The next day, Turtle drives Bingo and Milly northeast from HQ. At the gravel pit, several parked pickup trucks fly Cascadia flags and boast bumper stickers:
— Our Land, Our Water, FUCK OFF
— We Belong Here, Refugees Don’t
— Trail & Tribe Pride
Half the guys look White. The other half seem American Native. Most have beards and beer bellies.
“Unlikely bedfellows,” Bingo says.
“Don’t like our kind.” Turtle switches the sedan into reverse. “Let’s go.”
Milly chimes in. “I guess a couple of centuries on the same land is long enough to feel like they’re on the same side when barbarians arrive.”
Bingo nods at her insight.
Later, they park in the empty gravel lot of a shooting range. Paint peels from the rickety gun shop’s walls. An antique soda-vending machine rests on a sloping porch. The three get out.
Scratching his head, Turtle examines the machine’s black horizontal slot.
Bingo taps it. “For paper money.”
The older man tending the shop squints, sizing up the trio. He spits out chew over his big, white Santa Claus beard into a paper cup. “No off-range ammo, no bullshit. Whatcha shootin'?” He nods at their gun case.
Turtle flips it open.
The shopkeeper whistles.
Turtle points at Milly.
The shopkeeper jerks his head back. “OK? Young lady, may I touch your shoulder?”
“OK.”
He reaches out and squeezes. “Now flex, please.” He nods, impressed. “Still, you’ll need a new pad.”
Bingo sniffs. “How much?”
“Nothin'”—he spits again—“'cause I’m a real nice guy.” He smiles with brown tobacco teeth and gets to work.
Milly and the boys eat their sack lunches: soy-turkey sandwiches.
Sunlight beamed through the window of the old Homestead barn. Engrossed in her reading, Milly hadn’t eaten. She finished the chapter, folded an earmark, and shut the book.
Milly must have seen the last cat because her head spun towards her rifle. The creature must have seen her, too. It ran. Milly reached into her bag and dropped a chunk of real turkey meat. As Milly departed, the cat sniffed over and gobbled it up.
Milly squeezes off the last round from the magazine. She gingerly sets the high-powered rifle on its side, uncocked, bolt up. She places the dust cap on the scope, then walks downrange: multiple bullseyes.
Setting up a new target at the farthest range, Milly squints at the hot sun. Cars pass on the freeway every few seconds. She turns northeast towards snowless summer peaks.