Paint the Wind
Page 92
The story of Geronimo's first family's massacre follows the tale as told by Forrest Carter in Watch for Me on the Mountain. Needless to say, as the victor writes the history of all wars, the white man's historical memory differs somewhat from Mr. Carter's. But inasmuch as Forrest Carter was a full-blood Cherokee and a hereditary storyteller to his tribe, my instincts tell me that his rendition is probably closest to the truth of any available. I would wholeheartedly recommend his books to anyone who feels a desire to learn more about Native Americans, their kinship with the earth and the unseen world around us. It was from him I learned of the talking trees.
Several passages in which Geronimo tells his life story to Hart were taken nearly verbatim from Geronimo's verbal autobiography, Geronimo, His Own Story, as I thought this extraordinary Apache deserved a hearing in his own words. Geronimo's ability to alter weather was documented in the diaries of white soldiers as well as in the folktales of the Apaches, but I was unable to find an eyewitness account of what rituals he used in performing this feat, so I've followed the methodology as outlined in Rolling Thunder by Doug Boyd, who witnessed Rolling Thunder, a modern-day medicine man, invoke a cyclone to free a jailed boy. I am indebted to Arnold Elliott's Blood Brother for the ritual of blood brotherhood, which is a men's mystery, and not spoken of freely with women, but which was practiced in much the way I've portrayed it in many tribal cultures around the world.
My belief that an honorable white man and an honorable Apache leader could have had the kind of friendship described in my story is based on the fact that Cochise, the great Chiracahua leader, called on his deathbed for his friend, the Indian agent Tom Jeffords, and on the fact that Elbys Hugar, the great-granddaughter of Cochise, verified the closeness of this friendship for me.
There were no Chinese in Leadville, although the tale of Wu could have happened in many other mining regions of the time. There are no hot springs under Leadville, although the disaster I've described could have happened at other mining districts. I've slightly altered the exact dates of Tony Pastor's theatre opening and Geronimo's incarceration and war with the white man, in deference to the needs of my story.
Otherwise it could have happened exactly this way. And, who knows? Perhaps, it did...
Cathy Cash Spellman Westport, Connecticut
This is a work of fiction. Only the people mentioned below actually lived:
Geronimo Naiche General George Crook General Nelson Miles H.A.W. Tabor Baby Doe Tabor Augusta Tabor John McCombe John Arkins George Fryer Jerome B. Chaffee David H. Moffat Jim Grant
All others lived only in my imagination.
Acknowledgments
The Native Americans say that a story stalks a writer and, if it finds you worthy, comes to live in your heart. The author's responsibility is to give that story voice.
Many generous friends have contributed to the expression of the voice of Paint the Wind... to them, and to the story that sought me out, I am more grateful than I could ever say.
Carole Baron, my friend and publisher, who wrestled this one out of me with love and intuition... and never stopped believing. Whose inspired editing and general all-around genius made Fancy and me the very best we can be.
Donna Boccamazzo, Hart, Chance, and Fancy's greatest friend in the world... whose constant loving belief in me and my story and generous hard work on the manuscript did more to bring this book into being than anyone else. No one deserves more credit, praise, and heartfelt thanks.
Tom Brown, Wanda Terhaar, and Karen Sherwood of The Tracker School, who provided invaluable information on survival in the Colorado Rockies in winter.
Roe Callahan, who not only read and encouraged, but made certain that Fancy's adventurous journey was architecturally correct.
Forrest Carter, who first introduced me to Geronimo and the Apaches through his extraordinary work, and who made me understand the Way.
Marion Casey, who carefully checked to see that all things happened in their proper historical time.
Professor John Dunkhase, who was kind enough to share his silver-mining expertise and his knowledge of Leadville with me and my story.
Isabel Geffner, who is always there for me... with the most loving encouragement, the truest talent, and the most constant friendship.
Elbys Hugar, great-granddaughter of the legendary Chiracahua chief, Cochise, who generously shared tribal truths with me, some of which had never been told in the White Man's histories of the Apaches.
Bea Hurwitz, who pursued permission for the quotes I've used, with a dauntless expertise that Wes and Gitalis would be proud of.
Mort Janklow and Anne Sibbald, who, as always, believed in me and my work, when it really counted.
Frank Keller, Jr., who gave unstintingly of his vast knowledge of wilderness life, and who shares with me the fantasy of having lived in the West, when it was still its wildest and purest.
Johanna Lee, my dearest pal through the ages, who as always, gets the medal for loving support, good cheer, and sage spiritual advice.
Alexis Megan Palmer, my special friend, who showed me just how smart, resourceful, and beautiful a nine/ten/eleven-year-old can be.
Marilyn Pearlman, my shamanic drumming companion, who provided me just the right expert at the right time.
Dr. John Pirri, Jr., my friend, Doc, the most wonderful expert on firearms in the world, who made me fall in love with guns and their lore, and who shared with me his encyclopedic knowledge of the Old West so that my characters, like Doc, could "ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth." I couldn't have written an authentic tale of the West without him.
Patricia Soliman, magic as Magda, my "Georgian silver ear trumpet" of the spirit, whose astute and tender understanding of my story, and whose brilliant and generous insights made the editing process both joyous and enlightening.
Dr. Warren Steinberg, who very kindly took time from the busiest schedule in North America to make sure Fancy's medical adventures were true to her time.
Ched Vuckovic, my dear friend, and unquenchable creative mentor... who is always there to pitch in and make things beautiful.
Eleanore Wrench and Clifford Bias, whose extraordinary teachings about metaphysics and magic are reflected throughout my story.
To my adored family, no thanks could possibly suffice...
Conny Cash, the best sister on earth, who lovingly read and reread, thinking, suggesting, understanding, and caring... who remains, like Mary Poppins, the only "practically perfect person" I know.
Harry Cash, my father, my teacher, my friend... so loving, so generous, so wise... who fills my world with sunshine and with goodness. How could I ever say thank you enough for all you've given me?
Joe Spellman, my beloved husband... whose unwavering faith, tenderness, and love make all the difference. There are no words adequate to express my gratitude for making this, and all my dearest dreams come true. I love you, Joe... all there is.