Free America's Sunset: A Post Apocalyptic Fight for Survival by Norman Christof Page A

too frugal to buy new tractors in this economy, which was fine with Dawson, as it kept him busy with something he rather enjoyed. Not as exciting as eight seconds with Apocalypso, but a lot less painful.
    Dawson walked under the main farm gate, which simply read Williams Farm. It was supported by two rough-hewn posts twice his height at least. They looked old enough to fall over at any moment. Dawson had suggested he could reinforce them one day, but Bert Williams swore they’d still be standing long after both of them were gone. His great-great-grandfather erected the sign by hand when he started the farm, and they had survived three tornadoes in Bert’s lifetime. At least, three he could remember. Walking through the gate, he gently pounded the post three times for good luck. A throwback to his rodeo days.
    There was one more reason he liked to come in early in the morning. Another habit from his rodeo days. Williams kept a small stable of horses in the big barn. The barn was built to hold more horses, but much of the space was taken up with broken machinery still on Dawson’s to-do list. When the late great-great Williams built the barn, they needed more horses to get the work done. Now with the machines, not so much. Dawson always felt the old broken machines in the barn made the horses nervous. It was like they knew they could be replaced with some ugly old metal tractor. He figured it was his duty to visit the horses every morning, to reassure them that there’d always be a place for them. It was hard for Bert to keep even these few horses. They were expensive, and more indulgence than necessity. Bert always said though that having a connection to the past reminds us of who we are, where we come from, and why we do what we do. The economics didn’t always work out that way, but for now the horses were there and happy.
     
    Dawson walked past every stable, and spent a few minutes with each horse, talking and petting them as they nuzzled against his hands. When he got to the last one, he picked up the groomer’s brush and walked into the stall.
    “Hello, Hero. Hope you had a good night. Sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday, but we had a bit of an emergency with one of the machines.”
    Hero whinnied quietly and nuzzled the back pocket of his pants, while Dawson brushed him down.
    “Whatcha looking for, fella? There’s nothing back there.”
    Dawson smiled and moved around the front of Hero to brush the other side. Hero sniffed vigorously as Dawson moved past, and pushed the flap of his chest pocket open to reveal the sweet carrot he was looking for. Hero gracefully removed the carrot from his pocket and chewed it up quickly.
    “Ah, is that what you were looking for? You were worried when you couldn’t find it in the usual spot, weren’t you?”
    Hero shook his head back and forth, throwing his mane in every direction.
    “You just did that so I’d have to spend more time brushing you now, didn’t you? There’s no fooling this old cowboy. You pretty horses are all the same.”
    Hero leaned towards Dawson with enough gentle force to knock him off balance. Dawson chuckled.
    “You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to knock this old rodeo rat off his feet. I’ve tussled with much tougher customers than you, old boy.” Dawson grabbed the wider bristle brush, and start running it through Hero’s mane. There were plenty of tangles to work out. “Where have you been boy? Your mane is quite the mess. Certainly not acceptable for horse with a name like Hero. You’ll have to share with me sometime how you got that name. I’m sure it’s a great story.”
    Hero nodded his head up and down with Dawson’s brushing, but declined to tell any stories.
     
    The sound of the barn door creaking open caught Dawson’s attention.
    “You back there, Dawson?” Bert said.
    “Yes, sir, Mr. Williams,” Dawson answered as he closed Hero’s stall door behind him.
    “You can take the boy out of the rodeo, but