He then turned to look at his son. “I will not be sad, my son. Your spirit will always dwell with me, and I know that I will see you again when the time for my own journey has come. It is my belief that we will then be together forever.”
The two men became silent as a faint, reddish-orange glow began to appear on the clouds above them. It was as Bear Claw had predicted—the darkness of the clouds had greatly reduced the boldness of the array. Bear Claw knew that there would be very little light display on this particular evening. He looked over at his son.
“There will be a great battle on the mountain tomorrow my son. In the morning, on the first day of my birthday celebration, I will meet with the gray rider. I am honored. I will ride upon your horse to meet him. I have waited for this for a long time. Tonight will be a sleepless one,” he smiled.
Quite some distance from the Indian encampment, Michael was seated on the front steps just outside the hotel. He had just eaten dinner, and several others were still inside the restaurant. All was quiet on the main street. The man chewed on a blade of grass as he stared up at the high mountain, his eyes fixed on its lofty crags. The sun was well behind the mountain and only a hint of its setting embraced the clouds.
As darkness increased, a bolt of lightening flashed suddenly and powerfully across the entire Sierra Crest, striking the high peaks. In a moment there was another, followed by still another. There was the sharp explosion of ear rending thunder behind that third strike, which echoed violently down the mountain and cascaded across the rocks toward the now darkened settlement of Lone Pine.
THE THIRD DAY…
Chapter Eleven
It was just before dawn when Michael rode on out of town toward the Indian settlement. Within the camp itself the people were stirring about—making ready for the greatly awaited celebration in which they would honor Bear Claw’s birth into the world they were all a part of. The entire village was awake and active. There was exceedingly great joy among the people.
At sunrise, tables of lodge pole pine would be adorned with an array of fruits and breads and nuts of various kinds. Two Spanish families, who lived among the orange groves, had mixed an assortment of juices, which included watermelon, apple, orange and strawberry. Table ornaments and hanging décor, a selection of handmade gifts from the Spanish settlement, were being placed about as well.
These Spanish families, for the past three years, had spent much time among the Indian families. Jerry Garcia, in addition to his knowledge of English, was one who had learned the Shoshone language and had in turn taught the Indians to speak Spanish. Juanita Garcia was fluent in English, Shoshone, Apache, and even French, having learned two of these languages in the mission at San Diego.
Bear Claw had risen early and had gathered many of his braves to honor the rising of the sun in the eastern sky. But to their west, lightning flashed atop the great mountain, and dark clouds enveloped the crags along its summit. Rumblings of thunder could be heard throughout the valley, and Bear Claw would cringe from time to time when the louder explosions occurred. But this was a special day for him, and he would not allow this prodding from the dark side of the Force to permeate his thinking and discourage him. With the excitement of the festivities they were engaged in, most others in the village paid little attention to it.
As the first rays of sunlight came upon them, a scout rode into the village at a gallop and soon reined in his mount in the presence of Bear Claw. The man was winded from his ride but spoke with much excitement.
“The gray rider approaches. He is among the desert brush that climbs toward our village. His sacred horse graces the land at a trot. You can see him from the southern rise of the camp. Come see him, oh fearless one!”
“Go—tell the others,” Bear Claw ordered. “All braves are to paint the colors of war on their faces. Sling your arrows upon you and take up your bows. We will mount our ponies and ride to meet this great warrior, bearing the dress and the arms of the warriors that we once were. The spirits of the ancients will be upon us, and we will show our respect to this great leader of the heavenly host!”
Bear Claw then turned to those standing about him as the scout rode on through the camp, informing many other braves. There was now excitement in Bear Claw’s voice as well. “You have heard my words,” he said to those about him. “Quickly, now—do as I have spoken, for we have little time!”
Within minutes more than three hundred of the Indian men were mounted on their ponies. Each one carried a bow in hand, a quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and had adorned his face with the stripes of war. Many wore an array of long feathers in their headbands—those of the owl, the eagle and the hawk. The women painted the necks and hips of the animals as the riders gathered together, awaiting their marching order from the great chief.
Bear Claw soon mounted Wind Spirit, while Stalking Moon stood near to him and held the reins. “I will remain here, my father. This is your day, and I am honored to take your place in the camp of our ancestors as you ride out to meet the warrior angel.”
“Thank you my son—and thank you for the deerskin that rests below me. I grow old and my bones are weak—it has been a long time since I have sat on the back of this great horse.”
Bear Claw then reined the horse about and looked toward the horizon. In the early sunlight he could see the lone rider in the distance, sitting tall on his mount and headed straight for the camp. He alerted his braves.
“Let us go forth. Our march will be as the desert turtle, and we will sit erect on our ponies, as does this great and powerful warrior who comes to meet with us!”
Some of he older women who had gathered to paint the animals cheered loudly as the men began to ride off. The younger women danced and chanted. Children ran about as well, shouting their joy for this most colorful event. Several of the mounted braves yelped and howled as the procession advanced. Over three hundred riders soon passed through the settlement and on into the high desert plain.
The lone rider could be seen just to their south, approaching at a trot through the smaller brush, the dust rising behind him as he made his way toward their frontward riders. As the distance between them drew closer, Bear Claw lifted a hand into the air. With that sign the braves then circled about him and came up on line with him, forming a wall of armed riders on either side.
The outriders then circled inwardly, until the entire formation appeared as a crescent moon on the floor of the desert. Bear Claw’s mount was at the center of that formation. As the lone rider approached, the chief of the Shoshone nudged his horse forward, at which time three braves on either side of him stepped out and closed in to ride abreast of him. This was his appointed entourage—seasoned braves, who had fought in many battles long before.
At Bear Claw’s signal this forward band of men soon brought their mounts to a halt. They steadied themselves alongside their chief as the lone rider drew in closer to their position. Seasoned as they were, there was both a tinge of fear and growing anticipation in the eyes of those who accompanied Bear Claw—they were naturally fearful yet eager to meet with this man, who in their eyes was powerful and godlike—even considered to be unapproachable. Only Bear Claw’s eyes showed no fear.
The lone rider soon came to a halt, reining in within ten feet of Bear Claw and his entourage. Spirit Rider then nickered, while under Bear Claw Wind Spirit immediately lifted his head and snorted. The nearly three hundred braves that had formed up a short distance to the rear of the entourage suddenly galloped forward, raising a great cloud of dust as they reined in directly behind them. The outriders then fanned out to form a tight semicircle about them, which extended outward for a short distance behind the lone rider’s position. It was indeed an impressive movement and subsequent formation.
Michael eyed those close in riders on both sides of him as he chewed leisurely on a blade of grass that rested between his teeth. He slowly lifted a hand and removed it from his mouth, his eyes then gazing out from under the brim of his hat toward the man mount
ed on Wind Spirit, at the center of the entourage. There was utter stillness among the surrounding braves and their mounts—all eyes were fixed on the stranger and his great horse.
“You’d be Bear Claw?”
“I am Bear Claw,” the Indian nodded, his feathered headdress shimmering in the early morning breeze that moved about them.
The rider nodded his acknowledgment. “I am Michael.”
“I have heard,” the chief of the Shoshone responded. “You are the gray rider—the mighty warrior who brings the aggression of evil spirits to nothing.”
“I came here to do that,” Michael responded. “And I’ve come here to seek your permission to climb up the high mountain—to tread on the sacred rocks of your land—formed by the Most High; so that I might come face to face with the dark forces that remain there. The time allotted to them on this mountain has come to an end.”
“I am honored,” Bear Claw nodded. “Go with my blessing. But before you go, join with me as a blood brother. In this way my spirit can go with you—your blood will flow inside of me, and I can feel in my heart the great victory when the evil ones depart.”
Michael smiled. “I’d be honored.”
He then withdrew a knife from his belt, and as he drew its blade across the palm of his left hand, nudged the gray horse forward and came to a halt just beside Bear Claw, the mounted braves to that side of their chief suddenly backing away with haste. Michael then raised that hand toward Bear Claw, blood now dripping from the palm.
Bear Claw withdrew his own knife and slashed his left palm as well, drawing a line of blood. He then reached over and clasped his hand against that of Michael’s, their palms meeting—their blood flowing together.
“So will it be,” the Indian said.
“I reckon so,” Michael nodded.
Bear Claw then glanced about at his braves. “I have many warriors here who ride with me. The days of our victories are within our hearts, and these men will feel your victory as well. They are armed in your honor. I know that they are honored as well to have laid their eyes upon you—I can see it in their faces, and in their eyes—it is surely in their hearts. It is a good day!
“On this day also my birthday celebration has begun. Will you join us for a little while? We have much food, and your presence in the Shoshone camp will forever be in the hearts of all my people. Our children will speak of it long after many of us have made the great journey, and find ourselves upon this earth no more.”
“I’d like to do that—and I want to do that,” Michael sighed, “but I have to start up the mountain. It’s a long way to the top, and I have to be up there on the high meadow when the moon greets the early twilight.”
“I understand,” the chief nodded. “Will I see you again, oh great one—after your work is finished?”
Michael hesitated. “Perhaps. One way or the other I will think of you when it is finished. You have my word on that.”
The Indian looked into his eyes. “You word is more than good enough for the Chief of the Shoshone. Ride on, my brother—our hearts and our spirits go with you. Thank you for the honor of your visit. This is a good day in the life of an old man—and I now feel that there will be many more. We will ride back now, and we bid you farewell.”
Michael nodded his head, placing the blade of grass back into the corner of his mouth. He chewed on it once, then reined his mount about and rode out at a trot, bound for the great mountain. There were recurring lightning flashes along its high crest, and the rumble of distant thunder could be heard echoing across the valley where the Indians had met with the gray rider.
Bear Claw and his braves watched him riding toward the west for some time. There was silence among them. They did not return to their village until the man had disappeared into a stand of pines over a mile away from them.
The three fishermen crossed the rock formations along the southwestern border of the Indian settlement, and soon entered the outskirts of the village itself. They could at that point both see and hear the activity within the camp.
“Looks like they’re havin’ some kind of celebration in there, Johnny,” Charlie Begole said. “You think we can just walk on in there? They might not take too kindly to white folk’s just walkin’ on in.”
The three men had crouched behind some rocks, not far from the camp’s entrance. Neither Johnny Lucas nor Al Johnson made any immediate reply to Charlie’s words, and were a bit captivated by the activities within the camp. They could see that many of the men and women were engaged in conversations among themselves, but some of the braves, dressed in colorful attire, were dancing near the center of those gatherings, and chanting to the beat of drums—deep, rhythmic sounds that could be heard from out in the rocks.
“Them’s war drums!” Charlie blurted, his eyes widening. “We’d best get on out of here!”
“What do you mean, war drums?” Johnny laughed. “You been readin’ too many of them newspapers from back east. There’s no Indian war out here. These people are peaceful. Wiley Hunter and some of those other sheepherders are always talkin’ about it. It’s been years since they had any trouble here.”
Al Johnson agreed. “There’s a soldier fort up there in Independence—not fifteen miles away. I heard that things been so peaceful around here that they don’t even bother to patrol this area anymore.”
“Look there!” Johnny blurted. “That Mexican fella’ that sold us food is standin’ there among a group of them Indians—over there by the bonfire,” he said, pointing in that direction. “Maybe we should talk with him first—if we can get his attention?”
“How we gonna’ do that?” Charlie snapped. “And how’s he gonna’ know which Indian we talked to out there in the brush anyway?”
Johnny looked at him. “That Indian was the son of some holy man, remember? That’s what he told us. How many holy men can there be in this village? We ought to be able to find the son of a holy man.”
“Just the same,” Charlie responded, “we still have to get that Mexican out here first. Ain’t no way I’m gonna’ walk in there without bein’ sure I ain’t gonna get scalped!”
“He’s got a point, Johnny,” Al added. “I know you think we might be able to just walk on in there, but you’d best think about it some. You’re always in such a blasted hurry—we probably scooted right on by the chute we should have clumb up the other day on that mountain.”
Johnny glared at him after that remark, but then decided that any words that he might say about it weren’t worth the trouble. He did lead them up the wrong chute. But he was determined now to locate and go up the right one.
“Okay, Al. You and Charlie tell me just how in the hell we go about gettin’ that man’s attention!”
“He’s looked this way a time or two since he’s been standin’ there,” Al responded. “Maybe we ought to try wavin’ at him?”
“And I suppose we can do that without any one else seein’ us?” Charlie spoke out.
“Wait!” Al blurted. “He’s walkin’ this way! What the hell? And he’s lookin’ right toward us!”
Sure enough, Jerry Garcia walked out from the camp and approached the men behind the rocks. In a short time he stood before them, a smile on his face.
“Hey—gringos! Did you climb the rock of thunder?”
The men were silent, looking about at one another. Garcia then spoke again.
“I did not think you would be able to get up there. Probably did not end up on the right peak, amigos, eh? What are you doing out here? The braves have spotted you. They wanted to throw a little scare into you and come running at you with their tomahawks,” he laughed. “But, I told them you may get the wrong idea about their people, and that I would go and speak with you. They agreed—reluctantly. So, amigos, why are you here?”
Johnny Lucas spoke up. “There’s an Indian in there who’s the son of a holy man. He warned us about the mountain a bit after we left your orange groves. He was kind to us, actually. And, you’re right—we ended up on the wro
ng peak. We wanted to speak with him about maybe showin’ us the right chute—the one that leads to the top.”
“You speak of Stalking Moon,” Garcia replied. “His father is chief of the Shoshone, and the holy one of the tribe.”
Garcia then looked back toward the village. He was silent for a few moments, then turned and again faced the three men. “You may get your wish, amigos—but I don’t believe you will be able to go up on the mountain until tomorrow.”
“Well, we hadn’t planned on goin’ ’til tomorrow anyway,” Al Johnson responded. “We was plum wore out yesterday when we got back down.”
“The white granite is difficult,” Garcia smiled. “Steep on the mountain and cold to the touch, but there is a chute that leads to a high plateau. From there you can go to the top—at least that is what I am told.”
“Who told you? Has someone been up there?” Johnny spoke out anxiously.
“No, amigo—no one that we have heard of has ever climbed to the top of the great mountain. But, Stalking Moon has been to the high plateau—when he was a boy. He met with a great bear in the meadow that rests on this plateau. He was unable to complete the journey after this bear had drawn blood on him. He says that he would not have been able to go up anyway, because…”
Garcia suddenly winced and at that same instant looked toward the mountain, stirred by an immense bolt of lightning that flashed in an instant from north to south across the entire Sierra Crest. A great rumble of thunder immediately followed, its horrific explosion unnerving the man and those who stood near him as well. Charlie Begole was shaken to the point that he lost his balance, quickly grabbing onto an arm of Johnny Lucas to steady himself.
“Damn that was loud!” He blurted.
Moments of silence passed as all four men gazed toward the dark clouds hovering over and pressing against the tall peaks to their west. They were unusually dense clouds, a dull black in color, yet intermittent flashes of heat lightning could be seen around and through them. It was an eerie display, and seemed to draw the men’s attention deeper into its erratic movements as they watched for a bit longer. Garcia soon looked away and continued with his story.
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 15