She soon reached the dry wash, the animal beside her, and began sifting through the smaller stones and pebbles that lay in abundance, scattered throughout the desert sand along the wash bed. There was an array of multicolored quartz among them. She also found a golden nugget, and the cherished blue stone—turquoise. This piece was a little over an inch in diameter and shaped like an acorn. She was most thrilled at this great find.
Her people considered the blue stone to be sacred; something they had learned from the Apache of the desert southwest. To the Apache, the stone represented the blue sky in contrast with the skin tones of the earth. They said that the Great Spirit had placed it among the rocks to remind the people of the diversity in the Spirit’s creativity—to teach them that the earth and the sky were one, and that all created things represented the power emanating from the Great Spirit.
The stone was considered to allow one who held it in his or her hand to be able to speak more clearly with the Great Spirit and to be heard. Many wore it attached to some form of jewelry, which they believed established both their physical and spiritual union with the maker of all things. Some rubbed on the stone in their hand as they prayed. To receive the blue stone from another human being was considered a great gift—uniting both the giver and the receiver with the Spirit forever.
Little Swan soon completed her task, collecting what she needed, and then started toward the waterfall at the base of the mountain. Suddenly a mountain lion stood in her path—slightly above on a flat rock, a mere forty feet away from her and the red-bone hound. The dog growled immediately, and then moved forward in a fearless stride, taking a stand in front of the girl to protect her. His growl increased in its fierceness as the animal displayed his sharp teeth toward the predator.
The mountain lion bared its long, pointed teeth and screamed out in return, then jumped down from the flat rock and began to move slowly toward the hound. The dog took several steps toward it and continued with its steady, menacing growl, moving in even closer. In the blink of an eye the red-bone then lunged forward, striking the mountain lion head on and biting ferociously and deeply into the animal’s neck.
The mountain lion wrestled its way free in an instant, and then suddenly leaped back onto the rock, up above the dog, quickly turning about and standing erect, once again facing the animal head on and screaming out angrily. At that moment there was the loud explosion of a large caliber rifle. Its trajectory came out from the rocks just behind the girl and struck the base of the granite slab where the mountain lion stood. The animal immediately leaped from the rock in another direction and scrambled up the face of the mountain amidst rock and brush until it was out of sight.
The girl turned about and observed a tall, lean stranger atop a gray horse, riding out from behind the rocks, a rifle in hand. He had a black hat on top of his head; its flat brim tilted down just above his eyes, and he was wearing a light-colored deerskin jacket. The young girl observed that the trousers he wore were also black, the hem facing her resting on the upper arch of a very decoratively stitched, black leather boot. The man wore bright silver spurs.
He quickly stowed the Sharps in the saddle boot and climbed down from the horse, standing directly in front of her. He held the reins of his mount in one hand and reached out and placed the other on Little Swan’s shoulder.
“Don’t be afraid, girl. That mountain critter won’t be back today. He’s chosen another place to find some food for his family.” He then dropped the reins and stepped back from the girl, looking at the rocks about him.
“I figured you and the red-bone would be out here. I just came along to see if everything turned out all right. I reckon it’s a good thing I did, but then again I’m sure your dog there would have held his place. He’s a fine lookin’ animal—tough ol’ boy, huh?”
The girl smiled, relaxed in the stranger’s presence. “He use to be a wild dog. Now he has become my friend. For a long time I wanted him to be my friend, but he always ran away into the rocks, where I could not find him.”
The man then squatted down to where he was eye level with the young girl, and could stroke the head of the dog. “Did you give him a name?”
“No—but I think I will now name him, Braveheart.”
The man smiled. “Indeed—he does have a brave heart. That’s a fine name, young lady.”
The girl looked into the man’s eyes. “My father, who is Stalking Moon, told me that the name I would choose should reflect the spirit of the dog. By what name are you called?”
“I am called Michael.”
“Have you come to see my grandfather?”
“Now, how did you know that?”
She then smiled. “I just feel it—inside.”
“Yes,” Michael replied, “but I will not see him or speak with him until tomorrow. I have some other things I have to do today. What do you have in your pouch there?”
She opened the leather pouch and shook the stone collection out into her hand. “These are stones for my grandfather. I will polish them when I return to the village. These are a gift for his birthday celebration—it begins tomorrow. Have you come for his birthday?”
“In a way I guess I have. You’d best get on back to your village now. That storm up above is comin’ in soon. You’ll be safe there. Don’t fret none about that big cat—like I said, he’s gone away now—back up the mountain to his own place.”
“I must first go to the waterfall to clean these stones. It is behind the rocks up ahead where the lion ran away. There is a big pine tree there at the head of the canyon that sits alone. I think they named the town after this pine tree.” She then laughed softly; “I am not much taller than the great cones that grow on its branches. Is it safe to go there?”
“You’ll be fine now, girl,” Michael assured her.
“My name is Little Swan,” she responded. “I will tell my grandfather you are coming.”
“You do that, and you take care of yourself, Little Swan.”
“Good-bye,” she nodded. “Come, Braveheart,” she spoke at the animal. “We must go to the waterfall, and then we can go back to our village. You have warmed my heart this day.”
She then turned away from Michael and walked toward the outcropping of rocks that opened to one of many small waterfalls along the lower north fork of Lone Pine Creek. The dog remained at her side. Both of them looked back at the man for a moment, and then continued on their journey.
Michael climbed aboard his horse. “Well, we’ve visited the groves, found the boy, and we’ve come out here to find the girl—now let’s go pay a visit to those cattlemen.” He reined the animal southeastward and headed out of the wash, moving along slowly through the rock formations.
Back in town, about an hour after sunrise, Sheriff Ben Johnson walked out of the restaurant and headed across the street toward his office. Three riders approached from the north, riding slowly toward him down the middle of Main Street. When they spotted him they kicked up their horses to a gallop.
The sheriff was taken aback as they rode in quickly and surrounded him in a cloud of dust, and then one at a time pulled the pistols out of their holsters and pointed them at him. One of them spoke up.
“You’re Sheriff Johnson, ain’t you?” The man was unshaven and spit onto the ground just after his words at the sheriff. “Speak up, you ol’ bushwhacker!”
The sheriff remained calm in spite of the commotion; both hands at his side, his right hand just inches from the butt of the gun in his holster. “And I’ll bet you’re them three fella’s that escaped from Reno prison,” he drawled. “You’d be the Cutler brothers?”
“You ain’t too dumb after all,” the same man responded. The other two men laughed.
“Well, I’m Abe Cutler. These are my two brothers—Tom and Bill. Now, we ain’t never killed us no sheriff, but we just love to rob banks—and kill folk’s that get in our way.”
The other brothers laughed again at Abe’s words as he looked up and down the street. “Where’s the townsf
olk? It’s Saturday mornin’. I ’spect most everybody ought to be out and about?”
“It’s a bit early,” the sheriff responded. “On Saturdays most folk’s usually come into town a little after nine in the mornin’. There’s a few of Lone Pine’s fine citizens over eatin’ breakfast right now.”
“Well, sheriff—you just pull that pistol out of your rig nice and slow, and drop it on the ground. Then we’ll all head over to that restaurant so’s we can chat with those folk’s.”
Ben Johnson hesitated. He wanted to pull iron and take his chances, and he was one man who could do that—a fine man with a gun. Abe Cutler spotted the look in his eyes.
“You’ve gotta’ lot of hard bark on you, that’s sure—but I wouldn’t do that, sheriff—wouldn’t try to pull on us. You got three guns leveled at you. The one in my hand has a hair-trigger. We’ll spatter you all over this street; you try to pull on us. You make the choice. Remember, I’m lookin’ right into your eyes.”
It was a tough choice for Ben. In his mind it was them or him—but if they came out on top, what would happen to the townsfolk? If it were just him, out all alone in the rocks and facing these three scoundrels, he’d go ahead and pull iron on them—make no mistake about that. But, it wasn’t just him whose life might be at stake. He figured he’d better comply, and started to reach for the pistol, moving slowly.
“Ah-ah—no-no,” Abe warned. “You pull out that piece with your left hand and put that right hand on behind your back. Do it slow—like molasses in winter time, or I’ll drop this hammer.”
Ben then reached across with his left hand and placed it on the butt of his pistol. He then moved his right hand around toward the back of his britches, and about the same time lifted the gun out of his holster and dropped it onto the ground. “I sure hate to drop that good lookin’ iron on the ground like that.”
“We’ll take real good care of it,” Abe responded, then spoke at one of his brothers. “Tom—you get that gun and toss it into the corral over yonder. Then we’ll all dismount and just amble on over to that restaurant with the sheriff. Bill—there might be a door into that restaurant from inside the hotel. You go in there and have a look so’s we can be sure that no one’s gonna’ run out of there when we go in the front. Do that right now!”
Abe then spoke at the sheriff. “Where’s the banker at this early in the mornin’?”
Ben didn’t say a word—just looked up at the man on his horse, took a chew on the tobacco in his mouth, and then spit the juice out onto the ground near the man’s mount.
“Shame on you, sheriff—bein’ such a tough ol’ cob. You’ll talk soon. If you don’t, one of your townsfolk over there in the restaurant will be persuaded, I’m sure—in one way or another.”
Near to nine thousand head of beef, now bunched together out on the vast plain to the south, was quite a sight that morning. Slim Woodson looked out at them as he saddled his horse near the chuck wagon, where some of the drovers had gathered for breakfast. They were camped a mile or so south of town, just north of the herd. The cook spoke at him.
“A’ fore you go checkin’ the herd, Slim, you got a rider comin’ in from the west. Tall in the saddle—wearin’ a deerskin coat. Fine lookin’ gray he’s mounted on, too.”
Woodson looked in that direction, spotting the rider. “That fella’ was in town yesterday. I saw him at the restaurant. I guess he chased some mutt out of town that had some kind of sickness. The lady that cooks at the restaurant said he cured the dog, but me and the boys weren’t too sure about that. Never saw what happened ourselves.”
“Well, you gonna’ go out there and meet him or just let him ride on in?”
Woodson swung into the saddle. “I’ll ride on out. You keep that breakfast hot in case he wants something to eat. Ed Winter never turns a man away from a meal.” He then kicked up his horse and rode toward the incoming rider. The other drovers continued to eat their breakfast. A couple of them stood up, breakfast tins in hand, and looked after Woodson. The man riding in for sure looked like a gunfighter and they wanted to remain alert.
The rider soon reined in, just outside the camp, and Woodson soon rode up beside him, a smile on his face. He nodded his greeting to the man. “Howdy. Seen you in town yesterday, mister. Name’s Slim Woodson. What can we do for you out here?”
“You boys have a lot of cattle here,” the man said, as he looked out over the herd. “Name’s Michael. Are you boys plannin’ on bein’ here awhile or will you be pushin’ north?”
“Well, Michael, we were figuring on headin’ out come Monday. The boss has given us the weekend to sort of relax and enjoy this pretty country. The town’s real friendly, so we’re right glad to stay. Why do you ask?”
Michael hesitated. “Well, your animals might be in a little danger around here tomorrow night. I was hopin’ you might be headin’ them north.”
Woodson eyed him inquisitively. “What kind of danger, mister?”
Michael relaxed a bit, both hands resting on the horn of his saddle. “Well, I’m not sure you’d believe me, even if I was to tell you. I mainly came over here just to see if the animals would be here or not—come tomorrow night. I’m not up to anything funny, if that’s what you’re thinkin’—but I will tell you that it might be a real good idea to move ’em on.”
Woodson removed his hat and scratched a bit at his head. “Well—is there rustlers here a’ bouts or what?”
Michael thought for a moment before he spoke. “You might say that. I just rode in yesterday from down south—from the border country. Shared a campfire with a man who said that a large group of rustlers were sweepin’ north from that Spanish stronghold—Los Angeles, and may be headed this way. I don’t think you have enough men to handle ’em, if they are.”
Woodson nodded. “Well, we come from Sante Fe. We never heard nothin’ like that over in our part of the country. We come a long way and crossed into California near a place called Needles, then took the main cattle trail north from there to get up here. It was a quiet trail—and a long one. We ran into some vaqueros from over Los Angeles way; when we climbed a steep pass out of San Bernardino, but they never mentioned anything about a large band of rustlers?”
Michael didn’t look the man in the eyes; just kept his eyes on the large herd of cattle to his east. “Well, just thought I’d let you know.”
Woodson smiled. “Why don’t you come on in and have some breakfast. We got plenty of vittles—bacon, eggs, biscuits and such, and everything’s still warm.”
Michael sighed. “I suppose I am a bit hungry. I missed breakfast in town—had some chores to handle. Sure—I’ll ride in with you—kind of you to offer some grub.”
Abe Cutler and his brothers had taken the sheriff over to the restaurant at gunpoint, and had made he and four other Lone Pine residents sit down at a single table together. Cutler had confiscated two guns from the others and disposed of them. He also had Misty and Lovella seated at another table, but had not discovered the gun in the rear waistband of Lovella’s trousers. He then spoke at everyone in the room.
“Now, somebody in this room is gonna’ go out and get the banker. I know the bank ain’t open yet, but you can roust him out of his house, wherever that is, and bring him on over here. Now if somebody don’t volunteer, I’m gonna shoot these lovely ladies in the back of the head—one at a time, and just ten minutes apart, until someone volunteers to go and bring me that banker.”
The other people in the room, seated near sheriff Johnson, were Charlie McCloud, Floyd Thomas, Ed Spencer, who was the town’s pharmacist, and his wife, Michele. But just at that moment, when Abe Cutler had made his threat, Don and Margaret Warner stepped into the restaurant together. Cutler greeted them immediately at gunpoint. His brothers stood watch over all the others inside the room.
“Welcome, folk’s. Just keep walkin’—right on in here and sit down at that table next to the sheriff’s little group. Raise your hands so’s I can check you for guns!”
“We don�
�t carry guns!” Margaret snapped. She looked over at the sheriff. “Ben, when did this trash blow in?”
Bill Cutler stepped toward her. He was a skinny man, dirty in appearance, and had a foul breath odor that permeated the room within several feet of him. The man waived his handgun near Margaret’s face. “Who you callin’ trash, woman?”
“Phew!” she gasped. “You look like trash and smell like trash—what do you expect?”
The man then pointed the handgun close in at her face. “I ought to…”
“Back off, Billy,” Abe Cutler barked. “And you folk’s that just came in—sit down right now!” He then glanced toward his brother. “Get back over there where you were, Billy, and mind your manners. Don’t bandy words with these people. We’ve got a chore to finish.”
He then looked around the room. “Now, which one of you is gonna’ go and fetch that banker?”
“I’ll do it,” Misty responded, her voice somewhat weakened by her fear.
Abe moved toward her. “You’d best not do anything stupid. If you’re not back here with that banker in ten minutes, one of your friends here bites the dust. Do you understand me?”
Misty looked up at him, her lips quivering. “I understand.” She then got up from her seat and moved toward the door.
“Everything will be fine,” she encouraged the others, her voice trembling. “I’ll be right back with Jim.” She then walked out the door and headed up Main Street toward the Dawson residence.
Lovella spoke sharply at Abe Cutler. “You horse’s ass—you scared that poor girl near to death. I guess you think you’re mister iron pants, huh? What do you plan on doing with us, mister iron pants?”
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 7