Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom

by LaVoy Finicum

  After riding in the dark for about ten minutes, I stopped. I had checked my compass several times in the last ten minutes to keep from drifting, still, I was afraid that I may have passed it by. I was going to need to start casting in circles … then I smelled it.

  The unique scent of cedar wood burning. It had to be coming from the hogan. The wind was blowing eastward so I headed west. The horses did not like facing into the storm and kept trying to drift with it. Within a couple of minutes I had found it and stopped about 30 yards out. I could barely see the outline of the structure and sheep pens.

  I dismounted, wary of dogs. These places usually had sheep dogs. I had not seen one the first time I rode by, only a single sheep. It had been huddled against the west side of the sheep pen under a canopy made of cedar boughs.

  There were no lights to be seen. Fork-stick hogans were not built with windows. I handed Cat my reins and started walking the remaining distance on foot. I stumbled upon two mounds lying side by side. They were graves. Crude crosses had been planted at their heads and I could tell the crosses were recently made. I stepped around them and continued.

  The snow and wind covered any sound that was made. Once close, I could make out a faint line of light that outlined the door. It was a door made of wooden boards, now very weathered. The door was hung by two large rusty strap hinges that were even older than the door. The door had no door knob, only a wood handle. The door was latched by a wooden latch that one could lift from the inside. From the outside, the latch was lifted by a draw-string. But now, the draw-string was pulled back inside.

  There were two other small points of light coming through the door, about chest high. They looked like bullet holes. As I ran my fingers over them, I could tell that the bullets had been fired from the inside because the wood splinters around the holes were poking outward.

  It looked like whoever was inside didn’t like people knocking on the door.

  I hesitated. I was sure that I was not going to knock on that door. I was also sure that they weren’t going to open the door in the night to some stranger, no matter what the story.

  If I could just talk to them face to face, just for a moment, maybe they would know that we meant no harm, that we were asking for shelter from the storm.

  I bent down and looked through a bullet hole. I could see that there was one person only in the hogan. A kerosene lamp was burning on a very small table against the right wall. By that light I could tell that a lone person was lying asleep on the floor at the back of the abode.

  I thought of my daughter and baby, and made a decision. I needed one chance to speak face to face. Taking my bowie knife, which I always kept in a slanted sheath at my front, I slipped the tip of the blade into the crack of the door. The point of the blade hooked under the wooden latch. Slowly I raised the latch. Then I grasped the wood handle on the outside of the door and pulled softly. The hinges were wet from the storm and made almost no noise as I opened the door. Silently I stepped in and closed the door behind me. I had come uninvited into another’s home.

  I stood there a moment taking in the scene before me. It was warm and dry. A pair of wrangler jeans lay over the back of a wood chair which was pulled close to the small wood stove. The jeans were wet from the knees down and steam came off them as they dried. A pair of tennis shoes sat on the chair, also drying. The person had been out in the snow with clothes not suited for the bitter weather.

  The hogan was neat and tidy with few belongings in it. The floor was hard packed clay, sealed with linseed oil. An old model 94 Winchester rifle 1 lay on a wooden milk crate within easy reach of the sleeping person. The place had a good feeling to it, much like the ranch house. Generations had lived here without the intrusion of an electronically automated world. I liked it.

  I looked at the sleeping person on the floor. It was a woman. She lay upon the fleece of white sheep skins. A Navajo blanket had been covering her but had been tossed off due to warmth of the home. She was dressed in the old traditional clothes with a velvet skirt around her waist of turquoise color. The length came to the back of her calves. A few inches of light brown skin could be seen of her calves below the skirt and above a pair of high top moccasins. They were Apache style moccasins.

  My eyes paused upon the right leg. There was a knife handle protruding from the top the moccasin. By the stitching, one could see that a knife scabbard was sewn to the inside. I smiled at that.

  My gaze returned to her waist. It was very small. A belt of fine silver Conchos with turquoise stones was fastened around that waist. Her blouse was also of velvet material in a deep maroon color. Her hair was pulled back tight with a single pony-tail of long black hair.

  Then I looked upon her face and I was taken back. Like the face of my wife, it was of striking beauty. Although very different in many ways, its depth of beauty was the same. The woman had the high cheek-bones of the Indian people. Her face was triangular and well balanced; the skin smooth and even. The eyes were closed but had long black lashes. Her mouth turned up slightly at the corners giving her a pleasant demeanor.

  I stood there taking in all of it. I knew I was an uninvited visitor but the whole atmosphere was calming, peaceful and inviting.

  My gaze had not moved from her face when the cool air that had come in with the opening of the door reached her. She stirred slightly, then her eyes flashed open. Quick, like a cat, she came off her bedding grabbing for the Winchester. I leapt forward at the same time and our hands grasped the gun simultaneously, hers on the stock and mine on the barrel.

  She was not just cat quick, she was a wild cat and I had just tangled with her. For several vicious moments, she flexed every ounce of her strong, wiry, body in an effort to bring the barrel of the gun to bear upon me. All the while I was stammering in my attempt to say, “I mean no harm.”

  The words could not be understood in the frantic melee and at last I ripped the rifle from her hands. That was almost my undoing.

  In a blur of movement, her right hand swept down to her moccasin then whipped towards my face. The blade of the knife flashed in the soft light and I jerked my face back and to the side. The strike had been aimed at my neck but it went high, laying my cheek open to the bone.

  There was no pause as she stabbed and slashed at me. But I also was quick. With another lunge at my face, my left hand closed upon her wrist.

  I pressed her against the log walls of the hogan and forced the knife from her hand.

  “Please, Ma’am. I mean you no harm,” I said, still holding her against the wall. Her chest was heaving and her eyes were like burning flames.

  With my face only inches from hers, I could see her eyes clearly. They were not brown but a deep green, belying other blood that ran through her veins.

  Again I was taken by her beauty. With knife in hand I stepped back and quickly snatched the rifle from the floor. I took another step back to the door. She was boxed in and moved away from the wall like a caged, wild animal. Her eyes were darting back and forth. There was a lot of fight still in her.

  “Ma’am, please hear me just a moment,” I said and stuck her knife behind my belt next to my own. I then took the Winchester and worked its lever action. I ran the action ejecting all the bullets. Only two fell upon the floor from the gun. She was down to her last two bullets.

  The gun now empty, I grabbed it by the barrel and extended the rifle to her, butt forward. She grabbed it from my hand. My actions caused her to pause a moment. I had hoped it would. Then I took her knife from my belt. The hilt was in my right hand and I flipped the knife slightly into the air. It turned over and I grabbed it by the flat of the blade. This I also extended towards her.

  More slowly this time, she reached out, then snatched it from my hand and jumped back, still wary. Then I stooped and gathered the two rifle cartridges from the floor. Again, I extended my hand to her.

  Even more cautiously than before, she took the two bullets from me. Without hesitation she pushed them into the side gate of the rifle
and racked the action. Rifle leveled with hammer eared back, her eyes were still blazing. No longer was she a caged animal, she was an angry animal, now fanged and toothed.

  With blood running down my face and neck, I spoke, “Please, hear me out for one moment. My daughter and baby are outside. Could you spare some shelter for the night? This is your home, I’ve come uninvited, for that I’m sorry, and,” I said, pointing to her gun, “you can see that I will leave at your request.”

  There was no softening to her features. Without speaking she poked the barrel of the gun towards the door. The answer was plain. Backing up, I reopened the door. As I stepped back into the storm I asked, “May we use the shelter of your sheep pen?”

  She did not answer and I took it as a yes. I shut the door and then for the first time, I heard her speak.

  “Cowboy,” she called from beyond the door.

  I pulled the wooden door back open. She was still standing in the same place, now with the rifle lowered. She was still breathing hard from the struggle, chest rising and falling. “Cowboy,” she spoke again, “did you say a baby?”

  “Yes Ma’am, an infant.”

  This time there was a softening to her features. Whether soft or full of fire, the woman had an exceptional beauty. It was hard to guess her age, late twenties, early thirties? She looked ageless.

  She soon had Cat and the baby within the warmth of her shelter while I tended to the horses. By the time I re-entered, this time as an invited guest, the woman had Cathy undressed and in bed. Not only was Cat in bed, she was asleep. The Navajo woman was sitting on a blanket, cross legged, by the stove feeding the baby.

  I dropped our bedrolls at the door and sat down on them. No words were spoken and I watched as she tended to the little one. The peaceful feeling had returned to the dwelling and it was calming to watch her. The bleeding from the cut across my cheek had slowed but my Under Armor thermals and shirt were soaked. I kept my hand from my face, not wanting the cut to get infected. The positive side of the bleeding was that it washed the wound out.

  At last the baby was full. The lady put the infant to her shoulder and gently patted its back till it burped. The scene brought back fond memories.

  “You have a nice smile, Cowboy.” She spoke to me and I was taken back. I had not realized that I was smiling. Smiling was a rare thing to me in these last years.

  “The sight brings pleasant memories, Ma’am,” I replied. “Memories of a time, past and gone.”

  “I like how you say that,” she said.

  Puzzled by the remark, I asked, “How I say what? Pleasant memories?”

  “No. How you say Ma’am. That word is not often used anymore. And I like the tone of respect you put on it.”

  I was surprised by her remarks. I had never thought of it, it was simply the way I had been raised.

  “That’s kind of you to say so,” I returned.

  She laid the baby next to Cathy and turned towards me. “Let’s have a look at that cut now.”

  She removed her wranglers and shoes from the chair and sat me close to the kerosene lamp. I had already removed my coat; she took my shirt off and then carefully pulled the Under Armor over my head.

  With a clean rag and a warm soapy basin of water, she began cleaning the blood off. It was pleasant to feel the touch of her strong, soft fingers.

  I thought of my wife and similar feelings. I missed her but I had been missing her for a long time. Though her death had been recent, to me, it seemed years. There was little mourning left inside of me to do. I thought of the wonderful children she had given me, and the joy that they had brought. Nothing could replace her.

  Subconsciously, I turned my wedding band with my thumb and the woman standing before me noticed.

  “Married?”

  I stopped turning the ring, “Widowed.”

  I was glad my daughter was nearby. Having my shirt off in the home of a strange women was foreign to me. I had ever been faithful to my wife.

  The water in the basin was turning red as the woman worked on me. My hands below the wrist were tanned like leather and calloused. My face and neck had been honed by the sun and wind. The rest of my body never saw the sun or wind. There the skin was much lighter and without a wrinkle. I was a true red neck.

  She wiped the blood off my chest and shoulders. I stood five feet eleven inches tall and packed much of my 185 pounds in my shoulders and chest.

  I had known that the days which had just exploded upon our country were coming. No one could know for sure what year they would come but anyone with their eyes open could have seen them coming. For that reason I had prepared. I had prepared mentally, emotionally and physically. When I was younger I weighed 170, but over the years of running and lifting weights, I had put on another fifteen pounds of solid mass. It was not unnoticed by the Navajo woman.

  Why had so many people not prepared? How could they have been so blind? The Mormons even claimed to have prophets. It was hard for me to believe that a man like Moses walked the earth today, but I had read some of their writings.2 Their visions of what was coming to our country were horrific in their descriptions. Their warnings and pleadings to the people were earnest.

  Yet, most went about their daily lives giving little heed to the warnings of great calamities.

  My cold body was absorbing the heat from the little stove and warm water. My muscles began to relax and my mind began to drift.

  I thought about religion. Because my people came from Old Texas I was more Catholic than anything else. My wife was Baptist. The old cowboy who had raised me, my grandfather, felt that a man should be in a house of worship on the Sabbath. So, in the old cattle truck, he drove us to Mass each Sunday in the town of Kanab.

  Once I was married, I took my family to the Catholic Church on one Sunday and to the Baptist Church the next. The Mormons had good socials and we attended them.

  Each religion had preached about the ‘days of desolation’ but few had prepared. ‘The days of desolation’ or the ‘abomination of desolation’, whatever you wanted to call it, that day had arrived.

  The woman wrung the rag into the bowl of red water for the last time.

  “Cowboy, that is a bad cut. Your cheek bone is plain to see and I have nothing to bind up the wound,” she said.

  I pointed to my saddlebags that I had brought in with the bedrolls. “Bring those to me, please.”

  She did and I retrieved a small first aid kit from them. In the kit was a curved needle with sutures. There was also a Leatherman tool. I opened it so that the needle nose pliers worked.

  “Can you sew, Ma’am?”

  “I can sew. Can you hold still?” she asked.

  “I can.”

  With that, she started. I resolved that, not only would I hold still, I would not flinch. The needle burned as she pulled it through my skin. I did not move. Her face was near mine and I watched her intently. Again, I was impressed with the beauty of her face and her penetrating green eyes.

  With each pass of the needle, she would stop, cut the string and tie the stitch. I could feel the skin being drawn back together.

  “You know this cut was intended for your neck don’t you?” she asked as she worked.

  “I do.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It was my own fault, Ma’am. No call for apologies.”

  She poked the needle through my skin again. Still I did not flinch. She smiled. She was not being overly careful and seemed to be judging what she saw.

  At last she was done and she stood up from bending over me.

  “I think that will do it, Cowboy. I have some pine gum salve. Would you like me to put some on?”

  I knew what that was. It was mutton tallow mixed with pine gum. It had antibiotic qualities and we used it at the ranch. “Yes, please.”

  I could not remember the last time that a woman had cared for an injury of mine. It was nice.

  “Thank you Ma’am.” I said.

  “You may call me Sandy. San
dy Yazzie.”

  The last name fit. With the name of Begay and Yazzie, you covered almost half the Navajo Tribe. The first name didn’t.

  “Thank you, Sandy Yazzie.” The names did sound good together though.

  She took my shirt and Under Armor. “I’ll rinse these out. You should get some sleep.”

  With my bedroll laid out by the door, I sat upon it and took off my Kenetrek boots. They were a riding boot made for bad weather. If a man did not take care of his feet he could soon become worthless in weather like this. I was always careful.

  I unbuckled my six-shooter. It was a 44-40 and shot the same cartridge as the old Winchester rifle above my door at home. I wrapped the belt around the holstered gun and set it close at hand. I then placed my cowboy hat on top of it. This was habit. The gun was concealed by the casual glance but easy to grab.

  The Indian woman was sitting, quietly watching me as I stretched out and drifted off to sleep.

  _____________________

  1. Model 94 Winchester was a lever action rifle introduced by Winchester in 1894. The most common cartridge for the 94 is the 30-30. In its day, it was a great gun and vastly outperformed the 44-40 rifle.

  2. “…what about the American nation. (The past Civil War) was nothing, compared to that which will eventually devastate (America). …Do you will me to describe it? I will do so. It will be a war of neighborhood against neighborhood, city against city, town against town, country against county, state against state, and they will go forth, destroying and being destroyed and manufacturing will, in a great measure, cease, for a time among the American nation Why? Because in these terrible wars, they will not be privileged to manufacture, there will be too much bloodshed, too much mobocracy, too much going forth in band and destroying and pillaging the land to suffer people to pursue any local vocation with any degree of safety. What will become of millions of the farers upon (this land)? They will leave their farm and they will remain uncultivated, and they will flee before the ravaging armies from place to place; and thus will they go forth burning and pillaging the whole country; and that great and powerful nation…will be wasted away, unless they repent. (Orson Pratt, 1811–1881)