The Ravens Nest

A Story of Lessons Learned Hard And How Not Everything That Is Old Is Obsolete.

This was a story shared with me when I called my dad one Father’s Day a couple of years ago. For the purposes of protecting identity, I will be changing some names.

I’ll also share what I learned that day. A whole lot of things began to make sense to me.

I’d just finished listening to the works of Robert E. Howard, primarily the Conan Series. I dare not call him “the barbarian” anymore because Conan wasn’t a “barbarian” to anyone other than those living in more “civilized” areas. When Conan had want or need of food, wine, and a fun time, he’d head into one of those “civilized” areas and, when he was done with it, back out into the wild unknown for a life of adventure. Conan was simple. He had need for little but was in constant pursuit of his desire; to live life fully, completely and well, according to him. Though he invoked the name of Crom constantly, his was not a god from which he wanted the attention. Crom would more likely than not visit misery upon him just as soon as he would joy.

I was telling my dad about these stories and how closely they mirrored many of the stories of the Old West Gunslinger and how these novels that incorporated fantasy elements were, I’d found, inspired by stories of the Old West. In the course of this conversation, I got a story, not of a lone gunslinger but of an incident in my own family that surprised me, made sense of some things about myself and provided a window into a world that had long-since been glamorized and even romanticized.

I assure you, this will be neither glamorized, nor will it be romanticized.

I was going to compose this last night but, after work, all I wanted to do was get back to “normal” and then stretch out for a night of horror movies, classic ones. I did just that but to many of us in pagan circles, last night, Halloween and today are days of honoring our ancestors. I wanted to honor two in particular, my great-grandfather Carl and my grandfather, his son, Len.

Our story begins with the incident that would set the tone and the turn of events I’ll describe. My great-grandfather, Carl was shot in the back by a man. I don’t know what led to the altercation that would prompt it. I’m certain there’s something in that story that prompted the shot whether it was an exchange of words or the man who shot my great-grandfather in an attempt to take him off the census that day was just a mean-spirited ass with a gun.

Keep something in mind. These were the days where one could shoot and kill someone else, hop on their horse with only some provisions, a bed roll, a couple of guns and some ammo and ride a mere fifty miles into the next town, give a completely phony name and backstory and be whomever you wanted to be. Even our heroes like Wyatt Earp were running brothels and were known for making mischief well before his turn as a lawman in Dodge. Think about that for a moment. There were no identification papers or cards to check. Fifty miles was also a very long way to travel in those days.

The man who shot Carl ran off. From this point forward, two elements of this story, the fact that he shot my great-grandfather in the back and then ran off, shall contribute to the name I’ll give him; Coward.

So Coward fled town, leaving behind his house and his wife and he left Carl partially disabled. After recovering from the wound, things around the household were different. This meant Len was going to have to start learning to be Man of The House in many ways that Carl could no longer be. Len was able-bodied and needed to take over some of the duties. This included getting up whenever Carl got up, attending chores and yes, even defending the home, family and homestead. That meant Len had to learn how to shoot and Carl saw fit that Len had both a rifle and revolver. Each day, they’d get up, Len would strap up and they’d head out with Carl pointing and saying “Take your rifle and shoot that knot-hole in that tree, boy.” or “Take your pistol and shoot the top of that fence post.” Len would obey every time. The recoil was insane for someone who’d never held either and some of his shots were wild in those days but let’s also keep in mind, Len, my grandfather, was at the tender young age of 12.

Some of you are already hearing that record-scratch sound, aren’t you? Some of you are now going. Wait…what?! He put guns into the hands of a 12-year-old boy?!

Yes. I want you to think of the days when you were 12 years old. What were your priorities then? What was it you loved? What was it you had passions for? What was your daily life like? Your generation may have looked much different from mine. I was about Saturday Morning Cartoons, School, Trying to fit in with all those who just didn’t want me around, comic books, video games, etc. Never once did I ever consider that my life would ever be about strapping up on a daily basis. Hell, the most lethal thing I ever carried was a pocketknife and even then, it was taught to me what it was used for, how it was used and it was never to come out of my pocket until I needed it.

Yeah, our childhoods, depending on generation, had differences. Let’s continue.

So this was the every day for my grandfather, Len. Len would get up with Carl, go out, shoot, take care of things with him and, back in those days, they’d turn in about 8pm or so. This went on for some time. In fact, in the several years since Carl was shot, Len became more proficient with those two firearms. He learned their care and use and, with practice, he was ready, able and willing to employ deadly force as a last resort to protecting hearth and home.

A mere seven years after Len received his first two weapons, he bought his own. At the age of eighteen, Len purchased one of the first ever pump-action shotguns on the market. Soon, he was practicing with it and became proficient in it’s use. It also became one of his go-to weapons, needing the least in terms of accuracy. Until now, Len had been practicing with weapons that needed accuracy but having one that didn’t require it was a wise decision on Len’s part. Practicing on stationary targets is one thing but in a combat-stress situation, being able to fire accurately under that type of stress is a wildly different scenario. Though I never got to ask my grandfather personally, I do believe that Len took this into account.

One night, there was a knock at the door of the family home. Carl got up, Len also got up and both went to the door to find a lady there who informed Carl that Coward had been sighted in town. Both Carl and Len knew where Coward’s house was and Carl let Len know that’s where he was going and instructed Len to go get the constable. Len objected, politely, of course, pointing out that he had a better reaction time if something went pear-shaped.

“Don’t you let him get a bead on you with that rifle, boy.” Carl told him in grave earnestness (no pun intended,) “He will kill you!”

Len looked at him, said “Yes, Sir.” and went on his way with that shotgun to that house while Carl immediately went for the constable. The intention was to merely hold Coward there until the constable could arrive, the ID could be made positively and the constable would then arrest Coward and put him on trial. If the sightings didn’t bear fruit or the wrong man had been mistaken for Coward, nothing at all would have happened save for an apology for being there so late and everyone would have parted ways that night. Either way, this was meant to go without incident.

Len rode his horse to the house, dismounted and approached the porch, shotgun in hand. He knocked at the door. The door was not in any way answered immediately. It took awhile but then a woman answered after about ten to fifteen minutes of knocking. Len introduced himself and stated his business. He mentioned that the constable was on the way. She insisted that he wasn’t there over and over again.

At this point, Len wasn’t there to force entry. He stood right there on the porch and made every attempt to keep everything civil.

Then he saw movement just over her shoulder.

In an instant, Len pushed her out of the way, lifted his shotgun and fired, pumped and fired again. This time, it was Len who fled the scene as the woman screamed. He mounted his horse and rode off, looking for Carl and the constable. He finally found them and explained everything.

“Well, boy, did you kill him?” the constable asked him after hearing the story.

“I don’t know,” Len replied, still shaken from the events, “It all happened in a second.”

The decision was made between the three of them to ride back to the house. They found the house, door open, the woman inside still loudly wailing. The constable was first into the house and, as everything in the area was lit, the constable called Carl over.

“Is this the man that shot you?” he asked.

“That’s him, yessir,” he replied after getting a good look at him. Coward lay on the ground having been the recipient of a couple shotgun blasts…and the rifle laying mere inches from his hand.

The constable ruled it self-defense on the spot and sent for the undertaker to come take Coward away.

Also keep in mind this is the days of the tail end of the Old West Expansion. It didn’t exactly happen in The Old West, it happened in Louisiana in those days. It taught me that I’m only about maybe two generations removed from those days. I grew up fairly comfortable in comparison. I didn’t have to know that level of violence. I hope no one ever has to. Coward tried to remove both my grandfather and great-grandfather and, by proxy, both my dad and me from the historical record. Life might have been simpler but it was also much harder in those days. Many things were done manually and many people were also happier in those days for it. Notice, I didn’t say all, I said many. People could also be more polite in those days. It truly benefitted those small societies as a whole because they were armed and sometimes, jerks didn’t last very long.

It proves a line from the Conan stories, particularly…

“Civilized men are often more discourteous than savages because they know they can be impolite without having their skulls split as a general thing…”