Apportioned-to the many retrospectives of so many honors, eras and portrayals-of great men and times, eras and decisions, people and personas. All-enjoined, to subjective-supposition, and supervisory… These were the roots of the trials of century’s manifesto… A democracy, leading the world. One nation, indivisible;Bo Jon Littlehorse came for these, of world-war cemeteries and men and women who-died of the greater, than their-struggles and this 12-mile tract of land, enterprising the grandest essence of the world.
…Bo sat at an eatery on the out-skirts of D.C. The out-door restaurant fed workers of the city… The food was tasty and Bo, quite hungry, from his long-travels and sightseeing. He-would be in the Capitol for two-days longer. He had spent his time-absorbing what stood-solemn but outside of his honored, full-showing of homage. There was much to do that went-on, in the town as time went-by… The radio at the café was on:- …”This is KYDC. There continues a discussion of Congress in the case of possible embezzlement and racketeering-charges…” “Thought to have taken kickbacks, made congressional-decisions, and given to private donors, intimate-information…” Bo was enjoying the warm southerly beginning Spring. He had taken pleasure in his-stay.
~The RV-rested near the base of the Jefferson Memorial, wading-pool-glistening by displayed-lights. Dazzling and adorningly he felt be-calmed and inspired… A true design-in devotion and respect. What was appealing became a site of horrified-proportions. Bo-enjoyed the view, he was getting band-noise across the radio channel-receiver: ”Little-Dove to Prairie Mouse, over…” “This is Prairie Mouse…” “Ready for meeting with acorn, is Father Stone still resting-Oak?” Silence. “Prairie Mouse will be under Father Oak within third blow…” “Have acorn ready, Hazelnut is waiting…” “Over, Little-Dove, out.”
***
…Odd chatter, he-wondered if a cartoon t.v. program had crossed-bands, so he didn’t know if, and what the message was about… Tired, he decided to kick-back and nap several-hours, instead of heading back to the RV port. There was a 12 a.m. curfew. About an hour-later he was readying his RV, papers, frig, cabinets and other-things to take-care.- …A man wearing a golfer’s cap, dressed in a woolen jacket, cardigan shorts and white running-shoes stood upon the statue’s grounds. Nothing, out of the ordinary, until two other men appeared… Dressed in dark-blue suits and ties, Bo thought it suspicious that such a late-night rendezvous, until something extraordinary occurred. The rather casually, dressed man carrying a large briefcase sat it down, as the two put their single-case down the older man suddenly pulled a magnum Lugar-handgun from his jacket and fired seven-rapid shots into the two… The crack of gunfire-pierced the still, cool air…
***
Bo couldn’t believe his eyes… He ran out onto the grassy-Knowles toward the down and bleeding men. This was an act, out-of the blue-sky. In blanketed darkness a killer was at large, a strange rift had been done in the nation’s city… As Bo ran to assist, the two were already dead… He checked the two men for life. Bo had a strange suspicion about the situation, as he heard sirens approach he decided to become scarce…
He-ran back to his bus and rode-off… Within hours, he was across town when the shootings were bulletined news across town. When the shootings were yet to be identified and no-one had seen the shooter under the Washington monument… Bo didn’t notice 15-minutes into a political investigation-segment… He was listening to police-radio when a strangely familiar-voice, out of place, came-on in self-representation. The report ended to Bo Jon’s notice. He glanced at a picture of a distinguished Congressman, then the report went-off… Bo was getting signals from several-sides he was being-confronted with what was a slap in the exertive… Bo related the situation as fast as he rectified, in refining-reproach…
***
Bo had a new resounding, qualities-conviction. He could feel he-had a case and that he was within it… Somewhere, within the fusion was what he had to piece-together and contently, ‘undo’. He, Indian’s blood-of-honor, his fighting-cunning and his enticement with the unknown, had him preparing-to do what was needed. Certifiably, secured and exposed effectually, known as Bo Jon’s interstitials needing to be proven…
He awakened on Sunday morning along the lower roads leading-up to the great, powerful and complex -areas of goings on. And as the eastern sea-board winds blew from the south the clouds were burning off, puffy-clouds that had rolled-in from north and southerly warmth increased with morning climate.
Bo had an intensified night of contemplative-faring not uncommon for him, and not usual for a serious-detective. In fact, Bo Jon was often fascinated with the glorified-contending confidential. In-approximation the reanalysis-Bo decide to go to law-enforcement, over his-experience… He’d known what he saw was possibly an unusually and potentially revealing clue-to the deadly, incident. Bo Jon was obliviously, an ‘asset‘-to what was apparently an objective design-of murderer, in some transaction. He entered the police- station downtown… The place was on the edge of town. It looked rather worn sitting on an unclean street which had been there for quite awhile. Inside was a population of urban-solicitors. He went to the main-desk. “My name is Bo Jon Littlehorse, private-investigator.” The man at the desk seemed unimpressed, he seemed to gaze at him preoccupied. Bo told his story… Afterward, he-was given a citizen’s report-sheet and asked to fill-it out. Bo was not used to such inane-prospective. He went-to sit at a table where locals were waiting for their chance to be responded to. It seemed his-intentions were under-bared…
When an office-detective came over to speak-with him. He asked the nature of the incident and decided-to take him to his-desk. But the sargeant didn’t seem enthused. He said that of all his deductions’, he still was ‘up-in-the-air‘. Knowing he was a detective he told him to bring-in more eividence. He left, after the lukewarm commute to the police department and the locally, fashioned expense… It was time, or the alternative moment to abjure to ‘other’, affectations. In the application that would converge to the semantics, allusions, and intricacies concerted to the terms of the pitting-docents publicly, it was making its technical-rounds. But officially and factually, was beginning to get entwined with obvious, complications… Trying to go through system that was apparently, stoking and stalling. Bo knew he had to stay ahead of the game. Thus explicitly, the outcome and the in-come was being verifiably, consternated… Open to all-manner of rules, and resigns…
If Bo could penetrate or infiltrate the ‘plexes’ of high-politics and possessively, over-blown and potentially, under-whelmed public scrutiny. Thus Bo Jon had to be especially, transfixed as to what might be his “only”-contact to the riding-on the case. Under-all this, in a span of ‘critical’-time events. Someone was on the loose-after a killing-spree, he had a number of who-had the ‘firing-gun’. This could have been an easily, escaping act due to the result and circumstantial-stature.
But Bo-was not going-to be simply, evolved-into involvement he-might be considered now the ‘prime-mover’, the ergonomist, the enforcing-voice yet enduring-’commander’ of what would result. It-seemed men were dead and one man, one possible-’message’. He was the witness, one chance to avail a man’s emergence, as a criminal. Fighting-both himself and the criminal-from inside. He was not going to let-either go unwarranted, of its only lead. He had to go into action… Supposed someone had done the killing for what was a one-sided accomplice. And old man, suspect-”one”… At night, under-’cloak’, a secretive-endeavor… Bo began-to deduce-in his mind the indefinite-inspective. From Indian-style skillful minded, outwitting…culminating in its possibilities.
From the moment he arrived at the beautiful and devoted rest-stop at the monument to finding the shooting-portrayers in a place; ‘placid’, of demise. It was about such a circumstance. Killing among the guarants of freedom… He-was contrastingly cross-haired;murder, symbolicism, belief. Someone-defied America’s golden and ennobling-law, in cold-blood. Arisi
ng that night, listening, to a strange serial-of ‘bantered-words’ over the radio, some silly-eclipse of humorous-thought he was listening quite withstanding, to awaken a rather subconscious-ode. He-pondered it for the next two-days. He-went to the police-records in outer D.C. It was part-of the city. He saw the ‘devan’-man who he thought killed the two... In a released-report, he read-in the paper, was a “bad-drug deal” or some reputable-backlashing in the going-”public”, he saw it as a ‘civil’-servant…
As a former-military man. He’d known the gag-order toward things of secretary-nature. He-decided while at the regional law enforcement-office, covering the greater-southern sea-board area… He was glad-to see that more, studious-official to the directive-of law. Inclement the whole-order of auspicating, he opened the decidual on his search-for some-how orienting, the facts of his-issues which seemed more of an individualism. …Now, in technical, Bo Jon was in his medium… He drew-up first, the reference of incidents of people-profiled as D.C.’s illegal-dealers. From properties-to-marriage issues gone-bad. From financial demise to disreputable, histories. Bo was reconciling a recombinant-repose of operative, under-handedness and life-threatening, issues… He continued to amass implicit-images from the greater D.C. area. Surprisingly didn’t look all that “promising“-for the great institutions-town. Just sitting-down, his paper he-bought from the local newspaper-stand. The front-page, on a Congressman named:Al Bowmer…
Bo had read-like fiction that a high-price novelist would be kept-in business. It was in ordinal that all the surmised-evidence be truncated-to be heavy on “illegality”, yet soft on true-’subjection’… Men and women who were either below the law conspiring or above, the law of perdition; it was an editorial-thing… It seemed the city was full of verbose, pariahs of criminal and accusatorial-auspicion winding-through the exactions of the community of founding. Then, he-found what could-have only been elicit to his-mind. He-chose to meditate-on it a little at a time. From the fluency-of what Bo was learning was the uneven jocular, appeasement of life-style elements of D.C. The radio-message that Bo had listened-to was Bo’s pilgrimage to great-city of dominance had found also the advancing of the illegal-essency. From how well social-groups interacted to the method of shaking-hands, and cooperation. D.C. was an American city like others transactions going-on in similar-manners. Except, they-were based on appointed and power-welding people, who had alteur-influences. As he-began to seemingly wake-up from his once innocent slumber he realize almost into reality that the man under the monument was an old gentleman who had more than money or desire, at stake. He-was dealing with his reputation…
***”This is KYDC still the case goes-on, of Senator Al Bowmer’s fate as the investigative-committee continued their-questioning, of those around him…” “Chief Senator Paul Boyles is seeking to indict him but little, true-evidence remains in the five-month ordeal…” The t.v. station broadcast the very-local event of national-proportions.
Bo-drove back into town he decided, he wanted to rest and take a breather. He’d think more on it tomorrow. As he slept in the RV lay-bed, he dozed. The radios were left-on and the t.v. played. He’d had a long day. Then as he slept, he heard strange-voices come-in his sleep. “Prairie-Mouse to resting-Oak, over.” “Acorn is a no-go, Little-Dove has flown with Hazelnut…” “Little-Dove is a no-go…” Bo heard this inattentively, at-first then his ears perked-up. Then it all came to him. “…Little Dove”; “resting Oak”, -”Hazelnut”…
It was all-code. He knew who was Little-Dove and what became of Hazelnut and Prairie-Mouse… He listened closely. He had been a ‘witness’ to a secret hand-over, gone bad. And he would be the only-one to see Al Bowmer brought to justice. He had to inform the F.B.I. and if he was right a certain-Senator would be wanted now for a double-homicide.
23 days later:
~Senate Investigative Committee Chairman Paul Boyles entered the last, finalizing statement against the now arrested and arraigned, Mr.Bowmer. “This court now convenes that the accused has been arrested and definitively, placed in-prison for criminal-judgment. This Senate-court stands adjourned….”
The end.
Meeting of the Chieftains
[Thirteen]
…A mature-man looked-at his aging image, as he dressed. In a beautifully hand-sewn garb, beautifully quilted, embroidered, fashioned and designed-for someone held in high-esteem. The purest-of native-design exquisitely patterned, embossed, delicately adorned… Each hand-made, to exacting-precision… Readying himself, first the undergarment made of the best Elk-skin, a lai over-garment for comfort and warmth, and the last and most precious-Indian mounted Chieftain’s symbolic-dress. It was prepared for by the most refined-workers of the tribe, who were taught and talented. Then placed-upon his head, a feathered-mantle, of high-Chieftain’s man-hood. A definitive-expression of power;some 863 eagle, hawk and dove-feathers… Especially, imported-to the specific dress of “greatness”… All put-on by his special-assistant the Guarant Samuel Littlefeather, tailor and matron-to Chief Chere “Standing-Bear” Littlehorse…
Like the Chieftains before-him, placed and handed-down, in such respectful-attire… His-aide, had known Chere for over 50-years after his ascension, acknowledged as rightful heir-to the Nation of Southwestern-Cherokee. Under his-guidance, he was the leader of some 45,000-native Americans. He was preparing for the celebration of the meeting of Chieftains. As high host-of all the tribes of Cherokee, some 8.2 million strong, from-all over the country and descendants through-out the world… As he-stood fully, dressed-looked strong and proud yet he thought himself, ‘gawky’… He, though reprimanding, knew as always that he’d held the ‘responsibility’ and ‘symbol’ of his-people. Demanding, an ardor of the thinking- reflections of the mind, sense and strength of all he has lead and as well, he was command-of such. The image of duty and order, he invested impressions of judgment, justice and justness that was not to fail…
Looking, intently, into the mirror appearing truly-grand, then deciding to ask his warrant’s opinion, knowing he could not make judgment… “Dear-friend Samuel, how does your Chief-appear?” He stood studying his Chief whom he could not defy nor deny his-honor. …“You are a fine-man whose dress is admirable than your aide can justifying, yet”…(He tried-to be more appeasing, than he knew he would like to be.). “…He is an greater-individual than can be admired, ‘worthy’ of his finite-attire.” But Sam knew Chere-would not get much space for indecision, even if plumbing. “Now, my apprentice, you must forgive any idiocy, dispatch my inordinacy and forge-ahead with deliberate-announcing, and obey the occupation of this decent, design of spirit, and will be forgiving of an honest-servant upon his-duty”… …”Yes, Samuel, I am thankful for your acclamation…” Said Chere knowing, his genuine-forthrightness…
Chere was observing his indeed, bountiful-appearance;he also, knew that his-people accepted nothing- less. Yet he fulfilled all-parts of his-”role”… From his many years as Chief, he imported respect not because he demanded it, but bestowing accurate was his-role. His-father and his-father before, commanded great-dignity, as the generations passed-on. Now Chere had redeeming, distinguishable age-lines, a deeper-brow and an intent-gaze, one that was eloquently, disciplined and respectful. He had his father’s demeanor which he remembered as a young-man in loving-adoration, then, he was the next in-line. He went-on to carry-on his life’s work. When he ascended to head-leader, he was deposed-in both rite and obliging. Destined to the power of leader and beholder, he was the mind-of administering-‘model’ He was growing older at 83, he’d passed his prime-years, dutiful, welding as the sole decision-maker, as mass-missioner… Mind, body and spirit as bonded-holder of perceiving and proclaiming.
He went to rest till evening when he could again, reunite with those-having other choices in-life. His life, was never to leave… He enjoyed the solitary and tribal-bonding that was richer than any set-forth by the white-man. Raised to
be the line of decider of the “good”-of the nation’s needs. As its establisher& ruler he had many such choices-to make in-differing areas of interests, circumstances and insight to make word, for to the succeeding of the progress by the entire-congregation… He’d made himself in-turn an experienced leader and charge. As he saw it, the face-Cherokee had changed-for the better of the whole. And now, as he had dressed-in the meeting garments a special white-Elk leather-patuen, he was ready to lay eyes on old-faces and new.
Samuel Little-feather was there to aid, in his final conversant, before meeting all the regents. “Sam, how do you think I will-fare this evening?” “Chief, may I speak as your deeded-friend?” Chere answered forthrightly. “Sir, you are one of my best-friends, and above that you are my chosen leader, who I-think is the “solution” to the needs of one-who should be Chief. As such, I am not only ‘proud’ but immensely, gratified with what you will and have-done…” Sam knew Chere had many responsibilities each having a special hold-on him, of these he listened to his leader and in-loyal redemption. He had to ease his-mind to work as not his fateful-companion, but one with him, in the tribe. Chere had a number of worries all never-distant from the character-of a man discipline to his self-propriety. Possessive of many a mastered and magnitude of-proficiency, as adroit as his comportment. As the “esters” of thought, admission and impression that made-up a man of manifold-entailing he was still, a man…
“Sam, many of the leaders of the tribes are people, men I knew as youths, some men older than I, and men who are greater, elders, still edifying, pantheons to our culture.” “Yes, I still remember how my peers and I, were rivals;dominant yet not as respective…” “There is Frank Gray-weasel, he is a man who has never did less than ‘large’ things. He made Chief, a full four-years before I, he was more intelligent and intense. As well, he-never liked me.” “We became rivals, opinionated, tranced and at-odds… He will always be a thorn-in my side…” “How shall our differences be over-come.” “…And there are the cross-wits of the men, of the eastern-region who implement the better crop-needs, fielding and gambling-casinos, and were fully-wealthy, within years.” “They snub their noses, at we, who are proud and needy and are donated to almost pitying.” While the heritage-fondlers in the north, sell arrowheads, jewelry, areas who do the same… Chere-had many peeves-none, un-consolidating. He was never embarrassed but his foister for belief in his-tribe, like most, went well into the frailties-of formality. He-stood 6’2” yet he was worthy of even larger-stance, he intimidated a lot of less potent-men who should not come to devoid over his even-sized heart, this would be a confiding-mistake.
The Continuing tales of Bo Jon Littlehorse, P.I. Page 14