The second day at the Barter Faire went much like the first. Constant watch was kept on the trucks. There were numerous requests of the members to consider trading their guns. A few of the militia members stayed for the barn dance. Della and Rose had so many men ask them to dance that they were exhausted by the time they bedded down near the trucks. The gathering, including the dance, was peaceful. Those who stayed for the dance got a ride home the next day when the third increment from the retreat arrived. In all, the Faire was a big success.
On the third day of the event, Todd ran into Roger Dunlap. They greeted each other warmly. Sitting near Roger’s horse, the two discussed their hopes and fears about the future. They both commented that the Faire was encouraging evidence that civilization was returning to the region. Roger said that it was planned to be an annual event. Todd then said, “Hopefully, it won’t be an annual event for very long. I’m sure that some enterprising individual is going to get up the gumption and a good-sized security force to set up a permanent trading post around here sometime soon. People are just aching for some sort of commerce. The number of folks who showed up here the last few days, and the distance that some of them traveled, shows that plainly enough.”
Dunlap said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Next there’ll be a cobbler, and a blacksmith, and a barber, and so on. It’s inevitable.”
Todd chuckled and said, “There’s one specialty that’s bound to come soon after….”
“What’s that?” Dunlap asked.
“A tax collector.” Both men laughed.
Two days after the Faire ended, Thebault and two of his sons arrived on horseback with Mike’s horse and tack in tow. They spent twenty minutes giving Mike and several other group members a lesson on hoof trimming.
Thebault ended the lesson by saying, “If you have any problems with thrush, you can use Clorox, full strength. It doesn’t work as good as Copper-Tox, so you’ll have to use more of it, and dose it more often.” Mike invited them to stay for lunch. The lunch consisted of venison stew, fresh baked bread, and spinach greens.
Several group members made it clear to Thebault that they too were interested in buying horses, and asked him to keep them in mind the next time he had a weaned foal available. Thebault seemed most interested in Dan Fong’s mention that he might be persuaded to trade one of the guns from his collection for a good horse. In particular, Thebault said that he was looking for “a good quality pistol for shooting varmints.”
Dan then described his T-C Contender single-shot pistol chambered in .223 Remington. He said, “I have plenty of ammunition for it, it’s a very common caliber, and it would be a great gun for hunting varmints or animals up to the size of coyotes.”
“No, no,” Thebault said with a laugh, “What I’m looking for is a gun for shooting the other variety of varmints, the two-legged kind.”
Dan laughed and then began to describe his Browning Hi-Power pistol with the tangent rear sight and detachable stock. Thebault asked if he could see the gun after lunch. Dan got his horse in less than a week, a four-year-old mare with saddle and tack. In exchange, Dan traded the pistol, its combination stock/holster, a cleaning kit, four spare magazines, a double magazine pouch, and seven boxes of 9 mm hollow-point ammunition.
CHAPTER 17
The Parting
On a warm June morning three weeks after the Barter Faire, a man on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle mounted with racks for two five-gallon gas cans pulled up to the gate at the county road. He got off of his motorcycle and stood waiting patiently. After being alerted by Lon, who was standing LP/OP duty, Todd, Mike, and Lisa walked at twenty-foot intervals down to the front gate to see what was going on. The stranger had short-cropped hair and was wearing an old olive drab army field jacket. He was carrying two Smith and Wesson 9 mm automatics, one in a shoulder holster and the other in a hip holster. He also carried a folding-stock Valmet Model 76 rifle in a leather scabbard mounted on the right-hand side of the motorcycle’s frame.
From a distance of thirty feet, the man half-shouted, “Hello! Are you Mister Gray?”
“Yes, I am,” Todd replied. “And who are you, sir?”
The stranger announced, “My name’s Manny Olivera. I’m from Caldwell. I was given this letter by a guy who rode in to Caldwell on horseback from Idaho Falls. He got it in turn from a guy who drove in from northern Utah. When the fellow from Idaho Falls found out that I was headed north to Coeur D’Alene to join up with my cousin and his family, he asked me to drop this letter off to you.” Gray approached the man warily as he held out the envelope.
Todd scanned what he had been handed. He let out a loud whoop, and exclaimed, “Mr. Olivera, you’ve just made me the happiest man in the world. Come up to the house for some lunch.”
Without the caution normally shown to strangers, Manny Olivera’s motorcycle was wheeled in the gate. “Aren’t you going to ride up?” Lisa asked.
“No ma’am. Gas is precious stuff. I’d rather walk up. Will my bike be all right here?”
Lisa replied, “Sure it will. We’ve got security you haven’t even seen yet. Those hills have eyes.”
When the four reached the house, Todd called for everyone available to come to the living room. Todd held up the soiled envelope. “I’ve got a letter here that you’ll all be interested in. Its return address reads, ‘The Laytons. Care of Prines’ Farm. 1585 County Road 20. Morgan City, Utah.’” A loud cheer went up and lasted for nearly half a minute. For the assembled group, Todd read the letter aloud. For the benefit of Lon Porter, who was up at the LP/OP, Todd wore his TRC-500 set to the VOX position. He began, “The letter is dated the twentieth of June of this year, pretty speedy, considering it came via pony express. Anyway, it reads:
Dear Todd, Mary, and Whoever Else Arrived;
Terry and I are writing to let you know that we are safe and living temporarily at a farm three miles north of Morgan City, Utah. (25 miles northeast of Salt Lake City, see enclosed strip map.) We walked most of the way here from Chicago. We had planned to stay here only a week to rest up and then press on to the retreat, but Terry took a bad spill off of a ladder, breaking her kneecap. That was nearly two months ago. I’m afraid that the break is not healing properly. I don’t believe that there is any way that we will be able to continue on, at least not on foot.
We hope that all is well with you. This is the third letter that we couriered up your way. If you got either of the previous ones, I apologize for the redundancy.
However, we figured that sending multiple letters by different couriers would be the best bet in getting our message through to you.
We are staying in a spare bedroom at the Prines’ farm. They are wonderful people. Like most of their neighbors, they are Mormons, and thus were relatively well prepared for the collapse. To earn our keep I am being employed as a night security guard on the farm. I also help out with the heavy work during the day (mending fences, splitting wood, etc.). Terry is still confined to bed most of the time.