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

by Mark Stephen Taylor

  “Anytime you want it,” Misty smiled. “I have pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans today—and some peaches for desert. I have coffee or whatever you might like to drink.”

  “Well then, I reckon I’ll be back right quick. Maybe I’ll get that room first, though—and take me a shave.” The stranger rubbed at his whisker stubble.

  “There’s a good barber shop—just down the street,” Charlie responded. “He’s got a brand new chair—all the way from back east. It’s real comfortable—but if you’re sittin’ all the way down in it when he draws it back, it has been known to tip over.”

  The stranger narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Well, the last time I was in a barber chair, three gunslingers walked into the place and attempted to fill my apron full of lead. It’s a pretty wild town when a man can’t ride in and get a quiet shave. They buried them fella’s the next day. The fact is, I don’t take too kindly to barber shops any longer—no offense meant.”

  He then tipped his hat once again at the trio and rode on over toward the livery.

  “You see that man’s eyes?” Charlie whispered. “It’s like they look right through you—and what a story!”

  Misty slapped him on the back of the head. “Don’t you fret none about that man—you just get on over and fix my porch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Charlie stepped off the hotel porch and headed for Misty’s place, cookies in hand. It wasn’t far—about a quarter mile down Hay Street, which was just down the next block.

  Lovella looked at Misty just after he left. “He’s right about the man’s eyes—it’s hard to look away from them when he’s talkin’ at you. Personally I'm not very comfortable with that. What do you think?”

  “Well, he kind of squints when he talks—lot of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. Some people have seen a lot of bad things in their time—and it shows.”

  “Probably war maps,” Lovella responded. She then smiled at Misty. “Lets go on inside out of this sunlight. I’m liable to turn into a prune myself.”

  Chapter Three

  It wasn’t long until the stranger returned to the hotel. Lovella was tidying up at the main desk when he walked through the door. He was a tall man, a few inches over six feet and broad shouldered. He was lean as well. The man carried the Sharps carbine in his left hand; barrel down, as he walked across the floor, his spurs jingling with each step. A pair of saddlebags were draped across his shoulder. His lips were pressed together as his eyes took in everything around him, but he smiled when he drew near and spoke to Lovella.

  “I’m looking forward to that meal, ma’am. I’d like a room for a few days—maybe longer. I’ll just pay for three days right now, if you don’t mind. I’d like an upstairs room—and would favor a view of the mountain?”

  “I have one,” she responded. “Number seven—up the stairs on your right. The room is two dollars a day, Mister…?”

  “Michael,” he answered.

  “Is that your first name or…?”

  “That’ll do, ma’am.”

  “Well, just sign the register here, Mr. Michael, and I’ll get your key. There’s a wash bowl up there, and I’ll heat you some water and bring up some shave cream and a razor as well, if that would be okay with you?”

  “That’s right kind of you, ma’am. And your name is…?”

  “Lovella—Lovella Atwood, sir. I own the hotel here, and the restaurant. Your cook is Misty McBride, and as I said, the best in the west. The other fellow you met on the porch is Charlie McCloud. He drives the overland stage to Ridgecrest and back—goes over in the evening and comes back in the morning, three and sometimes four days a week—they run special on holidays. He’s kind of the town’s handyman as well. They’re both fine people, and we appreciate serving and helping strangers who come into Lone Pine—most folk’s do go out of their way around here to be kind.”

  The stranger nodded as he signed the register. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Atwood. I’ll be headin’ upstairs now—thank you.”

  Lovella smiled. “I’ll be up there with your hot water in five minutes. I’ll knock twice on the door. You take off them spurs when you sit down in the furniture.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The man tipped his hat and moved toward the stairway. He then paused for a moment. “You’d better have a look at that pistol you’re carrying in the back of those pants, ma’am. The hammer’s been filed flat—recently. It won’t fire when you need it to.” The man then continued on up the stairs.

  Lovella quickly removed the gun from her waistband. Sure enough, there were fresh file markings on the face of the hammer. She had just picked up the gun from the sheriff’s office the day before, where it had been cleaned. She then walked hurriedly across the room into the restaurant.

  “Misty—heat up a pitcher of water and take it up to that man in number seven. Take him up some shaving cream and a razor as well—make sure it’s sharp. I told him five minutes. Knock on the door twice. I’ll be right back.”

  She soon ran out of the hotel and up the street, then stepped boldly into the sheriff’s office, making sure that the door swung back and struck loudly against the interior wall. Sheriff Johnson was taken aback.

  “What in blazes are you doin’, Lovella? I just fixed a broken hinge on that door!”

  “Yes, Ben, and you just cleaned my gun, too. What in blazes, as you put it, did you do to the hammer? It’s filed flat. Explain that right now!”

  “Let me see it!”

  Her arm shot straight out and she dropped the gun down on the desk in front of him. He winced a little. “Careful, Lovella!”

  “Careful, my ass—the hammer is flat—the pin filed off. It’s not going to fire, you old fool!”

  Sheriff Johnson had a concerned look on his face as he picked up the gun from his desk and observed the hammer. He studied it for a moment.

  “Hell, Lovella, you know what I did?” He then stood up and walked across the room to his gun cabinet. He opened up the door and removed a pistol, similar to Lovella’s. He turned back toward her, the piece in his hand.

  “This is Ed Spencer’s gun. He came over from the drugstore a week ago and asked me to clean it up. It’s similar to yours, but shoots a rim fire cartridge—should have a flat hammer. Look here. This hammer’s got a pin on it.”

  He then walked back over to his desk. “I had both guns all apart, right here on top of my desk, and I guess I accidentally switched hammers. Filin’ the face of a flat hammer’s natural—cleans it up. Your hammer should have the pin on it—center fire. You can only wipe it off and oil it up. I mixed up the two when I put ’em back together,” he sighed, shaking his head in disgust.

  “I’ll switch ’em back right now. His would have still fired—I’m real sorry, Lovella. I must have had a lot on my mind. The US Marshal in Bishop wired me that them three Cutler brothers escaped from the Reno prison—bad bunch, them boys. He thinks they’re headed this way.”

  “Well then, it’s a good thing I didn’t need to use my gun today!” Lovella snapped. She then drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry—got a bit riled. I guess it scared me, that’s all, Ben.”

  “Rightly so, Lovella. How’d you come to notice it?”

  Lovella turned and looked out the window toward the hotel. “A stranger told me. The gun was in my waistband—in back, where I always keep it.” She paused in thought and then spoke out. “I never turned my back on him, and he never stood close to me. I can’t figure out how he knew?”

  She then turned from the window and faced the sheriff. “My shirt always hangs over the top of that gun, Ben. This is strange. In fact, that man in my hotel is strange. He looks right through you when he talks at you.”

  Ben laughed. “Come on now, Lovella. He had to see it. If it was that fella’ dressed in black who rode into town a little bit ago; he looks like a gunfighter—or a bounty hunter. Probably has a keen eye.”

  Lovella shook her head. “Just fix the gun and let me get out of here.”

&n
bsp; Back at the hotel Misty knocked twice at the door of room number seven, and then pushing a cart she promptly entered the room, surprising the stranger with her immediate entry. He was standing near the washbasin with his undershirt removed. Misty observed that his shoulders, upper chest and part of his abdomen were deeply scared. There was a long scar on his right forearm as well. He felt her embarrassment.

  “It’s okay, ma’am. Just leave the cart right there. I’ll shave and put a shirt on and be downstairs for that fine meal, shortly.”

  She turned her head away and looked down. “I’m so sorry. Lovella told me just to knock twice—I should have waited after that. She never said anything…”

  “It’s just a few scars, ma’am. Nothin’ to get in a twist over. Some folk’s are a lot worse off. You can turn and look at me and then go on about your work. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve been in some pretty fierce battles, that’s all. It was during a war—a bad war.”

  Misty lifted her head and looked back at him. “I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible. I am glad you’re still alive—after so much pain.” She paused momentarily, contemplating what it must have been like at the onset.

  “I’ll go ahead and leave now. There’s soap and towels in the drawer underneath the washbasin. There’s shaving cream and a razor here on the cart. Be careful—the water in the silver pitcher is real hot. The white pitcher has cool water in it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Misty then left the room, closing the door behind her. She walked slowly down the stairs, saddened by what she had just observed. When she reached the bottom of the stairs Charlie McCloud was just walking in the front door of the hotel. There was a smile on his face.

  “Your porch is all done, Misty. I even touched up the paint on the railin’ for you. It looks real fine.”

  She walked toward him. “That poor man upstairs has scars all over him,” she whispered. “He said it was from the war—I suppose the one that was back east—the war between the states?”

  “I reckon so, Misty. We never heard tell of no other wars. I’m glad there wasn’t no war out here in California.”

  “Well, I’m going in to fix lunch. Folk’s will be coming in soon and those cattlemen are due in as well. You might as well come in and get a bite yourself. Thank you kindly for what you’ve done for me today.”

  “Yes, ma’am! And you don’t have to box no cookies right at the moment. I’d rather just come in and get a cookie now and then as I need it,” he smiled.

  Passing through the rock hills northwest of town Stalking Moon then rode on into the Indian settlement. He dismounted and soon entered his father’s teepee. The old man stood up and they briefly embraced one another.

  “Those three men did not listen to your words, my father. They climb the ledges toward the mountain.”

  “Do not worry, my son,” Bear Claw responded. “They will end up on the wrong peak, just like the others. The spirits have spoken. The full moon is near. According to the old ones, this is the year of the visitation. My prayers will be answered.”

  “Tell me more of this, my father. Tell me of this ‘visitation’ you speak of. I would like to know more about your visions—the deep things.”

  “Wait, my son. Be patient with me, and I will tell you when the time is right to do so.”

  Her weapon repaired, Lovella left the sheriff’s office and returned to the hotel. As she ascended the front steps she could smell dust in the air and heard several horses coming in at the south end of town. It was the cattlemen. She waited there on the porch as they approached.

  There were seven of them, but Ed Winter was not among them. Slim Woodson soon reigned in and tipped his hat at her. The others reigned in just behind him.

  “Howdy, ma’am. We heard the food in your restaurant here was the finest in the west. I dare say—I can’t say the same thing about our trail cook.”

  The riders with him laughed at that remark. “Are we in time for lunch, ma’am—I know it’s a bit past noon…”

  “You boys tie up there at the rail and come right on in,” Lovella smiled. “Misty has a fine lunch prepared. Where’s your boss—the fella’ with the toothache?”

  “He was gonna’ ride in with us, but he took a pull on that mouth rinse the Doc ordered for him and it upset his stomach a bit. He said he’d be along directly.”

  Lovella laughed. “That mouthwash has a laxative in it.”

  “A what, ma’am?”

  “A laxative—something that makes you barf out the other end. Doc puts it in there so that any bacteria is sure to leave the body’s system.”

  “Back-what, ma’am?”

  “Bacteria, sir—germs—bugs—things that can get in the man’s gums and make him sick.”

  Woodson and the others laughed. “Well, ma’am, it sure is workin’. But he’s a tough old bird. He’ll be along directly, providin’ he don’t have to use too many corncobs. He wouldn’t be able to sit down and eat at all.”

  Lovella shook her head and laughed at the way these grown men carried on. “You boys are an ornery bunch. Come on in now and eat. And when you sit in my chairs, you take off them spurs.”

  The men dismounted and tied their horses at the rails in front of the hotel. They removed their spurs, each man draping them over his saddle horn, and soon entered the restaurant, where both Misty and Lovella attended to them.

  Out at the Davis ranch John Replogle had finished caring for the injured mule. The animal seemed to be doing much better—and in a short time. The tobacco poultice was working. He and Claude Davis had soon afterward located the hornet’s nest along the exterior wall of the barn, where it met with a loose fence post. John then wrapped a cloth around one end of a long staff of pine and dipped it into a barrel of kerosene.

  He made sure Claude was standing some distance away, then lit the cloth and rammed the burning end of that staff into the nest hole, between the fence post and the wall itself. He then ran back some twenty feet and stood alongside Claude. The hornets were caught by surprise, and none escaped the flame.

  “What if the barn catches on fire, John?”

  “Well, the liquid on that cloth is pretty well absorbed by now. I doubt it will spread. It should burn out in the hole—another minute or two. We’ll fetch a bucket of water and douse the area after that, and then cover everything with dirt.”

  “I sure appreciate what you’ve done for me today, John. Dolly’s a very special mule. She leads the team. She’s not the strongest I’ve got, but she sure is the smartest, by-golly!”

  John looked at him. “She’s real partial to you, Claude, and it’s not just because you’re Irish,” he smiled. “You’ve treated her well all these years and she knows it—loves you for it. Mules communicate a little more with their eyes than horses do. Horses use their ears, their teeth, and their tails—even their feet, and talk a little with their eyes as well, don’t get me wrong. But a mule says a lot more with its eyes. I believe the eyes are a direct light into the soul, Claude—and a beacon from the heart as well.

  “All animals have that light, but it radiates more from the mule—least that’s what I’ve experienced. Let me put it this way, Claude—a mule has a big heart, kinda’ like the eye of an owl. You can learn a lot lookin’ into its eye. You can hear its heart speak. But a horse is like a man. It communicates with several different parts of its body. It’s more difficult to learn exactly what a horse is feelin’ or what it’s tryin’ to tell you.”

  “How’d you learn all those things, John?”

  The man was silent for a moment—not sure how Claude would react to what he was about to say.

  “It’s a gift, Claude. I’ve been close to all the creatures since I was a little boy. I lived on a farm, and my brother and sister were more into town things—you know, community type stuff. That was their thing. But I guess I was more of a loner, and so I found friendship with animals and birds and such. My pa never questioned it. He said a child is what he or she is, so he suppor
ted me in my feelin’s about the creatures.”

  John then chuckled a little. “I gave names to every critter I ever talked to. My ma said I never lacked friends. Of course, when I told her I had conversations with the animals and birds, she didn’t pay much attention to that. She thought I ought to be more sociable with the townsfolk. My brother and sister were more like her, and I was more like my pa. He felt the things of nature were more important than most folk’s did. I was obliged to have his encouragement. And, my brother and sister were obliged to have our mother’s encouragement. That’s just the way it was in our family.”

  “You're a good man, John,” Claude smiled at him. “Let's go on into town. I know you won’t take any payment, so I’d like to buy you a meal at the hotel restaurant. We still have a little bit of time and should be able to catch the lunch, by-golly. I love Misty’s cooking—we all do. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good to me. Let’s douse the end of that staff and cover up this nest before we go, and then we’ll pour some more kerosene on it and let it soak into the ground. We don’t want any hornets that might be out and about comin’ on back to this place. They’ll usually travel quite a distance to build another nest, once they find out that one’s been destroyed. They don’t cotton to kerosene—whether it’s layin’ about on the ground or burning.”

  Doc Mucci hung his ‘gone to lunch’ sign out on the front door, closed up his office and walked up the street to the hotel. Several other townsfolk had sat down to lunch in the restaurant, while the cattlemen were just about ready for dessert. There were a few open tables left in the place, but the Doc took a seat next to the window, just across the table from Charlie McCloud. He spoke at the cattlemen as he sat down, who were seated nearby.

  “How’s Mr. Winter doing, boys? Did the man take his medicine?”

  Slim Woodson spoke up. “That he did, Doc. It was workin’ when we left. He’ll be in shortly, I’m sure—providin’ he ain’t run out of corncobs.” There was an immediate chorus of soft laughter from the other men seated at the table with Woodson.