Those that have never taken the time to get to know him, think of Griffin Connors as an eccentric old man. At fifty years old, he is still a very striking man. He is five foot ten, and weighs around one hundred eighty-five pounds. He has steel blue piercing eyes, that most fail to see are full of warmth. One only has to look beyond the full beard and moustache to see the kindness and humor that life has left etched there through the years.
He loves history, especially things dealing with the American Civil War and World War I aeroplanes. He rides his horse with a saber and gun belt on as though he were a soldier in the Civil War, which leads to some of the thoughts of his eccentricity. What most don't know is that, he does ride in Civil War reenactments and rides with those things, to keep his horse familiar with the sounds and weight of them. He has built his very own World War I Nieuport 17 Fighter, which he loves to fly.
Griffin has planned this flight for sometime. He has made all the necessary preflight checks; his gear has been loaded into the small aeroplane. He is flying over one of the most beautiful parts of the country he has ever seen. He checks the instruments; they all still looked good, oil pressure 40 lbs., oil temperature. 160 degrees and the tachometer steady at 1750 rpms. With a check of the compass heading thrown in for good measure, he feels good about all the systems that he can keep watch on.
He lets his mind drift a bit, thinking, 'How long have I waited for this moment, all the work, the planning and most of all the money! All of it brought together in this new but ancient machine that is rumbling along letting me feel the wind rush by and feel the freedom watching the myriad greens and brown of the land below slip by.'
"All of the countless hours I have spent reading the books about how these old machines behave. The mechanics of how the throttle and everything work the first time out are no surprise but the actual feel of the controls, the smell of the fuel and oil as it burns and the vibrations, there is now way any number of books could have prepared me for any of those things. The only way, is to be here in the pilots seat and experience them. How often in most peoples lives do they get to not only build but actually fly their own World War I Nieuport 17 Fighter?' He continues to think as he glides through the sky.
His is glad that he, substituted a modern radial engine in place of the original 80 hp Le Rhone rotary engine but as well as more dependable the radial engine was easier to get and maintain. All of that seems so far away now that he is flying at 2500 feet and 90 mph.
A glint off a metal roof in the distance suddenly reminds him that nightfall is not far away and a place to land and camp for the night is the next on his list of priorities. He looks at the map strapped to his leg and according to it; there should be a small private landing strip about seven miles ahead and slightly to his left. 'Good,' he says aloud, 'that should take about another eleven minutes.'
He briefly thinks, 'what if they don't want me to land there? He didn't install a radio in the WWI Nieuport Fighter replica, as they did not have radios in them during the war. Even if he had installed one, most private landing strips don't have manned radios and wouldn't answer anyway.' He soon dismisses the doubt by reasoning, 'no one has ever turned away a WWI Fighter, and the rarity of it alone makes even those who don't know anything about airplanes want to see it and get closer.'
When he first announced his intentions to make his trip with every effort to use small-unpaved strips and stay away from the bigger airports there were those who questioned such a choice by saying, "What if the strip is being used by dopers?" He pointed out, "that if a private strip is shown on an aviation map, the authorities can monitor it very easily for unlawful activities."
He is relieved to see the private strip come into view, as it should; it makes him feel good knowing that he is on course and time. He first circles the strip at 2500 feet so he can see the layout, the direction of the runway and any obstructions such as trees, hills, or creeks that may give concern on landing.
The strip appears to be a third of a mile long and run parallel to a small creek that runs along the east side. On the opposite side is a stand timber of average height and density. The approaches to north and south ends of the runway are open to good-sized hay fields and as it is late summer, he can see no obstacles as the season for hay cutting was over harvested months ago. The only building appears to be a small house about a quarter mile away through the trees with no sign of activity from it.
'I'll make a low pass and see if anyone runs out with a shotgun or anything evil like that.' He thinks, preferring to be safe and to let any below know of his presence. As he pulls back on the throttle to slow the engine for descent, the wind in the bracing wires between the wings become a distinct whistling hum that is almost musical. He can easily understand how when flying old machines like these, they can become a lover, they will kiss you with the wind, cradle you with their motion and sing to you if you treat them right.
Dipping down between the trees, he lines up on the narrow grass strip first to see and feel the whole situation out. He knows that he can always throttle up and climb back into the safety of the sky if something doesn't look right.
He doesn't notice anything that presents a major problem as he flies over, the grass, though it could stand to mowing, isn't too high. He figures when the hay fields had been cut, so had the grass. As he climbs out of the fly by to set up for landing, he passed over the house, he thinks that he sees someone come out but the trees block his view before he can be sure. 'Oh well, I am out of time.' he thinks as the sun gets closer to the horizon, 'it's now or never.'
He picks a spot on the end of the strip where he wants to touch down; he again pulls back on the throttle to slow the engine for descent. Approaching the runway from the north, he begins talking himself through the landing, "Okay, here for all the rookies, these old style flying machines demand that you pay attention to the landing. You can come in a little crooked but not much for if you do you can at the least break a wheel or flip over on your back, not good either way. Here we go! Close the throttle, watch the airspeed, don't let it get below 50 mph, otherwise, the aeroplane will stall and fall out of the sky. Crab the aeroplane over to one side a bit, so that you can where you're going and remember to straighten it up before you touch the ground. Lower, lower, okay, ease the stick back and use the rudder to straighten the machine, now you can't see anything but the engine ahead so it's all side vision, if something gets in front of you now, you will hit it. That's it, keep equal distance on either side of you and you'll stay in the middle. There!"
He feels the wheels rolling now, pulls the stick all the way into his belly to get the tail down and the speed leaves quicker. Once the aeroplane stops moving, he begins to look around for somewhere to taxi to for shut down and to camp. On the south end of the runway appears to be a wide spot next to the creek. He moves the throttle forward and the machine begins to move, slowly he taxies to the wide spot, switches the engine off, and listens to the engine clicking as it sputters to a stop.
As he pushes his goggles up onto his forehead, the noises from the engine, wind, and wires all began to fade and he begins to hear the sounds of nature all around him. The sound of the water of the creek as it meanders past with soft gurgles, as it flows over small rock shelves and around the gentle curves. The sound of the night birds as they call to their mates.
As he unbuckles the leather flying helmet and slips it from his head, he hears other sounds, crickets and cicadas serenading the dying sun, what he thinks might be a squirrel barking in the distance and the rustle of nearby brush as something moves the trees and underbrush. He turns his head to see if he can spot whatever it is, in the dying light, all he can see is the movement of the brush, and can tell that whatever it may be it is something much larger than a rabbit or squirrel, possibly a deer or large dog that he has startled. The way the brush was moving the creature was moving away from him to the south so he didn't give it further thought.
Undoing the shoulder and lap belts, he raises himself out of the aeroplane. He swings his right leg out over the side, feeling for the step in the side of the plane, then eases his left leg out and places it on the ground. 'As thrilling as it is to fly, it always feels great to have solid ground under your boots,' he thinks to himself.
He reaches in behind the seat to the small baggage area to retrieve his camping gear that he brought with him. His gear consists of a tarpaulin for lying over the wing of the plane to act as a tent or flat as a ground cloth if no rain is threatening to fall. He also had matches, a flashlight, and a knife with a six-inch blade, two cans of beans, a small container of coffee, a small coffee pot and cup and a small pot for cooking them.
He jumps across the creek to gather some fallen limbs for a campfire; he doesn't need many, just enough for a small fire to heat his beans and enough for a small fire in the morning for coffee.
The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as he feels the first rays of the campfire's heat. He settles back, leaning on his elbows to muse over the day's activities when he hears it again, a quiet rustling sound of something moving around just out of sight in the underbrush.
Thinking he hears a low menacing growl, being left-handed, he slowly reaches with his left hand for the .38 revolver that he has at his side under the flying jacket. He quickly turns towards the noise with the gun pointed and cocked ready to fire when his eyes took in the stunning sight before him...
Treasure, her real name all but forgotten, at the age of twenty-eight lives alone, her only visitors being the wild creatures that come near the small ranch house she calls home. She has lived here for the last fourteen years of her life, the last four she has been alone.
When she was only fourteen, her parents had sold her to a man as a slave. She had had no idea then what kind of slave she would eventually become. During the first four years with him, she was his maid, cook, seamstress, gardener, ranch hand, doormat and whipping post. They were self-sufficient and had no need for the outside world. They had a huge garden, which she tended, cattle and occasionally a couple of pigs for meat. Between the solar energy and generators, they had no need for and outside electric source.
The slightest mistake she made earned her a whipping. He had told her what would be expected of her when she was older, describing in detail how he would use her body and allow others the use of it as well. She had never known his name, she only knew him as Master. She spoke very little during this time and soon stopped crying during his beatings.
While she was still young, he had allowed her to wear clothing. As she grew, instead of buying her clothing she had to use his old worn clothing.
