Ed Winter, owner of the trail herd south of town, soon walked into the saloon. Slim Woodson eyed him right away. “How you feelin’, boss?”
The other cattlemen at the table looked toward him as well. One of them spoke up. “There’s a house beer here for you, sir.”
The man walked up to the table and stood there. “I was told you boys had already eaten and had come on over here. I just wanted to let you know I was in town. I think I’ll go back over to that restaurant and get me a bite to eat. I sure don’t need a beer on this empty stomach.”
He then leaned in and whispered at the men, believing he was out of earshot from Maggie, who was back over behind the bar. “I shit my pants three times, boys—don’t want to do it again. My ass is sore from those darn corncobs. I dare say my jaw is a little better, though. But I believe I’m gonna’ have to sit on a pillow or somethin’ when I get over to that restaurant.” Some of the men immediately laughed out loud.
“Lovella’s got pillows at the hotel,” Maggie responded from behind the bar. Winter was taken aback and a bit embarrassed.
Maggie smiled at him. “Nothing gets past me in here, sir. I’ve got ears like a coyote. Lovella will have some ointment for you as well, if you ask her for it, but you’ll have to wipe it on yourself.”
All of the cattlemen then laughed out loud. Even Ed Winter chuckled—mostly at himself. He then looked at Maggie. “You’re a spitfire of a woman, ma’am. You ever move cattle?”
“No,” she smiled. “Moved a couple from inside the barn to outside the door when I was a little girl, but my folk’s in those days were horse people and farmers. We only had a few milkin’ cows on the ranch. Why do you ask?”
Winter looked again at his men, then back at Maggie. “Well, you’d fit right in with this bunch of drovers here, ma’am. They’re an ornery lot, and like to make jokes and sing trail songs to pass the time.”
“They sing?”
“Sure do, ma’am,” Woodson responded.
“I do too,” she smiled. “What do you fella’s sing?”
“He does the singin’, ma’am,” one of the other men spoke up, nodding toward Slim. “The rest of us just kind of harmonize along with him—sing the choruses and stuff—hum along most of the time. A couple boys here play the guitar, as does Slim there.”
Maggie then walked toward the end of the bar, grabbing hold of a guitar that was leaning against the back of it. She had both hands on it when she came out from behind the bar, and walked over to where Slim Woodson was seated. She then handed him the instrument. “Sing for me—all of you,” she smiled. “Sing me one of your trail songs. My dad and his friends use to sing cowboy songs to me. I grew real fond of them.”
“Is there one in particular you might like to hear, ma’am?” one of the cattlemen asked.
“I better go on over and get somethin’ to eat,” Ed Winter interrupted. “I’m feelin’ a little queasy again all of a sudden.”
“You do that,” Maggie responded. “Doc’s medicine will keep working until you get something into your tummy.”
“Thank you for warning me—you all have a good time.” He then walked quickly out of the saloon and headed up toward the hotel and restaurant.
Maggie ran over to the swinging doors and stuck her head outside, hollering out behind him. “There’s an outhouse in back of the stage depot—if you can’t make it to the hotel!”
The cattlemen inside broke out in laughter once again. Maggie drew her head back inside and turned toward the men, in thought for a moment, and then spoke at them. “I like San Antonio.”
“We remember that ol’ piece, boys—c’mon,” Woodson responded. “It’s a good song.” He picked out a few lead-in notes on the guitar as he tapped one of his boots against the wood flooring, and then he and the others began to sing in unison. Maggie joined in shortly thereafter:
“I want some black-eyed peas, I want some mustard greens,
I want some cornpone on the side,
I want my chicken fried, with a golden hide,
Ah, Ha, San Antone.
When I was a kid I had a locket,
And inside was a picture of Davy Crockett.
I know a gal named Ann, who lives in Texarkan,
And loves a boy in Arkansas,
But when they take a ride, it’s on the Texas side,
Ah, Ha, San Antone.
Oh, now I want to go, back to the Alamo,
Down where my grandpa lived…”
That singing continued to echo out from the saloon and along the main street of town, while the stranger rode silently across the desert brush and entered the rock formations a few miles to the west. He reined his mount back and forth among the dense outcroppings, making his way toward the base of the mountain. Quail could be heard amidst the rocks, their songs peaceful and melodious. A single red hawk soared high overhead. The stranger was drawn to its call.
“I hear you up there. Nice day for a flight. Good breeze up there, huh? Stick around. I’ll be dismountin’ at those boulders up ahead—just yonder.”
The large hawk was circling high above the boulders when the man reached them. He dismounted, the horse snorting a bit as he did so. He then stroked the neck of the animal.
“Time for a rest, big fella’. There’s some good brush here to nibble on,” he smiled. “I’m gonna’ take a seat here atop these boulders—got some things to think about. You rest easy now, my friend.”
The stranger then climbed atop the highest of three, white granite boulders that rested together on the desert floor amid a myriad of reddish and brown-toned sandstone formations. This was a most ruggedly beautiful array of rock scattered ’roundabout him, a few of the larger ones with desert blooms sprouting on the face of the rock, where rainwater had over time seeped into their cracks, giving life to seeds planted by the frequent high desert winds.
The man looked up toward the mountain, captivated and inspired by the pointed crags atop the High Sierra crest. The sun was just over those peaks, on its way to its setting beyond their western slopes. There was a gathering of white clouds to the south, moving northward, which were soon to be overshadowed by a larger mass of dark gray clouds drifting in slowly from the southwest.
The great red hawk, still overhead, began to circle even lower, and soon glided downward toward where the stranger was seated. The man’s legs were stretched out in front of him across the rock, and the hawk then came in and perched itself on the boulder just beyond the heels of his boots. It then hopped up between his legs and stepped up onto his trousers atop the left knee. The bird fluffed its wings, expanded them, and then slowly brought them into full closure, still perched atop the man’s leg.
He reached out and stroked the neck of the great bird. “Greetings, my friend.”
The bird then squealed softly three times.
“Yes, feathered one, the time is at hand. But we have to wait for the full moon—the day after tomorrow. I came here to view the mountain, and to speak with the Son of the Most High. We have an appointed time together. I reckon you can stay, if you’d like.”
He once again reached out and stroked the neck of the creature. The hawk then raised its wings slightly and took to the air. It circled once and then perched itself atop the man’s left shoulder. Michael looked up again at the mountain, and the great bird did the same. Sitting still it remained peaceful for some time atop his shoulder, while the sun continued its descent into the western sky.
On the high granite slopes above Lone Pine, the three fishermen continued their ascent, the men now climbing in a southwesterly direction, by which they exited the timberline at about 11,000 feet, and then began an ascent of a steep, boulder-strewn chute just to their west. They had climbed almost a thousand feet up the chute. The bold, summit block of that particular crown of granite presently towered a mere 2000 feet above them.
Johnny Lucas was in the lead, and stopped to rest on the first in a series of flat-topped boulders along the incline beyond him. He looked back dow
n at the others, who were just approaching his position. He spoke to them as they drew near.
“This chute here seems a little bit out of the way, but I see no other way up. That chute to the north is too darn steep. This one looks like it heads right toward that block above—that’s gotta’ be the top.”
Al Johnson took in a deep breath, then relaxed. “We’ve come a long way, Johnny. It sure is hard to tell at times if we’re headin’ in the right direction—with all these twists and turns we’re makin’. Things look a lot different up here than they did from down below.”
“We’ll be fine,” Johnny assured him. “The sun’s gonna’ be settin’ in a couple hours or so. We should be up near the top about the time it does.”
“What if we ain’t?” Charlie Begole snapped.
“We’ll have a near full moon tonight,” Al responded. “But I’m with Johnny—we’re gonna’ be up there before sunset. We’ve only climbed about an hour or so out of the timber, and we’re at least a third of the way up this chute!” he smiled. “We’ll show them stinkin' government people a thing or two. This is our mountain.”
Johnny grinned. “That it is. Let’s take a bite to eat before we go on. Then we can climb like hell.”
In the Indian settlement, Bear Claw’s granddaughter came to him as he sat among the tall rocks near the village, waiting for the setting of the sun. The red-bone hound was at her side.
“Grandfather! The wild one has come to me. He is now my friend. I have longed for this day. He has come near many times before, but he has run away when I have approached him. Now, he no longer spouts the white sickness, and he will not run away anymore. It is a dream come true!”
“Little Swan,” her grandfather responded, “I am happy for you, my child. This is a sign of good things to come.”
The hound then approached Bear Claw and lay down at his feet, its tail wagging. The man gently stroked the animal along the top of its head and down its back. “He is a fine animal, Little Swan. What will you call him?”
“I do not know, grandfather. I must wait and choose a right name for him.”
The old man smiled. “You are wise, Little Swan. You should talk with your father about this thing. Stalking Moon has always been wise regarding the spirits of the animals. He will guide you in seeking a name for this creature.”
“I will do that, grandfather. I was just excited to come here and tell you about this dog. You were the one who told me that it would someday be at peace. Someday has come, and it is only right that you are the first to know.”
“Little Swan, you honor me with your words. You are much like your father and your mother. Now, go and speak to them of this great thing.”
The young girl hugged her grandfather, and she and the animal then ran together toward the village. Bear Claw turned from watching her retreat and looked up toward the mountain. He then stood to his feet, and with his hands in the air spoke loudly into the sky, his eyes gazing upon the white granite crest high above him.
“I thank you, Grand Father—keeper of this great mountain. The spirit in my vision has arrived. He is near and I will behold him. I thank you for who I am! I thank you for the victories and for the defeats in my life—that I have come to know you through these things. I am now honored above many red men.”
He then took his staff in hand and danced in a circle as he sang: “Hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya hoi! Hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya hoi!”
He raised the staff into the air toward the mountain. “Glory to you, oh Grand Father!”
He then got down onto his knees and lowered his face into the dust. After many moments had passed he arose, and with his staff in hand, walked back toward the boulder and sat down to await what on that particular evening would be a spectacular setting of the sun. A reddish-orange cast began to dominate the clouds high above.
Up along the Sierra Crest, just minutes before sunset, the three fishermen had climbed to the top of the chute. They found themselves on a high peak, but in scrambling to its edge and looking over at the many nearby peaks, they recognized the large summit block of Mt. Whitney, its two adjacent crags towering next to it, still some distance to their north.
Al Johnson spit onto the ground. “You’re a damn fool, Johnny. I bet you we’re on the same damn peak them survey boys were on. Some route finder you are!”
Johnny shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I know we started up the right canyon this mornin’. We couldn’t have missed it by this far? We gotta’ be a few miles away from it up here—three to four, I’d say!”
“So much for ‘Fishermen’s Peak’,” Charlie grunted. “I think them Indians is right about evil spirits keepin’ men off that mountain.”
Al lifted a foot and kicked at Charlie’s buttocks. “Don’t start that crap—I’ll throw you on over the edge. We’re goin’ down this mountain in the mornin’, take a little rest, and then we’re gonna’ climb on up the right one. You’d best be ready!”
Al then turned toward Johnny with a grin on his face. “Charlie here’s an Indian lover, Johnny.”
Standing just behind him, Charlie then took a swing at Al, his clenched fist connecting with the back of the man’s head. It was a good punch. Al fell forward, sprawling out onto the rocks. Realizing what had happened he scrambled to his feet and moved toward Charlie. Johnny quickly stepped between them.
“That’s enough, you numbskulls! Save your energy. The fight’s with the government, not with one another. We’re gonna’ go back down in the mornin’ and find that Indian. We’ll ask him to point us to the right chute. Then we’ll start back up.”
Al Johnson had struck his nose on the rocks when he fell against them. He dabbed blood from his face onto his jacket sleeve as he spoke. “What makes you think that man will tell us which way to go? He didn’t want us up here in the first place.”
“He wished us well, didn’t he?” Johnny responded. “He’s a fair man. I’m sure he ain’t too happy with the government either. There’s a chance that he might help us.”
Johnny then placed a hand on Al’s shoulder, a gesture of encouragement, and offered him a bandanna to clean up his face.
The stranger was back in town a short time after sunset. He rode into the livery and unsaddled his horse. Sam Waters heard him and entered the stall area, lighting a lantern. He blew out the match just afterward and then stepped toward the stranger.
“Good to see you back, mister. Say—what is your name anyway?”
The stranger lifted his saddle onto the stall railing. “Name’s Michael. You fix that rung back in your loft there?”
“I took out the busted one—haven’t replaced it yet. I sure am glad you spotted that. I could have broken my neck. I just don’t understand how you spotted it? That room’s locked most of the time. Kids hang around here a lot—always afraid one of ’em might go on in there and get hurt. Lovella says you told her about a bad hammer on her gun, too. Says she don’t know how you knew that either. No offense at all, Michael—I guess we’re just a bit curious?”
The stranger removed the Sharps from the saddle boot and turned toward Sam, the carbine pointed down at the floor. The saddlebags were draped over his shoulder. He walked on past him toward the door, but then stopped for a moment and turned to face him.
“Let’s just say I’m a fella’ who’s allowed to know things—to help folk’s out. There’s an old writing that says that folk’s should be hospitable to strangers, without pryin’. It goes on to say that, with all due respect, you might be entertainin’ an angel, and doin’ so without even knowin’ it.”
Michael then tipped his hat at Sam and stepped toward the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Waters.”
He then walked out into the moonlight and headed in the direction of the hotel. The town was quiet—no one else out walking about. Suddenly there was the howl of a distant coyote, its wail echoing against the buildings along the moonlit street. Several others soon joined in. They had gathered in the brush-covered hills to the south—a bit
early for them at this particular time of year.
Michael looked that way. There was a slight grin on his face.
“Creatures of the night,” he muttered. “Your songs are a mite inspirin’—appreciate it.”
He soon stepped up onto the hotel porch, then turned and looked toward the great mountain. The brilliant moonlight, just a shade off full, reflected captivatingly from its bold, granite face. Across the plain to the east, the high desert brush was also stunningly illuminated, unveiling the vast lake and mountains lying in the shadows beyond. He lingered a few moments, in awe of such glory revealed, and then entered the hotel.
THE SECOND DAY…
Chapter Five
At sunrise the next morning, Little Swan walked out of the Indian village toward the tall stand of rocks just to the west. There was dense cloud cover atop the mountain, the high peaks not visible from the valley below. These were thick, swirling clouds, gradually darkening—most likely a thunder storm building along the high crest. The young girl saw them, but sensed no threat of rain that might endanger her trek down into the nearby wash.
The red-bone hound walked along beside her. She wanted to gather some of the small, attractive stones from the dry wash bed that wound its way through the vast stands of tall rocks and immense boulders. This prominent display of rocks formed the lay of the land that bordered her village and skirted the western edge of Lone Pine, extending southward in magnificent array toward the great lake. Northward and westward the large outcrops made up a part of the lower incline at the base of the highest mountain.
She planned on picking out a few of the more uniquely colored stones from the wash and cleaning them up at the nearby waterfall. She would allow them to dry in the sun, polish them against deerskin, and then store them in a small leather pouch that her mother had stitched together for her. She would give this small container of polished stones to her grandfather as a gift. The very next day was to be the first day of his annual birthday celebration.
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 6