“He’s a gifted man, Lovella. I ’spect he could work with any kind of critter. I asked Floyd to ride shotgun, but he took sick yesterday with some kind of flu. He should be in town sometime today to see ol’ Doc Mucci.”
“Well, I hope it ain’t catchin’,” Lovella replied sternly. “You remember Slim Marshall from Darwin—he caught some kind of flu a few years back and the whole town came down with it. Slim and two others nearly died from it.”
“Oh, shucks, Lovella—ain’t but ten people in that town since the local mine played out. Most of ’em scattered east into the hills to look for silver. I hope they find it. We need a good boom around here right about now.”
“Just the same; we don’t need no sickness around here that might affect the whole town. Business is slow enough.”
“I almost forgot,” Charlie responded. “I saw a rider east of here above the stage road. He was headin’ this way. Maybe he’ll give you some business. He was a lean fella’—rode tall in the saddle. The man was all dressed in black, save for a deerskin jacket draped across the saddle horn. He was ridin’ a gray. Had a long rifle stickin’ up out of the boot. He looked my way, but never hollered out or nuthin’.”
“You have an eye for detail, Charlie McCloud.”
“Well, I didn’t have no shotgun rider. Pays to be careful these days, what with all them highway robbers they talk about up Bishop way—hit the stage up there just last week. A passenger from Reno was kilt.”
“I’ll keep an eye out, Charlie. I figure those drovers south of town may ride in for a home cooked meal as well. Things may liven up around here shortly.”
“Well, tomorrow’s Saturday, Lovella—just about everyone and his brother will be here in town. I’ll walk these horses on over to the corral and then shin back here for that fine breakfast.”
“You’d better shin, and as fast as you can—you don’t want them muffins to get cold. Misty’s partial to serving a hot meal.”
The three fishermen soon approached the lush orange groves near the base of Mt. Whitney. Jerry Garcia, the foreman at the groves, spotted them heading on in.
“Buenos dias, amigos! It is a fine morning.”
Johnny Lucas then spoke up. “Hello there. We thought we might be able to get a little bit of produce from you? We need a light supply. We plan on climbin’ up the mountain over yonder,” he nodded in the direction of Mt. Whitney. “If you have a little dried beef, we’d appreciate that as well.”
“We have everything here, amigo. You have never been to the store, huh? It is just over there—on the east side of the grove. There is a trail from town that comes out here to it. No one has ever come in here from the direction you men did—through the rocks. You are not robbers, are you?”
Johnny smiled. “No, sir. We’re not robbers. We’re fishermen—been camped just to your south for some time. You can smell the groves from over there. The townsfolk said you were out here as well. We thought we’d give you some business—not much, just need a little bit of food. Maybe two or three days worth?”
“Enough to fill your knapsacks?”
“Yes, sir, that’ll do just fine.”
“You say you are going to climb the mountain—the rock of thunder? That is what the Indians call it, you know?”
“We’ve heard. Ghostly stories ’bout the tall hills don’t scare us none, though.”
Garcia smiled. “You are eager, but not too smart, my friend. People have disappeared on the mountain. The wind howls fiercely there, and the darkness at night is thick. You will need more than your eagerness to survive such a climb.”
Al Johnson spoke up. “Well, if it takes any longer than a day to get up there, we’ll find a place to sleep tonight. We won’t go wandering around in the dark, mister. We’re not stupid.”
“I did not say that you were stupid, sen’or. Just that it is not smart to go up there. There are bears and wolves and other creatures, which do not like the scent of man. Do you have any type of protection—guns or knives, perhaps? Even a heavy stick is better than nothing, sen’or.”
“We all have knives,” Charlie Begole responded. “You think we’ll be attacked up there somewheres?”
“It is hard to say, sen’or. My oldest son is a great hunter. Perhaps you could hire him to protect you? He is not afraid of the mountain, nor the stories told by the Indians. He is trustworthy as well—a good tracker.”
“We’ll be fine,” Johnny responded. “But thanks for the offer—kind of you. If you’ll just fill our knapsacks for us, we’ll pay you and be on our way. Fruit, some dried meat, and maybe some of your bread goods?”
“Si’, sen’or.”
Jerry Garcia led them over to the store and proceeded to pick out the food they needed, while his wife placed it into their individual knapsacks. The trio thanked him and paid him for the goods. They then shouldered their packs and hiked on out of the grove toward the broad creek that flowed down through the pass to the base of the mountain.
Back in the groves Garcia spoke with his son. “Go over to the Indian settlement and find Bear Claw of the Shoshone. Tell him of these gringos who are climbing the mountain. I am sure he will want Stalking Moon to follow them. Stalking Moon knows the mountain and he is not afraid. Perhaps he can befriend these gringos, should they meet with some disaster. They look strong, but their hearts deceive them.”
Inside the Lone Pine dental office, trail boss Ed Winter rose up slowly from the Doc’s chair.
“Thank you! It was a mite painful when you yanked that dang tooth out of there, Doc—but it feels a whole lot better now!”
“It will be a little sore when that numbing gel wears off,” Mucci smiled, “but the worst of it is over. That will be three dollars, Mr. Winter. Come back in a day or two and let me look at that gum—we don’t want any infection setting in. Go on over to the drugstore and have Ed Spencer mix up a bottle of mouthwash for you. That’ll be another dollar. Rinse that gum three times a day, but wait about six hours before the first rinse, and slosh it around easy. You won’t need a prescription—just tell him you want some of Doc Mucci’s mouthwash. If he’s not there, his wife, Michele, will be. She can handle your need as well.”
“Thank you, again. I’ll be back in a couple days.”
The cattleman donned his hat and walked out the door of the office, then headed toward the drugstore just up the street. Don Warner spotted him from inside the General Store. He alerted Margaret.
“That cattleman looks a bit more comfortable now. I suppose he’s headed for the drugstore? Wait until he gets a taste of that mouthwash,” he laughed. “I’d better latch onto him before that happens. I’m sure he’s in his best mood right at the moment.”
Margaret smiled. “Then git! And get a good price.”
“I will, dear. Be back shortly.” Don then walked out of the store and crossed the street. He soon approached Ed Winter.
Charlie McCloud sat at table in the Hotel’s restaurant and bit into a blueberry muffin. Misty walked into the room with his plate of ham and eggs in hand. He then looked up at her, nearly half a muffin still in his mouth. He chewed on it twice, then forced it down with a swallow.
“I swear, Misty, these muffins are dang tasty! Did you happen to make any of them oatmeal cookies for lunch today—them big fat ones?”
Misty smiled, setting his breakfast on the table in front of him. “Actually, I baked three varieties of cookies for today, Charlie. But you’re not going to get any unless you come on over and fix my porch.”
Charlie winced. “I been meanin’ to fix that porch, Misty—I swear! I’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
“I know, Charlie—busy exercising your elbow down at the saloon. Maggie told me. The woman owns the place and works there, but she doesn’t take a drink. Now why on earth do you go in there and drink?”
“Oh, I only have a couple beers now and then, Misty. I’m not…”
“Bull crap!” she interrupted. “You chase each of those beers with a shot of whiskey. You�
��re a decent man, Charlie, but you pull a cork much too often. You’re gonna’ die of liver poisoning, like your poor wife did—God rest her soul. But you’re gonna’ fix my porch first—right after this breakfast!”
Charlie sighed. “All right, Misty. I’ll get my tools and go on over there this mornin’. You got that dog tied up—that big vanilla Lab?”
“I do, but he wouldn’t hurt you. He’s never bitten anyone. Digger is a good dog. He just likes to dig holes, that’s all.”
“Why do you keep him chained up then?”
“Because, if I don’t, they’ll be Chinese folk’s in my yard. If that fool dog didn’t have a chain on him, he’d dig his way to China via my back yard—but he’s a kind dog, Charlie—he really is. He just needs some guidance.”
“Well, you ought to have ol’ John talk to him. He could cure him of that diggin.”
“You old fool—John’s a horse whisperer. He doesn’t talk to dogs.”
“I’ll tell you what, Misty. I’ll talk to John. He can do it. We’ll see who the fool is—me or you. Johnny has a way with most critters. He has a compassion for ’em, and they sense that. I never seen anything like it. He could probably talk a pump handle into thinkin’ it was a windmill.”
Misty hesitated, a bit taken aback. “You think he’d do that for me?”
Charlie smiled. “It depends on how generous you are with them cookies, ma’am. You give me a few of those right now, and I’ll fix your porch and then go talk to John. How’s that?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Porch first, then I’ll bake you a whole box of cookies. Payday around here is after the work’s done—not before. And you’ve got to promise me that you’ll go and talk to John about helping Digger.”
“You got a deal, Misty. How much for the breakfast?”
“Four bits—and bring your plate and coffee cup back into the kitchen so I can wash them up—and you wipe that mess of crumbs off the table—not onto the floor, either. Into your empty cup will do, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter Two
Don Warner walked back into the General Store. “Margaret—that cattleman, Ed Winter, wants me to ride out and take a look at his beef. He has a variety and says I can pick out whatever I’d like. The man’s prices seem to be real fair—up front. He’ll be riding back out there in about a half-hour. He has to do some business at the bank right now so he can pay off his drovers and the trail cook.”
“We could use at least four good cows—hopefully fat ones,” Margaret replied. “Maybe even a few more for the winter. The corral out back is big enough now for at least a dozen or so. What do you think?”
“Well, we’ll have to hire Floyd to help do the butchering again this year when we need it done. I’d better see how much spare time he’s gonna’ have on his hands. It’s almost time for him to get ready for his crop harvest. I guess Charlie McCloud told Lovella that Floyd was down with the flu right now. He’s coming in today to see the Doc. I’ll talk to him when he does.”
“Well, if he can’t help, we’ll just have to hire someone. We usually run short of beef before winter’s end, and this year that is just not going to happen. You built that fine addition onto the stable—let’s make use of it this winter.”
“All right. I’ll ride on out with the man. You be watching so that you can open the corral in the back when I bring up the cattle. I’ll drive them in from down the street and be right out front here, and then head them around back just past the hotel. You can be set and ready to open the gate and close it behind them, huh? You’d better wear a bandanna—there’ll be lots of dust flying about.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“You’re a fine woman, Margaret. You’ve always been easy to work with. We’ve had some good years. It’s been a long time since you actually had to whack me with that broom, and a much longer time since I’ve had to turn you over on my knee and whack your backside.”
“Well, I’ve been tempted to broom-whack you a couple times, but I felt sorry for you instead. Now get going,” she smiled, “or I’ll chase you out with it right now! Lovella says when I get real mad I could probably fly on that thing—hee hee hee!” She grabbed for the broom as Don moved swiftly out the back door.
Chuckling to himself he stepped from the porch, entered the stable and greeted his horse. He always tried to talk at his animals—John Replogle had taught him that. John said that it eased an animal to be spoken at—and gently. He said that animals were created before mankind, and they needed to be honored for that—treated with the highest respect. Don brushed at the animal’s mane a bit, spoke a few kind words at him and then began to saddle up.
It was a fine morning for a ride, something he hadn’t done for quite some time. He cinched up, climbed aboard, and soon headed out to meet with Ed Winter. He looked toward the High Sierra crest as the horse stepped out, those white granite peaks radiant in the morning sun. He was a man who appreciated the grandeur of the place his parents had long ago chosen to live—the fact that he was allowed to grow up amidst the splendor of the Eastern Sierra.
It now filled his senses. He would tell folk’s when they asked him about it, which they often times did, that the wonder of his surroundings had a lot to do with his peaceful and gentle ways as a man. He had learned at a young age that God made all things for the benefit of man—things that were designed to nurture and encourage one’s soul along life’s many difficult trails. It had a strong affect on the way he treated other folk’s, which was recognized by those of kindred spirit, and even noticed now and then by those whose spirits were more or less not inclined to understand such things.
Actually, a good many of the area residents at the time had feelings within themselves that they were in some strange way a part of their surroundings—a part of the rocks, the trees, the mountains and the lay of the land. When they got to talking about such things, whether as a large group or just two or three folk’s passing the time of day, they seemed to be able to express well verbally some deeper emotions from within about the way their surroundings both enlightened and encouraged them.
They had a variety of ideas about just what it might be that caused each of them to be able to do that—to express such deep understandings within themselves about their relationship to the environment. Some thought it was from God. Some said it was the fresh air and scent of pine that blew off the mountain. Some believed it had something to do with the lay of the land—the elevation of the valley between two high mountain ranges, while still others, especially among the Indian tribes, believed the area to be sacred. They believed there was at times a presence of good spirits on the mountain, which influenced the hearts of the people who lived down below.
The Indians believed that since the evil spirits came there to seek rest, the good spirits, who were sent to fight against them, were stronger in might and power, constantly battling with the evil ones and forcing them to flee to some other place. They believed that the Great Spirit did not want the powers of darkness on this high mountain, where they could view all the kingdoms of the earth and plan their strategies against men. The presence of a stronger force of good spirits on the mountain they believed to be like a great wind that descended the slopes and overflowed into the valley below.
They claimed this wind was the voice of the Great Spirit, the supreme power, who spoke to the rocks, to the trees, to the plants and the animals, and to the people of the valley. The Indians believed that this was why most of the people in the valley felt a part of it—felt connected in someway with their surroundings. They also believed that the evil spirits on the mountain had some form of control over those who did not feel a part of these things. These people were considered by the Indians to be thorns among the flowers.
Within the tribes, when the children reached maturity, if they were found to not feel a part of their surroundings, they were sent out into the local wilderness to be tested by the spirits. If they at some point in time returned to their village, it was said that the Great Spirit had s
poken with them and had given them the knowledge that they were a part of the environment. They were then honored in ceremony. If they did not return, it was said that the evil spirits carried them off and made slaves of them in another world. Of the few who did not return over the years, no bodies were ever found.
Don Warner met with Ed Winter near the Wells Fargo Bank, and the two of them headed out together to the cattle camp just south of town. Winter turned out to be a man of his word—there was certainly a variety of beef on the hoof, and the bellowing of their voices as they grazed was to Don Warner a song of the west. There were some stout Black Angus among the large herd, which caught the man’s eye.
“Would you be willing to part with a few of those Angus, Mr. Winter?”
Winter weaved the leather reins in his hands through his fingers as he spoke. Don could tell that he was an experienced horseman. “I need to deliver most of those on up to Bishop, but I can cut you out a dozen head or so, it that will fill your need?”
“That would be great. What’s your price on those Angus?”
“I figure twenty-one dollars a head ought to do it. That’s what the cattle company in Bishop offered me. I’ll throw in a bull as well.”
“Twenty-one dollars? That sounds real fair, Mr. Winter.”
“Just call me Ed. I’ve been a cattleman all my life—never put on no frills. You callin’ me ‘mister’ makes me seem like somebody important,” he laughed. “Oh, I have a lot of cattle—near to nine thousand head here, but it’s taken ten years of breedin’ to get this herd—lot of sweatin’, and fightin’ off rustlers—and Indians. Had to put a few men in the ground over the years—always took the time to read over ’em, though. I suppose I’ve earned the name, Mr. Winter, but most of them highbinders that try to offer next to nuthin’ for my cattle call me that. Never did like that false respect—no offense meant.”
“None taken, sir. If one of your boys can cut out a dozen of those Angus and help me herd them on back to town, I’ll give him the cash money and he can bring it on back to you. I’ll give him a couple dollars extra for helping me drive them in, if that’s okay with you?”
Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra Page 2
