ideas about that.

Four axes, twelve wedges, two splitting mauls, and two of each size sledge hammer later, I called myself finished and took a stroll around the rest of the store while adding things I thought of as I browsed to the stack I'd made near the checkout line.

The manager found me about nine-thirty and told me that everything was fine, so I paid up, loaded my things into the U-Haul, and headed for my next stop. It was at the hardware man's brother's sporting goods store. When I'd asked, he'd told me about it and he'd even promised to talk to his brother about taking my check.

The brother was a character of the first order. He and his son regaled me with tales of the Big Thicket the whole time I was there. They insisted that I examine their collection of arrowheads and other antique items they'd dug up personally.

I did my best to help out with the conversation to keep them talking while I browsed. They had an extensive selections of guns and somewhat surprisingly, bows and arrows. The compound bow had started showing up in the last few years and they had a remarkable stock of them.

Texas didn't have a bow season for deer hunting yet, but there were rumors that one was coming in the near future. The old guy's son was the bowman of the two and with only a little prodding he showed me the best he had.

I had come intending to buy a couple of twelve gauge shotguns and all the buckshot I thought I could get away with. A little gentle feeling out let me know that neither of them were happy about the current state of firearms law.

They were dyed in the wool second amendment strict constructionist, and the son even admitted that he had never and would never let Federal Firearms Laws keep him from making a sale.

"We open this place for business every day to earn our living, not to fill out forms for the government. Don't get me wrong, if I think someone is up to no good, they can't buy a thing from me, even if they are legal, but anything else is no business of the government's."

Needless to say those words were sweet music to my ears, and since a few people still thought there were black bears way back deep in the thicket as he called it, he had all manner of bear guns for sale.

"Personally, if I's going for bear, I'd want a twelve gauge with alternating' loads of double ought buck and slugs. That's what I recommend and I keep plenty of examples for people that want to try for 'em," the son said.

I didn't ask if he'd ever hunted bear, or anything. He didn't look like much of a hunter and didn't talk like one either. He sounded like a campfire mender to me, but I didn't bring up any possibly embarrassing questions.

The gabbing died down when I started buying. I took two Browning 12 gauge automatics with the shorter bear barrel that he claimed did well with either buckshot or slugs, and I bought something else I'd heard of before but never seen in real life. A Remington Model 1100 in 410 gauge.

When he asked me if I needed any shells, I didn't bat an eye when I said I'd take ten cases of buckshot and ten of slugs for each gun. I knew perfectly well that many people bought shotgun shells by the case, but I also knew that it was birdshot that was sold that way. Ten cases of buckshot or slugs was not normal by any stretch, thirty cases, was decidedly odd, if not subversive.

He blinked but he didn't balk. He didn't have a chance to, because I started spinning a little yarn of my own before he could. I let on that I'd been curious about bow hunting and that maybe now was the time to give it a try.

While he was switching mental gears, I noticed that his mother - who did the book keeping - was busily filling out an invoice, and it didn't look like she was bothered at all about the large amount of ammunition I had spoken for.

He was glad to get back to his bows, but I'd spent almost all the time there I wanted to. When I found out which one was the most powerful I bought the two he had in stock, and then every arrow that they'd shoot along with five hundred blank arrow shafts, a world of feathers for fletching, and a little machine that trimmed the fletching with a red hot wire while you turned the shaft around in it's holder. I also cleaned him out of arrowheads of all types, except for the antique ones of course.

I made sure to buy any tools, supplies, and accessories he thought I could use for either shooting a bow, learning to shoot a bow, or learning to make my own arrows. He had a line of camo hunting gear and I stocked up with it also, including six Ghillie suits and every pair of hunting boots he had in my size.

When it came time to load up, they both suggested that I drive around back to their loading dock.

"It don't matter to me, but it'll keep the talk down. No tellin' what some gossip'd say 'bout you leavin' with all them shells," the old man said.

Sounded good to me and I was happy he'd though of it.

Next on my agenda was oil for the chainsaws. I needed two different kinds, the type for mixing fuel and bar chain oil. I hit the jackpot when I found the Texaco Wholesale distributor.

They even had the mix oil in fifty-five gallon barrels. I got four barrels of chain oil and two of mixing oil and I found a couple of real jewels in their tiny showroom.