Three Days In LONE PINE, An Untold Tale of The High Sierra

by Mark Stephen Taylor

  “On that day Stalking Moon could see the great, pointed crags to the south of the summit block, and even a portion of the block itself. But after he struggled with the bear in the meadow, he said he then believed that the bear was a guardian of the mountain, and he felt that the bear would perhaps kill him if he tried to climb again.

  “He has never tried again, but he now believes the bear meant him no harm. It was only protecting him from the evil on the mountain. Time has revealed this to him, and his desire is to see the bear once again. The bear tore at his face and neck, but he cut off two of the bear’s claws. And, because they drew blood on one another, they must meet again, according to Bear Claw—the holy man you speak of, the father of Stalking Moon.

  “Stalking Moon says he owes the bear his life, and he wants to meet him face to face to tell the bear of this. His father is fearful, and does not know the outcome of this meeting. But tomorrow morning, I am told, the evil that has plagued this mountain for centuries will be no more. You may come into the village with me, and I will see that you are allowed to speak with Stalking Moon. He is my good friend, sen’or,” he smiled.

  “Now wait a minute,” Johnny responded. He glanced at his friends, then turned his attention back toward Garcia. “We ain’t much for belevin’ in Indian legends and such, but, why all of a sudden is this evil that you said’s been up there for centuries—why all of a sudden is it supposed to be ‘up there no more,’ come tomorrow?”

  Garcia hesitated. “Perhaps, amigo, Stalking Moon will answer that question for you. Come, gringos—you are safe with me,” he smiled. “We will go and find him.”

  Michael had climbed down from Spirit Rider when he reached the lower north fork of Lone Pine Creek. He was some two thousand feet in elevation above the rock formations that overlooked the Indian settlement and the town of Lone Pine beyond. But this had been a gradual incline, and it hadn’t taken long to get to that point through the shrubs and trees that made up the vast landscape below.

  But now the going would get a little rougher along the white granite cliffs that led up toward the upper north fork of the creek, where a wall of granite slabs dotted with pine and various types of shrubbery would continue on up to timberline—the end of any trees on the high granite. But not too far above that was a small, green meadow, at just about 11,400 feet atop a high plateau.

  This was where Stalking Moon had encountered the bear when he was a just a boy. This was where two sharp granite needles and a portion of the summit block could be seen, just a little over 3000 feet higher. This was the starting point of the broad chute or pass that led to the high summit, where no man had ever set foot. It was believed that there were smaller plateaus within the chute, perhaps a lake or two, and even smaller chutes that led on up to the summit, but no one really knew for sure.

  All climbs to the elusive summit had failed—those by quite a succession of geographical surveying parties, and those by others over the years who were local residents in the area—miners, sheepherders, and fishermen. A few of them never returned—and Lord knows how many other folk’s might have been missing who had attempted the climb, and had never told anyone that they were going up there?

  The climbers would start out boldly—that’s a fact, but among literally hundreds of peaks and crags that pointed skyward, which sat at horizontal distances that made their elevations undeterminable; no one could ever find the right peak! The Indian legend had then become fact, at least to anyone that had any sense about him or her. The scoffers however continued to scoff—most all of them that heard the Indian tale. But now, here was Michael—and everything then known about him was being written down in Sam Waters’s diary.

  Michael soon spoke to his horse while the animal drank from the lower creek. “Got some rough goin’ up ahead, big fella’. When we get to a plateau up yonder, where there’s a nice, green meadow—that’s where you’re gonna’ have to remain.”

  The animal abruptly lifted its mouth from the creek and snorted. It nickered as it pushed the flat of its nose gently against Michael’s chest. He then stroked its face softly and spoke to the horse once again.

  “When the twilight embraces the full moon, I’ll be clothed as the wolf, my friend. You’ll stay there in the high meadow and keep watch on the back door. Fair enough?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Buck Grace was a fine horseman. He was a stout man, and sat erect in the saddle as he rode out from the wash, his long, silver-white head of hair resting against broad shoulders. He wore no hat—always liked the wind in his hair, but had a colorful bandanna tied around his neck that he would push up around his face when the dust would get stirred up by the frequent winds in the high desert.

  The man had large hands, too—roughened by the felling of trees and constant processing and handling of the wood and its byproducts. But the cutting of the big trees was in former days, and now that he was growing older, he spent most of his time sculpturing in wood. His specialty was animals—replicas of bears, wolves, owls, eagles and hawks—the bold creatures that had always stirred his heart.

  Buck was a spiritual man. His love for the bolder creatures that were present in his environment were for the most part responsible for making him that way. He had studied them and learned from them. But at the moment his thoughts were on the stranger who had recently come to Lone Pine. This was something that stirred him deeply, being that this Michael was supposedly the elite in spiritual things—an angel. Buck was anxious to speak with John Replogle in the matter, on his own.

  As he neared Thundercloud Mesa, he spotted John working in the corral where the horses were kept, tending to one of the animals. John saw him riding in and suddenly stopped what he was doing, perching himself atop the rail fence from which he waived a hand at the approaching rider. He had recognized him right away. The man soon reined in.

  “Howdy, Buck! It’s been a while since you’ve been out here. I’ve been meaning to come over to your place. I wanted to see that wooden Indian you carved out, and I was thinkin’ about buying a few of those birds you carved a while back—you know, that big owl and the red hawk? Those pieces might look real nice above my fireplace, with the new brickwork and all that I’ve done in there.”

  “I sold the owl, John, but I can carve you another one,” Buck responded, reins in his hands, resting on the saddle horn. “Just tell me when you need it.”

  “I’ll do that, Buck,” John nodded. “What brings you out here this mornin’? You hauled off my last bit of pine four months ago. I haven’t made any more big cuts since then. Got this spread pretty well trimmed up now.”

  “Looks fine out here, John,” Buck responded, looking about the ranch. He then got right to the point. “I want to talk with you about that fella’, Michael. What you said there in town at the meetin’s got me wonderin’ about some things.”

  “Well, you’re just in time, Buck. I was planning on headin’ off to town to talk with some other folk’s about that. Ed and Michele Spencer were out here last night and asked me if I would ride into town today to meet with some of the folk’s. They said that folk’s had a lot of questions regarding yesterday’s meeting.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Buck responded, “and I’ll ride in with you. But there was somethin’ that I wanted to maybe ask you in private? That’s why I rode on over here to your place. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Go right ahead, Buck. What ever you might have to ask will be kept between you and me—you know that.”

  The man brushed at the mane of his horse with one hand as he sat there in the saddle, his other still resting atop the horn. “Well, John, I been befriendin’ them Boyce brothers, Jim and Will, for some time now. You know how some folk’s got the notion that them ol’ boys are a mite touched in the head?

  “I let ’em work at my place now and then, and they’re hard workers, John. They lost their jobs when the mine played out, and I figured I’d help ’em out a little. They’ve got some good qualities about ’em, but they do get
crazy when they get a bit of liquor inside. If that Michael is who you say he is, maybe you could ask him to heal them boys—like he did that hound out in the street. That’s all, John. I try to keep ’em busy and try to keep ’em away from that hard stuff, but I’m only one man, and I don’t figure I can do enough.”

  John smiled. “I’m gonna’ tell you something that Michael told me, Buck. ‘You underestimate yourself.’ What you do for them boys might be just what’s needed for the time bein’. Michael said that everything we do is known up there in the heavens, and bein’ that they know your intent up there, it’s best to leave it to them to work it out. You just keep doing what you can, Buck.”

  “That’s encouraging, John.” The man breathed a sigh of relief. “I just never had reason to think of it in that way. That’s what he said, huh—I mean he up and said that they know what’s goin’ on down here—those folk’s up yonder?”

  “They do, Buck. They see it all. And whatever happens with the Boyce brothers, or anyone else, is gonna’ happen. It could turn out good, or it could turn out bad. Whichever way, you’re doing your best—and you can’t do no more. C’mon—let’s ride on into town.”

  In the Indian settlement northwest of town, the three fishermen were standing in the presence of Stalking Moon. Jerry Garcia stood with them, after having explained to him their reason for being there. The festivities honoring Bear Claw continued around them. Stalking Moon was cordial.

  “Have you men eaten? We have much food here, and you are welcome.”

  The fishermen were taken aback. They thanked him and began to feel more at ease with their surroundings.

  “Before you go to the tables,” the Indian continued, “I will tell you that tomorrow you can climb the mountain. The evil will be no more. A great angel will see to that. That is all I will tell you at the moment. It took much courage for you to come here and to ask what you have of me. I will go with you early—as far as the high meadow, and show you the way from there.”

  Bear Claw at that moment was reclining in his teepee, contemplating his earlier meeting with the archangel. A small fire was lit in the pit at the center of the floor, and he puffed on the long pipe, knowing that his prayers ascended in the smoke. Little Swan suddenly entered, her hands behind her back. The old man smiled at her.

  “Come in, my child. What can I do for you today—this day of my great celebration?”

  The girl brought her hands out from behind her back and handed him the deerskin pouch containing an array of polished stones. “This is my gift to you, my grandfather—the stones I have gathered from the wash and polished for you in honor of your special day,” she smiled.

  The man opened the pouch and removed the stones. “These are a most meaningful gift, my child. And one is the blue stone!” He held it up and gazed at it as he continued to speak.

  “This is precious, my child. I will hold this stone in my hand for the rest of the day and into the night. Our spirits together—yours and mine, will pray for the great warrior who ascends the mountain! We will be joined together with him in this way as well. His blood now flows in my veins, and he will know that we hold onto the stone. The three of us are now one. Thank you, my granddaughter!”

  The storm clouds above the mountain began to spread out over the valley. They approached the Indian settlement, drifting southward toward the town of Lone Pine. Lightning continued to flash atop the mountain in frightening array, and the echoing rumbles of thunder now enveloped the low-lying areas where the people dwelt.

  John Replogle and Buck Grace soon walked into the town’s restaurant. The dining room was empty, but John could hear female voices coming from within the kitchen. Ed Spencer stood next to the front window, looking out toward the mountain. He heard the men walk in and spotted John right away.

  “What’s going on up there, John? Up there amidst all those clouds and lightning and thunder? Lovella said you would know.” The man appeared to be slightly on edge.

  “Calm down, Ed. Yes, I do know. And I know that we won’t be able to see a darn thing from down here. So just relax. You said some other folk’s were coming in?”

  “The whole town’s coming, John. Misty’s cooking up a storm back there—in a manner of speaking,” he gulped, looking back toward the mountain. He continued with his words, but his eyes were still fixed out that window.

  “The girls are back there helping—Lovella, Maggie and my wife. The Warner’s are on their way, as is the sheriff, Floyd Thomas, Claude Davis and Charlie McCloud. —Oh,” he suddenly looked back toward John; “and Sam Waters will be coming on over as well. He’s training a new man over there—a drifter name of Donnie Crawford. Sam says the man knows horses. I believe he’ll be coming over as well—to meet some of the folk’s. I’m not sure about the judge or anyone else.”

  “Okay,” John nodded. “And what about Doc?”

  “Doc rode down to that cattle camp—not long ago. He said he wanted to check on that man’s gums—the trail boss,” Ed responded, and then turned once again to gaze out the window.

  John then walked on into the kitchen and saw the ladies preparing breakfast. He eyed Misty.

  “Misty—can I help you with anything? And Buck Grace and me could sure use some coffee. You got any hot?”

  Misty smiled. “Pitcher’s on the stove, there—go ahead and take it. There should be cups out on the tables. And we’ve got plenty of help in here right now, John—but thanks anyway.”

  John noticed that Misty’s dog, Digger, was lying on the floor near her desk in the kitchen. That big Lab suddenly rose up with a loud bark, and then strolled over to John, wagging its tail. The animal began to pant softly and nudged against John’s thigh with its nose. The women who were at that moment gathered in the kitchen started laughing.

  “Well, what have we here?” John smiled, then knelt down and embraced the animal. “You can’t dig any holes around here, young fella’!”

  “He don’t dig anymore,” Lovella responded. “We’re probably gonna’ have to change his name,” she smiled. “He’s our official watchdog now. Of course, he won’t bite anybody, or chase them away, but he sure has a loud bark—and he always barks at least once when someone new comes around, whether he knows ’em or not.”

  John soon stood to his feet. “What’s for breakfast, Misty?”

  “You name it,” she smiled. “We’ve got some orange juice, pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon—compliments of those drovers south of town, and there’s toast and muffins, milk, coffee or tea. And for an appetizer, we’ve rounded up some fresh melons from the Mexican folk’s out at the groves. Now, John, if all that don’t tickle your fancy, then nothin’ will.”

  “That tickle’s me just fine,” the man responded. “I’ll go ahead and take that pitcher of coffee on out right now.”

  “Sugar’s and creamer’s are still in here,” Michele Spencer spoke out. “You go on ahead, John, and I’ll bring them out to you.”

  South of town in the cattle camp Doc Mucci sat at breakfast with Ed Winter and a few of his drovers. With the cloud cover and sharp bursts of thunder from the northwest on occasion, the animals had become a bit restless. Some of the drovers were discussing the matter just a few feet beyond where Winter and the doctor were seated.

  “Looks like you’re able to chew all right, Mr. Winter,” the Doc said to him. “This is good bacon! Real tasty. I wondered why you had that little herd of pigs traveling with you—now I know,” he smiled.

  “That gum of yours looks to be doing all right, but I thought you might want to take a pistol shot at me after you sampled my mouthwash. I told your men that there are a lot of folk’s who would like to take a shot at a dentist at least once in their lifetime,” he smiled, as he bit into another slice of bacon.

  “Oh, I thought about it,” Ed laughed. The truth is that I felt a whole lot better after I left your office. I had the scoots of course—with that medicine, but I survived,” he sighed. “Took the pain out of my gums at least—and almost right away. I
’m not gonna’ ask you what all you got in that stuff,” he chuckled.

  Slim Woodson then approached them. He spoke directly at Ed Winter. “Half the herd or better is up north in that little valley right now. I just got back from there. Four of the boys are up there with ’em. It’s mighty quiet up that way—no clouds neither. But the cattle we got here are a mite restless with the thunder and all, Ed. Maybe we should have listened to that stranger and moved ’em all up north?”

  Ed smiled at him. “They’ve seen worse weather than this, Slim—back down in Sante Fe. And we made it through that big storm in San Bernardino without loosin’ but three or four head. Why don’t you and the boys sing ’em a song? The Doc here might like to hear a song as well. You like trail songs, Doc?”

  “I sure do. When I came west from Chicago, the wagon master and some of his hands sang all the time along the trail. Nighttime was the best. Relaxed everyone after a full day of bumping around in those wagons. It was worth the trip, though. Lone Pine’s a fine town to work in. Nobody’s in a big hurry around here. And yes, I would like to hear your boys sing.”

  Slim then went and grabbed a guitar out of the chuck wagon and he and a few of the boys came up with a lively little song shortly thereafter…

  “As I was out ridin’ one mornin’ for pleasure,

  I seen a cowpuncher come a’ lopin’ along.

  His hat was throwed back, and his spurs was a’ jinglin’,

  And as he roped cattle he was singin’ this song…

  Whoopy-ti-yi-yo, get along little doggies,

  It’s yer’ misfortune and none of my own,

  Whoopy-ti-yi-yo, get along little doggies,