Chapter 6, Grandpa Walter The day began with me rolling out of bed and warming my hands at the old stove while I shoved fresh coal inside. I whipped up some powdered eggs, hash browns and fried onions, and a glass of Grandma Rose's vegetable juice. Yes, I know, I said I wouldn't try it, but I did and it was good. I made one major modification to the kitchen - a compact refrigerator tucked away in the back store room. This allowed me to make a whole batch of vegetable juice at once instead of having to prepare it every day. Sitting at a table I'd rummaged from storage, I poured over my weathered notebook. It was filled with meticulous notes on everything I had repaired in the bunker, and what still needed fixing. Taking a bite of my breakfast, I couldn't help but feel grateful for being safe underground while the rest of the world above was a wasteland. But as I sat there, basking in the quiet solitude of my sanctuary, I knew it wouldn't last for long. My peaceful morning would soon turn wild as my next ancestor arrived. After preparing for the day ahead, I made my way to the spot where I had been clearing debris from the halls. The mushy remnants of ceiling and walls filled multiple wheelbarrows along the side of the path. As I worked, I could see the end in sight - just a few more loads of debris and I’d be ready to start the rebuilding project. The designated trash dump was an old mine shaft. Dad told me it used to be an escape tunnel for miners, but now it served as our family's personal dumping ground. Every few months, we would toss down bags of enzymes to help break down the waste. Dad believed it would eventually turn into a giant compost pile that we could use for our gardens. But I couldn't imagine digging through all that rubbish to find anything useful. It seemed fine where it was, and I was content leaving it alone for now. I made my way through the dimly lit hallways, picking up tools and equipment used during the cleanup. As I turned a corner with a wheelbarrow full of shovels, I almost collided with a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a Western movie. His rugged features, horseshoe mustache, and worn leather boots reminded me of Wyatt Earp. I eagerly put down the wheelbarrow and straightened up, excited to finally meet the most famous member of the Robinson family. "Hi, I'm Johnny," I said with a smile. "Rose!" shouted the gunslinger. "Is this scrawny patch of crabgrass what you woke me up for?" His gruff demeanor caught me off guard, but I couldn't help but admire him for his quick wit and no-nonsense attitude. I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Grandma Rose appeared out of thin air in the middle of the hall. I was getting used to my imagination bringing the Robinson clan to life. I really needed therapy. “Now you listen here, you old fool,” replied Grandma Rose. “We need him to do what you did when the Company men came to steal our mine.” “Can’t turn a weed into an oak tree,” said Grandpa Walter. “I seem to recall the same being said about a scrawny boy that grew to become the mightiest of Oaks.” Grandma Rose’s expression softened and she placed a hand on the gunslingers arm. “Walter, that old oak faded a long time ago, but now there’s a sapling sprouting up in the same spot that old oak once stood. Given a little tending, it will spread its branches out to once again shade this mountain.” Grandpa Walter sighed. “Alright, we’ll see if the sapling takes root.” Grandpa Walter walked past me with one of those purposeful strides like he knew where he was going and planned to get there quickly. He didn’t say a word to me as he passed. I looked to Grandma Rose. She gave me a shooing motion to indicate I was supposed to follow him. I ran up beside Grandpa Walter, easily matching his strides - He was shorter than I expected. “Where are we going?” “My hideout.” “Seriously? Can I see your gold?” Grandpa Walter gave me a side-glance. “I heard you were all stoked up to meet a famous outlaw.” “Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t be?” “I don’t have any gold. What little pocket change I borrowed from the stage coaches I chased down for some spending cash is nothing compared to the heist James pulled off. Now there’s the real outlaw.” “Grandpa James? He built the bunker inside the mine.” “And what did he build it from?” “The old WWI destroyer he bought at auction for scrap metal. It was cheaper to cut up the destroyer than buy new steel.” Grandpa Walter tapped the glass of one of the dozens of portholes that lined the hall to give the bunker a navy ship feel. “Yep, it was definitely cheaper.” “What do you mean?” “That pirate stole the destroyer. Haven’t you ever wondered why nobody knows the name of the ship? I’ll tell you why, it would have given away the greatest heist in Navy history if he told anyone the name of the ship.” “You’re saying he stole the ship?” Grandpa Walter's face darkened into an expression I couldn't place. His stride slowed as he began to tell the story. "It was just after the Great War ended and the chaos of decommissioning hundreds of ships consumed the War Department. That's when your Grandpa James saw an opportunity. He rounded up a crew of disgruntled sailors who had been let go during the draw-down and concocted the perfect plan for the greatest heist of all time." With a dark frown, Grandpa Walter told how James sailed a destroyer out of the bay, unnoticed amidst all the chaos. He navigated through the treacherous waters around South America to Norfolk, where he found a shipyard that wouldn't ask any questions. In just two years, the entire ship was dismantled and shipped by train and truck right under the Navy's nose. Grandpa Walter chuckled, "If you want to meet an outlaw, you'll have to go find your Grandpa James." I stood there for a moment, thinking, and saw it clearly. Grandpa Walter was mad at Grandpa James for stealing his glory. “No, Grandpa, you got it all upside down. You are the greatest outlaw of all time, and Grandpa James is the greatest pirate of all time.” A grin slowly appeared on Grandpa’s grumpy face. “Come on, crabgrass, we ain’t got time to stand around jaw-jacking all day.” I know, I know, that was really bad of me, but dad always said a little flattery goes a long way. Grandpa let out a loud grunt as he pushed open the heavy metal back door of the bunker, revealing the dark and damp mine beyond. It was like someone had shoved a massive building into the entrance of the mine, blocking the way. Uncle Paul wanted to expand the bunker even further into this section of the mine. And there was certainly enough room for it - this used to be the 3rd largest coal mine on the West Coast during the golden age of the Robinson family from 1862 to 1932. Now, all that remained was the gift shop and tours of the bunker given by me and Mrs. Miller, while dad and grandpa struggled to keep the lights on. “Are you coming, crabgrass, or do I have to figure out how this contraption works myself? I shook myself out of my thoughts. Grandpa was sitting in the passenger seat of an ATV Utility Vehicle. I rolled my eyes and jumped behind the wheel. Seriously, 140 years and he doesn’t know how to drive yet. “Where to, Grandpa?” “Mine shaft 4C.” I stepped on the peddle and took off. Mine shaft 4C was one of the really old ones. I got up to 20 mph before Grandpa complained. “Slow down, speedy, I want to get there in one piece.” “You’re a ghost, Grandpa, I think you’ll be fine.” “I’m a ghost now, is it? I thought I was your imagination.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what you are, but I’m enjoying meeting all my ancestors.” “Tell me that in a few days when you can’t lift your arms.” I glanced to the side at the gunslinger. Grandma Rose had put me through a pretty good workout in her kitchen, what were they planning for me now? I pulled next to the entry of mine shaft 4C, and jumped out. “We have to walk from here, Grandpa,” I said. “Motor vehicles aren’t permitted in the smaller mine shafts.” Grandpa led the way with his determined stride, and I followed closely behind. The dim light from a string of hanging bulbs revealed a tunnel lined with rows of old wooden chests. As we ventured deeper into the dark space, the shifting shadows played tricks on my eyes. I couldn't resist the urge to stop and lift the lid of one of the ancient-looking boxes. Inside, I found a jumble of old clothes that seemed as if they would crumble to dust at the slightest touch. It was clear that this mine shaft had been a storage space for forgotten belongings. I made a mental note to discard all of it if I ever found the time. Grandpa pushed open a weathered wooden door, revealing a narrow passage leading deeper into the mine. I made a mental note to bring some oil and grease for the hinges before they completely rusted shut. As we walked through the dimly lit tunnel, I noticed that the walls were actually false partitions, cleverly disguised as different rooms. We passed through several more doors, each one blending seamlessly into the rocky walls of the mine. I couldn't help but wonder why someone had gone through so much trouble to create this intricate maze within the mine shaft. Grandpa stopped inside the fifth room. “Here they are.” “Here what is?” I asked. “Your new wardrobe,” replied Grandpa as he squatted down and lifted the heavy lid of the chest. I leaned in close, my curiosity piqued. Inside, neatly folded and smelling faintly of mothballs, were shirts, pants, and boots straight out of a bygone era. Some still had tags attached, their fabric looking brand new despite their apparent age. The sight was like stepping into a time machine to 1870. “Why do I need new clothes?” “Them britches you’re wearing are so tight it looks like you’re fixin’ to head over to the Daisy Ranch and apply for a job.” “Huh? What’s the Daisy Ranch?” “A brothel.” “What’s that?” “A whorehouse.” I turned bright red and looked down at my jeans. Grandpa wasn’t wrong, I’d had a growth spurt and they were getting pretty tight. Grandpa lifted up a pair of black woolen trousers, judged their size, and tossed them to me. He then tossed me suspenders, a linen black-striped shirt, a wool vest, and a long black coat. “How are these in such good condition?” I asked. “The clothes in the chest I opened were rotted.” Grandpa pulled a pair of boots out of the chest last and handed them to me. “Yep, almost all the clothes here have long since gone to rot, but these are fairly new, and never worn.” “Where did they come from?” “When your Grandpa George was seventeen, your Great Grandpa Joseph got the clever idea to have him wear vintage clothing when giving the bunker tours. Joseph had these made, accurate down to the last thread, but George hated his father and refused to wear them. So, they’ve been in storage down here for the last forty years; there are five sets total, more than any boy would ever need. Go ahead, put them on.” I glanced around for a place to change, then rolled my eyes as I realized what the individual rooms were for; they were changing rooms for when someone was looking for clothes. I went back to the previous room and changed into the new clothes, and pulled the boots on. There was a tall dusty mirror and I looked at myself. I wouldn’t go to school like this, or out in public, but, I kind of looked cool. I went back to show Grandpa. Grandpa looked me over. “You’re not a pig farmer, pull your pant legs out of your boots.” I pulled the pant legs out. I don’t know why I thought they were supposed to be tucked in. “Button the top button of your shirt.” I fumbled with the button, but eventually got it. Why was the button so small? Grandpa nodded. “That’s better. Don’t ever let me catch you with that button undone. Men stay properly groomed and dressed at all times.” Grandpa pulled out a crisp, black ribbon from his pocket and wrapped it around my neck, tying it into a perfect bow tie. I couldn't help but feel a little foolish for not being able to do it myself, even after several attempts. “It’s alright, we’ll keep working on it.” “I look like that guy in the Wyatt Earp movie, Doc Holliday.” “I met him on a train to Philadelphia, and then a few years later in Dallas. Is he your hero?” I shrugged, but deep down inside, I couldn't deny the coolness factor of Doc's character. “Every boy needs a hero. Doc was a good man, and the most dangerous man of my time. Grab the chest, it has the rest of your clothes in it.” “Did he really say, “I’m your Huckleberry?” “It was a common saying that meant, “I’m your man.” And the reply is, “You’re a daisy if you are.” “I don’t get it.” “Let’s say someone asks you to ride shotgun on the stage. You would say, “I’m your Huckleberry,” to which the reply is, “You’re a daisy if you are,” meaning, “That’s good if you are.” I grinned as I lifted the clothes chest to carry out to the ATV, and hoped I’d get a chance to use that line some time. Once we were back at the ATV, I shoved the chest in the back and asked, “Now what?” Grandpa was already sitting in the passenger seat. “Tunnel 3C.” A big iron door barred the way into the tunnel. Grandpa used a skeleton key to unlock the door. I’d never been inside this tunnel, mainly because I knew it was locked, and these were the old tunnels, there was nothing in them I ever needed. It was dark inside, but Grandpa knew where the string hanging from the ceiling was to turn on the lights. As the room beyond the big door illuminated, my eyes widened in amazement at all the old guns on display - revolvers, rifles, and even a Gatling Gun in the center of the room. I ran my hand along the wall covered in sleek revolvers, and then turned to admire the array of rifles on another wall. This was definitely not your average storage space. Grandpa pushed aside several crates until he found the one he was looking for. He rummaged through it, muttering to himself, until he found what he was looking for - an old gunbelt. He wrapped it around my waist and secured it tightly, then pulled out a shoulder holster. It took some adjusting, and even he laughed at how awkward it was to get it on me. Next, he walked over to the wall where the revolver collection hung. He carefully selected three guns - two with a long barrel and one of the smaller revolvers - and placed them in their designated holsters on my body. Stepping back, he nodded in approval at the sight of me armed and ready. “There we go, now you’re ready to start,” he said. “This is called a Huckleberry rig, it’s the same as Doc Holliday wore.” “Really! This is so cool,” I replied. “But, why do I need so many guns?” “The one against your thigh is for when you’re standing, the cross-draw one is for when you’re sitting, and the shoulder holster is for when you can’t reach down.” I fiddled with the gun in the shoulder holster. “Umm… when would that be?” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe when you’re crawling out of an escape hatch.” My eyes lit up with delight. “Oh my gosh, that’s so clever.” Grandpa kicked a crate. “Alright, Doc Robinson, this is your ammo, it’s soft-pellet practice rounds, it’s the only ammo you’re allowed to use for now. Do not put real bullets in your guns until I tell you.” “Oh, I get it, we’re going to play paint-ball. I like the sound of that,” I said. “But, I’m not a doctor.” “Once you set a few broken bones, pull a bullet or two out of someone, and deliver a couple babies, it’s what folk will take to calling you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” I frowned. “A doctor does no harm, how can I be a gunslinger too?” “It’s a brutal new world outside, and you’ve been given the heavy burden to carry the decision of life or death over others.” “What if I don’t want to?” “Don’t tempt fate, boy, folk already did that when they built horrible weapons they shouldn’t have, and now look where we are.” “I don’t want to shoot anyone.” “Good, I’d be worried if you did. Now, you need to learn to fast-draw and hit what you intend,” said Grandpa with an evil grin. “So, here’s the game. Wear your guns at all times, when you see me, draw and shoot. Don’t hesitate, I will be shooting at you. When you can hit me, the game is over and you’re ready to move on to the next phase of your training.” “That sounds like fun,” I said. Grandpa walked over to the door, then spun around and shot me in the leg. I hadn’t even seen his arm move. Pain exploded in my leg and I fell to the ground, pretty sure I was dying. “Hurts like the dickens, doesn’t it,” said Grandpa. “Learn fast, or this is going to be a very unpleasant experience for you.” Grandpa turned around and walked out of the room laughing. The last thing I heard was him shouting, “Hey Rose, I hope you got plenty of your aloe vera welt ointment ready, your sapling is going to need it.” I checked my leg, the pellet hadn’t broke skin, but there was a welt, and it hurt. I was pretty mad as I picked up the crate of ammo and headed outside. When I got out to where I’d left the ATV, the clothes chest was lying on the ground, and the ATV was gone.