As the rig drew within an hour or two of Abilene, the friendly trucker said that he or she had to make a delivery at the nearby Freemen Ranch first. They got off on a winding two-lane road, reached a turnoff marked by a handmade sign with a drawing of the OK hand gesture, and followed a meandering dirt road. They drove up over a little rise to a sprawling, weatherbeaten complex with a ranch house, a mammoth pole barn and several outbuildings. As they approached, they could see that the isolated property was surrounded by a tall, barbed wire fence topped by spiral razor wire. The top of the gates had a wrought iron sign with the words “Freemen Ranch,” under which were welded two oversized replicas of revolutionary war muskets crossed one over the other.
Two huge American flags and a coiled snake flag flew from wooden poles in the yard. Heavily armed men on four wheelers guarded the gates. One of them approached, and the friendly trucker showed him the delivery order. The deeply tanned outdoorsman squinted at the friendly trucker but ordered the gates open and waved them in, stopping them just far enough in to secure the gates. The four travelers climbed out of the truck. Kandude noticed that a variety of mostly beat up pickup trucks with expired Idaho, Nevada, and Utah tags were parked around the yard.
A burly middle-aged man with a full beard, wearing a brown cowboy hat and a plaid shirt, came out of the ranch house and strode toward the group. He was wearing two 1911 .45 ACPs holstered in a tooled leather gunfighter rig. “I think I see what that is,” he said, gesturing at the friendly trucker, “but may I ask what you others are doing here?” Turning to Cardoshia, pupils dilating, he continued, “And I must say, you are most certainly not unwelcome.” He looked at the Old Woman with some interest but cocked his head slightly at the appearance of the apparent prepster, Kandude. They replied that they were headed for Ft. Worth. He ordered his men to have the truck driver unload the delivery at the doors to the barn and get back to California as quickly as possible. “Don’t worry about these three,” he told the trucker. “They are now my guests.”
“My name is Kannon,” said the man. “As you are just in time for a BBQ, I would like to invite you to my home for dinner.”
Nonplussed, and a bit concerned, they followed him up onto the porch and into the house. The double front doors had old western Colt .45 six-shooters for door handles. They entered a large great room with a stone fireplace and a ranch table in the middle of the floor underneath a wagon wheel chandelier. Kannon summoned a young Hispanic woman he called Maria and asked her politely to set out the barbecue for his 3 guests and the Ranch Foreman, Ruger. Though she studiously kept her eyes down, Maria looked vaguely familiar to Kandude.
Kandude, Cardoshia, and the Old Woman introduced themselves and looked around the place. It was somewhat shabby but clean. There were guns mounted above the fireplace, the side tables, the sofas and chairs, the doors, and over the windows.
Kandude noticed a heavily loaded bookshelf near the fireplace. Walking over, he saw two old Bibles beside three brand new God Bless the USA Bibles. He glanced across the spines of the other books, and didn’t recognize any of the titles, which included The Turner Diaries, The Clansman: An Historical Romance of the Ku Klux Klan, Hold Back This Day, The International Jew: The World’s Foremost Problem, and The Doctrine of the Lesser Magistrates among others.
“So, you are a reader, then,” said Kannon to Kandude. “I do my best, Mr. Kannon” answered Kandude. “I was taught by my preceptor, Professor B, may he rest in peace, that one should read widely and deeply to become a good man, a good citizen, and a good capitalist. But I confess ignorance of all that I see here, save for, of course, the Bible.”
“Just call me Kannon, or if you wish, Squire K. We no longer use last names, as this enables the DEPEGUV to subjugate free men. It sounds like your professor was indeed a wise man,” said Kannon. “The key, however, is to read the right books. We will talk more soon.”
Maria and a couple of other Hispanic women brought in generous platters of BBQ ribs and sausages, potato salad, grilled vegetables, coleslaw, and garlic bread. Removing his gun belt and putting it on a custom maple stand at arm’s length behind him, Squire K sat at the head of the table, placing Cardoshia on his right and the Old Woman on his left, leaving Kandude and the silent, hawk-eyed Ruger to complete the table.
The food was superb. Squire K asked his guests about their backgrounds and plans, but most of his attention was devoted to Cardoshia, with whom he appeared quite smitten. The three guests provided polite but superficial backstories, leaving out their many recent travails, especially with regard to the Bulgarians. Eventually, the table was cleared, with a promise of apple pie a la mode to follow.
“Our thanks for such a lovely meal,” said the Old Woman in her melodious voice. “You do know how to make weary travelers feel welcome.” Squire K tipped his head and smiled warmly, just like a country squire. It seemed like an opening for more serious conversation.
“Your ranch seems quite heavily fortified,” ventured Kandude carefully. “Are you and your family in some sort of danger?”
Squire K looked Kandude in the eye and took a breath, steepling his hands on the table. “Are we in danger, you ask, young Kandude. We are in mortal danger indeed, as a family, as a ranch, as a race, as Christians, and as a nation. Our defenses here are necessary because we are in a state of siege, a state which we have already resisted far more successfully than most.”
“There are threats all around us. Immigrants, drug addicts, college professors, Black Lives Matter terrorists, abortionists, rapists, school librarians, homosexuals, and atheists, among others. I have personally seen that hospitals are kidnapping and killing children or turning them over to gay couples to be abused. I’ve learned since that schools are secretly providing children with “gender-affirming” surgeries. But these are just the symptoms of a grave constitutional disease. The real threat comes from that vast malignant entity that sends jackbooted thugs, the black helicopters, tailpipe emissions testers, and revenuers. That is, the federal government. He named this last with acid scorn.”
Squire K was becoming more animated, his steepled fingers now converted to finger guns. “But we have taken a stand. And we are many. We are the sovereign owners of the land and all of its fruits. We have the sole God-given authority over the laws, the values, and the standards of this White Christian nation.”
“We will no longer submit to the tyrant. We will pay taxes no longer. We will pay no grazing fees nor get EINs. We will not apply for drivers’ licenses which are the modern concentration camp tattoos portrayed in stories of a Holocaust that never happened. As William Potter Gale is our witness, we will no longer pull over for state troopers nor submit to false subpoenas or court orders that are inherently null and void. The storm is here.”
Squire K stood, turned, took his gun belt and .45 ACPs from the maple stand and placed them firmly on a side table. He removed the ACPs from their holsters, released the magazines, locked the slides back, and checked the chambers. Moving over to the dining table he carefully put them, safely pointed down the centerline, on his cowhide placemat. He laid his hands on them like a priest handling the chalice and paten during the Eucharist. “And these,” he said, “are the sacred instruments of restoration.”
The Squire took a breath. “The right to keep and bear arms is the bedrock of our constitution. No guns – no free speech. No guns – no property rights. No guns – no protection from false authority. No guns – no safety for our wives and our children. No guns – no America.”
His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper. “These are not just finely tooled implements of exquisite precision and power. They are strength; they are freedom; they are the anti-venoms of tyranny. They are the hallowed implements of White Christian manhood. A male child’s first gift should be a freedom rifle, which they needs must learn to use from the cradle.”
Flecks of saliva had formed on the Squire’s lips. “Free men have arms; slaves do not.” He raised his ACPs toward the ceiling. “These,” he pronounced, “are the Guns of God.”
After a reverent pause, the Squire turned to the side table and adroitly reloaded and replaced his guns in the holsters, then carefully returned the gun belt to the custom maple stand. He sat down, breathing a bit heavily. The three guests, relieved to see the ACPs put by, held their breath.
“Now let’s have some apple pie!” said the Squire. And so they did.
At postprandial coffee, the Squire turned again to his guests. “My new friends, you too can be part of our righteous movement. You”, he said to the Old Woman, “are clearly a woman of culture who could be an elder guide to our modest young women. “You,” he said to Kandude, “except for your preppie duds, seem like a likely foot soldier in the White Christian army.” Kandude stifled an alarmed gulp at this now familiar invitation. “And lovely Cardoshia, you could be the revered Queen of a Freemen ranch, and the honored mother of many White Christian sons.”
When the dishes were cleared, Squire K said, “Honored guests, I wish to show you something. Please join me on a tour.”
He led them outside into the deepening dusk and to the mammoth pole barn. Armed guards slid the giant doors apart and they walked into a cavernous, brightly lit space. Flags and patriotic banners adorned the walls. A huge banner of the familiar flying superhero with the strange feathery orange headdress hung from trusses overhead.
The smell of solvent and gun oil filled the air. Large numbers of crates with military markings were stacked high around the great space, along with what appeared to be vast quantities of survival supplies. There were two Jeeps outfitted with .50 caliber machine guns. A small canon that Kandude thought might be called a howitzer was emblazoned with the words “right to keep and bear arms.’ A big crate just inside the door, perhaps from today’s delivery, had ‘FGM-148’ stenciled on it. Armorers’ tables lined much of the perimeter, covered with guns, belt ammo loaders, tools and laptops. Men were working diligently at some of the tables. A command center with numerous computer screens and CCTV monitors was situated in the middle of the room.
“Welcome,” said Squire K, “to the People’s Rights Armory. Our day is coming soon, and readiness is all. There is a Freemen Army 30,000 strong standing back and standing by. A single code word on Telegram will quicken the Day of Retribution. And 30,000 will become 300,000. 300,000 will become 3 million”.
“You may recall that our President for Life has said there will be a bloodbath if another election is stolen by Antifa and the pestilential legion of lefties. Make no mistake. Our President for Life TvP” – here the Squire raised his eyes to the superhero banner – “wasn’t just predicting it; he was commanding it. And he so loves us that he is willing to give his life for us. And we for him.”
Kandude felt numb at this martial spectacle. Unable to stop himself, he asked, “But Squire, does this mean you will be shooting officers of the law, elected officials and our fellow citizens?” Squire K wheeled on Kandude, nostrils flaring. “You mean fighting the minions and dupes of the tyrant for our very lives and freedom? Let me say this, naïve young Kandude: some folks need killing! It’s a matter of necessity.” He glared at Kandude, but before he could say anything more, one of the heavily armed men looked up from a monitor and said “Squire, there is a large BMW SUV approaching the compound. Two klicks out and moving fast.”
Cardoshia and the Old Woman looked at each other. “The Bulgarians,” said Cardoshia fearfully. Squire K looked at the two ladies quizzically. Without turning back to look at Kandude, he said, “Young Kandude, you go back to the house and start reading something from my library. We need to sort things out here.” He turned to study the CCTV monitors at the command center.
Kandude turned reluctantly to walk out of the barn. Bemused and alarmed, Cardoshia squeezed his arm and put a small card-like object into his hand, which he stealthily stuck in his pocket.
The Old Woman spoke sotto voce to Cardoshia with all the prudence that age and experience gave. “Young Kandude is in trouble with the Squire, I fear. In the meantime, you must survive the Bulgarians, who will never stop. Squire K is clearly intoxicated with you. Now is the time to employ your womanly wiles in a pragmatic choice, a choice of the kind a woman makes that exercises power, but makes the man believe he rules. Squire K can protect you from the Bulgarians, and thus you may be able to protect Kandude from him. Imply everything but give nothing.”
In the meantime, Kandude climbed the front porch and went into the house. There, Maria beckoned to him urgently from the shadows. “Señor Kandude, you do not recognize me, but you saved my child in the desert not long ago.”
“What are you doing here, Miss Maria?” asked Kandude in great surprise. “And it’s just Kandude.”
“There is no time for my story, good Kandude. But Señor Ruger has come into the house through the side door and is looking for you. This is a very bad thing. You must make a run for it!”
She pulled him along through the kitchen to a back door, pointing out a Dodge Ram pickup. “The keys are in it,” she said, “and there is a back road out between that stand of trees. She pointed and gave him a little push. “¡Vaya con Dios!”
At that moment, there was a furious eruption of gunfire out near the front gate. Kandude ran to the pickup, fired it up, and sped out into the dark on a winding dirt road.
Minutes earlier, the BMW X7 had pulled up to within 50 feet of the front gate of Freemen Ranch, high beams illuminating the patriotic portal. After a couple of silent minutes, six men wearing black track suits stepped out of the SUV, carrying H&K MP5 machine pistols.
“You in farm,” shouted one of the men in a thick eastern European accent. “We come for our property, the highly profitable online sex-goddess Ms. Cardoshia. Send her out to us and no one get hurt.”
Squire K stepped out from the barn to look at the Bulgarians. He smiled thinly and gave a brief nod to a lieutenant. Floodlights lit up the foreign gangsters, and a massive fusillade from dozens of weapons instantly annihilated the Bulgarians and their SUV.
Squire K stepped out from the barn to look at the Bulgarians. He smiled thinly and gave a brief nod to a lieutenant. Floodlights lit up the foreign gangsters, and a massive fusillade from dozens of weapons instantly annihilated the Bulgarians and their SUV.
Squire K nodded in satisfaction. “Better get the D9,” he said to one of the Freemen.
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