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    Sundown at Coffin Rock

    by Raymond K. Paden

  

    The old man walked slowly through the dry, fallen leaves of autumn, his

    practiced eye automatically choosing the bare and stony places in the

    trail for his feet. There was scarcely a sound as he passed, though his

    left knee was stiff with scar tissue. He grunted occasionally as the tight

    sinews pulled. Damn chainsaw, he thought.

  

  

    Behind him, the boy shuffled along, trying to imitate his grandfather, but

    unable to mimic the silent motion that the old man had learned during

    countless winter days upon this wooded mountain in pursuit of game. He's

    fifteen years old, the old man thought. Plenty old enough to be learning.

    But that was another time, another America. His mind drifted, and he saw

    himself, a fifteen-year-old boy following in the footsteps of his own

    grandfather, clutching a twelve gauge in his trembling hands as they

    tracked a wounded whitetail.

  

  

    The leg was hurting worse now, and he slowed his pace a bit.  Plenty of

    time. It should have been my own son here with me now, the old man thought

    sadly. But Jason had no interest, no understanding. He cared for nothing

    but pounding on the keys of that damned computer terminal. He knew nothing

    about the woods, or where food came from...or freedom. And that's my

    fault, isn't it?

  

  

    The old man stopped and held up his hand, motioning for the boy to look.

    In the small clearing ahead, the deer stood motionless, watching them. It

    was a scraggly buck, underfed and sickly, but the boy's eyes lit up with

    excitement. It had been many years since they had seen even a single

    whitetail here on the mountain.  After the hunting had stopped, the

    population had exploded. The deer had eaten the mountain almost bare until

    erosion had become a serious problem in some places. That following

    winter, three starving does had wandered into the old man's yard, trying

    to eat the bark off of his pecan trees, and he had wished the "animal

    rights" fanatics could have been there then. It was against the law, but

    old man knew a higher law, and he took an axe into the yard and killed the

    starving beasts. They did not have the strength to run.

  

  

    The buck finally turned and loped away, and they continued down the trail

    to the river. When they came to the "Big Oak," the old man turned and

    pushed through the heavy brush beside the trail and the boy followed,

    wordlessly. The old man knew that Thomas was curious about their leaving

    the trail, but the boy had learned to move silently (well, almost) and

    that meant no talking. When they came to "Coffin Rock," the old man sat

    down upon it and motioned for the boy to join him.

  

  

    "You see this rock, shaped like a casket?" the old man asked. "Yes sir."

    The old man smiled. The boy was respectful and polite. He loved the

    outdoors, too. Everything a man could ask in a grandson ....or a son.

  

  

    "I want you to remember this place, and what I'm about to tell you.  A lot

    of it isn't going to make any sense to you, but it's important and one day

    you'll understand it well enough. The old man paused. Now that he was

    here, he didn't really know where to start.

  

  

    "Before you were born," he began at last, "this country was different.

    I've told you about hunting, about how everybody who obeyed the law could

    own guns. A man could speak out, anywhere, without worrying about whether

    he'd get back home or not. School was different, too. A man could send his

    kids to a church school, or a private school, or even teach them at home.

    But even in the public schools, they didn't spend all their time trying to

    brainwash you like they do at yours now." The old man paused, and was

    silent for many minutes. The boy was still, watching a chipmunk scavenging

    beside a fallen tree below them.

  

  

    "Things don't ever happen all at once, boy. They just sort of sneak up on

    you. Sure, we knew guns were important; we just didn't think it would ever

    happen in America. But we had to do something about crime, they said. It

    was a crisis. Everything was a crisis! It was a drug crisis, or a

    terrorism crisis, or street crime, or gang crime. Even a 'health care'

    crisis was an excuse to take away a little more of our rights." The old

    man turned to look at his grandson.

  

  

    "They ever let you read a thing called the Constitution down there at your

    school?" The boy solemnly shook his head. "Well, the Fourth Amendment's

    still in there. It says there won't be any unreasonable searches and

    seizures. It says you're safe in your own home." The old man shrugged.

    "That had to go. It was a crisis! They could kick your door open any time,

    day or night, and come in with guns blazing if they thought you had drugs

    ...or later, guns. Oh, at first it was just registration -- to keep the

    guns out of the hands of criminals! But that didn't work, of course, and

    then later when they wanted to take 'em they knew where to look. They

    banned 'assault rifles', and then 'sniper rifles', and 'Saturday night

    specials.' Everything you saw on the TV or in the movies was against us.

    God knows the news people were! And the schools were teaching our kids

    that nobody needed guns anymore. We tried to take a stand, but we felt

    like the whole face of our country had changed and we were left outside."

  

  

    "Me and a friend of mine, when we saw what was happening, we came and

    built a secret place up here on the mountain. A place where we could put

    our guns until we needed them. We figured some day Americans would

    remember what it was like to be free, and what kind of price we had to pay

    for that freedom. So we hid our guns instead of losing them."

  

  

    "One fellow I knew disagreed. He said we ought to use our guns now and

    stand up to the government. Said that the colonists had fought for their

    freedom when the British tried to disarm them at Lexington and Concord.

    Well, he and a lot of others died in what your history books call the 'Tax

    Revolt of 1998,' but son, it wasn't the revolt that caused the repeal of

    the Second Amendment like your history book says. The Second Amendment was

    already gone long before they ever repealed it. The rest of us thought we

    were doing the right thing by waiting. I hope to God we were right."

  

  

    "You see, Thomas. It isn't government that makes a man free. In the end,

    governments always do just the opposite. They gobble up freedom like

    hungry pigs. You have to have laws to keep the worst in men under control,

    but at the same time the people have to have guns, too, in order to keep

    the government itself under control. In our country, the people were

    supposed to be the final authority of the law, but that was a long time

    ago. Once the guns were gone, there was no reason for those who run the

    government to give a damn about laws and constitutional rights and such.

    They just did what they pleased and anyone who spoke out...well, I'm

    getting ahead of myself."

  

  

    "It took a long time to collect up all the millions of firearms that were

    in private hands. The government created a whole new agency to see to it.

    There were rewards for turning your friends in, too. Drug dealers and

    murderers were set free after two or three years in prison, but possession

    of a gun would get you mandatory life behind bars with no parole.

  

  

    "I don't know how they found out about me, probably knew I'd been a hunter

    all those years, or maybe somebody turned me in. They picked me up on

    suspicion and took me down to the federal building."

  

  

    "Son, those guys did everything they could think of to me. Kept me locked

    up in this little room for hours, no food, no water. They kept coming in,

    asking me where the guns were. 'What guns?' I said. Whenever I'd doze off,

    they'd come crashing in, yelling and hollering. I got to where I didn't

    know which end was up. I'd say I wanted my lawyer and they'd laugh.

    'Lawyers are for criminals', they said. 'You'll get a lawyer after we get

    the guns.' What's so funny is, I know they thought they were doing the

    right thing. They were fighting crime!"

  

  

    "When I got home I found Ruth sitting in the middle of the living room

    floor, crying her eyes out. The house was a shambles. While I was down

    there, they'd come out and took our house apart. Didn't need a search

    warrant, they said. National emergency! Gun crisis!  Your grandma tried to

    call our preacher and they ripped the phone off the wall. Told her that

    they'd go easy on me if she just told them where I kept my guns." The old

    man laughed. "She told them to go to hell." He stared into the distance

    for a moment as his laughter faded.

  

  

    "They wouldn't tell her about me, where I was or anything, that whole

    time. She said that she'd thought I was dead. She never got over that day,

    and she died the next December."

  

  

    "They've been watching me ever since, off and on. I guess there's not much

    for them to do anymore, now that all the guns are gone.  Plenty of time to

    watch one foolish old man." He paused. Beside him, the boy stared at the

    stone beneath his feet.

  

  

    "Anyway, I figure that, one day, America will come to her senses.  Our men

    will need those guns and they'll be ready. We cleaned them and sealed them

    up good; they'll last for years. Maybe it won't be in your lifetime,

    Thomas. Maybe one day you'll be sitting here with your son or grandson.

    Tell him about me, boy. Tell him about the way I said America used to be."

    The old man stood, his bad leg shaking unsteadily beneath him.

  

  

    "You see the way this stone points? You follow that line one hundred feet

    down the hill and you'll find a big round rock. It looks like it's buried

    solid, but one man with a good prybar can lift it, and there's a concrete

    tunnel right under there that goes back into the hill."

  

  

    The old man stood, watching as the sun eased toward the ridge, coloring

    the sky and the world red. Below them, the river still splashed among the

    stones, as it had for a million years. It's still going, the old man

    thought. There'll be someone left to carry on for me when I'm gone. It was

    harder to walk back. He felt old and purposeless now, and it would be

    easier, he knew, to give in to that aching heaviness in his left lung that

    had begun to trouble him more and more. Damn cigarettes, he thought. His

    leg hurt, and the boy silently came up beside him and supported him as

    they started down the last mile toward the house. How quiet he walks, the

    old man thought. He's learned well.

  

  

    It was almost dark when the boy walked in. His father looked up from his

    paper. "Did you and your granddad have a nice walk?"

  

  

  

  

  

  

    "Yes," the boy answered, opening the refrigerator. "You can call Agent

    Goodwin tomorrow. Gramps finally showed me where it is."

  

  

      -----------------------------------------------------------------

  

    This story originally appeared in "The Blue Press" (a catalog/magazine put

    out by Dillon Precision Products, Inc., 7442 Butherus Drive, Scottsdale,

    AZ 85260, phone 602-948-8009.)  The editor, Mark Pixler, was kind

    enough to allow distribution on the Internet.

  

    This story may be reprinted as long as due credit is given to the author

    and publisher.

  

    Editor's note: "Sundown at Coffin Rock" is a work of fiction. Any

    similarity to actual events or to actual people, living or dead, remains

    to be seen.

  

    - Mark Pixler, Editor

  

    Special Thanks to David Fiedler, david@infopro.com or david@ost.com



 

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