Emmetsburg: Seventy-one

The faces reflected a darkening sky, growing dark as night. There were 500 in all, town folk and farmers in an equal mix. There were men and women and boys. They blocked the approaches and stood across the golden dirt road, and down in the ditches in ranks 10 deep. Their hands were filled with pipes, sticks, vegetables rocks and rotten eggs. And there were those with guns, but for now they kept them out of sight.

The first rain began to fall as two ash-gray government sedans, a dozen State police cruisers and three olive green army transports appeared in the distance. A theater director could hardly have been more pleased. The vehicles pulled off the road fifty or so yards from the crowd. A Sergeant jumped from the truck and waved at the anxious looking recruits in the back.

“Come on boys!” he shouted. The men climbed down with truncheons and Enfield rifles, bayonets already affixed. Almost fifty men in all, the soldiers quickly formed neat ranks and came smartly to attention. The ranks spanning the road six deep. Behind them the State Police gathered up, looking more like a street gang bent on revenge with a rival gang. A fair number still bore the scars and wounds from the fight at Stan Pickett’s farm. The rest took it just as personal.

Off from the crowd, sort of hidden behind a tractor Avery huddled together with Stan Pickett, Ernie Vogel and Myron Himmel. It wasn’t about liberty or the Constitution or any lofty ideals. Avery could feel the circle of the law and government closing in around him and his sick cows. Moreover he found he couldn’t sell the cows off without a certificate of inspection from the government. It trapped him. In that trap was Avery’s family and future and he was damned if he’d let it go without so much as a fight.

From the pocket of his jacket Avery took a Colt pistol. It was wrapped in rag. He peeled open the rag, cradling the weapon in one hand.

“Jesus, Avery!” Ernie gasped, looking wildly around. Stan Pickett took a deep breath, his jaw tightening. Myron was silent, his gazed fixed on the revolver. It sent a shiver down his spine. He looked quizzically up at Avery

“You handled yourself pretty good with that shotgun the other day,” said Avery.

“I don’t know, Mister Lysander. That was the Sherriff. These fellas are soldiers.”

“They’re gonna come in here, to our town and our homes with guns and the long arm of the federal government. “We’re gonna let them know we mean business. You,” Avery said with emphasis, “are gonna let them know.”

Avery looked at each man. He could count fully on Stan Pickett. The inspections had devastated him, bad enough that Stan was of a mind to up and abandon the farm and leave to the bank, worthless as it was to him now. Stan was less filled with hate than betrayal and a sense that a great injustice had been done him and his family. That sense of individual injustice demanded revenge in damn near every thought Stan had since that day. He’d been along with Avery and Myron and Ernie when they’d set fire to C.W.s house. When revenge was the measure no amount of pain exacted was ever enough.

Ernie Vogel remained the biggest question for Avery and the others to consi8der. He’d just seem to sort of get swept along in all this, as if he was a leaf stuck to a boot. He was sort of there, but not entirely. Moreover, he wasn’t as easily swayed, but was more easily pressured. Given all that, Avery wasn’t about to make enemies or burn any bridges. Ernie was the sort one kept very close at times like this.

“All you have to do is fire one bullet over their heads,” said Avery, holding the pistol out to Myron. The Boy didn’t take it at first, but looked to the others for some clue for what to do next. “One shot, boy. That’ll show them we mean to take this farther than they are willing to go.”

“And if these boys shoot back, Avery?” Ernie interjected.

Avery shot him a cold stare. Stan pursed his lips and shook his head. He didn’t much like Ernie, and trusted him even less. Avery shoved the gun at Myron until the boy took it, cradling the weapon awkwardly.

“Got newspaper people here,” Avery said. “They’d be fools to fire on American citizens, and they sure as hell won’t shoot a boy.”

“Seem pretty confident, Mister Lysander.” Myron studied the gun in his arms.

“Damned Boston Massacre,” Ernie grumbled.

“If you ain’t got the stomach for this Vogel.”

“I had the stomach when we put the torch to C.W.s place.”

“You stood and watched!”

Enough bickering!” Avery exclaimed. “We’re all in this up to our eyeballs. And if one hangs we all hang. Bear that in mind boys.”