“The animals around here are much wiser than us. I’ve treated them, and I’ve spoken with them. I’ve had hawks and eagles land on the roof of my cabin, and I believe they’ve tried to communicate with me. I get the same feelings, you might say, from both the animals and the birds. That feeling being that this is a special place—Lone Pine and the beauty all around it.” John then leaned forward and tried his best to look into everyone’s eyes as he spoke around the room.
“The unique landscape, the lofty peaks that point to the sky, even the boulders in the hills that stand on end—they sing out to the heavens with the glory of this place—it’s a choir of rocks! They’ve been standing out there—hundreds of them and maybe thousands—standing out there since the great flood, giving honor to the one who formed it all.
“Yet, that big mountain out there—the one they recently named Mount Whitney, is, according to the Indians, a dwelling place for the spirits of darkness—a resting place from all the havoc that they cause here on the earth. That’s what I believe as well.”
John then leaned back in his chair. “But, I’ve never spoken to Bear Claw of the Shoshone about what it all means—why there seems to be mostly good down here all around us, and evil up there on the mountain. I don’t know why I haven’t visited that man and spoken with him? Shame on me! He’s no different than I am, except for the color of his skin.
“But now that this Michael is here, we might all learn something—either that, or it might be that God’s not too happy with this area, and our time around here is near about over—like it was for the people of those ancient cities. But, I really don’t think that’s the case with Lone Pine. I agree with Margaret. This is a special place—and considering all that we've witnessed here in the last couple of days, I truly believe that Michael is here to make things even better.”
Chapter Eight
Sheriff Johnson looked over at Sam Waters, who was seated just next to him. Sam had a quill in hand, a bottle of ink on the table before him, and was hard at scratching words into a small book. Most of the others in the restaurant were still talking with one another about those things being discussed among the group as a whole.
Ben then leaned over and spoke into Sam’s ear. “What are you workin’ so hard at there, Sam?”
Sam laid the quill down on the table and responded to him. “I’m recordin’ all these things we’re talkin’ about, Ben. This here book is called a diary. It has blank pages so’s you can write in it. It was my wife’s before she passed on, but she never wrote nuthin’ in it. She said it was meant for somethin’ much more important than her. And the way I look at it is, nuthin’ was more important than her, but it’s gonna’ be in her diary that I write about the most important thing that ever happened here in Lone Pine—I do believe!”
Sam picked up the quill, dipped into the bottle of ink and started writing once again. Sheriff Johnson then turned away and spoke above the crowd.
“Is there anything else that needs to be said regarding our visitor; Michael? You’re all talkin’ amongst yourselves—don’t be afraid to speak out if you have something important to say—that ain’t already been said.”
Ed Spencer then stood up. He looked around the room, then back at the sheriff as he spoke out. “What are we all going to do about this, Ben?”
Immediately his words seemed to echo around the room as others voiced the same question. Some began to argue with one another. Others remained silent, two of which were Jerry and Juanita Garcia. They looked at one another and spoke softly close in together. Jerry soon raised a hand. Ben spotted him.
“Speak up, Jerry—I’m kind of at a loss for words at this point. Ain’t no laws been broken—I’m not sure what any of you folk’s want me to do?” He looked around the room. Jerry Garcia then spoke out.
“Sen’or’s and Sen’orita’s—I have listened to all these things that have been said. And I have talked with this man himself, and I have seen a great wonder before my eyes—when he healed my young son. I am humbled by his presence here. I think we should just wait—wait and let things happen as they will. If he is truly an angel of the Lord, there is nothing we can do anyway. What is written in the pages of time will happen. Blessings to all of you.”
There was a brief silence in the room. With that, Jerry and his wife got up from their chairs and walked over to the counter to pay for their breakfast. Lovella stood up to attend to them. Misty looked around the room at almost everyone, then stood up and went back into the kitchen. Maggie followed her.
Some folk’s then began to converse again on the matter, but most everyone had allowed Jerry Garcia’s words to settle some of the things that were on their minds, at least for the time being. Ben Johnson was one of them. He remained seated, but spoke out to the others in the room.
“Well, I figure this town meetin’ is over.” With that most everyone got up from his or her seats. Some started toward the counter to pay their bills. Those who had paid earlier or who had left money on their tables started on their way outside. Just about everyone however was still talking about the things that were discussed in the meeting. They were conversing as they went out the door, and some remained talking out on the street for a time.
Ben looked over at the Warner’s, who still remained seated at their table. “Don and Margaret—before you leave, I want to talk with you and Judge Dawson about maybe goin’ over to meet with Bear Claw and his people about gettin’ together with them. I think we can…”
“We’ll need a delegation,” the judge interrupted. He had remained in the restaurant as well, and nursed at a mug of coffee.
Ben looked at him. “A what?”
The judge smiled. “When speaking with the natives, the government policy is that there be a group chosen, who are most familiar with the laws of the land, and can articulate the desires of our society, based on those current laws, in negotiating with the natives on any matter that involves blending in with our culture. This is a delegation and the duty thereof.”
Ben shook his head. “I wanted your opinion on this, Jim, that’s why I spoke out while you were still sittin’ here—but that’s a little strong. I’m the law here in Lone Pine, and the government here is by the people—and the majority rules. Now that stuff they pull back east is because they tried to make the Indians white in the first place, and overstepped their bounds—then all hell broke loose. This is California, still the land of the free, and we do things our own way out here, Jim.”
The judge shrugged his shoulders. “I agree with you, Ben. I’m a part of Lone Pine, as you are. I’m all for allowing the natives among us. But, if the government back east gets wind of something like this, they can take it the wrong way and make trouble—perhaps send armed troops out here. They are indeed famous for that type of thinking, as you pointed out, and as I said, I agree with you. Let me offer a suggestion, if I may?”
“Okay, Judge—we’re all ears.” At that time, only the sheriff, the Warner’s, and the judge were present in the dining area of the restaurant. Misty, Lovella, and Maggie were still working in the kitchen.
“I will write out an agreement,” the judge smiled. “We will state that the natives can walk, live or work freely among us, and will have all the rights and duties as citizens of this community. We will gather the signatures of the tribe’s people, and gather the signatures of all the Lone Pine residents as well. We will create a seal for our city, and incorporate it on the document. Once it is signed by all, or at best the majority of all, as you have stated, I will, as a duly appointed judge, ratify the document with my signature, and we will then send a copy of it to Washington. How’s that sound?”
“Is that all it takes?” Margaret questioned. “Washington can’t disallow it or anything like that?”
The judge hesitated. “They may choose to, shall I say, raise up their banners against it. They may, as I mentioned earlier, go as far as sending soldiers out here to disrupt things—but in the meantime we may be able to establish something that will
be accepted by all the people—throughout the land. If we can do that, the success of such an endeavor would be fairly certain—at least to my way of thinking.”
Suddenly a deep voice spoke out from behind them. “You’re a wise man, Judge—and a fair man. But those high-binders in Washington don’t deal in morality of that sort.”
Those present in the room abruptly turned to face Michael, standing in the front doorway of the restaurant. He continued with his words, the brim of his hat down in his eyes and his hands resting atop the gun belt around his waist. The man was leaning against the doorpost, relaxed in his stance.
“It’s something you can’t legislate. Men always put words in documents, but never hold to ’em. A personal vow or a handshake should be good enough. Where I come from it’s just a ‘yea’ or a ‘nay’—a man or a woman’s word is all that’s needed. Now, what you plan on doin’ is a great thing, but that paper you’ll be signin’ won’t enforce it. Your success will have to come through the hearts of the folk’s involved. It will take hard work—and courage; which means bein' scared to death but saddlin' up anyway.”
He then tipped his hat at those in the room and stepped back outside. Ben Johnson made for the door in a hurry and called out as the man was crossing the street.
“Wait, Michael!” We’d sure like to talk with you.”
Michael stopped as he neared the livery and turned about. “Well, I’ll be back in a bit, Sheriff. I need to be ridin’ out to John Replogle’s place at the moment, and then I’ll be headin’ back into town to have a few words with Misty McBride.”
The man stepped toward the livery again, but then turned for a moment to speak once more at Sheriff Johnson.
“When I do talk with Misty, the four of you that are in there right now can sit in on it. That’d be you, the Judge, and Mr. and Mrs. Warner. I’ll need to talk with Miss Atwood as well. And, I suppose Maggie MacDonald might want to hear some things she’s needed to hear for quite a while, and that’s okay, but right now that’s all I can abide—just the seven of you. See to it, Sheriff.”
The sheriff nodded at him, a little taken aback by his request and unable at that moment to voice a response. He stood on the porch and watched as the man known as Michael rode on out of town. The others had crossed the room and stood in the doorway just behind him.
“Where’s he going?” Margaret asked. “Will he be back?”
Ben turned and looked at the others, motioning them back with his hands. “Let’s go on inside and I’ll tell you all what the man said.”
It was past noon when Michael neared the ranch that John Replogle called home. It was a fair sized spread, a wide range of colorful, desert brush on the south side, with an array of large boulders dotting the landscape to the north, where some of the taller outcrops bunched together and formed a long wall of picturesque rocks that protected his cabin and outbuildings from the wind.
There was a stand of tall, cone-bearing pines, a few Colorado blue spruce among them; these hearty and productive trees encompassing three sides of the narrow, elevated plot of land where he had constructed his buildings. The open landscape to the front of his log cabin faced the high, timber-free crags along the Sierra Crest, each season offering spectacular views of the white granite that would inspire most anyone.
John was a man who loved the ruggedness of the outdoors, and his holdings and their arrangement on the land reflected that. There were two corrals near the barn, each constructed of lodge pole pine, where he kept a few horses, two milking cows, two goats and a half dozen sheep. There were a couple of mature cats that patrolled the barn and kept it free of mice and other critters. He had two dogs as well; shepherd females, and there was a family of raccoons that had made their home in a stack of hay, piled up and spread out just under the loft.
Most all the animals he owned, and the other critters that lodged there, got along fairly well with one another. The most surprising relationship was that between the cats and the mice. The cats wouldn’t allow the mice free roam of the barn—that was their territory, but they did allow them to reside in a small space in the corner of a shed that stood near the barn, which housed the tools that John used to maintain the surrounding trees and a small, colorful garden. The shed itself stood just about in the center of that garden.
The mice would pretty much take care of all the bugs that invaded the foliage, and John respected that. He thus allowed them free roam of his plantings, and he made the cats aware of that fact. Once in a while one or two of the mice would wander into the barn—a little cow or goats milk was spilt now and then, and those tiny critters would catch a whiff of it. The cats of course were wise to their movements, and would pounce upon them right away when they were seen or heard in the barn, and then paw them over onto their backs.
But, they never hurt those little critters—they’d just swipe them back onto their feet, push their noses up against the rounded, southern ends of the mice and then nudge them on out of the barn. The mice would always sound off with a few squeaks and make a little racket, but they were never up to aggravating the cats and always ran for the shed once they were put outside the barn.
John had spent most all of his life around animals and small critters. He had learned to communicate with them over time, and it did a work on his heart that made him a strongly compassionate man with animals, and with humans as well. John was one who would walk ten miles out of his way to avoid stepping on an ant, so to speak. It was this special quality about him that brought Michael riding out through the rocks to speak with him.
John was standing amidst his horses in the corral when Michael rode in. John saw the man and spoke out at him.
“Howdy there, Michael. Welcome to Thundercloud Mesa—that’s what I call this little stretch of elevated land I’ve settled on. Sits up here a little higher than what’s around me—like a mesa, I guess, though most folk’s wouldn’t consider it to be one.”
Michael didn’t respond right away, but dismounted just outside the corral, walked up slow, looking ’round about him, and then leaned over-top the rail fencing, just next to the gate.
“It’s a nice piece of land, John. Sure enough looks like a mesa to me. Nothin’ wrong with a man callin’ it as he sees it. Looks like you take real good care of the area. That’s good. Land is a sacred thing—formed by the hands of the Almighty,” he smiled.
John removed his work gloves and walked over toward the fence, brushing a bit of dust from his shirt with them as he stepped along. He looked at Michael.
“I was hoping that I would get to talk some more with you. I’m obliged that you rode on out here. Can I make you some coffee? I do have some lemonade in the cabin, yonder, if you’d be partial to that.”
The man nodded. “Lemonade sounds good, John. You got a nice lookin’ porch there on the cabin. Maybe we could set there, sip on some of that lemonade and talk for a spell?”
John smiled as he walked on out of the corral, closing the gate behind him. “It’s usually a nice view of the high peaks from that porch, but those storm clouds up there got everything covered up. They’re getting pretty dark, too. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a stretch of clouds quite as thick as those are. Must be a heck of a storm brewing.”
A few miles northwest of John’s spread, at the base of the granite mountains and almost a mile south of Lone Pine Creek, the three fishermen had descended the final ledges along the lower cliffs of their chosen route, and now walked southeastward through a grove of pines that led to their campsite along Tuttle Creek, near the springs. The men were pretty well tuckered out from their journey to nowhere, which was what they later named the experience.
Their desire was to reach the top of what was at that time known as Mt. Whitney, but like several other climbers just days and weeks before them, they had ended up on Mt. Langley (formerly Sheep Rock), a peak that historians call the ‘false Mt. Whitney,’ due to the similar appearance of its bold, summit block and adjacent crags. But a ‘journey to nowhere’ it is not.
The view from its summit boasts of a wide range of breathtakingly inspirational peaks—nearly as far as the eye can see in all directions, along with the diverse landscape of the vast Owens Valley, resting against the majestic Inyo and Panamint Mountain ranges just below and to the east.
The fishermen shortly stopped to rest in the grove of pines, and took up positions lying on their backs amidst its shade. Johnny Lucas soon spoke with the others.
“I’m too worn out to go up a mountain again tomorrow. We can take a rest and maybe go up the day after. Maybe we can go and talk with that Indian tomorrow sometime. What do you boys think?”
“I think we’ll be wastin’ our time with that Indian—told you last night that he didn’t want us goin’ up there in the first place,” Al Johnson responded.
“And I told you he’s a fair man,” Johnny replied. “You wait and see. He’ll show us the route—and it’s gonna’ be us atop Fishermen’s Peak or bust. We’ll be famous—first climbers to reach the top of the highest mountain in this country. Folk’s will pay money to hear our story.”
Charlie Begole laughed at that remark. “They’ll either pay us money or ride us out of town on a rail—for lyin’.”
“Won’t be no lie!” Johnny blurted. “We’ll put a little monument up there—maybe a little pile of rocks with a fishin’ line and some hooks threaded on and tied around it. They might not believe us right off, but when some more climbers go up there and find it, we’ll be shittin’ in high cotton!”
Al Johnson then yawned. “It’s not too much further to our camp. I need to get some sleep, Johnny. That cold up there kept me awake most of the night. Had to get up and do me a little dance, so’s I wouldn’t freeze to death.”
Johnny sat up abruptly and then stood to his feet. He looked up at the mountain. “Storm clouds up there. You can bet it’ll be cold up there tonight. From the looks of those clouds we wouldn’t be able to go up there tomorrow anyway. A storm like that could blow a man off the mountain. C’mon—lets get on down to our camp. We need to cinch up that canvas in case that rain comes in heavy down here tonight.”
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 11