Patriots: A Novel of Survival in the Coming Collapse

CHAPTER 16 For an Ounce of Gold

In early May of the third year, just as the transplants were ready to be moved from the greenhouse to the garden, the group had a pleasant surprise. One afternoon, a young man on horseback with a High Standard Model 10-B bullpup shotgun slung across his saddle horn stopped at the front gate. Kevin, who was on LP/OP duty, closely scrutinized him through his binoculars. He recognized the man as one of the Troy Templars. Up the hill, Shona let out three low barks. The man didn’t wait for anyone to come down from the house to greet him. He just leaned out of his saddle and stapled a handbill to the power pole nearest the gate and rode away.

Kevin called a message in to the C.Q. concerning what he had seen. Mike soon dispatched Doug and Della to go check it out. They weren’t back until ten minutes later, since they had moved cautiously, treating the short walk as a patrol. Della was clutching the flyer. She blurted, “Sounds like big doin’s in Troy!” as she handed the ink-jet-printed flyer to Mike. It read:

“Well, well, well,” Mike muttered. Just then, Todd, still wearing his slippers, sauntered up. Mike handed him the flyer, which he quickly scanned.

Todd pronounced, “Tell everyone we’ll be having a meeting at noon.”

After everyone had quieted down, Todd started the meeting. He began, “I’m surprised that someone else hasn’t set up a trading event before this. I guess that until the looters got thinned out, folks were too frightened to travel. You can’t blame them. There, of course, has been small-scale bartering going on ever since the Crunch started, but that has mainly been between contiguous neighbors. I’m glad to see some organized commerce getting reestablished.”

There were vigorous nods of agreement. “Personally, I have no objections to us going to the Faire. My main concerns are about securing the retreat while we are gone, so I’ll give the floor to Mike.”

Mike Nelson stood up and cleared his throat. “Okay, the way I see it, we can’t all go. We’ll need a minimum of four of us to stay back here and hold the fort. I suggest that we draw lots.” Todd then spoke up, “Does that sound acceptable to everyone?” There were more nods of agreement.

The militia members drew lots from lengths of dowels, as was their custom for such proceedings. The unlucky losers who had to stay at home were Todd, Jeff, Rose, and Marguerite. Margie offered to babysit little Jacob.

The main topic of conversation for the next three weeks was the Faire. It was decided that they would take Todd’s Power Wagon and Kevin’s F250 pickup. Mike would head the expedition. To the relief of some members, Mike decided that they could wear “civilian” clothes if they wished. He didn’t need to remind them that they all had to be armed. By now, they would have felt naked without carrying at least a handgun.

After much anticipation, the big day arrived. Della and Mary were by far the best-dressed and most civilized looking representatives of the retreat. They both wore dresses. It was the first time that either of them had worn dresses or shaved their legs in a long time. The heavy leather belt and holster rig for Mary’s Colt looked incongruous, but she didn’t care. She commented that it felt good to get out of trousers and feel like a woman again.

Della wore a knee-length turquoise dress that she borrowed from Mary, who was about the same size. She decided to carry only her CAR-15 with a duplexed pair of thirty-round magazines.

The two pickups from the retreat left an hour after sunrise on the twenty-first. Heading to Troy in the pickups, they passed dozens of people on foot, on horseback, and in wagons. Mike laughed when he saw one man was riding a moped with a cage containing three live chickens strapped to the back.

When they reached the edge of town they noticed that there were only a few Fairegoers that had driven motor vehicles. There were literally dozens of horses tied up. Most had their saddles slung over fences or laying next to them.

Because of the value of the gear in the trucks, Mike insisted that they take turns guarding them and monitoring the CB radio—two members per two-hour shift. There were also orders to check in with the retreat via the CB once an hour.

Before they left the trucks, Mike called a huddle and reminded them that their main priority was to barter for kerosene. He asked that they take note of the items that other Fairegoers were looking for, so that the next day’s increment would bring the most appropriate trading goods. Mike also reminded everyone to be careful about their personal safety, and not to reveal anything about the militia or their retreat to anyone they engaged in conversation. He warned them, “Be real vague. Change the subject. For goodness sake, don’t reveal the location of the retreat or give any indication of our strength or logistics base. The people that you are talking with might be nice enough, but interesting tidbits of information tend to travel far and fast. I think it’s best we take the cautious approach.”

The Barter Faire itself was spread out up and down the main street. It seemed like a veritable horde, since they hadn’t seen large gatherings of people for nearly three years. In fact, though, there were less than four hundred people in Troy at the Faire’s peak. As promised, the Troy Templars were there, mostly armed with M1As and parkerized Ithaca Model 87 eight-shot riotguns draped across their chests with extra-long slings. Dan noticed that their quick detachable sling swivels were mounted on the sides of the barrels in the front, and on the top of the stock in the back, so the guns didn’t flop upside down. Two Templars were posted at each end of town, and two walked a roving patrol.

Their security force really wasn’t necessary, however. Nearly everyone, with the exception of young children, was armed. About half the people carried holstered handguns. The rest carried long guns slung across their backs. More than a few carried both. This latter category included most of the Templars and the Northwest Militia.

It was a simple affair. Anyone with a sizable quantity of goods to sell simply rolled out one or more blankets on the pavement, and spread out their goods.

Direct barter of goods and services was the most common form of payment, although there were a considerable number of pre-1965 mint date silver coins changing hands. There were several people swapping big game and furbearer hides. One man was making custom belts and rifle slings to order, right on the spot. He was also taking orders for making holsters and rifle scabbards. These were paid-in-advance orders that would be delivered or picked up on a later date. He was also selling leather gloves, and moccasins and sandals that had pieces of car tire for soles. The latter sold out very quickly.

One enterprising gentleman who folks called “Mister Steam” was one of the busiest dealers at the faire. He offered freshly recharged twelve-volt car batteries in trade for fifty cents in silver coin and a discharged battery. Without a discharged battery in trade, the batteries were three dollars each. Mister Steam was a portly man with a graying bushy red beard. He wore overalls and a pinstriped railroader’s hat. Mister Steam recounted to Mike how three years before the Crunch he had joined a small engine hobbyist group in eastern Washington. Most of the members had one-cylinder gas-powered engines, and a few had older steam-powered engines. He described the group as “a bunch of us old farts who played with steam, Stirling, and hit-and-miss engines.”

Since steam locomotives were one of his long-time interests, he started looking for a steam-powered stationary engine or tractor. He eventually found one: a half-scale two-cylinder Avery steam tractor. It produced fifty horsepower. He spent a year restoring it. He recounted, “I bought it, basically on a lark. My wife thought I was nuts, spending that much money on a ‘big toy.’

Well, it’s no toy now. It’s going to make me a good living the next few years. I can do a lot with the power take-off. I’m trying to work a deal with a machinist to help me set up a small sawmill. With fifty horses, I can run a mill and the alternator at the same time. I’ll tell you, that engine is the best investment I ever made!” Before he left, Mike looked at the signboard advertising his batteries and displaying pictures of his tractor. At the bottom was a note penned with a bold magic marker: “Needed: Lithium grease and clean 90 weight gear oil! I will pay in silver!”

A vendor doing a very brisk business was Mr. Jones, the soap maker. Another was selling grain alcohol that he had distilled. He had the alcohol in an odd assortment of plastic bottles, jars, and cans. His sign read: “Pure Grain Alcohol. 180-Proof. Burns fine in kerosene wick lamps and Zippo lighters.

Fine for sipping, too! One quart: 25¢ in genuine (1964 or earlier) coin or like value in barter goods.”When he spoke with Kevin Lendel, the man said that he had built his still several years before the Crunch. He said that because he had copper-flashed all of the internal parts, and had used lead-free solder, it made alcohol that was safe to drink.

A few curious features of the Barter Faire were immediately apparent. First, there were only a few guns on display, and only small quantities of ammunition or reloading components. Of the few guns for sale, most were chambered in uncommon cartridges such as .257 Roberts, .25-06, .25-20, .35 Remington, and sixteen-gauge. Only two handguns were seen for sale. One was a well-worn Ruger Single Six .22 long rifle single-action revolver. The other was a Smith and Wesson .41 magnum with three boxes of fired brass and just eight rounds of live ammunition. Exorbitant prices were being asked for both of these guns.

Another interesting phenomenon was the number of live animals for sale. There were a great number of ducks, chickens, and rabbits. There were a few goats, sheep, piglets, and dogs for sale, as well, but only two horses. To even an untrained eye, the horses clearly looked old and broken down.

Most of the Fairegoers had come from the Palouse Hills region. A few traveled even farther. Some came from as far north as Coeur D’Alene and as far south as Lewiston. One stout man with gray hair whom everyone called “the Bee Man” had come all the way from Orofino on horseback. He was selling jars of honey, bee pollen, and beeswax candles. Doug Carlton chatted with him about the enormous .44 AutoMag pistol that he carried in a cross-draw holster. It sported unusual cream-colored grips. When asked about them, the Bee Man chortled, “Those black plastic grips that it came with were too thin and they started cracking the first year I got this thing. So I carved these new ones out of elk antler. They’re real sturdy.” When Doug asked him about the availability of ammunition for the unusual pistol, the Bee Man replied, “That’s no problem, son, I reload. I make the cases by cutting down .308 Winchester brass. The only problem is that I only have one magazine for the thing. I’d give my gold tooth for a spare, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever find one!”

Most of the merchandise for sale would have been considered nothing but junk before the Crunch, but now every item was carefully scrutinized and considered. There was a lot of clothing, but not many shoes or boots. There were plenty of pots and pans and cutlery for sale, but not many hand tools. Predictably, there was a profusion of electrical and electronic items like lamps, clocks, and radios offered, but few interested buyers.

There were many signs advertising cars and trucks for sale, but Todd didn’t hear anyone discussing actually buying one. One sign seemed particularly pitiful to him. It read:“For trade: Corvette Stingray. Power everything. Excellent condition. Stored in garage. Less than 4,000 miles on odometer. Will trade for a good quality spin-cast rod and reel and 40 rounds of .300 Weatherby Magnum.”

In addition to the “for sale” signs, there was a profusion of “wanted” signs. Mike made a list of these items in his notepad. The list included: web gear, strike-anywhere matches, Mason jar lids, fish hooks, bleach, rolls of candle wicking, mouse and rat traps, non-hybrid garden seeds, kerosene lamp wicks, Visqueen, salt, band-aids, razor blades, cans of pipe tobacco, aluminum foil, Aladdin lamp mantles, small game traps, coffee beans, dental floss, pepper, rechargeable batteries—D cell, AA, and 9 VDC, sugar, baking soda, ant spray, decks of playing cards, Zippo flints, children’s Tylenol elixir, duct tape, toothbrushes, cloth diapers, boot laces, and penicillin. He filled up another column with just the reloading and ammunition wants. Reloading: Large rifle primers, de-capping pins, 3031 and 4831 smokeless powder, Bullseye pistol powder; Ammo: .308 Win., .30-06, 7.62 x 39 mm Russian, .45 ACP, .38 Special, .303 British, nine-mm, .30-30, .22 Long Rifle, .22 Magnum, .243 Winchester, .45

Colt, twelve-gauge number-four and number-seven bird shot, twenty-gauge number-seven bird shot, and .44 Special and/or Magnum.

By a prearranged schedule, everyone from Todd’s group got back together at the trucks at 4 p.m. Once there, they found that they had achieved their main goal of bartering for kerosene. They had collected eleven gallons. Most had been exchanged for ammunition.

They all had something to say about the day’s proceedings, even Kevin, who was normally reserved. He said, “I must have had a dozen guys ask me about my H and K or my Gold Cup. It really got aggravating. They kept saying things like,‘Are you sure you don’t want to sell it?’ and I’d have to say,‘Yes I’m sure, absolutely not. End of discussion.’ I felt like I should have carried a sign that said ‘Don’t Bother Asking Me About Buying My Guns.’” Several others said that they had had similar experiences. T.K. then said, “The thing about the Faire that impressed me was the fact that it all seems so medieval. Perhaps it was seeing all those pelts that gave it that feel. It seems like a cross between a mountain man’s rendezvous and Barter Town from Mad Max III.” With that, everyone laughed.

Mary then added, “Maybe we ought to just pick up the phone and give Tina Turner a call. Tell her we need her to do a repeat performance as Aunty Entity and supervise this mess. I wonder if she still has her slinky chain-mail?”

There was more laughter.

“Okay,” Mike said, “Now down to serious business. Aside from the kerosene, just what did everyone get in trade?”

Mary spoke up first. “I got three Alpine dairy goats: two does and a dis-related young buck. I traded all three of them for a hundred rounds of .22 long rifle and ten rounds of .308 ball.”

With this comment, Mike let out a whistle. “Not bad, Mrs. Honcho, not bad at all,” he said.

With a note of pride in his voice, Lon Porter said, “I got a six-inch Unimat lathe with a complete set of accessories in exchange for four gallons of gasoline. I even got the guy to provide his own container for the gas. I also bought a pair of moccasins for ten rounds of .22.”

Della raised her hand and then said, “I got a pair of moccasins for the same price at the same time Dad got his. I also got a pair of fence-mending pliers, two wool carding combs, a glass food canning funnel, and a dress. All together, those cost two dollars in ‘junk’ silver dimes that Doug gave me to spend at the Faire.”

After Doug saw that Dell was finished, he said, “I ran into a Templar with an HK91. We both stood there staring at each other for a few seconds. I could see that he was eyeballing my M1A, so I knew that he was thinking the same thing that I was. As I’m sure you all know, the M1A is the group-standard rifle for the Templars, just like the H and K is with ours. After a few offers back and forth, we decided to be reasonable and trade straight across. I gave him my M1A and all eight of my magazines for his HK and nine twenty-rounders. We said that we’d get back together tomorrow and swap our spare parts for the guns. I figured that I’d be better off with a group-standard rifle, and the two guns are basically comparable in quality and function. My gun was National Match grade though, so I suppose that Thomas—the Templar guy—got the better end of the deal.

“The only thing that I don’t like about the Heckler and Koch is that it doesn’t lock open after you fire the last round in a magazine, like M1As and AR-15s do. I guess I can make up for that little shortcoming by loading tracers as the last two or three rounds in each magazine. It’s an old Army trick. When you see a red light, you change magazines. That was my only major purchase, or trade rather, of the day. I also bought two monstrous bags of jerky—one of elk and one of bear—for a pre-’65 quarter. I figure the jerky will be great for patrols and picket duty. Oh yeah, almost forgot. I also got three big fat Seattle phone books. They will be great for toilet paper.”

Obviously anxious to speak, Lisa was next. “I got four little lambs. They are Targhee crosses. Three ewes and a ram. They are soooo cute. They’re already in the back of Kevin’s pickup munching on some grass hay. I traded two salt lick blocks for them. I also got a copy of Raising Sheep the Modern Way, some spare underwear, a hairbrush, and five pounds of homemade saltwater taffy from a really sweet Nez Perce Indian woman. All together, that cost ten rounds of West German seven-point-sixty-two ball. Later in the afternoon, I got four half-grown Khaki Campbell ducks in exchange for sixty sets of wide-mouth Mason jar lids and rings. This particular breed of duck is supposed to be good both for laying and for eating.”

Dan then said, “I traded my Walther P-38, three extra magazines, and two hundred rounds of nine-mil ammo to some dude for a complete fishing outfit, a Bausch and Lomb spotting scope, a Merck Veterinary Manual, a big Craftsman socket set, and a leather working tool kit. The leather working set is pretty cool.

It’s a standard Tandy kit, plus some extras. It has a mallet, about twenty of those miscellaneous patterning tools, a swivel cutting tool, a couple of tubes of Barge cement, a rotary hole punch, a snap-and-riveting kit, and a whole bunch of other items. He also threw in a whole tanned cowhide. It was strange, though, the guy actually seemed more excited about the ammo than the pistol.”

Next, Kevin reported on his transactions. “I got an entire buffalo hide in really good shape for ten rounds of .30-06. I figure that it’ll help keep us warm up at the LP/OP next winter. Another guy traded me a small Bearcat scanner—one of the portable ones the size of a walkie-talkie—for twenty rounds of .45 ACP. It runs off of batteries, and we have plenty of ni-cads, so I thought, ‘why not?’ Not many people have any source of power nowadays. I figure that’s the only reason the guy was willing to sell it so cheap. I also got a pair of Belgian white rabbits—a buck and a doe, for twenty rounds of .22 long rifle. My mother would be proud. She’d say that I got ‘Such a deal!’ The cage for the rabbits cost a lot more, though. For it, I had to give up a whole fifty rounds of .22 and three pre-’65 silver quarters. I think it’s amazing what a few silver dimes or quarters will buy.”

After a pause, Kevin said, “I feel sorry for all those people I knew who bought one-ounce gold coins as a ‘survival hedge.’ I can see now that a full-ounce gold coin is too compact a form of currency, and it isn’t easily divisible.

I suppose that people who bought the gold coins minted in the one-tenth-of-an-ounce weights are more fortunate. What would a full ounce of gold buy?

That Corvette that we saw advertised? A half a dozen cows? Maybe. It certainly wouldn’t do much good for someone trying to buy day-to-day necessities. It’s pretty apparent that our stock of .22-rimfire ammo is a lot more useful as a store of value and as a means of exchange.”

Mike was the last to give his report. “Okay, get this. I ran into a major coup.

I bought a horse. It’s not one of those nags you probably saw people trying to sell, either. It’s a real nice Morgan saddle horse. Three-year-old mare, very gentle. I took the approach of looking at the horses that were tied up along the fence. I looked for groups of two or more horses, all carrying the same brand.

Then I picked out the good-looking ones from those, one at a time, and inquired after their owners. It took most of the day to get anyone to talk a serious deal, though. Most people aren’t in the position that they can spare a horse. This guy, who had four horses before the Crunch hit, and now has six, apparently could. When I first asked if he’d be interested in selling, he just said,

‘Ah, I don’t know, maaaaybe.’ But when I told him that I had stabilized gas to barter, his eyes lit up. I got the horse for forty-five gallons of gas.

“The same guy also sold me a saddle, and a full set of tack, and grooming tools—you know, like a brush and a hoof pick and rasp—for another twelve gallons of gas. The saddle is quite nice, as well. It’s an old original Ray Holes mountain rig, but the leather is still strong and in good shape. The guy, his name is Thebault, lives just west of Troy. I talked with Roger Dunlap about him, and he confirmed that the guy is trustworthy and circumspect, so I described to him how to find our retreat. He’s going to ride over and swap the horse for the gas at the retreat in three days. I can hardly wait.”With a grin that betrayed considerable pride, Mike said, “That was my one and only purchase for the day. Okay, does anyone else have anything important to report that can’t wait until we get back to the hidey-hole? Okay, then.”

After a pause, Mike continued. “Does anyone want to come back tomorrow?”

“Yeah!” they all yelled in a chorus.

“Yikes!” Mike roared. “You all sound like a bunch of cub scouts. I guess that makes me your den mother. When we get back home, we’ll draw lots to see which four of us will have to pull security back at the retreat, so the others can come tomorrow.” Putting on his oft-used John Wayne voice, he said, “Well, pilgrims, we’d better saddle up and head home before it gets dark.”

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.