“If not for good law enforcement and the good consciences of American Muslims, we would be mourning thousands of our fellow citizens this July. And the massacre would have been perpetrated by weapons bought as legally and in some cases as easily as you or I would buy a dozen roses.”

Peter Fallon clicked off the television. He had voted for Harriet Holden. She was his congresswoman. And she was setting off on a journey that, the day before, would have made Don Quixote look like a coldhearted realist.
But now … he imagined editorial writers all over America rushing to their keyboards, writing pieces proclaiming that Harriet Holden was bringing Americans to their senses, while as many radio talk hosts were clearing their throats, getting ready to go after one more liberal attack on our freedoms.
Whether Harriet Holden was right or wrong, right or left, the noise had only just begun, because firearms had been part of the American story since the beginning….

ONE
August 1786

“WHERE’S YOUR MUSKET, WILL?“

“In the house.”

“It should be in your hand.”

“But it’s the sheriff and his men comin’ out of those woods.”

“It’s an unjust government comin’ to take your rights. Go get your musket.”

Will Pike stood his ground instead. He studied the woods. He glanced up at a hawk making perfect circles in a perfect blue sky.

And for a moment, he was a boy again, daydreaming that he could see what the hawk saw: the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont to the north; the flatlands of Connecticut and Rhode Island spreading south; the steeples of Boston, tiny on the eastern horizon; and beyond them, the sharp-etched green islands in the Gulf of Maine.

Then the hawk seemed to stop in midair. Then it swooped, pouncing in a burst of feathers and fur on some hapless field mouse working its way home.

Will wiped his palms on his leather jerkin. He was as rawboned as any seventeen-year-old, but his eyes were already set in the permanent squint of one who studied the world quietly, who thought hard before he spoke and even harder before he acted.

His brother, North, was six years older and, it seemed, twice as big, over six feet tall, over two hundred pounds, big face scarred from fights, big hands scarred from fishhooks, big shoulders callused from the harness he wore when he plowed his father’s fields.

North had marched with Washington’s army. He had fished on the Grand Banks. He had cut trees in the great woods. Will had not seen much more of the world than the circle of earth beneath the circle of sky drawn by that hawk.

They stood that morning on the sloping ground in front of their father’s little house. Rock walls ran everywhere, segmenting the small farm into smaller fields, each of which looked as if it had been sown with rocks in the hope of growing more rocks.

“Where’d Pa go?” North kept his eyes on the men riding up the road.

“Inside,” said Will.

“Went to get his musket, I hope.”

Will glanced toward the house. He could not believe that his father was leaving them to face this alone.

The sheriff reined his horse and looked down at North. “Well … the prodigal brother. When did you get back?”

“When I heard you was plannin’ to arrest my Pa.” North held his musket at his hip. “I’m loaded with ball and buck, Chauncey. I’ll take down the lot of you with one shot.”

Will wanted to slip into the house and coax his father out, but he feared that if he moved, North would start shooting. So he stayed put and hoped that no one would see his knees shaking.

“Now, boys …” Sheriff Chauncey Yates had a big belly and a broad face better suited to grins and good spirits than the scowl he wore. “The court says your father’s to spend six months in the Hampshire County House of Correction for nonpayment of debts to Mr. Nathan Liggett of Springfield.”

“Damn the courts,” said North. “And damn Nathan Liggett. Damn you, too, Sheriff. And while we’re doin’ our damnin’, damn the damn state for taxin’ us at thirty damn percent, so we don’t have the money to pay any other damn bills.”

“It’s happenin’ to farmers all over,” said the sheriff. “The state has to tax property to pay war debts. And farmers has more real property than most.”

“But farmers don’t have hard coin,” said Will, “and the state won’t take barter.”

“Nor merchants neither,” added North.

“Because merchants is squeezed by Boston creditors,” said the sheriff, “and they’re squeezed by European suppliers.”

“So men like our Pa get squeezed by lawyers,” said North.

“Yup.” The sheriff swung a leg and dismounted. “Makes you wonder why we fought the damn Revolution in the first place.”

North gave the sheriff a grin. “Time for another uprisin’, I’d say.”

“I have a court order”—the sheriff patted his pocket—”all fit and proper-like. It’s my job to execute it.”

“I’ll die first.” North raised his musket.