Cry Wilderness

by Frank Capra

  Many of the adventurers who “won the West” acquired fame and fortune with guts, trigger, pick, and plow. But meaning was implanted by the frontier newspaper. Hoppy Hopkins might have been an editor out of his time, but not of his historic mold.

  •••

  The first of the Volkswagens, loaded with me and the all-powerful printed “words,” pulled up to Rock Creek Inn and slid to a stop on the thin snow. Waiting for the papers, Lloyd, the stone-faced innkeeper, was standing on the porch smoking his morning pipe. One of the two high school boys on the truck, earning twenty bucks for this single special delivery, hopped out and ran to the back of the truck. He was red-haired, irrepressible, and wildly imaginative.

  “Lloyd!” he cried out to the innkeeper. “Oil up your old musket…we’re bringing the message to Garcia… Here it is!” he said laughingly, as he hefted the bundle of papers at the innkeeper’s feet. “Careful how you handle that, Lloyd. It’s liable to explode!”

  “Come on, Gabby…we’re late,” yelled the other high school boy who was driving; a dour, mule-eared, pimply youth who wouldn’t go around the corner to see Lady Godiva wrestle a tiger. He threw the truck in gear, making his gabby friend run to get in.

  “You know what, Muley?” said the irrepressible one as he banged his door shut, “we oughtta hang red flags all over this heap…”

  “I’ll bite,” muttered the dour one.

  “We’re carrying explosives!” the redhead exclaimed, holding up the screaming front page.

  “You’re nuts!”

  “Look at that, man. Two words…two bombs, man… ‘SHAME! MONO’ Heads will fall! Mono Craters will erupt again! The Indians are coming!… Think I’ll be a newspaperman.”

  “That figures. Yesterday you were an astronaut.”

  “So what? I’ll start the first paper on the moon.”

  “Aw, grow up, earache,” Muley growled. “Know what your load of bombs will be by tomorrow night?”

  “They’ll be shots heard round the world!”

  “They’ll be cut up toilet paper.”

  At each stop all the way up to Topaz, the irrepressible redhead threw out bundles of papers and shouted American slogans: “Extra! Extra! The Redcoats are coming!” “Paul Revere rides again! Extra!” “One if by land, two if by sea!” “Man the ramparts, men!” “Four-score and seven years ago!” “Give me Liberty or drink the ink!” “Tippecanoe and Tyler, too! Extra!” “Massa’s in the cold, cold ground!…”

  Well, I couldn’t miss all this fun. Instead of going home, I stayed on the truck and watched and listened. In the post offices, in stores and restaurants and on the streets, I saw the natives avidly read and reread the eye-bugging edition. And as in most sparsely populated areas, a local burning issue raises blood pressures quicker’n a declaration of war. At Convict Lake Inn, where workers gather for early breakfast, the papers created quite a hullaballoo. A waitress later told me that eggs, bacon, and hash browns were left uneaten as men, cooks, and waitresses devoured the juicy headlines.

  “Hey, Hank!” yelled out a construction worker wearing a red safety helmet. “Read it out loud, I left my glasses.”

  “With or without gestures?” quipped Hank, who ran the pack station and, as with all horse wranglers, wore a week’s growth of scraggly beard.

  “Try it with English,” cracked a loud mouth from the counter.

  “I save the English for my pool balls, you pigeon,” retorted the bearded wrangler. “Okay, Sy, listen to this for a kick in the pants…” He read out loud for the helmeted one as the hubbub quieted down:

  “The headline reads: ‘SHAME! MONO!’ which you can read from a mile away without glasses. “COUNTY OFFICIALS TAKE ORDERS FROM ARROGANT LAND DEVELOPERS TO DRIVE OLD CHARACTERS OUT OF MONO.’ Then: ‘OLD-TIMERS DON’T FIT NEW VACATIONLAND IMAGE, SAYS THE NEW MONEY. BEAR BAIT AND DRY ROT FIRST ON EXILE LIST. WHO’S NEXT? YOU?’… How do you like them apples, you dirty old-timers?” asked the bearded wrangler of the whole room.

  From my wife, my friends, and the exciting gossip that flew up and down the “rumor lane” (Highway 395), I got other breathtaking “eyewitness accounts”:

  The checking counter at the June Lake General Store was surrounded with customers and clerks listening to butcher Franz Schwartzenburg reading the paper.

  “Listen…just like Dusseldorf before the war: ‘BEAR BAIT AND DRY ROT, TWO LOVABLE HERMITS, PEACEFUL RESIDENTS IN OUR WOODS FOR OVER 25 YEARS, HAVE BEEN ORDERED ARRESTED AS “VAGS”… TO BE TAKEN TO THE COUNTY LINE AND TOLD TO “GIT!” THEIR CRIME? THEY WOULDN’T LOOK GOOD IN BIKINIS.’”

  “What’s bikinis?” asked the puzzled German butcher.

  “Oh, little things,” volunteered a shapely guest in skintight slacks, “little black… Oh, shut up and read…”

  “Excuse me,” apologized Franz the meat man, then resumed reading from the paper: “‘INCORRUPTIBLE DEPUTY SHERIFF WAKEFIELD WAS STRIPPED OF HIS BADGE AND FIRED FOR REFUSING TO ROUST THE TWO HERMITS OUT OF THE COUNTY. WHO’S NEXT? YOU?’”

  •••

  The quaint white courthouse at the county seat of Bridgeport was a bedlam of excitement. All work stopped as county employees ran into each other’s offices waving copies of the “sheet.” Tax Assessor Tobias Greenwald was livid as he read excerpts to his office help:

  “Can you tie that for yellow journalism?” he muttered as he turned a page. “And here’s a whole page of interviews by that slimy little beatnik, ‘the enquiring reporter’:

  “‘CASE CLOSED,’ SAID SHERIFF TOM MCMAHON WHEN REACHED BY PHONE, ‘I FIRED LEFTY FOR INSUBORDINATION, PERIOD. CASE CLOSED, CASE CLOSED…’”

  •••

  Two deputy sheriffs were parked in a sheriff’s car on the Pole Line road to Hawthorne. One was reading to the other. “‘OH, NO, MR. SHERIFF,’ RETORTS NOTED ATTORNEY, STEVE ‘BOATCOURT’ GORSKI, WHEN QUESTIONED ABOUT SHERIFF’S REMARKS. ‘THIS CASE HAS JUST BEEN OPENED. I’VE BEEN ASKED BY LEFTY TO BE HIS PUBLIC DEFENDER…’”

  “Wow!” remarked the other deputy. “Old Boatcourt ain’t about to take on a case unless it’s big. This could start a civil war…”

  “You can say that again,” answered the reader as he continued with Gorski’s interview;

  “‘…AND AS LEFTY’S ATTORNEY, I’M ASKING FOR A PUBLIC HEARING BEFORE THE ENTIRE BOARD OF SUPERVISORS. IF THE BOARD REFUSES SUCH A HEARING, OPEN TO PUBLIC AND PRESS, THEN I’LL FLY TO SACRAMENTO TO PETITION THE STATE’S ATTORNEY GENERAL TO ORDER A SPECIAL HEARING BEFORE DEPUTIES FROM HIS OFFICE.’

  “‘WHAT HAPPENED TO BEAR BAIT AND DRY ROT CAN HAPPEN TO ANY SHEEPHERDER, CATTLEMAN, PROSPECTOR, OR FARMER WHO ISN’T DRESSED IN HART, SCHAFFNER, AND MARX’S LATEST FASHIONS.’”

  The radio in their car crackled: “Number one to all cars…all cars… Report at once to Bridgeport station. Repeating…”

  “Look’s like the civil war’s starting…” said the driver deputy as he turned on the ignition key.

  •••

  The employees of the Great Sierra Motel (forty rooms) hurriedly assembled in the “help’s quarters,” hanging on to the chambermaid’s every word. Fanny Welch, a refugee from amateur theatricals, was not just reading—she was auditioning. But the almond-shaped, rhinestone glasses she normally wore were not on her nose; they twirled in her hand as she held the Mono Herald within an inch of her naked eyes and projected her voice: “‘IT’S THE SAME OLD BALONEY,’ answered old-timer Gabe Palastra, when queried by your reporter. ‘MONEY, MONEY, MONEY’S GOT ALL THE RIGHTS. NEVER USSENS!’”

  “Oh, my stars…here’s an interview with Indian Joe,” exclaimed Fanny, putting on her glasses to bring the others into focus. “That would be your uncle, would it not, Mary John?”—this last directed to a squat Indian dishwasher.

  “What he say?” grunted Mary John.

  “Him say plenty,” emoted Fanny, taking off her glasses and bringing the pap
er up to her nose again: “‘WHAT THE HELL, IT’S US INDIANS NEXT,’ answered old Piute Joe when asked for comment, ‘TELL WHITE POLICE WE ALL GOT RIFLES NOT, NOT ARROWS!’”

  Mary John untied her apron and dropped it on the floor.

  “Now me go home,” she grumbled as she started for the door.

  “Wait a minute, Mary John. You Indians holding a pow-wow?” asks the fry cook.

  “We talk,” cryptically answered the Indian dishwasher, shuffling out.

  •••

  From the Sierra peaks to the White Mountains, from Topaz to Sherwin Grade, the “Bomb” reverberated and the echoes swelled. Monoites stopped everything to read and discuss. Of particular interest were the printed interviews with people they knew personally, such as:

  Resort owner Gabrielson of Mammoth: “YOU CAN’T STOP PROGRESS. I CONGRATULATE THE SHERIFF AND THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY. AND YOU CAN PRINT THAT IN HEADLINES.”

  Lupo Gallegos: “WHAT ABOUT ME? I’M SHEEPHERDER. BEAR BAIT AND DRY ROT IS LOOK BETTER’N ME.”

  Pack station “Hoss” Toomey: “YOU MEAN US MULE SKINNERS GOTTA SHAVE AND SLICK DOWN OUR HAIR TO STAY IN THE COUNTY? HORSE----!”

  Realtor Hathaway of Twin Lakes: “THOSE BUMS ARE A BLIGHT TO VACATIONLAND. WHO NEEDS LICE WHEN WE GOT BEAR BAIT AND DRY ROT?”

  Tackle storeowner Ned Hicks: “WHAT D’YA MEAN, THEY’RE RUNNING PEOPLE OUT OF THE COUNTY? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, SIBERIA?”

  Bridgeport drugstore clerk: “ON LODGE NIGHTS, I’VE SEEN THE SHERIFF AS DRUNK AS BEAR BAIT.”

  Bartender Crouse: “IT’S ALL POLITICS. I WOULDN’T GIVE YOU A DIME FOR THE WHOLE CRUMMY LOT.”

  Mrs. Lucille Lornegan/President of the Women’s Club: “DISTRICT ATTORNEY TONY CALDWELL STANDS ACE HIGH WITH US. HE UNDERSTANDS WOMEN’S RIGHTS.”

  President June Lake C. of C.: “WORST PUBLIC RELATIONS STUNT TO HIT MONO COUNTY. CANCEL MY ADVERTISING.”

  East Walker housewife: “OH, THEY’RE ALL THIEVES UP IN BRIDGEPORT. JUST RAISED OUR TAXES A HUNDRED PERCENT.”

  Cabin owner Peter Horgan: “AS A DISTRICT ATTORNEY, TONY CALDWELL SHOULD BE IN THE MOVIES.”

  Barber Sam Morelli: “WHAT THE HELL’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT TWO BUMS?”

  Garageman Tyson: “BUMS? WHAT ABOUT THE ‘SKI’ BUMS COME UP IN WINTER? STEAL EVERYTHING THAT AIN’T TIED DOWN, THEY DO.”

  Store clerk Tilly Feuchtwanger: “WELL, DID YOU EVER SMELL BEAR BAIT? TOOK THE CURL OUTTA MY HAIR.”

  Tungsten prospector Jerri Jacobi: “BEAR BAIT’S SHACK A PIG PEN? HELL’S AFIRE, YOU SHOULD SEE MINE.”

  And so went the printed comments pro and con—as pro and con as the readers who read them. Emotions flared, discussion warmed into argument, which boiled into name-calling, which steamed into shoving, which finally escalated into fisticuffs—especially if you didn’t happen to like each other anyway.

  It was gloomy enough for some headlights to be on when the irrepressible redheaded lad and his friend Muley and I stopped for coffee and donuts at Kellogg’s in Leevining—after twelve hours of delivering the Bomb. Muley immediately lay his pimply face on the counter and went to sleep. I was so bushed I sat on the stool like a glassy-eyed zombie—dreaming of peace and quiet. But the redhead let out a war-whoop, “Ya-hoo-o! The revolution!” and pointed out the window.

  Across the highway, outside Harry Blaver’s Leevining General Store, on the shoulder of 395, I saw a Standard Oil station attendant and a Union Oil man trading haymakers. Out rushed redhead shouting, “Fight! Fight!” Whereupon friends from Standard and Union down the street dropped gas hoses and windshield rags and came a-runnin’ to the fray.

  Well, that pitted five Standard uniforms against only three Union jumpers, which didn’t seem fair to a couple of virtuous clerks in the store, so they rushed out in their aprons and joined the fracas to even things up.

  The fighting wasn’t fancy, but it was eager and had a purpose—to cold-cock the guy nearest you, be he friend or foe. And what with the thin coating of snow on the pavement, the swinging missing, sliding battle royal edges out into the middle of Highway 395, stopping traffic both ways. In fact, so suddenly did the first cars stop, cars behind them skidded wildly and crashed into them, causing traffic behind them to do some fancy figure skating on locked wheels until they smacked abruptly and noisily against other cars or against the curbs. But the honking of horns, and banging of fenders, bothered the battlers not at all. On the contrary, they added to their zeal; for now they had an audience. One might say they were fighting in a ring of sorts—a ring of broken headlights.

  On the covered porch of the Leevining General Store, there was a long bench that was usually occupied by half a dozen overweight Indian buckaroos, sitting on their ever-widening behinds impassively watching the pale-faces scurrying around like ants whose anthill had just been kicked over. This being “paper morning,” there were ten “little” Indians sitting on the bench watching the street fight.

  Now maybe it was the rallying cry of the redheaded irrepressible high school lad when he threw off the large bundle of papers at their feet: “Oh, noble Red Men! Can’t you hear the drums? Put on your war paint!” Maybe the Indians thought the street fight was the opening skirmish of the Piutes’ “Der Tag”; that their time to drive out the pale-faces had come at last. Maybe it was because TV had raised rioting to a popular sport. Or maybe it was just the plain old male urge to join any donnybrook and pop somebody in the kisser.

  Whatever it was, their leader yelled out the Piute equivalent of “Geronimo!”…and all ten Indians put their heads down and charged into the brawl, swinging like berserk windmills. And Adam was their common father.

  But Adam had to have some Irish in him, for from out of stores and garages other stalwarts came running to lend a helping knuckle to the Donnybrook. Even some well-dressed Fancy Dan travelers popped out of their busted cars, shedding coats and pumping fancy straight lefts at the nearest noses. But these city boys went down fast from the first local hairy fists that massaged their chins.

  Wayne Fellows, a first-year California Highway Patrolman, was kissing his wife goodbye when he heard the yelling and the screeching of brakes on 395, three blocks away. He hopped in his patrol car, turned on red lights and siren, and burned rubber threading the narrow streets to the Highway.

  There he was confronted with two of the worst bugaboos a peace officer has to face: a king-sized traffic jam and a citywide riot. Leaving his flashing light and wailing siren turned on, he radioed for “all cars” and ran toward the brawling men, who now numbered over fifty.

  Some were down and bloody from blows. Others were down and panting from swings. But in their middle stood first-year Wayne Fellows, shouting “Hold it! Hold it!”—and shooting his revolver into the snowy atmosphere. He might as well have tried to stop a fighting pack of Dobermans with a peashooter. In fact, only the strict discipline of his training kept him from throwing away his gun and starting to swing himself.

  But the wailing siren and the shots did have one un-hoped-for effect. All the rest of Leevining’s men, and half the women, came racing toward the riot scene; while from out of the grammar school and high school grounds, whooping youngbloods brought new vigor to the bloody tumult. Like leaping fire starting smaller fires, perimeter fights broke out among the newcomers.

  Delano Roosevelt, the half-Indian fire chief, was digging a pipe trench with his tractor when he heard the siren and the shots. He kept his head. In less than a minute he was at the firehouse blowing the big bullhorn. Three minutes later, he had a manned fire truck at each end of the riot scene.

  When Delano gave the signal, the rioters were caught in a “cross fire” of ice-cold water. There was nothing much in the way of human passion that a well-directed high-pressure blast of ice water couldn’t cool off. Especially if it knocked you down and sluiced you around, reducing you to the ridiculous state of being washed into the gutter as so much garbage. The mob
broke and ran, shrieking with laughter.

  Delano Roosevelt had won the day for sanity—with water. As he stood on his fire truck, coolly directing streams at foot-dragging groups, he looked down and saw newspapers floating by in the gutter water. He looked down in wonderment as headline after headline floated by—SHAME! MONO!

  Chapter Six

  We had invited our Silver Lake neighbors—Herb Kelly, a retired, successful San Diego corporation lawyer, and his wife, Helen; and Lyle Wright, a retired, Huntington Library expert on American literature, and his wife, Marge—to breakfast to discuss the “SHAME! MONO!” bombshell. Lyle Wright was reading aloud the Hopkins editorial:

  “THIS IS YOUR EDITOR AND PUBLISHER, HARRY ‘HOPPY’ HOPKINS, WRITING WHAT MAY BE HIS LAST EDITORIAL. BUCKING A COMBINATION OF THE ‘ESTABLISHMENT’ AND ‘BIG MONEY’ IS GENERALLY CONSIDERED SUICIDE FOR PUBLISHERS.

  “BUT AS ATTORNEY STEVE GORSKI PUT IT TO ME: ‘EVERY MAN SHOULD EXPERIENCE THE HOLY CATHARSIS OF CONSCIOUSLY BEING ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS AT LEAST ONCE IN HIS LIFETIME, BEFORE HE DIES A GO-FOR-BROKE, GUNG HO FIGHT FOR LOST CAUSES: FOR THE RIGHTS OF THE DOWNTRODDEN.’ WELL, THIS IS MY ONCE IN A LIFETIME.

  “FIGHTING FOR LOST CAUSES, DEAR READERS, HAS PRODUCED SPECTACULAR CHANGES IN HISTORY, AND IT MAY PROMOTE CHANGES IN MONO COUNTY. ANYWAY, REGARDLESS OF CONSEQUENCES, THIS NEWSPAPER IS SHOUTING ‘SHAME!’ TO MONO OFFICIALDOM.

  “SHADES OF THE GESTAPO AND CONCENTRATION CAMPS! SHADES OF CARTING OFF PEOPLE TO SIBERIA! WHAT ARROGANCE! WHAT INSANITY! WHAT AN INSULT TO THE INTELLIGENCE OF MONO VOTERS… TO THINK THEY WOULD CLOSE THEIR EYES TO THE SHERIFF’S ARBITRARILY DECREEING WHO SHOULD OR SHOULDN’T LIVE IN MONO COUNTY?

  “THE ACTIONS OF THE SHERIFF (TO PLEASE LAND DEVELOPERS), IN ORDERING THE ARREST AND DEPORTATION OF TWO PEACEFUL HERMITS, MONO RESIDENTS FOR OVER A QUARTER OF A CENTURY, SMELL TO HIGH HEAVEN!

  “ACCORDING TO THE LIGHTS OF OUR ELECTED OFFICIALS, THE GREAT JOHN MUIR, THE FIRST ‘HERMIT OF THE SIERRAS,’ WOULD QUALIFY FOR BANISHMENT.