Three Days in
LONE PINE
An Untold Tale of the High Sierra
1873
Kindle Edition
A bit of fiction and reality from award winning author
MARK STEPHEN TAYLOR
Copyright © 2010 by Mark Stephen Taylor
Three Days in LONE PINE
An Untold Tale of the High Sierra, 1873
By Mark Stephen Taylor
*Revised Edition, February 2013
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN-13: 978-1456408565
ISBN-10: 1456408569
All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The author designs any graphics in this book. Photos in this book were taken by the author, and remain the property of the author. *Back cover author photo by Betty Prange, of Livingston TX.
Italicized words in text are for emphasis. Any Biblical references within this writing are superscripted, displayed in the back of the book, and comply with the following authorized version of the Bible: The New International Version Study Bible, Copyright © 2008, by Zondervan
M S Taylor Productions,
1997-2013
From
Lone Wolf Limited
PO Box 547, Lone Pine CA. 93545
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Phone 909-549-0068
*Other Kindle Books by this Author:
Non-Fiction:
1. ‘Knowing Just Who You Are’,
Educating Body, Mind, and Spirit.
2. ‘Hiking the Trail of Truth’,
Knowing God Through His Creation.
3. ‘Hiking Life’s Difficult Trails’,
A Spiritual Journey.
Fiction:
4. ‘A High Sierra Christmas’,
An Untold Tale of Jeremiah Johnson.
5. ‘Three Days in Lone Pine’,
An Untold Tale of the High Sierra.
6. 'LONE PINE',
A Story of Love Undying.
7. ‘A Second Chance’,
A Daring Tale of High Adventure.
8. ‘The Secret of Monument Valley’,
The Trail of the Anasazi.
9. 'Treasure of the High Sierra',
Dead Men's Gold.
These books & additional books are also available in paperback.
Three Days in Lone Pine
This is a strange tale, which deals with some unusually mysterious events that occurred in Lone Pine, California in the early 1870’s—events that a few local old timers claim to be true. Others claim these happenings were just part of local legend—a story told and retold by succeeding generations—a story that changed a bit as it went from ear to mouth and mouth to ear and so on. Old tales like this are sometimes hard to piece together—hard to separate the fact from the fiction, or the reality from the legend. Yet, it turns out to be quite an enlightening story, and told in almost the same way by three different cultures represented in the area today…
There’s a Native American version, associated with a spiritual dance, which is told to the children by the elders and tribal dancers during the harvest season. There’s a Hispanic version, usually told at the annual Christmas celebration—when all the little ones are gathered around the community tree. The white folk’s tell the story around the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays as well. The elderly storyteller at those latter gatherings claims he was influenced by an old diary that he found under the flooring of a burnt out cabin in the local hills, just west of town—found it in 1925.
I’ve been allowed to read the diary, and I’ve listened to and meticulously gathered notes from the different cultural versions of the story, while attending their various festivities. I don’t seem to be able to find a whole lot of variance between the diary itself and the traditional oral versions of the tale. And so, as a writer; carefully examining the aforementioned assembly of witnesses, this story, though perhaps somewhat unbelievable due to the deceitfulness of heart that lingers within the core of human nature, I am inclined to believe could very well be true…
Chapter One
Near the lower escarpments of the rugged High Sierra, just below the bold, granite monolith known as Mount Whitney, highest peak in the contiguous United States, sits the small, captivatingly unique hamlet of Lone Pine. This historic California town of the old west, founded in the 1860’s, was named after a lonely pine tree that was discovered at the mouth of a picturesque canyon, which is not far from the original settlement and is now known as Lone Pine Canyon.
Long before the great Mount Whitney got its present name it was well known among local Native Americans, who hunted in the area, as the Rock of Thunder. Fierce storms, magnificent in their splendor, were frequent along its high crest—lightning often danced atop its peak, while the explosions of ear rending thunder echoed strongly among its crags. The Indians believed the mountain to be sacred, yet terrifying—a dwelling place of the Most High God.
It was said that God battled often with evil spirits—wandering specters with great powers of darkness, who came to seek rest among the towering spires. The Native Americans knew that these evil spirits were abundant upon the earth, and that they oftentimes had to find places of retreat from the havoc caused by their roaming about and inflicting pain, grief, sorrow and death among its human inhabitants. They believed this great mountain to be a haunt of such spirits—a dreaded place.
The local tribes, fearing grave consequences, would not venture up amidst the lofty crags on the mountain. But, there were white settlers in Lone Pine who craved the harsher challenges of the high country, most of whom were not thwarted by the ghostly stories the Indians passed onto them. There were hunters and trappers among these area residents—many of them living out in the vast expanse of sandstone and rock formations, which lie in rugged splendor just west of town, ascending the eastern slopes of the High Sierra. These unique formations are currently known as the Alabama Hills, and have been the scenic backdrop in a variety of motion pictures for several decades.
Cattlemen and sheepherders occupied most of the flatter and greener plain to both the east and south sides of the early settlement. The horsemen; mostly Indians, lived among the rolling hills toward the north. Then their were the townsfolk themselves—the local miners, the banker, the doctor and dentist, the business proprietors and their families, the overland stage people, and also a small gathering of migrants from Mexico, who raised corn and planted fruit trees and vineyards to scratch out a living in what was then 1870’s California.
The town itself was originally established to provide supplies to local miners and later to farmers and ranchers. There wasn’t significant growth during the 60’s decade, but with the dawn of the 1870’s fishermen began to populate the area. This was due to the large number of rainbow and brown and even golden trout found swimming in the rushing streams and high lakes that were a part of that breathtaking, mountain scenery.
One such fisherman was Johnny Lucas—a robust young man and loner for the most part, who in late summer of 1873 was camped along Tuttle Creek near Indian Springs. He was fishing with two friends that particular morning in August—men who had also been living in their tents in the nearby area for quite some time. The outdoors was their frequent abode—a place where body, mind and spirit became one with the earth. The bold and majestic white granite range of the High Sierra was a diamond in the rough for such men.
These hearty fisherme
n, who had migrated to Lone Pine from the wide river country of the Midwest, and had in late spring set up camp with Lucas, were Al Johnson and Charlie Begole. It was shortly after daybreak…
THE FIRST DAY…
“Well, the fishin’s kinda’ slow this mornin’, boys,” Johnny complained. “They been bitin’ early most all week. Now, there’s been ’nary a nibble—for the last two days. I swear if that don’t beat all. We ought to find somethin’ else to do to pass the time here a’ bouts.”
Al Johnson looked up at him from his squat near the edge of the creek. “We should go climb that mountain over yonder-way, Johnny. Some ol’ boys from the Geological Survey have been trying to find a route to the top, but I heard they ain’t had much luck. They say one fella’ in the group, name of Clarence King, made four attempts—in the last couple weeks! Some surveyors, huh?” he laughed.
“Which mountain you talkin’ about?” Charlie Begole asked.
Johnson pointed to their west. “That tall peak up there, behind the others—the one with the two sharp crags, just to its south. Them survey boys say it’s the highest mountain in the whole dad-blasted country! We could get up there. We could take the credit for bein’ its first climbers. We’ll name it ‘Fishermen’s Peak,’ in honor of our trade. How ’bout that?”
“It’s pretty rugged up there,” Johnny responded. “Might take a couple of days to get to the top.”
“Well, there ain’t much else to do,” Al replied. “The fishin’ has gone a mite sour, wouldn’t you say?”
Johnny looked up at the mountain. “Don’t look like no bowl of cherries—mighty steep lookin’ from down here. We’d best pack some jerky and some fruit if we go up there. There’s a little grove of orange trees near the base of that mountain. Them Mexican folk’s will sell us some fruit, I’m sure—maybe even give it to us for nuthin’.”
Charlie Begole was chewing on a reed, plucked from the creek’s edge. He looked over at the others. “Local Indians say that mountain is haunted—evil spirits and such. Them sheepherders south of us—Bill Crapo, Abe Leyda, and three others in their group are the ones who told me about it. They was gonna’ climb the mountain, but said the stories scared ’em off.”
Johnny laughed arrogantly. “Crapo’s feedin’ you a bucket of crap, boy. It wasn’t two weeks ago that he was talkin’ about goin’ up there with his friends. He just don’t want anyone else takin’ the glory.”
Charlie nodded. “Well, I’m not afraid to go on up with you boys—just lettin’ you know what he said. That Shoshone tribe that lives around here is known for tellin’ things like they are—least that’s what I’ve heard.”
Al Johnson abruptly stood to his feet, dragging in the line on his fishing pole. “Let’s do it—let’s go on up there and claim that peak.”
In the town of Lone Pine, Dr. Michael J. Mucci was just opening the front door of his office, when a tall, stout looking man approached him from the street. The man stepped onto the wooden sidewalk near to where the Italian doctor was standing and removed his cowboy hat. His other hand was pressed tightly against his jaw.
“I have a real bad toothache, sir. I was hopin’ you might be able to take a look at it first thing this morning? Name’s Winter—Ed Winter. I’m a cattleman. Got a big herd grazin’ south of town, there—a few drovers with me as well. We shared a campfire with a man last night—name of Wiley Hunter. He said you was a real good dentist. Never had much use for dentists, until now—got some real pain here in my lower jaw.”
Doc Mucci had looked the man over from a short distance while listening to his words. He then stepped in close to him, reaching a hand out toward the left side of his jaw. He carefully touched it, which caused the cattleman to wince a little in pain. The doctor smiled.
“Open up your mouth—as wide as you can.”
The man complied and Doc then looked in closely at his gums. The lower left was inflamed.
“You have an abscess, Mr. Winter. A bit difficult to chew on that steak and trail beans, huh?” he grinned. “Come on inside. The chair on the left is my dental chair. The chair and table on the right is my doctorin’ set up. I handle everything in this town—local undertaker as well. You don’t need doctorin’ nor buryin’, but you sure do need some dental work. Go ahead then and sit down in the chair on the left.”
Just across the street from the doctor’s office a young woman was sweeping off the wooden walkway in front of the Lone Pine General Store. Margaret Warner was a fine looking woman. She and her husband had opened the store in late ’68, and were well known for their generosity and fair prices on most supplies. She saw the man enter the doctor’s office and then spoke to her husband, who was standing just inside the store.
“Looks like a drover just came into town. Maybe we could talk to him about some beef supplies? He went into the doctor’s office. Why don’t you go on over there and speak with him?”
Don Warner smiled. “That fella’s been pacing up and down the street out there for the last half-hour, holding his jaw—until the Doc showed up. We’d best wait until his pain subsides—might be in a better mood then, don’t you think so, Margaret?”
“Oh, I suppose so—but don’t let him get away. We need some beef.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the door, my dear.”
“I hope so,” she smiled. “You get to tinkering on something and you’ll miss him, especially if you start fooling with that rock collection you’ve been building up. And who’s going to buy rocks anyway? You’ll get so pre-occupied with that foolishness that you’ll look right at him and forget your need to talk to him. If you recall, I had to knock you in the head with this broom the last time that dry goods salesman came around here. He would have ridden right on out of town if I hadn’t got your attention!”
Don sighed. “I’ll be watching—I swear.”
Margaret then shook the broom at him. “You’d better be—or else!”
Just down the street the overland stage was making its way toward the center of town and the stage depot, which sat a bit north of the general store. Margaret leaned on her broom as it approached, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. She always looked forward to seeing new folk’s come into town. Watching the stage roll in three mornings a week had become a habit with her. The driver waived at her as the coach passed on by.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Warner—fine mornin’!” It was Charlie McCloud. He’d been driving the stage ever since the line opened, back in ’65. He was a good man; both kind and helpful to the folk’s around town. He was an easy man to spot along the street when he was needed—the wide brim of his hat was turned up in the front and sewn to the crown.
“No new passengers, ma’am—get up there Clyde—Tess!” Charlie called out at the lead horses as they headed up the street toward the depot.
Just north of the depot stood the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant. Lovella Atwood was the proprietor at the time, a good businesswoman who was not the least bit soft spoken. When the townsfolk would gather for their monthly meeting, Lovella would act as their sergeant-at-arms. She was strict and expected no foolishness while the local agenda was being presented and discussed.
She would sometimes pace back and forth among those in attendance, and was known to wop someone upside the head if they spoke out of turn or said something that she was not in agreement with. Of course, she only whacked folk’s in fun, with the palm of her hand, but it worked; as the meetings usually always accomplished something.
Lovella was out on the front porch of the hotel when the stage pulled in. She liked to greet the travelers and offer the fine services of the hotel and restaurant. She ran her business well, and had one of the finest cooks in the west at the restaurant. No one really knew where Misty McBride came from, but some eastern folk’s passing through town said she was thrown out of some big, fancy restaurant back east because of some type of scandalous affair. She never talked about it—never admitted it or denied it in one way or the other.
The only thing that really matt
ered was that Lovella was mighty proud to have Misty working for her. Anyone who tried to pry into Misty’s business got an earful from Lovella, that’s for sure. She had chased a few of them out at gunpoint over the years. She always kept a small six-shooter stuffed in the waistband of her trousers on the backside. Lovella Atwood was nobody to mess with, and the folk’s in and about town knew that—knew it well, and drifters or strangers coming in tended to learn it quickly. Sheriff Ben Johnson trusted her with that firearm—never did try to take it away from her. He was convinced that she always acted on the side of the law.
Charlie McCloud spotted her on the hotel porch as he reined in the horses at the front of the depot. “No new passengers, Lovella—sorry!”
The woman smiled at him. “You see to them horses, Charlie McCloud, and then come on in for breakfast. Got some hot coffee on the stove, and some of those tasty, blueberry muffins Misty bakes up. She’ll do up some ham and eggs as well.”
“Oh, them’s some fine muffins,” Charlie responded. “Do tell—I been thinkin’ about them muffins all the way from Ridgecrest. I’ll be there shortly, you can count on that.”
Lovella noticed that John Replogle wasn’t perched atop the stage—his usual place. “Where’s your shotgun rider, Charlie?”
Charlie had climbed down off the stage and began to loosen the team for movement to the corrals on the west side of the street. He spoke at Lovella while he worked.
“Well, I guess old man Davis is havin’ some kind of trouble with one of his mules. Johnny’s a whisperer—you know that, and he went on over there to the Davis place to see if he could help out. Said he might be a day or two.”
“Well, I knew he whispered at horses, but I didn’t know he could whisper at mules too?”
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