Three Days in

LONE PINE

An Untold Tale of the High Sierra

1873

Kindle Edition

A bit of fiction and reality from award winning author

MARK STEPHEN TAYLOR

Copyright © 2010 by Mark Stephen Taylor

Three Days in LONE PINE

An Untold Tale of the High Sierra, 1873

By Mark Stephen Taylor

*Revised Edition, February 2013

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-1456408565

ISBN-10: 1456408569

All rights reserved solely by the author. The author guarantees all contents are original and do not infringe upon the legal rights of any other person or work. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the permission of the author. The author designs any graphics in this book. Photos in this book were taken by the author, and remain the property of the author. *Back cover author photo by Betty Prange, of Livingston TX.

Italicized words in text are for emphasis. Any Biblical references within this writing are superscripted, displayed in the back of the book, and comply with the following authorized version of the Bible: The New International Version Study Bible, Copyright © 2008, by Zondervan

M S Taylor Productions,

1997-2013

From

Lone Wolf Limited

PO Box 547, Lone Pine CA. 93545

hikemark@hotmail.com

Phone 909-549-0068

*Other Kindle Books by this Author:

Non-Fiction:

1. ‘Knowing Just Who You Are’,

Educating Body, Mind, and Spirit.

2. ‘Hiking the Trail of Truth’,

Knowing God Through His Creation.

3. ‘Hiking Life’s Difficult Trails’,

A Spiritual Journey.

Fiction:

4. ‘A High Sierra Christmas’,

An Untold Tale of Jeremiah Johnson.

5. ‘Three Days in Lone Pine’,

An Untold Tale of the High Sierra.

6. 'LONE PINE',

A Story of Love Undying.

7. ‘A Second Chance’,

A Daring Tale of High Adventure.

8. ‘The Secret of Monument Valley’,

The Trail of the Anasazi.

9. 'Treasure of the High Sierra',

Dead Men's Gold.

These books & additional books are also available in paperback.

Three Days in Lone Pine

This is a strange tale, which deals with some unusually mysterious events that occurred in Lone Pine, California in the early 1870’s—events that a few local old timers claim to be true. Others claim these happenings were just part of local legend—a story told and retold by succeeding generations—a story that changed a bit as it went from ear to mouth and mouth to ear and so on. Old tales like this are sometimes hard to piece together—hard to separate the fact from the fiction, or the reality from the legend. Yet, it turns out to be quite an enlightening story, and told in almost the same way by three different cultures represented in the area today…

There’s a Native American version, associated with a spiritual dance, which is told to the children by the elders and tribal dancers during the harvest season. There’s a Hispanic version, usually told at the annual Christmas celebration—when all the little ones are gathered around the community tree. The white folk’s tell the story around the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays as well. The elderly storyteller at those latter gatherings claims he was influenced by an old diary that he found under the flooring of a burnt out cabin in the local hills, just west of town—found it in 1925.

I’ve been allowed to read the diary, and I’ve listened to and meticulously gathered notes from the different cultural versions of the story, while attending their various festivities. I don’t seem to be able to find a whole lot of variance between the diary itself and the traditional oral versions of the tale. And so, as a writer; carefully examining the aforementioned assembly of witnesses, this story, though perhaps somewhat unbelievable due to the deceitfulness of heart that lingers within the core of human nature, I am inclined to believe could very well be true…

Chapter One

Near the lower escarpments of the rugged High Sierra, just below the bold, granite monolith known as Mount Whitney, highest peak in the contiguous United States, sits the small, captivatingly unique hamlet of Lone Pine. This historic California town of the old west, founded in the 1860’s, was named after a lonely pine tree that was discovered at the mouth of a picturesque canyon, which is not far from the original settlement and is now known as Lone Pine Canyon.

Long before the great Mount Whitney got its present name it was well known among local Native Americans, who hunted in the area, as the Rock of Thunder. Fierce storms, magnificent in their splendor, were frequent along its high crest—lightning often danced atop its peak, while the explosions of ear rending thunder echoed strongly among its crags. The Indians believed the mountain to be sacred, yet terrifying—a dwelling place of the Most High God.

It was said that God battled often with evil spirits—wandering specters with great powers of darkness, who came to seek rest among the towering spires. The Native Americans knew that these evil spirits were abundant upon the earth, and that they oftentimes had to find places of retreat from the havoc caused by their roaming about and inflicting pain, grief, sorrow and death among its human inhabitants. They believed this great mountain to be a haunt of such spirits—a dreaded place.

The local tribes, fearing grave consequences, would not venture up amidst the lofty crags on the mountain. But, there were white settlers in Lone Pine who craved the harsher challenges of the high country, most of whom were not thwarted by the ghostly stories the Indians passed onto them. There were hunters and trappers among these area residents—many of them living out in the vast expanse of sandstone and rock formations, which lie in rugged splendor just west of town, ascending the eastern slopes of the High Sierra. These unique formations are currently known as the Alabama Hills, and have been the scenic backdrop in a variety of motion pictures for several decades.

Cattlemen and sheepherders occupied most of the flatter and greener plain to both the east and south sides of the early settlement. The horsemen; mostly Indians, lived among the rolling hills toward the north. Then their were the townsfolk themselves—the local miners, the banker, the doctor and dentist, the business proprietors and their families, the overland stage people, and also a small gathering of migrants from Mexico, who raised corn and planted fruit trees and vineyards to scratch out a living in what was then 1870’s California.

The town itself was originally established to provide supplies to local miners and later to farmers and ranchers. There wasn’t significant growth during the 60’s decade, but with the dawn of the 1870’s fishermen began to populate the area. This was due to the large number of rainbow and brown and even golden trout found swimming in the rushing streams and high lakes that were a part of that breathtaking, mountain scenery.

One such fisherman was Johnny Lucas—a robust young man and loner for the most part, who in late summer of 1873 was camped along Tuttle Creek near Indian Springs. He was fishing with two friends that particular morning in August—men who had also been living in their tents in the nearby area for quite some time. The outdoors was their frequent abode—a place where body, mind and spirit became one with the earth. The bold and majestic white granite range of the High Sierra was a diamond in the rough for such men.

These hearty fishermen, who had migrated to Lone Pine from the wide river country of the Midwest, and had in late spring set up camp with Lucas, were Al Johnson and Charlie Begole. It was shortly after daybreak…

THE FIRST DAY…

“Well, the fishin’s kinda’ slow this mornin’, boys,” Johnny complained. “They been bitin’ early most all week. Now, there’s been ’nary a nibble—for the last two days. I swear if that don’t beat all. We ought to find somethin’ else to do to pass the time here a’ bouts.”

Al Johnson looked up at him from his squat near the edge of the creek. “We should go climb that mountain over yonder-way, Johnny. Some ol’ boys from the Geological Survey have been trying to find a route to the top, but I heard they ain’t had much luck. They say one fella’ in the group, name of Clarence King, made four attempts—in the last couple weeks! Some surveyors, huh?” he laughed.

“Which mountain you talkin’ about?” Charlie Begole asked.

Johnson pointed to their west. “That tall peak up there, behind the others—the one with the two sharp crags, just to its south. Them survey boys say it’s the highest mountain in the whole dad-blasted country! We could get up there. We could take the credit for bein’ its first climbers. We’ll name it ‘Fishermen’s Peak,’ in honor of our trade. How ’bout that?”

“It’s pretty rugged up there,” Johnny responded. “Might take a couple of days to get to the top.”

“Well, there ain’t much else to do,” Al replied. “The fishin’ has gone a mite sour, wouldn’t you say?”

Johnny looked up at the mountain. “Don’t look like no bowl of cherries—mighty steep lookin’ from down here. We’d best pack some jerky and some fruit if we go up there. There’s a little grove of orange trees near the base of that mountain. Them Mexican folk’s will sell us some fruit, I’m sure—maybe even give it to us for nuthin’.”

Charlie Begole was chewing on a reed, plucked from the creek’s edge. He looked over at the others. “Local Indians say that mountain is haunted—evil spirits and such. Them sheepherders south of us—Bill Crapo, Abe Leyda, and three others in their group are the ones who told me about it. They was gonna’ climb the mountain, but said the stories scared ’em off.”

Johnny laughed arrogantly. “Crapo’s feedin’ you a bucket of crap, boy. It wasn’t two weeks ago that he was talkin’ about goin’ up there with his friends. He just don’t want anyone else takin’ the glory.”

Charlie nodded. “Well, I’m not afraid to go on up with you boys—just lettin’ you know what he said. That Shoshone tribe that lives around here is known for tellin’ things like they are—least that’s what I’ve heard.”

Al Johnson abruptly stood to his feet, dragging in the line on his fishing pole. “Let’s do it—let’s go on up there and claim that peak.”

In the town of Lone Pine, Dr. Michael J. Mucci was just opening the front door of his office, when a tall, stout looking man approached him from the street. The man stepped onto the wooden sidewalk near to where the Italian doctor was standing and removed his cowboy hat. His other hand was pressed tightly against his jaw.

“I have a real bad toothache, sir. I was hopin’ you might be able to take a look at it first thing this morning? Name’s Winter—Ed Winter. I’m a cattleman. Got a big herd grazin’ south of town, there—a few drovers with me as well. We shared a campfire with a man last night—name of Wiley Hunter. He said you was a real good dentist. Never had much use for dentists, until now—got some real pain here in my lower jaw.”

Doc Mucci had looked the man over from a short distance while listening to his words. He then stepped in close to him, reaching a hand out toward the left side of his jaw. He carefully touched it, which caused the cattleman to wince a little in pain. The doctor smiled.

“Open up your mouth—as wide as you can.”

The man complied and Doc then looked in closely at his gums. The lower left was inflamed.

“You have an abscess, Mr. Winter. A bit difficult to chew on that steak and trail beans, huh?” he grinned. “Come on inside. The chair on the left is my dental chair. The chair and table on the right is my doctorin’ set up. I handle everything in this town—local undertaker as well. You don’t need doctorin’ nor buryin’, but you sure do need some dental work. Go ahead then and sit down in the chair on the left.”

Just across the street from the doctor’s office a young woman was sweeping off the wooden walkway in front of the Lone Pine General Store. Margaret Warner was a fine looking woman. She and her husband had opened the store in late ’68, and were well known for their generosity and fair prices on most supplies. She saw the man enter the doctor’s office and then spoke to her husband, who was standing just inside the store.

“Looks like a drover just came into town. Maybe we could talk to him about some beef supplies? He went into the doctor’s office. Why don’t you go on over there and speak with him?”

Don Warner smiled. “That fella’s been pacing up and down the street out there for the last half-hour, holding his jaw—until the Doc showed up. We’d best wait until his pain subsides—might be in a better mood then, don’t you think so, Margaret?”

“Oh, I suppose so—but don’t let him get away. We need some beef.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the door, my dear.”

“I hope so,” she smiled. “You get to tinkering on something and you’ll miss him, especially if you start fooling with that rock collection you’ve been building up. And who’s going to buy rocks anyway? You’ll get so pre-occupied with that foolishness that you’ll look right at him and forget your need to talk to him. If you recall, I had to knock you in the head with this broom the last time that dry goods salesman came around here. He would have ridden right on out of town if I hadn’t got your attention!”

Don sighed. “I’ll be watching—I swear.”

Margaret then shook the broom at him. “You’d better be—or else!”

Just down the street the overland stage was making its way toward the center of town and the stage depot, which sat a bit north of the general store. Margaret leaned on her broom as it approached, a cloud of dust trailing behind it. She always looked forward to seeing new folk’s come into town. Watching the stage roll in three mornings a week had become a habit with her. The driver waived at her as the coach passed on by.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Warner—fine mornin’!” It was Charlie McCloud. He’d been driving the stage ever since the line opened, back in ’65. He was a good man; both kind and helpful to the folk’s around town. He was an easy man to spot along the street when he was needed—the wide brim of his hat was turned up in the front and sewn to the crown.

“No new passengers, ma’am—get up there Clyde—Tess!” Charlie called out at the lead horses as they headed up the street toward the depot.

Just north of the depot stood the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant. Lovella Atwood was the proprietor at the time, a good businesswoman who was not the least bit soft spoken. When the townsfolk would gather for their monthly meeting, Lovella would act as their sergeant-at-arms. She was strict and expected no foolishness while the local agenda was being presented and discussed.

She would sometimes pace back and forth among those in attendance, and was known to wop someone upside the head if they spoke out of turn or said something that she was not in agreement with. Of course, she only whacked folk’s in fun, with the palm of her hand, but it worked; as the meetings usually always accomplished something.

Lovella was out on the front porch of the hotel when the stage pulled in. She liked to greet the travelers and offer the fine services of the hotel and restaurant. She ran her business well, and had one of the finest cooks in the west at the restaurant. No one really knew where Misty McBride came from, but some eastern folk’s passing through town said she was thrown out of some big, fancy restaurant back east because of some type of scandalous affair. She never talked about it—never admitted it or denied it in one way or the other.

The only thing that really mattered was that Lovella was mighty proud to have Misty working for her. Anyone who tried to pry into Misty’s business got an earful from Lovella, that’s for sure. She had chased a few of them out at gunpoint over the years. She always kept a small six-shooter stuffed in the waistband of her trousers on the backside. Lovella Atwood was nobody to mess with, and the folk’s in and about town knew that—knew it well, and drifters or strangers coming in tended to learn it quickly. Sheriff Ben Johnson trusted her with that firearm—never did try to take it away from her. He was convinced that she always acted on the side of the law.

Charlie McCloud spotted her on the hotel porch as he reined in the horses at the front of the depot. “No new passengers, Lovella—sorry!”

The woman smiled at him. “You see to them horses, Charlie McCloud, and then come on in for breakfast. Got some hot coffee on the stove, and some of those tasty, blueberry muffins Misty bakes up. She’ll do up some ham and eggs as well.”

“Oh, them’s some fine muffins,” Charlie responded. “Do tell—I been thinkin’ about them muffins all the way from Ridgecrest. I’ll be there shortly, you can count on that.”

Lovella noticed that John Replogle wasn’t perched atop the stage—his usual place. “Where’s your shotgun rider, Charlie?”

Charlie had climbed down off the stage and began to loosen the team for movement to the corrals on the west side of the street. He spoke at Lovella while he worked.

“Well, I guess old man Davis is havin’ some kind of trouble with one of his mules. Johnny’s a whisperer—you know that, and he went on over there to the Davis place to see if he could help out. Said he might be a day or two.”

“Well, I knew he whispered at horses, but I didn’t know he could whisper at mules too?”

“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 spoken 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?”

“That’s fine, Don. Slim Woodson, my foreman, will help you herd ’em in. He’s my point man on this drive—good man.”

Stalking Moon rode out from the Indian settlement, headed toward the mountain. He wore three eagle feathers in his coal black, shoulder length hair, and was dressed in deerskin. He nudged the horse onward with the heels of his moccasins, speaking gently to the paint as he rode along. It was a tall mount, and moved with its head up proud. This fine horse was a gift from his father, Bear Claw. The animal, Wind Spirit, was just four years old.

The Indian soon picked up the tracks of the three white fishermen along the lower north fork of Lone Pine Creek. He then reined in the horse and scanned the terrain ahead of him. The large, white granite boulders just beyond him obstructed his view a bit, so he nudged his mount and continued to move on ahead, following their trail. He held back a little, not wanting to come straight up on them—didn’t want to frighten them.

His intention was to speak with them about the dangers they would encounter on the mountain. He’d been up among its lower crags a few times—faced a hungry mountain lion a time or two, and fought with a grizzly on a high plateau when he was just a young boy. He carried the scars on his face, below his left ear—and a longer scar that continued down onto his neck. Stalking Moon would still hunt for that bear on occasion—mostly at night under a full moon. That’s how he got his name.

He had cut off part of the bear’s right front paw with a knife at the time of that boyhood encounter—wore the two claws belonging to that bear on a beaded necklace his father had given him. He wanted to find the bear again. Years had passed since their encounter. His father had told him that he and the animal were now one, and destined to meet again. They had drawn blood on one another and the matter had to be settled. They would face one another again, but the outcome, the old man had told him, was uncertain.

‘The forces of good and evil are at work in both of you,’ his father would tell him. Bear Claw had said, ‘you have, since the encounter, both gone your separate ways and lived your own lives. What each of you have seen and learned will be put to the test when you face each other again. My vision is not clear as to the outcome, my son, but this is your destiny—this I have seen. You will face the great bear on the mountain—in the high meadow where you first met him. But this is an honorable thing. This is what I have been told by the ancient ones.’

Stalking Moon soon found a place where the three fishermen had crossed the creek and followed the pines to the ledges beyond. He knew the ledges were slow going and he would soon catch up with them. He reined in at the creek and dismounted, allowing his horse to draw water. When the animal had finished, Stalking Moon kneeled down and lapped up water for himself.

The Davis spread was about a mile east of town, and stretched out toward the Inyo Mountains. Claude Davis had just entered the barn, but stood a bit away from the mule as his friend crouched in close to it.

“What do you think it is, John? I haven’t been able to get her up.”

John Replogle placed a hand on the mule’s neck and soothed it gently, rubbing the flat of his palm against the animal. He placed his other hand on the animal’s forehead. “Easy there, girl.” He moved his thumb down slowly and drew up an eyelid. The mule shuddered just a bit, then lay still as the man looked into her eye. He was soon able to get her attention.

The animal then rolled its eye downward, as if straining to see its left front leg, which was stretched out along the dirt floor of the barn, just to the right of John’s crouched position. The man then moved slightly to where he could get a look and feel of the animal’s leg. He stroked gently downward from the thigh, and shortly found a small knot just above the knee. He wet his finger with spittle and touched it. The animal reacted slightly, but remained calm. John looked up at old man Davis.

“You got a hornet’s nest around here somewhere? This animal’s been stung—most likely allergic to it. Stinger’s still in there. You boil me some hot water, Claude. Bring me some tobacco, moisten it up, and I’ll cut this out. Then we’ll clean it up and dress it. Hopefully she’ll be up and around in a day or two. She’s got some strength—that’s a good sign.”

“Well, by-golly, John—the nest’s got to be underground here somewhere. Dolly’s been in the barn here most of the week. She’s been down a couple days now, poor girl. She hadn’t ventured out into the corral before that.”

John nodded. “We’ll fix her up and then we’ll look for it. We’ve got to be real careful, Claude. If we stir them hornets up, they’ll chase us and they won’t stop stinging at us until we jump into your pond, yonder. You have any kerosene?”

“I do—in the shed next to the house.”

“Well, go get me what I need here at the moment and we’ll fetch that out later. I’m going to squat here with the mule until she’s treated. She needs the close comfort at the moment.”

“Fine, John. I’ll go and get what you need right now.”

Margaret Warner heard cattle mooing and the distinct sound of their hooves against the street outside. She then bolted toward the front door of the general store. She stepped out onto the porch and saw Don and a trail rider heading the animals up Main Street in a cloud of dust, not far from her. She waived at Don, who spotted her right away. The man then knew that she’d be set and ready.

She hurried inside, threw off her apron, grabbed her gloves and ran out the back door toward the corral. The gate was on the east side, facing Hay Street, and secured with three lodge pole pine logs, slid into position, each a foot or so above the other. She quickly pulled out each of the logs from top to bottom, and then stood them up nearby against the fencing, where she could quickly grab and insert them again once the cattle were all inside. She was now set and ready. She tied a bandanna around her neck and slid the fold up to the bridge of her nose. Things were about to get a little dusty.

Don and Slim Woodson soon rounded the corner of Main and Mountain View Streets, just north of the hotel, with the cattle out in front of them. Woodson then rode quickly around the herd and soon spotted Margaret to the south—a bit down Hay Street at the corral. He took up a position and turned the animals in that direction, shouting amidst their constant mooing and whacking a broad cowboy hat against his chaps. He then darted out in front of the herd once again, and as he approached Margaret, suddenly reined his horse back around and drove the cattle straight in toward the corral.

“Yoo-hup! Get in there!” he shouted, the animals responding with a charge to their immediate right and on into the corral. Once all of them were inside, one of the larger cows suddenly did an about face and was headed back out. Woodson then rode part way into the corral opening, waiving his hat at the animal.

“Get back in there!” The animal responded quickly and Woodson backed his horse out of the gateway.

“You can set your poles now, ma’am,” he spoke at Margaret. “These critters ain’t use to bein’ separated from their friends—don’t take to kindly to bein’ penned up. Been trottin’ with a big herd all the way from Sante Fe. They’ll be grumblin’ a while,” he smiled, as the mooing continued.

Margaret re-inserted the poles from top to bottom as the man was speaking, securing the entrance to the corral. Don rode up and dismounted beside her, slapping dust from his pants. “You did a fine job, Margaret. Aren’t these critters beautiful?” He hugged her tightly for a brief time.

“They sure are,” she responded as she left their embrace, “and this gentleman is a fine rider.”

The woman removed her gloves and bandanna, then smiled at Woodson, extending a hand his way. “I’m Margaret Warner, Don’s wife.”

The wrangler tipped his hat, then leaned over in the saddle and shook her hand. “Name’s Slim Woodson, ma’am. Honored to meet you. Your husband there’s a right fine rider himself. You folk’s build this corral?”

“Don built it,” she smiled. “He’s the ‘can do all things guy’ in this family.”

“You done a good job, sir. I like the way you got them boards on the roof of your shelter there overlapped, so’s the rain will run off. Always good to have it dry around the trough where the animals feed. My pa taught me that—I ’spect yours did as well?”

Don grinned. “Well, it was Gwen—Margaret’s pa, who taught me about building corrals—and shelters. But my pa taught me a heap of other things.”

“No doubt,” Woodson nodded. “No doubt at all. Nice to meet you folk’s. I’ll ride on back to the herd now and…”

“Hold up there,” Don interrupted. “Let me go inside and get the money I owe your boss.”

“He said not to worry about it,” Woodson replied. “He’ll be in town later and look you up. We’ll be around here a few days—maybe even longer. It’s mighty pretty country—I swear!”

“Well, I’d like to give you something for yourself—for helping me to bring this herd in. You did most of the work.”

“Well, Mr. Warner, you can buy me a beer when me and the boys come back into town. How’s that?”

“I’ll buy you a dinner at the hotel as well. It’s a real fine restaurant!”

“You got a deal. Good-day to both of you, now.” With that the man tipped his hat and then turned and rode on out of town.

Margaret turned toward her husband. “They are beautiful animals, Don. They’re so strong and healthy looking.” She then put an arm around him. “It seems a shame we’re going to have to slaughter them at one point or another.” Her sudden emotion caused her eyes to water a bit. “I see a bull in there amongst them. Maybe we should go into the breeding business? We can sell them and not have to—not have to say good-bye in such a bad way.”

“Well, there’s room out at your dad’s place, that’s for sure. Maybe I’ll talk to him about it. But, somebody’s got to supply a little beef to the town folk’s, Margaret. Most of them have always depended on us. What do we do about that?”

Near the foot of the great mountain, Charlie Begole suddenly heard the nickering of a horse, and quickly spotted Stalking Moon riding up amidst the tall brush to their rear. He and the others were just about to ascend the white granite cliffs above them.

“Johnny—Al! There’s an Indian on a horse coming toward us—through that tall brush! He’s a fierce lookin’ fella! We ain’t got nuthin’ but fishin’ knives on us. He’s got a big, long knife in his waistband—bone handle, too. You suppose he means to kill us?”

Johnny Lucas spoke up. “If he wanted to kill us he would have rushed up on us already. Injuns are at peace up here. Hold your place—let’s see what he wants. Just don’t look scared. Act natural. I’ll do the talkin’. Shhh, quiet, here he comes.”

Stalking Moon rode up slowly and came to a halt, reining in about ten or twelve feet away from the three men. Still mounted he raised his right hand.

“Greetings, my white friends. I was told that you plan to climb the great mountain. I have come here to speak to you of this.”

Johnny nodded. “Climb on down. We were just about to have something to eat. We can share it with you—fruit and some nuts—some bread maybe? Got some dried beef, too.”

“You will need this food for your journey, but it is kind of you to offer,” the Indian replied.

“You speak real good English.” Johnny Lucas was taken aback.

Stalking Moon smiled. “It is wise to learn the ways of one’s adversary, though we are no longer at war. French missionaries taught me your language when I was a boy.”

Johnny nodded. “Well, we’re fishermen. We heard that no one has ever been to the top of this mountain. We plan on climbin’ up there. We want to name it Fishermen’s Peak—in honor of our trade. Some government men named it Mount Whitney, after a fella’ who’s Chief of the Geological Survey around here. But none of them boys have ever been up there—not to the top. We don’t figure they have the right to name it as they did. You said you had something you wanted to say?”

Stalking Moon remained on his mount as he spoke to the men. He continued to look into the eyes of each of them. “My father, Bear Claw, is a holy man of the Shoshone. It is said that this mountain has for many years been a place of refuge for the spirits of darkness. My father has always prayed about these things. One day he had a vision. In his dream he saw an angel who appeared in the form of a man. This man ascended the mountain and became a wolf, who then battled with the forces of darkness. When he came down the sun shone on the face of the mountain, and the evil was no more.

“In his dream, my father then saw many men and women climbing the mountain. Birds—eagles and hawks came and went freely. The wild animals, who had raged on the mountain for many years, were once again at peace. The people in the valley below, though always shielded from this evil by the forces of good, suddenly became as one. They worked together to preserve the mountain for future generations. My father’s visions are strong. These things will take place—and soon, I am told.

“I tell you this truth as a warning. None of you are the angel in the dream, for he will meet with my father before he ascends the great mountain, and in his respect for him will even ask his permission, as this is our land. You are at great risk in making this climb. A few of our people have tried—and never returned. Your survey people have been thwarted from finding a direct route as well, as have many others. They have been spared, and do not know it. My father has said that the time will soon come when it is safe. My advice is that you be patient, and wait for such a time.”

Al Johnson laughed. “We don’t believe in myths or legends, nor in ghostly stories of these high mountains, though we are obliged for your concern. There’s good weather today. We’ll get up there tonight and be back in the mornin’.”

He quickly looked at his partners. Johnny shook his head in agreement, but Charlie was hesitant.

Stalking Moon then began to turn his mount around. “I have told you. This was my father’s wish. I hope that you will fare well, and that you will be protected.”

He then rode off slowly back along the creek. The three men watched him until he disappeared into the pines.

“Let’s get goin’,” Johnny blurted out to the others. “Time’s a wastin’. This here’s a free country. We don’t need nobody’s permission to climb a mountain.”

Charlie McCloud stepped up onto the hotel porch and walked on inside. He headed directly for the restaurant. Lovella noticed him as he passed through the parlor.

“What are you all smiles about, Charlie? You been drinkin’ again?”

“No—I ain’t. I just started to work on Misty’s porch. I got some good news for her. It won’t take much wood. Only a couple pieces on the top was rotten, and the railin’ just come unhooked, that’s all. I’ll have it all done early this afternoon.”

Misty walked out from the kitchen. “I heard you, Charlie—but what are you doing here? No cookies until the work’s done. Now, get on back over there and finish it.”

“Yes, ma’am. I just thought I might get a little snack? Took a bit out of me; tearin’ them old boards off. Figured I needed a little more energy to finish, that’s all.”

Misty shook her head in disbelief. “Since you walked all the way over here, and since you have at least started on the job, I’ll go ahead and reward you with half a dozen oatmeal cookies. I did bake them up for you. But, just as soon as I put them in your hand, you get on your way back over there—and I mean it. Get it done today.”

“I will, I swear, Misty.”

She went back into the kitchen and returned with his half- dozen cookies, wrapped in a cloth, and handed them to him. With a big smile he nodded in respect, then turned and headed out the door. A moment later he stuck his head back inside.

“Lovella—that stranger I told you I saw on the road this mornin’—he’s comin’ on into town. The man’s down the street, yonder, ridin’ the gray.”

Lovella then walked out onto the porch. Misty came out just behind her. The stranger was still some distance away. He rode tall in the saddle, dressed in black, just as Charlie had said. There was a Sharps carbine in the boot attached to his saddle rig. He wore a broad, flat-brimmed hat, black in color, with about a four-inch crown, flat across the top as well—no band on it. He looked intermittently to his right and to his left out from under that brim as he rode slowly up the street.

His horse stepped proud. It was a lightly spotted gray, with an unusually thick, long, solid gray mane, and the animal’s tail of the same makeup stood erect at its base, much like that of a show horse. The rider sat on a black saddle with an array of engraved, silver conchos on the leather. There was a right-handed, black leather gun belt strapped about his waist—a cartridge belt, and the loops were full all the way around—appeared to be silver bullets. There was a blue steel, .45 Colt Peacemaker in the holster. Its hand grips were solid white.

The man spotted Charlie McCloud and the two women standing on the hotel porch, and soon reined in near the base of the steps. He spoke with a deep voice, tipping his hat at the trio.

“Howdy. Would one of you folk’s know if they might have a room available here?”

Lovella smiled at him. “I do, sir. A real nice room—and we serve fine food here as well—best in the west.”

“Best in the west, huh?” the stranger returned the smile. “Sounds like my kind of place. You folk’s got a livery here a’ bouts?”

“Cross the street, yonder, just up a ways,” Charlie McCloud spoke up, pointing in that direction. “It’s next door to that big corral where the horses for the stage line are kept. Ol’ Sam Waters runs the livery. He’s a small man in stature, but real good with horses. That’s a fine lookin’ mount you’ve got there, mister—mighty fine.”

The stranger nodded. “Well, I’ll just amble on over to that livery—be back shortly, ma’am, to see about that room. What time is lunch served?”

“Anytime you want it,” Misty smiled. “I have pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans today—and some peaches for desert. I have coffee or whatever you might like to drink.”

“Well then, I reckon I’ll be back right quick. Maybe I’ll get that room first, though—and take me a shave.” The stranger rubbed at his whisker stubble.

“There’s a good barber shop—just down the street,” Charlie responded. “He’s got a brand new chair—all the way from back east. It’s real comfortable—but if you’re sittin’ all the way down in it when he draws it back, it has been known to tip over.”

The stranger narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Well, the last time I was in a barber chair, three gunslingers walked into the place and attempted to fill my apron full of lead. It’s a pretty wild town when a man can’t ride in and get a quiet shave. They buried them fella’s the next day. The fact is, I don’t take too kindly to barber shops any longer—no offense meant.”

He then tipped his hat once again at the trio and rode on over toward the livery.

“You see that man’s eyes?” Charlie whispered. “It’s like they look right through you—and what a story!”

Misty slapped him on the back of the head. “Don’t you fret none about that man—you just get on over and fix my porch.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Charlie stepped off the hotel porch and headed for Misty’s place, cookies in hand. It wasn’t far—about a quarter mile down Hay Street, which was just down the next block.

Lovella looked at Misty just after he left. “He’s right about the man’s eyes—it’s hard to look away from them when he’s talkin’ at you. Personally I'm not very comfortable with that. What do you think?”

“Well, he kind of squints when he talks—lot of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. Some people have seen a lot of bad things in their time—and it shows.”

“Probably war maps,” Lovella responded. She then smiled at Misty. “Lets go on inside out of this sunlight. I’m liable to turn into a prune myself.”

Chapter Three

It wasn’t long until the stranger returned to the hotel. Lovella was tidying up at the main desk when he walked through the door. He was a tall man, a few inches over six feet and broad shouldered. He was lean as well. The man carried the Sharps carbine in his left hand; barrel down, as he walked across the floor, his spurs jingling with each step. A pair of saddlebags were draped across his shoulder. His lips were pressed together as his eyes took in everything around him, but he smiled when he drew near and spoke to Lovella.

“I’m looking forward to that meal, ma’am. I’d like a room for a few days—maybe longer. I’ll just pay for three days right now, if you don’t mind. I’d like an upstairs room—and would favor a view of the mountain?”

“I have one,” she responded. “Number seven—up the stairs on your right. The room is two dollars a day, Mister…?”

“Michael,” he answered.

“Is that your first name or…?”

“That’ll do, ma’am.”

“Well, just sign the register here, Mr. Michael, and I’ll get your key. There’s a wash bowl up there, and I’ll heat you some water and bring up some shave cream and a razor as well, if that would be okay with you?”

“That’s right kind of you, ma’am. And your name is…?”

“Lovella—Lovella Atwood, sir. I own the hotel here, and the restaurant. Your cook is Misty McBride, and as I said, the best in the west. The other fellow you met on the porch is Charlie McCloud. He drives the overland stage to Ridgecrest and back—goes over in the evening and comes back in the morning, three and sometimes four days a week—they run special on holidays. He’s kind of the town’s handyman as well. They’re both fine people, and we appreciate serving and helping strangers who come into Lone Pine—most folk’s do go out of their way around here to be kind.”

The stranger nodded as he signed the register. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Atwood. I’ll be headin’ upstairs now—thank you.”

Lovella smiled. “I’ll be up there with your hot water in five minutes. I’ll knock twice on the door. You take off them spurs when you sit down in the furniture.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The man tipped his hat and moved toward the stairway. He then paused for a moment. “You’d better have a look at that pistol you’re carrying in the back of those pants, ma’am. The hammer’s been filed flat—recently. It won’t fire when you need it to.” The man then continued on up the stairs.

Lovella quickly removed the gun from her waistband. Sure enough, there were fresh file markings on the face of the hammer. She had just picked up the gun from the sheriff’s office the day before, where it had been cleaned. She then walked hurriedly across the room into the restaurant.

“Misty—heat up a pitcher of water and take it up to that man in number seven. Take him up some shaving cream and a razor as well—make sure it’s sharp. I told him five minutes. Knock on the door twice. I’ll be right back.”

She soon ran out of the hotel and up the street, then stepped boldly into the sheriff’s office, making sure that the door swung back and struck loudly against the interior wall. Sheriff Johnson was taken aback.

“What in blazes are you doin’, Lovella? I just fixed a broken hinge on that door!”

“Yes, Ben, and you just cleaned my gun, too. What in blazes, as you put it, did you do to the hammer? It’s filed flat. Explain that right now!”

“Let me see it!”

Her arm shot straight out and she dropped the gun down on the desk in front of him. He winced a little. “Careful, Lovella!”

“Careful, my ass—the hammer is flat—the pin filed off. It’s not going to fire, you old fool!”

Sheriff Johnson had a concerned look on his face as he picked up the gun from his desk and observed the hammer. He studied it for a moment.

“Hell, Lovella, you know what I did?” He then stood up and walked across the room to his gun cabinet. He opened up the door and removed a pistol, similar to Lovella’s. He turned back toward her, the piece in his hand.

“This is Ed Spencer’s gun. He came over from the drugstore a week ago and asked me to clean it up. It’s similar to yours, but shoots a rim fire cartridge—should have a flat hammer. Look here. This hammer’s got a pin on it.”

He then walked back over to his desk. “I had both guns all apart, right here on top of my desk, and I guess I accidentally switched hammers. Filin’ the face of a flat hammer’s natural—cleans it up. Your hammer should have the pin on it—center fire. You can only wipe it off and oil it up. I mixed up the two when I put ’em back together,” he sighed, shaking his head in disgust.

“I’ll switch ’em back right now. His would have still fired—I’m real sorry, Lovella. I must have had a lot on my mind. The US Marshal in Bishop wired me that them three Cutler brothers escaped from the Reno prison—bad bunch, them boys. He thinks they’re headed this way.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing I didn’t need to use my gun today!” Lovella snapped. She then drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry—got a bit riled. I guess it scared me, that’s all, Ben.”

“Rightly so, Lovella. How’d you come to notice it?”

Lovella turned and looked out the window toward the hotel. “A stranger told me. The gun was in my waistband—in back, where I always keep it.” She paused in thought and then spoke out. “I never turned my back on him, and he never stood close to me. I can’t figure out how he knew?”

She then turned from the window and faced the sheriff. “My shirt always hangs over the top of that gun, Ben. This is strange. In fact, that man in my hotel is strange. He looks right through you when he talks at you.”

Ben laughed. “Come on now, Lovella. He had to see it. If it was that fella’ dressed in black who rode into town a little bit ago; he looks like a gunfighter—or a bounty hunter. Probably has a keen eye.”

Lovella shook her head. “Just fix the gun and let me get out of here.”

Back at the hotel Misty knocked twice at the door of room number seven, and then pushing a cart she promptly entered the room, surprising the stranger with her immediate entry. He was standing near the washbasin with his undershirt removed. Misty observed that his shoulders, upper chest and part of his abdomen were deeply scared. There was a long scar on his right forearm as well. He felt her embarrassment.

“It’s okay, ma’am. Just leave the cart right there. I’ll shave and put a shirt on and be downstairs for that fine meal, shortly.”

She turned her head away and looked down. “I’m so sorry. Lovella told me just to knock twice—I should have waited after that. She never said anything…”

“It’s just a few scars, ma’am. Nothin’ to get in a twist over. Some folk’s are a lot worse off. You can turn and look at me and then go on about your work. You don’t have to be afraid. I’ve been in some pretty fierce battles, that’s all. It was during a war—a bad war.”

Misty lifted her head and looked back at him. “I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible. I am glad you’re still alive—after so much pain.” She paused momentarily, contemplating what it must have been like at the onset.

“I’ll go ahead and leave now. There’s soap and towels in the drawer underneath the washbasin. There’s shaving cream and a razor here on the cart. Be careful—the water in the silver pitcher is real hot. The white pitcher has cool water in it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Misty then left the room, closing the door behind her. She walked slowly down the stairs, saddened by what she had just observed. When she reached the bottom of the stairs Charlie McCloud was just walking in the front door of the hotel. There was a smile on his face.

“Your porch is all done, Misty. I even touched up the paint on the railin’ for you. It looks real fine.”

She walked toward him. “That poor man upstairs has scars all over him,” she whispered. “He said it was from the war—I suppose the one that was back east—the war between the states?”

“I reckon so, Misty. We never heard tell of no other wars. I’m glad there wasn’t no war out here in California.”

“Well, I’m going in to fix lunch. Folk’s will be coming in soon and those cattlemen are due in as well. You might as well come in and get a bite yourself. Thank you kindly for what you’ve done for me today.”

“Yes, ma’am!  And you don’t have to box no cookies right at the moment. I’d rather just come in and get a cookie now and then as I need it,” he smiled.

Passing through the rock hills northwest of town Stalking Moon then rode on into the Indian settlement. He dismounted and soon entered his father’s teepee. The old man stood up and they briefly embraced one another.

“Those three men did not listen to your words, my father. They climb the ledges toward the mountain.”

“Do not worry, my son,” Bear Claw responded. “They will end up on the wrong peak, just like the others. The spirits have spoken. The full moon is near. According to the old ones, this is the year of the visitation. My prayers will be answered.”

“Tell me more of this, my father. Tell me of this ‘visitation’ you speak of. I would like to know more about your visions—the deep things.”

“Wait, my son. Be patient with me, and I will tell you when the time is right to do so.”

Her weapon repaired, Lovella left the sheriff’s office and returned to the hotel. As she ascended the front steps she could smell dust in the air and heard several horses coming in at the south end of town. It was the cattlemen. She waited there on the porch as they approached.

There were seven of them, but Ed Winter was not among them. Slim Woodson soon reigned in and tipped his hat at her. The others reigned in just behind him.

“Howdy, ma’am. We heard the food in your restaurant here was the finest in the west. I dare say—I can’t say the same thing about our trail cook.”

The riders with him laughed at that remark. “Are we in time for lunch, ma’am—I know it’s a bit past noon…”

“You boys tie up there at the rail and come right on in,” Lovella smiled. “Misty has a fine lunch prepared. Where’s your boss—the fella’ with the toothache?”

“He was gonna’ ride in with us, but he took a pull on that mouth rinse the Doc ordered for him and it upset his stomach a bit. He said he’d be along directly.”

Lovella laughed. “That mouthwash has a laxative in it.”

“A what, ma’am?”

“A laxative—something that makes you barf out the other end. Doc puts it in there so that any bacteria is sure to leave the body’s system.”

“Back-what, ma’am?”

“Bacteria, sir—germs—bugs—things that can get in the man’s gums and make him sick.”

Woodson and the others laughed. “Well, ma’am, it sure is workin’. But he’s a tough old bird. He’ll be along directly, providin’ he don’t have to use too many corncobs. He wouldn’t be able to sit down and eat at all.”

Lovella shook her head and laughed at the way these grown men carried on. “You boys are an ornery bunch. Come on in now and eat. And when you sit in my chairs, you take off them spurs.”

The men dismounted and tied their horses at the rails in front of the hotel. They removed their spurs, each man draping them over his saddle horn, and soon entered the restaurant, where both Misty and Lovella attended to them.

Out at the Davis ranch John Replogle had finished caring for the injured mule. The animal seemed to be doing much better—and in a short time. The tobacco poultice was working. He and Claude Davis had soon afterward located the hornet’s nest along the exterior wall of the barn, where it met with a loose fence post. John then wrapped a cloth around one end of a long staff of pine and dipped it into a barrel of kerosene.

He made sure Claude was standing some distance away, then lit the cloth and rammed the burning end of that staff into the nest hole, between the fence post and the wall itself. He then ran back some twenty feet and stood alongside Claude. The hornets were caught by surprise, and none escaped the flame.

“What if the barn catches on fire, John?”

“Well, the liquid on that cloth is pretty well absorbed by now. I doubt it will spread. It should burn out in the hole—another minute or two. We’ll fetch a bucket of water and douse the area after that, and then cover everything with dirt.”

“I sure appreciate what you’ve done for me today, John. Dolly’s a very special mule. She leads the team. She’s not the strongest I’ve got, but she sure is the smartest, by-golly!”

John looked at him. “She’s real partial to you, Claude, and it’s not just because you’re Irish,” he smiled. “You’ve treated her well all these years and she knows it—loves you for it. Mules communicate a little more with their eyes than horses do. Horses use their ears, their teeth, and their tails—even their feet, and talk a little with their eyes as well, don’t get me wrong. But a mule says a lot more with its eyes. I believe the eyes are a direct light into the soul, Claude—and a beacon from the heart as well.

“All animals have that light, but it radiates more from the mule—least that’s what I’ve experienced. Let me put it this way, Claude—a mule has a big heart, kinda’ like the eye of an owl. You can learn a lot lookin’ into its eye. You can hear its heart speak. But a horse is like a man. It communicates with several different parts of its body. It’s more difficult to learn exactly what a horse is feelin’ or what it’s tryin’ to tell you.”

“How’d you learn all those things, John?”

The man was silent for a moment—not sure how Claude would react to what he was about to say.

“It’s a gift, Claude. I’ve been close to all the creatures since I was a little boy. I lived on a farm, and my brother and sister were more into town things—you know, community type stuff. That was their thing. But I guess I was more of a loner, and so I found friendship with animals and birds and such. My pa never questioned it. He said a child is what he or she is, so he supported me in my feelin’s about the creatures.”

John then chuckled a little. “I gave names to every critter I ever talked to. My ma said I never lacked friends. Of course, when I told her I had conversations with the animals and birds, she didn’t pay much attention to that. She thought I ought to be more sociable with the townsfolk. My brother and sister were more like her, and I was more like my pa. He felt the things of nature were more important than most folk’s did. I was obliged to have his encouragement. And, my brother and sister were obliged to have our mother’s encouragement. That’s just the way it was in our family.”

“You're a good man, John,” Claude smiled at him. “Let's go on into town. I know you won’t take any payment, so I’d like to buy you a meal at the hotel restaurant. We still have a little bit of time and should be able to catch the lunch, by-golly. I love Misty’s cooking—we all do. What do you say?”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s douse the end of that staff and cover up this nest before we go, and then we’ll pour some more kerosene on it and let it soak into the ground. We don’t want any hornets that might be out and about comin’ on back to this place. They’ll usually travel quite a distance to build another nest, once they find out that one’s been destroyed. They don’t cotton to kerosene—whether it’s layin’ about on the ground or burning.”

Doc Mucci hung his ‘gone to lunch’ sign out on the front door, closed up his office and walked up the street to the hotel. Several other townsfolk had sat down to lunch in the restaurant, while the cattlemen were just about ready for dessert. There were a few open tables left in the place, but the Doc took a seat next to the window, just across the table from Charlie McCloud. He spoke at the cattlemen as he sat down, who were seated nearby.

“How’s Mr. Winter doing, boys? Did the man take his medicine?”

Slim Woodson spoke up. “That he did, Doc. It was workin’ when we left. He’ll be in shortly, I’m sure—providin’ he ain’t run out of corncobs.” There was an immediate chorus of soft laughter from the other men seated at the table with Woodson.

The Doc smiled. “You figure he’ll want to take a shot at me? Most folk’s I know would like to shoot at a dentist at least once in their life.”

The cattlemen then laughed out loud. “He’s a forgiving man, Doc,” Woodson responded. “He was in a lot of pain for several days on the trail. I figure he’s a mite glad that part’s over with.”

Charlie McCloud looked up at that moment as the tall stranger entered the restaurant. He was dressed in black, but was presently not wearing his hat or the gun belt. His dark brown hair was combed back neatly and curled up slightly at the neckline. The man was now clean-shaven. He was quite rugged in appearance, yet a handsome man with high cheekbones and clean, distinct features.

He saw McCloud looking at him and nodded in return with a smile when their eyes first met. About that time most everyone in the restaurant looked toward him as well. The leather heels of his boots made a distinct sound against the flooring as he walked in. Misty approached him almost immediately. His eyes then met with hers.

“You can sit anywhere you like, sir. What would you like to drink?”

The man smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. A sarsaparilla would be good. I believe that empty table by the window over there will suit me just fine.”

The empty table was next to where Charlie McCloud and the Doc were seated. After the man walked over and sat down he immediately looked out the window toward the mountain. He sat with his hands in his lap, and didn’t turn his head from the window until Misty arrived with his refreshment.

“Lovella will bring your dinner shortly, sir. How many pork chops would you like? They’re fairly thick.”

“Two would do, ma’am.”

“Gravy on your potatoes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At that time John Replogle and Claude Davis entered the restaurant. Replogle’s eyes met those of the stranger’s right away. He was immediately drawn to him—there was a warmth of spirit that radiated from the stranger’s eyes and John could sense it. There was something that seemed familiar about him as well.

He soon had to look away. He didn’t want the stranger to feel that he was perhaps staring at him. He was drawn—almost compelled to look back intermittently as he and Claude made their way to a table across the room.

The stranger then looked at Misty. “Before you go, ma’am; those fella’s that just walked in; the man wearing the printed shirt; would his name happen to be John?”

“Yes, sir, it is. John Replogle. He’s the town’s veterinarian.  A gifted man.”

The stranger smiled. “Speaking of vets, there’s a big dog out there in the street—looks like he’s frothing at the mouth.”

Misty looked out the window. “Oh—that mangy red-bone hound—he’s a stray. That dog comes into town on occasion to hunt for food. No one can get near him—not even John. The sheriff usually has to fire a shot over its head to make it run away. He won’t shoot the animal—says he feels sorry for it. It will bite, though.”

The stranger then stood up from the table, “You can go ahead and prepare my vittles, ma’am. I’ll be right back.”

He then walked to the front of the restaurant and on out the door. He started across the dusty street and moved at a slow but steady gate toward the hound. The animal growled at him, but did not move. Misty watched from the window, as did both the Doc and Charlie McCloud.

“What’s that man think he’s gonna’ do?” Charlie muttered.

The stranger outside then raised a hand toward the animal, palm open, and slowly approached it, looking steadily into the creature’s eyes. The dog suddenly stopped its growling.

“Good boy,” the stranger uttered. “Tough out here in the world, huh? Hard to find a meal, or a friend.” The stranger knelt down in front of the animal, then reached out and gently stroked the top of its head. The animal whined slightly, its spirit then apparently quite calm.

Inside the restaurant Misty called out over her shoulder. “John—you’d better come look at this!”

John Replogle soon joined her at the window. Claude Davis came and stood beside them. Lovella noticed the gathering and quickly approached the others. They all had their eyes on the stranger, who was still kneeling near to the animal.

“That’s impossible,” Charlie McCloud blurted. “No one’s ever got near that dog without gettin’ bit.”

“No, by-golly,” Claude muttered. “No one!”

The stranger was at that time cuddling the animal’s head with both hands. “Now, my friend,” he spoke softly, “go to the Indian village. A young girl will welcome you there. She will be your friend, and you will run and play with her. She will love you, and you will go hungry no longer. You in turn must protect this girl from the mountain lion she’s gonna’ meet tomorrow, when she climbs through the rocks. You will save her life, and for a long time to come you’ll be with her.”

The stranger then stroked the back of the animal. The man soon put his face in close and kissed him on the upper part of the snout. He then removed a bandana from his rear trouser pocket and wiped the frothing from the animal’s jaws and lower portion of its mouth. The animal in turn licked him on the cheek. The stranger remained close to the animal’s face for a few moments, then stood to his feet and pointed northward toward the hills, speaking to the dog once again.

“Go in peace, my friend. Drink some water from the creek. This frothing will be no more. You’ve been made whole again.”

The animal then turned about and walked away toward the north. It stopped momentarily at one point, turned its head and looked at the stranger, and then continued on its journey, now at a trot.

Still watching from the window, Charlie McCloud rubbed at his whisker stubble. “I’ll be damned—do tell!”

The Doc shook his head in agreement. The others standing in the window remarked quietly about the unbelievable event they had just witnessed. John Replogle however was silent.

Out in the street the stranger turned and started back toward the restaurant. His eyes met those of John’s once again, who was still gazing at him through the window. The man nodded his head lightly at John, a slight grin on his face.

John responded with a nod as well, and lipped words silently yet distinctly—“Thank you.” The stranger read his lips while he maintained his walk toward the restaurant.

John spoke at the others who were near the window as he continued to watch the stranger’s approach. “This man is very special, my friends. Take heed. What you’ve witnessed out there today is only the beginning, I’m sure.”

Misty then spoke up. “This man knew your first name, John. He asked me, out of the blue I might add, if your name was John. Do you know him?”

John looked at her. “I’ve never seen him before. At the moment I have no idea how he knows my name.”

“His name is Michael,” Lovella responded.

John was suddenly taken aback. He looked at the others but said nothing. They saw what appeared to be a look of surprise on his face. He then turned away and walked back to his table. Claude shrugged his shoulders at the others, he himself unable to understand the look on John’s face a moment before.

Shortly thereafter the stranger entered the restaurant. Misty and Lovella then suddenly left the window and returned to the kitchen. The stranger seated himself once again at his table, and Lovella returned a few minutes later with his food. She was eager to ask the stranger just how on earth he had done what she had seen him do. She set the plate in front of him, and he looked up at her at that same moment—looked directly into her eyes.

“Marvel not at what you’ve seen, woman. Just be glad the animal is free from its torment. Look into your heart and find a place of rest for the uncertainty you have about the man you’re starrin’ at as well. I’m here for a reason, that for now you would not understand nor comprehend. Let’s leave it at that for the time bein' and just be friends.”

Lovella could not resist, but chose her words carefully. “How do you know John?”

The stranger was silent, yet continued to look into her eyes. She suddenly felt a warmth within—her anxiety regarding this stranger had diminished as quickly as it had formed. The answers to the many questions swirling about within her mind somehow seemed unimportant at that moment.

She soon backed away from the table, still locked into his eyes. She blinked, then began to relax even a little more. She blinked a second time, now feeling able to walk away and go about her business. She was compelled suddenly to speak once again at the stranger.

“You’re a kind man. We’re happy to serve you here.”

He smiled at her. “It’s a pleasure to serve you as well, ma’am.”

He then began to eat while she turned about and walked back toward the kitchen. One of the cattlemen asked her if they could pay her for the meal as she passed by their table.

“You fella’s can pay on your way out—except for the foreman. Don Warner has taken care of his bill. The rest of you can just ring the bell at the counter. You’re welcome to sit here as long as you’d like—lunch is over and we won’t be serving dinner for a few hours yet,” she said.

“I might add that there's a round of beers waitin’ down at the saloon for all of you—again, courtesy of Don Warner. Just go see Maggie. By the way, thanks for removing those spurs,” she grinned. “You all saved yourselves from a powerful good whack on the backside of the head.”

Another half-hour passed, by which time most everyone had cleared the restaurant. John and Claude remained still at table. The Doc had returned to his office to attend to Floyd Thomas, but Charlie McCloud still sat at that table. The stranger remained as well. Lovella and Misty were busy in the kitchen. The stranger was looking out the window when John Replogle got up and walked over to his table. The man continued to look out the window, but spoke to John.

“You can sit down if you’d like. There’s a nice view here of the mountain.”

“It is captivating,” John responded as he sat down. He had brought a cup of hot tea along with him, and sipped on it. The stranger continued to look out the window toward the mountain. John then spoke at him again.

“That was a wonderful thing that you did out there. I’ve always felt that poor animal’s pain, but I could never get near him. He just wouldn’t allow it. I tried for over a year—I guess at one time I just gave up. I suppose I shouldn’t have, but sometimes a man can only do so much. I’m limited.”

“You underestimate yourself, John,” the stranger replied, his eyes still on the mountain.

“How do you know me?” John questioned.

The stranger then turned his eyes toward him. “You’re well known where I come from, John. There’s not a day that goes by that someone doesn’t speak of you, or have you in his or her thoughts. That’s just the way it is.”

John sipped again at his tea, somewhat confused and even a bit startled over the man’s words. “Stranger—I feel that I know you, but I don’t recall having ever seen you before.”

“All in good time, John. If you’ll excuse me, I have to be on my way for a bit. I’ll see you around, huh?”

“Where are you going? I’d sure like to talk with you—I need to talk with you.”

“I’ll be ridin’ out into the hills. I’ll be back sometime after sunset. Perhaps we’ll see each other tomorrow. I may be here for breakfast in the mornin’.”

John smiled. “I usually eat breakfast here as well, when I’m in town. I ride shotgun for the stage line three days a week, and also have to tend to folk’s animals now and again, but I should be here tomorrow. Hope to see you.”

The stranger nodded at John, then got up from the table and walked into the hotel. He climbed the stairway to his room. Lovella was standing behind the front desk and engaged in her work when the man came back down the stairs. His broad-brimmed hat was tilted down just above his eyes, and he was wearing the gun belt. He carried the Sharps carbine in his left hand. He walked toward the door, his spurs jingling slightly against the wood flooring, and stepped on outside.

He looked up at the mountain for a few moments, then climbed down the steps off the front porch and started toward the livery. The man walked tall and straight, taking in his surroundings as he moved along. A slight gust of wind suddenly whipped its way down the street as he crossed over, the dust and sand swirling up against his boots.

Chapter Four

The stranger walked on into the livery and spoke to Sam Waters. “I’ll be needin’ my horse.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied. “Fine animal. Brushed him down real good. He wasn’t skittish at all—seems right friendly. Will you be comin’ back?”

“I reckon so,” the stranger grunted, as he lifted the saddle up and placed it on his mount. “Got some work to do here a’ bouts. By the way, your hayloft, in the back room there—take notice that the third rung up the ladder is split along its center. You’d best be careful when you climb up in there next time.” The stranger cinched up his rig and stuffed the Sharps down into the saddle boot.

“Huh?” was Sam’s response. “You sure? When did you spot that, mister? I was up in the loft just yesterday and…” He immediately stepped back from the horse, which had moved abruptly as the man climbed into the saddle.

“Just lettin’ you know,” the stranger responded. He then tipped his hat at Sam and rode on out of the livery. He reined the gray toward the north and rode slowly up the street and on out of town.

Sam Waters went immediately into the back room and began to check the handrails upward toward the loft. Sure enough—the third rail from the bottom was split across its face. Any weight on it would most likely cause it to break. It creaked a little the last time he had climbed into the loft, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He now grabbed hold of it and gave it a good tug. It split apart in his hands, his backward momentum at that instant carrying him down onto the floor.

He got up slowly and brushed himself off. He then ran quickly into the other room and on out the front door, where he came to a halt and looked up the street for the stranger. The man was now out of sight. Sam scratched at his head in thought; ‘How in thunder did that fella’ know about that rail?’

He then spotted Don Warner on the front porch of the general store. He walked down the street toward the place. Don was sweeping off the porch and spotted Sam headed his way. He noticed right away the look of concern on his face.

“Something wrong, Sam?”

Sam stepped up onto the porch. “I believe that stranger just saved me from breakin’ my fool neck. He told me about a ladder rung on the loft that was near split in two, and sure enough it was. I’m tryin’ to figure out just how he knew that? I keep the door to that back room locked up when I’m not about. I know the man’s never been in there.”

Don then stopped his sweeping and leaned on the broom handle. “John Replogle said the man cured that red-bone hound today, right out in front of your livery. I guess he also warned Lovella about a faulty hammer on that pistol she totes around. She said he never laid eyes on the gun before that—keeps it under her shirt in back of her britches. John says he’s a special person. I’m not sure what he meant by that?”

At that moment Floyd Thomas came out of the Doc’s office. Don saw him out of the corner of his eye and hollered at him from across the street.

“C’mon over here, Floyd—unless you’re down with the flu,” he smiled.

Floyd shook his head. “No flu—just a little stomach ailment.” He then approached the others and stepped up onto the porch to join them. He greeted both the men. Don Warner soon spoke with him.

“Say, Floyd—Margaret and I bought a dozen head of beef from that cattleman, Ed Winter. We were going to ask your help around butchering time, but Margaret has it in her head now that she wants to breed them and sell the new stock off next year to those buyers up in Bishop. We got a bull with the lot. However, we do need to select about a half-dozen of the cows to butcher up for the winter beef sales for the townsfolk. If I pick them out, I was wondering if we could drive them over to your place for the butchering? Margaret doesn’t want to do it here this year—feels guilty about it. She wants to keep them all, actually, but we’ve sorta’ come to an agreement.”

“I’ll take six of them cows,” Floyd nodded, “but I’ll only butcher as you need ’em, Don. Someone wants beef, they can pay you and pick up their order from me the next day. How’s that sound? You supply their feed, and we can settle up on the butcherin’ fees come spring.”

“That’s kind of you, Floyd. You’re a good man—respecting my wife’s feelings like you do.”

Floyd smiled. “Well, maybe no one will want any beef this year anyway. Lots of folk’s are gettin’ bread goods, grain and produce from those Mexican farmers that own the groves over yonder. They’re cannin’ and dryin’ fruit—stockin’ up for winter right now. Margaret just might get all her cattle back!”

“You seen the stranger, Floyd?” Sam asked.

“I’ve heard. Doc Mucci told me about the dog. Sounds like a gifted man—you know; like John. Where’s he from?”

“No one knows,” Don responded. “The fella’ says he knows John, but John doesn’t recollect ever seeing the man before. A mite peculiar, it is.”

Down the street at the saloon, Maggie MacDonald walked out from behind the bar and gathered up the empty beer bottles from the cattlemen’s table.

“That round, gentlemen, was on Donald Warner, from the Lone Pine General Store. You men want more, it’s on you next round.”

Maggie was an attractive woman—blondish brown hair that fell well below her shoulders, blue eyes and a warm smile—had a healthy set of teeth; straight and pretty. She always dressed in a flannel shirt, jeans, and wore deerskin boots, laced up from the toe and turned down at the top, just below the knee. She was a widowed mother who had raised a fine son. Jayson was presently back east, working as an artist in Chicago.

Maggie was born in Lone Pine, but her parents had passed on, leaving her both a fine house and the saloon. She didn’t drink—she was a smart businesswoman who maintained the saloon as a way of life. It was a good one—money always crossed the counter, day or night, which allowed her a comfortable lifestyle. But, she was the type of person who worked most of the time, and the fruit of her labors went right into the bank. Her hope was that she might retire one day and do some extensive traveling.

Ed Winter, owner of the trail herd south of town, soon walked into the saloon. Slim Woodson eyed him right away. “How you feelin’, boss?”

The other cattlemen at the table looked toward him as well. One of them spoke up. “There’s a house beer here for you, sir.”

The man walked up to the table and stood there. “I was told you boys had already eaten and had come on over here. I just wanted to let you know I was in town. I think I’ll go back over to that restaurant and get me a bite to eat. I sure don’t need a beer on this empty stomach.”

He then leaned in and whispered at the men, believing he was out of earshot from Maggie, who was back over behind the bar. “I shit my pants three times, boys—don’t want to do it again. My ass is sore from those darn corncobs. I dare say my jaw is a little better, though. But I believe I’m gonna’ have to sit on a pillow or somethin’ when I get over to that restaurant.” Some of the men immediately laughed out loud.

“Lovella’s got pillows at the hotel,” Maggie responded from behind the bar. Winter was taken aback and a bit embarrassed.

Maggie smiled at him. “Nothing gets past me in here, sir. I’ve got ears like a coyote. Lovella will have some ointment for you as well, if you ask her for it, but you’ll have to wipe it on yourself.”

All of the cattlemen then laughed out loud. Even Ed Winter chuckled—mostly at himself. He then looked at Maggie. “You’re a spitfire of a woman, ma’am. You ever move cattle?”

“No,” she smiled. “Moved a couple from inside the barn to outside the door when I was a little girl, but my folk’s in those days were horse people and farmers. We only had a few milkin’ cows on the ranch. Why do you ask?”

Winter looked again at his men, then back at Maggie. “Well, you’d fit right in with this bunch of drovers here, ma’am. They’re an ornery lot, and like to make jokes and sing trail songs to pass the time.”

“They sing?”

“Sure do, ma’am,” Woodson responded.

“I do too,” she smiled. “What do you fella’s sing?”

“He does the singin’, ma’am,” one of the other men spoke up, nodding toward Slim. “The rest of us just kind of harmonize along with him—sing the choruses and stuff—hum along most of the time. A couple boys here play the guitar, as does Slim there.”

Maggie then walked toward the end of the bar, grabbing hold of a guitar that was leaning against the back of it. She had both hands on it when she came out from behind the bar, and walked over to where Slim Woodson was seated. She then handed him the instrument. “Sing for me—all of you,” she smiled. “Sing me one of your trail songs. My dad and his friends use to sing cowboy songs to me. I grew real fond of them.”

“Is there one in particular you might like to hear, ma’am?” one of the cattlemen asked.

“I better go on over and get somethin’ to eat,” Ed Winter interrupted. “I’m feelin’ a little queasy again all of a sudden.”

“You do that,” Maggie responded. “Doc’s medicine will keep working until you get something into your tummy.”

“Thank you for warning me—you all have a good time.” He then walked quickly out of the saloon and headed up toward the hotel and restaurant.

Maggie ran over to the swinging doors and stuck her head outside, hollering out behind him. “There’s an outhouse in back of the stage depot—if you can’t make it to the hotel!”

The cattlemen inside broke out in laughter once again. Maggie drew her head back inside and turned toward the men, in thought for a moment, and then spoke at them. “I like San Antonio.”

“We remember that ol’ piece, boys—c’mon,” Woodson responded. “It’s a good song.” He picked out a few lead-in notes on the guitar as he tapped one of his boots against the wood flooring, and then he and the others began to sing in unison. Maggie joined in shortly thereafter:

“I want some black-eyed peas, I want some mustard greens,

I want some cornpone on the side,

I want my chicken fried, with a golden hide,

Ah, Ha, San Antone.

When I was a kid I had a locket,

And inside was a picture of Davy Crockett.

I know a gal named Ann, who lives in Texarkan,

And loves a boy in Arkansas,

But when they take a ride, it’s on the Texas side,

Ah, Ha, San Antone.

Oh, now I want to go, back to the Alamo,

Down where my grandpa lived…”

That singing continued to echo out from the saloon and along the main street of town, while the stranger rode silently across the desert brush and entered the rock formations a few miles to the west. He reined his mount back and forth among the dense outcroppings, making his way toward the base of the mountain. Quail could be heard amidst the rocks, their songs peaceful and melodious. A single red hawk soared high overhead. The stranger was drawn to its call.

“I hear you up there. Nice day for a flight. Good breeze up there, huh? Stick around. I’ll be dismountin’ at those boulders up ahead—just yonder.”

The large hawk was circling high above the boulders when the man reached them. He dismounted, the horse snorting a bit as he did so. He then stroked the neck of the animal.

“Time for a rest, big fella’. There’s some good brush here to nibble on,” he smiled. “I’m gonna’ take a seat here atop these boulders—got some things to think about. You rest easy now, my friend.”

The stranger then climbed atop the highest of three, white granite boulders that rested together on the desert floor amid a myriad of reddish and brown-toned sandstone formations. This was a most ruggedly beautiful array of rock scattered ’roundabout him, a few of the larger ones with desert blooms sprouting on the face of the rock, where rainwater had over time seeped into their cracks, giving life to seeds planted by the frequent high desert winds.

The man looked up toward the mountain, captivated and inspired by the pointed crags atop the High Sierra crest. The sun was just over those peaks, on its way to its setting beyond their western slopes. There was a gathering of white clouds to the south, moving northward, which were soon to be overshadowed by a larger mass of dark gray clouds drifting in slowly from the southwest.

The great red hawk, still overhead, began to circle even lower, and soon glided downward toward where the stranger was seated. The man’s legs were stretched out in front of him across the rock, and the hawk then came in and perched itself on the boulder just beyond the heels of his boots. It then hopped up between his legs and stepped up onto his trousers atop the left knee. The bird fluffed its wings, expanded them, and then slowly brought them into full closure, still perched atop the man’s leg.

He reached out and stroked the neck of the great bird. “Greetings, my friend.”

The bird then squealed softly three times.

“Yes, feathered one, the time is at hand. But we have to wait for the full moon—the day after tomorrow. I came here to view the mountain, and to speak with the Son of the Most High. We have an appointed time together. I reckon you can stay, if you’d like.”

He once again reached out and stroked the neck of the creature. The hawk then raised its wings slightly and took to the air. It circled once and then perched itself atop the man’s left shoulder. Michael looked up again at the mountain, and the great bird did the same. Sitting still it remained peaceful for some time atop his shoulder, while the sun continued its descent into the western sky.

On the high granite slopes above Lone Pine, the three fishermen continued their ascent, the men now climbing in a southwesterly direction, by which they exited the timberline at about 11,000 feet, and then began an ascent of a steep, boulder-strewn chute just to their west. They had climbed almost a thousand feet up the chute. The bold, summit block of that particular crown of granite presently towered a mere 2000 feet above them.

Johnny Lucas was in the lead, and stopped to rest on the first in a series of flat-topped boulders along the incline beyond him. He looked back down at the others, who were just approaching his position. He spoke to them as they drew near.

“This chute here seems a little bit out of the way, but I see no other way up. That chute to the north is too darn steep. This one looks like it heads right toward that block above—that’s gotta’ be the top.”

Al Johnson took in a deep breath, then relaxed. “We’ve come a long way, Johnny. It sure is hard to tell at times if we’re headin’ in the right direction—with all these twists and turns we’re makin’. Things look a lot different up here than they did from down below.”

“We’ll be fine,” Johnny assured him. “The sun’s gonna’ be settin’ in a couple hours or so. We should be up near the top about the time it does.”

“What if we ain’t?” Charlie Begole snapped.

“We’ll have a near full moon tonight,” Al responded. “But I’m with Johnny—we’re gonna’ be up there before sunset. We’ve only climbed about an hour or so out of the timber, and we’re at least a third of the way up this chute!” he smiled. “We’ll show them stinkin' government people a thing or two. This is our mountain.”

Johnny grinned. “That it is. Let’s take a bite to eat before we go on. Then we can climb like hell.”

In the Indian settlement, Bear Claw’s granddaughter came to him as he sat among the tall rocks near the village, waiting for the setting of the sun. The red-bone hound was at her side.

“Grandfather! The wild one has come to me. He is now my friend. I have longed for this day. He has come near many times before, but he has run away when I have approached him. Now, he no longer spouts the white sickness, and he will not run away anymore. It is a dream come true!”

“Little Swan,” her grandfather responded, “I am happy for you, my child. This is a sign of good things to come.”

The hound then approached Bear Claw and lay down at his feet, its tail wagging. The man gently stroked the animal along the top of its head and down its back. “He is a fine animal, Little Swan. What will you call him?”

“I do not know, grandfather. I must wait and choose a right name for him.”

The old man smiled. “You are wise, Little Swan. You should talk with your father about this thing. Stalking Moon has always been wise regarding the spirits of the animals. He will guide you in seeking a name for this creature.”

“I will do that, grandfather. I was just excited to come here and tell you about this dog. You were the one who told me that it would someday be at peace. Someday has come, and it is only right that you are the first to know.”

“Little Swan, you honor me with your words. You are much like your father and your mother. Now, go and speak to them of this great thing.”

The young girl hugged her grandfather, and she and the animal then ran together toward the village. Bear Claw turned from watching her retreat and looked up toward the mountain. He then stood to his feet, and with his hands in the air spoke loudly into the sky, his eyes gazing upon the white granite crest high above him.

“I thank you, Grand Father—keeper of this great mountain. The spirit in my vision has arrived. He is near and I will behold him. I thank you for who I am! I thank you for the victories and for the defeats in my life—that I have come to know you through these things. I am now honored above many red men.”

He then took his staff in hand and danced in a circle as he sang: “Hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya hoi! Hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya hoi!”

He raised the staff into the air toward the mountain. “Glory to you, oh Grand Father!”

He then got down onto his knees and lowered his face into the dust. After many moments had passed he arose, and with his staff in hand, walked back toward the boulder and sat down to await what on that particular evening would be a spectacular setting of the sun. A reddish-orange cast began to dominate the clouds high above.

Up along the Sierra Crest, just minutes before sunset, the three fishermen had climbed to the top of the chute. They found themselves on a high peak, but in scrambling to its edge and looking over at the many nearby peaks, they recognized the large summit block of Mt. Whitney, its two adjacent crags towering next to it, still some distance to their north.

Al Johnson spit onto the ground. “You’re a damn fool, Johnny. I bet you we’re on the same damn peak them survey boys were on. Some route finder you are!”

Johnny shook his head in disbelief. “Well, I know we started up the right canyon this mornin’. We couldn’t have missed it by this far? We gotta’ be a few miles away from it up here—three to four, I’d say!”

“So much for ‘Fishermen’s Peak’,” Charlie grunted. “I think them Indians is right about evil spirits keepin’ men off that mountain.”

Al lifted a foot and kicked at Charlie’s buttocks. “Don’t start that crap—I’ll throw you on over the edge. We’re goin’ down this mountain in the mornin’, take a little rest, and then we’re gonna’ climb on up the right one. You’d best be ready!”

Al then turned toward Johnny with a grin on his face. “Charlie here’s an Indian lover, Johnny.”

Standing just behind him, Charlie then took a swing at Al, his clenched fist connecting with the back of the man’s head. It was a good punch. Al fell forward, sprawling out onto the rocks. Realizing what had happened he scrambled to his feet and moved toward Charlie. Johnny quickly stepped between them.

“That’s enough, you numbskulls! Save your energy. The fight’s with the government, not with one another. We’re gonna’ go back down in the mornin’ and find that Indian. We’ll ask him to point us to the right chute. Then we’ll start back up.”

Al Johnson had struck his nose on the rocks when he fell against them. He dabbed blood from his face onto his jacket sleeve as he spoke. “What makes you think that man will tell us which way to go? He didn’t want us up here in the first place.”

“He wished us well, didn’t he?” Johnny responded. “He’s a fair man. I’m sure he ain’t too happy with the government either. There’s a chance that he might help us.”

Johnny then placed a hand on Al’s shoulder, a gesture of encouragement, and offered him a bandanna to clean up his face.

The stranger was back in town a short time after sunset. He rode into the livery and unsaddled his horse. Sam Waters heard him and entered the stall area, lighting a lantern. He blew out the match just afterward and then stepped toward the stranger.

“Good to see you back, mister. Say—what is your name anyway?”

The stranger lifted his saddle onto the stall railing. “Name’s Michael. You fix that rung back in your loft there?”

“I took out the busted one—haven’t replaced it yet. I sure am glad you spotted that. I could have broken my neck. I just don’t understand how you spotted it? That room’s locked most of the time. Kids hang around here a lot—always afraid one of ’em might go on in there and get hurt. Lovella says you told her about a bad hammer on her gun, too. Says she don’t know how you knew that either. No offense at all, Michael—I guess we’re just a bit curious?”

The stranger removed the Sharps from the saddle boot and turned toward Sam, the carbine pointed down at the floor. The saddlebags were draped over his shoulder. He walked on past him toward the door, but then stopped for a moment and turned to face him.

“Let’s just say I’m a fella’ who’s allowed to know things—to help folk’s out. There’s an old writing that says that folk’s should be hospitable to strangers, without pryin’. It goes on to say that, with all due respect, you might be entertainin’ an angel, and doin’ so without even knowin’ it.”

Michael then tipped his hat at Sam and stepped toward the door. “Goodnight, Mr. Waters.”

He then walked out into the moonlight and headed in the direction of the hotel. The town was quiet—no one else out walking about. Suddenly there was the howl of a distant coyote, its wail echoing against the buildings along the moonlit street. Several others soon joined in. They had gathered in the brush-covered hills to the south—a bit early for them at this particular time of year.

Michael looked that way. There was a slight grin on his face.

“Creatures of the night,” he muttered. “Your songs are a mite inspirin’—appreciate it.”

He soon stepped up onto the hotel porch, then turned and looked toward the great mountain. The brilliant moonlight, just a shade off full, reflected captivatingly from its bold, granite face. Across the plain to the east, the high desert brush was also stunningly illuminated, unveiling the vast lake and mountains lying in the shadows beyond. He lingered a few moments, in awe of such glory revealed, and then entered the hotel.

THE SECOND DAY…

Chapter Five

At sunrise the next morning, Little Swan walked out of the Indian village toward the tall stand of rocks just to the west. There was dense cloud cover atop the mountain, the high peaks not visible from the valley below. These were thick, swirling clouds, gradually darkening—most likely a thunder storm building along the high crest. The young girl saw them, but sensed no threat of rain that might endanger her trek down into the nearby wash.

The red-bone hound walked along beside her. She wanted to gather some of the small, attractive stones from the dry wash bed that wound its way through the vast stands of tall rocks and immense boulders. This prominent display of rocks formed the lay of the land that bordered her village and skirted the western edge of Lone Pine, extending southward in magnificent array toward the great lake. Northward and westward the large outcrops made up a part of the lower incline at the base of the highest mountain.

She planned on picking out a few of the more uniquely colored stones from the wash and cleaning them up at the nearby waterfall. She would allow them to dry in the sun, polish them against deerskin, and then store them in a small leather pouch that her mother had stitched together for her. She would give this small container of polished stones to her grandfather as a gift. The very next day was to be the first day of his annual birthday celebration.

She soon reached the dry wash, the animal beside her, and began sifting through the smaller stones and pebbles that lay in abundance, scattered throughout the desert sand along the wash bed. There was an array of multicolored quartz among them. She also found a golden nugget, and the cherished blue stone—turquoise. This piece was a little over an inch in diameter and shaped like an acorn. She was most thrilled at this great find.

Her people considered the blue stone to be sacred; something they had learned from the Apache of the desert southwest. To the Apache, the stone represented the blue sky in contrast with the skin tones of the earth. They said that the Great Spirit had placed it among the rocks to remind the people of the diversity in the Spirit’s creativity—to teach them that the earth and the sky were one, and that all created things represented the power emanating from the Great Spirit.

The stone was considered to allow one who held it in his or her hand to be able to speak more clearly with the Great Spirit and to be heard. Many wore it attached to some form of jewelry, which they believed established both their physical and spiritual union with the maker of all things. Some rubbed on the stone in their hand as they prayed. To receive the blue stone from another human being was considered a great gift—uniting both the giver and the receiver with the Spirit forever.

Little Swan soon completed her task, collecting what she needed, and then started toward the waterfall at the base of the mountain. Suddenly a mountain lion stood in her path—slightly above on a flat rock, a mere forty feet away from her and the red-bone hound. The dog growled immediately, and then moved forward in a fearless stride, taking a stand in front of the girl to protect her. His growl increased in its fierceness as the animal displayed his sharp teeth toward the predator.

The mountain lion bared its long, pointed teeth and screamed out in return, then jumped down from the flat rock and began to move slowly toward the hound. The dog took several steps toward it and continued with its steady, menacing growl, moving in even closer. In the blink of an eye the red-bone then lunged forward, striking the mountain lion head on and biting ferociously and deeply into the animal’s neck.

The mountain lion wrestled its way free in an instant, and then suddenly leaped back onto the rock, up above the dog, quickly turning about and standing erect, once again facing the animal head on and screaming out angrily. At that moment there was the loud explosion of a large caliber rifle. Its trajectory came out from the rocks just behind the girl and struck the base of the granite slab where the mountain lion stood. The animal immediately leaped from the rock in another direction and scrambled up the face of the mountain amidst rock and brush until it was out of sight.

The girl turned about and observed a tall, lean stranger atop a gray horse, riding out from behind the rocks, a rifle in hand. He had a black hat on top of his head; its flat brim tilted down just above his eyes, and he was wearing a light-colored deerskin jacket. The young girl observed that the trousers he wore were also black, the hem facing her resting on the upper arch of a very decoratively stitched, black leather boot. The man wore bright silver spurs.

He quickly stowed the Sharps in the saddle boot and climbed down from the horse, standing directly in front of her. He held the reins of his mount in one hand and reached out and placed the other on Little Swan’s shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid, girl. That mountain critter won’t be back today. He’s chosen another place to find some food for his family.” He then dropped the reins and stepped back from the girl, looking at the rocks about him.

“I figured you and the red-bone would be out here. I just came along to see if everything turned out all right. I reckon it’s a good thing I did, but then again I’m sure your dog there would have held his place. He’s a fine lookin’ animal—tough ol’ boy, huh?”

The girl smiled, relaxed in the stranger’s presence. “He use to be a wild dog. Now he has become my friend. For a long time I wanted him to be my friend, but he always ran away into the rocks, where I could not find him.”

The man then squatted down to where he was eye level with the young girl, and could stroke the head of the dog. “Did you give him a name?”

“No—but I think I will now name him, Braveheart.”

The man smiled. “Indeed—he does have a brave heart. That’s a fine name, young lady.”

The girl looked into the man’s eyes. “My father, who is Stalking Moon, told me that the name I would choose should reflect the spirit of the dog. By what name are you called?”

“I am called Michael.”

“Have you come to see my grandfather?”

“Now, how did you know that?”

She then smiled. “I just feel it—inside.”

“Yes,” Michael replied, “but I will not see him or speak with him until tomorrow. I have some other things I have to do today. What do you have in your pouch there?”

She opened the leather pouch and shook the stone collection out into her hand. “These are stones for my grandfather. I will polish them when I return to the village. These are a gift for his birthday celebration—it begins tomorrow. Have you come for his birthday?”

“In a way I guess I have. You’d best get on back to your village now. That storm up above is comin’ in soon. You’ll be safe there. Don’t fret none about that big cat—like I said, he’s gone away now—back up the mountain to his own place.”

“I must first go to the waterfall to clean these stones. It is behind the rocks up ahead where the lion ran away. There is a big pine tree there at the head of the canyon that sits alone. I think they named the town after this pine tree.” She then laughed softly; “I am not much taller than the great cones that grow on its branches. Is it safe to go there?”

“You’ll be fine now, girl,” Michael assured her.

“My name is Little Swan,” she responded. “I will tell my grandfather you are coming.”

“You do that, and you take care of yourself, Little Swan.”

“Good-bye,” she nodded. “Come, Braveheart,” she spoke at the animal. “We must go to the waterfall, and then we can go back to our village. You have warmed my heart this day.”

She then turned away from Michael and walked toward the outcropping of rocks that opened to one of many small waterfalls along the lower north fork of Lone Pine Creek. The dog remained at her side. Both of them looked back at the man for a moment, and then continued on their journey.

Michael climbed aboard his horse. “Well, we’ve visited the groves, found the boy, and we’ve come out here to find the girl—now let’s go pay a visit to those cattlemen.” He reined the animal southeastward and headed out of the wash, moving along slowly through the rock formations.

Back in town, about an hour after sunrise, Sheriff Ben Johnson walked out of the restaurant and headed across the street toward his office. Three riders approached from the north, riding slowly toward him down the middle of Main Street. When they spotted him they kicked up their horses to a gallop.

The sheriff was taken aback as they rode in quickly and surrounded him in a cloud of dust, and then one at a time pulled the pistols out of their holsters and pointed them at him. One of them spoke up.

“You’re Sheriff Johnson, ain’t you?” The man was unshaven and spit onto the ground just after his words at the sheriff. “Speak up, you ol’ bushwhacker!”

The sheriff remained calm in spite of the commotion; both hands at his side, his right hand just inches from the butt of the gun in his holster. “And I’ll bet you’re them three fella’s that escaped from Reno prison,” he drawled. “You’d be the Cutler brothers?”

“You ain’t too dumb after all,” the same man responded. The other two men laughed.

“Well, I’m Abe Cutler. These are my two brothers—Tom and Bill. Now, we ain’t never killed us no sheriff, but we just love to rob banks—and kill folk’s that get in our way.”

The other brothers laughed again at Abe’s words as he looked up and down the street. “Where’s the townsfolk? It’s Saturday mornin’. I ’spect most everybody ought to be out and about?”

“It’s a bit early,” the sheriff responded. “On Saturdays most folk’s usually come into town a little after nine in the mornin’. There’s a few of Lone Pine’s fine citizens over eatin’ breakfast right now.”

“Well, sheriff—you just pull that pistol out of your rig nice and slow, and drop it on the ground. Then we’ll all head over to that restaurant so’s we can chat with those folk’s.”

Ben Johnson hesitated. He wanted to pull iron and take his chances, and he was one man who could do that—a fine man with a gun. Abe Cutler spotted the look in his eyes.

“You’ve gotta’ lot of hard bark on you, that’s sure—but I wouldn’t do that, sheriff—wouldn’t try to pull on us. You got three guns leveled at you. The one in my hand has a hair-trigger. We’ll spatter you all over this street; you try to pull on us. You make the choice. Remember, I’m lookin’ right into your eyes.”

It was a tough choice for Ben. In his mind it was them or him—but if they came out on top, what would happen to the townsfolk? If it were just him, out all alone in the rocks and facing these three scoundrels, he’d go ahead and pull iron on them—make no mistake about that. But, it wasn’t just him whose life might be at stake. He figured he’d better comply, and started to reach for the pistol, moving slowly.

“Ah-ah—no-no,” Abe warned. “You pull out that piece with your left hand and put that right hand on behind your back. Do it slow—like molasses in winter time, or I’ll drop this hammer.”

Ben then reached across with his left hand and placed it on the butt of his pistol. He then moved his right hand around toward the back of his britches, and about the same time lifted the gun out of his holster and dropped it onto the ground. “I sure hate to drop that good lookin’ iron on the ground like that.”

“We’ll take real good care of it,” Abe responded, then spoke at one of his brothers. “Tom—you get that gun and toss it into the corral over yonder. Then we’ll all dismount and just amble on over to that restaurant with the sheriff. Bill—there might be a door into that restaurant from inside the hotel. You go in there and have a look so’s we can be sure that no one’s gonna’ run out of there when we go in the front. Do that right now!”

Abe then spoke at the sheriff. “Where’s the banker at this early in the mornin’?”

Ben didn’t say a word—just looked up at the man on his horse, took a chew on the tobacco in his mouth, and then spit the juice out onto the ground near the man’s mount.

“Shame on you, sheriff—bein’ such a tough ol’ cob. You’ll talk soon. If you don’t, one of your townsfolk over there in the restaurant will be persuaded, I’m sure—in one way or another.”

Near to nine thousand head of beef, now bunched together out on the vast plain to the south, was quite a sight that morning. Slim Woodson looked out at them as he saddled his horse near the chuck wagon, where some of the drovers had gathered for breakfast. They were camped a mile or so south of town, just north of the herd. The cook spoke at him.

“A’ fore you go checkin’ the herd, Slim, you got a rider comin’ in from the west. Tall in the saddle—wearin’ a deerskin coat. Fine lookin’ gray he’s mounted on, too.”

Woodson looked in that direction, spotting the rider. “That fella’ was in town yesterday. I saw him at the restaurant. I guess he chased some mutt out of town that had some kind of sickness. The lady that cooks at the restaurant said he cured the dog, but me and the boys weren’t too sure about that. Never saw what happened ourselves.”

“Well, you gonna’ go out there and meet him or just let him ride on in?”

Woodson swung into the saddle. “I’ll ride on out. You keep that breakfast hot in case he wants something to eat. Ed Winter never turns a man away from a meal.” He then kicked up his horse and rode toward the incoming rider. The other drovers continued to eat their breakfast. A couple of them stood up, breakfast tins in hand, and looked after Woodson. The man riding in for sure looked like a gunfighter and they wanted to remain alert.

The rider soon reined in, just outside the camp, and Woodson soon rode up beside him, a smile on his face. He nodded his greeting to the man. “Howdy. Seen you in town yesterday, mister. Name’s Slim Woodson. What can we do for you out here?”

“You boys have a lot of cattle here,” the man said, as he looked out over the herd. “Name’s Michael. Are you boys plannin’ on bein’ here awhile or will you be pushin’ north?”

“Well, Michael, we were figuring on headin’ out come Monday. The boss has given us the weekend to sort of relax and enjoy this pretty country. The town’s real friendly, so we’re right glad to stay. Why do you ask?”

Michael hesitated. “Well, your animals might be in a little danger around here tomorrow night. I was hopin’ you might be headin’ them north.”

Woodson eyed him inquisitively. “What kind of danger, mister?”

Michael relaxed a bit, both hands resting on the horn of his saddle. “Well, I’m not sure you’d believe me, even if I was to tell you. I mainly came over here just to see if the animals would be here or not—come tomorrow night. I’m not up to anything funny, if that’s what you’re thinkin’—but I will tell you that it might be a real good idea to move ’em on.”

Woodson removed his hat and scratched a bit at his head. “Well—is there rustlers here a’ bouts or what?”

Michael thought for a moment before he spoke. “You might say that. I just rode in yesterday from down south—from the border country. Shared a campfire with a man who said that a large group of rustlers were sweepin’ north from that Spanish stronghold—Los Angeles, and may be headed this way. I don’t think you have enough men to handle ’em, if they are.”

Woodson nodded. “Well, we come from Sante Fe. We never heard nothin’ like that over in our part of the country. We come a long way and crossed into California near a place called Needles, then took the main cattle trail north from there to get up here. It was a quiet trail—and a long one. We ran into some vaqueros from over Los Angeles way; when we climbed a steep pass out of San Bernardino, but they never mentioned anything about a large band of rustlers?”

Michael didn’t look the man in the eyes; just kept his eyes on the large herd of cattle to his east. “Well, just thought I’d let you know.”

Woodson smiled. “Why don’t you come on in and have some breakfast. We got plenty of vittles—bacon, eggs, biscuits and such, and everything’s still warm.”

Michael sighed. “I suppose I am a bit hungry. I missed breakfast in town—had some chores to handle. Sure—I’ll ride in with you—kind of you to offer some grub.”

Abe Cutler and his brothers had taken the sheriff over to the restaurant at gunpoint, and had made he and four other Lone Pine residents sit down at a single table together. Cutler had confiscated two guns from the others and disposed of them. He also had Misty and Lovella seated at another table, but had not discovered the gun in the rear waistband of Lovella’s trousers. He then spoke at everyone in the room.

“Now, somebody in this room is gonna’ go out and get the banker. I know the bank ain’t open yet, but you can roust him out of his house, wherever that is, and bring him on over here. Now if somebody don’t volunteer, I’m gonna shoot these lovely ladies in the back of the head—one at a time, and just ten minutes apart, until someone volunteers to go and bring me that banker.”

The other people in the room, seated near sheriff Johnson, were Charlie McCloud, Floyd Thomas, Ed Spencer, who was the town’s pharmacist, and his wife, Michele. But just at that moment, when Abe Cutler had made his threat, Don and Margaret Warner stepped into the restaurant together. Cutler greeted them immediately at gunpoint. His brothers stood watch over all the others inside the room.

“Welcome, folk’s. Just keep walkin’—right on in here and sit down at that table next to the sheriff’s little group. Raise your hands so’s I can check you for guns!”

“We don’t carry guns!” Margaret snapped. She looked over at the sheriff. “Ben, when did this trash blow in?”

Bill Cutler stepped toward her. He was a skinny man, dirty in appearance, and had a foul breath odor that permeated the room within several feet of him. The man waived his handgun near Margaret’s face. “Who you callin’ trash, woman?”

“Phew!” she gasped. “You look like trash and smell like trash—what do you expect?”

The man then pointed the handgun close in at her face. “I ought to…”

“Back off, Billy,” Abe Cutler barked. “And you folk’s that just came in—sit down right now!” He then glanced toward his brother. “Get back over there where you were, Billy, and mind your manners. Don’t bandy words with these people. We’ve got a chore to finish.”

He then looked around the room. “Now, which one of you is gonna’ go and fetch that banker?”

“I’ll do it,” Misty responded, her voice somewhat weakened by her fear.

Abe moved toward her. “You’d best not do anything stupid. If you’re not back here with that banker in ten minutes, one of your friends here bites the dust. Do you understand me?”

Misty looked up at him, her lips quivering. “I understand.” She then got up from her seat and moved toward the door.

“Everything will be fine,” she encouraged the others, her voice trembling. “I’ll be right back with Jim.” She then walked out the door and headed up Main Street toward the Dawson residence.

Lovella spoke sharply at Abe Cutler. “You horse’s ass—you scared that poor girl near to death. I guess you think you’re mister iron pants, huh? What do you plan on doing with us, mister iron pants?”

He and his brothers laughed out loud. Abe walked over and stood directly in front of her, gun in hand. “You got a mouth on you, lady. Stand up!”

“You can stick that gun of yours where the sun don’t shine, mister,” she blurted. “Right back behind you, there—where your brains are.”

He then grabbed her by the hair and pulled the woman up and away from her chair. She wrestled with him frantically, and in the commotion, her pistol fell out of the waistband of her trousers and dropped with a loud thud onto the floor. Abe saw it and immediately kicked her in the stomach, then grabbed her shirt about the collar and threw her back into the chair, striking her across the jaw with the butt of his handgun. He then stepped back and reached for the pistol on the floor.

“Well, looky-looky, here. Little miss feisty britches had a gun stashed in her pants. What were you planning on doing with this, feisty britches?”

Seated in the chair Lovella was slightly bent forward and in pain. She moaned softly, bleeding a bit at the corner of her mouth. “You kicked me, you bastard! You kicked a woman and smashed at her face with your iron—you’re the scum of the earth!”

“I’ll do more than that,” he responded. “I’ll stick this gun of yours in that smart mouth and pull the trigger, if you don’t button up that lip of yours!”

Across the room Margaret Warner clenched her fists. “You’re a horrible excuse for a man! Leave her alone!”

Abe turned toward her. “Butt out!” He looked at Don Warner. “Keep that wife of yours quiet!”

“Let’s all calm down here,” Don responded. “There’s no need for any of this. When the banker gets here you can take your money and leave town. In the mean time, we’re not giving you any trouble. We’re peaceful folk’s here—why can’t you just leave it at that?”

Abe smiled at his brothers. “Look, boys. We got us a—what do you call ’em? —A diplomat—that’s it! We got us a diplomat.”

“What’s that?” Tom Cutler asked.

“Just a man what tries to keep peace twixt folk’s,” Abe responded. He glared at Don for a moment, then walked over and stood in the door of the restaurant. Bill Cutler spoke at him from across the room.

“That girl’s time’s near about up, Abe. Let’s go on and shoot somebody now!”

Abe hesitated a moment. “Hold on. I don’t think she’ll let these people down. And she’s real pretty, too. I kinda’ like her. We’ll give her a little more time,” he breathed.

Misty had arrived at the Dawson’s place and had also spoken with Jim Dawson, the town’s banker, regarding the people being held at gunpoint in the restaurant. He was somewhat frightened by the event, but told his wife to stay put in the house, closed the door, and then he and Misty stepped off the porch and headed around the block and on down the street toward the restaurant.

The sun shone brightly on the streets of Lone Pine that particular morning, and in the cattlemen’s camp to the south as well. But high on the mountain to the west the dark clouds were on the increase, casting long, eerie shadows over the expanse of rocks far below, which bordered the Indian village. Within the village itself Little Swan entered the great teepee and talked with her grandfather. He was glad to see her.

“I spoke with a white man today, grandfather. I believe he is the man you seek. He said that he would be coming here tomorrow to speak with you.”

Bear Claw was taken aback. “This man you saw—how do you know he is the man I am looking for?”

“It was in his eyes, grandfather. His name is Michael. He came from the rocks to help Braveheart fight a great mountain lion. He is a fierce warrior, grandfather—I know this! Yet he is a kind and gentle man in heart, who rides a tall and spirited horse.”

The man smiled. “I take it Braveheart is the name you have given the red dog? This is a good name, my child. Tell me more now of this man who…”

At that moment Stalking Moon entered the teepee. He saw Little Swan sitting near to his father. He walked over to them and then squatted down beside her.

“Where have you been, my daughter? The cows in the pasture are ready for milking. The other girls have gone there—early this morning, but no one could find you.”

“I was out in the rocks, my father. There was something I had to do. Mother did not tell you?”

Stalking Moon shook his head. “I am sorry, my child—she did tell me of your journey.” He looked into her eyes and then rolled his eyes toward his father, unbeknownst to him, in a gesture to his daughter that he understood that she had gone to seek a precious gift for the old one, out among the rocks. “Did you find what you were seeking?”

“Yes, my father—and I met a white man who will come here tomorrow and speak with grandfather. He is a great warrior, with a gentle heart. And he rides a great horse, my father. Much like your Wind Spirit.”

Stalking Moon looked at his father. “Could this be the great horse you have spoken of—whose blood is that of Wind Spirit’s?”

Bear Claw smiled. “I did not see the horse, my son. But Little Swan’s words have stirred my heart, and I believe this man must be the one who rides the gray horse.”

“Yes, grandfather!” the girl spoke with excitement. “This man’s horse was gray—with a beautiful mane, and a tail that stood up, yet was curved at the top and fanned out like the yucca bush of the desert.”

The old man looked at Stalking Moon. “There are many things I must tell you, my son. But, I must ask that you both allow me to be alone for now.”

Stalking Moon nodded at this father. He then took hold of his daughter’s hand and they went out from the teepee.

Chapter Six

Abe Cutler was standing at the door when Misty and Jim Dawson entered the restaurant. The man had entered first, Misty walking in just behind him. The outlaw glared at Him.

“Who’s this nigger?”

Abe then suddenly threw his arm around Misty’s neck as she passed by him. She squirmed against his grip, attempting to break away, but he held tight, forced a slobbering kiss against her lips, then quickly removed his arm and pushed her further on into the room. He laughed out loud—a coarse laughter that sent a chill down her spine.

“You liked that, didn’t you missy? You like this rough ol’ jailbird kissin’ on you—yes you do.”

“You’re disgusting!” she responded.

The man immediately looked again at Jim. “I said—who’s this nigger? You mean to tell me you folk’s got an ugly ol’ nigger what’s runnin’ the bank in this town?”

Don Warner spoke up. “Watch your words—the color of a man’s skin has no reflection on the quality of the man himself—none whatsoever. We here in Lone Pine believe he’s a handsome man as well. I take it you’re a godless man, sir. Only godless men are prejudice.”

“Shut your face, Mr. Diplomat,” Abe spouted. He was then silent for a moment as he eyed Jim once again. “What’s your name, nigger?”

“Jim—James Dawson,” the man responded.

“And you run the bank, Jim Dawson?”

The man spoke out boldly. “I run the bank, and I’m also the circuit judge—duly appointed by law. And thirdly, I’m the educated son of southern Georgian slaves. But, when you speak to me, mister whoever-you-are, you can refer to me as Judge Dawson. Only my friends call me Jim. And I assure you sir, you are not at this point in time one of my friends.”

Abe cocked the gun in his hand and pressed it against Jim’s forehead. “Well, Judge, them’s mighty big words—but I’m the law right now, and you and me are goin’ to the bank. And this pretty little gal is gonna’ tag right along with us. You’re gonna’ get the money out of your safe for me, put it in one of those white money sacks you got in there, and then we’ll all come on back here. You fail me, and this pretty little girl that fetched you here is gonna’ die. You hear me—nigger?”

Jim glared at the man. “I suppose you have the upper hand—for now. Since this is the case, I am forced, reluctantly I might add, to proceed to act on your request.”

Bill and Tom Cutler both laughed out loud. Abe chuckled a bit. “Well then, mister fancy-pants, —let’s proceed, as you put it, on over to the bank.”

He looked at Misty. “You take the lead, girl. And you follow right behind her—Judge.” He then laughed out loud as he lowered his gun away from Jim’s forehead.

“You two keep an eye on all these folk’s,” he ordered his brothers. “Nobody stands up and nobody leaves this room. If they have to use the outhouse, they can do their business in their pants.”

“Let me attend to Lovella’s face!” Margaret snapped, then abruptly changed her tone. “Please.”

“I’m all right, Margaret,” Lovella responded.

Margaret glared at Abe Cutler. “May I get her some water, please, and a cloth to clean her face?”

“Just sit still, woman,” he growled. “We’re goin’ over to the bank and we’ll be back in no time at all. Me and my brothers will be outa’ here and you can do as you please.”

He then pushed Misty toward the door and waived the gun at Jim. “Get movin, Judge.”

Misty walked out the door. Jim followed with Abe Cutler just behind him. They crossed the street and headed toward the Wells Fargo Bank, just north of the livery. There was no one else on the street. When they stepped up onto the porch Jim unlocked the door and the three of them went on inside. Cutler then closed the door behind them.

Jim entered the cage and opened the safe. He grabbed a moneybag from a counter and filled it with the currency that was stacked on the upper shelf of the enclosure.

“That’s all the bills,” he said. “About ten thousand dollars worth. Probably more money than someone like you has ever seen in their entire lifetime. There’s a box of silver coin in here—do you desire that as well?”

“You can keep the change,” Abe spouted. “Now get out from behind that cage—then step on over here to me and turn around!”

Reluctantly, fearful of what this man might do to him, Jim moved slowly out of the cage to where Abe was standing. He then turned about, his back toward the man. “What are you going to do? I’ve complied with your wishes—I’m now asking you in all decency not to harm me—or this woman.”

The very next moment Abe struck him in the back of the head with the barrel of his gun. Jim fell to the floor. He groaned in pain, then lifted a hand up and felt the blood on his scalp. Abe struck him once again in almost the same area, and he slumped over into unconsciousness.

“You’ve killed him!” Misty cried out.

“He ain’t dead!” Abe snapped. “But he’s gonna have a fine headache—maybe he won’t be able to talk so pretty no more. I always wanted to clout me a nigger!”

He then pushed Misty toward the door. “Get movin’. I’d like to stay here and kiss on you for a while—lord, I would, but me and my brothers need to get goin’.”

He then reached down and grabbed the moneybag from Jim’s hand. “There’s a fortune in this bag, and we can go wherever we please.”

He pushed her out the door and shoved the gun against her back. “Let’s go—move, woman! Right on back down the street to that fancy restaurant. I sure do like watchin’ you walk!”

Abe looked about him and saw no one on the street. He hurried Misty along, intermittently poking her in the small of the back with the gun barrel. They soon stepped up onto the walkway on the opposite side of the street and climbed the short stairway into the restaurant. One of his brothers stood near the door, the other just across the room keeping watch on those seated at the tables.

“What you got there in that bag, Abe?” Tom Cutler smiled.

Bill Cutler turned from the doorway. “Yeah—how much we get, Abe?”

The man held the bag up in his hand. “We got us near ten thousand dollars in here, boys. Now—Bill you go fetch that rope off your horse. We’re gonna’ tie all these folk’s to their chairs—back-to-back.” Abe then withdrew a knife from his belt, cocked his arm and stuck the blade into a tabletop. “Use that skinnin’ knife to cut you some short pieces.”

Bill Cutler went outside and returned shortly with a coiled length of rope. He and Tom Cutler then worked at the task of coaxing those in the room to move their chairs into the center of the dining area and to place them back-to-back. Once that was accomplished, the men cut lengths of rope to secure their hostages.

Abe watched over everyone in the room as they were being seated and tied up, nervously rubbing an index finger against the cylinder of his gun as he held it toward the group.

Sheriff Johnson was the last to be secured and was tied to a chair by himself, a few feet away from the others. Abe Cutler then walked over to him.

“You’re the odd man, sheriff. You get to sit all by your lonesome. You probably wonder why we put you over here by yourself—a few feet away from the others?”

“Let me guess,” the sheriff responded. “You’re plannin’ on doin’ somethin’ to me and you want everyone else to see it.”

“You’re pretty smart, sheriff.” He then waived at his brothers, who were at that moment standing near the chairs where Lovella and Misty were secured.

“C’mon back over here, boys. Get your lustin’ minds off them women.”

Bill and Tom Cutler moved across the room and stood near Abe. All three were then facing the sheriff, who was seated just in front of them. Abe holstered his gun.

“Holster you guns!” he barked at his brothers. The two men complied. Abe then squatted to where he was eye level with the sheriff, and looked right into his face.

“Now—you’re supposed to be real fast with a gun, Sheriff Johnson. But, you ain’t got no gun no more,” he laughed. His brothers then laughed as well.

“So,” Abe continued, “the three of us are gonna draw on you, and show you what it’s like to be on the losin’ end of a shootout. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“That’s right!” Tom barked.

“Yeah—yeah, that’s right,” Bill echoed.

Suddenly a deep voice spoke out from behind them. “And which end might you fella’s be on?”

The three men turned about immediately to face the cold yet confident stare from the eyes of a tall stranger. It was Michael, standing across from them in the front doorway of the restaurant. The man raised his left hand and tipped his broad-brimmed hat at them. His right hand hung just an inch away from the white-handled Colt Peacemaker in his holster.

He looked at the men—looked into each pair of eyes. There was fear in the eyes of both Tom and Bill Cutler. Abe on the other hand had crazy eyes.

“You can’t get us all, mister,” Abe sneered.

Michael clenched his teeth together—only his lips moved when he spoke. “You’re first, they’re next. You care what happens after that?”

Abe bit nervously at his lower lip. He rolled his eyes toward his brother Bill, to his left, then toward Tom, to his right. Their faces had grown pale. He knew they had no intention of pulling iron on the stranger. He continued to bite at his lower lip—a bit more intensely now. His eyes narrowed. Michael spoke once again.

“Even if you tie me you’ll be dead. But my guess is that you won’t clear leather—think on it.”

Abe hesitated not a little and grabbed for the gun at his side. In the twinkling of and eye there was an explosion—the bullet from Michael's Colt then struck Abe Cutler directly between the eyes. The man barely had a hand on the gun still in his holster. He shuddered from the bullet’s impact and fell backwards down onto the floor, his arms and legs both stretched outward as he lay dead on his back.

Michael then leveled the Colt in the direction of Tom and Bill Cutler, slowly swaying his gun hand back and forth at the two of them. “Your friend’s gone, boys. You can join him, or drop your pieces.”

“He was our brother,” Tom responded. “Abe was a bit crazy.” He then looked at Bill, whose sweat had beaded on his forehead. Tom’s lips quivered as he spoke again at the stranger.

“I think we’d be obliged if you’d allow us to drop our pieces?”

“Go ahead,” Michael responded, watching them intently.

Both men slowly withdrew the guns from their holsters and dropped them onto the floor. They then simultaneously lifted their hands into the air.

Michael had a slight grin on his face. “Your hands won’t do you much good up there, boys. Go ahead and untie all of these people.” He then spun the Colt in his hand and holstered it as quickly as he had drawn it out.

Misty spoke almost immediately at Michael. “Our banker, Jim Dawson, was injured—he’s over across the street at the bank.” She then turned her head toward Margaret Warner. “Will you help me tend to him, Margaret?”

Michael spoke right away at the Cutler brothers. “Untie those women first—be quick about it.”

“I sure will,” Margaret nodded, responding to Misty about the same time Michael had spoken to the Cutlers. Margaret afterward looked at Michael.

“This town sure owes you a debt of gratitude,” she breathed.

At that moment Sam Waters entered the front door of the restaurant, stepping in just behind Michael, who politely stepped aside to give him room.

Sam then spotted the dead man on the floor and was taken aback. He spoke with a lump in his throat. “I heard the shootin’.” He then looked at Michael. “Glory be—is there anything you can’t take care of? You’re about the best thing that ever happened to this town.”

Michael nodded at him, then at the others, tipping his hat. “If you folk’s will be all right now, I need to ride out to the mountain for a bit. Oh—by the way, sheriff. Here’s your gun.”

Michael reached around and pulled the sheriff’s Colt from the rear of his waistband, then walked over and handed it to him. “It was out there in the corral—near your office.”

Ben Johnson looked him in the eye.  “How’d you know this here gun was mine, and how in thunder did you know where it was?”

Michael winced a bit, then tipped his hat again, turned, and walked out of the restaurant without saying a word. He walked up the street a short distance to where he had tied his gray mount just before he confronted the men in the restaurant. The mount had been tied to the fence rail at the entrance to the corral, just south of the sheriff’s office. It was from there that Michael was able to silently approach the gunmen from nearly a block away.

He climbed aboard the gray and was suddenly drawn to look back toward the restaurant. Sheriff Johnson and Sam Waters, along with Ed and Michele Spencer, stood just outside the doorway and appeared to be gazing up the street at him. Charlie McCloud and Floyd Thomas remained inside with the two prisoners. Misty, Lovella, and Margaret; accompanied by her husband, who carried a bucket of water in one hand and some clean towels in the other, were just starting up the sidewalk toward the bank.

“There’s something real strange about that man,” Ed whispered to those standing near him. “I wonder if he can walk through walls?” he jested.

Sheriff Ben Johnson took a chew on his tobacco and then spit a mouthful of juice into a brass spittoon sitting just outside the door of the restaurant. He looked back up the street toward Michael. “I don’t know about walkin’ through walls, Ed, but that man knows what’s gonna happen before it happens—and I have a feelin’ that he knows somethin’ about every one of us here in Lone Pine.”

Michael suddenly smiled at them, and then reined his mount north and rode on out of town. The group of women and Don Warner entered the bank. Ben Johnson then started back into the restaurant.

“C’mon, Sam. Help me march these two Cutler’s on over to the jail—we’ll give Charlie and Floyd in here a break—them outlaws smell pretty bad. We’ll hold the money over there at the jail for Jim as well. Ed—why don’t you or Michele, one of you, go on over and get Doc Mucci. He needs to tend to this fella’ in here and get him buried.”

“Ed can do that,” Michele replied. “I’ll stay here and clean up after Doc takes the body out. I’ll go to the pharmacy and get some supplies to sanitize the place. Ed—you’d better go back to the pharmacy as well after you fetch the doctor—in case the girls need anything for Jim. In fact, you might have Doc just go on over there to the bank first. The girls might need him. This body can wait.”

Jim Dawson had regained consciousness, but still lay on the floor when the group walked into his office. Misty and Lovella had rushed to his side, while Margaret and Don fired up the stove and heated water to clean the man’s head wound and wash out his hair. Margaret worked at cleaning up Lovella’s face as well. Jim soon began to focus in on his surroundings.

After she cleaned the head wound Misty dabbed his face with a wet cloth. “How are you feelin’ Jim?”

The man tried to smile. “There’s a few stars on my horizon and I have somewhat of a headache, but other than that, I’m not feeling too bad. Have those criminals fled with the money?”

“No. That stranger—Michael, came to our rescue. The man who hit you on the head is quite dead. The other two are now in the custody of the sheriff. He has the bank’s money as well.” Misty then looked over at Margaret, who was tending to Lovella. “You might want to look at this head wound, Margaret. The doctor may have to stitch it up.”

Margaret stood up and looked out the window. “He’s coming down the street now—with his bag.”

Moments later Doc Mucci entered the bank. “Well, Jim, I see you’re still with us,” he smiled, closing the door behind him. “I’ll need to take a look at that head wound. And how are you feeling, Lovella?”

“I have a loose tooth, Doc.”

“Well, it may be okay—let me take a look at Jim here first.”

In the cattle camp south of town Ed Winter rode up to the chuck wagon. He had spent most of the morning out among the herd, talking with some of the men that were on watch. He dismounted, poured himself a cup of coffee and soon afterward approached his foreman.

“Cookie says a rider was in here a bit ago, Slim.”

“Yes, sir—a fella’ we first saw over in town just yesterday. Gunfighter, I think. Nice fella’, though.”

“What did the man want?”

“Seems he was concerned about our cattle. Said he thought some rustlers were headed this way from down south—thought we might want to move the herd. The man come in for breakfast after that, but didn’t say no more. We talked about the weather, mostly. He rode on back toward town just after he ate,” Slim gestured, pointing toward the town with a wave of his hand.

“Well, I heard some things about this stranger, Slim. The fella that owns the general store said he thought the man could see into the future. I guess there’s a lot of talk about him in town right now.”

Slim was taken aback. “You don’t believe that, do you, Ed?”

“Well, the man told the livery owner about a broken ladder rung he never laid eyes on. He told a lady about a faulty hammer on her gun—that he also never laid eyes on. And, they say he cured a wild dog that was foamin’ at the mouth. One fella seen that dog later on in the Indian village—playin’ with a little girl.”

Slim nodded. “We were sittin’ in the restaurant when the man done that. Most everyone was lookin’ out the window, but we really never paid it no mind. Now, when he talked to me about those rustlers this mornin’, he never looked me straight in the eyes. I some how got the feelin’ that he was maybe not bein’ all the way truthful, but he sure seemed concerned about the cattle—no doubt about that.”

Ed Winter became curious. “What, exactly, did the man say to you?”

“Well, he said that the animals would be in some kind of danger—tomorrow night. I asked him if it was rustlers, and he said, ‘you might call it that’. But he also said that I wouldn’t believe him if he told me—about the danger. Then he went on about a large band of rustlers he thought was headin’ this way out of Los Angeles—Spaniards, maybe. That’s about the whole of it, Ed.”

Ed lowered his head in thought for a moment, and then spoke at the foreman. “Take half the herd north—up beyond the town into the hills, Slim. There’s a little valley up there where they’ll be safe—tall hills on both sides. Not enough grazin’ for all of ’em here anyway. Put two or three riders up there with ’em. The others can stay here and keep a watch on the rest of the herd. If we are overcome by rustlers, we won’t lose everything.”

Slim Woodson removed his hat and scratched at his head. “You really believe this stranger might know somethin’? I’ll admit, some strange things have happened here a’ bouts, but seein’ into the future? That might be goin’ a bit far, Ed.”

“The man came out here to warn us about somethin’,” Ed responded. “A feelin’ in my guts tells me to take notice. I figure it’s better to be ready for somethin’, than to not be ready and have it happen.”

“We’ll get ’er done right away, boss,” Slim nodded.

“You do that. I’m gonna’ ride on into town and look into things a little bit more.”

Out in the hills to the west, Michael rode for a time through a dry wash, then reined in at a pile of large boulders at the base of the great mountain. He dismounted and brushed at the horse’s mane, speaking gently into its ear.

“Clouds are gettin’ a mite thick up there, boy. It’s almost time to ride on up that way—tomorrow, big fella’. I suppose you’re chompin’ at the bit, like always, huh?”

The tall horse lowered its head and nickered, pushing gently against the man’s chest.

“I know,” Michael responded. “I’m a bit anxious myself. It looks like a steep climb in some places. You up to it, Spirit Rider?”

The horse whinnied at the man, then bobbed its head up and down and snorted.

“Oh, I know,” Michael responded. “You’d like to see your brother first. Well, I figure we’ll see him in just a bit. That’s why we came out here. We should…wait a minute—there’s a rider comin’ up on us now. I think you may just get your wish a mite early.”

Back in town most everyone had gathered at the restaurant. The Spencer’s were there, along with Sheriff Johnson and Sam Waters. Charlie McCloud and Floyd Thomas sat at a table nearby. The Warner’s had just stepped inside, as did Misty, Lovella, and Judge Dawson. John Replogle sat at a table with Doc Mucci and Claude Davis. Jerry Garcia and his wife, from the orange groves, had come in for breakfast just a little earlier, and were glad to see their favorite cook return.

“I’ll whip up something in a few minutes,” Misty smiled at them. “We’ve been a little busy around here.”

There were other townsfolk starting to come in as well. Two miners, Jim and Will Boyce, came in with Buck Grace, the local woodcarver. Their wives were present with them. Misty went straight into the kitchen. She walked just past Margaret, asking the woman if she would help her catch up with things. Jerry Garcia’s wife, Juanita, then walked into the kitchen and volunteered her services as well.

Lovella looked over at the sheriff. “It’s a good day for a town meetin’. I’m gonna’ go help the girls in the kitchen. You make sure nobody leaves!”

Ben smiled. “They all gotta eat first, Lovella. I don’t reckon anyone will be goin’ anywhere for a while. Don’t wet your pants!”

There was immediate laughter in the room. Lovella quickly grabbed Jim Boyce’s wig off the top of his head and threw it at Ben, striking him in the face. Jim Boyce, taken aback, quickly covered his head with both hands.

“Don’t you talk to me like that, Ben!” Lovella snapped. “That’s embarrassin’, you ol’ coot! Talk like that ain’t at all gentlemanly.”

Ben picked up the wig from where it had fallen onto his lap and threw it back toward Jim Boyce. The laughter continued. He then spoke at Lovella once again.

“Well just the same—don’t you fret none. Everyone’s gonna’ be right here, Lovella. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere anytime soon. No one’s ’et just yet.”

She then stooped over near the table where the Boyce brothers were seated and picked up Jim’s wig off the floor. She shook the dirt from it and immediately placed it back on his head, smacking it down firmly with her opposite hand as she did so. Jim Boyce winced and gave her a scowl.

“Dang you, Lovella!”

She patted him on the back and walked on into the kitchen. Everyone in the room continued to laugh a bit except for Jim Boyce. He folded his hands on the table and glared down at the floor. His brother soon reached over and brushed a hand against his chin.

“C’mon, now, Jim. Everyone in here knows you wear a wig. It ain’t all that bad. You know how Lovella is—she’s just ornery. I wouldn’t have laughed ordinarily, but she grabbed the first thing she could throw, and you gotta’ admit, her chuckin’ that wig at Ben was down right comical, Jim. Now, c’mon, let’s see a smile out of that wrinkled puss of yours.”

Jim Boyce lifted his head and looked around the room at the others. Most everyone was smiling at him. Some were still laughing softly. He then shook his head, a slight grin on his face, and afterward broke into a chuckle. Seeing that expression his brother applauded him, and most everyone soon joined in.

“That’s the spirit, Jim,” Buck Grace blurted, patting him on the shoulder. “You was a’ settin’ all stiff there—like that wooden Indian I carved out last week! Hell, bein’ on the butt end of a joke is good for you sometimes. It’s what keeps us old timer’s goin’. You handled it well, my friend,” he smiled.

Chapter Seven

The dark gray clouds had overshadow the High Sierra crest, and now moved in to embrace the summit block of the great peak, making their way ever so slowly down the face of the mountain. The sun was still shining brightly to the east.

With that sun against his back Stalking Moon rode down into the dry wash near the base of that granite wonder, where he immediately sighted the stranger standing next to his mount, not too far ahead of him amidst the tall rocks. The Indian abruptly reined in, holding his place for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stranger. Wind Spirit snorted, dragging his right hoof against the ground repeatedly. He began nickering as well.

“Easy,” Stalking Moon spoke to his mount.

The stranger’s horse lifted its head, his ears perked. He panted momentarily and then sniffed the air. With his next breath he whinnied loudly, stroking the ground three times with his right hoof. Michael then spoke to the animal.

“Spirit Rider, your brother approaches. He’s called Wind Spirit. You fella’s were a mite young when you parted company.”

The Indian then nudged his horse forward, closing the distance between the two animals. Spirit Rider remained in his place beside Michael. When the Indian drew near to where the animal’s noses were just inches from one another, he then dismounted and allowed his animal to move in closer. Their noses soon came together. They both nickered softly and sniffed at one another. Stalking Moon looked into Michael’s eyes.

“You are the gray rider. I have heard this story from my father for many years—a story of a great warrior who rides in the heavens and roams the earth as well—you are the Ancient One. I was told that this gray horse you ride was of the same blood as my Wind Spirit. Tell me more of this, my friend, for my father has not gone into great detail. Consider me as one who would serve you.” The Indian then bowed his head.

“Indeed,” Michael responded. “You will ride with me, but for the time bein’ your place is here—with your father. It was about four years ago that our mounts were born to a rancher, who lived near a town called Bodie—up north a’ piece. Spirit Rider had been destined to serve with me, and so he does. Your mount was to, shall I say, join our forces at a later time. In the meantime he was given to Bear Claw, your father, who in turn felt that you were worthy, and allowed you to raise him.”

Stalking Moon shook his head. “I do not understand this thing you speak of? You are the Ancient One. I would assume that your mount would be ancient as well? And I do not understand why you dress as the white man—but if this is your true form, you look good as a human being,” he smiled. “This bold clothing you wear fits your spirit well.”

Michael nodded. “I take it your father hasn’t told you all about me just yet? Don’t hold that against him. He’s a mortal, like you, and tends to hold a little unbelief in his heart. I’m sure if he’s told you that you have to wait, it’s only because he himself has to see to believe—in some respects. He wants to confirm that I am who I am before he tells you the whole story. I’m obliged to honor his feelin’s, and you’ll have to wait until he does speak with you. It’s a courtesy on my part—more or less. Don’t be offended by it.”

“I am not offended, my friend. In your eyes I see a purity of heart that radiates like the sun. My father’s eyes grow dim, but I have seen this purity in his heart as well, though he is mortal, as you have said. I am overwhelmed by what I now feel in my own heart. I have a comfort that I have not known before. Can you tell me anything of this?”

Michael smiled. “Your destiny is not like that of most other mortals. Every mortal has a purpose, and each purpose, small or great, is given by the Great Spirit, that he might accomplish all things according to his will. Mortals have great importance in the overall scheme of things, but most of them don’t understand that. They feel a mite insecure about things. But your particular destiny is one that few mortals attain, though they will attain to even greater things—when time, as you folk’s here on earth know it, comes to an end.

“Now, your father, when he does speak with you, will probably refer to me as a Ghost Rider. But you can tell him that I’m not a Ghost Rider. And you won’t be a Ghost Rider either. Sit down here with me on the rocks for a bit, and I can go ahead and tell you what I can about who I am, and who you’ll someday be—but it’s your father who was chosen to reveal to you the meaning behind my presence here in Lone Pine.”

Everyone in the restaurant had been served, and most all were still eating their breakfast when Lovella stood up from her table and spoke to them. Misty had left the kitchen and was at that time seated at the table with her.

“This isn’t the regular day for our monthly town meeting, but we sure need one today, so I’m callin’ it to order right now—to deal with some strange things that have taken place around Lone Pine in the last couple days. Most all of you that live in town are here, and I see a few others from the outskirts as well. How many of you have seen or met Michael—the stranger that came into town just yesterday?”

A few folk’s raised their hands, while others chattered a bit among themselves. Lovella raised a hand in a gesture to calm the sudden chattering. “I see the hands—no need for any chit-chat. Anyway, the sheriff will be presiding this morning, and he’s gonna’ talk to you a bit about Michael. Go ahead, Ben.”

At that moment Maggie MacDonald walked into the restaurant. She was taken aback at the number of folk’s who were present there. About the only time that so many folk’s were seen gathering in town was when there was a local meeting. She shook her head at Lovella, a bit discouraged about the fact that she had not been informed.

“Nobody told me there was a meeting, but I’m here. That cattle boss was over at the saloon. I told him it looked like a lot of folk’s were gathering over here for something, and he said he’d like to join us. I told the man to come on over.”

She quickly looked back out the door. “And here he comes. He’s a decent man—you all ought to welcome him.”

“Sure—he’s welcome,” Ben responded. “His drovers spend money in this town.” Several others in the room nodded and voiced their agreement. Some conversations regarding the large herd of cattle south of town then ensued among those in attendance.

In the meantime Maggie took a seat next to Lovella, and Lovella, feeling a bit uncomfortable, whispered to her that she had been so busy that she had just forgotten to let her know what was going on. She said the meeting was a spur-of-the-moment type thing, since so many folk’s were in town.

“I understand,” Maggie whispered back to her. “I’m not mad at you.”

Moments later Ed Winter stepped into the restaurant. Most everyone then became silent and looked his way. He suddenly felt obligated to speak, and did so.

“Howdy, folk’s. Name’s Ed Winter—I’m the man with all those cattle south of town, if you haven’t heard. Maggie, your saloon keeper there, told me she thought you folk’s might be havin’ a meetin’, and I asked her if it would be okay for me to sit in—maybe get to know you folk’s. I been thinkin’ about purchasin’ some land for a beef ranch—north of town. The area seems to be growin’ fast, and with the railroad doin’ some surveyin’ in these parts, I figured it would be a good place to grow beef.”

“You’re welcome here,” Ed Spencer responded, looking at others in the room. “This town needs to grow a little, and a cattle rancher would be a great addition to providing a more firm foundation for that growth here in Lone Pine.”

Buck Grace and the Boyce brothers immediately spoke up in agreement with Ed, as did the Warner’s and several others in the crowded room. They made Ed Winter feel comfortable with their words, and he soon took a seat at the Warner’s table, who just the day before had purchased some of his beef. Sheriff Johnson then glanced over at Lovella and spoke up.

“I guess our latest interest here in town is the stranger that rode in yesterday—this Michael fella’. He’s done some strange things—some good things here in town, I believe, and I for one am a mite dumbfounded—to say the least.” He then glanced over at John Replogle, seated near him at table with the Doc and Claude Davis. “John there, says he’s a special man. I’m not real sure what John meant by that, but let me tell you all what I’ve heard about the…”

“Well, he killed a man just this mornin’!” Will Boyce interrupted. “We all heard about that! Ed Spencer there, said that it happened so fast you couldn’t see the man’s hand move.  Shot that jailbird right between the eyes. We know he’s a gunfighter, that’s sure!  Fast as the devil himself, he is!”

“He saved folk’s lives this mornin’, Will,” Ben responded. “It don’t matter to me what he is. This man also warned Lovella about a faulty gun—never laid eyes on the piece. He cured that mangy red-bone hound that wanders into town all the time—and I hear it ain’t so mangy no more. He warned Sam Waters about a busted ladder rung at the livery, and I guess he’d never been back in the loft where it was. He handed me back my own gun just this mornin’, after those jailbirds had got the drop on me and threw it out amongst a corral full of horses! I don’t know how he found it nor how the man knew it belonged to me!”

Ben then removed his hat and set it on the table in front of him. “Of course, this may not seem like much to some of you folk’s, with the exception of what the man did with that hound, but I’ve heard some other things as well.” He glanced over at Jerry Garcia and nodded his head at him. “Tell ’em, Jerry.”

“Si’, sen’or. This man rode through the orange groves this morning, very early—in the light of dawn before the sun had risen. We had been looking for my youngest son, who ate some rotten fruit and wandered off sick. We had been looking for him in the dawn’s light, after one of my servants had told me of this illness, but we could not find him.” Garcia suddenly became a bit choked up and paused for a moment. He soon gained his composure and then continued.

“This stranger who rode by helped in the search for my son, and found him in one of the trees—he had climbed up into its branches, and was in such stomach pain that he could not cry out. This stranger climbed up and brought him down, draped over his shoulder. This man then put a hand on my son’s tummy, and my son wiped the tears from his little eyes and began to laugh. He said that the pain had left him. The stranger told us to give him some milk to drink—mixed with a small amount of honey, and then he rode away—even before we could thank him.”

Several in the room immediately began to converse about the incident among themselves. Some spoke across the room to one another, while others chattered among themselves at their respective tables. As their conversations grew louder, Sheriff Johnson suddenly interrupted them.

“Hold on a minute, folk’s—simmer down. That ain’t all.” He then looked over at Floyd Thomas, seated at a table with Charlie McCloud. “Tell ’em, Floyd.”

Floyd nodded. “Some of them sheepherders, southeast of town; Tom McDonough and Carl Rabe, Wiley Hunter and them other boys—they say the stranger came by them when he rode in yesterday.  It was early. He asked them to move the sheep to that pasture further south for a couple days. He said there was a big storm comin’ on the mountain, and the lightnin’ would scatter ’em hellbent for green grass if they didn’t move ’em on out. Sure enough, a big storm is brewin’ up there on the mountain—like we never seen here before—I believe that! You all see them dark clouds up there?”

Ed Winter abruptly spoke up. “Lightnin’, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” Floyd nodded. “Just before dawn you could see flashes up there that stretched all along the crest—for miles! And the clouds are movin’ down on this side right now—right this very minute. And them boys moved them sheep, all right. They weren’t over there this mornin’ when I went a’ lookin’.”

Ed Winter removed his cowboy hat, wiping the hair back out of his eyes. “That stranger told my men there was ‘danger’ comin’. Asked us to move the cattle north. He didn’t say nuthin’ about the storm or the lightnin’. Of course my herd ain’t near as close to the mountain as those sheep. We knew they were west of us when we made camp—I can understand movin’ ’em south.” Winter then shook his head for a moment.

“What I am a bit confused about is that the stranger said there would be some kind of ‘danger’ to my animals tomorrow night. And when my man asked him if it was rustlers, the stranger said, ‘you might call it that.’ Then he said that my man wouldn’t believe him if he did tell him what the danger was all about—which I thought was strange. He then told my man about a band of rustlers that might be headed this way from down south. I don’t know what to make of it all?”

Again those in the restaurant began to converse among themselves about all the things they’d been told regarding this stranger, Michael, and some folk’s then became quite concerned about just who he might be. Two or three of them argued back and forth about it. Some negative comments were voiced and Ben Johnson became a little frustrated, but it was Lovella who finally called things to order, pounding loudly on one of the tables with an empty water pitcher.

“Let’s all quiet down in here! I know there’s been some strange things goin’ on around Lone Pine, but it’s all been good, and there ain’t nothin’ to really get in a tizzy over. Now, them’s my words! Let’s have a little order in here and talk out things one person at a time. Just have the courtesy to raise a hand and the sheriff will call on you.”

At that time you could have heard a pin drop in the room, until Jim Boyce spoke up.

“I sure am glad I never asked you to marry me, Lovella. You would have probably got hot under the collar and thrown me in that deep well out at my place.” There was an immediate chorus of laughter in the room. Lovella responded amidst that laughter.

“No, Jim—I would have thrown that fuzzy wig of yours in that well first—after I rubbed it in some cow pies. It ain’t much good for nuthin’ else, Jim—’cept maybe to replace one or two of them corncobs you got out there in your outhouse. Don’t you know that they make therapeutic papers nowadays?”

Jim bore a scowl on his face as the laughter erupted once again. “Dang you, Lovella! You always got to have the last word!”

Sheriff Johnson then raised a hand and the laughter soon died down. “Let’s get on with hearin’ what any of you might have to say about the matter at hand—and show me a hand!” Buck Grace responded promptly to the sheriff’s request, along with several others. “Go ahead, Buck—your hand was up first.”

“Ben, you said that John Replogle here said that the man was special. Besides you and me, I think some other folk’s in here would like to know just what he meant by that.” Buck then looked directly at John. With that prompting most everyone else in the room did the same.

John was for the most part a quiet man. Never said much at town meetings, and many times didn’t even show up. There were always the local domesticated animals, along with the creatures of the wild as well to tend to. He lived alone on a fair sized spread out in the hills—that was his way of life. But, when folk’s needed him, he would come running. John was a man with a servant’s heart—that’s just the way he was.

He had come to the restaurant at this particular time to see if he could talk with Michael. But the stranger had ridden out of town before John arrived—just after the shooting took place. John had helped Charlie McCloud, Doc Mucci and Floyd Thomas remove the body from the restaurant. He even said a prayer over the man after he was laid out in Claude Davis’s wagon.

All eyes in the room on him, John then looked around and spoke at everyone. “I know that most of you folk’s have a Bible in your homes. You may think I’m crazy, but I believe that this Michael is an angel. In fact, I believe he’s what the Good Book calls an ‘archangel’, which may be a great leader among the angelic host. There’s only one archangel mentioned in the Bible, and his name is Michael.  Some believe he’s Christ’s right hand man—like Joshua was for Moses. If he is, that’s quite a rank in the heavens.”

Sam Waters suddenly spoke up, looking around at everyone. “I’m inclined to agree with John, and for one good reason. I asked that stranger, when he was over in the livery, how he knew about Lovella’s gun, and how he knew about the busted rung on my ladder, there in the loft. When he answered he told me that there was an old writin’ that says that folk’s should be hospitable to strangers without pryin’, more or less, into their business, which I ’spect he felt I might have been doin’. He then said it went on to say that one might be ‘entertainin’ an angel without even knowin’ it.’”

Sam then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “When that stranger stepped out of the livery last night and walked on over to the hotel, I just kind of sat down in a chair and shook my head in wonder. I thought about what he said for quite a while, before I blew out the lantern and went on to bed—I had a hard time gettin’ to sleep after that. But I agree with John. I also believe the man is nobody to fool with. The rest of you folk’s can think whatever you like.”

“That ‘old writing’ he was talkin’ about is in the Bible,” Lovella responded. “That verse can be found somewhere in the book of Hebrews.”

“And don’t any of you forget,” Misty spoke out. “Some of us sitting right here in this very room saw that man cure that red-bone hound, out there in the street. We were standing over there, looking out the front window when he did it. I believe the man would have to be an angel to do something like that!”

“He cured my son, as well,” Jerry Garcia nodded, his wife teary eyed and holding onto him just as he spoke those words.

Some of those in the room began to speak softly to one another, whispering back and forth about the things that John and Sam had just said. Ed Spencer then raised a hand. Sheriff Johnson saw it and acknowledged him. “Go ahead, Ed.”

“Wiley Hunter came into the pharmacy last evening. One of his flocks graze over near the Indian settlement. He said he saw that red-bone hound walking with a little girl in the village. He believes it was the chief’s granddaughter.”

Will Boyce then abruptly spoke up. “Maybe this Michael fellow is in with them Indians—maybe they got some kind of hocus-pocus goin’ on around here. They’re always doin’ somethin’ out of the ordinary. Maybe they want to take us over—deceive our minds or somethin’—catch us off guard and try to wipe us out!”

Margaret Warner immediately stood up from her chair and glared at Will Boyce. “Now where’s that coming from, Will? Bear Claw’s braves dug a well for you just last year. If they wanted to kill you, I believe they would have poisoned the water. Either that or they could have thrown you down into that well after they dug it. Your remarks were totally uncalled for.”

Don Warner pulled at the waistband of her jeans and she sat back down. “Don’t pay him no mind, Margaret,” he whispered. “You know most all of that Boyce family is touched in the head. Their minds are bent on mischief.”

Some murmuring continued in the room. As it grew into chatter, Lovella once again banged the empty water pitcher against the table.

“Raise your hands if you have something to say,” Ben Johnson then spouted. “You’re all welcome to speak, just don’t do it all at once.”

Don Warner raised a hand and the sheriff acknowledged. “Go ahead, Don.”

The man stood up from his seat, clearing his throat. “Will Boyce brought up the Indians. Well, I’ve traded with them and they’re cordial folk’s. Will there, stretched things a bit, but it reminded me that the Indians do seem to have a spiritual knowledge that’s above ours, as white folk’s. I’m ashamed that we haven’t invited any of them to our town meetings. If they were represented here at this time, we might gain some insight into what this Michael fella’ is all about—maybe even learn something about why he’s come here—to Lone Pine.”

“I agree,” Michele Spencer responded. “I know for sure that some of their cures for illnesses work better than the remedies we prescribe at the pharmacy. As a matter of fact, I prefer some of their remedies over our very own.”

“Hocus-pocus!” Will Boyce spouted. A few folk’s then sounded off, scolding Will. Others murmured among themselves about the local Indians—some good things were said, as well as things that were not so good.

Maggie MacDonald then raised her hand. The sheriff acknowledged. “Go ahead, Maggie.”

She looked over at John Replogle. “John—you know about these things. Why don’t you enlighten us?”

Others in the room abruptly voiced their agreement in unison and all heads and eyes then once again turned towards John. The man hesitated a few moments, not sure that his comments would be accepted. He remained seated but did speak up.

“You all know the stories the Indians tell about the spirits on the mountain. We also know that men who have attempted to climb the mountain have so far been unsuccessful, or have turned up missing—whites and Indians as well. This stranger, Michael, has been keeping an eye on the mountain ever since he got here. He’s out there somewhere at this very moment—somewhere in the rocks near the base of the mountain.

“I have a feeling that he’s about to go up there and investigate the Indian legends—and why do I feel that way? Well, naturally, God knows all things. For instance—he knew centuries back that Sodom and Gomorrah, along with some other cities in ancient Moab, were just brimful of evil people—people who were depraved in their thinking. The Bible says that ‘the outcry of iniquities from within those cities had reached his ears’—all the way up into the heavens.

“Now, God knew that the evil existed there, but he still sent a couple angels to confirm the truth of those things; being the just and fair God that he is. He even came down to the earth himself and was actually walking toward those cities with the two angels, but then stopped along the way to talk with the patriarch, Abraham, while the angels went on ahead down toward Sodom. He considered Abraham to be his good friend and chose to spend some time with him. What a God, huh?

“Anyway, later on that night, when the angels got into Sodom, the largest of five cities along a vast plain, they found the people to be exceedingly wicked—in accordance with the outcries heard up in heaven. The next morning all those cities were destroyed by fire and brimstone that rained down from heaven. And sulfur, or brimstone, burns near to five or six thousand degrees, my friends—it melts stone—turned those cities into pure ash!

“Now, I’ve said all that to say this—Michael may have been sent down here to investigate and to confirm, if you will, and perhaps even to in some way or another drive the evil away from this mountain out here. That’s the way I see it. Since I’ve lived here I’ve felt that the top of that high mountain would someday be a place that climbers and hikers would flock to. I’ve felt that in my bones, but nobody’s done it yet—nobody’s been able to get up there. A little strange, ain’t it?

“Michael might be here to prepare the mountain for that point in time. There’s a time for every purpose under heaven. Up until now, as I’ve said and at least as far as we know, nobody’s ever climbed to the top of that mountain. And those who have attempted in recent times have mysteriously ended up on some other peak—or disappeared altogether! Now, this is only my opinion. I do agree with Don that the Indians might know more about it. You’d have to ask them.”

“They won’t come here,” Sheriff Johnson responded. “They stay clear of the white settlements—we all know that.”

Margaret Warner then spoke out. “We should invite them to come here. The first whites that landed in this country ate with the Indians at their harvest festivals—and we still cook turkeys every year to commemorate those events. Sometimes we tend to forget how it all started. Lone Pine can be a place to revive that tradition with our local Indians. They’re just like us in a lot of ways. We respect the land, the mountains, the breathtaking scenery and all—just as they do. There’s a strong force for good here. We’ve all felt it.”

She paused to look around the room at the others. Some were nodding in agreement, while others made no gestures at all, but everyone was more or less drawn to her words. She then continued.

“Once again—we’ve all felt it, and we’ve all talked about it—how we seem to be a part of our surroundings. Maybe this Michael is here to bring us all together. We had no problem accepting Jerry and Juanita Garcia, nor their working crews from south of the border. The Indians shouldn’t be any different. We should all think about it and do the right thing.”

Most everyone became silent when Margaret had finished speaking. To their surprise, John Replogle, usually a man of few words unless called upon, suddenly spoke out once again.

“Bravo, Margaret!” He then looked around the room at the others. All eyes were fixed on him.

“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.”

Michael and John Replogle were seated on his front porch, each sipping on a cup of lemonade and looking toward the mountain. “What do you make of those clouds up there, Michael?” John then reached over and nudged him on the shoulder. “I guess what I really want to know is, what’s goin’ on up there?”

“That mountain’s why I’m here, John. “And while I’m here I’ll be tendin’ to a few other things.”

“You’ve attended to some things already,” John smiled.

Michael looked over at him. “I know you’re aware of who I am, John. That particular knowledge is a gift. I mentioned earlier that you’re well known where I come from. You’re a man who puts his beliefs into action. Your love for the things God has made makes you right popular among the angelic host, and a friend of the Most High.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but the Most High is represented by three spirit beings, who are actually one—united in their endeavors and in their rule—the truly pure side of the Force that maintains the universe. You have God—or Eloi; the Father, then you have Jesus; the Son, who is the Christ and the supreme head of all things in this current age, and there’s also the Spirit of Wisdom; female in nature, who is oftentimes addressed as the Holy Spirit, or the Spirit of Truth.

“But, there are both male and female spirits that work for her and use these titles because they represent her—they’re part of her, so to speak, as she herself is part of the Father and the Son. Most people, who read God’s only written word, the Bible, still don’t comprehend that. But this is what you might call the first family of God. In due respect, all three are God, and all three are one, yet they have individual responsibilities. The Spirit of God Himself, though in the eyes of most folk’s is considered masculine, actually includes the whole family.

“As for me—I’m known as the archangel—the chief commander, if you will, of all the angelic host throughout the universe.” Michael then chuckled a bit. “I figure you knew that already, John. But you’re most likely wonderin’ why I wear the flesh of a man, why I look and talk like a man—why I’m in this outfit of an earthly gunfighter, and why I’m down here roamin’ the earth, huh? And I’m sure you’re wonderin’ why I’m here in your town of Lone Pine? Am I right—are these the things you’re wonderin’ about?”

John suddenly felt a bit uneasy. He realized at that moment that he didn’t truly have a right to know these things. He was also now a little uncomfortable speaking with and listening to such a powerful being as this Michael. And the things Michael had just revealed to him—the things involving the order of the Most High were things that most Bible enthusiasts over the entire world were unable to comprehend!

Michael at that moment, sensing his feelings of inadequacy, suddenly placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, John—you’re learning some things that have been kept secret from the very foundation of the world. But, they have been revealed! Men inspired by the Most High put together the words of that Bible you have there inside your cabin. That New Testament portion reveals these things I’ve told you about—the secrets of old. Its’ just that most folk’s haven’t figured out how to understand them—how to unwind them. They don’t know that the sum of all the ages is revealed in Christ.  They try to pull physical ideas out of a spiritual book. It ain’t gonna’ work.

“Because of who you are, John, and because of your kindness toward the creatures and the people you deal with—and have dealt with from your youth, you are blessed among men. Someday you’ll be with us up above, but for now your place is here—where you’re needed. Who else in this town is gonna’ do what you do? And don’t fret none about never visitin’ the Indians. You were held back from that, John. If you hadn’t have been, you might have dwelled a bit on what you learned from them, and then by your own might tried to climb the mountain and take a stab at reasonin’ with the evil spirits up there.

“You’re a kind and thoughtful man, John, but you’d be dead right now. That kind of work is not within your power—not meant for you. Now, as the saying goes down here, you just put all of that into your pipe and smoke it. In the meantime, allow me to explain a few more things to you. And don’t hold onto no more thoughts about your bein’ unworthy. Why most folk’s down here all think like that in one way or another is beyond me?”

John smiled. “I’m listening, Michael. I want to get down and put my face in the dust of the earth. The honor of your presence is overwhelming—beyond my comprehension as a man. Please forgive and accept my humanness, and I’ll be most attentive—but right now I’m so choked up that I can hardly breathe!”

“Take a good pull on that lemonade,” Michael smiled.

John then began to laugh. “You’re right—you’re right. A lemon is a good thing for the nerves. I swear it’s sour as sour can be, but it does have a calming effect. I’ve used it on the horses a time or two—when they get a little cantankerous. I’m sure glad I brought the whole pitcher out here!”

“All right, John—why do I appear in the flesh of a man? Well, to begin with, the evil spirits have roamed the earth since the fall in Eden. They are the dark side of the Force in the spiritual realm. They often times enter men or women and use them to carry out their wicked schemes. The angels who serve under me can work through men and women as well.

“But, they don’t actually force those folk’s to do things against their will, as the evil ones do, but they instead encourage the heart, so that people can do the right thing on their own, you might say. Guardian angels is what they are—that’s the term we use.

“These angels that serve under me don’t enter inside of folk’s—not at all. There may be several of ’em encamped near someone who needs help, and they sometimes take on the form of humans, so that people won’t be afraid of ’em. As humans they encourage folk’s through their words or actions. You could meet one on the street and never know it.

“They are a great power in the Force, and things they say or do can influence one’s heart, and that’s how they work through folk’s. The evil ones enter into the hearts of those who are unsuspecting. They’re responsible for all the abnormalities among humans—and all other forms of evil as well. Even if they don’t bother to go inside someone, they can still encourage them to do evil—and they’re a mite passionate about it.

“Now, among those on the pure side of the Force, those spirits that represent the Holy Spirit are the only ones permitted to enter humans, and they only become a part of those humans who have become children of the Most High, children of God, or brothers in Christ—all the same thing. The Bible teaches just how that is accomplished, though some folk’s still can’t figure it all out. That of course is the work of Satan and his followers—the angels who first rebelled and now make up the dark side of the Force.

“Now, again, those spirits on the pure side of the Force, who don’t work directly with the Holy Sprit, work with me, and we many times take on the form of mortals. In that mortal form we are inclined to be wounded and scared, just like any human. That’s the way flesh is. But the pain we feel is spiritual, not physical, and so the physical body we occupy doesn’t die. It can be torn apart, but we can make it whole again, if need be. If it’s completely destroyed, we can still appear in a renewed form shortly thereafter.

“But like I said, the pains we feel are the spiritual blows against God Himself—the anger and the hatred and things like that—things that are contrary to the very nature of God. We have His divine nature, and so we feel His pain. The earthly children of God—those who believe His word and have been baptized in water in obedience to it, and as a result have a representative of the Holy Spirit now dwellin’ within ’em; have become partakers of the divine nature as well—folk’s like you, John.

“This allows you to feel God’s pain. That’s why your passion is takin’ care of his creatures. With your understandin’ you feel their fear of mankind, their pain and their losses—all the things they’ve suffered while under oppression from the dark side of the Force—literally since the fall in Eden. It’s tough, I know—but somebody’s gotta’ do it. Your kindness and compassion for the human race is noticed and appreciated as well. It’s just as important. Keep up the good work.

“Now, this gunfighter outfit you’re lookin’ at is just a thing of the times,” he smiled. “And I have to talk a little bit like one, too. —John, I was once dressed in a king’s garb—long ago in the days of Abraham. Those were some fine days! I was a shepherd in the days of Moses. I was dressed as a soldier during the reigns of Saul and David—that armor was a mite heavy. But I only come down here to the earth when things get out of hand among the evil spirits.

“They do get carried away in their thinkin’; forgettin’ that the time of their end is not too far off. And because they have such little time left, they try to go beyond some of the limits that the Most High has set for them—they want to play a dangerous hand—see what they can get away with, like that Abe Cutler fella’ played yesterday mornin’ in the restaurant,” Michael shook his head in disbelief.

“He didn’t have no demon in him, though. He got rawboned ugly and evil on his own, which many do. But he had nothin’ to do with me bein’ in Lone Pine—he was just a part of the things I was told I would have to deal with when I got here. I’m here, John, because of the evil on the mountain. I believe you’ve assumed that already. It’s gotten a little out of hand. From up there the evil spirits can view the whole of this country, and plan their schemes accordingly. They’ve been doin’ it for quite some time. They control most everything that ain’t nailed down, John—and some things that are as well.

“They’re buckin’ the Most High right now, the Godhead having had plans for this mountain since the very beginning of time. God formed those crags and boulders through the flood and planted them here for a reason. That time’s now at hand, and the evil spirits don’t want to leave.

“Of course the Most High doesn’t pay much attention to their ramblin’s on, as they don’t have a choice in the matter. But, when their boss comes on the scene and tries to extend his allotted time in any particular place, and stirs up those on the dark side of Force, then the Most High has to send me down here to deal with it—at its source.”

Michael took a drink of the lemonade, then looked up toward the mountain. He soon glanced back at John. “That big storm up there is ol’ Lucifer—Satan himself—stirrin’ things up a mite—most likely tauntin’ at me. I’ll be headin’ up there tomorrow—under the full moon.”

He paused in thought as he looked back toward the mountain, and John could see what to him appeared as a look of concern on the man’s face—but then again, perhaps it was a look of confidence?

Michael turned again, looking directly into his eyes. “The moon reflects the glory of the Most High, just like the sun. And under a full moon, the spirit of the wolf is allowed to be at its strongest. The Most High does something very special for each of the creatures. You’ve got to keep in mind that they were formed before mankind. The wolf is indeed a most glorious animal amongst those that roam the earth.”

Michael then once again turned his gaze toward the mountain. “When I get up there tomorrow, John, this gunfighter outfit will be laid aside for a spell. I’ve been allowed to take on the form of the great wolf. I’ll be clothed in thick, black fur—with a touch of silver blended in and a patch of white atop each of my feet. A white image of lightnin’ will be seen on my chest. I’m lookin’ forward to it, John.”

Chapter Nine

Misty McBride went into the kitchen and brought out some iced tea for the folk’s who had been seated in the restaurant dining area with her for some time. They had enjoyed a fine lunch together, and each one of them felt that they should do something like this more often—spend a good bit of time together. Misty then once again sat down with them.

“Don, you’re a wise man—why do you suppose that Michael wants to talk to us all together here?”

Don Warner shook his head. “I really don’t know, Misty. My head is full of all kinds of thoughts at the moment. What do you think, Judge?”

Jim smiled. “I’m like you, Don. I have absolutely no idea whatsoever. Ben—any of you other ladies—might any of you have something to offer?”

Lovella soon spoke up. “All I know is that when the man looks at you, he looks right through you. When I served him lunch by that window over there yesterday, I felt like I was drawn into his eyes—it was like he could see right into me and could see who I am—as a person. In just a moment of time I felt like he knew everything about me. Well, I was sure anxious to find out a lot a’ things about him, that’s for sure. But then in the bat of an eye that anxiety was up and gone. Do you suppose he’s really an angel?”

There was a brief silence. Misty then lowered her head a bit and spoke softly. “Maybe he’s coming to chide us for some of the things we’ve done—in the past?”

Margaret looked at her. “Misty, I’m sure you’ve never done anything worse than any of the rest of us have. Now pick your head up and lets talk about this.” She looked around at the others. “In fact, I’ll start this thing off and tell you a thing or two that I’ve done that wasn’t—that wasn’t the best thing to do.”

Misty then began to cry. Taken aback by her sudden emotion everyone remained silent. She soon began to gather herself a bit and spoke up.

“No, Margaret—let me say something first. Let me speak to all of you,” she responded, looking around the table.

“It was back in New York. I worked in a fine restaurant there—in fact it was where I learned to cook up things so well. Then I met this man who was a salesman. He sold things to the factories that were being built back there. We courted for some time, until one day a woman came in and accused me of sleeping with her husband. She blurted it out in front of a hundred or more people in the restaurant.”

Misty began to cry once again. Margaret quickly offered her a handkerchief and she then wiped her eyes clear.

“I had no idea the man was married. This woman scolded the owner of the place and he threw me out—right on the spot. He grabbed a bowl of hot stew that I was carrying to a customer—grabbed it right out of my hand and dumped it on my head. That’s why I have these scars under my hair,” she sobbed, lifting her hair and displaying three small scars on her forehead. She struggled to hold back the tears.

“He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me outside and told me I could never come back again. He said it was a well respected dining house, and he would never be one to employ an adulteress.”

Margaret reached over and touched Misty’s hands, which were at the time folded together on the table in front of her. Lovella, sitting just next to her, put her arms around her and hugged her tightly for a brief moment. Maggie got up from her seat and stood behind her, massaging gently at her neck and shoulders. Misty was encouraged and soon wiped the remaining tears from her face.

Maggie, still standing behind her, bent down and gently kissed her on the top of the head, then stood back up. “Well, let me tell you what I did!”

She then walked back to her seat and sat down. She lit a cigarette, her hands trembling, and then pulled an ashtray across the table toward her.

“The man who robbed and then shot my husband in the streets—years ago in Tucson, when Jayson was just a baby—he got off scot-free. It was a hung jury. He had some friends on that jury. Well, a few days after the trial was over, he told everyone in town that he was headed for Tombstone—wanted to open up a gambling house down there. He was a no good…”

She suddenly paused, squashing her cigarette into the ashtray. “Well, he didn’t make it. I was way ahead of him on the road that morning, and I shot him from the high rocks—several miles out of town. Big Sharps carbine—and I knew the man was dead. I rode back to my place after that. A few days later I was right in the middle of town and heard the folk’s saying that some highwayman had killed John Wheeler—that was the man’s name. No one knows the truth to this day—except all of you sitting here—right now.

“Oh, I was sorry for what I did. It was hard to live in that town with my husband gone, and I eventually realized that my killing that man would never bring my husband back. I mourned for a long time. I asked God to forgive me—every day and every night. One day I just put it all behind me and moved back here to Lone Pine, where I was born. I never told my parents about it, and they died without knowing the truth.”

She paused once again and took a deep breath. “I’ve held it inside of me for so long. Feels real good to get it out, though. I thank you all so much for listening. Something inside of me allows me to feel free at the moment. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve finally let it all out,” she smiled, her eyes a bit misty.

“It’s my turn,” Margaret said. “Since we’re baring it all.” She looked around at the others, who all seemed relaxed and attentive at that moment.

“Well, Don and I have always been real close—you all know that. Several years back he started collecting rocks. He kept them in a box out in back of the barn. He told me there were some crystals in there—real fragile pieces. There was a dead tree right there next to the box—about ready to fall over. He had placed the box up against it to preserve it—to keep it standing—it was an old bristle cone pine.”

She looked over at Don, who was at that moment staring at her. His eyes then narrowed as she glanced into them. She quickly looked back at the others.

“I was up in the loft one day, cleaning out some junk. There was a rusty old anvil in there that was real heavy—solid iron—it was an eyesore. I got a bar and pried against it, until I got it over to the upper doors, where I wedged it right on out of the loft. Well, it fell down through the air and landed on top of that box of rocks—smashed every crystal inside of it, I believe. I looked down at that mess on the ground and thought, ‘oh, my god!’

“Well, I climbed down out of the loft, went out back and grabbed hold of the plow. I tied a rope around the anvil and lashed it to the plow, then pulled the anvil off what was left of the box and on out into the cornfield, dragging it behind that plow. I never worked so hard in all my life. My legs and arms were worn out. Well, beat up as I was, I knew that Don would be home soon, so I drug the plow back to the barn, grabbed a shovel and a broom and covered up all the tracks I’d made. I don’t know what got into me—we sometimes do things that we don’t understand, even if we know that we shouldn’t be doing them?”

She paused and took a drink of her iced tea. “Anyway, after that I pushed and pulled on that old rotten tree until it fell on top of that smashed box of rocks. Thank god it was a windy day! I let things be after that, and a couple days later Don saw that old tree lying on top of what was left of his box of rocks—splinters and dust. I told him there was a big wind out there a couple days before, and I said I thought I heard some creaking and banging and a big thud, but never went out there to see what it was. Well, he said the tree must have blown over and crushed his rock box—I left it at that.”

She then looked at Don. “I’ve felt guilty for a long time. I guess that’s why I’m always nagging at you that people aren’t going to buy any rocks. Maybe they will—it’s just that every time I look at your collection, and see you working so hard with it, I feel guilty as sin. I’m so sorry I lied—and I’m so sorry that it was my fault that all those crystals got broken,” she sobbed.

Don leaned over and embraced her. “There, there, Margaret. It’s okay.” He leaned back into his seat again. “I always wondered how that blasted anvil got out there in the cornfield. You forgot and left the rope around it. But I hadn’t seen it around for years and thought one of the horses might have drug it on over there. But, you did a good job of covering things up, Margaret, ’cause I couldn’t find any horse tracks, and I sure wasn’t lookin for the trail of a hand plow,” he laughed.

“But, there’s something I believe that I lied to you about as well. There weren’t really any crystals in that old box. You know me; I always wanted to strike it big in rock collecting. I have some great pieces now, but back then I was just a dreamer. I told you there were crystal, and if you recall, I asked you not to look into that box, because the reflection of the sunlight on the crystal might blind you—remember? I guess I don’t know what got into me either? We both lied to one another, and it’s done its work on our hearts over the years, I reckon. Funny how a little mold can eat away at a fine loaf of bread.”

He then looked at the others. “Sin is sin, folk’s. But, I’ve never lied to Margaret since, and I know she’s never lied to me. And now that we’ve both confessed to one another, and confessed it in front of you folk’s, I for one feel a burden lifted, and I see that look in Margaret’s eyes as well. I really am glad we all sat down here to share a darker side of our lives. Who’s next?” he smiled, wiping a tear from his eye.

Margaret exhaled deeply as she wiped the tears from her eyes, and then reached over and patted her husband on the knee. Don smiled and leaned in toward her, his lips brushing gently against her cheek.

Sheriff Johnson glanced around at the others and scratched a bit at whisker stubble. There was a little sigh after that.

“I’ll go next. I been a lawman a while—started back in Dodge City—a long time ago, now. I was just a young marshal at the time, but figured I knew it all. I was fair with a gun—practiced since I was a kid. My pa was a good teacher. Anyway, there was a lot of shoot-outs back in Dodge in them days. It got so bad that for a time, I would shoot at a man I felt was a threat and ask questions later.”

The sheriff lowered his head, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “It could be that this fella’ I’d become closed his ears for a time. And it could be that this fella’ didn’t always feel things out or hear them out before he pulled iron. I was out in the brush one day, squatted down and lookin’ at some tracks, when a gun went off behind me. I drew iron and turned around real fast and shot my deputy in the chest. Killed him. Then I saw a rattlesnake a few feet behind me that the man had shot.”

Ben was quiet for a moment. “His family had a hard time puttin’ it behind ’em. I turned in my badge a short time later and rode west. Had some rough years after that; lived in some tough towns, busted brush for a couple years chasin’ wild cattle, did some gold huntin’, became a drunk for a spell…”

He suddenly lifted his head and looked around at the others. “I was livin’ down in San Bernardino when I heard that a little fart of a town called Lone Pine needed a sheriff. Nobody knew me here, it seemed to be a fine place, folk’s accepted me, and here I reside—a man who just about every night shares a bunk with remorse. But, life goes on.”

“You’re a good man, Ben,” the judge responded. “There are no perfect lawmen, my friend—only perfect intentions. I sent an innocent man to prison in Reno some years back. He wasn’t a very strong person to begin with, and was at a loss for words at his defense. I was young on the bench, and I told myself there was nothing I could do about it. The District Attorney was quite the talker, and a jury convicted the man.”

The judge sipped on his iced tea. “To make a long story short, the man hung himself in prison. The actual perpetrator of the crime was caught a short time later, after he had stabbed a woman in a house of ill repute. It was learned at his trial that he had killed several women. I was quite pleased to give the order to hang that man, but I continue to bear the scars on my heart regarding the innocence of the former. There are nightmares now and then, and I am at a loss in establishing a final resting place for it all.”

Lovella sighed. “There is no rest for some things, Jim.”

She then looked at the others. “What you all have done don’t hold a candle to what I did. But the cryin’ and frettin’ is over for me now. That’s because I’m either too old to care, or I have so much guilt inside of me that I’ve turned into stone.”

She picked up her iced tea and took quick gulp, setting the empty cup back on the table. “I grew up in Arizona. A band of Indians raided the homestead one day, and pa had herded us all into an underground shelter that he had dug for storin’ potatoes—and told us to be quiet. I had my baby sister in my arms. We could hear them Indians outside, hootin’ and hollerin’—they was almost on top of us. My little sister started cryin’.” Lovella’s lower lip began to twitch ever so slightly.

“I covered her mouth with my hand. It was dark down there—couldn’t see anything. She fought at me a little and cried all the more. I pushed down hard on her mouth with the palm of my hand. Pretty soon she got real quiet. She had actually stopped breathing and I didn’t know it. I just figured her cryin’ spell was over. In a little while it got quiet outside. Pa waited a bit and then opened the door to the shelter. When the light come in all of a sudden, there was my baby sister—dead in my arms.

“My ma had died giving birth to that child, and my pa never forgave me. He took me to my grandma’s farm, and I never saw him or my brothers again. Don’t know if they’re alive or dead now. When grandma died I was in my late teens. I lit out and shinned for the road. Lived here and there for a while—big towns, small towns. I’ve been here in Lone Pine now goin’ on twelve years—longest I’ve ever stayed in one place.”

Her lip had stopped quivering. She reached over and grabbed Maggie’s cigarette box from the table, removed one out of that metal container and placed it between her lips. Maggie struck a match and lit it for her.

“I’ve done well here,” she continued, “and I’m comfortable. I guess that’s why I’ve stayed on. You all said it felt good to tell your story. I’ll have to think about that a while. It’s been so long ago that I don’t know what to feel—and I ain’t sure no more if I know how to feel anything.”

At that moment the sound of leather boot heels against wood, accompanied by the rhythmic jingle of spurs with each step, could be heard along the outside walkway. Those inside turned abruptly to face the front door. The familiar sounds grew louder as someone climbed up the short stairway at the front of the restaurant, and a moment later appeared in the open doorway. Michael then tipped his hat, his eyes visible just beneath its wide brim.

“Nice to see you folk’s all sittin’ here.” He glanced at Ben Johnson. “I’m obliged, sheriff.” He eyed all the others as well. “If you folk’s don’t mind I’ll be sittin’ with you a bit.” It was more a statement of fact than a question.

The man then walked toward them, eyed Lovella, and suddenly stopped dead where he was and reached down to remove his spurs. She responded with a smile on her face, which seemed to relieve a bit of gloom the woman was dwelling in after telling her story to the others.

He soon walked in close and set the spurs on the table in front of her. He then smiled, reached back and pulled a chair from another table, sliding it over into a position just across from Sheriff Johnson. The man then sat down and removed his hat.

To Michael’s right were Margaret and Don Warner. On around the table were Judge Dawson, Sheriff Johnson, Maggie, Misty, and then Lovella; just to his left. He looked around at everyone.

“Cozy little group, huh?” he smiled, trying to allow each of them the opportunity to relax in his presence.

“Misty, I would appreciate it if you would go refill that pitcher with some of your iced tea, and we can all have a fresh cup together,” he said.

She nodded at him and stood up immediately, then made her way into the kitchen. She returned in a short time, refilled everyone’s cup, and then poured a cup for Michael and sat it just in front of him on the table. You could have heard a pin drop in the room from the time she went to fetch that tea, until she had completed serving everyone and had sat back down with them. Michael was aware of their continued uneasiness in his presence and once again spoke to the group.

“I am who John Replogle told you I am.”

Immediately everyone seated with him was taken aback with shock, his or her eyes and facial expressions generating that attitude in one way or another. Judge Dawson nearly fell off his chair. Michael was sensitive to the tense emotions that had permeated the room.

“I want you folk’s to try and relax. Look here at me, if you will. I’m not the boogieman. I’m not here to chide you about the things you’ve talked over this afternoon. You were destined to talk on those things this very day, and I’m actually in this restaurant right now on my own accord. I was sent here to Lone Pine to attend to another chore, but I’ve asked to be allowed to tell you some things that most folk’s spend their whole lives wantin’ to hear.” Everyone seated at that table had his full attention.

“Most folk’s don’t know how God feels about ’em, so they don’t ask Him. And when and if they do, they seem to be unable to hear just what He has to say. So, I’m gonna’ tell you just how He feels, so the rest of your lives here on earth can be fruitful, so to speak, and full of hope. Folk’s remain blind to who God is and how He feels, because of the deceitfulness of His enemies. They’re the ones that blind your hearts and minds to the truth. Their leader is the father of deception—that serpent of old.

“Misty—you’re first. That woman who accused you of sleepin’ with her husband was sleepin’ with every man in town at the time. Most folk’s never look at themselves before accusin’ others. She was shot and killed by a jealous woman, who was the wife of that New York restaurant owner that booted you out. He was an adulterer, and died of a heart attack in a local brothel. Your confession here today has set you free from any guilt or punishment in that matter.

“Punishment is not even an option. Fact is you’ve always been the Lord’s own. Your future’s with Him. Just continue to guard your heart and you’ll be fine. Stay here and work among these folk’s. You have quite a bit of time left before you’ll be called home, and I mean quite a bit—too many folk’s around here enjoy your cookin’,” he smiled.

“And, when you go home today, you’ll find that Digger hasn’t dug anymore deep holes in the yard. In fact, he’s filled up all the one’s he has dug. All he wants to do now is spend time with you. You can bring him here to work with you and he’ll lay right in there on the floor of the kitchen—with Lovella’s permission, of course. And you keep in mind, Lovella, that Digger will be the best watchdog you ever heard tell of. You won’t need to tote that piece around anymore in your britches.”

“Maggie—that fella you shot just outside of Tucson; that was his fate. That was destined a long time before it ever happened. You got away with it because that’s the way the Lord wanted it. Though your revenge was a bad choice on your part, it served to fulfill that man’s destiny. You’ve paid for that bad choice; by the guilt and anguish you’ve had to deal with all your life since then.

“But you’ve been forgiven, Maggie, and that’s all wrapped up now and tied with a bow because of your confession here today. The Lord loves a broken spirit and a contrite heart. He loves folk’s to share their hurts and failures with one another. That’s what brings healin’.  That’s one of His promises, and the promises of God are what you need to center your life on. Never trust your own feelin’s—in any matter. So, you go ahead and live the rest of your life accordingly. You have quite a bit of time left as well,” he nodded, then turned his attention to Margaret.

“Margaret—why you did what you did and then lied about what really happened is sometimes unavoidable. The dark side of the Force works against the human heart at all times, so that you can’t always do what you would or should. Once you understand that the powers of darkness are always workin’ against you, and workin’ relentlessly, it gives you an awareness that helps you to defend yourself—gives you a little more power in your resistance to those many things that war against you—fear, evil thoughts, insecurities and so on.

“And like the others here today, your acknowledgment of a dark time in your past has opened the door to your freedom from it. But don’t ever plan on bein’ perfect, Margaret—not as long as you’re on the earth where the spirits of darkness make their abode. Your perfection will come, as it will for the rest of the folk’s in this room, but not until the Lord comes to take you all home at the end of this age. In the meantime, the things you and Don are workin’ at in this town will grow like a field of flowers. You’re both strong in spirit, and we honor that up yonder-way. You have a lot of time remainin’ yet to be with one another as well.

“Don—your respect and honor for the stones and rocks that you gather from the earth have earned you much favor in the courts of the Most High. By workin’ with ’em and displayin’ ’em and talkin’ about ’em as you do, you give honor to the One who formed them—but you need to work a little harder about tellin’ folk’s that side of it. It weren’t no millions of years in time that formed those rocks. The earth’s just a bit over 6000 years old right now. Yet, there’s lots of nice rocks out there, huh, Don?

“If you climb up one of these mountains around here one of these days, and get a good look down on the aftermath of the Great Flood—the flood plain that’s all through this area, then you might be able to spot a few special places—little furrows and gullies and such, where the force of receding water planted quite an array of your precious rocks.” He then leaned back in his chair.

“We still call it Noah’s Flood where I come from. And by the way, your words here today have freed you from those little white lies about havin’ crystals that you didn’t have at the time,” he smiled. “You'll find more crystals in the future—some mighty rare ones too. But you give the glory to the one who formed them—and verbally—do you understand? And you and Margaret remain truthful to one another at all times, you hear?”

Chapter Ten

Michael paused to take a drink of Misty’s iced tea blend. “That’s a fine tea, Misty. You might try some sassafras roots next time you fix up a batch. There’s a couple old stumps out at John’s place, where the roots go down twenty feet or more under ground. Ol’ Buck Grace has a few stumps too, and several trees still alive and in bloom. But I believe he’s a bit further from town than John.”

Michael then addressed the sheriff. “Ben—you’ve learned things the hard way, but you have learned. Some folk’s never do—just go right on makin’ the same choices and same mistakes over and over again. But, your responsibility as a lawman is like no other. You’re like a knight in shining armor, so to speak, if you live to serve the spirit of the law and not the letter. The letter kills, but the spirit gives life.

“Always look for the best in folk’s, Ben. Serve the people. Treat the lawbreakers fairly and justly. If a man steals from his neighbor because he’s poor, and he goes to jail for twenty years, the spirit of the law is not served. You need to be concerned about that man’s case—help him out. Get all the facts before you present your case to the judge. Talk in depth with everybody involved. Learn where their hearts lay and what they’re made of. That’s servin’ the sprit of the law, which is what was intended in the beginning when law had to be established.

“And, Ben—that fella you shot accidentally forgave you a long time ago. And when his wife died and went to be with him, he explained it all to her about what happened—how the sun was in your eyes when you fired that shot. It could have been anyone gunnin’ for you, Ben. Forgive yourself, because you have been forgiven. You got some good years of sheriffin’ left,” he smiled, then turned abruptly and faced the judge.

“Judge—you know that justice is sometimes blind. But that man that hung himself, he did have some problems of his own. He was innocent of the crimes against those women, that’s true, but his outlook on life was one of despair and loneliness. You couldn’t have known that because the man was unable to verbalize it. He also never looked at anything with the idea that God made it, and so he never learned anything about himself. He didn’t know a flower from a walnut.

“He spent his whole life lookin’ just on the outside. He was a man of sorrows on the inside because he chose to be. He never listened to anyone and relied on his own carnality. He boxed himself in and closed his eyes to the world around him. You can’t shut out God and be successful. He finally hung himself, and like all others who are ignorant of truth and bent on destroyin’ what God has made, he went to his own place—just like Judas done.”

There was suddenly a tear that appeared in the corner of Michael’s eye as he looked deeply into the eyes of Judge Dawson.

“Jim, you don’t have a whole lot of time left on this earth. I’m not gonna’ tell you how it’s gonna’ happen, as you might start worryin’ about it and make a wreck of what time you do have left. But, the good thing is that you’ll be joinin’ us. You’ll like your new job, Judge, you have my word on it. Just keep goin’ on as you are—doin’ the right things, and everything will be fine.”

Michael then looked at the others. “Now, don’t any of you go to frettin’ none about the Judge, here. None of you are supposed to know this stuff anyway. I can tell you that he won’t even be in town when it happens. And nobody’s gonna find his body—except me. He’s in good hands. Trust in that. You too, Judge.

“Lovella—you’ve always been a pistol, darlin’, I swear! But, what happened back in that potato bin a long time ago was an accident. Your little sister has been with us for some time. That ought to cause you to rest easy now. You’ve got a strong spirit, and in spite of some of your feisty ways, you’ve accomplished more good than you can imagine. I’m sorry to say that your father ended up takin’ his resentment to the grave. Your brothers always did love you—spoke of you oftentimes, but he poisoned their minds against you and they’ve since passed on.

“Most folk’s never think about the good things in their life, especially when they’re dwellin’ on the bad things. They also let other folk’s that ain’t too bright influence them, and never do come to any light. You’re a good woman, Lovella. You’ve served your neighbors well—everyone in this room has. Now, you got some talents way down in you that you have to let come to the surface. You’re always tinkerin’ at decoratin’ things and arrangin’ things there in the hotel. Now expand that—give your knowledge to other shop owners and homeowners and such.

“You’re the happiest when you’re busy, and there ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that. Creativity is a good thing. Just look around you. The Most High is the Master Creator. And He’s sure shown His sense of humor in the shape of some of them rocks out in the hills, yonder—hasn’t He? The point is, you be happy with what you’re doin’, Lovella.

“And, as I was sayin’, people can benefit from your influence on them. Let me put it to you this way—anyone who gives the least of God’s children a cup of cold water to drink, will in no way lose their reward.”

Michael finished off his iced tea, donned his hat, pulling the brim down just above his eyes, and then stood up from the table. He looked around at everyone.

“I’m a mite tired, folk’s. This human body is strange that way. I’ll be headin’ upstairs to get some rest. Got a big day tomorrow. John will tell you a bit about that—believe he already has. I’ll be down for dinner in a couple hours—to watch the sunset. I’ll leave you folk’s to whatever you were doin’.”

He then picked up his spurs from the table, holding them in his hand as he walked across the floor and on into the hotel. His leather heels echoed back into the restaurant as he crossed the wooden flooring in the lobby. He then climbed the stairs and entered his room, closing the door behind him.

The small group remained seated around that center table in the dining area of the restaurant. They sat there in silence for some time, each one contemplating what had just taken place among them. Misty was the first one to speak.

“I want to go check on Digger, then I’ll come back and start dinner. Folk’s will be coming in soon.” She then stood up and practically ran out the door, thrilled within her heart.

At that prompting most everyone else got up from the table. Judge Dawson and the sheriff remained seated. Margaret and Don stepped on outside and walked down the street toward the general store. Maggie had stepped out just behind them and started toward the saloon, walking alone. Lovella had made her way to the hotel desk in the lobby, and stood behind it in thought, staring out the front window.

The judge looked over at Ben. “I wonder just how much more time I do have? Oh, I’m not afraid, Ben, or anything like that. In fact, he’s truly raised my curiosity regarding what’s coming next—up there, I mean,” he gestured, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. “I suppose that when you actually come to understand that there is another life awaiting, things down here may tend to lose their importance. Yet, he told me to keep on doing ‘the right things,’ as he put it, while I remain here.”

The judge then inhaled deeply and nodded at Ben. “Oh, I will do that, you have my assurance.” He then chuckled a bit. “I’m actually quite elated, Ben.”

The sheriff leaned in toward him, not sure what he meant. “Elated—Judge?”

“Yes—that means excited to the point that one could, in a manner of speaking, stand atop Lone Pine Creek without sinking.”

The sheriff just shook his head. “Well, if you decide to try that, let me tag along. I’ll go ahead and bring a rope to fetch you on out—just in case, I mean,” he smiled.

The judge grinned, then abruptly took on a more somber expression. “I saw a tear in his eye when he first started telling me that I didn’t have a whole lot of time left. When I contemplate his rank in the heavens, Ben, I am unable to comprehend such emotion toward a human—an earthly person?”

Ben looked at the man. “Well, Judge—one look into that man’s eyes and you can see love—a deep love that warms you all up inside. I don’t really know much about such things, but I sure did feel it. It’s hard to compare it with anything—but I got this dog at my place that just warms up to me like nuthin’ you’ve ever seen. He was a stray when I took him in. He’s a happy critter now—never seen nuthin like it! And when he looks at me, I wanna’ say that his eyes are like Michael’s—warm and sparkly. Does that sound a mite strange?”

“I don’t know Ben,” the judge responded. “I never owned a dog. You may want to ask John Replogle concerning that matter. But yes, the man’s eyes are indeed eyes of love. And, with love, there is always emotion. I suppose angels can cry like us? Well, I guess he did. It’s quite encouraging to learn that they do! It makes me begin to think somewhat differently about those in the heavens.”

Lovella then walked into the dining area. “I heard you, Judge,” she smiled. “You know, there’s a place in the Bible that says that Jesus wept. In fact, it’s the shortest verse in the Bible. It all comes about when he goes into a town to visit the two sisters of a man that had just died. The sister that ran up to him in the street as he walked into town—she was cryin’ when she told him about it. Then he started cryin’. The book says, ‘Jesus wept.’”

Lovella then pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with the two men. “The strange thing was, not long after he stood there and wept with her, he raised that man from the dead! I could never figure out why he would be cryin’ if he knew the man was gonna’ live again? But, when I heard what you just said, Judge, you’re right—maybe we ought to be thinkin’ differently about those up there that are in charge of things.”

She leaned forward in her chair. “There’s a lot of verses in the Bible that teach about the patience and goodness and kindness and compassion of God. But when you talk to folk’s around here, and most everywhere else, God is mean and angry and vengeful and ready to do us in for the slightest mistake. Well, I don’t know about you, but after hearin’ Michael today—the things he said to all of us, and the kindness he showed us in comin’ here in the first place—I’m inclined to think differently about those who watch over us.”

She leaned back in her chair and began to weep. The men were taken aback and silent, not sure what to say to her. They’d never seen Lovella cry before. She soon regained control of herself, wiping at her eyes and then at her nose. She looked again at Ben and the Judge. Her eyes narrowed and her expression changed most suddenly.

“Well, if what John Replogle said about Michael—about that he might be goin’ up there on that mountain to drive evil spirits away from it, then I hope the hell he kicks their ass’s down the hell off of there, and then drowns ’em in the Owens Lake! …Damn son’s of bitches—they’re probably responsible for all these foolish beliefs we have about God bein’ a mean and vengeful god! You men pardon my French!”

She immediately stood up, slammed her chair in under the table, and stormed back into the hotel.

The judge looked over at Ben with a slight grin on his face. “I think she wants to get into the fight, Ben.” He then sighed deeply. “On this particular day in my life I can’t say as I blame the woman.”

“You got a point, Judge,” Ben nodded. “I’d like to ride with the man myself. This ol’ brush-buster’s still got some sand left in him.”

The sunset was approaching when Bear Claw and Stalking Moon walked out of their village and into the rocks. Bear Claw put a hand on his son’s shoulder as they walked together.

“It is always a great pleasure when you choose to join me in honoring the sunset, my son.”

“It is the day before your birthday celebration begins, my father. This is a special time.”

“There have been many clouds in the sky today. They now grow dark. The clouds to the west of us, above the mountain—they are thick. The sun may not paint the clouds that float over us as they normally do. This is a sign, my son.”

“I have something to say to you, my father.”

“Then speak.”

“I know that you wait to tell me of the gray rider, but I have met with him this day, my father. In the tall rocks just below the mountain.”

“I am not surprised, my son,” the old man smiled. “Your belief is stronger than mine has been in my old age. Too many moons have passed since the visions first appeared. I have grown weary of waiting. But now, knowing that you have seen him, my belief is strengthened, and I will tell you of things that you should know.”

“The rider has told me of many things, my father, but he told me that he would honor you, so he did not tell me of the things that you were destined to tell me. Tell me now, my father. Then I will tell you of the great things he has spoken to me.”

Bear Claw then pointed to the stand of rocks where he usually stopped and sat down to watch the setting of the sun. “Over there is a good place to talk, my son. Let us sit together there, as one.”

They climbed a series of boulders, than sat atop the tallest one amidst the outcrop. Bear Claw removed a pelt of the coyote from around his shoulders and placed it atop the rock. He turned the fur upward and sat down upon it. “My bones need this comfort against the rock, my son,” he smiled.

Stalking Moon acknowledged the words of the elder and sat down beside him. Bear Claw then began to speak.

“Hear me now, my son. I am told that he is the greatest warrior among the spirits. An archangel—a prince of light and all that is good. But there is another great warrior—an evil and wicked one, who once lived in the heavens with the archangel. I am told they were boyhood friends among the angelic host, but parted as young men when the evil one rebelled against the Most High. This is an old legend, but I believe it to be true.

“When the evil one parted, he came down and corrupted the earth, not long after its foundation had been cast. The earth, I am told, has remained his domain. He has passed his wickedness onto man, in that their hearts have been corrupted as well—from the very beginning of his encounter with them in a great garden—a garden of untold beauty that afterward became a wasteland, scorched by the sun and then destroyed by the waters of the Great Flood.

“He once had strong power in the heavens, but again, he rebelled, and forfeited his place among the angelic host. He has since roamed the earth with great legions of other angelic beings, who serve him night and day. They are the corrupt ones who were cast out of heaven with this prince of darkness. They rule all the physical kingdoms of the earth, where men who are ignorant of their presence do their bidding. But we have been told that their time is short.

“When the prince of darkness first rebelled, the Great Spirit grieved for him. It was not his will for any of the angelic host to rebel, but as creatures of choice they chose the dark way. The Great Spirit has been merciful for many, many years, allowing them time to acknowledge their corruption and repent—yet they refuse. During this time the Great Spirit has also gained many chosen ones—both of the angelic host and of mankind. They are the ones who will inherit all things when the prince of darkness is finally destroyed, and we are blessed with new heavens and a new earth. I long for those days, my son!

“The ancient ones say that mankind is the Great Spirit’s most cherished love. Therefore, he sent his son—a part of himself, long ago, to redeem their spirits from corruption. He now waits for the roll call of those who will believe in him to be completed, whom he also knew from the foundation of the world. This is a deep teaching, my son—a Great Spirit with such unfathomable knowledge of all things from beginning to end; yet it is nonetheless the truth. Someday his list will be complete, and then evil will be destroyed and all things will me made new, as I have told you.

“But, because there is at this time so much evil in the world, the Great Spirit must hold reign over the prince of darkness. When this prince rebels against the Spirit’s restraints on him, he goes to war with the angelic host, and tests the kindness and patience of the Great Spirit. The prince of darkness, who is desirous of all power, has no power like the Great Spirit, who must continually remind him of this. When you were a boy, my son, I had to remind you of things you could not do,” the elder smiled.

“But this is a far greater thing,” he continued. “There have been many battles between those of the angelic host and those of the angels of darkness. We do not always know who wins these battles, but when the forces of darkness threaten to defile what the Spirit of God has protected, or they attempt to denounce what is sacred, or they rebel and do something in a way that he has chosen it will not be done; then a great warrior—an archangel is sent to defeat the rebellion—to scatter the forces of darkness to the four winds.

“It is said that some go to a dreaded place, where they are put in chains and reserved for a greater judgment. Others are permitted to go to another place on the earth, it is said, where they recover and again seek to devour the lives of men and women—even children. No one knows why these things are this way, my son, but the Great Spirit knows all things, and his mercy is beyond understanding. He expects us only to trust him.

“An archangel has been sent here—to this ground that we occupy. The mountain is high, and the evil spirits have ruled many kingdoms across the face of the land from this domain. It is said that the prince of darkness himself has been on the mountain. But the old ones have said that the Great Spirit, who created all things, has a fruitful plan for this mountain. From this time on, the year of the bear and forward, good will come from it. Men will see the beauty of the Creator from atop the mountain. As a result of men’s eyes being opened, words will be spoken and words will be written that will encourage many.

“The evil forces will be gone from this place—no longer permitted to return. No longer will they hold the great mountain in darkness. The sun will radiate upon it when they are gone, and the people of the land will rejoice. I have beforehand told you of the dream, my son. The dream in which I saw many people—both men and women, climbing the mountain. The animals were at peace. The great birds returned and the people of this valley honored the mountain.”

Bear Claw then looked into the eyes of his son. “I am told the gray rider is the archangel, and now that you have seen him, tell me what he has spoken to you, my son. Will it be as my dreams have foretold? Is he the Ghost Rider that will avenge the souls that the evil spirits have destroyed? Does he come to visit me tomorrow—on the first night of the full moon, in this year of the bear?”

“He is indeed the archangel, my father. But he is not the Ghost Rider who avenges the souls of the innocent. He is the mighty prince of the Most High, who will dispel the evil from the mountain. He is the Ancient One, who has since the world began protected the chosen ones of the Most High. He will disperse the evil, and leave their judgment in the hands of the Most High—the one we know as The Great Spirit.

“He has told me, my father, that I will someday ride with him. His horse is indeed a brother to Wind Spirit. The valiant, gray horse that he once rode, centuries ago in the kingdom of Babylon and many other places, is now free to roam the great pastures of the heavens. This great mount that he now rides, Spirit Rider, brother to my horse, will be with him for an undetermined amount of time.

“I will be with him as well, with Wind Spirit under me—we will serve him in his legions. He tells me that I am destined to be his armor bearer—it is a figurative word in the heavens, which means one who serves him as a brother, attends to his needs, helps him in battle, and sees that all things under his rule are carried out. He said that this time for me to be with him will come soon.”

Stalking Moon looked up toward the great mountain. There was a smile on his face. He then turned his head back toward the elder. “I am anxious, my father. But does this make you sad that I will walk no more with you among these great rocks?”

“This is good news, my son. This is the year of the bear. I have dreamed of this as well. You will meet the great bear that you fought with as a boy. I do not know the outcome of this meeting, as I have told you, but after that your time to depart draws near. I see you standing below the mountain, among these great rocks, and then you are no more. The great boulder you were standing on top of remains, but its color has lightened.”

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 mounted 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 wrong 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.

“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,

You know that Wyomin’ will be yer’ new home.

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

Their harmonious singing made its way out over the large herd to the southeast; indeed medicinal as it drifted among those animals, but the men’s voices hit a wall amid an explosion of thunder just to the west of them, breaking their melodious words into pieces.

High on the mountain near the very core of that thunder and lightning, Michael rode steadily upward in between an array of white boulders, his eyes fixed on the coarse shale that lie beneath the hooves of his tall mount. He gently stroked at the animal’s mane as they trod over them, speaking out to him.

“Spirit Rider—you know that sittin’ up here atop this saddle like I am, I can’t see through your flesh nor down through your hooves neither—can’t see if that shale’s cuttin’ into you or not?”

The horse snorted in response to the man’s words, lifting its head and then quickly lowering it again as he trudged forward.

“I can read your heart, my friend—but it seems pretty quiet at the moment. Now, you and me are the only ones out here, in case you hadn’t noticed? I figure it’s okay for you to go ahead and speak out loud—if you’re a’ mind to? You do have my permission—you always have. But, there’s nuthin’ wrong with quiet. I guess I been a mite quiet myself on this ride.”

The animal snorted once again and then in the next moment spoke out of its mouth at the man. “My hooves are thick and quite strong, my Master. This shale beneath them hasn’t been a problem, but those unyielding mesquite thorns we encountered down below were a mite prickly. It was rough going for a bit, that’s for sure—but we made it through.”

Michael smiled. “I feel bad about having to part company with you at the high meadow, my friend. But you’re not spirit just yet. You’re still flesh—It might be that you could get killed up there.”

The horse and rider continued to climb against the shale. Spirit Rider was silent for a time, but then suddenly spoke once again. “When will I become spirit, my Master?”

“I’ve been told that will come about when Stalking Moon and your brother join up with us,” Michael responded. “That won’t be too long in the future, my friend.”

The animal nickered. “I am ready to face the evil with you, my Master. My courage is strong. Will you not at this time ask the Most High to permit it?”

“I know you’re strong, Spirit Rider. But there’s a time and a place for everything. Besides—I’ll be takin’ on the wolf’s clothing up there in that high meadow—when the moon meets with twilight. You want me to just jump on your back after that and take you on up ahead with me?”

Michael then chuckled a bit. “It might look a little silly—the big bad wolf ridin’ on your back. You’ve never met Lucifer, but he’ll know you’re flesh, laugh at your courage and most likely kill you right on the spot. Bide your time, big fella’—you’ll be immortal soon.”

Horse and rider remained silent as they continued on up the shale slope for another five hundred feet, where it suddenly leveled off. There was a small meadow just ahead of them. From there it would be a steep climb up to a high lake, where there would be abundant water for the animal. Michael reined in when they reached the meadow and spoke once again to the horse.

“It’s a ways to the higher meadow. There’s a small stream here and a lake up yonder, just below that high meadow. You want to rest here for a spell, or go on up? I know that you’re a bit tired—I can feel it. Speak up, big fella’. I like hearin’ the sound of your voice.”

The horse snorted and then turned its head slowly to the left to where it could see the rider out of the corner of its eye. The animal spoke once again. “I am strong, my Master, but there is foliage here, and I could use a bite to eat.”

“That’s what I figured,” Michael smiled. “To be honest with you, this body of mine could use a rest as well.”

Most everyone in town had gathered at the restaurant for breakfast later that morning, but John Replogle had to get up and leave in the middle of it all and tend to one of the horses belonging to Floyd Thomas. The animal had broken its leg and seemed to be in a bad way, but John was able to set the fracture and calm the horse down a bit.

The skin hadn’t been broken, which was a good thing, and he wrapped the leg with a poultice made of sage root and secured a cast about it that he had fashioned from lodge pole pine. Floyd had earlier wanted to shoot the animal, but John wouldn’t allow it. He told Floyd to give it some time. Floyd was one whose patience was a bit thin, but when he saw what John had done with the animal he was more than thankful—the man even cried a little.

By the time the two of them got back to the restaurant it was well past noon, but folk’s had hung around because of their concern about what was taking place on the mountain. John had talked about it a little at breakfast, but had to leave before everyone was satisfied with what he could tell them. He and Floyd ate a late lunch and when that was done, everyone pulled chairs up close into their table and John then told them what he could.

“I’ve told you all about everything I know at this time. The Indian legends about evil spirits on the mountain are true. Some of them have been up there for a few thousand years—ever since the Great Flood. It was to their advantage to be up there on the highest mountain, so they could see the whole of this country. That’s why nobody’s been able to get up there—they won’t allow it! They fool with folk’s minds and cause them to miss the peak—cause them to end up somewhere else!

“According to the Bible, evil spirits control just about everything that goes on in the world today. They’re responsible for wars and famine, for pain and suffering, and about everything else you can think of that might be harmful to folk’s. Now, the Indians believe that from the high places, such as our mountain here, they can see what’s goin’ on everywhere else in this country, and plan their strategies accordingly.

“The good thing about all of this is that God only allows them so much time in one particular place—and that’s especially true if he’s got some other plans for that place. This is more or less what Michael told me. The Indians have always been of the opinion that folk’s from all over the world would someday visit this mountain here, and that it would be a place of learning—a place from where all of God’s wonders could be viewed, appreciated, and shared with everyone that comes to understand how much they truly need such things.

“Michael told me that when the time comes for the evil to depart from a place, the evil spirits sometimes choose to put up a fight—they want to stay right where they are. They know that their time on the earth is short, and they want to make the most of it. When that happens, the archangel, who is Michael—the head and most powerful of all the angels, is sent there to put an end to it. Now, I don’t know anything at all in regard to how he’ll go about doin’ that—but I’m sure it will get done!

“I’m not sure what happens to these spirits after the battle either. The Indians believe that some of them are kept in a dark place to await a greater judgment. Some of them I guess just go to other places where they can keep on with their evil ways. I don’t recall Michael sayin’ anything about where the spirits up there on the mountain might end up going, but they won’t be stayin’ around here.”

Some of the folk’s then asked John if they would be able to see what was about to happen on the mountain. John got up and walked over toward the window. Ed Spencer was standing there looking up at the mountain, and glanced back toward him as he approached.

“It’s just as black as night up there, John. Lots of lightening flashing back and forth—clouds over most of the valley. I don’t believe we’ll be able to see anything—unless all hell breaks loose and the sky opens up,” he laughed, though within himself the man was quite frightened about the whole thing. There were several in the room who were fearful as well. John could sense it. He turned from Ed and looked at everyone.

“I don’t think there’s any call to be afraid, folk’s. I know you all want to sit together here, and I know you’re comfortable with that—that’s good. We’ll, why don’t all of us do just that? We’ll just stay together here as a group and keep an eye on the mountain.  But it will be after sunset I believe before anything is going to happen up there.”

The sun was setting as Michael rode into the high meadow. From where he rode in, only massive, black clouds could be seen above him, stretched out along the entire Sierra Crest. Lightning flashed violently among those clouds, and the thunder at that elevation was ear rending, echoing boldly among the high crags. The wind had picked up as well, and he knew that before long the gusts would be strong and blow fiercely.

He rode into the center of the meadow but then decided to ride on to its north edge, where a chute opened up that would lead him upward along the north face of the mountain to its high, western slope; the only unobstructed gateway to the elusive summit. When he reached the far side of that meadow he reined in and dismounted. He then removed the saddle and other gear from his horse, setting it all atop a boulder.

“This’ll be your pasture for a while, Spirit Rider,” he spoke to the animal as he gently removed bit and bridle. “Things should be fairly quiet here, except for the storm. I’ll be up quite a bit higher, where things are liable to get a shade nasty.”

The man then looked to his east. There was high cloud cover over the valley below him, the crests on both the Inyo and Panamint mountain ranges however were clear. He then nudged the horse around slightly so that the animal might be able to view those mountains.

“We’ll be able to see the moon shortly, Spirit Rider—over there above those mountains, yonder. The twilight will be upon us in less than an hour.”

He then brushed softly at the animal’s neck. “This is where we’ll have to part company for a while, big fella. Soon now.”

Chapter Thirteen

As the light of the sun disappeared behind the great mountain, Bear Claw and Stalking Moon stood together in the rocks along the western outskirts of the Indian encampment. Little Swan soon approached from behind them. Her father was surprised to see her there.

“It is late, my daughter. You should be tending to your chores before bedtime.” Stalking Moon stroked her hair as he spoke with her. “Your new calf will want you to embrace him,” he smiled.

“I came here to hold the hand of my grandfather,” she responded. “He carries the blue stone, and said that we should pray together for the great warrior. He said the warrior would know that we held the stone as one, and our prayers would be answered.”

“Then we will all hold hands,” her father smiled. “And we will look toward the great mountain together.”

His words were followed by a sudden bolt of lightning that again stretched across the entire Sierra Crest. It lingered long enough for the three of them to see the entire length of its magnitude. It was horrific—unlike any other they had ever seen before. It disappeared suddenly as an explosion of thunder echoed down into the valley just beyond it, and with that, a sudden gust of wind that brushed heavily against the faces of the trio as they stood there amidst the great rocks.

Little Swan squeezed her small hand against that of her grandfather’s, who held on tightly to the blue stone. On the opposite side of him, Stalking Moon held firmly onto the elder’s left hand. The trio stood together in the wind, their eyes fixed on the mountain. They were anxious to see just what might take place next, and there was no fear within their hearts.

Within the town itself most of those waiting in the restaurant had stepped out onto the front sidewalk just seconds after that great bolt of lightning had illuminated the entire mountain range. They had attempted to cover their ears when the explosion of thunder came hurtling upon them, and now felt the wind rising against their faces. Some of them were fearful, while others stood boldly in that wind, yet without really knowing what to expect next. John Replogle stood among them.

“Everything’s gonna’ be okay,” he encouraged. “We ought to go on back inside. It will be a little bit now until the full moon is up. That’s when things will start to happen—that’s what Michael told me.”

Some distance to the west of them, the folk’s among the orange groves were huddled together inside of a barn. The doors facing the mountain were wide open as the group of men, women and children sat together, captivated by a violent display of weather on the mountain that they had never before seen. Jerry Garcia and his wife did their best to keep everyone calm.

“Do not be afraid,” he told them. “You will never see anything like this again, I am sure! We will not be harmed in here—I am confident of this.”

Southwest of the groves, the three fishermen, who had their lines in the stream when the great lightning and thunder had come upon them, dashed frantically toward their tent and crawled into its entrance, grumbling and coaxing at one another to move inside quickly. Two of the men then struggled against the sudden wind as they endeavored to secure the doorway.

Johnny Lucas abruptly slapped at the hands of Charlie Begole and Al Johnson, who had both the upper and lower lashings for the doorway in their grips.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he shouted. “Don’t lash down them flaps! Let’s watch and see what in the name a’ hell is goin’ on around here!”

About a mile and a half southeast of that tent, the drovers at the cattle camp were out roaming among the herd, hoping to keep them settled down. Both Slim Woodson and Ed Winter were among that group bumping cattle. The two men soon found themselves beside one another.

“There a mite spooked, Ed. But I think they’ll be all right. I got one extra man from town—name’s Donnie Crawford. He’s a good horseman. He just started workin’ at the livery, but his boss sent him on out here—figured we might need some help.”

“That was kind of him,” Ed responded. “We’ll probably need that man down on the point. We don’t want them cattle breakin’ for the lake. There’s some steep cliffs down that way.”

“I’ll send him down there with Bruce Smith,” Woodson responded. “He’s rode point with me before. They can round ’em in and keep the herd back this way toward camp—no problem.”

“You do that, Slim. I’ll ride back to the chuck wagon and have the cook wrap up some grub for ’em—for you, too. Everybody stays with the herd after dark tonight. The other riders you got out here already ate just a bit ago. Make sure they know to stay put.”

“Yes, sir!”

Twilight soon fell upon the valley and embraced the great mountain. Michael stood in the high meadow with Spirit Rider, nearly 11,400 feet above the valley floor as the full moon appeared on the eastern horizon, at that moment the upper portion of it just peeking over the top of distant mountains.

The man removed his hat, gun belt, boots, and then his clothing, and stood naked beside his mount. He folded the clothing and placed the gun belt and hat on top of that fold, and then set the items onto the ground near the forward hooves of the animal. He moved the boots up against the clothing. He then reached out and brushed at the horse’s mane.

“If it rains down here, you be sure to step over that clothing and keep it dry, you hear?” he smiled.

The horse nickered. In the distance the full moon had just cleared the top of the mountains. As Michael looked over-top the back of his mount out toward that silvery moon, the man promptly took on the form of a wolf, at that moment finding himself standing on four paws in the lush green of the meadow. Spirit Rider, startled, suddenly moved back about three paces. He snorted, but held calm, his eyes then fixed upon the wolf.

The wolf was indeed a large animal, coal black in color with a blending of silver-gray throughout its thick fur. The tops of its feet were snow-white, the white fur ascending slightly onto the lower portion of its legs. A patch of white fur resembling a bolt of lighting was displayed high at the front of the animal’s chest.

Michael then looked about at himself, slightly taken aback at his striking appearance. He was deliberate in opening his mouth, great white fangs protruding just out the front of it. He then smiled, displaying both upper and lower teeth behind them, which were white like pearl as well. He soon spoke words to Spirit Rider, who awaited the familiar sound of his master’s voice, yet remained just a little apprehensive.

“It’s only me, my friend. Don’t run away,” Michael said. “You’re a lot taller than me now anyway—have no fear.”

The horse snorted and then spoke with him. “I was startled at first, but you do look magnificent, my Master. I would be extremely proud to go with you—anywhere.”

The wolf moved toward him. When it stepped in close it rose up on its hind legs and put its front paws on either side of the horses neck, looking directly into its eyes. The horse stood firm with the wolf’s weight against him, rubbing his nose along the snout of the wolf. The wolf then drew back its head a bit and rubbed noses with the animal. They embraced in this manner for a brief time, when the wolf suddenly dropped down and stood alone on its feet. Michael then spoke gently to the horse.

“I will miss you too, my friend. I won’t be long.”

With that the wolf turned and ran swiftly into the rocks at the lower end of a wide, granite chute—a pass filled with boulders of all sizes, which had formed between two towering spires of white granite, and ascended along the mountain’s north face toward the high, western slope that would lead him to the summit. The great wolf climbed at a good pace, his eyes scanning the terrain ahead of him as he moved with a steady rhythm over and around a recurrent arrangement of boulders, which were strewn about within his chosen pathway.

He climbed to 12,000 feet in no time at all, reaching a small plateau that stood just north of the summit block, pressed in close to where it butted tightly against the north face of the mountain. As the wolf made his way along the gradual slope of that plateau, lightening suddenly flashed violently about him, striking the rocks with great intensity on either side of the animal. Michael stopped in his tracks and spoke out.

“Very impressive, Lucifer. Too bad you’re not permitted to actually strike me with it. Show yourself and we’ll talk. I’m sure that’s why you’ve come down here from the top. It’s just like you to make your little speech, while your subordinates are up there waiting on me, and are left alone to face me when you decide to go elsewhere?”

There was an uproarious and immediate blast of strong wind against the face of the wolf, blowing his hair rearward and in tight against his body. It howled fiercely upon him for a time—an earsplitting wail all around him. Thunder exploded about him as well. Lightning continued to strike very near to him—relentlessly; one bolt immediately after another and still another. The face of the mountain appeared to be ablaze with this constantly erratic and authoritative hail of light. The wolf however stood erect, unmoved by these sudden bursts of humanly unfathomable power against him and about him.

The onlookers in the valley far below could see the horrendous and unnerving display of lightning high above them. Violent explosions of thunder and the wailing of wind had also reached their ears. Some cried out in terror. Many in the Indian village fell to their knees. There was both praying and weeping among them, but Bear Claw and his family stood fast, the elder still clutching the blue stone in his hand.

The great herd of cattle in the camp south of town became increasingly restless. The drovers rode back and forth among them, attempting to avoid a stampede. The three fishermen to their west were huddled together in their tent, but refused to close themselves in, continuing their utterly captive watch on the mountain. The barn doors in the orange grove remained opened as well, those inside the structure most attentive, while the onlookers at the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant, now gathered outside on the front porch, held tightly onto one another’s hands.

Then, suddenly, all was quiet—in the twinkling of an eye. The wind stood still. The clouds above and along the crest remained dark and threatening, but their movement had ceased. The innumerable lightnings and resounding blasts of thunder had come to an abrupt halt as well. The wolf then sniffed the air, his eyes scanning the rocky terrain just ahead of him. There was a familiar movement within the Force.

From out of nowhere a most imposing, diamondback rattlesnake suddenly appeared amongst the rocks and slithered its way toward him, but the impressive viper’s rattle was silent. The great serpent ceased its approach just forward of the wolf and quickly raised its head, while its tail whisked slowly back and forth between the rocks. The serpent of old then spoke to him.

“We meet again, Michael. When was the last time? I believe I’ve forgotten.”

“I don’t think so,” Michael responded. “Our mental powers are indeed great, and we don’t forget. Or, perhaps I need to say that we shouldn’t forget. It seems that you’ve forgotten that you were once a morning star—a son of the dawn. But as it is written—‘you were cast down to the earth, for you had said in your heart that you would ascend to heaven and raise your throne above the stars of God, and make yourself like the Most High.’

“So now you shake the earth and make kingdoms tremble. You’ve made the world a desert and have overthrown its cities and don’t let any of your captives go home. You are however covered with the slain, with those pierced by the sword, for you’ve destroyed your land and killed your people. But a time will come when your yoke will be taken from the people, and your burden removed from their shoulders.”

The serpent hissed, rejecting Michael’s words. “Your powers are not equal to mine! If the Most High were not standing right beside you, I could destroy you in an instant. My servants could overcome yours, and my domain would increase into the heavens and I would take my stand against the Most High himself!”

The wolf smiled. “Your servants tremble at the very thought of the Most High. They know their time is short. Why don’t you? And furthermore, I was always stronger than you as a boy because my powers were used for good. When we became young men you were cast out, which separated you from the Most High and made you weak. And in your weakness you’ve even stooped to terrorizing old men and children—like Bear Claw and his granddaughter down below. Leave them alone.

“If you recall, when you and I disputed over the body of Moses, you lost. And in the days of Daniel I was there to thwart your excessive rule over the Persian kingdom. You have always tried to go beyond the limits set for you, Lucifer, yet at no time have I ever brought railing accusation against you, for only the Most High is your judge in these matters.  I serve him now as I did then. Your time on this mountain is over as well. Take your servants and go.”

“You are stubborn,” the serpent hissed. “Join me and become my brother. We will rule the entire universe as one!” A harsh and evil laughter immediately followed the words of the creature, then ceased abruptly as it glared into the eyes of the wolf. “You don’t know the power of the dark side!”

The wolf clenched its teeth together. Only its lips moved when it spoke. “Get behind me, Satan. I go up the mountain to send your servants away. The Most High will be merciful, but if they continue to resist, they will be sent to Sheol and chained in the darkness of Tartarus until the appointed time. I’m sure that you don’t want...”

An unexpected rush of wind against his face at that instant immediately interrupted Michael’s words, as the serpent vanished completely from his sight. A rage filled, menacing scream could be heard echoing among the rocks all around him. The sound of it gradually faded away into the night. The wolf was wary and continued to scan the terrain about him with much care, but there was no sign of the prince of darkness.

The wolf then stepped out under the full moon and traversed the plateau, just minutes later reaching the lower escarpments of a harrowing ascent toward the summit block. A snow-covered chute made its way up along the northern face of the great mountain—from that very point on the northwestern edge of the plateau where the wolf now stood. His eyes narrowed, his senses quite alert as he surveyed the terrain ahead of him.

The pass was rugged and steep, but the only route open to the far western slope of the summit. The western slope itself gradually ascended over 500 feet to the very top of the mountain—a broad plateau where the entire valley and several mountain ranges beyond could be seen below and to the east. Views to the north, south and west encompassed literally hundreds of majestic peaks and several yawning divides that were relatively unknown to men and awaited exploration.

The summit plateau itself was nearly as wide as it was long, and was providentially decorated with broken slabs of pure white granite and small boulders of various sizes. The temperatures were usually well below freezing at night, but this highest point in the continental United States remained unattainable by men, and was presently the abode of nearly four thousand restless spirits of darkness, who from this most lofty point wreaked havoc upon a vast expanse of land that had been formed between two great oceans.

The unsuspecting inhabitants of this great land were under the domain of these dark forces, and lived their human lives for the most part totally unaware of any spiritual disorder within themselves. Many believed that the human heart was basically good, heedless of its wicked and deceitful nature. The evil spirits took advantage of this ignorance, leading the people into lust, greed, envy, bitterness, anger, hatred, strife, and many other crimes of the heart. The gathering of so many evil spirits on the mountain was their strength over the whole of the land.

But the outcries from a few human hearts across the nation had reached the ears of the Most High, and He remembered as well the outcries from Egypt long centuries before, when cruel, unrelenting taskmasters sorely oppressed His chosen people into slavery and many other forms of ill treatment. A great gathering of wicked spirits in said land, that at one point had entered into a whole army of Egyptians; who themselves were just afterward drowned beneath the mighty waters of the Red Sea, were eventually scattered to the four winds.

Those evil ones scattered over the face of the earth took on countless forms throughout the succeeding three millenniums, but it wasn’t until the fifteenth century A.D. that many of them joined what was at that time just a small cadre of evil atop the mountain, which force had been there since the Great Flood. A host of others had gradually made their way into this country in later years, and were in random places as the nation was being populated and formed—but on one, dark day, Lucifer called them all together atop the great mountain, that they might be exceedingly powerful in their unity; and so they have remained.

But now, on August 17, 1873, some 400 years after the evil spirit population had exploded on the mountain, the Most High would give answer to the cries from within the hearts of his chosen people; according to His plan, at His chosen time, and in accordance with His perfect will. His most trusted and honored representative in thwarting gatherings such as this was Michael, the archangel, who had many times before carried out the will of the Most High. On this night of the full moon, in the year of the bear, things would be no different.

The wolf made his way upward from the lower plateau atop a thin layer of frozen snow, its crystals glistening all about him in the moonlight. Sometime later, his trek still leading him up and across the northern face of the mountain, he finally reached the 14,000-foot level, where the western slope approached the summit plateau—an unobstructed gateway to the very top.

He climbed the slope, his breath visible in the chilling night air, and soon reached the broad, summit plateau above. In the center of that plateau and perhaps just one hundred yards from the very highest point on the mountain, which overlooked the entire valley below, stood the form of a man. Michael soon recognized what had been the in-life form of Abe Cutler—the crazy-eyed outlaw whom he had faced in the restaurant on the previous morning.

The wolf pranced across the rocks toward him, soon coming to a halt in his immediate presence. This form of a man wore the same disheveled clothing he had worn in life the very day before. The tone of the specter’s fleshly appearance was a pale white about the face and hands—like that of a dead man. His eyes were wide open and red in color, and when he spoke there came forward from his mouth the sound of many voices.

“What have we to do with you, warrior of the Most High? Have you come to torment us before the time? Your form is fierce and threatening—but you know that you are not permitted to do this,” the voices echoed.

The wolf displayed its fangs, but spoke in a moderate tone. “And who might you be?”

The demonic form smirked grotesquely, its bone-like teeth yellowed and decayed. “I am Legion—for we are many!” That chorus of many voices coming out of the specter echoed about the wolf, and was like a sudden gust of wind that momentarily ruffled his fur.

Michael stood still, the claws on each of his four paws erect. “No—I’m not here to torment you, but you do know that if you don’t leave this high mountain of your own freewill, and if you choose to strongly resist, the Most High will send you into the depths of Sheol—to Tartarus, the place of chains and utter darkness. You will roam no more upon the earth.”

The demons hissed from the mouth of the specter, but then spoke in only one voice—that of Abe Cutler. “I’m the worst of this lot. I am now their strongest voice. You did me a favor when you killed me in that town down below. I say we’re gonna’ fight and take our chances. This will be my first victory among the spirits, and I’m lookin’ forward to it! The Force is strong within me.”

“You’re a poor leader,” the wolf responded. “Those dwelling inside of you know who I am. I have faced many of them before. And it won’t be any different for you than it was when you were alive—down there in Lone Pine. I put you in the grave. Your body’s still layin’ there, where the good folk’s down yonder buried it, and if it comes to it, I can see that your spirit is put in living darkness—and chained; unable to find your way past your own nose.”

“We are strong as one,” the voice of Abe Cutler insisted. “I’ve persuaded all those inside me to trust in my judgment. We will overcome you! We are many!”

“You’re judgment isn’t worth much—and I’m right here,” Michael said. “What are you gonna’ do?”

At that moment there was a great outpouring of wind from the mouth of the specter. All the demons within him suddenly flew out from his mouth—one at a time, yet it happened very quickly—within just moments of time. A host of nearly 4000 demons soon flew free in all directions above the top of the mountain and in the light of the full moon.

They then dove at Michael in large groups, brushing against the fur on his back. They screamed and laughed horridly into his ears as they flew around him as trails of smoke—only their long, flowing hair and grotesque facial lineaments were visible. They soon broke into smaller more numerous groups that continued to dive close into and about the wolf, gnashing their teeth at him.

They blocked the moon’s light in their efforts, and railed on Michael with profane words and the babblings and threats of utter madness and folly. This they continued to do without relenting, as Michael stood both erect and motionless before them.

Chapter Fourteen

The corpse-like form of Abe Cutler soon opened his mouth once again. The redness in his eyes then glowed brightly, and the demons flying about suddenly reentered his body in a great rush of wind—as quickly as they had left it. Once they were all inside of him he coughed deeply, phlegm emitting from the corners of his mouth. There was convulsion as he spat several times upon the rocks, his eyes rolled back into his head and he screamed aloud—but he soon regained his composure and faced the wolf, many voices again speaking from the mouth of the demon.

“Now you have seen Satanic power beyond your own comprehension. We have not yet even begun to fight! We are Legion! We will remain on this high mountain—we will also ascend above the stars and be like the Most High! What can you do—a mere angel—what can you do all alone?” A hideous laughter of many voices then bellowed forth out of the demon. There was smoke and fire from its eyes.

In the next moment, in the twinkling of an eye, the wolf pounced upon the chest of the specter with all four’s, knocking the demon flat onto the granite slab it had stood upon. The wolf stood erect atop the bodily form and opened his mouth, displaying its white fangs and growling ferociously with a harsh and powerful noise that transcended that of a great bear.

At that moment an exceedingly bright light from within the heart of the wolf bolted outward from its mouth like lightning, and radiated straightway into the mouth of the specter. There was the reverberating sound of a great wind. The wolf moved its head in close and opened its mouth even wider, the light from within him now unfathomably brilliant.

The demons within the specter shuddered violently beneath the outstretched paws of the great wolf. The illumination was overwhelming—its unrivaled brilliance could be seen ’round about them, lighting up the entire summit of the mountain. Within their dark souls in just a moment of time the evil spirits felt the infinite and ever-present, reigning sovereignty of the Most High; the purest spirit in all the Force.

“Do not send us to the abyss!” many voices cried out suddenly from within the demon. “We beg of you—there is a large herd of cattle in the plain down below. Permit us to enter into them! Be merciful!”

The wolf raised his eyes to the heavens, the blazing light from his mouth gone in an instant. He then heard the powerful yet gentle voice of the Most High.

“Let it be so, Michael.”

He quickly looked back into the eyes of the specter. “You have permission!”

He stepped off the body and down from the slab of rock, then turned about to see the demons suddenly fleeing from inside the specter, rising up into the darkened expanse above in a great rush of wind that again ruffled his fur. The form of Abe Cutler thrashed about against the rock and then rose as well, its eyes wide in terror as it flew up into the night sky to join the others.

They flew in mass through the moonlit sky to the east, appearing as a long, dark yet shapeless cloud that rushed over the land as a mighty wind, and with the piercing sound thereof, suddenly descended upon the great herd of cattle far to the south of town. There was mooing and snorting and great confusion among the animals, who ran impulsively toward the southeast and soon formed a wide, unrelenting stampede as they headed down the sloped plain toward the great lake.

The riders among them were caught by surprise, the animals having been somewhat calm just moments before. The rush of the sudden stampede knocked some of the men from their horses and they fled for their lives, running toward either side of the large heard. The thundering of hooves was deafening and thick clouds of dust filled the air, making it difficult for the men to breathe or find their way to safety.

Slim Woodson, along with Bruce Smith and Donnie Crawford were able to stay mounted, but those men lost the chase against the cattle when the animals on the point suddenly approached and ran violently over the edge of the high cliff that bordered the lake, with the remainder of that large herd following directly behind them amidst clouds of dust.

The cattle in great numbers mooed and squirmed about as they hurtled through the air and splashed headlong into the waters of the great lake. Ed Winter rode up behind Woodson and the others who were riding hard toward the cliff as the last of the herd made its leap. Moments later the cowboys all reined in just short of the cliff’s edge; thick dust and sand all about them, the frightened mooing of hundreds of drowning cattle far below them.

The dust settled after a time, and in the moonlight the drovers at the edge of the cliff could see several cows attempting to stay afloat in the somewhat turbulent waters. Some had made it to a shallow part of the lake, a few hundred feet south of the high cliff. But there were many carcasses afloat on the water, and even a greater number that remained submerged.

Ed Winter spoke to his foreman, somewhat distraught in his tone. “Slim—did we lose anybody?”

“Everyone is accounted for as far as I know, Ed,” Woodson responded. “A few lost their mounts but then made it to them trees over yonder. Bruce Smith got a head count and say’s we’re all still here,” he smiled.

Ed breathed a sigh of relief. “You and Bruce get down there to that shallow end and see if you can coax some of those animals up out of the water. There’s a cattle trail about a quarter mile yonder that will take you down onto the bank. You got quite a bit of flat area in there to bring the cattle up on. Let ’em rest before you push ’em on up the hill.

“Crawford—you come with me. We’ll ride back to camp and fetch some more ropes and grab a few of the boys. I hope we can save some of these critters. I never seen a stampede like that in my whole life, and I been cowboy’n a long time. That was a powerful wind that spooked that herd. Thank goodness more than half of ’em were up in that little valley to the north. I ’spect I should of sent ’em all up there to begin with.” He then looked at his foreman.

“Slim—we’ll be back as soon as we can.” He and Donnie Crawford then rode back toward their camp, while Woodson and Smith headed down along the lower bank.

High on the mountain, looking down over the very edge of its bold face stood the black wolf. He had witnessed the event, and mourned for the cattle, a tear from his eye caught up in the fur along his snout. He soon took a deep, sighing breath and turned away. A huge mountain lion stood suddenly before him, there on the very summit of the mountain. The lion paced back and forth slowly atop the rocks, its head and eyes fixed threateningly in the direction of the wolf

The wolf snarled a bit, then spoke at the animal. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth, but some of them cattle that were caught up in the rush will make it out alive. I see you’ve changed your form, Lucifer. Your servants are gone. They won’t be comin’ back. You plan on stickin’ around here by yourself?”

The lion roared, then spoke without remorse. “No—I was never up here that often anyway. You know me—it is in fact written of me. ‘I’m like a roaring lion, prowling about and seeking whom I may devour.’”

The wolf nodded. “You do know your Scripture—above the knowledge of any human, but you twist it in their minds to your own advantage. That’s very sad, from my point of view, seein’ how the Almighty’s word is life at its fullest. You can leave now. I’m all done here—unless you’ve got somethin’ else you might like to say?”

The lion then growled. “Your work here has done nothing to harm my reign over this land. The loss of one little stronghold will not make any difference. My servants will rise again—in another place. Your lord’s mercy is my stronghold. I’m still in control—that is written as well—‘the kingdoms of the world have been given to me; all of their authority and splendor, and I, Lucifer, can give them to whomever I want.’”

“For a while,” the wolf agreed. “But this mountain will shine anew, and folk’s will climb it and see the wonders created by the Most High all around ’em. They’ll share that inspiration with others—a great victory in the Force. Good people will influence the town of Lone Pine for a long time to come. Belief in the truth will then become strong. I’m hopin’ that all this influence from the mountain and the folk’s around it will jerk a knot in your tail.”

“Perhaps,” the lion responded. “But humans will need to remain on their guard just the same. My power is strong here in what they call the ‘land of the free.’ I make slaves of whomever I will. The dark side of the Force will always remain here—from ocean to ocean and beyond. I now bid you farewell—for a time.”

The great lion disappeared in a rush of wind. The storm clouds over the mountain then began to slowly drift toward the west. Even with the full moon many stars were soon visible in the night sky. Michael stared at them from atop the mountain for some time, and at one point during those quiet moments howled out loudly toward the moon—the call of the wolf.

He soon turned away from the highest point on the mountain and started back down, the bright moonlight revealing his shadow atop a glistening layer of frozen snow as he tread with much vigor toward the plateau below, where Spirit Rider waited in earnest for his return.

Far below on the outskirts of the Indian village, a clear, star filled sky now visible above them, Bear Claw spoke with his son and granddaughter.

“A voice within me has spoken. It was the voice of the archangel. He has thanked us for holding onto the blue stone. His work is finished, and tomorrow the early sun will radiate on the face of the mountain, greeting a cloudless sky. There is now much peace in my heart. A great future for our land begins tomorrow with the rising of the sun.”

“Tomorrow morning I will guide the fishermen up the mountain to the high meadow,” Stalking Moon responded. “I will be heading out very early. They will be allowed their glory. Perhaps I will see the great bear when I get up there.”

“Can we go back to the camp now, father?” Little Swan asked. “I am so tired I can no longer stay awake. It is very late.”

“Yes, my child,” the man responded. “Give your grandfather a hug, and you may go from us.”

The young girl smiled and then hugged her grandfather. She turned and hugged her father as well. “I will tell mother you will not be long?”

“We will not be long,” Bear Claw responded. “I have only a few more words to speak to your father.”

The young girl soon returned to the village, the two men watching until she entered the camp. Bear Claw then spoke once again to his son.

“My birthday celebration continues tomorrow, my son. I will not see the gray rider again, but I am told that you will. Tell him that I know he thinks of me with each day that passes, and I am most honored among red men. Today has been a good day!”

Stalking Moon nodded in agreement. “A long awaited day for you, my father. I am indeed most honored to be your son at such a time as this.”

Ed Winter and several of his drovers joined the others at the great lake, but Ed didn’t stay among them for very long. Those along the lower bank of the waters had been working to save as many of the cattle as they could. It was approaching 11pm and the moon was directly overhead, which aided them in their ongoing efforts. The majority of the outfit worked a little longer, until they had done about all they could.

Slim Woodson soon sent Donnie Crawford back to camp to talk with Ed Winter. Ed wasn’t in the best of moods—it was difficult for him to look at all those dead cattle, so he’d ridden on back to the chuck wagon to help the cook round up some coffee and biscuits for everyone. He wanted the food fresh and hot when the boys returned from their roundup. Donnie soon rode up into the main camp and located Ed.

“Mr. Woodson sent me over here, sir. He says we’ve rounded up near to four hundred head or more. He said he figured you lost maybe close to four thousand. He’s sendin’ three of the boys on up to that little valley with what remains of the herd. He said he’s real sorry about what happened. And he wanted me to tell you that in no time at all that herd will grow back to what it was. Him and some of the boys will be along for coffee directly.”

“Okay, Donnie,” Ed responded. “Cookie is makin’ some biscuits here. You pack most of ’em up and take some coffee to those boys headed up to the valley.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ed then smiled—a little difficult for him to do that at such a time. “You want to stay workin’ at that livery, or come ride with me and my cowpunchers?”

“Well—I—I figure Sam Waters really needs me right now, sir. He’s got a bad back and he’s got that stage line to keep runnin’. I’m not sure if…”

“That’s all right, son,” Ed interrupted. “You’re a good man. I’ll be openin’ a spread in that little valley up yonder. Gonna’ raise beef right around here, now. We’ll be seein’ one another. Now, you go on and get them biscuits and coffee delivered pronto,” he smiled.

Donnie nodded at the man. “Thank you, sir—I’ll do that.”

Most of the folk’s who had earlier gathered at the restaurant were still there—sitting on the front porch of the hotel, on the steps of the restaurant and along the front sidewalk, each of them looking up toward the mountain, the bright moonlight revealing its bold face. Lovella had offered a dining room chair to any that desired one, but most of the folk’s seemed content where they were, for the time being.

There had been some conversation among all of them as the events had unfolded on the mountain, and some tense moments among the gathering as well. But shortly before 11pm things got fairly quiet. Most everyone felt that Michael’s quest was a successful one. But, then again, no one really new for sure—no one except John Replogle.

Judge Dawson, Buck Grace, John Replogle and Sheriff Johnson were seated together alongside one another on the upper plank of the restaurant’s front steps. Lovella, Misty, Maggie, Margaret and Don Warner, along with Ed and Michelle Spencer were seated along the sidewalk, their feet hanging out over its edge into the street. Doc Mucci, Sam Waters, Claude Davis, Floyd Thomas and Charlie McCloud sat on the hotel porch—the only ones among the gathering who were seated in chairs.

Charlie McCloud removed that hat with its turned up brim and scratched at the top of his head, speaking at Sam Waters. “I sure am wonderin’ about that light we saw up there—you know, after it got real quiet? Then when that light went out, that old black cloud come off the mountain and whisked to the south of us, and then that’s when the ground started shakin’!”

He then spoke a bit louder, directing his words at others not so close by. “What was all that ground shakin’? You think that might have been an earthquake?”

Some of the folk’s there responded that they believed it was an earthquake. After all, they had experienced a large quake, just less than two years before, back in ’72. But no one knew for certain, once again, with the exception of John Replogle.

John was tired and soon stood up to head for home. Buck Grace said that he would ride along with him, his ranch just a bit east of John’s. They started toward the livery to saddle up their horses, when John suddenly stopped and turned toward all the folk’s seated along the front of the hotel building. He figured he’d better let them know what was going on. After all, folk’s should know the truth, and he somehow felt that Michael had entrusted that duty to him.

“Listen up here, folk’s. That wasn’t an earthquake. And that dark cloud was more than likely the evil spirits that were cast off the mountain. They were allowed an escape, if you will. God is the one who determines the fate of evil spirits, and sometimes he spares certain ones of them until the great judgment, allowing them to roam free.”

John then paused a moment and looked at Buck. “Let’s go over and sit back down again for a bit. This may take a while.”

The men then moved out of the street and sat once again in their former seats on the steps at the front of the restaurant. The folk’s around them were attentive to John’s words. Lovella knew her Bible too, and those words would be strength to her. Others in that crowd read the Good Book as well, so they weren’t really about to hear anything new—they would just see it brought to life—perhaps for the first time. And ol’ Sam Waters? He would be writing it all down in that diary.

“Anyway,” John began, “those spirits that were cast off the mountain went into that herd of cattle south of town. Naturally they’re gonna’ stampede. I don’t know how many spirits there were, but I’m sure they ended up in a good part of that herd. That earthquake you felt was the stampede—I believe that Winter fella’ had over four thousand head of beef down there. That’s a lot of pounding against the ground. We’d feel the shaking up here in town, that’s for sure.

“They most likely ran toward the cliffs down on the Owens Lake and dove off the edge. The same thing is spoken of in the Bible, and happened during the time that Jesus was here on the earth. There was a man that had a few thousand evil spirits residing within him—called themselves ‘Legion,’ which can mean ‘many’—anywhere from two to six thousand, according to Roman history.

“When Jesus confronted the man, the evil spirits inside of him were scared to death, and asked Jesus not to torture them, which wasn’t his plan to begin with. They asked permission to enter a large herd of swine, feeding on the hillside, and he permitted them to do so. They entered the pigs, and the whole herd stampeded over a high embankment and were all drowned in a lake. The local folk’s were overcome with fear, and asked Jesus to leave their town, and so he did.

“Some folk’s believe the spirits went somewhere else after that, and some believe that they were all drowned; because they were inside the pigs that drowned. I tend to believe they went somewhere else, but I don’t really know. But what I do know is that they never came back and reentered the man that they were cast out from. That man changed his ways after that.

“The bottom line I believe is that the evil spirits atop our mountain are gone. Things are gonna’ change around here. Now, I don’t know if we’ll see Michael again, but I do know that we need to go over to the Indian village and get to know those people. Their legends turned out to be true. And they have a lot of knowledge about the earth and the animals and such things that we don’t—most of us.

“Michele Spencer there said it herself—regarding the difference between the medicines that we use and the ones the Indians use. They can teach us a lot. The Mexican folk’s have no problem associating with the Indians, and neither should we. I see some good days ahead for all of us. And I see a future for the mountain, and the town of Lone Pine. If you all have any more questions, I’d be glad to answer them for you—best I can, anyway.”

Up on the mountain the wolf had climbed down to the high plateau and stepped agilely across the rocks and then out into the meadow where Spirit Rider stood waiting. He was just a few feet from the horse when his appearance suddenly changed back into that of a man.

“Whoa,” he muttered, standing there naked. “I’d best get some clothes on.”

The horse nickered, and then spoke to the man. “Good to see you, my Master. Do we return to the town? The food is good in the stable—sweet stock is mixed in with the hay.”

Michael buttoned his trousers and slipped into his shirt. “No, my friend. We’ll spend the night here. I have to be here in this meadow just after sunrise anyway. After that we’ll head on down and make a couple stops just south of town. And shortly after that we’ll be headin’ home. But, there’s a bit of sweet stock in those saddlebags there—atop that rock. I try to stay ahead of your thinkin’. Let me go on and fetch you some.”

THE NEXT MORNING…

Chapter Fifteen

The first rays of the sun from the east painted the high peak of the mountain early in the morning. It was a radiant display, bright orange in color and extended across the upward face of the entire Sierra Crest. Just below those early rays Stalking Moon and the three fishermen had climbed into the high meadow below the summit block.

Stalking Moon stood in the lush green of the meadow, the fishermen along side him, and pointed to the northwestern edge of the plateau.

“There is the chute that will lead you to the top. It will continue across the north face, and I believe you will find your way to the top from the western slope beyond. This meadow is as high as I have ever been. Go in peace and conquer the mountain. You  will be remembered you for your quest.””

The men thanked Stalking Moon and then started across the meadow. In a short time they entered the boulder-strewn chute, out of his field of vision. He stood alone in the center of the meadow. All was quiet about him. The sky above the summit block was a royal blue, and to his east the sun now shone upon him. The early orange glow on the mountain increased in height as the rising sunlight moved down along its granite face.

A lone hawk appeared above him. It was a red hawk, and circled the high meadow in a wide ark. The great bird suddenly cried out—three times, its voice echoing among the high crags. The Indian then heard movement in the foliage behind him, and taking his eyes off the bird turned about at that moment to face his bear—the large grizzly that he had met as a boy.

The animal was perhaps thirty feet away and moving toward him. He steadied himself, his fingers on the bone handle of a knife that hung in a leather sheath at his waist. He tried to show no fear, but even in the chill of the morning a bead of sweat had quickly formed along his brow. He remained motionless, save for the tapping of his fingers against the antler bone.

The bear suddenly rose up on its hind legs not ten feet away from him. The animal stood close to eight feet tall, its font paws reaching upward just above its head, the claws erect. On the right paw two claws were missing—only stumps just above the pad remained. The bear seemed to be moving the remaining three, slowly back and forth—almost at a wiggle. It was as if he was reminding Stalking Moon of his loss.

At that moment the animal let out with a fierce growl, its snout pointing skyward. The huge bear then dropped back onto all fours with a thud. It then snorted and swiped at the ground with that disfigured right paw. Stalking moon started to withdraw the knife, but then abruptly dropped his hand and spoke to the bear, its head lowered for the charge and its eyes now fixed upon him—looking right into the man’s eyes.

“Forgive me, great bear. I am but flesh, and only fought to protect myself, as a young boy would do. I now believe that you were trying to protect me from the evil on the mountain. Let us now become one in spirit—for the evil is on the mountain no longer!”

He panted as he spoke to the animal, somewhat fearful of this immense creature, yet he stood his ground. He would not run away—no matter what the bear chose to do. This he had determined within his heart many years ago.

The bear then moved in closer, its eyes still upon the man. It looked at his face—at the scars along his neck. It gazed at those wounds for several moments, and then looked directly into the eyes of the man once again.

The bear snorted loudly, which immediately caused the Indian to flinch. The animal snorted again, lowering its head this time toward the ground. To the man’s surprise it then turned about abruptly and struck out across the meadow. It did not look back, and soon disappeared behind an array of boulders.

Stalking Moon breathed a deep sigh of relief, but then heard another sound directly behind him—an approaching horse. He turned about to face Michael, riding atop Spirit Rider. The man tipped his hat as he reined in near the Indian. A smile broke out on the face of Stalking Moon, who then wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Gray rider—it is good to see you!”

“And I you, Stalking Moon,” Michael nodded. “Where’s your mount?”

“He waits on the lower plateau within the meadow. That is where I met early with the fishermen, long before the rising of the sun—even before the dawn approached the mountains to the east. You are still here on the mountain. I thought you would be gone with the passing of the moon?”

“Not hardly. I didn’t want to miss your encounter with the great bear. Looks like it went well.”

Michael then sat erect in the saddle, looking about him at the beauty and majesty of the mountain. He spoke again at the Indian, but continued with his observations.

“It’s nice to see this white granite up close in the daylight. It’s quite a beautiful thing that was formed here—all these crags and such. I wasn’t around here of course when the floodwater’s poured over the land. I watched from afar, though, and I could see when the mountains here were formed up. They’re parallel with the ocean ridges, yonder, from which they slid, leavin’ some wide and deep trenches in between. All that’s covered with saltwater now.”

He then looked back at Stalking Moon. “Oh, I ’spect it will be a while before folk’s learn about that—and I ’spect there’ll be a heap of arguin’ over it,” he smiled. “Some folk’s tend to think they know more than God, and since this is still Satan’s domain, I figure that majority will rule. They’ll spread their ideas throughout the land, not knowin’ what really happened here—it’ll end up in books that fill the minds of future generations with some real nonsense—in one form or another.”

“I do not understand these things you speak of,” the Indian responded, his hand against his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at Michael.

“Well, it won’t affect you, Stalking Moon—not in your human lifetime. But, before God wraps things up on this present earth, the world will be a crazy place to live in, and an ignorance of truth will abound. Some sad days ahead, that’s sure—it’s all been written. But, good will prevail in the end. And folk’s like you and others over the centuries will have been a part of that good. That’s the bottom line to my way of thinkin’.”

“Where do you go now, great warrior?”

“Oh, I have some things to tend to south of town. You go back down and get your horse and then ride on down to those boulders just west of your village—where you and I talked before. You wait there a bit. I’ll see you again.”

Michael then reined his horse about and rode out of the meadow, headed back toward the lower elevations. Stalking Moon stood in the meadow for a time, thinking about the things that Michael had said to him. For sure some things confused him. But he soon set them aside—he had met with the great bear, which was most important to him at that time.

And it was very important. The year of the bear was foretold in the legends passed on to his father, and then on to him. The legends said that in the year when the evil would depart from the mountain, that a red man and a bear would become one in spirit, and the anger between them would be no more. The animals on the mountain also would be free from the ravages of man, and the birds would nest in the trees and upon the rocks, unafraid.

Standing Moon soon began his trek back down the mountain, hiking leisurely back toward the lower plateau where Wind Spirit awaited him. Now far ahead of the Indian, Michael and Spirit Rider stopped in the lower meadow for a few minutes to meet with Wind Spirit and to offer him some nuggets of sweet stock, which Michael carried in those saddlebags.

Judge Dawson and Sheriff Johnson sat at breakfast with several other close friends at the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant. In the middle of that breakfast the judge stood up and addressed everyone who was seated in the dining room. There were quite a few folk’s in there on that Monday morning, which was a good thing with relation to what the judge was about to present to them.

“I’m glad there are so many here—it’s a beautiful day out there, isn’t it? The sun shining so very brightly, the skies above the mountains exceptionally clear, and then there are all of these fine folk’s in town, who have chosen to eat their breakfast within the walls of this grand establishment, and...”

“Just get to the point, Judge,” Ben whispered. Some overheard his comment and laughed out loud.

The judge cleared his throat. “As I was saying—since so many are here, I would like to announce that a group of us will be going over to the Indian Reservation later on this morning, in honor of Chief Bear Claw’s annual birthday celebration. Jerry Garcia has arranged for us to meet with the Indians, and I believe that this very first meeting of the townsfolk with the natives will prove to be beneficial for the city of Lone Pine and its residents.”

The judge glanced over at Ben momentarily before continuing with his words. “I for one have recently learned a most valuable lesson regarding our relationships with our neighbors. People who share all things with one another, and who help one another along life’s journey, will be rewarded both in this life, and the next.”

Lovella and Misty were standing just inside the kitchen door when the judge had finished his words. They immediately stepped into the dining area where both of them began to applaud. Everyone seated in that dining room soon joined in with them. The judge, somewhat overwhelmed, held up his hand.

“Please—please, and thank you for this kindness. I want to add that anyone who chooses to go along with us today is more than welcome. What’s the saying—the more the merrier?” the judge then exhibiting a wide grin on his face. “This will be a most wonderful experience—for all of us!”

The applause then resounded. Some whistled out at the judge, while Jim Boyce threw his wig high into the air against the ceiling, shouting a bold ‘ye-haw’ among the crowd. Misty’s dog suddenly barked out from the kitchen. Margaret Warner’s young daughter then cried out so that all could hear her:

“Merry Christmas!”

Margaret was taken aback, but responded softly. “It’s not Christmas yet, Sonja.”

The young girl smiled. “It feels like it, mommy.”

Everyone then began laughing and chattering pleasantly with one another, and from table to table discussed the upcoming event while they carried on with their breakfast. Ol’ Sam Waters was still writing everything down in that diary.

When Michael quite sometime later reached the base of the mountain, he reined south and headed across the hills toward John Replogle’s place. John was saddling his horse when the man rode in. John was more than honored to see him. Michael reined in just outside the corral where John stood. He tipped his hat at the man.

“Mornin’, John.”

John nodded in response. “Michael—I want to thank you for all that you’ve done. I just don’t seem to have the words that would genuinely express everyone’s…”

“I know, John. I know how you feel, and I’m obliged. You take care of yourself and each of your critters here a’ bouts. Give the townsfolk my best, and you tell Bear Claw that I’ll see him again one of these days.”

“I was just saddling up to meet with the townsfolk. We’ll be goin’ over to the village around the noon hour. The Judge has it all arranged. We’re going to celebrate Bear Claw’s birthday. The folks’ are pretty excited about it.”

“I know that, John, and I’m real pleased about it myself. You see that it becomes a habit, huh?”

“I will, Michael.”

“I’ll be ridin’ on. You take care, John.”

John was just a bit choked up at that moment, and couldn’t get any more words out. Michael reined about and headed southeast. John watched him until he rode among the rocks and on out of sight, then cinched up the saddle on his mount and led him out from the corral.

He looked in the distance one more time for Michael, to no avail, then mounted up and headed toward town. It wasn’t easy seeing Michael ride off—he wouldn’t forget the man—not for a minute.

Stalking Moon had reunited with Wind Spirit in the lower meadow and now approached the tall rocks at the base of the mountain, where he and Michael had talked just two days before. The Indian reined in near the outcrop and dismounted. Still thinking about his encounter with the great bear, he climbed to the top of the tallest rock and stood facing the mountain. He then raised his arms into the air, singing and chanting:

“Hey-ya-ya-ya-ya, ho-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya-ya! Hey-ya-ya-ya-ya, ho-ya-ya-ya, hey-ya-ya-ya-ya!

I thank you, oh Grand Father—for making me a brother to the great bear!  I have longed for this day, oh Great One. Thank you for my earthly father, who taught me the path to walk in this life. I am your servant forever!”

At that instant a great, white cloud appeared above him and within just moments in time had completely overshadowed and surrounded the man. His mount down below then whinnied, looking upward for its master—but the animal could sense that the man was no longer there! The great cloud had quite suddenly disappeared and the sun now shone brightly against the bold face of the rock upon which the man had been standing. So incredibly bright was the sunburst upon that rock that the flare bleached the dark, brown stone to a golden tan within seconds. This radiant burst of light then abruptly faded; the sunlight above resuming its normal appearance.

Wind Spirit then turned about and was soon at a full gallop, his ears perked in fear as he ran amid the rock-strewn terrain and on toward the Indian encampment, still some distance to his east. A great thundering of his hooves could be heard within the village as he continued the approach. But once again a white cloud suddenly appeared directly above, which promptly overshadowed the animal, engulfing him within its midst in an instant. The cloud then disappeared as quickly as it had formed, and the horse was no longer there—only the animal’s fresh hoof prints in the dirt remained, and according to the villagers, it was quite a stride.

Just a short time later Michael reined in at Buck Grace’s ranch. Buck was saddled up and just about to ride into town. He was leading his horse out from the corral but was taken aback when he suddenly observed Michael. The tall, lean rider dressed in black sat on his horse just a few feet to the front of him. Buck cleared his throat and spoke at him.

“This is the first time I’ve ever laid eyes on you, stranger, but I sure know who you are. That horse of yours is a dead giveaway—I mean a live one—I’m a little tongue tied at the moment,” Buck gasped.

Michael smiled, weaving the reins of his mount back and forth between his fingers. “No need to be. You’re the last on my list to talk to before I ride off. I know you sculpture in wood, Buck, and you do a fine job. Just wanted to let you know that they’re diggin’ in Death Valley over yonder—a white mineral they call gypsum.”

“I’ve heard they’re findin’ all kinds of minerals over that way,” Buck responded. “Don’t know much about gypsum, though.”

“You need to look into it, Buck. Once they learn to process it, you can sculpture in it. Your work ought to become right popular after that. You’re a fine artist. You give God’s creatures quite an honor. Owls and birds, bears and wolves and such will look real fine on gypsum. It takes to paint real good, too. You take care, Buck.”

Michael then reined about to head south. Buck suddenly hollered out at him as the man rode off.

“Thank you—thank you…Hey—what was that sunburst all about just a bit ago?”

His mouth suddenly went dry. He swallowed once, still a bit shaken by the man’s presence. He afterward wiped at his brow and soon regained composure. He then picked up the reins of his mount and swung up into the saddle.

Buck watched Michael ride off for a brief time, still a bit taken aback, then kicked up his horse and headed toward town, his long hair flowing in the wind.

Michael continued to ride south. He crossed Tuttle Creek and rode by the fishermen’s camp. No one was about. He rode another mile to the top of a small rise, still headed south. There he dismounted and stepped away from his horse. He then looked up into the sky, where a white cloud had suddenly formed just above him. There was a grin on his face as he looked toward Spirit Rider.

A moment later the cloud descended and completely engulfed the animal. He could be heard nickering within the veil for a brief time, but stopped abruptly when the cloud suddenly disappeared from around him and lingered no more. The horse looked about and saw Michael, who then approached him once again. The man reached up and placed a hand on the snout of the animal, rubbing at it gently.

“You are spirit now, Spirit Rider,” he smiled. “No more pain, no more sore hooves—you can wallow in them mesquite thorns all you want, big fella’.”

The horse then spoke audibly. “Thank you, my Master.”

“I am no longer your master either. The Most High is your Master. We’re partners—I am your friend, and always have been, but there is no rank between us anymore. We are one.”

Michael then looked to the north. “Your brother approaches in a whirlwind. He is now spirit as well. Stalking Moon rides upon him, and the man is my new armor bearer—my comrade-at-arms in the great war,” he smiled.

A thick cloud of dust soon whipped up from the floor of the high desert rise upon which they stood. Moments later when that broad whirlwind subsided and the dust had cleared, there was Stalking Moon, sitting atop Wind Spirit. He soon nudged the animal forward toward Michael and his horse. Both animals then nickered when the Indian drew near.

Michael looked up at Stalking Moon as the man’s mount came to a halt just beside him.

“You ready?”

“I am indeed ready,” the Indian nodded.

Michael then swung onto Spirit Rider’s bare back. The saddle was now gone, as was the deerskin jacket, the bedroll, the saddlebags and the Sharps carbine. Michael retained his present dress, as did Stalking Moon his deerskin clothing. The three eagle feathers remained in the Indian's hair as well. Michael then tilted the brim of his hat down just above his eyes.

“Let’s ride!”

The horses bolted off at that moment, down the gentle slope of the hillside they ran and soon reached a full gallop on the high plain. The horses and their riders, side by side as they rode away, gradually faded from sight as they distanced themselves from the rise. In just moments neither the riders nor their mounts could be seen any longer—there was only a trail of dust on the vast plain. It lingered in the air for a bit, and then faded away as well.

This story is not over just yet…

Epilogue

On Monday, August 18, 1873, the three fishermen—Johnny Lucas, Al Johnson, and Charlie Begole reached the summit of Mt. Whitney, highest mountain in the continental United States. Those men left what they called a fisherman's marker up there on top, and thus named the great mountain ‘Fishermen’s Peak’.

Just a few days later sheepherders William Crapo and Abe Leyda reached the summit. Then on September 6, Crapo and Leyda, along with Tom McDonough, Carl Rabe and W.L. Hunter, returned to the summit, establishing the third recorded ascent. Explorer Clarence King finally reached the summit on September 19, 1873, after numerous failed attempts, which were prior to August 18 of that year—before Michael came.

Well known Sierran John Muir climbed Whitney in 1873 as well, but failed to reach the peak on his first attempt due to extremely cold temperatures and fatigue. His next attempt was successful, and he reached the summit at 8am in the morning on October 21, 1873. Muir’s climb was exceptional by today’s standards; the hike took him just three days ’round trip, starting on foot from the town of Independence, some 15 miles away.

In the years following those early ascents of Mt. Whitney, a controversy developed over the peak’s official name. The people of Lone Pine and the surrounding area knew it as ‘Fishermen’s Peak’. On the other hand, the California Geological Survey knew it as ‘Mt. Whitney’, as named by the Brewer party of 1864, who had never reached the summit. The people of Lone Pine thought the right to name the peak should belong to the very first group to climb it, and rightly so.

The name controversy was eventually settled by the Governor of California. On March 28, 1878, Inyo County Assemblyman Moffat introduced a bill to make the official name ‘Fishermen’s Peak’. This bill passed the Assembly and reached the State Senate on April Fool’s Day, 1878. It is not known if the Senators were in a frivolous mood, but they amended the bill to read ‘Fowler’s Peak’, after one of their colleagues.

The amended bill passed the Senate and was sent to the Governor of California for signature, but he vetoed it on the grounds that it was frivolous. The name ‘Mt. Whitney’ thus remained on the official records of the Geological Survey, as well as on early maps of the area. Local usage of ‘Fishermen’s Peak’ eventually died out, and to this date ‘Mt. Whitney’ has similarly survived other attempts at renaming it.

For a while the local press referred to the mountain as the ‘Dome of Inyo’, and much later there was an attempt to name it ‘Mt. Churchill’ (after England’s great statesman). But the name ‘Mt. Whitney’ is official, and it has long been generally accepted. However, from its early history and even until today the local Indians still deem it the ‘Rock of Thunder’.

The first recorded female ascent of Mt. Whitney occurred in 1878. The women were members of a group on mountain holiday from the town of Porterville. On August 3, 1878, Hope Broughton, Mary Martin, Anna Mills and a Mrs. Redd (first name?) were the first women to reach the summit of Mt. Whitney. One of these women, Anna Mills, is deserving of further notice…

In a report published by the Mt. Whitney Club Journal, she described herself as ‘having been lame from early childhood’ and recounts that the others urged her not to make the trip. The extent of her lameness is not historically recorded, but it would seem that she has the further distinction of being the first handicapped person to make the climb.

In the years that followed Michael’s visit of 1873, Lovella Atwood and Misty McBride continued to run the hotel and restaurant. Lovella eventually excelled in arts and crafts and later taught classes to young and old alike. Maggie MacDonald retired from her work at the saloon and spent many years exploring the High Sierra. She often guided tours through Yosemite when it finally became a National Park. It is said that she and John Muir became best of friends.

Don and Margaret Warner, with the help of her father, Gwen Gardner, eventually opened up a hardware store, a lumberyard, and the Lone Pine Rock and Gift Shop. Ed and Michelle Spencer eventually sold the pharmacy and opened up a coffee shop to serve the incoming climbers and local residents. Charlie McCloud drove the stage until the late 1880’s, when he bought into a company that built carriages and bicycles. He sometime later invested in the inventive ideas of prominent men, who tinkered with motorized bicycles and early automobiles.

Sheriff Johnson remained in law enforcement for several more years, and eventually hired more men, who I am told later became the founders of the Inyo County Sheriff’s Department. Judge Dawson disappeared in the spring of 1874, while on a fishing getaway along Tuttle Creek. His camping gear and poles were recovered, but the man’s body was never found. The judge had a heart condition, and some folk’s thought he may have fallen into the creek and drowned, and was then swept away in the swift current.

John Replogle quit riding shotgun for the stage line shortly after Michael left. He continued to devote his time to both animals and people, in that order. John’s first love was always the critters. Floyd Thomas took over the shotgun rider’s position, until the stage line shut its doors in 1888. John’s nearest neighbor, Buck Grace, did find out all about gypsum, and his unique sculpturing in it eventually became well known around the country. Claude Davis often made deliveries for him. Gold and silver were also discovered in the area, and Darwin and its neighbors, including Lone Pine, once again boomed.

Cattleman Ed Winter and his foreman, Slim Woodson, built a ranch near the town of Independence, just north of Lone Pine. They raised a fine selection of beef for years, and supplied towns as far as Reno to the north and Barstow to the south. Horseman Donnie Crawford eventually left the livery and joined Winter’s cattle company; the BMW Ranch (Best of Mt. Whitney).

Sam Waters finished his diary late in 1873. He kept it until 1925, when at a very old age he accidentally knocked over a lantern in his cabin out in the Alabama Hills, just west of Lone Pine, which set the place on fire. The cabin burnt to the ground with Sam in it, but the diary was found later that year in a metal box hidden under some charred flooring. At the age of 95 the finder of that diary is still alive today, but in 1992 he traded it for a few rocks from the Lone Pine Rock and Gift Shop.

After Stalking Moon had left this earth to ride with Michael, his father, Bear Claw of the Shoshone, lived to see his granddaughter become a fine, young woman and a master in Native American craft work. She also worked often with Lovella Atwood. Bear Claw disappeared in the tall rocks just west of the Indian encampment in the fall of 1904. He was very old. His body was never found, but everyday, I am told, for many years following, a large red hawk could be seen atop the tallest rock near the encampment, the great bird calling out into the wind.

LONE PINE TODAY

The cultural blend in Lone Pine today includes Caucasian, Hispanic, Black American and Native American, as well as a few others—all bound together in their love for the high lonesome. They celebrate holidays and other festivities together at various annual gatherings, reviving the American traditions that Margaret Warner spoke of almost 140 years ago.

The town itself has changed structurally over the succeeding years since that grand redemption of the mountain, but a few of the people have not. In fact, local Native American’s tell me that there are certain people who haven’t aged for some time. Longevity? I perhaps may be one brick shy of a full load in my thinking, but I truly believe that! And here’s why…

There’s a ‘Don and Margaret Warner’ in the town who now operate three locations—Gardner’s Hardware (Margaret’s maiden name), Gardner’s Lumber, and the Lone Pine Rock and Gift Shop. These unique facilities, which display many ‘hard to find’ sale items, are located along the main street (Hwy 395) of Lone Pine. There are plenty of uncommon rocks in the ‘Rock and Gift Shop’—from all parts of the USA and around the world. Lots of crystal, too.

A man in town by the name of ‘Buck Grace’ carves gypsum, his rare creations found in Studio Too, located within a mall just next to the Chamber of Commerce (Main street, Hwy 395). Buck has long, white hair, and busies himself daily in the carving of North American wildlife subjects, specifically the native creatures of Inyo and Mono counties. The man’s sculptures are, to say the least, magnificent works of art.

There is also an ‘Ed and Michelle’ Green (a.k.a. ‘Spencer’), who operate the Lone Star Bistro, an espresso coffee shop that offers a grand variety of coffee’s, baked goods, and an assortment of flavorful ice creams. Gift items are sold in the shop as well. It is located at 107 N. Main Street (Hwy 395).

There is a ‘Lovella Atwood’, who works in the rock shop. She maintains the unique displays there and is an expert in décor. There is also a ‘Misty’ (last name?), who works at the Mt. Whitney Restaurant, right next door to the rock shop, at 227 S. Main Street (Hwy 395). They are best of friends. Then there’s a ‘Maggie’ (last name?), who works both at the hardware and the rock shop (operations run by Don and Margaret Warner). Maggie is best of friends with Lovella and Misty as well.

There’s a ‘James Dawson’ (remember the judge?). Jim tells me that he is the great-grandson of Judge Dawson, who spoke with Michael inside the Lone Pine Hotel and Restaurant  (no longer exists) in 1873, and later turned up missing from his favorite fishing hole along Tuttle Creek. The great-grandson currently works at the hardware, again the same one that is currently operated by the Warner’s.

And guess what? A ‘John Replogle’ works at the hardware as well, and the man does keep to himself! And that’s for sure an uncommon name. Are all these names (other than that of James Dawson) just coincidence, or what? These names were all written in the old diary that I purchased from the rock shop. The diary was atop an old, dusty shelf, hidden under another book when I found it. Most of the pages in that diary had remained intact after the fire of 1925, but unfortunately the diary, I’m sorry to say, is no longer in my possession—it no longer exists.

In October of 2010 I was camping at Tuttle Creek, deep in the study and research of this strange tale, when a faulty propane heater suddenly exploded near my face. I ended up with a few first and second-degree burns on my skin, but my ‘Northwestern’ dome tent disintegrated in a flash—melted before my very eyes. I soon discovered that the diary, which I had earlier placed atop my cot in the tent, was nothing but ashes.

I wonder at times if everything happens for a reason? I believe that is true, but sometimes it’s difficult to understand. The diary is gone, yet I was able to write the story from recollections of what I had read, and from a variety of other sources—legend, oral accounts (hearsay), and my personal interest in the longevity thing. That one indeed intrigued me. It’s really not proper to ask some folk’s how old they might be, but one day curiosity got the best of me.

I had been allowed to do book signings on occasion in front of the Lone Pine Rock and Gift Shop. The lady, whom I will call the ‘present day’ Margaret Warner, works there on occasion, filling in for her employees on their days off. I walked up to her one day and asked her: ‘Are you the Margaret Warner in the diary of old? Is there any way you could be, at the very least, near to one hundred sixty years old? You sure don’t look it.’

There was for sure an immediate look of guilt on her face, and she didn’t respond for a few moments—that was a shock! She looked around the room a little bit, and then turned and looked at me through narrowed eyes over-top her eyeglasses and said these words: ‘One should always tell the truth in life, but sometimes I wish I had never left that darn rope around that old rusty anvil!’ —She then looked away and told me that was all she had to say.

I have never questioned her again on the matter. It doesn’t seem right somehow. But now, dear reader, the story is in your hands—‘Three Days in Lone Pine, an untold tale of the High Sierra, circa, 1873’. Could it be that these folk’s association with Michael gave them just a little more time?  Do you believe in the power of angels? It happened to Tom Hanks in ‘The Green Mile’—longer life. I don’t doubt that it is possible.

Mt. Whitney is now one of the most popular hiking areas (11 miles one-way to the summit) in the entire United States, hosting folk’s from countries all over the world as well. Visitors come into Lone Pine year ’round. It’s quite an inspiring little town—to say the least. And it’s all here—what I’ve described in this book, and more. Mt. Whitney, the Alabama Hills and the town of Lone Pine have been featured in hundreds of motion pictures, and there are picture post cards galore!

There’s also the Mt. Whitney Hostel, on Hwy 395 just across from the Rock and Gift Shop, which is a hotel built especially for the younger groups of hikers and accommodates solo ones as well; both at a very reasonable price. There are probably near two-dozen hotels/motels in this relatively small ‘hiker’s town’. You can find all your rock climbing needs here also; including several ‘practice/training rocks’, located out among the Alabama Hills. Indeed, Lone Pine of the Eastern Sierra truly appreciates Mt. Whitney—the High and the Mighty!

I sincerely hope you’ll plan on visiting Lone Pine to hike the mountain, or perhaps just to browse the unique shops within its borders—as soon as you can. Maybe you’re one who might be bold enough to approach a certain few of these folk’s here a’ bouts and ask them… “Are you really…?”

THE END

References and Notes

1. Mortals have great importance in the overall scheme of things:

Matthew 10:29-31, Luke 12:6-7, 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, 7:23.

2. Michael: Jude 9, Revelation 12:7, Daniel 10:13, 21, 12:1.

3. Entertaining Angels: Matthew 25:35-40, Hebrews 1:14, 13:2.

.

4. Just and fair God: Genesis 18:20 thru 19:29.

5. Mystery of the ages: Ephesians 3:3-6. Matthew 13:34,35,

Romans 16:25, 26, Colossians 2:2-3.

6. Angels encamped: Psalm 34:7, Geneses 32:1-2, Matthew

18:10, Acts 12:7-11.

7. Baptism and the Holy Spirit (our divine nature): Acts 2:38-39,

22:16, Matthew 28:19-20, 2 Peter 1:4.

8. Confession heals: Psalm 51:17, James 5:16.

9. Lucifer: Isaiah 14:12-27

10. Michaels battles: Jude 9, Daniel 10:10-14.

11. Roaring Lion: 1 Peter 5:8.

12. Satan’s domain: Luke 4:5-7, 1 John 5:19.

13. Legion/demons: Luke 8:26-39.

14. The Mount Whitney Guide, copyright © 1990, 1994, by Paul

Hellweg & Scott McDonald, p.12-14.