This story received an honorable mention in a 2018 fiction contest
******************************************************************************
I knew very few neighbors, although they knew of me. Most of my neighbors were permanent residents. I was just a visitor and referred to as a Weekender. The tag was not complimentary. The permanents kept track of the casual residents. They didn't like changes, and they were quick to let you know if you tried to topple an established tradition. I did that once and got the cold shoulder that still prevails today.
It was early morning. Dew was still on the grass. Once a month I took a weekend trip to my cabin to unwind. I stayed there alone, hiked through the forest, and chopped wood for the stove. Physical activity helped me de-stress. I spent the rest of the day reading a little and preparing meals while listening to my favorite tunes from the 60s. Tomorrow I would start the construction.
In this county, you can own property, but that doesn’t mean you can change it willy-nilly. It’s more than bi-laws or codes. Tradition is the opposing force against change. I followed all the proper channels and got the necessary permits to erect a new entrance to my property, Straten’s Ranch. Once I started construction a few of the locals stopped by and offered a stern warning about making the changes. My first thought was they were joking, but days later I learned differently when my newly constructed entrance burned to the ground. Of course, no one saw anything or knew how this could have happened.
It had been a dry summer, so maybe it started by a spark from someone’s tractor or a lit cigarette butt thrown from a passing car. No reason to blame the locals, just bad luck. I waited until the fall when it wasn’t too dry to start the reconstruction of my new entrance. Then it happened again, a second fire that not only destroyed the entrance but three acres of my property including the honeysuckle vines, before the fire finally burned itself out. It didn’t take a seasoned sleuth to figure out this wasn’t an accident. The report filed was a waste of time, like watching a foreign movie without subtitles.
I learned to live with the old entrance and avoided the neighbors. Then one day I had unexpected visitors, two locals, one tall, lean guy and one short and stocky. I was cutting down a dead tree for firewood when they strolled up and asked what I was doing?
“Isn’t it obvious?” I set the chainsaw down. “I know a crosscut saw is more traditional, but this is faster.”
“We aren’t concerned about your choice of tools.” The tall guy commented. “Just wondering if you’re building anything.”
“Yes . . . a fire.” I looked directly at the tall, lean guy. "You should be familiar with fires, right?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. Are you accusing us of something?” The tall guy folded his arms. “That’s not very neighborly. You need to try to fit in. You know, do things the right way, our way. Like they’ve always been done. Remember you’re just a Weekender.”
“How could I forget.” I reached down to pick up the chainsaw. “Is there something else you want? As you can see I’m sort of busy. If there’s nothing else, you can go.”
The locals looked at each other then at me. “No, there’s nothing else. We just wanted to pay you a visit.” They turned and walked away. The tall guy stopped and yelled over his shoulder. “Be careful with that chainsaw, they can be dangerous.”
I pulled the cord to start the saw, then mumbled to myself. “Thanks for the sage advice, numbnuts.”
After another hour I finished cutting wood and went back into my cabin to listen to some relaxing music and have my favorite stout beer from The Spitting Monkey Brewery. Downing three stouts relaxed me. The recent encounter with the permanents was long forgotten. I started to dose when I heard a noise coming from outside. Then another sound, this one was near the woodpile. My first thought was raccoons or deer, but my curiosity made me get up and look. My muscles ached from the long day of sawing and splitting wood. As I peered out the window, I could see a beam of light in the yard. My assumption that raccoons and deer had created the disturbance was wrong.
There was a shotgun over the fireplace. It had been there for years, but I never used it. Hell, I didn’t even know if there were any shells in the house. I decided that carrying an unloaded shotgun was just plain stupid, so I left it. I grabbed a flashlight and ax handle that was sitting by the door and made a noisy exit. I wanted the intruders to hear me and make a quick getaway. I didn’t want a confrontation, just a little peace, and quiet. I pointed my tactical high-beam light toward the woodpile. Three heads popped up and immediately scattered into the woods, two with flashlights guided the way.
Who were they and what were they up too? Teenagers, I hoped, just doing what bored teenagers do, mischievous little bastards. I walked down to the stack of wood I had just cut and looked around for some disturbance. They had been digging a hole, which wasn’t a big deal. What most upset me was the pack of matches I found. Three burned out matches lay on the ground. There was a name on the matchbook cover, Willard’s Feed Store. I’d been there a few times. I’ll make a point to stop by tomorrow. I walked back to the cabin confident that they wouldn’t be back tonight.
* * *
It was seven when I woke the next morning. Late for me but the beer helped. I made a pot of coffee, strong black coffee. That’s all I ever drank in the morning. No fancy creamer or sugar substitute, just hot, strong black coffee. I walked outside and headed to the woodpile to see if I missed anything last night. I did. Well, I can’t be sure it was from last night, but I don’t remember seeing it before. Sitting next to a stack of firewood was an emblem that came off someone’s belt, boot or jacket. It was a masked skull wearing a cowboy hat with two crossed pistols. Could be a gang symbol. That’s what I thought. This was something worth looking in to.
I hopped in the old Ford pickup kept on the farm and drove into town to visit Willard’s Feed Store. I took the matches and the skull emblem. I needed to get some supplies and decided to pick up some shotgun shells as well.
Willard was manning the register, and a clerk was tending to another customer. I didn't need to introduce myself. He tipped his Stetson and asked what I needed.
“I need to reseed a few acres.” I folded my arms. “I had a fire a couple of nights ago . . . burned three acres.”
“Heard about that.” He tugged on his suspenders. “That’s real unfortunate.”
“Need some 12 gauge shotgun shells too.”
“Whatcha hunting?”
“Saw some varmints last night.” I tossed the pack of matches on the counter. “Never know when they may come back.”
Willard looked at the pack. “I haven’t had those in years. Stopped giving them out when they came out with those Butane lighters.” He laughed, “I didn’t think anyone used matches anymore.”
“Some people are old school.”
“Seeds over there.” Willard pointed to the back of the store. “I’ll get the shells.”
“I’ll take two fifty-pound bags of seed and the shells.” I picked up the matches and pulled out the skull emblem. “Does this look familiar?” I held it up to his eye.
Willard hesitated and then said. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before. Where’d you get it?”
“Over by my woodpile where I saw the varmints.”
Willard shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, but I can’t help you with that.”
I paid for the seeds and shells and headed out the door with my purchase. As I drove home, I pulled into a Huck's gas station to top off the tank. While filling up, I noticed three teenagers on the side of the station. Two were taunting the third by lighting and throwing matches at him. He jumped and twisted trying to avoid the flying flames. The two laughed and called him a sissy. The victim yelled, "Stop it. It's not funny . . . jerks.”
One of the match-throwers lit the whole pack and threw it, hitting the kid on the leg. I stopped pumping gas and walked over to the kids.
“Hey dumbass! Are you brain dead?” Both of the kids with matches just looked at me dumbfounded.
“Huh!” the tall, gangly one said.
I walked over and grabbed the remaining pack of matches. “First of all. This is a gas station. Didn’t anyone ever tell you throwing lit matches around near a gas pump is stupid as hell?”
“We’re just having fun.”
“Really! Let me ask the other kid how much fun he was having.” I pointed at the third kid and said. “Were you having fun?”
“No. I was scared.” He answered.
“Secondly, doing that to someone is harassment, which could get you into trouble.”
Willard’s Feed Store printed on the cover. Hum! “Where did you get these matches?”
“My dad’s got a shitload of these matches at his store. He gives them out to customers. Well locals, not Weekenders.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah, you’re no local, that’s for sure.”
“Get out of here.” I motioned down the road.
“Can I have the matches back?”
“No, go get some from your dad, remember he’s got a shitload in his store.”
I walked away knowing that they learned nothing from our encounter. Teenagers didn’t learn by advice. They learned only by failure. I hoped their failures wouldn’t be their demise.
My first thought, go back to Willard’s and confront him. But that wasn’t necessary. His scatter-brained son would deliver the message.
* * *
Willard’s kid, the tall, lanky one, returned to the store to get more matches and told his dad about the incident with the Weekender. There was no doubt who the kid was talking about. Willard chased his son away, telling him to keep out of trouble. Then he set up a meeting with the few remaining members of the cowboy crew at the local bar. They needed a permanent solution for this Weekender.
The kid grumbled and whined then left, kicking rocks in the parking lot to show he was upset. He came back late that night with two buddies when the store was closed. They slipped in the back door hunting for mischief. They found it. The matches were kept in the back of the store, near some old forgotten dynamite. Kids will be kids especially the dumb ones. They started playing the stupid match game, tossing the matches at each other.
The shelves were made of wood, dry wood, easy to ignite. I guess I don't need to say much more. A fire started and spread quickly. The kids got out just before the explosion. There was nothing that the fire department could do but clean up afterward. Most everything burned, but they did find the charred remains of a club charter from a local gang The Real Cowboys.
* * *
The club had a dark history that originated twenty years ago. The charter listed Willard as the leader of the gang. Everyone suspected it, but no one knew for sure until now. Minutes from some of the meetings were also found that documented many of the crimes the Cowboys committed. It was enough to bring the remaining Cowboys up on charges. Willard was arrested on the spot.
Karma struck back with a vengeance. With no imminent threat left, I rebuilt my entrance sign but changed the name of the property. I proudly called it, The Weekender.