Buckley Stubbins was an average looking man in his early thirties. He was currently rather dirty looking, having been in the garden all day with his two children and pregnant wife. In the candle light, his squinted eyes seemed nonexistent; his curly tangle of unruly brown hair hung loose and sweaty over his brow, partially obscuring his dark brown eyes. The dark green t-shirt clung damply to his chest and shoulders. His jeans and boots were muddy, but the pistol on his belt, and the holster, were clean.
The other five people present were Buckley’s wife, Sarah, a small woman who was now five months pregnant. She had sandy brown hair, hazel eyes with little green circles around the pupils. She was a slender woman, under normal circumstances. What she lacked in height, she made up for in heart; Buckley had never met someone who cared about people so much.
Also at the table were: Marty, Sarah’s father; Beth, Marty’s wife; Curt, Beth’s son; and Reginald, Sarah’s half-brother. Those five were in agreement with the two guests, neighbors from up the road. Bill and Hannah were father and daughter, having come because Rachel, Bill’s wife, had been kidnapped. The kidnappers had mistaken Rachel for Curt’s wife, and had demanded half the flock of chickens that Buckley owned, which numbered nearly forty.
Marty, Beth, Curt, and Reggie were for paying the ransom, as they were just that way about things. Sarah simply wanted Rachel back because Rachel was her best friend, and source of respite from everyone on the farm. Buckley wanted to help, but was reluctant to move hastily. He wanted more information than they could give him, and he felt that it was partly Rachel’s own fault for being taken. Buckley had tried several times to get all of the neighbors to understand that there were dangers out there. He warned against going places alone, especially near the old highway. For whatever reason, Rachel had traveled out to the highway alone, and was taken.
As the candles flickered lower, Hannah began to sob, feeling like her mother was lost; the other adults began talking over one another trying to convince Buckley that he needed to help, and to be in on the mission. In no time everybody was yelling, and Buckley had had enough. He slammed a meaty palm down on the table with a loud thud! that shook the table.
“Enough! I will think it over tonight, and if I want to do this, you will find out then. None of y’all has been here long, Bill your family has only been here a few years, Sarah has lived here with me for ten or so, and the rest of you didn’t come ‘til things got bad where you were. I’ve lived here all of my life, I know these woods, so let me think. I’ll let you know something tomorrow,” Buckley growled.
With that, the meeting ended. Sarah hugged Hannah tightly, trying her best to reassure the young girl that things would be okay. Marty, Reggie, and Curt went outside with Bill, shaking his hand and talking in undertones. Bill seemed worried still, which Buckley thought was a good thing. Buckley thought he heard someone say something about taking the chickens even if Buckley didn’t like it, as there were more of them than him.
A few minutes later, and everyone went to their separate sleeping quarters. Marty and Beth had a room in the house, while Curt and his family slept in the little guest house. Reggie, being single and able to sleep wherever, found that he liked sleeping in a hammock under the open sided tin carport during the summer months.
Marty and Beth came in and went straight to their room, both shooting looks at Buckley’s hunched over form. Sarah headed to her and Buckley’s room, but came out a few minutes later when Buckley still hadn’t come to bed. She found him staring into the old gun cabinet that held an assortment of rifles and shotguns that had been in the family for generations.
She stood watching him in silence, he reached in, pulling out an old Colt .45 revolver that his great uncle had carried in Vietnam when he was a helicopter pilot. He held it, turning it over in his hands, then put it back; next was the .357 magnum his grandfather carried in his days as a state trooper; finally was the oldest gun in the cabinet. It was old, the stock cracked and repaired with wire, the barrels brown with age were cut down. Two hammers rested on primer cup nipples that hadn’t had primers on them in nearly one hundred years.
“You know the story of this gun?” Buckley asked Sarah.
“Not really, it was your great-great-great grandmothers right?” Sarah replied.
“Yep. If the story is true, and I’ve found no indication that it isn’t, then this is the gun that killed one of the worst killers in this area’s history.” He said, memories too old to be anyones that he ever knew flashed in his eyes.
“It was the winter of ’87, 1887 that is. The only roads around here ran from Nac up to the sawmill on the river, and the one from Tyler to Jefferson. They were mostly used for transporting goods mind you, and the rail way had all but killed the need for the road to Jefferson. Anyway, this was still a pretty sparse area, logging and cotton farming were about the only things here, as the oil boom was still nearly fifty years away. A bad man named Curt Schriever and his cousins often attacked wagons, and had killed a few folks.
It was time for the family to head into town, which meant leaving on Friday, camping out overnight, and shopping on Saturday before coming home. Well, James, my great-great-great grandfather, was laid up sick, and Annie (pronounced AY-nee) Bell couldn’t leave him alone. So she sent her three children, Zechariah, Evelyn, and Zebedee to town with what money they would need.
They left sometime in the morning, so that they’d have time to set up camp outside of town. About six o’clock that night, Annie Bell hears a rider comin’ in hard, and being that it’s dark out, pulls down this double barreled shotgun,” Buckley said, nodding to the gun in his hands.
“She opens a small part of the door, and holler’s out ‘What cha want?’. She instantly recognizes Zechariah’s voice when he says that they took Evelyn and shot Zebedee. As he stumbles in, she can see that he’s been shot too.
‘Who was it boy?’ she asked.
‘That Schriever bunch. They wanted our money, and kept eyein’ Evey. Zeb and I tol’ ‘em no, and it turned into a shootin’ matter. They took the money and Evey, Ma. What are we gonna do?’
‘Since nobody else has any desire to straighten him out, I reckon that falls to me since your Pa is laid up,’ Annie Bell answered.
She sent Zechariah to the nearest neighbor to get help, while she went to get her daughter back. Don’t know a lot after that, other than what the surviving cousin said happened. According to him, when Annie Bell showed up at their little cabin, they had yet to do anything with Evelyn, as two of the cousins wanted nothing to do with the rape of a white girl, while Curt and another cousin wanted Evey.
Supposedly, Annie Bell rode into the yard, and demanded her daughter back from horse back. Curt thought she was bluffing, and not much of a threat. My understanding is that she wasn’t a terribly intimidating figure, until you could see her eyes. Morning was just breaking as Curt came outside to tell her to leave, and when he stepped out he saw death in her eyes and the shotgun in her hands.
He tried to duck inside, but caught a barrels worth of shot in the hip. Annie Bell slipped out of the saddle, and there were a series of shots in the cabin. She saw a hand and a Colt revolver poke out of the door, the pistol pointed at Curt’s head.
‘No, he’s mine,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ came a steady voice from inside.
Curt watched as Annie Bell reloaded that scattergun, before she finally cocked back the hammers, and fired a barrel into his crotch. Amidst the screams and howls, the voice inside asked if he could saddle a horse for Evey to ride home on, and get a mule to take the wagon back to Annie Bells farm. She allowed that he could, after he tossed his gun outside and showed his hands.
After Evey and the Schriever cousin headed down the road, Annie Bell came back to Curt who was begging to die, and she gut shot him.”
“Wow, that’s quite a story,” Sarah said, beginning to get an inkling of an idea where this train of thought was headed.
Buckley put the gun back in the cabinet, then turned and looked at his wife, a fire behind the dark brown eyes.
“I’m goin, coyote huntin’. Tell everybody if they touch my chickens, there’ll be hell to pay,” Buckley said.
Sarah nodded and turned towards bed, knowing that sleep would not come tonight. Buckley turned back to the cabinet, and pulled out two guns: a Savage Scout Rifle, and a CZ 75. The CZ went in a slightly dropped holster that put the butt of the gun at belt level. He also pulled out a small pack with some jerky, granola, nuts, and candy, a water bottle, treatment tablets, small wire cutters, binoculars, and he tossed in two walkie talkies.
He slipped out of the door, crept over to the chicken house, and using a small fixed blade, pinned a note to the door that read:
DO NOT TOUCH MY CHICKENS OR THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES!
He turned, and crept off into the night to begin a long search of places close by that might contain a group. Buckley guessed that there were likely several people involved. What was it his Paps used to say, “Coyotes run in packs for a reason. It ain’t fear or cowardice, it’s simply that they know they can get better results.”
**********
It was nearly dawn when he finally found them, shacked up in the last place on his list of strong possibilities. He found a good hiding spot, took his pack off, laid his rifle to hand, and started chewing on a chunk of jerky. As he chewed, he looked through the binoculars at the scene beneath him.
There were eight people visible to him, though he suspected more as he could not see Rachel. First he studied the area. It was an old barn, made out of oilfield pipes and tin sheets. Most of the barn was open sided, with a small area completely closed off. It was surrounded by a small overgrown clearing on three sides, with the back side against a thicket.
Most of the tin was rusted, with a good number of holes. In the center of the open air area was a circle of cinderblocks and rocks, blackened on the inside by fire. That had been there for many years, built by Buckley in his youth. This old barn had been a favorite summer time camping spot for him. Over the fire pit was a grill suspended by chains going up to a tripod made of pipes.
Finally, after several minutes of study and another chunk of jerky, Buckley settled down to watch the children, as that was all he could see. There were about four children under the age of ten, two boys and two girls, and four teenagers. The oldest seemed to be a girl that might have been sixteen or seventeen, then two boys about twelve and fifteen, then a girl about twelve, if Buckley had to guess ages.
The only guns he saw were a Marlin model 60 in the hands of the older boy, and two single shot shotguns, one near the younger boy, and one near the oldest girl, who was trying to calm down the youngest child while simultaneously cooking.
The younger girl went to the door of the little room, knocked and then spoke. A moment later she walked away from the door, and a man stepped out a few seconds later. Immediately, Buckley didn’t like the man. He looked greasy, maybe not physically, but something about his eyes, carriage and demeanor made Buckley mad.
Buckley was a hard man, not uncharitable, but hard none the less. He understood why the chickens were asked for; the children seemed to eat very little. The man looked like he was eating better. Buckley struggled for a solution. Part of him just wanted to shoot the man, and anyone who tried to stop him, rescue Rachel, and leave. However, his thoughts turned to his pregnant wife and unborn child, and he knew that wasn’t an option.
As he watched, the oldest girl poured what looked like water into a bowl for the man. He took a sip, then spit it out onto the ground. One of the young ones came up to him, said something, and received a kick, followed by a flying bowl of hot liquid.
Just then, three slow shots rang out through the air. The man said something to the boys, and the three of them left. Buckley waited a few minutes, watching as the rest of the children got little more than a spoonful of liquid. Finally he had had enough. He put the food back in his pack, followed by the binoculars. He picked up his rifle, and slipped down towards the children.
Once he was close enough, he turned on a walkie talkie and gently tossed it into the dirt floor of the barn.
“Hey, I don’t know you’re names, but I want to help you,” Buckley said gently.
The oldest girl slowly walked over, and picked up the little radio.
“I don’t know who you are, but you should leave before Mr. Fields finds out you’re here. He says he’ll kill anyone that comes around us,” she said in a stressed voice.
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes, for now I need you to answer a few questions. First, y’all took a lady hostage yesterday, is she still there? Is she alright?”
“Yeah she’s here. I don’t know about alright though. Mr. Fields has been in there alone with her all night,” came the timid reply.
“How many of y’all are there?”
“Nine. The kids, us, and Mr. Fields.”
“Where did Fields and the two boys go?”
“To get the ransom.”
Silently Buckley cursed. There would be repercussions, and they would be hard.
“I’m coming in. It’s just me, so don’t be alarmed.”
Buckley broke cover, and came in under the barn. Everyone kept away from him, uncertain as to what he would do. He first went to the little pot on the fire, and looked in. what had appeared to be water, was in fact water with some flakes of what looked like salt and pepper.
“Where’s Rachel?” Buckley asked gently.
They pointed to the room where he figured she was being kept. He went in and found Rachel tied up, a bandana in her mouth for a gag. Buckley cut the rope that had her hands bound, and while he freed her feet, she removed the bandana.
“Oh thank God you’re here! That awful man and those boys, they took me yesterday. I don’t think the boys wanted to, but that man is controlling them somehow,” Rachel said in a gush of words.
“They’re gone for the moment, so let’s get you and the others out of here.”
They stepped out and Buckley finally got a good look at the children.
“I have a homestead y’all can live at. With my wife and daughter and I. But it’s a fair walk, so I need to know who all is gonna be able to do that.”
The only ones who were sure they could were the older three children. Rachel and the younger children weren’t so sure. Rachel thought she could after a little bit. As they waited, Buckley cut up some jerky and put it in the pot of hot water.
The loud squawking of chickens gave plenty of warning to the return of Fields and the boys. Buckley stood with his back to the wall, as that was where they would pass. To his surprise, Bill and Curt came by first, pulling a cargo wagon loaded with Buckley’s chickens.
Following them were the two boys, then Fields. As they passed, the boys were to focused on the men and chickens to notice Buckley, and Fields attention was captured by Rachel sitting outside with the children. Then the smell of the broth hit, and Fields turned, suspicion aroused. What he found was the barrel of the CZ pointed at his head.
“Ah!” Fields exclaimed in surprise.
The two boys turned and lifted their guns, but were stopped when the girls interjected on Buckley’s behalf by standing in front of their guns. Quickly they told the boys what the deal on the table was, if they would stand down. On hearing that they would have a home, they simply walked over to the broth that was waiting for them.
“P-p-pl-please don’t shoot me,” Fields begged.
“I know what you’ve done. You ran away when your neighborhood was attacked, and took them with you. You knew where the kids were hiding, and told them that you were taking them to meet their families, knowing they would never see each other again. You’re scum,” Buckley spat out.
“That’s not what happened is it children?” Fields said, begging and demanding at the same time. He grabbed for one of the smaller children, and shook them hard. A blow from Buckley sent Fields sprawling.
“For your crimes, you’ve been sentenced. Take the children back to the homestead,” he told Curt, Bill, and Rachel.
They quickly left, sensing the anger building up in Buckley.
********
It was nearly four hours after the return of the others that Buckley came home. His clothes were bloodied, but he wasn’t done giving people bad news. Bill, Curt, Reginald, and Marty were outside, looking over the chicken pen.
“Bill, if you ever, ever, try giving away my property, I will beat you to death,” Buckley said.
“It wasn’t my idea,” Bill said, the blood on Buckley’s clothes, as well as Buckley’s demeanor scaring the man.
“It was our idea, Curt and I’s, what are you going to do about it?” Marty asked cockily.
“Get off of my property. Both of you. And your families. You have an hour,” Buckley said coldly, no room in his voice for negotiation.
“Did you have anything to do with this?” Buckley asked Reginald.
“No. I told them to wait and see what you thought,” Reginald said, adding, “You can ask Sarah if you don’t believe me. She tried to tell them this would happen.”
An hour later, Curt, his wife and children, and Marty and Beth were headed away, toward a little place Buckley had suggested they might like. Buckley sat back on the porch that evening, Reginald beside him in a rocking chair, watching the younger children play, while the older boys sat on the steps.
“You’re a hard man,” Reginald said matter-of-factly, “But not unreasonable.”
Hostage Rescue
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