For those that haven't read it, it's definitely worth the time.
So, presented here as I found it, with all attributions, is "Sundown at Coffin Rock"
MOLON LABE!
- This article was originally posted to the Internet by "Annonymous"This story originally appeared in "The Blue Press" (a catalog/magazine putout by Dillon Precision Products, Inc., 7442 Butherus Drive, Scottsdale,AZ 85260, phone 602-948-8009.) The editor, Mark Pixler, was kindenough to allow distribution on the Internet.
This story may be reprinted as long as due credit is given to the authorand publisher.
Sundown at Coffin Rock
by Raymond K. Paden
The old man walked slowly through the dry, fallen leaves of autumn, hispracticed eye automatically choosing the bare and stony places in thetrail for his feet. There was scarcely a sound as he passed, though hisleft knee was stiff with scar tissue. He grunted occasionally as the tightsinews pulled. Damn chainsaw, he thought.Behind him, the boy shuffled along, trying to imitate his grandfather, butunable to mimic the silent motion that the old man had learned duringcountless winter days upon this wooded mountain in pursuit of game. He'sfifteen years old, the old man thought. Plenty old enough to be learning.But that was another time, another America. His mind drifted, and he sawhimself, a fifteen-year-old boy following in the footsteps of his owngrandfather, clutching a twelve gauge in his trembling hands as theytracked a wounded whitetail.
The leg was hurting worse now, and he slowed his pace a bit. Plenty oftime. It should have been my own son here with me now, the old man thoughtsadly. But Jason had no interest, no understanding. He cared for nothingbut pounding on the keys of that damned computer terminal. He knew nothingabout the woods, or where food came from...or freedom. And that's myfault, 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. Itwas a scraggly buck, underfed and sickly, but the boy's eyes lit up withexcitement. It had been many years since they had seen even a singlewhitetail here on the mountain. After the hunting had stopped, thepopulation had exploded. The deer had eaten the mountain almost bare untilerosion had become a serious problem in some places. That followingwinter, three starving does had wandered into the old man's yard, tryingto eat the bark off of his pecan trees, and he had wished the "animalrights" fanatics could have been there then. It was against the law, butold man knew a higher law, and he took an axe into the yard and killed thestarving beasts. They did not have the strength to run.
The buck finally turned and loped away, and they continued down the trailto the river. When they came to the "Big Oak," the old man turned andpushed through the heavy brush beside the trail and the boy followed,wordlessly. The old man knew that Thomas was curious about their leavingthe trail, but the boy had learned to move silently (well, almost) andthat meant no talking. When they came to "Coffin Rock," the old man satdown 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 theoutdoors, 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 lotof it isn't going to make any sense to you, but it's important and one dayyou'll understand it well enough. The old man paused. Now that he washere, 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 couldown guns. A man could speak out, anywhere, without worrying about whetherhe'd get back home or not. School was different, too. A man could send hiskids 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 tobrainwash you like they do at yours now." The old man paused, and wassilent for many minutes. The boy was still, watching a chipmunk scavengingbeside a fallen tree below them.
"Things don't ever happen all at once, boy. They just sort of sneak up onyou. Sure, we knew guns were important; we just didn't think it would everhappen in America. But we had to do something about crime, they said. Itwas a crisis. Everything was a crisis! It was a drug crisis, or aterrorism 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 oldman turned to look at his grandson.
"They ever let you read a thing called the Constitution down there at yourschool?" The boy solemnly shook his head. "Well, the Fourth Amendment'sstill in there. It says there won't be any unreasonable searches andseizures. 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 theguns out of the hands of criminals! But that didn't work, of course, andthen later when they wanted to take 'em they knew where to look. Theybanned 'assault rifles', and then 'sniper rifles', and 'Saturday nightspecials.' 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 kidsthat nobody needed guns anymore. We tried to take a stand, but we feltlike 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 andbuilt a secret place up here on the mountain. A place where we could putour guns until we needed them. We figured some day Americans wouldremember what it was like to be free, and what kind of price we had to payfor 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 andstand up to the government. Said that the colonists had fought for theirfreedom 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 'TaxRevolt of 1998,' but son, it wasn't the revolt that caused the repeal ofthe Second Amendment like your history book says. The Second Amendment wasalready gone long before they ever repealed it. The rest of us thought wewere 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 likehungry 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 keepthe government itself under control. In our country, the people weresupposed to be the final authority of the law, but that was a long timeago. Once the guns were gone, there was no reason for those who run thegovernment to give a damn about laws and constitutional rights and such.They just did what they pleased and anyone who spoke out...well, I'mgetting ahead of myself."
"It took a long time to collect up all the millions of firearms that werein private hands. The government created a whole new agency to see to it.There were rewards for turning your friends in, too. Drug dealers andmurderers were set free after two or three years in prison, but possessionof 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 hunterall those years, or maybe somebody turned me in. They picked me up onsuspicion and took me down to the federal building."
"Son, those guys did everything they could think of to me. Kept me lockedup 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'tknow 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 getthe guns.' What's so funny is, I know they thought they were doing theright thing. They were fighting crime!"
"When I got home I found Ruth sitting in the middle of the living roomfloor, crying her eyes out. The house was a shambles. While I was downthere, they'd come out and took our house apart. Didn't need a searchwarrant, they said. National emergency! Gun crisis! Your grandma tried tocall our preacher and they ripped the phone off the wall. Told her thatthey'd go easy on me if she just told them where I kept my guns." The oldman laughed. "She told them to go to hell." He stared into the distancefor a moment as his laughter faded.
"They wouldn't tell her about me, where I was or anything, that wholetime. 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 muchfor them to do anymore, now that all the guns are gone. Plenty of time towatch one foolish old man." He paused. Beside him, the boy stared at thestone beneath his feet.
"Anyway, I figure that, one day, America will come to her senses. Our menwill need those guns and they'll be ready. We cleaned them and sealed themup 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 feetdown the hill and you'll find a big round rock. It looks like it's buriedsolid, but one man with a good prybar can lift it, and there's a concretetunnel right under there that goes back into the hill."
The old man stood, watching as the sun eased toward the ridge, coloringthe sky and the world red. Below them, the river still splashed among thestones, as it had for a million years. It's still going, the old manthought. There'll be someone left to carry on for me when I'm gone. It washarder to walk back. He felt old and purposeless now, and it would beeasier, he knew, to give in to that aching heaviness in his left lung thathad begun to trouble him more and more. Damn cigarettes, he thought. Hisleg hurt, and the boy silently came up beside him and supported him asthey started down the last mile toward the house. How quiet he walks, theold man thought. He's learned well.
It was almost dark when the boy walked in. His father looked up from hispaper. "Did you and your granddad have a nice walk?"
"Yes," the boy answered, opening the refrigerator. "You can call AgentGoodwin tomorrow. Gramps finally showed me where it is."
Editor's note: "Sundown at Coffin Rock" is a work of fiction. Anysimilarity to actual events or to actual people, living or dead, remainsto be seen. - Mark Pixler, Editor
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- Scott Ostrander: scotto@cica.indiana.edu
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