The Firearms Law

Howard, Douglas, and Mike a small group from the central section of the Sierras

As the Fog ebbed, safe paths through the Sierras appeared, and people began to make their way from the northern mountains down into our area.  Incidents began to occur, so it was not long before we were forced to make a new law; people we did not know were not allowed to enter East Post with firearms.  It wasn’t long after promulgating that law when we confronted a small group from the north.  There were five in all; three men, a woman, and a child.  One of the men, the woman, and the child comprised a small family.  None were happy to hear about our law.  I was with Mike and Douglas on the day we met this group.

“I’m not giving up my guns,” said the tallest man who gave his name as Charles.

“No chance of that,” the family man, Nick, added, and the other man, Tyson, nodded his agreement.

“That’s the law,” I replied firmly. “If you want to enter our village, you give up your guns, first.”

“This is still the United States of America,” said the woman, Claire.  Using her palm, she kept her pre-teen son, George, behind her.

Douglas spoke to Mike.  “Chief, you did say we are still Americans.”

He knew he was irritating me, and that was so typical of him.  It was true that we accepted our roles as citizens of the United States, but the government in Denver had not yet finished writing a new Constitution.

“Yes, but Howard’s right.  We can’t get our country back if we’re not safe.” To the new group he added, “We don’t know you.  We don’t know what kind of people you are.  It’s reasonable to ask you to give up your guns until we do.”

“And if we don’t?”  This was from Charles.

“Then turn around and go back the way you came,” I said. “The rule is simple.  You give up your guns.  After a couple of weeks, our town council will meet.  If you’ve shown yourselves to be decent people, you’ll get your guns back.  If we decide you’re not decent people, you’ll be escorted to our borders, and then you’ll get your guns back.”

Tyson spoke to Mike.  “He,” meaning Douglas, “called you ‘Chief’.  Are you, Mike, the Chief of Petersburg?”

“That’s me, but I’m not the Chief anymore.  They have a mayor, now.  I’m just Mike.”

“And you give us your word that we’ll get our guns back when we leave?”

“I give you my word.”

Tyson glanced at the others and said, “That’s good enough for me.”  He handed his rifle to Mike.  “I’ve got a Glock in my pack.”

He opened his pack, pulled out the handgun, and gave it to Mike, too.

“Thank you, sir,” Mike said, as polite as ever.

“No problem.  You’ve got a heck of a reputation, mister.”

I think Mike was about seventeen years old at that time and still capable of a deep blush, which he showed.

“Damn socialists,” the tall man muttered.  There was that word again.  I made a mental note to set the professor down and have him explain, exactly, the meaning of the word.

While this was happening, the family man and his wife had been talking in low tones, and now he turned toward us.

“I’ve got a wife and kid to protect.  I can’t give up my weapons.”

I glanced at Mike, and he answered me with an unhappy glance of his own.  We understood Nick’s sentiment, but we had experienced too many dangerous situations.  We would not give in to those sentiments.  Douglas cleared his throat, and I knew he was about to irritate me again.

“How about a compromise?”

“What kind of compromise?” Mike asked.

“Guns are like gold these days.  What if he gave up his bullets but kept his guns?”

Nick shook his head.  “I’ve got to keep my bullets.  Without them my guns are useless.”

“Nick, that’s a reasonable compromise,” Claire interjected in a sharp tone.

“Let me keep one bullet and my handgun,” Nick said.

Damn you, Douglas.  He had put me in a quandary, because his suggestion did have merit.  A man with only one bullet can’t do a lot against a group, but if I agreed, I would be modifying the rule.

“One bullet and you can keep one rifle,” I replied, “but you give up any handguns you have, and we search your baggage.”

The man hesitated until his wife said, “Nick,” in that way wives, including mine, do.  Then he handed me his rifle.

“Wife’s got a Kel-Tec.”

“Hell with both of you,” Charles said angrily, his face reddening.  “I don’t care if you two are giving in to these crazy gun control b******s, I’m not.  I’m not giving up my guns, and I’m going wherever I want to go, including into your town.  This is still America, and the only way you people are getting my rifle is when you take it from my cold dead�'”

Abruptly he stopped speaking and his face paled as stared into the barrel of a revolver, inches from his eyes, hammer already cocked.  Douglas had drawn as fast as a cougar pounces.  My friend’s voice, when he spoke, was as icy as the snow, high on the peaks above us.

“No problem.”

Alarmed, I glanced at Mike and saw that his expression was as cold as our friend’s voice, and I was suddenly reminded that when Mike was thirteen years old he hanged a man for rape and murder.  Douglas made the noose, and I helped kicked the barrel away from the man’s feet.