Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra

by Mark Stephen Taylor

  “That’s fine, Don. Slim Woodson, my foreman, will help you herd ’em in. He’s my point man on this drive—good man.”

  Stalking Moon rode out from the Indian settlement, headed toward the mountain. He wore three eagle feathers in his coal black, shoulder length hair, and was dressed in deerskin. He nudged the horse onward with the heels of his moccasins, speaking gently to the paint as he rode along. It was a tall mount, and moved with its head up proud. This fine horse was a gift from his father, Bear Claw. The animal, Wind Spirit, was just four years old.

  The Indian soon picked up the tracks of the three white fishermen along the lower north fork of Lone Pine Creek. He then reined in the horse and scanned the terrain ahead of him. The large, white granite boulders just beyond him obstructed his view a bit, so he nudged his mount and continued to move on ahead, following their trail. He held back a little, not wanting to come straight up on them—didn’t want to frighten them.

  His intention was to speak with them about the dangers they would encounter on the mountain. He’d been up among its lower crags a few times—faced a hungry mountain lion a time or two, and fought with a grizzly on a high plateau when he was just a young boy. He carried the scars on his face, below his left ear—and a longer scar that continued down onto his neck. Stalking Moon would still hunt for that bear on occasion—mostly at night under a full moon. That’s how he got his name.

  He had cut off part of the bear’s right front paw with a knife at the time of that boyhood encounter—wore the two claws belonging to that bear on a beaded necklace his father had given him. He wanted to find the bear again. Years had passed since their encounter. His father had told him that he and the animal were now one, and destined to meet again. They had drawn blood on one another and the matter had to be settled. They would face one another again, but the outcome, the old man had told him, was uncertain.

  ‘The forces of good and evil are at work in both of you,’ his father would tell him. Bear Claw had said, ‘you have, since the encounter, both gone your separate ways and lived your own lives. What each of you have seen and learned will be put to the test when you face each other again. My vision is not clear as to the outcome, my son, but this is your destiny—this I have seen. You will face the great bear on the mountain—in the high meadow where you first met him. But this is an honorable thing. This is what I have been told by the ancient ones.’

  Stalking Moon soon found a place where the three fishermen had crossed the creek and followed the pines to the ledges beyond. He knew the ledges were slow going and he would soon catch up with them. He reined in at the creek and dismounted, allowing his horse to draw water. When the animal had finished, Stalking Moon kneeled down and lapped up water for himself.

  The Davis spread was about a mile east of town, and stretched out toward the Inyo Mountains. Claude Davis had just entered the barn, but stood a bit away from the mule as his friend crouched in close to it.

  “What do you think it is, John? I haven’t been able to get her up.”

  John Replogle placed a hand on the mule’s neck and soothed it gently, rubbing the flat of his palm against the animal. He placed his other hand on the animal’s forehead. “Easy there, girl.” He moved his thumb down slowly and drew up an eyelid. The mule shuddered just a bit, then lay still as the man looked into her eye. He was soon able to get her attention.

  The animal then rolled its eye downward, as if straining to see its left front leg, which was stretched out along the dirt floor of the barn, just to the right of John’s crouched position. The man then moved slightly to where he could get a look and feel of the animal’s leg. He stroked gently downward from the thigh, and shortly found a small knot just above the knee. He wet his finger with spittle and touched it. The animal reacted slightly, but remained calm. John looked up at old man Davis.

  “You got a hornet’s nest around here somewhere? This animal’s been stung—most likely allergic to it. Stinger’s still in there. You boil me some hot water, Claude. Bring me some tobacco, moisten it up, and I’ll cut this out. Then we’ll clean it up and dress it. Hopefully she’ll be up and around in a day or two. She’s got some strength—that’s a good sign.”

  “Well, by-golly, John—the nest’s got to be underground here somewhere. Dolly’s been in the barn here most of the week. She’s been down a couple days now, poor girl. She hadn’t ventured out into the corral before that.”

  John nodded. “We’ll fix her up and then we’ll look for it. We’ve got to be real careful, Claude. If we stir them hornets up, they’ll chase us and they won’t stop stinging at us until we jump into your pond, yonder. You have any kerosene?”

  “I do—in the shed next to the house.”

  “Well, go get me what I need here at the moment and we’ll fetch that out later. I’m going to squat here with the mule until she’s treated. She needs the close comfort at the moment.”

  “Fine, John. I’ll go and get what you need right now.”

  Margaret Warner heard cattle mooing and the distinct sound of their hooves against the street outside. She then bolted toward the front door of the general store. She stepped out onto the porch and saw Don and a trail rider heading the animals up Main Street in a cloud of dust, not far from her. She waived at Don, who spotted her right away. The man then knew that she’d be set and ready.

  She hurried inside, threw off her apron, grabbed her gloves and ran out the back door toward the corral. The gate was on the east side, facing Hay Street, and secured with three lodge pole pine logs, slid into position, each a foot or so above the other. She quickly pulled out each of the logs from top to bottom, and then stood them up nearby against the fencing, where she could quickly grab and insert them again once the cattle were all inside. She was now set and ready. She tied a bandanna around her neck and slid the fold up to the bridge of her nose. Things were about to get a little dusty.

  Don and Slim Woodson soon rounded the corner of Main and Mountain View Streets, just north of the hotel, with the cattle out in front of them. Woodson then rode quickly around the herd and soon spotted Margaret to the south—a bit down Hay Street at the corral. He took up a position and turned the animals in that direction, shouting amidst their constant mooing and whacking a broad cowboy hat against his chaps. He then darted out in front of the herd once again, and as he approached Margaret, suddenly reined his horse back around and drove the cattle straight in toward the corral.

  “Yoo-hup! Get in there!” he shouted, the animals responding with a charge to their immediate right and on into the corral. Once all of them were inside, one of the larger cows suddenly did an about face and was headed back out. Woodson then rode part way into the corral opening, waiving his hat at the animal.

  “Get back in there!” The animal responded quickly and Woodson backed his horse out of the gateway.

  “You can set your poles now, ma’am,” he spoke at Margaret. “These critters ain’t use to bein’ separated from their friends—don’t take to kindly to bein’ penned up. Been trottin’ with a big herd all the way from Sante Fe. They’ll be grumblin’ a while,” he smiled, as the mooing continued.

  Margaret re-inserted the poles from top to bottom as the man was speaking, securing the entrance to the corral. Don rode up and dismounted beside her, slapping dust from his pants. “You did a fine job, Margaret. Aren’t these critters beautiful?” He hugged her tightly for a brief time.

  “They sure are,” she responded as she left their embrace, “and this gentleman is a fine rider.”

  The woman removed her gloves and bandanna, then smiled at Woodson, extending a hand his way. “I’m Margaret Warner, Don’s wife.”

  The wrangler tipped his hat, then leaned over in the saddle and shook her hand. “Name’s Slim Woodson, ma’am. Honored to meet you. Your husband there’s a right fine rider himself. You folk’s build this corral?”

  “Don built it,” she smiled. “He’s the ‘can do all things guy’ in this family.”

  “You done a good j
ob, sir. I like the way you got them boards on the roof of your shelter there overlapped, so’s the rain will run off. Always good to have it dry around the trough where the animals feed. My pa taught me that—I ’spect yours did as well?”

  Don grinned. “Well, it was Gwen—Margaret’s pa, who taught me about building corrals—and shelters. But my pa taught me a heap of other things.”

  “No doubt,” Woodson nodded. “No doubt at all. Nice to meet you folk’s. I’ll ride on back to the herd now and…”

  “Hold up there,” Don interrupted. “Let me go inside and get the money I owe your boss.”

  “He said not to worry about it,” Woodson replied. “He’ll be in town later and look you up. We’ll be around here a few days—maybe even longer. It’s mighty pretty country—I swear!”

  “Well, I’d like to give you something for yourself—for helping me to bring this herd in. You did most of the work.”

  “Well, Mr. Warner, you can buy me a beer when me and the boys come back into town. How’s that?”

  “I’ll buy you a dinner at the hotel as well. It’s a real fine restaurant!”

  “You got a deal. Good-day to both of you, now.” With that the man tipped his hat and then turned and rode on out of town.

  Margaret turned toward her husband. “They are beautiful animals, Don. They’re so strong and healthy looking.” She then put an arm around him. “It seems a shame we’re going to have to slaughter them at one point or another.” Her sudden emotion caused her eyes to water a bit. “I see a bull in there amongst them. Maybe we should go into the breeding business? We can sell them and not have to—not have to say good-bye in such a bad way.”

  “Well, there’s room out at your dad’s place, that’s for sure. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it. But, somebody’s got to supply a little beef to the town folk’s, Margaret. Most of them have always depended on us. What do we do about that?”

  Near the foot of the great mountain, Charlie Begole suddenly heard the nickering of a horse, and quickly spotted Stalking Moon riding up amidst the tall brush to their rear. He and the others were just about to ascend the white granite cliffs above them.

  “Johnny—Al! There’s an Indian on a horse coming toward us—through that tall brush! He’s a fierce lookin’ fella! We ain’t got nuthin’ but fishin’ knives on us. He’s got a big, long knife in his waistband—bone handle, too. You suppose he means to kill us?”

  Johnny Lucas spoke up. “If he wanted to kill us he would have rushed up on us already. Injuns are at peace up here. Hold your place—let’s see what he wants. Just don’t look scared. Act natural. I’ll do the talkin’. Shhh, quiet, here he comes.”

  Stalking Moon rode up slowly and came to a halt, reining in about ten or twelve feet away from the three men. Still mounted he raised his right hand.

  “Greetings, my white friends. I was told that you plan to climb the great mountain. I have come here to speak to you of this.”

  Johnny nodded. “Climb on down. We were just about to have something to eat. We can share it with you—fruit and some nuts—some bread maybe? Got some dried beef, too.”

  “You will need this food for your journey, but it is kind of you to offer,” the Indian replied.

  “You speak real good English.” Johnny Lucas was taken aback.

  Stalking Moon smiled. “It is wise to learn the ways of one’s adversary, though we are no longer at war. French missionaries taught me your language when I was a boy.”

  Johnny nodded. “Well, we’re fishermen. We heard that no one has ever been to the top of this mountain. We plan on climbin’ up there. We want to name it Fishermen’s Peak—in honor of our trade. Some government men named it Mount Whitney, after a fella’ who’s Chief of the Geological Survey around here. But none of them boys have ever been up there—not to the top. We don’t figure they have the right to name it as they did. You said you had something you wanted to say?”

  Stalking Moon remained on his mount as he spoke to the men. He continued to look into the eyes of each of them. “My father, Bear Claw, is a holy man of the Shoshone. It is said that this mountain has for many years been a place of refuge for the spirits of darkness. My father has always prayed about these things. One day he had a vision. In his dream he saw an angel who appeared in the form of a man. This man ascended the mountain and became a wolf, who then battled with the forces of darkness. When he came down the sun shone on the face of the mountain, and the evil was no more.

  “In his dream, my father then saw many men and women climbing the mountain. Birds—eagles and hawks came and went freely. The wild animals, who had raged on the mountain for many years, were once again at peace. The people in the valley below, though always shielded from this evil by the forces of good, suddenly became as one. They worked together to preserve the mountain for future generations. My father’s visions are strong. These things will take place—and soon, I am told.

  “I tell you this truth as a warning. None of you are the angel in the dream, for he will meet with my father before he ascends the great mountain, and in his respect for him will even ask his permission, as this is our land. You are at great risk in making this climb. A few of our people have tried—and never returned. Your survey people have been thwarted from finding a direct route as well, as have many others. They have been spared, and do not know it. My father has said that the time will soon come when it is safe. My advice is that you be patient, and wait for such a time.”

  Al Johnson laughed. “We don’t believe in myths or legends, nor in ghostly stories of these high mountains, though we are obliged for your concern. There’s good weather today. We’ll get up there tonight and be back in the mornin’.”

  He quickly looked at his partners. Johnny shook his head in agreement, but Charlie was hesitant.

  Stalking Moon then began to turn his mount around. “I have told you. This was my father’s wish. I hope that you will fare well, and that you will be protected.”

  He then rode off slowly back along the creek. The three men watched him until he disappeared into the pines.

  “Let’s get goin’,” Johnny blurted out to the others. “Time’s a wastin’. This here’s a free country. We don’t need nobody’s permission to climb a mountain.”

  Charlie McCloud stepped up onto the hotel porch and walked on inside. He headed directly for the restaurant. Lovella noticed him as he passed through the parlor.

  “What are you all smiles about, Charlie? You been drinkin’ again?”

  “No—I ain’t. I just started to work on Misty’s porch. I got some good news for her. It won’t take much wood. Only a couple pieces on the top was rotten, and the railin’ just come unhooked, that’s all. I’ll have it all done early this afternoon.”

  Misty walked out from the kitchen. “I heard you, Charlie—but what are you doing here? No cookies until the work’s done. Now, get on back over there and finish it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just thought I might get a little snack? Took a bit out of me; tearin’ them old boards off. Figured I needed a little more energy to finish, that’s all.”

  Misty shook her head in disbelief. “Since you walked all the way over here, and since you have at least started on the job, I’ll go ahead and reward you with half a dozen oatmeal cookies. I did bake them up for you. But, just as soon as I put them in your hand, you get on your way back over there—and I mean it. Get it done today.”

  “I will, I swear, Misty.”

  She went back into the kitchen and returned with his half- dozen cookies, wrapped in a cloth, and handed them to him. With a big smile he nodded in respect, then turned and headed out the door. A moment later he stuck his head back inside.

  “Lovella—that stranger I told you I saw on the road this mornin’—he’s comin’ on into town. The man’s down the street, yonder, ridin’ the gray.”

  Lovella then walked out onto the porch. Misty came out just behind her. The stranger was still some distance away. He rode tall in the saddle, dressed in black
, just as Charlie had said. There was a Sharps carbine in the boot attached to his saddle rig. He wore a broad, flat-brimmed hat, black in color, with about a four-inch crown, flat across the top as well—no band on it. He looked intermittently to his right and to his left out from under that brim as he rode slowly up the street.

  His horse stepped proud. It was a lightly spotted gray, with an unusually thick, long, solid gray mane, and the animal’s tail of the same makeup stood erect at its base, much like that of a show horse. The rider sat on a black saddle with an array of engraved, silver conchos on the leather. There was a right-handed, black leather gun belt strapped about his waist—a cartridge belt, and the loops were full all the way around—appeared to be silver bullets. There was a blue steel, .45 Colt Peacemaker in the holster. Its hand grips were solid white.

  The man spotted Charlie McCloud and the two women standing on the hotel porch, and soon reined in near the base of the steps. He spoke with a deep voice, tipping his hat at the trio.

  “Howdy. Would one of you folk’s know if they might have a room available here?”

  Lovella smiled at him. “I do, sir. A real nice room—and we serve fine food here as well—best in the west.”

  “Best in the west, huh?” the stranger returned the smile. “Sounds like my kind of place. You folk’s got a livery here a’ bouts?”

  “Cross the street, yonder, just up a ways,” Charlie McCloud spoke up, pointing in that direction. “It’s next door to that big corral where the horses for the stage line are kept. Ol’ Sam Waters runs the livery. He’s a small man in stature, but real good with horses. That’s a fine lookin’ mount you’ve got there, mister—mighty fine.”

  The stranger nodded. “Well, I’ll just amble on over to that livery—be back shortly, ma’am, to see about that room. What time is lunch served?”