Rather than complete the letter, one of my big distractions is the rough start of this project. I’m not sure if you’d be interested in reading it or not. Unable to come up with anything catchy to name it, for now, it’s called “Drifting Smoke, the Journey Home”. But I do have plans for slipping another letter in somewhere.
So, sorry I don’t have a letter for you and I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years!
Bret
Drifting Smoke, the Journey Home
Bret W. Friend
Copyright 2017
Chapter 1
Chad Smoke’s right hand dropped from the drawknife to his holstered 9mm Browning the moment the dogs barked the alarm. He sucked in a breath as his heart rate increased and he felt the tightness in his chest that always came on when he faced potential danger. Automatically, he released the flap and eased the pistol partway out, making sure it moved freely. The action came nearly as natural as breathing. He’d perfected it over the five years since he’d left home. More times than he liked to remember he’d drawn the pistol all the way to defend his family. He longed for the day he didn’t need to be so vigilant.
Watching the area for trouble, he checked the position of his rifle with his peripheral vision. Dang, I wish I was home and that was Perro-Feo and Lindy barking at Nick, he thought wistfully. Perro-Feo and Lindy were the family dogs back home in Idaho, and Nick was his best friend who often rode his horse to their remote home. But he wasn’t back home and the dogs tone told him they didn’t know who was approaching. The dogs were concentrating on the old blacktop road leading into the settlement from the north. Still watching where the dogs were focused, he side-stepped to his rifle, picked it up, and crouched behind the pile of logs near his work area.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid, he thought. The settlement was the most peaceful and secure place he and Carol had been since they’d left home, and there hadn’t been any raids in their time there. But he couldn’t help himself. Vigilance was ingrained in him after too many close calls during his and Carol’s travels. And prior to that, his brother Mat had beat it into his head, relax at the wrong time and you’re dead.
With his rifle held firmly, he looked all around. More than once he’d seen a decoy approach a village by the main path, only to have raiders flanking the position. If someone was doing it now in the area he was working, he’d have a rude reception waiting for them. He was at the east side of the settlement, the former Boy Scout Philmont Training Center. The plains stretched out ahead of him to the east and the snow covered mountains were at his back. Looking out across the pasture flanking the compound, he didn’t make out any movement other than cattle and sheep grazing. An Anatolian Shepherd guard dog stood alert near the flock, watching and sniffing the air. Chad was certain if a threat approached on that side the dog would let him know. Some distance ahead of the flock, a covey of quail moved nonchalantly through the short grass and brush.
Relaxing slightly, he picked up the nearby water skin. Drinking deep, he grimaced as he often did. Though refreshing, the water had an off taste, not like the pure water of home. It was a constant reminder of what he’d left behind and what he longed to return to; what he would return to starting in a number of days. It would be a long journey and it terrified him; the idea of taking his wife Carol, two year old son John, and their infant daughter Faith into who knew what kind of dangers. But he had to do it. He had to get them back home, where they’d be safe. Unconsciously, he rubbed the spot on his chest where he’d been shot. It’d been close, too close. If the bullet had been just to the right, he’d have been killed that day and Carol and John would’ve been stranded on the snow and wind-swept plains. And Faith never would have been born.
Thinking of Faith gave him a twinge of regret they weren’t already home. They’d been traveling in a wide arc heading for home, and unbeknownst to him, Carol was pregnant with twins. It was hard going, the road was always hard, and only Faith survived. Chad blamed himself for the loss, knowing in his heart the rigors of traveling had weakened Carol and the babies too much. They’d lost one baby and he vowed not to let anything happen to the rest of his family. He had to get them home, he HAD TO!
It’d been a long five years since they’d left home. Though he’d seen a lot and cherished every moment with Carol, he was sick tired of being a nomad. He wanted to be home, to have the stability it offered and the support of his family. Nothing terrified him more than the possibility of dying and leaving Carol and the kids stranded and alone on the wrong side of the Rockies.
Chad was a young man in the old-world ideals, just twenty three. But in the new-world, the world after That Day, the day the United States and Russia had virtually destroyed each other in a quick nuclear exchange, he was old and seasoned. He’d been young enough when it all happened, he’d adapted easily to the primitive conditions, much easier than people who’d had decades of reliance on modern conveniences. His younger sisters Alison and Brooke had adapted even easier than he had. They were young enough they quickly forgot the old world.
His time following the nuclear exchange, the day to day survival, finding his half-brother Mat, his dad getting shot, then dealing with Rory and Frank Young and Carol’s duplicitous mother had been harsh, and he thought it made him well prepared for what they’d face on the road. But he was very wrong; he and Carol were ill-prepared. His imagination hadn’t come close to the horrors they’d seen and experienced. Life was cheap on the east side of the Rockies and the five years of roaming had left their mark on him.
It wasn’t all bad however. He’d also met good people everywhere they went, and he and Carol had been blessed with two wonderful children. But he wanted to go home and raise those children in a safer environment filled with love; in a home with their grandparents, Aunt Heather, Uncle Mat, and their cousin Hope. He just had to get them there.
The dogs drew his attention back towards the settlement gates, and he looked further out where a lone man was visible, trudging up the road. He came in and out of view as he passed behind the tall cottonwood trees flanking the roadway. It was hard to tell due to the distance, but he appeared nondescript, dressed in clothing that blended in with the countryside and carrying a pack and rifle as all prudent travelers did. Chad watched for a while longer as the dogs settled down on orders from men closer to them, and checked the dog guarding the flock again. The dog was still alert, he always was, but didn’t indicate any danger. Chad lowered his rifle, grimaced after another pull on the water skin, and picked up the drawknife to get back to work on the pine log. The work was welcome. The temperature wasn’t much above freezing and he’d cooled considerably while sitting inactive.
He shivered, and worked fast to warm back up, but remained vigilant. It could be a delayed attack; he’d experienced those as well. Aunt Heather’s words from so long ago came back to him. “Make sure it’s not a Trojan horse.” Sending one or two people in to draw defenders’ attention away seemed to be a favored tactic for many of the plains marauders. It was yet another aspect of his travels he wanted to be done with, one of many. He’d witnessed way too much since he and Carol had left home and he was sick of it all.
Even with his attention split, Chad pulled the drawknife with ease, shaving off long pieces of bark. He was average height, about 5’ 10” tall, and lean, with toned muscles from years of hard work. He paused in his work and brushed his shaggy brown hair off his forehead, checked the guard dog, then directed his attention to the stranger. Men from the settlement approached him and must’ve decided he didn’t pose a threat, as they were escorting him up the road towards The Villa, the settlement’s headquarters.
Chad would look the man up later, as he did with all newcomers to the settlement. He mined all new arrivals for information of where they’d come from and what conditions were like, especially in the direction he planned to travel. He’d amassed copious notes and always wanted the latest information. But talking to the man would have to wait; he had work to do, so he dismissed the traveler from his mind.
Since arriving at the settlement, he and Carol both worked hard to earn their keep. Carol worked in the communal kitchen, while Chad worked primarily with the pine building logs, but also pulled guard duty and worked with the livestock. With the surging population, there was always a shortage of building materials, and Chad had an adept hand at peeling logs. Although a sawmill had been established on the Cimarron River a few miles to the north, a fair amount of construction was still done with peeled pine logs. The logs were fifteen feet long and eight inches in diameter at the butt end, tapering down from there. Chad liked the work and it kept him busy and close by if Carol needed him.
Chad finished peeling the log he’d been working on, and one end at a time, lifted it out of the wooden horses it was cradled in. It was heavy work, but utilizing leverage points on the wooden horses, he was able to handle the log alone. After getting it maneuvered onto the stack of peeled logs, he worked another from the pile of unpeeled logs onto the horses and stripped the bark from it. He moved that log to the peeled stack and was working on getting another in position when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. His heart leapt into his throat when he realized it was his wife rushing at him, her face distressed.
Drifting Smoke
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