heading for a safe place to live out the rest of our lives. We hear Utah’s a safe place, a God-fearing place, even if they have a funny religion. That’s all we want—a God-fearing place.”
“We just want peace,” said Olivia. “If we got to spend the rest of our days in this camper, then so be it. And if we don’t make it…well…it’s better than staying in South Texas, getting robbed every other week, waiting for one of them gangs to kill us for what little we got left in our pantry.”
“I don’t care if it does get cold up there in the free states,” said Melvin. “I just want to live free again, that’s all. Free from being afraid all the time.”
His wife nodded agreement.
***
Barlow’s Creek was a makeshift RV campground on a private ranch, visible from the state road. It stretched along one bank of a marshy stream that bisected endless miles of scrub prairie and cattle grazing land. Beyond the paved road, a dirt track led to a barbed wire fence, and a cattle guard made from pieces of railroad track.
Next to the break in the fence, a middle-aged guard sat on a lawn chair, beneath an awning made from a gray plastic tarp. A bike leaned against the last fence post. The man stood up from his chair at the approach of the new camper. He had a revolver openly holstered on the belt of his cutoff shorts, and he wore a gray Texas Rangers t-shirt tucked in under it. He carried a notebook and a walkie-talkie as he walked over to greet them.
“You folks ever been here before?” he asked the driver, studying the unusual trio composed of an older black couple and a young white woman.
“Nope, first time,” Melvin answered.
“Where you coming from?”
“Down by Houston.”
“Houston huh? Any of you all been east of the Mississippi in the last two years? No?” He studied them closely, gave each of them a long hard look, and they each replied that they had not.
“Well then, fine. Here’s the camp rules. Read them, and then put your John Hancock here on the next line in my book. We don’t have enough copies of the rules left to give you one to keep, so read it and hand it back.” The gate guard passed over a well-worn sheet of paper with a dozen numbered sentences printed on it, and then he began to rattle them off from memory.
“You can only stay three weeks. If you like it, you gotta leave for a week, and then come back. This keeps the grass fresh, and we don’t wind up with broken-down heaps that can’t move. We don’t want homesteaders or squatters—this here is a transit camp. Cost is eighty dollars cash a day, for now, subject to change any time the boss feels like it. If you want, we can take barter in ammunition, gold, silver, canned goods—all the usual stuff. We don’t take credit cards, debit cards, E-bucks or bank checks, so don’t even ask.
“It’s an open-carry camp, but if we think you’re unsafe with your weapons, you’ll be politely asked to leave. You can carry concealed if you prefer, but nobody cares either way. You can drink, and you can shoot at our range, but if you drink and fool around with guns at the same time, you’ll be run out of here pronto . You can only shoot on the range, during range hours, nowhere else. We got a mobile sewage pump out, the cost is reasonable, and if you dump on the ground…well, don’t. We keep quiet hours from ten PM to seven AM, and that means no motorcycles, generators or loud music or even talking that bothers anybody. They’re pretty reasonable rules, and you don’t look like jerks anyway. I think you’ll like it here. You plan on staying a full three weeks?”
“Not sure,” replied Melvin. “We’re heading to Utah, once we figure out the safest way there. New Mexico’s out and we’re not too sure about Colorado.”
The gate guard offered, “Lots of people are heading that way, so you’ll find plenty of company if you want it. Folks
“We just want peace,” said Olivia. “If we got to spend the rest of our days in this camper, then so be it. And if we don’t make it…well…it’s better than staying in South Texas, getting robbed every other week, waiting for one of them gangs to kill us for what little we got left in our pantry.”
“I don’t care if it does get cold up there in the free states,” said Melvin. “I just want to live free again, that’s all. Free from being afraid all the time.”
His wife nodded agreement.
***
Barlow’s Creek was a makeshift RV campground on a private ranch, visible from the state road. It stretched along one bank of a marshy stream that bisected endless miles of scrub prairie and cattle grazing land. Beyond the paved road, a dirt track led to a barbed wire fence, and a cattle guard made from pieces of railroad track.
Next to the break in the fence, a middle-aged guard sat on a lawn chair, beneath an awning made from a gray plastic tarp. A bike leaned against the last fence post. The man stood up from his chair at the approach of the new camper. He had a revolver openly holstered on the belt of his cutoff shorts, and he wore a gray Texas Rangers t-shirt tucked in under it. He carried a notebook and a walkie-talkie as he walked over to greet them.
“You folks ever been here before?” he asked the driver, studying the unusual trio composed of an older black couple and a young white woman.
“Nope, first time,” Melvin answered.
“Where you coming from?”
“Down by Houston.”
“Houston huh? Any of you all been east of the Mississippi in the last two years? No?” He studied them closely, gave each of them a long hard look, and they each replied that they had not.
“Well then, fine. Here’s the camp rules. Read them, and then put your John Hancock here on the next line in my book. We don’t have enough copies of the rules left to give you one to keep, so read it and hand it back.” The gate guard passed over a well-worn sheet of paper with a dozen numbered sentences printed on it, and then he began to rattle them off from memory.
“You can only stay three weeks. If you like it, you gotta leave for a week, and then come back. This keeps the grass fresh, and we don’t wind up with broken-down heaps that can’t move. We don’t want homesteaders or squatters—this here is a transit camp. Cost is eighty dollars cash a day, for now, subject to change any time the boss feels like it. If you want, we can take barter in ammunition, gold, silver, canned goods—all the usual stuff. We don’t take credit cards, debit cards, E-bucks or bank checks, so don’t even ask.
“It’s an open-carry camp, but if we think you’re unsafe with your weapons, you’ll be politely asked to leave. You can carry concealed if you prefer, but nobody cares either way. You can drink, and you can shoot at our range, but if you drink and fool around with guns at the same time, you’ll be run out of here pronto . You can only shoot on the range, during range hours, nowhere else. We got a mobile sewage pump out, the cost is reasonable, and if you dump on the ground…well, don’t. We keep quiet hours from ten PM to seven AM, and that means no motorcycles, generators or loud music or even talking that bothers anybody. They’re pretty reasonable rules, and you don’t look like jerks anyway. I think you’ll like it here. You plan on staying a full three weeks?”
“Not sure,” replied Melvin. “We’re heading to Utah, once we figure out the safest way there. New Mexico’s out and we’re not too sure about Colorado.”
The gate guard offered, “Lots of people are heading that way, so you’ll find plenty of company if you want it. Folks
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