Founders (20 page)

The front door swung open to reveal a tall man in his late forties, wearing a large-frame Glock pistol in a Kydex hip holster. He was wearing denim pants and a plaid flannel shirt. The man said, “I’m Carl. Please come in.”

He motioned them in the door. “You can put your rifles and packs under the coatrack.” Before leaving his pack, Ken pulled out the letter of introduction, which was protected in a Ziploc bag.

A tall, big-boned woman stepped out of the kitchen. She was also carrying a holstered Glock, but it had an unusual green polymer frame. “Hi, I’m Cordelia,” she said with a friendly wave of her arm. She motioned the Laytons to sit on a couch.

Ken reached across to Carl Norwood’s armchair and handed him the letter.

Carl flipped his eyeglasses up onto his forehead with practiced ease, and took a few minutes to read the letter from Durward Perkins. He held the letter just six inches from his nose, explaining, “I can never find my reading glasses, and I never got bifocals, since I can’t use those shooting with a scope.”

The Laytons sat quietly while Carl Norwood read the letter.
At a couple of points while reading, Carl chuckled. Finally, he flipped his glasses back down and handed the letter to Cordelia. He seemed impressed, commenting, “It sounds like you handled yourselves very well when those looters came at you.”

Ken replied, “Well,
that
was mostly Terry’s work. When it happened, I was late to the party, rolling out of bed. I just added a bit of accompaniment.”

Terry giggled. “Yeah, accompaniment in
Bass Staccato
, as our friend T.K. would call it.”

Carl grinned broadly. Then he put on a serious face. “Let me give you the layout: It’s just the three of us here—my wife, my son, and I. All our relatives are in Texas and Oklahoma, and we haven’t had word from them since the Crunch. We’ve got 320 acres, mostly paid for—although I’ve
no idea
what the situation is with mortgages these days.” After a pause to reflect, he went on. “We’re running 120 head of Angus, Herefords, and Bald-Faced Blacks.”

Terry cocked her head, and asked, “We’ve only been around Brown Swiss, and some neighbors had Jerseys. What’s a Bald-Faced—?”

Carl jumped in. “If you cross a Black Angus with a Hereford, they throw a cross called a Black Baldy or what we call a Bald-Faced Black—a black cow with a white face. They’re known for their hybrid vigor. They do really well in this climate, and the cows make really good moms.”

Terry nodded.

Carl Norwood continued, “We have a creek running through the property that by God’s grace runs year-round. We cut hay on about thirty-five acres, and the rest is grazing ground. It’s mostly good ground, and we’ve reseeded a lot of it in a pasture blend. The hay ground is mostly seeded in LG-31 Orchard Grass. A lot of our neighbors have had problems with Knapweed and Leafy Spurge, but we’ve managed to keep those sprayed out.”

Ken and Terry both nodded, as Carl was now speaking in terms that were familiar to them.

“We’ve got three good saddle horses, two geldings and a mare. We also have a semiretired twenty-five-year-old mare, Molly. Her back isn’t up to any heavy loads these days. The other three saddle horses are all less than ten years old, so they have a lot of good years ahead of them. Two of those three are bombproof. We also have Andre—‘Andre the Giant.’ He’s half Fjord, one quarter Percheron, and one quarter Heinz. We use him for all the pulling around here. He’s saddle-broke, but he’s so tall that he’s not comfortable to ride.”

Ken asked, “Okay, I’m stumped. I know what Percheron draft horses and what Norwegian Fjords look like, but did you say ‘Heinz’? What’s a Heinz?”

Carl answered with a laugh, “That’s like a mutt dog—Heinz 57 Varieties.”

“Tell them about our firewood and fuel,” Cordelia urged.

“Oh, yeah. We heat and cook mostly with wood. We have enough wood laid in for this coming winter. I’m out of gas for the chain saw, but we have friends that swap firewood for beef. We have a pickup, an SUV, and two quads, but again, no gas left to run them. We only have about 480 gallons of diesel left on hand and we’re keeping that in reserve for cutting, baling, and hauling hay. I’d like to switch to haying with our horses, but I haven’t found a hay mower yet. I also need more horse collars, hames, and other harness bits. A lot of the horse-drawn mowers either got melted down for scrap iron during World War II, or turned into yard ornaments. Most of those are rusted junk. So I’m still searching. You know, I had the chance to buy any one of
several
restored horse-drawn mowers that a guy from Wyoming brought to the Antique Tractor Pull that they held every September in Newell. But the Crunch of course brought an end to all those events. It’s now just strictly local commerce. Our world got a
lot
smaller.”

After a pause Norwood continued, “At least I had the common sense to switch our propane delivery contract to ‘keep filled,’ back when there was the big fight in Congress over raising the federal debt ceiling. So when the Crunch came, our propane tank was almost full. For the last year, we’ve been closely shepherding that supply. Right now, we’re at about 70 percent. We’ve mainly been using that while we’ve been learning to cook on the woodstove. Believe me, that was quite a steep learning curve. Anyway, we won’t starve, and we won’t freeze. Hauling water is a pain, especially when there’s snow on the ground, but we’ll
live.
We’ve been able to trade butchered beef or cattle on the hoof for just about everything we’ve needed. The big surpluses around here are wool, mutton, lambs, and sugar beets. Since this is mainly sheep country and we’re one of the few cattle outfits, we’re in a fairly strong position for bartering. Eating mutton gets boring in a hurry.”

After another pause he added, “With the power out, we get our water from the creek, and parts of each year from runoff from the roofs on the house and barn. The cattle now get their water straight from the creek. I fenced off the part of the creek that’s upstream of the footbridge out back to prevent any contamination of the water. We run everything we use for drinking through a copy of a Big Berkey filter. It uses ceramic filter elements.”

“Down in Newell, and out on a lot of farms and ranches, people are using water from the Irrigation District ditches,” Cordelia said. “That water comes from the Belle Fourche Dam. Luckily, there’s a manual emergency gate up there. Without that, the people in Newell would have been without water. The ditch doesn’t go through our property, but we’ve got our creek.”

“So, what about your security situation?” Ken asked.

Carl sighed and said, “In a word, our security situation
stinks.
I’m afraid we’ll get targeted by looters. We’re far enough out of town that we can’t depend on the Vigilance Committee. We also don’t have any neighbors that are within line of sight. So we can’t
depend on their help, either. The big problem here is that there’s two main ways into the ranch—from both Highway 79 to the west and from Highway 212 to the east. And of course our house is so close to the county road that it hardly gives us any warning time.”

Terry asked, “So what are you doing for security?”

“We have a big padded swivel chair set up in the corner of the woodshed for whoever’s on guard duty. It’s chilly in the winter, but we’ve got several washed wool fleeces—one to sit on and two others tied together like a serape to drape over you. That corner of the shed has a pretty good view up and down the road and, if you swivel around and look out the other way, you can see two sides of the house and most of the barnyard. We’ve got four walkie-talkies. They’re just the cheap kind—FRS band, from Walmart. I got a 12-volt charging tray that can charge two radios at a time. That is connected to a pair of 6-volt tractor batteries that are wired in series. Those batteries are trickle-charged off a 20-watt photovoltaic panel that I bought a couple of years ago from Harbor Freight company. That’s our only electricity here at the house. I really wish I had a few more panels. With more charging capacity, we could do a lot more than just run the CB and recharge the radios and a few flashlight batteries.

“Recently, Graham and I have been trading off with twelve-hour guard duty shifts, but we’re starting to burn out. At the rate we’re going, we’re just getting exhausted. We don’t have enough time to properly take care of the stock, and there’s no way that next year we’d have the time to cut hay or put in a garden. The past two weeks, we’ve been concentrating on security, and that has forced us to let other things slide. The good news is that we’re pretty well armed, and all three of us are good, safe shooters.”

“That’s right,” Cordelia interjected. “We’re all experienced hunters, but none of us have any military or police SWAT-type experience. We’ve got two .30-06 rifles with scopes, and Graham
has a Garand, which is also a .30-06. Plus a Kel-Tec .223, a half a dozen bird guns—12- and 16-gauge—several .22s, and a .17 HMR, which is our ground squirrel gun.”

Ken asked, “What’s the depth of your ammo supply?”

Carl answered, “We’ve got more than 500 rounds of 06, and that includes eighty rounds of the black-tipped armor-piercing. That’s all loaded in eight-round Garand clips. We’ve got just over nine boxes of .45 ACP, and five boxes of 9 millimeter for Cordy’s Glock. We’ve got only about 200 rounds of .223 for the Kel-Tec, but I consider that gun kind of secondary. In open country like this, .30-06
rules.
For the shotguns, we’ve got just over twenty-six boxes of shells, mostly 12-gauge. But those are all pheasant and quail loads—we don’t have any buckshot or slugs, so that makes our shotguns useless for self-defense—”

Ken interrupted, “I can teach you how to cut shotgun shells. I saw a YouTube video on how to make cut shells, back before the Crunch, and my buddy Dan Fong and I did some experimenting. When you cut a shell—it’s a scoring cut that doesn’t quite go all the way around—it makes the whole front half of a shotgun shell go down the bore, so that it hits someone like a slug, and then it fragments. It’s a very neat trick, but it’s strictly for single shots and double-barrel guns. You don’t want to have a shell come apart inside a pump or a semiauto. That could cause a jam at the worst possible time.”

Carl looked surprised and said, “Thanks, I’d appreciate seeing how to do that! I’ve got a short-barreled side-by-side 12-gauge we could try that with.”

Ken said, “Sorry, I jumped in there. To get back on track, how’s your supply of ammo in other calibers?”

Carl answered, “We’re in the worst shape on rimfire ammo—less than 300 rounds, including just two boxes for my .17 HMR. My only excuse is that it’s such a long drive from here to any of the big sporting goods stores down in Rapid City that I didn’t have
the chance to stock up. That’s a major regret, a
huge
regret. When the Crunch hit, I got fixated on finding grain and salt for our stock, and propane cylinders for our lanterns. Instead, I should’ve bought ammo first, before it all disappeared off the shelves. I never thought that I’d see the day when el-cheapo .22 rimfire ammo was like gold.

“Oh, I’ve also got several boxes of .30-30 ammo that’s left over from a Marlin lever-action that I traded for a saddle a few years back. I figure that ammo will always be good to trade.”

“Well, with cold weather coming and people wanting to get deer, maybe you can trade that .30-30 ammo for some more .22 Long Rifle ammo,” Terry offered.

Cordelia said cheerfully, “That’s a great idea.”

Ken raised a finger and asked, “How old is your son, and how does he fit into the security arrangements?”

Cordelia answered, “Graham is sixteen going on twenty-six. He’s been homeschooled and he’s really sharp and very levelheaded. He’s shot two deer in the past two hunting seasons: one in the neck and one in the head. Just one shot each. I expect that he’d be up to it, if it ever comes to a real us-or-them kind of shooting situation. His one drawback is that he only weighs 140 pounds. He just needs to fill in so that he can help with the heavy chores.”

Ken asked, “How are you set for handguns?”

“We’ve got only three: my Glock 21, Cordy’s Glock 19, and Graham’s .45 revolver,” Carl answered. “His is an old Smith Model 1917 that belonged to my dad. It shoots .45 ACP just like my Glock.”

Terry interjected again, “So two of your guns also have commonality with our Colt 1911s.”

Norwood nodded.

Terry turned to Carl and asked, “So what’s your worst-case scenario?

He answered with a sigh, “That would be if the bikers that
hit Belle Fourche decide to pick on us.” After a pause, he added, “I don’t expect you to stop an army, but I do want to be able to maintain round-the-clock security.”

Ken said quietly, “Understood.”

“We don’t heat any of the outbuildings,” Cordelia told them, “but we have a spare bed that we use out in the barn during calving season we’ll bring in and put in Carl’s office. The computer and phone and fax machine can’t be used these days, anyway.”

Carl added with a grin, “No more tax paperwork to do, either.”

They all shared a laugh.

Only a few days after they had arrived at the Norwoods’ ranch, Ken and Terry were like part of the family. The guard schedule was broken into three eight-hour shifts. Ken, Terry, and Graham took most of the shifts, with Carl helping as needed.