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We follow our semi-cleared pathway north toward several buildings, maybe a mile away, that appeared occupied. An occasional puff of smoke or a flicker of light revealing life. Now moving slowly, hoping to be seen, hoping to draw attention to our group. Should we need to leave, posthaste? At the bottom of the pathway, Brett turned the wagon about, heading back toward the trailhead, our entrance point homeward, and paused. Nearby buildings possibly filled with debris, already pilfered. Trash or treasure. We are not alone. They have observed us. Our goal, look like a down on our luck pack of scavengers. Aware of our surroundings without making it appear, we are aware. We are approaching a crumbling roadway beyond our “claimed” boundary. There is movement ahead.
Let’s stop and pay attention. By my count, seven or eight bodies. Armed. Clearly a leader pacing the pack. Approach, the gang spreads out, forming a single line, each one front row visible. Closer now. They slowed.
“You headed somewhere?” the lead inquired.
“Morning, we’re from up the hill looking for a group that might be interested in trading supplies, materials,” I offered.
“Not trouble.” Brett added.
“My name is Jesse.”
No response as a person peeled off each end of the line, moving forward with their weapon readied. They guided their mount toward the wagon, likely seeking a better view. Several seem competent, a few a tad jumpy. Thinking steady, relax.
“Wagons got some stuff,” one member declared.
“You’re in our territory,” the leader announced.
“Well, Mr. (hoping for a name),” I inquired.
“None of you f……...g business, answer the question.”
Tough guy, great, although I noted a tremor in his voice, hands twitchy.
“Thought a wagon with supplies would be tempting, hoping we would meet some folks. You might consider what we could barter, trade, and return later for a swap.”
“See behind ya, that pack, not folks you want to meet. Claim we’re on their territory. For now, drop-back by in twenty-four hours to continue this conversation, assuming you get back to where you came from, quickly. Good luck.”
They spun around now and sped off.
New folks headed toward us at a full gallop, no time to run, the other group scampering away, long gone.
“Afternoon,” I yell waving.
Same plan, same conversation, outcome, problematic. They pull near, dust fills the air.
“Barter, nope, but you can leave the wagon… and horses, and live.”
This group, eight, bunched behind the exposed leader, with most likely a second in charge to his right. I moved between our wagon and their leader. And reaffirmed an interest in an exchange of merchandise. Perhaps we could help build you a wagon?
“Last chance, dismount,” he demands, weapon in hand.
This bunch appeared harden by time, life, boots worn, covered in a layer of dust, bearded, all ready to engage, just waiting for the word and unlikely to back-down.
With the help of an artisan, added a hidden leather pocket to each member's saddle. Out of sight, but accessible, hidden firearm. Just stay calm.
Half a mile away the other group watched, wonder if there was a tomorrow for our sorry asses.
Here’s hoping the team’s time together, our what to do conversations, practice would payoff.
Final thought, ‘Schade’ translation ‘what a pity’.
Hands up, as if surrendering, Hands open. Made my horse turn 90-degrees, grabbed the saddle horn, slowing slide my right leg over its hindquarter, leaving the left boot in the stirrup, dropped-down, touched the ground, pulled myself up, collecting my extra gun, looked over the seat, stay composed, first shot, drop the leader, surprised, confusion reign, second shot drop the man to his right, within seconds it was all over. Everyone performed their role as practiced, over and over and over.
Motionless bodies skewed on the ground, groans and moans expelling from those alive but wounded, horses scattered, the rule now, touch nothing, go. The count, four dead, two wounded, two hands raised.
Today’s bounty, nothing. Nothing will result from today's faceoff, maybe tomorrow. To those alive, hands up, still mounted, directed them, “Collect the bodies, the mounts now roaming, and head back to where you came from. Don’t do something stupid.”
Frankie, monitoring the action behind us, I remount, motion Brett to move out, the wagon leads the way, team follows, I look back, bodies, horses grazing, up the road, I wonder.
Everything I touch builds an unwanted reputation.
Half way up the trail, turn one last time to view the failed ambush. The other group, having watched, now gathering what they dared. It all seemed so gratuitous. What have we become?
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