He stumbled upon the treasure quite by accident. He was exploring the vicinity when he happened upon it. His first thought was, “This can not be real.” He approached it jadedly, not sure this was not some kind of trick; and that he was being observed. But, no one sprung from a concealed location, no one yelled for him to halt his advance; it seemed to be safe to move toward the treasure. When he arrived at the treasure, he bent down to touch it, just to make sure it was real. After one touch, he fled to better-known and safer environs.
That night he could not sleep for thinking of the treasure he had discovered. He thought and thought of ways he could explain the treasure to members of his tribe. If he suddenly showed up with it, anything he said would be suspect. One does not find treasure of this sort every day. No, he would have to think this through.
The next day he went to the area of the treasure, but dare not get too close. Instead, he peered at it from a distance. It was still there, and untouched. But for how long would it stay undiscovered? The fire burned in him to possess such a treasure. If not for the taboo placed on matters of this sort by the Law Giver, he could just claim the treasure for himself. But no, the Law Giver would never allow it.
As he tried to sleep the second night after discovering the treasure, he thought that perhaps the Law Giver would understand. Perhaps he should approach her, and tell her of his find. No, then if she forbade him from keeping the treasure, it would be lost forever. Perhaps he could bring it to his village and hide it from the Law Giver. But, where could he hide it, the Law Giver was all-wise, she knew all.
Then quite un-expectantly, he overheard the Law Giver speaking of the place he had found the treasure. This is what he heard, “When they moved out, they told me that they had left a few things behind, and if we wanted anything, we were welcome to it. I’ve been too busy to go over there, but I think I’ll take a look this afternoon. Maybe there will be something Joey might like.”
Something he might like. Something he might like! Was she toying with him? Did she indeed know of the treasure? Later that afternoon, his mother called Joey to the front of the house. He was not allowed far from home because he was only five years old, so he appeared right away. His mother said, “Look what I found next door where the Simms used to live. And there it was, the treasure!
His mother handed little Joey the bright red, toy fire truck that has caused him to lose so much sleep. You see, Joey was afraid his mother would think he had stolen it, even though it seemed to be abandoned. And in his house, stealing was the one thing his mother, the Law Giver, would never tolerate.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
DEAD
I’ve been dead for nine hours and thirty-seven minutes. Nine hours and thirty-eight minutes ago, I had my whole life before me. Allow me to start at the beginning.
I was standing outside my trailer; it was shortly after 8:00 am, when a police car drove onto my property. I live in far western Palm Beach County; my nearest neighbor is two miles away. I moved out here because I wanted to be left alone. So, the last thing I wanted, or needed, are police type hassles. Then I noticed something strange. Well, maybe not strange, but out of whack, not quite right. It wasn’t a County car; it was from a small municipality, Lake Worth. Now, only County cops have jurisdiction where I lived, so right away I smelled a rat. My first thought was, “This can’t be good,” and I was right; it was bad, about as bad as it can get, and it only got worse with each new development.
The officer got out of the car and approached me. When he got to within a few feet of where I was standing he said, “You Billy Doyle?” I told him yes indeed, that was my name, and asked what I could do to help him. He then asked me if I knew a Randy McClinton. With that statement, I breathed a sigh of relief; he was looking for someone, it had nothing to do with me. I told him the name was not familiar to me. Then any sense that this was not about me evaporated when he said, “You should, you assaulted him three nights ago.”
Then it dawned on me. It must have been that asshole who tried to pick a fight with me in Brownie’s. Brownie’s is a local bar I stopped into on occasion. I had been there on the night in question, when some guy I’ve never seen before, who doesn’t like the look of my face, or the cut of my jib, or maybe he was just in the mood for a fight, came up to me and said , “Why don’t you get your stinking ass out of here?” I could tell that he was three sheets to the wind, so I told him I would be happy to leave, and started for the door. He scrambled to get between the door and me, effectively blocking my retreat. By this time I had had enough, I was willing to leave peacefully, but this guy just wouldn’t have any of it. And I could tell, until I had satisfied his desire for blood, there would be no peace. But I didn’t intend to get myself battered and scraped just for his amusement. So, we’re there, toe to toe, face to face, and I turned to the barmaid and said, “How about another round darlin’?” With that, my would be opponent turns his head to see to whom I am speaking. And with that, I lay a haymaker right on his button. The fool goes down, and lays there spread eagle, so it was difficult not stepping on him as I made my way out the door.
As I came out of my reverie, I thought, “Brownie’s isn’t in Lake Worth, so what’s with the cop?” Then another thing struck me, how did this guy find me. As far as I knew, no one at Brownie’s knew my name, certainly not my last name. So I asked him, “How did you know it was me, and how did you find me?” He said, “Identifying you was easy. You showed your business card to the barmaid awhile back, and she remembered your name. She told me it’s her business to remember names; when she calls a customer by name, it increases her tips. And as to finding you, well, that was easy, when you have access to the computer down at headquarters.”
By now, my Irish wise ass was straining to be let loose. But, I held it in check; after all, it wanted to mix it up with a cop. So I respectfully ask, “First of all, what’s it to you?” And along with his answer, any hope that this was going to end peacefully flew out the proverbial window. “I’ll tell you what it is to me, the man you attacked is my baby brother.” So now I know two things, this is personal, and the whole family is made up of assholes.
Thinking I might win a few points by putting him on the defensive, I say, “I thought police computers could not be used for personal reasons.” He then forcibly disabused me of any such notion by saying, “Listen you little fuck; we cops can do anything we want. If I wanted to put a bullet in your ugly head right now, there’s nothing you could do about it. All I’d have to do is walk into your kitchen, grab me a knife, and throw it down next to your dead body. I would simply claim you attacked me when I came here to apologize for my brother’s behavior. When I’m in uniform, and on the streets, I am God. The only thing you have to worry about is how am going to even things up for my brother.”
As he was making himself into a god, I had time to take stock of the man who stood before me. He was about forty-five, overweight, his belly hung over his belt, and his hair was jet black; an obvious die job. He had short, stubby, sausage fingers, and a double chin, a most unattractive individual. I could also smell the cheap cologne he wore from ten feet away.
As he was wrapping up the deification of himself, my dog Mickey ran into the yard. That was why I was outside when the avenging angel pulled up. Every morning, as is our routine, I let him out to run, sniff, and pretend to hunt in the woods surrounding my trailer. When I saw Mickey, I started for the front door to open it and let him. I figured there was enough taking place already without throwing a dog into the mix. After opening the door, I turned to call Mickey, and saw what turned out to be my death, but at the time I thought it was to be the death of another.
I saw a smile cross that fat, evil face, as he looked at my dog, who by now had found something new to sniff, the police car. I started to call Mickey in, but had to wait a moment, he had his leg lifted, and was peeing on the left rear tire of the police car; I thought, “Good boy.” As I waited for Mickey to finish his business, I saw fatso unsnap the strap covering his gun, place his hand on the butt, and start to draw it from the holster. So, that was it, he was going to kill my dog, and claim he had been attacked! Without thinking, I reached my hand around the frame of the door for the baseball bat that I keep there just in case someone cannot be dissuaded from being on my front steps. He was four steps from me, and I covered them before he could draw a bead on Mickey. This time I was thinking, I didn’t want to kill him, only stop him from what he had in mind. Therefore, I swung, and aimed for the side of his neck. I knew from experience that a hit to that part of the body will knock someone out without killing them. And if he experienced what I experienced, he’d have a nice memory of all those pretty stars he had seen. Well, he went down like a sack of potatoes. For some unknown reason, I stooped down, looked at his watch, and made note of the time. That’s how I know the exact time of my death.
Well, I knew you can’t win with cops; no matter what I said, no matter what my motivation, I struck a police officer, and I struck the fucker hard. I was okay with that, but when he finished telling his story, it would mean many years in state prison for me. And I wasn’t about to sit in a box years on end. No, I would take the easy way out of this mess; get it done and over with in one day. Therefore I started doing what needed doing.
The first thing that needed doing was to get fatso off my front lawn. He was lying on his side, so I turned him over onto his stomach. I then removed the handcuffs from their container, and handcuffed his hands behind his back. Then I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him up the two stairs leading into my trailer, and through the front door. There, he was unceremoniously dumped on my living room carpet. Next I had to take care of Mickey. I called him in, and he went right for his would be murder’s face and gave it a good licking. My biggest concern was for Mickey, I had to get him off the property and safe; because in a very short while, all hell was going to break lose.
I called my neighbor, the one who lived two miles down the road. On the very rare occasions I had to go out of town, I had always left Mickey with him. They seemed to have a mutual admiration society for one another when they were together, of which I was not included. I told him something important had come up, and I couldn’t leave my property, I needed him to get his ass over here right away, and get Mickey. He said, he was on his way. That’s what I liked about Ben, you could count on him in a pinch, with no questions asked.
While I waited for Ben to arrive, I thought I’d get to know my guest a little better. For the second time that morning I had to roll that big tub of lard onto his stomach. I then extracted his wallet to find the proper manner in which he should be addressed. In other words, I wanted to know his name. I had trouble finding his driver’s license among all the crap he carried in his wallet. Once located, it gave me the name of the heap of humanity lying at my feet, Dilbert Chancy McClinton, what a handle!
Just as I ascertained old Dilbert’s name, I heard Ben drive up. I called Mickey to my side, and together we went out to meet Ben. Ben was just getting out of his truck as we exited the front door, but he didn’t notice us, he was enthralled with the police car standing on my front lawn, with the driver’s side door wide open. Ben finally noticed us when Mickey jumped up on him and licked his face. So Ben says, “What’s up?” while still staring at the police car. I tell him, “You don’t want to know, but I got a big favor to ask you. Can you keep Mickey indefinitely ?” He says, “Sure, you know how I feel about Mickey. But what’s up?” I say,” Ben, there’s bad, really bad shit going down, and it’s going to get a whole lot worse. I want to protect you. You haven’t been here today. They’ll have a record of my phone call to you, when they ask you about it, just say I called to say good-bye. You tell them you thought I was going on a trip, or something. I don’t think they’ll ask about Mickey, but if they do, tell them I gave him to you a week ago, and he is now your dog, and has been for a week. Unless they’re very vengeful, they’ll leave it at that. But please do all you can to protect him, without getting yourself in hot water.” He said, “You know my brother is a lawyer, they’ll have a goddamn hard time separating Mickey from me. But maybe my brother can be of some help.” I said thanks, but it’s beyond that now.” I told him to get going, I had stuff to do. We shook hands, and he and Mickey got into the truck. I walked around to the passenger side and got there just as Mickey stuck his snoot out the window. I cupped his head in my hands and nuzzled his snoot for a moment, before telling him to be a good boy, and mind what Ben says. As they drove off, a single tear trickled down my cheek.
Now to business, I went back into the trailer and checked on old Dilbert. Can you believe it, he was snoring! The son-of-a-bitch was napping while I had a million things to do. The first of those million things that had to be done was to call a local television station. I got information on the line and asked for Channel 9’s phone number. Once I had it, I called the station. When the phone was answered, I asked for the news department, then the assignment desk. The young lady who picked up the phone sounded as though she should still be in school, it made me feel old. Or, maybe I was just feeling old because of my situation.
I said, “Listen sweetheart, I’m only going to say this once.” She started to say something, and I cut her off, saying, “If you still want your job tomorrow, hear what I have to say. I have a police office held hostage in my home. His name is Dilbert C. McClinton, and he works for Lake Worth. Call the cops and give them this information and my telephone number. I know it’s showing up on your Caller ID.” She interrupted by asking, “But where are you?” I responded by telling her that I was sure there was a GPS in his car, and that the local constabulary would have no trouble finding McClinton, the big piece of shit. I then added, “You get a reporter and camera crew out here pronto, just follow the cops, that I know you people do very well.” With that, I hung up. I knew once she had called the cops every television station and newspaper in the county would be in on the story, maybe even the 24-hour cable news networks.
What next, what next, oh yeah, Dilbert! Before we were descended on by the barbarian horde, I had to get him up and functioning. But even before that, I had to ready him for a lesson in humility and empathy. He seemed to be semi-conscious by now, so I’d better do what I had planned right away. He was still lying on his stomach, so I had to turn the fuck over one more time. Once I got him situated on his back, I slipped his shoes off, unbuckled his belt, and removed his pants. I was happy to see he was a “boxer” man. It made what I had to do next a little less disagreeable. I grabbed the boxers from the bottom hem, and pulled. I left his socks on for two reasons; I didn’t want to touch those fat feet, and a man with nothing else on but a pair of socks is a rather ridiculous sight. Because I didn’t dare remove the handcuffs, he might have been playing possum, I went into the kitchen and got a knife, maybe the same knife he would have thrown down next to my dead body, and cut his shirt off his torso. Dilbert C. McClinton was now a sight to behold; nude as the day he was born, except for the socks. It was time to bring him around so he could participate in the festivities. I went to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water, returned to Dilbert, and with much glee, threw it in his fat face. As he came round I said, “And how is God feeling this morning?” Of course, he didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to; he just shook his head, as if to clear it. I wrestled him into a sitting position, and leaned him against the couch. He just starred at the floor, head bent down. I then grabbed him by his greasy hair, lifted his head until our eyes met, and said “Get your ass in gear you sorry son-of-a-bitch, we got company coming.”
I think it’s about time I filled you in on what I had in mind. First of all, I am not a violent man. I did what I did to save another life. If I had wanted to, I could have swung as hard as I could and hit him upside the head instead of the neck, but then I wouldn’t be sitting here about to start a conversation with the asshole. No, he’d be lying dead on my front lawn. So it was not my intention to do any physical harm to old Dilbert. But, if could fuck with his psyche, why not. The outcome may be a kinder and gentler Dilbert. I was going to make him believe that I was going to do all sort of horrible things to him. In fact, it was my intention that when I got through with Dilbert, he would be asking me to kill him.
Before I could get Dilbert’s undivided attention, the phone rang. I answered it without saying anything; I just waited for whoever was on the other end of the line to identify his, or her, self. What I got instead was a question “Is this William Doyle?”It sounded like a professional negotiator, I had read enough on how this shit goes down to know they don’t give a crap about you, but will come off as your new best friend in an effort to manipulate you into doing their biding. So, I had to set the tone of the relationship right off the bat. I said into the phone, “Listen, and listen good. I have a piece of shit in here that goes by the name, Dilbert C. McClinton. I also have his service revolver, and right now, he’s sucking on the barrel, so he can’t come to the phone. I’m already dead, so if you want a dead cop, just come busting in here.” With that I hung up the phone, turned to Dilbert, and said don’t despair, the Calvary is on the way.
Now, while we had a few minutes, I got to work on Dilbert. I sat in a chair opposite him, grabbed the business end the bat that was the cause of Mickey still being alive, and of Dilbert’s misery; and placed the small end under his chin and raised it until his eyes met mine. I said, “What would you prefer, being shot through the head, or having your spinal cord severed so that you’d be paralyzed from the neck down. Oh, and by the way, if you choose option number two, you’ll need a respirator to breathe.” With that statement, his eyes got as wide as they possibly could. “Dilbert old buddy, your pretty quiet for a god, say something. If you don’t choose, I’ll have to make the choice for you.” But before he could muster an answer, we heard the sirens closing in. “Well Dilbert,” I said, “Looks like you brethren are on their way.” As I said that, I picked up his gun and told him to open his mouth. I guess he didn’t quite yet appreciate his plight, so I struck him in the mouth with the barrel of the gun. Then I repeated myself. “Open your goddamn mouth.” This time he complied. I shoved the barrel in until he gagged, and said, “You’re going to be the first to go if any heroes show up.”A trickle of blood started to run down to his chin from where metal met flesh. However, I didn’t have time to enjoy the view; the first of our guest had arrived.
Within seconds the phone rang again, without removing the gun, I answered it by saying, “Speak.” And that is just what he did. I heard, “Is this William?” “That’s an inane question,” I responded. I reckon that response took him by surprise, because there was a hesitation on the other end of the line before I heard, “William, my name is Jack Kelly and I was wondering if you would like to tell me what the problem seems to be?” “Hey Jack,” I said, “We got no problem now; this fat fuck came out here to harass me, and threatened to kill me because I had a fight with his brother. If he didn’t have his mouth full I’d let him tell you what he’s doing out here in the sticks, when he should be patrolling in Lake Worth.” I wanted to leave Mickey out of it; they might track him down and use him as leverage against me. This also seemed to give Jack pause. He eventually said, “Anything can be worked out, why not let me come in there and talk with you?” To which I replied, “Sure come on in, but the first sound I hear, the first time my trailer sways in the wind, Dilbert C. has the back of his head ventilated. Hey Jack, let’s make this easy on both of us. You want your cop back, and I want to talk to the media, so just call me when they get here, and maybe we can wrap this circus up in time for you to get home for dinner.” He started to say something, but I hung up before he could articulate his thoughts.
Dilbert was getting kind of fidgety, so I thought I would do something to a alleviate his anxiety; I took the gun out of his mouth. Then I said, “Okay Dilbert, what’s it to be, blow you head off, or put one into your spine?” He finally lost it, and started blubbering like a baby. I would have felt sorry for him, but I had the vision of him taking aim at Mickey in my mind. I told him to buck up, be a man. I asked him how he thought the people he played God with felt as he was making their lives miserable. For there was no doubt in my mind that he had abused his police power on many, many occasions. I saw I wasn’t making any headway with him; he didn’t care about the others he had wronged. No, it was all about him, and I knew that when he got out of here, he’d just continue with his evil ways. So short of killing him, the only thing that might protect the public was to make it known exactly what kind of a stinker he really was. But, that didn’t mean I was not going to make the rest of the day a living hell for Dilbert C. McClinton, because that had been my intention all along.
Just then, the phone rang, and I picked it up and said, “What’s up Jack?” He told me the media was starting to arrive, and what did I have in mind. I said, “Jack, first things first, we’ve gotta have a little talk.” He asked, “What about?” And I proceeded to tell him, “I know you have at least one sniper out there, so get this straight, if you see an eyeball peering out a window, be careful, it will in all likely hood belong to Dilbert. The poor boy is so compliant with fear, I think he would do anything I asked. Next, the swat, or tactical team.” I went on to tell him that I knew those guys are itching to put their training to use, but keep in mind Waco and Ruby Ridge. By that, I meant the two prime examples of the government, and by government, I mean overgrown boys with a lot of toys (guns, explosives, etc …) attacking citizens, when the serving of an arrest warrant would have done the job. Why do the ATF, FBI, and their ilk go on “raids” wearing black ski mask covering their faces, and nothing to identify them as law enforcement personal? Why did the ATF deem it necessary to conduct a full-blown “invasion” of Koresh’s compound in Waco? He went to town every day, usually by himself, and always unarmed. Why did the US Marshall’s Service traipse through the woods of Ruby Ridge masked, and with M-16 machine guns? Why did they shoot a boy's dog, and later, was it really necessary to shoot a mother through the head, killing her as she held her infant son? Of course none of those acts were necessary, but the guys practice so long and hard. Besides they have all that firepower, which is such a joy to behold, but more of a joy to use.
I told Jack that if they wanted their cop back in one piece, just play it cool, let me tell my story, and then they could have Dilbert back. But let me hear any strange noise, I knew every sound my trailer normally made, and scratch one cop. I went on to tell him that I hadn’t even locked the doors. “The gun is cocked, and in his mouth. I could pull the trigger before a foot could be set inside my trailer.” Jack assured me that wasn’t going to happen. Yeah right, they would break down the doors and come in blasting given the slightest provocation, like its noon, and they want to wrap things up so they could go to lunch. I told him to call me when all the stations had their cameras set up. I continued by saying, “I want to say something on live TV, I’ll come out to my front step, and say what I have to say. But, before I do, I want to see the feed on my television.” I thought by telling them I was coming out to make a statement, the boys of the tactical squad would hold off for a while in the hopes of an easier target later on. Now, I did not intend to make myself a target for all the cops assembled on my front lawn. I mean, they were from as far away as Ft. Lauderdale. When one of their own is in trouble, the rest of us do not count. I wondered who was protecting and serving the good people in the officers patrol district whose car had the Ft. Lauderdale markings?
I did not have the heart to fuck with Dilbert further, he was crying and swearing to me he did not intend to harm my dog; “It was all a big misunderstanding.” So, I went into the kitchen and got a large grocery bag, one of those brown paper type. My plan was to keep Dilbert docile, so I had to inject some hope into his life. I told him that his pleas have touched my heart, and if he would be a good boy, he might make it out of this mess alive, and in one piece. That bit of news cheered him considerably; he nodded his head so vigorously I thought it might detach from his body. But to make sure he would not cause any trouble, I put the bag over his head and told him to just sit, and I would figure a way out of this mess for both of us. This way he would not be sitting there planning his escape by looking for the optimal moment to make his move. By that, I mean if he could follow my movements, he might see, and take advantage of, any mistakes on my part. Then on cue, the phone rang.
“What’s up Jackie?” was how I answered it this time. I wanted him to think I was feeling good that I was going to have my big moment on television. As I’ve intimated, it wasn’t going to be me making my debut on live television, but one, Dilbert C. McClinton. My old pal Jack informed me that they were ready, and if I would check my TV, I’d see the front of my trailer. I was told to “Turn to channel 9.” I did as I was bid, and low and behold, there it was, my little domicile. I told Jack, “Give me five minutes.” He said, “Okay.”
Now to Dilbert. I removed the bag from his head and told him to pay close attention to what I had to say. It was somewhat pitiful the way he tried to please me. He said, “Yeah, anything you say, you’re the boss.” I agreed with him, and told him to shut up and listen. “Dilbert, may I call you Dilbert?” “Yes,” was the reply. “The next few minutes are going to determine if I live to see a new day, and if you are confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Do you understand?” Another “Yes” from Dilbert. “Good.” “Now here’s the plan, you are going to stand on my front steps and tell the truth of why you came here, how you threatened me, and how I did not strike you until you drew your gun. You got that?” A third “Yes” came pouring out of his mouth. I didn’t bring up the dog, and I hoped he wouldn’t, but if he did, well there are a lot of dog lovers out there in TV land. Then I had to tell him the bad news. He would go out as he was, with only his socks on. He would be tethered with a line, so the front steps were as far as he was going to get. And most importantly, his gun would be trained on the small of his back the entire time he was out there, and if one untruth, one lie, came out of his mouth, then we would both be very, very sorry. I finished our little talk by telling him, if he did things right, he would be sent on his way. I knew he was thinking the entire time; he could say anything, and then retract it, claiming it was said under duress. That was fine with me, I just wanted the truth to get out.
I used Mickey’s extra long leash to tie Dilbert’s still handcuffed hands to a support column, which would keep him from taking off as soon as the door was opened. There was just enough play to allow him to reach the door, and maybe a foot further. Before opening the door for him, I checked the television, same picture. That stopped the production in its tracts. Were they just feeding a loop of an earlier shot to fool me into believing this was all going to go down live? After all, what would I know standing on my front steps, as they believed I would be doing very shortly. Only one way to find out, I threw to door open, and shoved Dilbert out into the limelight that was intended for me. I immediately stepped back and looked at the television. I need not have worried, this was too good of a story not to be covered live. There was Dilbert, not knowing quite what to do. He was as a deer caught in a set of headlights.
I knew I had to get Dilbert to focus. I said, in a menacing tone of voice, “Start talking, or I’ll start shooting!” With that he spilled his guts. He gave the whole story, even admitted he was going to kill my dog. When he had finished, I cut his tether, and told him to run. He hesitated a moment, as though he thought it some kind of trick. So I said, “Go you big piece of shit, before I shoot you in your fat ass.” With that he was gone. I didn’t think the fat fuck could move so fast. I closed the door and sat down on my couch to await the enviable.
There was no way I was going to get away with any of this. Even if every word Dilbert spoke was believed. I had humiliated an officer of the law, and for that, the law would come down hard on me. They had me for kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder just for starters. I was looking at 20 to 25 years, if I was lucky. As I’ve said before, I was not going to spend my life in a cage. As I pondering these things the phone rang. Who else, but my old friend Jack Kelly. Before he could utter a word I said, “How did a couple of Micks like us get ourselves in a situation like this?” He agreed with me that he had experienced better days.
I asked, “Are you going to arrest me after hearing Dilbert’s confession.?” I was told that Dilbert has already recanted everything he said. But, Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I believed every word, cops like him are an embarrassment to all us good cops.” I said, Jack ol’ buddy, cut the shit, if he was such an embarrassment he would be on his way to jail instead of me. To that observation, Mr. Kelly had no reply. “So what’s next,” I asked. “Well, are you ready to come out and give yourself up?” “Why don’t you come in here and get me?” And then I hung up.
So, that’s it. In a few minutes they’ll break in my door, and come looking for me. I won’t be hard to find, my couch, upon which I am sitting, is only a few feet from the front door. As I said at the beginning of this narrative, it’s been nine hours and thirty seven minutes since this nightmare began, and I’m tired. There they are, the first one is through the door, I lift Dilbert’s gun and point it at him. I do not intend to fire the thing, I hate guns. He sees me, turns his M-16 in my direction, and the last thing I hear is the rat-a-tat-tat of his weapon …
.
I was standing outside my trailer; it was shortly after 8:00 am, when a police car drove onto my property. I live in far western Palm Beach County; my nearest neighbor is two miles away. I moved out here because I wanted to be left alone. So, the last thing I wanted, or needed, are police type hassles. Then I noticed something strange. Well, maybe not strange, but out of whack, not quite right. It wasn’t a County car; it was from a small municipality, Lake Worth. Now, only County cops have jurisdiction where I lived, so right away I smelled a rat. My first thought was, “This can’t be good,” and I was right; it was bad, about as bad as it can get, and it only got worse with each new development.
The officer got out of the car and approached me. When he got to within a few feet of where I was standing he said, “You Billy Doyle?” I told him yes indeed, that was my name, and asked what I could do to help him. He then asked me if I knew a Randy McClinton. With that statement, I breathed a sigh of relief; he was looking for someone, it had nothing to do with me. I told him the name was not familiar to me. Then any sense that this was not about me evaporated when he said, “You should, you assaulted him three nights ago.”
Then it dawned on me. It must have been that asshole who tried to pick a fight with me in Brownie’s. Brownie’s is a local bar I stopped into on occasion. I had been there on the night in question, when some guy I’ve never seen before, who doesn’t like the look of my face, or the cut of my jib, or maybe he was just in the mood for a fight, came up to me and said , “Why don’t you get your stinking ass out of here?” I could tell that he was three sheets to the wind, so I told him I would be happy to leave, and started for the door. He scrambled to get between the door and me, effectively blocking my retreat. By this time I had had enough, I was willing to leave peacefully, but this guy just wouldn’t have any of it. And I could tell, until I had satisfied his desire for blood, there would be no peace. But I didn’t intend to get myself battered and scraped just for his amusement. So, we’re there, toe to toe, face to face, and I turned to the barmaid and said, “How about another round darlin’?” With that, my would be opponent turns his head to see to whom I am speaking. And with that, I lay a haymaker right on his button. The fool goes down, and lays there spread eagle, so it was difficult not stepping on him as I made my way out the door.
As I came out of my reverie, I thought, “Brownie’s isn’t in Lake Worth, so what’s with the cop?” Then another thing struck me, how did this guy find me. As far as I knew, no one at Brownie’s knew my name, certainly not my last name. So I asked him, “How did you know it was me, and how did you find me?” He said, “Identifying you was easy. You showed your business card to the barmaid awhile back, and she remembered your name. She told me it’s her business to remember names; when she calls a customer by name, it increases her tips. And as to finding you, well, that was easy, when you have access to the computer down at headquarters.”
By now, my Irish wise ass was straining to be let loose. But, I held it in check; after all, it wanted to mix it up with a cop. So I respectfully ask, “First of all, what’s it to you?” And along with his answer, any hope that this was going to end peacefully flew out the proverbial window. “I’ll tell you what it is to me, the man you attacked is my baby brother.” So now I know two things, this is personal, and the whole family is made up of assholes.
Thinking I might win a few points by putting him on the defensive, I say, “I thought police computers could not be used for personal reasons.” He then forcibly disabused me of any such notion by saying, “Listen you little fuck; we cops can do anything we want. If I wanted to put a bullet in your ugly head right now, there’s nothing you could do about it. All I’d have to do is walk into your kitchen, grab me a knife, and throw it down next to your dead body. I would simply claim you attacked me when I came here to apologize for my brother’s behavior. When I’m in uniform, and on the streets, I am God. The only thing you have to worry about is how am going to even things up for my brother.”
As he was making himself into a god, I had time to take stock of the man who stood before me. He was about forty-five, overweight, his belly hung over his belt, and his hair was jet black; an obvious die job. He had short, stubby, sausage fingers, and a double chin, a most unattractive individual. I could also smell the cheap cologne he wore from ten feet away.
As he was wrapping up the deification of himself, my dog Mickey ran into the yard. That was why I was outside when the avenging angel pulled up. Every morning, as is our routine, I let him out to run, sniff, and pretend to hunt in the woods surrounding my trailer. When I saw Mickey, I started for the front door to open it and let him. I figured there was enough taking place already without throwing a dog into the mix. After opening the door, I turned to call Mickey, and saw what turned out to be my death, but at the time I thought it was to be the death of another.
I saw a smile cross that fat, evil face, as he looked at my dog, who by now had found something new to sniff, the police car. I started to call Mickey in, but had to wait a moment, he had his leg lifted, and was peeing on the left rear tire of the police car; I thought, “Good boy.” As I waited for Mickey to finish his business, I saw fatso unsnap the strap covering his gun, place his hand on the butt, and start to draw it from the holster. So, that was it, he was going to kill my dog, and claim he had been attacked! Without thinking, I reached my hand around the frame of the door for the baseball bat that I keep there just in case someone cannot be dissuaded from being on my front steps. He was four steps from me, and I covered them before he could draw a bead on Mickey. This time I was thinking, I didn’t want to kill him, only stop him from what he had in mind. Therefore, I swung, and aimed for the side of his neck. I knew from experience that a hit to that part of the body will knock someone out without killing them. And if he experienced what I experienced, he’d have a nice memory of all those pretty stars he had seen. Well, he went down like a sack of potatoes. For some unknown reason, I stooped down, looked at his watch, and made note of the time. That’s how I know the exact time of my death.
Well, I knew you can’t win with cops; no matter what I said, no matter what my motivation, I struck a police officer, and I struck the fucker hard. I was okay with that, but when he finished telling his story, it would mean many years in state prison for me. And I wasn’t about to sit in a box years on end. No, I would take the easy way out of this mess; get it done and over with in one day. Therefore I started doing what needed doing.
The first thing that needed doing was to get fatso off my front lawn. He was lying on his side, so I turned him over onto his stomach. I then removed the handcuffs from their container, and handcuffed his hands behind his back. Then I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him up the two stairs leading into my trailer, and through the front door. There, he was unceremoniously dumped on my living room carpet. Next I had to take care of Mickey. I called him in, and he went right for his would be murder’s face and gave it a good licking. My biggest concern was for Mickey, I had to get him off the property and safe; because in a very short while, all hell was going to break lose.
I called my neighbor, the one who lived two miles down the road. On the very rare occasions I had to go out of town, I had always left Mickey with him. They seemed to have a mutual admiration society for one another when they were together, of which I was not included. I told him something important had come up, and I couldn’t leave my property, I needed him to get his ass over here right away, and get Mickey. He said, he was on his way. That’s what I liked about Ben, you could count on him in a pinch, with no questions asked.
While I waited for Ben to arrive, I thought I’d get to know my guest a little better. For the second time that morning I had to roll that big tub of lard onto his stomach. I then extracted his wallet to find the proper manner in which he should be addressed. In other words, I wanted to know his name. I had trouble finding his driver’s license among all the crap he carried in his wallet. Once located, it gave me the name of the heap of humanity lying at my feet, Dilbert Chancy McClinton, what a handle!
Just as I ascertained old Dilbert’s name, I heard Ben drive up. I called Mickey to my side, and together we went out to meet Ben. Ben was just getting out of his truck as we exited the front door, but he didn’t notice us, he was enthralled with the police car standing on my front lawn, with the driver’s side door wide open. Ben finally noticed us when Mickey jumped up on him and licked his face. So Ben says, “What’s up?” while still staring at the police car. I tell him, “You don’t want to know, but I got a big favor to ask you. Can you keep Mickey indefinitely ?” He says, “Sure, you know how I feel about Mickey. But what’s up?” I say,” Ben, there’s bad, really bad shit going down, and it’s going to get a whole lot worse. I want to protect you. You haven’t been here today. They’ll have a record of my phone call to you, when they ask you about it, just say I called to say good-bye. You tell them you thought I was going on a trip, or something. I don’t think they’ll ask about Mickey, but if they do, tell them I gave him to you a week ago, and he is now your dog, and has been for a week. Unless they’re very vengeful, they’ll leave it at that. But please do all you can to protect him, without getting yourself in hot water.” He said, “You know my brother is a lawyer, they’ll have a goddamn hard time separating Mickey from me. But maybe my brother can be of some help.” I said thanks, but it’s beyond that now.” I told him to get going, I had stuff to do. We shook hands, and he and Mickey got into the truck. I walked around to the passenger side and got there just as Mickey stuck his snoot out the window. I cupped his head in my hands and nuzzled his snoot for a moment, before telling him to be a good boy, and mind what Ben says. As they drove off, a single tear trickled down my cheek.
Now to business, I went back into the trailer and checked on old Dilbert. Can you believe it, he was snoring! The son-of-a-bitch was napping while I had a million things to do. The first of those million things that had to be done was to call a local television station. I got information on the line and asked for Channel 9’s phone number. Once I had it, I called the station. When the phone was answered, I asked for the news department, then the assignment desk. The young lady who picked up the phone sounded as though she should still be in school, it made me feel old. Or, maybe I was just feeling old because of my situation.
I said, “Listen sweetheart, I’m only going to say this once.” She started to say something, and I cut her off, saying, “If you still want your job tomorrow, hear what I have to say. I have a police office held hostage in my home. His name is Dilbert C. McClinton, and he works for Lake Worth. Call the cops and give them this information and my telephone number. I know it’s showing up on your Caller ID.” She interrupted by asking, “But where are you?” I responded by telling her that I was sure there was a GPS in his car, and that the local constabulary would have no trouble finding McClinton, the big piece of shit. I then added, “You get a reporter and camera crew out here pronto, just follow the cops, that I know you people do very well.” With that, I hung up. I knew once she had called the cops every television station and newspaper in the county would be in on the story, maybe even the 24-hour cable news networks.
What next, what next, oh yeah, Dilbert! Before we were descended on by the barbarian horde, I had to get him up and functioning. But even before that, I had to ready him for a lesson in humility and empathy. He seemed to be semi-conscious by now, so I’d better do what I had planned right away. He was still lying on his stomach, so I had to turn the fuck over one more time. Once I got him situated on his back, I slipped his shoes off, unbuckled his belt, and removed his pants. I was happy to see he was a “boxer” man. It made what I had to do next a little less disagreeable. I grabbed the boxers from the bottom hem, and pulled. I left his socks on for two reasons; I didn’t want to touch those fat feet, and a man with nothing else on but a pair of socks is a rather ridiculous sight. Because I didn’t dare remove the handcuffs, he might have been playing possum, I went into the kitchen and got a knife, maybe the same knife he would have thrown down next to my dead body, and cut his shirt off his torso. Dilbert C. McClinton was now a sight to behold; nude as the day he was born, except for the socks. It was time to bring him around so he could participate in the festivities. I went to the kitchen and filled a pitcher with water, returned to Dilbert, and with much glee, threw it in his fat face. As he came round I said, “And how is God feeling this morning?” Of course, he didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to; he just shook his head, as if to clear it. I wrestled him into a sitting position, and leaned him against the couch. He just starred at the floor, head bent down. I then grabbed him by his greasy hair, lifted his head until our eyes met, and said “Get your ass in gear you sorry son-of-a-bitch, we got company coming.”
I think it’s about time I filled you in on what I had in mind. First of all, I am not a violent man. I did what I did to save another life. If I had wanted to, I could have swung as hard as I could and hit him upside the head instead of the neck, but then I wouldn’t be sitting here about to start a conversation with the asshole. No, he’d be lying dead on my front lawn. So it was not my intention to do any physical harm to old Dilbert. But, if could fuck with his psyche, why not. The outcome may be a kinder and gentler Dilbert. I was going to make him believe that I was going to do all sort of horrible things to him. In fact, it was my intention that when I got through with Dilbert, he would be asking me to kill him.
Before I could get Dilbert’s undivided attention, the phone rang. I answered it without saying anything; I just waited for whoever was on the other end of the line to identify his, or her, self. What I got instead was a question “Is this William Doyle?”It sounded like a professional negotiator, I had read enough on how this shit goes down to know they don’t give a crap about you, but will come off as your new best friend in an effort to manipulate you into doing their biding. So, I had to set the tone of the relationship right off the bat. I said into the phone, “Listen, and listen good. I have a piece of shit in here that goes by the name, Dilbert C. McClinton. I also have his service revolver, and right now, he’s sucking on the barrel, so he can’t come to the phone. I’m already dead, so if you want a dead cop, just come busting in here.” With that I hung up the phone, turned to Dilbert, and said don’t despair, the Calvary is on the way.
Now, while we had a few minutes, I got to work on Dilbert. I sat in a chair opposite him, grabbed the business end the bat that was the cause of Mickey still being alive, and of Dilbert’s misery; and placed the small end under his chin and raised it until his eyes met mine. I said, “What would you prefer, being shot through the head, or having your spinal cord severed so that you’d be paralyzed from the neck down. Oh, and by the way, if you choose option number two, you’ll need a respirator to breathe.” With that statement, his eyes got as wide as they possibly could. “Dilbert old buddy, your pretty quiet for a god, say something. If you don’t choose, I’ll have to make the choice for you.” But before he could muster an answer, we heard the sirens closing in. “Well Dilbert,” I said, “Looks like you brethren are on their way.” As I said that, I picked up his gun and told him to open his mouth. I guess he didn’t quite yet appreciate his plight, so I struck him in the mouth with the barrel of the gun. Then I repeated myself. “Open your goddamn mouth.” This time he complied. I shoved the barrel in until he gagged, and said, “You’re going to be the first to go if any heroes show up.”A trickle of blood started to run down to his chin from where metal met flesh. However, I didn’t have time to enjoy the view; the first of our guest had arrived.
Within seconds the phone rang again, without removing the gun, I answered it by saying, “Speak.” And that is just what he did. I heard, “Is this William?” “That’s an inane question,” I responded. I reckon that response took him by surprise, because there was a hesitation on the other end of the line before I heard, “William, my name is Jack Kelly and I was wondering if you would like to tell me what the problem seems to be?” “Hey Jack,” I said, “We got no problem now; this fat fuck came out here to harass me, and threatened to kill me because I had a fight with his brother. If he didn’t have his mouth full I’d let him tell you what he’s doing out here in the sticks, when he should be patrolling in Lake Worth.” I wanted to leave Mickey out of it; they might track him down and use him as leverage against me. This also seemed to give Jack pause. He eventually said, “Anything can be worked out, why not let me come in there and talk with you?” To which I replied, “Sure come on in, but the first sound I hear, the first time my trailer sways in the wind, Dilbert C. has the back of his head ventilated. Hey Jack, let’s make this easy on both of us. You want your cop back, and I want to talk to the media, so just call me when they get here, and maybe we can wrap this circus up in time for you to get home for dinner.” He started to say something, but I hung up before he could articulate his thoughts.
Dilbert was getting kind of fidgety, so I thought I would do something to a alleviate his anxiety; I took the gun out of his mouth. Then I said, “Okay Dilbert, what’s it to be, blow you head off, or put one into your spine?” He finally lost it, and started blubbering like a baby. I would have felt sorry for him, but I had the vision of him taking aim at Mickey in my mind. I told him to buck up, be a man. I asked him how he thought the people he played God with felt as he was making their lives miserable. For there was no doubt in my mind that he had abused his police power on many, many occasions. I saw I wasn’t making any headway with him; he didn’t care about the others he had wronged. No, it was all about him, and I knew that when he got out of here, he’d just continue with his evil ways. So short of killing him, the only thing that might protect the public was to make it known exactly what kind of a stinker he really was. But, that didn’t mean I was not going to make the rest of the day a living hell for Dilbert C. McClinton, because that had been my intention all along.
Just then, the phone rang, and I picked it up and said, “What’s up Jack?” He told me the media was starting to arrive, and what did I have in mind. I said, “Jack, first things first, we’ve gotta have a little talk.” He asked, “What about?” And I proceeded to tell him, “I know you have at least one sniper out there, so get this straight, if you see an eyeball peering out a window, be careful, it will in all likely hood belong to Dilbert. The poor boy is so compliant with fear, I think he would do anything I asked. Next, the swat, or tactical team.” I went on to tell him that I knew those guys are itching to put their training to use, but keep in mind Waco and Ruby Ridge. By that, I meant the two prime examples of the government, and by government, I mean overgrown boys with a lot of toys (guns, explosives, etc …) attacking citizens, when the serving of an arrest warrant would have done the job. Why do the ATF, FBI, and their ilk go on “raids” wearing black ski mask covering their faces, and nothing to identify them as law enforcement personal? Why did the ATF deem it necessary to conduct a full-blown “invasion” of Koresh’s compound in Waco? He went to town every day, usually by himself, and always unarmed. Why did the US Marshall’s Service traipse through the woods of Ruby Ridge masked, and with M-16 machine guns? Why did they shoot a boy's dog, and later, was it really necessary to shoot a mother through the head, killing her as she held her infant son? Of course none of those acts were necessary, but the guys practice so long and hard. Besides they have all that firepower, which is such a joy to behold, but more of a joy to use.
I told Jack that if they wanted their cop back in one piece, just play it cool, let me tell my story, and then they could have Dilbert back. But let me hear any strange noise, I knew every sound my trailer normally made, and scratch one cop. I went on to tell him that I hadn’t even locked the doors. “The gun is cocked, and in his mouth. I could pull the trigger before a foot could be set inside my trailer.” Jack assured me that wasn’t going to happen. Yeah right, they would break down the doors and come in blasting given the slightest provocation, like its noon, and they want to wrap things up so they could go to lunch. I told him to call me when all the stations had their cameras set up. I continued by saying, “I want to say something on live TV, I’ll come out to my front step, and say what I have to say. But, before I do, I want to see the feed on my television.” I thought by telling them I was coming out to make a statement, the boys of the tactical squad would hold off for a while in the hopes of an easier target later on. Now, I did not intend to make myself a target for all the cops assembled on my front lawn. I mean, they were from as far away as Ft. Lauderdale. When one of their own is in trouble, the rest of us do not count. I wondered who was protecting and serving the good people in the officers patrol district whose car had the Ft. Lauderdale markings?
I did not have the heart to fuck with Dilbert further, he was crying and swearing to me he did not intend to harm my dog; “It was all a big misunderstanding.” So, I went into the kitchen and got a large grocery bag, one of those brown paper type. My plan was to keep Dilbert docile, so I had to inject some hope into his life. I told him that his pleas have touched my heart, and if he would be a good boy, he might make it out of this mess alive, and in one piece. That bit of news cheered him considerably; he nodded his head so vigorously I thought it might detach from his body. But to make sure he would not cause any trouble, I put the bag over his head and told him to just sit, and I would figure a way out of this mess for both of us. This way he would not be sitting there planning his escape by looking for the optimal moment to make his move. By that, I mean if he could follow my movements, he might see, and take advantage of, any mistakes on my part. Then on cue, the phone rang.
“What’s up Jackie?” was how I answered it this time. I wanted him to think I was feeling good that I was going to have my big moment on television. As I’ve intimated, it wasn’t going to be me making my debut on live television, but one, Dilbert C. McClinton. My old pal Jack informed me that they were ready, and if I would check my TV, I’d see the front of my trailer. I was told to “Turn to channel 9.” I did as I was bid, and low and behold, there it was, my little domicile. I told Jack, “Give me five minutes.” He said, “Okay.”
Now to Dilbert. I removed the bag from his head and told him to pay close attention to what I had to say. It was somewhat pitiful the way he tried to please me. He said, “Yeah, anything you say, you’re the boss.” I agreed with him, and told him to shut up and listen. “Dilbert, may I call you Dilbert?” “Yes,” was the reply. “The next few minutes are going to determine if I live to see a new day, and if you are confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Do you understand?” Another “Yes” from Dilbert. “Good.” “Now here’s the plan, you are going to stand on my front steps and tell the truth of why you came here, how you threatened me, and how I did not strike you until you drew your gun. You got that?” A third “Yes” came pouring out of his mouth. I didn’t bring up the dog, and I hoped he wouldn’t, but if he did, well there are a lot of dog lovers out there in TV land. Then I had to tell him the bad news. He would go out as he was, with only his socks on. He would be tethered with a line, so the front steps were as far as he was going to get. And most importantly, his gun would be trained on the small of his back the entire time he was out there, and if one untruth, one lie, came out of his mouth, then we would both be very, very sorry. I finished our little talk by telling him, if he did things right, he would be sent on his way. I knew he was thinking the entire time; he could say anything, and then retract it, claiming it was said under duress. That was fine with me, I just wanted the truth to get out.
I used Mickey’s extra long leash to tie Dilbert’s still handcuffed hands to a support column, which would keep him from taking off as soon as the door was opened. There was just enough play to allow him to reach the door, and maybe a foot further. Before opening the door for him, I checked the television, same picture. That stopped the production in its tracts. Were they just feeding a loop of an earlier shot to fool me into believing this was all going to go down live? After all, what would I know standing on my front steps, as they believed I would be doing very shortly. Only one way to find out, I threw to door open, and shoved Dilbert out into the limelight that was intended for me. I immediately stepped back and looked at the television. I need not have worried, this was too good of a story not to be covered live. There was Dilbert, not knowing quite what to do. He was as a deer caught in a set of headlights.
I knew I had to get Dilbert to focus. I said, in a menacing tone of voice, “Start talking, or I’ll start shooting!” With that he spilled his guts. He gave the whole story, even admitted he was going to kill my dog. When he had finished, I cut his tether, and told him to run. He hesitated a moment, as though he thought it some kind of trick. So I said, “Go you big piece of shit, before I shoot you in your fat ass.” With that he was gone. I didn’t think the fat fuck could move so fast. I closed the door and sat down on my couch to await the enviable.
There was no way I was going to get away with any of this. Even if every word Dilbert spoke was believed. I had humiliated an officer of the law, and for that, the law would come down hard on me. They had me for kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and attempted murder just for starters. I was looking at 20 to 25 years, if I was lucky. As I’ve said before, I was not going to spend my life in a cage. As I pondering these things the phone rang. Who else, but my old friend Jack Kelly. Before he could utter a word I said, “How did a couple of Micks like us get ourselves in a situation like this?” He agreed with me that he had experienced better days.
I asked, “Are you going to arrest me after hearing Dilbert’s confession.?” I was told that Dilbert has already recanted everything he said. But, Jack said, “For what it’s worth, I believed every word, cops like him are an embarrassment to all us good cops.” I said, Jack ol’ buddy, cut the shit, if he was such an embarrassment he would be on his way to jail instead of me. To that observation, Mr. Kelly had no reply. “So what’s next,” I asked. “Well, are you ready to come out and give yourself up?” “Why don’t you come in here and get me?” And then I hung up.
So, that’s it. In a few minutes they’ll break in my door, and come looking for me. I won’t be hard to find, my couch, upon which I am sitting, is only a few feet from the front door. As I said at the beginning of this narrative, it’s been nine hours and thirty seven minutes since this nightmare began, and I’m tired. There they are, the first one is through the door, I lift Dilbert’s gun and point it at him. I do not intend to fire the thing, I hate guns. He sees me, turns his M-16 in my direction, and the last thing I hear is the rat-a-tat-tat of his weapon …
.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
The Denéé
The People:
It was my second-and–a-half-year of being on the road when I met Jimmy of The Denéé. I had left home at 17 by coning my mother into allowing me to “attempt” to hitchhike to California. I told her no one was going to pick me up anyway, and after an hour or so I would be back home; so please just let me get it out of my system. I did not make it home that day; within minutes of sticking my thumb out, I got a ride. I knew I wanted to get to California, but had no idea which roads to take, so I just went anywhere the ride was going, as long as it was in a generally western direction. This was before the Interstate system was up and running. As a light breeze carries a leaf along on a current of air, I allowed myself to be taken wherever the cars that picked me up happen to go. I ended up in Peoria, Illinois on Route 66. Yes, I did travel that fabled highway on my very first foray into the world. Gallop New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, San Bernardino; I got hip to that kindly tip, and I got my kicks on Route 66.
That was more than two years ago, this day I was standing on the side of US highway 90, in the State of Arizona, heading east. My thumb in the prerequisite position awaiting the chariot that would get me that much closer to home, yes, I was going home. Of course I had kept in touch with the family, but at 19 I was a bit weary of going hungry, sleeping on the side the road; and when tired of hitchhiking, being thrown out of box cars in freight yards by the “bulls.” Little did I know that the next ride I got would delay my homecoming by two years.
It was late in the day, about two hours before the sun went down, which in the summer, in the desert, meant the time was about 8:00 pm. Just then, an old blue, broken down pickup truck stops with three men and a woman in the cab, they were squeezed in like the proverbial sardines of old. The guy hanging out the passenger side window yells, “Jump in,” meaning of course the bed of the truck. At that age I was good at following orders, so I comply with the command and hop over the tailgate; before I can get settled, the truck takes off, spurring rocks and pebbles in its wake.
I ensconce myself up against the cab facing backwards. As I get settled, I noticed the bed of the truck in which I’m riding is littered with half pint bottles of O’Neil’s Irish Whiskey, there must have a hundred or a hundred and fifty little bottles lying on the floor of that truck. Well, I think to myself, I see some Irish did make it this far west. My people hadn’t made it west of the Charles River in Boston. As a Mick, it did my Irish heart good to know I was riding with some Irish cowboys. Boy, was I wrong!
After about 15 minutes, the truck made a left off the paved road and I peeked around the cab to see where we were going. It seems we were going nowhere; they had pulled off onto an unpaved road, no, it was more like a wide trail. My friend, who originally told me to get in the truck, leans his smiling face out the window and says, “ It’s getting late, want a place to stay the night?” Now ordinarily hitching at night is no big deal, but as I looked at the deserted road we had just exited, coupled with the fact that it gets mighty cold in the desert at night, I meekly said, “Yes thank you.” With that, the driver hit the accelerator and off we went. This “road,” not being paved, was a bit hard on the old backbone, so I had to retrieve my sleeping bag and use it as a cushion between my rear end and the floor of truck.
Still facing backwards with my back against the cab, I had a vey nice view of where we’ve been, though I had no idea of where we were going. After I had settled down, and gotten more or less used to the jostling about, I heard a ringing sound, no it was more like the sound of chimes that were very far away. “What the hell is that,” I thought. It took a few seconds for me to realize the sound was coming from the floor of the truck; it was all those whiskey bottles. The fact that they were touching one another, and vibrating was causing them to make music! The tintinnabulation was in perfect harmony, which would build to a crescendo before settling down to the soft chimes I had first head. Those empty whiskey bottles did indeed make the ringing sounds of many small bells. I’m loath to use the word mystical; however, there is no other word that comes to mind to describe the music those whiskey bottles played for me as I was bounced around the back of that pickup truck. And that was not the only mystical experience in store for me that evening.
After what seemed a very long time we exited the trail onto a smoother road, though still unpaved. In a few minutes, the truck screeched to a stop, the person who had done all the talking got out, and told me that this was it, and I might as well get out. No sooner had I hit the ground, then the truck lurched forward, and the guy standing on the street with me had to jump back from being sideswiped. “Damn drunken Indians,” he shouted as the truck disappeared in a cloud of dust of its own making. It was then that I noticed the man standing in front of me was a full-blooded American Indian, or as is the custom of today, a Native American. He was slight of build, not much older then me, and had the most infectious smile I have ever seen on another human being.
After a half hearted attempt at dusting himself off, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Hi my name’s Jimmy.” He inquired if I had ever been on an Indian Reservation before. When I told him I had not, he said, “Welcome to Fort Apache Indian Reservation USGS Cedar Creek Quad, Arizona.” He then added to himself, and more as an after thought than anything else, “Quite a mouthful for a two million acre dump.” He told me they always come in the back way because, “The Tribal Police are such a pain in the butt, always messin’ with people, just because they can.” When I heard the words, Indian Reservation, I looked around and saw no teepees, no hogans, and no wigwams. The only buildings I did see were squat, little adobe buildings that were about six feet high. Jimmy pointed to the building in front of which we were standing, and said, “Home Sweet Home.” He then told me to get my gear, and suggested we get out of the street before some drunken Indian ran us down. He walked over and held the door open for me, telling me to leave my gear outside for now. As we entered, we both had to duck our heads so as not to strike them on the lintel of the door.
The first thing I noticed upon entering Jimmy’s home was an old lady who seemed to be preparing a meal. She looked up and said, “How dah.” “That’s my grandmother,” Jimmy said. He then added, “ She welcomes you to come in.” He explained as we were getting settled, that his grandmother spoke no English. The only piece of furniture in the room was a low table in the shape of a rectangle, about eight feet long and four feet wide. It sat about two feet off the floor, and situated around the table were mats, which were positioned on the floor, three to a side and one at each end of the table. Each mat was two feet long and two feet wide. The only other thing in the room that could conceivably be called furniture was the counter where Jimmy’s grandmother was working. It looked like it was built into the wall, supported by two legs, one at each end. Oh yeah, there was an old fashion wood stove in the far corner, but I did not consider that furniture. Jimmy pointed to a mat and said, “Sit, dinner will be ready shortly.”
I sat on one side of the table and Jimmy sat opposite me. I thanked him for his hospitality and asked him to thank his grandmother for hers. He asked me where I was going and where I was coming from. I didn’t go into details, I just told him I was traveling from California to Miami, which was my home. When I said Miami, he did a double take. He said, “Why that’s just down the road,” he added, “You could have walked there.” He was right there is a Miami, Arizona only a few miles from the Reservation. I apologized for being inaccurate or incomplete with my words, and told him it was Miami, Florida, which was my home. When I said that, his smile, which seemed to be continually on his face, broadened even more as he said, “Hot damn, that’s right there are two Miami’s.” I had to inform him that there were at least three that I knew of, the third being in Ohio. Jimmy got a big kick out of that. He had me talking about myself for about half an hour before I wised up and said, “Jimmy, you’re a great host. You got me yappin’ about myself when it’s I who should be asking you the questions. You know, you’re the first real Indian I’ve ever met.” And with a twinkle in his eye Jimmy asked, “Really how many fake Indians have you met?”
“Okay, okay, you know what I mean, tell me of your culture, your ways, your Medicine,” I responded. At the word Medicine the smile faded a bit, he looked pensive for a moment before saying, “Are you interested in our culture, in our Medicine?” “Damn right I am,” was my retort. I wanted to learn as much as possible from all the people I met on my travels. I considered the road my college, and the people I met my professors.
Well, he said the first thing you’ve got know, is never trust an Indian when he is speaking in his native tongue. I asked him what he meant. He then told me how when the film companies come looking for extras to play Indians in Westerns, the young men are always selected to play any speaking roles that may be in the script for Indians. He explained to me that a few years back, one of his brothers had two lines of dialogue in a movie. He said the way it works is that the assistant director is in charge of the “Indians,” and he will invariably tell those with speaking parts to, “Speak Indian when I wave my arms.” When asked by the actor/Indian what he should say, the AD will tell him, “Say anything, it doesn’t matter, no one is going to know what you’re saying anyway.” So, in what has become kind of a custom, the actor/Indian will insult the white man to his face. They always use the dirtiest words of their language. His brother looked the General straight in the eye as he told him, “Your mother is a whore, I have slept with her many times as your father looked on.” Jimmy went on to say that whenever a Western is playing at the Central Heights drive in, he and his friends pile into their pickups and go to the movies. And when an Indian speaks Na-Déné, the language of the Apache, they all laugh uproariously, great fun!
I told Jimmy that was an interesting tidbit, but wasn’t what I had in mind. He just smiled and told me he would fill me in during dinner, which was good timing because just then his grandmother put down a plate of rice and beans before each of us, and a plate of corn tortillas between us.
As we ate, Jimmy, slowly at first, began to tell me not of the Apache, but of his life. Both his parents were dead, they had died from liver disease, “Which is the fancy word for alcoholism,” he added. He had two brothers, both trying their hardest to follow in their parents footsteps. He on the other hand had sworn never to touch the stuff, not only because of what it had done to his parents, but because of what it had done to the Indian Nation as a whole. He told me that in some tribes the rate of alcoholism was over 80%! He had gone to college on a scholarship, but had dropped out during the second year. “They don’t teach you to think in those schools. They fill your mind with information and have you regurgitate it back to them in the form of ‘tests’. The information never stays with you, so what’s the point. If they only had a course in deductive reasoning, I might have stayed.” Jimmy went on to say, “Take History for example. When studying the War in the Pacific we were given only the American point-of view. I believe the correct way to tell of history, especially recent history, is to give the perspective of one side for the first half of the course. Then for the remainder of the course, give the other side’s version of events. Even bring in those who lived through that period in history to tell their side of the story, or better yet, the participants. Then let the students make up their own minds about history, no tests needed. I mean why did the Japanese attack Pearl Harbor. What did they have to fear from the Americans? They didn’t do it on a lark, I’m sure some hubris was involved; but we were basically told they did it because they were evil.” About now, Jimmy was getting up a good head of steam as he continued, “And what was the real reason for employing atom bombs on a people already defeated? Once again, we’re given only the American perspective. It would have been productive to hear the history of World War II from the Japanese point-of-view. Oh, and speaking of the Pacific Theater of World War II and Indians, did you know that in the first months of the war the American code was continually broken by the Japanese?” I told Jimmy, that no, I hadn’t known that. “Well, I’ll tell you how they fixed the problem,” said he. "They got Navajo Indians to speak their language, that’s what they did. The Signal Corp got every Navajo it could lay its hands on assigned to it, and deployed them throughout the Pacific. That was the end of any code problems for the rest of the war.” Thus having said what he wanted to say, Jimmy leaned back and smiled at me with that beautiful smile of his.
After being disillusioned with college, he had decided to learn the Medicine of his people. He told me of his teacher, The Wise One. He had been taught many things by The Wise One, and he would have brought me to his home as soon as we arrived, if he had not gotten ill and taken to the White Man’s hospital. He told me he had not been here when The Wise One was taken away. However, he had heard that he did not want to go, but was forcibly removed from his home. Jimmy then told me that he had subsequently gone to the hospital twice to bring him home, and both times was ejected from the hospital without being allowed to see him. The second time the police were called and he was told: that if he returned, he would be arrested. I told Jimmy that I was sorry his teacher had been taken to the hospital; I also did not trust hospitals to get you out alive. One hundred thousand people die in hospitals every year from illnesses that are iatrogenic in origin. The Wise One did indeed seem wise. Jimmy just sat across the table from me and nodded, his mind was somewhere else at that moment. He told me there wasn’t much else he could tell about the Apache, except that was not how they referred to themselves; Apache was a name given to them by the Zuni, it means “enemy.” They are known as The Denéé, which means The People. He said sometimes it’s spelled Diné, but pronounced the same. He went on to tell me that the people of his Nation where also know as Western Apache, and that about 6,000 members of The Denéé were living on the reservation at that time (1969).
By now, we had finished eating, and I picked up my plate to carry it over to the counter, it’s what I always did at home, and Jimmy had made me feel so much at home I guess I forgot myself for a moment. He asked me to sit down please, he appreciated what I had in mind, but his grandmother would not understand. It was her work to feed the men, and if a man intruded into her routine that meant he was not pleased with the job she was doing. Therefore, I sat back down and asked Jimmy to tell me more of his people and their ways. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Why do you want to know these things?” I told him that I had always had an interest in how the other half lived, but this was more than that; from the moment I alighted from the pickup truck, and found myself on an Indian Reservation there was an urge, no a passion, to find out as much as possible of The Denéé. Then it became crystal clear, it was not general information I hungered for, but information concerning the religion of the Denéé. I told Jimmy what I had just realized, and he said nothing, he just stared at me for what seemed an eternity. He finally roused himself from his thoughts and said, “Our coming together this day may not have been an accident. I was about to leave you for the night because I had plans, but now I think I’ll ask you to join me. I will tell you of the history of our people, and of our religion; and if you wish, you may join me in the ceremony I had planned for tonight.” I was humbled by what Jimmy had just said, and could only muster a meek, “Thank you.”
After a few moments of idle chit chat, Jimmy said, “It’s time to go, follow me.” We stood and I followed him to the door, but stopped suddenly; I had forgotten to thank his grandmother for dinner. I turned to thank her, but she wasn’t there. I mean she was there when we stood, and now she was nowhere to be seen. Jimmy asked what the hold up was, and I told him that I wanted to thank his grandmother for dinner. He just said, “Come, she knows what’s in your heart.”
We walked out of his house, if that is what it is called; that is the one question I forgot to ask that night. However, I would receive the answers to all my other questions before that night was over. I walked with Jimmy about three hundred yards until we could see a small hill, or hillock, a short distance in front of us. It stood no more than fifteen feet above the floor of the desert on which we walked. On the pinnacle of this hill stood the figure of a woman, and as we neared the rise, I could make out a tripod with something hanging from it. We reached the hill and climbed to the top. Once there I could see that it was a young girl, no more than sixteen, and not a woman. She was stirring something in a small black kettle with a diameter at the lip of about six inches. It looked like a miniature version of the kettles in which you see witches depicted while stirring their brew. The kettle was suspended from the middle of the tripod, and hung over a small fire. It was getting dark; the sun had just gone below the horizon so I couldn’t make out was in the kettle.
There were no introductions, Jimmy simply nodded to the girl and sat down at the edge of the rise with his back to her. Once seated, he motioned for me to sit beside him. We were facing west, and as I mentioned, the sun was below the horizon; but, from one end of the horizon to the other, the sky was a brilliant orange and pink color. The clouds were dark gray and had bright orange linings. The rays of the sun shone upwards from below the horizon, broken in places by the clouds. It was the inverse of the pictures you see depicting God as rays of the sun shining through clouds, but instead of the rays being white, these rays were yellow orange. After a few moments of watching the beautiful display of color granted us, Jimmy turns to me and says, “That is Life Giver.” I intuitively knew he meant the sun. He went on to explain that yes, the sun does give us life, but he was referring to what I would call God. Life Giver is represented by the sun in their culture. He then said, “I will now tell you of our creation myth.”
He then spoke these words:
“Is daze naadleeshé, or Changing Woman, lived alone, and was one day inspired to walk up a hill and build a gowa. She then laid in the gowa with her feet facing east, as the Sun came up His rays shone between her legs, and one of His rays went into her. After that, she became pregnant and had a son, Nayé Nazghane, Slayer of Monsters. Later she was impregnated by Water Old Man and gave birth to Tubaadeschine, Born of Water Old Man. Jimmy told me that next to Life Giver, Changing Woman is the deity most honored and respected.” He said all The Denéé were Is dean naadleeshé be chaghaashé, Children Of Changing Woman.
When he had finished, neither of us said a word. I was there to learn, and he would speak when he was ready. By now, the stars had started to come out, so I laid back starring up into the darkening sky as Jimmy renewed speaking. He told of how The Wise One had told him of the great Medicine Man, Geronimo, and how when Geronimo was in prison he had dictated a history of the Denéé to a white man. The Wise One told Jimmy if one day he wanted to be a great maker of Medicine, he should memorize the words of Geronimo. Jimmy said he had done what The Wise One had suggested. And now he would tell me of his people in the words of the great Medicine Man, Geronimo. I closed my eyes and listened.
Geronimo:
In the beginning, the world was covered with darkness. There was no sun, no day. The perpetual night had no moon or stars.
There were, however, all manner of beasts and birds. Among the beasts were many hideous, nameless monsters, as well as dragons, lions, tigers, wolves, foxes, beavers, rabbits, squirrels, rats, mice, and all manner of creeping things such as lizards and serpents. Mankind could not prosper under such conditions, for the beasts and serpents destroyed all human offspring.
All creatures had the power of speech and were gifted with reason.
There were two tribes of creatures: the birds or the feathered tribe and the beasts. The former were organized wider, their chief, the eagle.
These tribes often held councils, and the birds wanted light admitted. This the beasts repeatedly refused to do. Finally, the birds made war against the beasts.
The beasts were armed with clubs, but the eagle had taught his tribe to use bows and arrows. The serpents were so wise that they could not all be killed. One took refuge in a perpendicular cliff of a mountain in Arizona, and his eyes may be see in that rock to this day. The bears, when killed, would each be changed into several other bears, so that the more bears the feathered tribe killed, the more there were. The dragon could not be killed, either, for he was covered with four coats of horny scales, and the arrows would not penetrate these. One of the most hideous, vile monsters was proof against arrows, so the eagle flew high up in the air with a round, white stone, and let it fall on this monster's head, killing him instantly. This was such a good service that the stone was called sacred. They fought for many days, but at last, the birds won the victory.
After this war was over, although some evil beasts remained, the birds were able to control the councils, and light was admitted, then mankind could live and prosper. The eagle was chief in this good fight: therefore, his feathers were worn by man as emblems of wisdom, justice, and power.
Among the few human beings that were yet alive was a woman who had been blessed with many children, but these had always been destroyed by the beasts. If by any means she succeeded in eluding the others, the dragon, who was very wise and very evil, would come himself and eat her babes.
After many years, a son of the rainstorm was born to her and she dug for him a deep cave. The entrance to this cave she closed and over the spot built a campfire. This concealed the babe's hiding place and kept him warm. Every day she would remove the fire and descend into the cave, where the child's bed was, to nurse him; then she would return and rebuild the campfire.
Frequently the dragon would come and question her, but she would say, I have no more children; you have eaten all of them.
When the child was larger, he would not always stay in the cave, for he sometimes wanted to run and play. Once the dragon saw his tracks. Now this perplexed and enraged the old dragon, for he could not find the hiding place of the boy; but he said that he would destroy the mother if she did not reveal the child's hiding place. The poor mother was very much troubled; she could not give up her child, but she knew the power and cunning of the dragon, therefore she lived in constant fear.
Soon after this, the boy said that he wished to go hunting. The mother would not give her consent. She told him of the dragon, the wolves, and serpents; but he said, tomorrow I go.
At the boy's request, his uncle, who was the only man then living, made a little bow and some arrows for him, and the two went hunting the next day. They trailed the deer far up the mountain and finally the boy killed a buck. His uncle showed him how to dress the deer and broil the meat. They broiled two hindquarters, one for the child, and one for his uncle. When the meat was done, they placed it on some bushes to cool. Just then the huge form of the dragon appeared. The child was not afraid, but his uncle was so dumb with fright that he did not speak or move.
The dragon took the boy's parcel of meat and went aside with it. He placed the meat on another bush and seated himself beside it. Then he said, This is the child I have been seeking. Boy, you are nice and fat, so when I have eaten this venison I shall eat you. The boy said, No, you shall not eat me, and you shall not eat that meat. So he walked over to where the dragon sat and took the meat back to his own seat. The dragon said, I like your courage, but you are foolish; what do you think you could do? Well, said the boy, I can do enough to protect myself, as you may find out. Then the dragon took the meat again, and then the boy retook it. Four times in all the dragon took the meat, and after the fourth time the boy replaced the meat he said, Dragon, will you fight me? The dragon said, Yes, in whatever way you like. The boy said, I will stand one hundred paces distant from you and you may have four shots at me with your bow and arrows, provided that you will then exchange places with me and give me four shots. Good, said the dragon. Stand up.
Then the dragon took his bow, which was made of a large pine tree. He took four arrows from his quiver; they were made of young pine tree saplings, and each arrow was twenty feet in length. He took deliberate aim, but just as the arrow left the bow the boy made a peculiar sound and leaped into the air. Immediately the arrow was shivered into a thousand splinters, and the boy was seen standing on the top of a bright rainbow over the spot where the dragon's aim had been directed. Soon the rainbow was gone and the boy was standing on the ground again. Four times this was repeated, then the boy said, Dragon, stand here: it is my time to shoot. The dragon said, All right, your little arrows cannot pierce my first coat of horn, and I have three other coats, shoot away. The boy shot an arrow, striking the dragon just over the heart, and one coat of the great horny scales fell to the ground. The next shot another coat, and then another, and the dragon's heart was exposed. Then the dragon trembled, but could not move. Before the fourth arrow was shot the boy said, Uncle, you are dumb with fear; you have not moved; come here or the dragon will fall on you. His uncle ran toward him. Then he sped the fourth arrow with true aim, and it pierced the dragon's heart. With a tremendous roar the dragon rolled down the mountainside, down four precipices into a canyon below.
Immediately storm clouds swept the mountains, lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and the rain poured. When the rainstorm had passed, far down in the canyon below, they could see fragments of the huge body of the dragon lying among the rocks, and the bones of this dragon may still be found there.
This boy's name was Ndéén. Usen taught him how to prepare herbs for medicine, how to hunt, and how to fight. He was the first chief of the Indians and wore the eagle's feathers as the sign of justice, wisdom, and power. To him and to his people, as they were created, Usen gave homes in the land of the West.
I was born in Nodoyohn Canyon, Arizona, June 1829.
In that country which lies around the head waters of the Gila River, I was reared. This range was our fatherland; among these mountains our wigwams were hidden; the scattered valleys contained our fields; the boundless prairies, stretching away on every side, were our pastures; the rocky caverns were our burying places.
I was fourth in a family of eight children, four boys and four girls. Of that family, only myself, my brother, Porico, and my sister, Nahdaste , are yet alive. We are held as prisoners of war in this Military Reservation.
As a babe I rolled on the dirt floor of my father's tepee, hung in my tsoch at my mother's back, or suspended from the bough of a tree. I was warmed by the sun, rocked by the winds, and sheltered by the trees as other Indian babes.
When a child, my mother taught me the legends of our people; taught me of the sun and sky, the moon and stars, the clouds and storms. She also taught me to kneel and pray to Usen for strength, health, wisdom, and protection. We never prayed against any person, but if we had aught against any individual we ourselves took vengeance. We were taught that Usen does not care for the petty quarrels of men.
My father had often told me of the brave deeds of our warriors, of the pleasures of the chase, and the glories of the warpath.
With my brothers and sisters I played about my father's home. Sometimes we played at hide-and-seek among the rocks and pines; sometimes we loitered in the shade of the cottonwood trees or sought the shudock while our parents worked in the field. Sometimes we played that we were warriors. We would practice stealing upon some object that represented an enemy, and in our childish imitation often perform the feats of war. Sometimes we would hide away from our mother to see if she could find us, and often when thus concealed, go to sleep and perhaps remain hidden for many hours.
When we were old enough to be of real service, we went to the field with our parents: not to play, but to toil. When the crops were to be planted we broke the ground with wooden hoes. We planted the corn in straight rows, the beans among the corn, and the melons and pumpkins in irregular order over the field. We cultivated these crops as there was need.
Our field usually contained about two acres of ground. The fields were never fenced. It was common for many families to cultivate land in the same valley and share the burden of protecting the growing crops from destruction by the ponies of the tribe, or by deer and other wild animals.
Melons were gathered as they were consumed. In the autumn pumpkins and beans were gathered and placed in bags or baskets; ears of corn were tied together by the husks, and then the harvest was carried on the backs of ponies up to our homes. Here the corn was shelled, and all the harvest stored away in caves or other secluded places to be used in winter.
We never fed corn to our ponies, but if we kept them up in the wintertime we gave them fodder to eat. We had no cattle or other domestic animals except our dogs and ponies.
We did not cultivate tobacco, but found it growing wild. This we cut and cured in autumn, but if the supply ran out, the leaves from the stalks left standing served our purpose. All Indians smoked, men and women. No boy was allowed to smoke until he had hunted alone and killed large game, wolves and bears. Unmarried women were not prohibited from smoking, but were considered immodest if they did so. Nearly all matrons smoked.
Besides grinding the corn for bread, we sometimes crushed it and soaked it, and after it had fermented, made from this juice a tiswin, which had the power of intoxication, and was very highly prized by the Indians. This work was done by the squaws and children. When berries or nuts were to be gathered the small children and the squaws would go in parties to hunt them, and sometimes stay all day. When they went any great distance from camp they took ponies to carry the baskets.
I frequently went with these parties, and upon one of these excursions a woman named Chokole got lost from the party and was riding her pony through a thicket in search of her friends. Her little dog was following as she slowly made her way through the thick underbrush and pine trees. All at once a grizzly bear rose in her path and attacked the pony. She jumped off, and her pony escaped, but the bear attacked her, so she fought him the best she could with her knife. Her little dog, by snapping at the bear's heels and distracting his attention from the woman, enabled her for some time to keep pretty well out of his reach. Finally the grizzly struck her over the head, tearing off almost her whole scalp. She fell, but did not lose consciousness, and while prostrate struck him four good licks with her knife, and he retreated. After he had gone she replaced her torn scalp and bound it up as best she could, then she turned deathly sick and had to lie down. That night her pony came into camp with his load of nuts and berries, but no rider. The Indians hunted for her, but did not find her until the second day. They carried her home, and under the treatment of their Medicine Men all her wounds were healed.
The Indians knew what herbs to use for Medicine, how to prepare them, and how to give the Medicine. This they had been taught by Usen in the beginning, and each succeeding generation had men who were skilled in the art of healing.
In gathering the herbs, in preparing them, and in administering the Medicine, as much faith was held in prayer as in the actual effect of the Medicine. Usually about eight persons worked together in make Medicine, and there were forms of prayer and incantations to attend each stage of the process. Four attended to the incantations, and four to the preparation of the herbs.
Some of the Indians were skilled in cutting out bullets, arrowheads, and other missiles with which warriors were wounded. I myself have done much of this, using a common dirk or butcher knife.
Small children wore very little clothing in winter and none in the summer. Women usually wore a primitive skirt, which consisted of a piece of cotton cloth fastened about the waist, and extending to the knees. Men wore breechcloths and moccasins. In winter they had shirts and legging in addition.
Frequently when the tribe was in camp a number of boys and girls, by agreement, would steal away and meet at a place several miles distant, where they could play all day free from tasks. They were never punished for these frolics; but if their hiding places were discovered they were ridiculed.
To celebrate each noted event, a feast and dance would be given. Perhaps only our own people, perhaps neighboring tribes would be invited. These festivities usually lasted for about four days. By day we feasted, by night under the direction of some chief we danced. The music for our dance was singing led by the warriors, and accompanied by beating the esadadedné. No words were sung only the tones. When the feasting and dancing were over we would have horse races, foot races, wrestling, jumping, and all sorts of games.
Among these games the most noted was the tribal game of Kah. It is played as follows: Four moccasins are placed about four feet apart in holes in the ground, dug in a row on one side of the camp, and on the opposite side a similar parallel row. At night a campfire is started between these two rows of moccasins, and the players are arranged on sides, one or any number on each side. The score is kept by a bundle of sticks, from which each side takes a stick for every point won. First one side takes the bone, puts up blankets between the four moccasins and the fire so that the opposing team cannot observe their movements, and then begin to sing the legends of creation. The side having the bone represents the feathered tribe, the opposite side represents the beasts. The players representing the birds do all the singing, and while singing hide the bone in one of the moccasins, then the blankets are thrown down. They continue to sing, but as soon as the blankets are thrown down, the chosen player from the opposing team, armed with a war club, comes to their side of the campfire and with his club strikes the moccasin in which he thinks the bone is hidden. If he strikes the right moccasin, his side gets the bone, and in turn represents the birds, while the opposing team must keep quiet and guess in turn. There are only four plays; three that lose and one that wins. When all the sticks are gone from the bundle the side having the largest number of sticks is counted winner.
This game is seldom played except as a gambling game, but for the purpose it is the most popular game known to the tribe. Usually the game lasts four or five hours. It is never played in daytime.
After the games are all finished the visitors say, We are satisfied, and the camp is broken up. I was always glad when the dances and feasts were announced. So were all the other young people.
Our life also had a religious side. We had no churches, no religious organizations, no Sabbath day, no holidays, and yet we worshiped. Sometimes the whole tribe would assemble to sing and pray; sometimes a smaller number, perhaps only two or three. The songs had a few words, but were not formal. The singer would occasionally put in such words as he wished instead of the usual tone sound. Sometimes we prayed in silence; sometimes each one prayed aloud; sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us. At other times one would rise and speak to us of our duties to each other and to Usen. Our services were short.
When disease or pestilence abounded we were assembled and questioned by our leaders to ascertain what evil we had done, and how Usen could be satisfied. Sometimes sacrifice was deemed necessary. Sometimes the offending one was punished.
If any one off the Denéé had allowed his aged parents to suffer for food or shelter, if he had neglected or abused the sick, if he had profaned our religion, or had been unfaithful, he might be banished from the tribe.
The Denéé had no prisons as white men have. Instead of sending their criminals into prison they sent them out of their tribe. These faithless, cruel, lazy, or cowardly members of the tribe were excluded in such a manner that they could not join any other tribe. Neither could they have any protection from our unwritten tribal laws. Frequently these outlaw Indians banded together and committed depredations which were charged against the regular tribe. However, the life of an outlaw Indian was a hard lot, and their bands never became very large; besides, these bands frequently provoked the wrath of the tribe and secured their own destruction.
When I was about eight or ten years old I began to follow the chase, and to me this was never work.
Out on the prairies, which ran up to our mountain homes, wandered herds of deer, antelope, elk, and buffalo, to be slaughtered when we needed them.
Usually we hunted buffalo on horseback, killing them with arrows and spears. Their skins were used to make tepees and bedding; their flesh, to eat.
It required more skill to hunt the deer than any other animal. We never tried to approach a deer except against the wind. Frequently we would spend hours in stealing upon grazing deer. If they were in the open we would crawl long distances on the ground, keeping a weed or brush before us, so that our approach would not be noticed. Often we could kill several out of one herd before the others would run away. Their flesh was dried and packed in vessels, and would keep in this condition for many months. The hide of the deer soaked in water and ashes and the hair removed, and then the process of tanning continued until the buckskin was soft and pliable. Perhaps no other animal was more valuable to us than the deer.
In the forests and along the streams were many wild turkeys. These we would drive to the plains, then slowly ride up toward them until they were almost tired out. When they began to drop and hide we would ride in upon them and, by swinging from the side of our horses, catch them. If one started to fly we would ride swiftly under him and kill him with a short stick, or hunting club. In this way we could usually get as many wild turkeys as we could carry home on a horse.
There were many rabbits in our range, and we also hunted them on horseback. Our horses were trained to follow the rabbit at full speed, and as they approached them we would swing from one side of the horse and strike the rabbit with our hunting club. If he was too far away we would throw the stick and kill him. This was great sport when we were boys, but as warriors we seldom hunted small game.
There were many fish in the streams, but as we did not eat them, we did not try to catch or kill them. Small boys sometimes threw stones at them or shot at them for practice with their bows and arrows. Usen did not intend snakes, frogs, or fishes to be eaten. I have never eaten of them.
There were many eagles in the mountains. These we hunted for their feathers. It required great skill to steal upon an eagle, for besides having sharp eyes, he is wise and never stops at any place where he does not have a good view of the surrounding country.
I have killed many bears with a spear, but was never injured in a fight with one. I have killed several mountain lions with arrows, and one with a spear. Both bears and mountain lions are good for food and valuable for their skin. When we killed them we carried them home on our horses. We often made quivers for our arrows from the skin of the mountain lion. These were very pretty and very durable.
During my minority we had never seen a missionary or a priest. We had never seen a white man. Thus quietly lived the Bedonkohe.
In the summer of 1858, being at peace with the Mexican towns as well as with all the neighboring Indian tribes, we went south into Old Mexico to trade. Our whole tribe went through Sonora toward Casa Grande, our destination, but just before reaching that place we stopped at another Mexican town called by the Indians Kaskiyeh. Here we stayed for several days, camping outside the city. Every day we would go into town to trade, leaving our camp under the protection of a small guard so that our arms, supplies, and women and children would not be disturbed during our absence.
Late one afternoon when returning from town we were met by a few women and children who told us that Mexican troops from some other town had attacked our camp, killed all the warriors of the guard, captured all our ponies, secured our arms, destroyed our supplies, and killed many of our women and children. Quickly we separated, concealing ourselves as best we could until nightfall, when we assembled at our appointed place of rendezvous, a thicket by the river. Silently we stole in one by one: sentinels were placed, and, when all were counted, I found that my aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children were among the slain. There were no lights in camp, so without being noticed I silently turned away and stood by the river. How long I stood there I do not know, but when I saw the warriors arranging for a council I took my place.
That night I did not give my vote for or against any measure; but it was decided that as there were only eighty warriors left, and as we were without arms or supplies, and were furthermore surrounded by the Mexicans far inside their own territory, we could not hope to fight successfully. So our chief, Mangus-Colorado, gave the order to start at once in perfect silence for our homes in Arizona, leaving the dead upon the field.
I stood until all had passed, hardly knowing what I would do. I had no weapon, nor did I hardly wish to fight, neither did I contemplate recovering the bodies of my loved ones, for that was forbidden. I did not pray, nor did I resolve to do anything in particular, for I had no purpose left. I finally followed the tribe silently, keeping just within hearing distance of the soft noise of the feet of the retreating Denéé.
The next morning some of the Indians killed a small amount of game and we halted long enough for the tribe to cook and eat, when the march was resumed. I had killed no game, and did not eat. During the first march as well as while we were camped at this place I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me, there was nothing to say.
For two days and three nights we were on forced marches, stopping only for meals, then we made a camp near the Mexican border, where we rested two days. Here I took some food and talked with the other Indians who had lost in the massacre, but none had lost as I had, for I had lost all.
Within a few days we arrived at our own settlement. There were the decorations that Alope had made, and there were the playthings of our little ones. I burned them all, even our tepee. I also burned my mother's tepee and destroyed all her property.
I was never again contented in our quiet home. True, I could visit my father's grave, but I had vowed vengeance upon the Mexican troopers who had wronged me, and whenever I came near his grave, or saw anything to remind me of former happy days my heart would ache for revenge upon Mexico.
As soon as we had again collected some arms and supplies Mangus-Colorado, our chief, called a council and found that all our warriors were willing to take the warpath against Mexico. I was appointed to solicit the aid of other tribes in this war.
When I went to the Chokonen, Cochise, their chief, called a council at early dawn. Silently the warriors assembled at an open place in a mountain dell and took their seats on the ground, arranged in rows according to their ranks. Silently they sat smoking. At a signal from the chief I arose and presented my cause as follows:
"Kinsman, you have heard what the Mexicans have recently done without cause. You are my relatives, uncles, cousins, brothers. We are men the same as the Mexicans are, we can do to them what they have done to us. Let us go forward and trail them, I will lead you to their city; we will attack them in their homes. I will fight in the front of the battle. I only ask you to follow me to avenge this wrong done by these Mexicans, will you come? It is well, you will all come.
Remember the rule in war, men may return or they may be killed. If any of these young men are killed I want no blame from their kinsmen, for they themselves have chosen to go. If I am killed no one need mourn for me. My people have all been killed in that country, and I, too, will die if need be."
I returned to my own settlement, reported this success to my chieftain, and immediately departed to the southward into the land of the Nedni. Their chief, Whoa, heard me without comment, but he immediately issued orders for a council, and when all were ready gave a sign that I might speak. I addressed them as I had addressed the Chokonen tribe, and they also promised to help us.
It was in the summer of 1859, almost a year from the date of the massacre of Kaskiyeh, that these three tribes were assembled on the Mexican border to go upon the warpath. Their faces were painted, the war bands fastened upon their brows their long scalp-locks ready for the hand and knife of the warrior who would overcome them. Their families had been hidden away in a mountain rendezvous near the Mexican border. With these families a guard was posted, and a number of places of rendezvous designated in case the camp should be disturbed.
When all were ready the chieftains gave command to go forward. None of us were mounted and each warrior wore moccasins and also a cloth wrapped about his loins. This cloth could be spread over him when he slept, and when on the march would be ample protection as clothing. In battle, if the fight was hard, we did not wish much clothing. Each warrior carried three days' rations, but as we often killed game while on the march, we seldom were without food.
We traveled in three divisions: the Bedonheko led by Mangus-Colorado, the Chokonen by Cochise, and the Nedni by Whoa; however, there was no regular order inside the separate tribes. We usually marched about fourteen hours per day, making three stops for meals, and traveling forty to forty-five miles a day.
I acted as guide into Mexico, and we followed the river courses and mountain ranges because we could better thereby keep our movements concealed. We entered Sonora and went southward past Quitaro, Nacozari, and many smaller settlements.
When we were almost at Arispe we camped, and eight men rode out from the city to parley with us. These we captured, killed, and scalped. This was to draw the troops from the city, and the next day they came. The skirmishing lasted all day without a general engagement, but just at night we captured their supply train, so we had plenty of provisions and some more guns.
That night we posted sentinels and did not move our camp, but rested quietly all night, for we expected heavy work the next day. Early the next morning the warriors were assembled to pray, not for help, but that they might have health and avoid ambush or deceptions by the enemy.
As we had anticipated, about ten o'clock in the morning the whole Mexican force came out. There were two companies of cavalry and two of infantry. I recognized the cavalry as the soldiers who had killed my people at Kaskiyeh. This I told to the chieftains, and they said that I might direct the battle.
I was no chief and never had been, but because I had been more deeply wronged than others, this honor was conferred upon me, and I resolved to prove worthy of the trust. I arranged the Indians in a hollow circle near the river, and the Mexicans drew their infantry up in two lines, with the cavalry in reserve. We were in the timber, and they advanced until within about four hundred yards, when they halted and opened fire. Soon I led a charge against them, at the same time sending some braves to attack the rear. In all the battle I thought of my murdered mother, wife, and babies; of my father's grave and my vow of vengeance, and I fought with fury. Many fell by my hand, and constantly I led the advance. Many braves were killed The battle lasted about two hours.
At the last four Indians were alone in the center of the field, myself and three other warriors. Our arrows were all gone, our spears broken off in the bodies of dead enemies. We had only our hands and knives with which to fight, but all who had stood against us were dead. Then two armed soldiers came upon us from another part of the field. They shot down two of our men and we, the remaining two, fled toward our own warriors. My companion was struck down by a saber, but I reached our warriors, seized a spear, and turned. The one who pursued me missed his aim and fell by my spear. With his saber I met the trooper who had killed my companion and we grappled and fell. I killed him with my knife and quickly rose over his body, brandishing his saber, seeking for other troopers to kill. There were none. But the Denéé had seen. Over the bloody field, covered with the bodies of Mexicans, rang the fierce Denéé war-whoop.
Still covered with the blood of my enemies, still holding my conquering weapon, still hot with the joy of battle, victory, and vengeance, I was surrounded by the Denéé braves and made war chief of all the Denéé. Then I gave orders for scalping the slain.
I could not call back my loved ones, I could not bring back the dead Denéé, but I could rejoice in this revenge. The Denéé had avenged the massacre of Kaskiyeh.
Life Giver:
It seemed like many minutes from the time he stopped talking until I realized there was no more to come. Actually, it was probably only a few seconds. But, Jimmy was silent; it was as if he had run out of words. Once I did realize the story of Geronimo was finished, I was hesitant to open my eyes; I did not want to break the spell. Though eventually I did open them, and looked right into the face of God!
It was the stars, while Jimmy had spoken, the sun traveled to the other side of the world, and the stars had come out. Never had I seen anything like it. For three hundred and sixty degrees, the stars touched the horizon. There was no light to impede their brilliance, no buildings to block my view of that wondrous sight. There was just as much starlight as there was black sky. I felt as though I could reach out and touch them, they seemed that close. I could see how Ptolemy believed the earth was encapsulated within crystalline spheres. In the dry desert air, the stars did indeed look as though they were made of fine, delicate crystal. I saw The Great Bear, and Polaris, the only star that does not move. Orion seemed as though he could lower his arm and smite me with his club. I was in the mist of searching for other constellations when Jimmy broke my reverie. He said, “It’s time.”
As I sat up, the young girl handed me a wooden bowl, Jimmy was already holding one exactly like it. We each held our bowls with two hands in front of us, about chest high. I was told by Jimmy that the potion would help me go within, to commune with the Old Ones. “It is my hope to speak with Life Giver at times like these, but it has not happened yet. The Wise One tells me to be patient that he has only spoken to Life Giver once, though he has spoken with Changing Woman many times.” I said nothing. Jimmy reached his bowl towards me as in a toast, I did the same, and then we drank whatever was in those bowls.
Jimmy told me that we would not speak again until morning. He would continue facing west, and that I should face the north. So, I walked ninety degrees around the rise, to Jimmy’s right, sat down and awaited what was to come. It was starting to get a little cool, and I thought it would have been nice to have had the forethought to have brought a jacket. In an effort to keep warm, I brought my knees up to my chest, folded my arms about them, and rested my chin on my knees. I looked around to see what the girl was up to, but she, like the grandmother was gone. I then had nothing else to do, but settle in, and wait for the Old Ones.
Time started to stretch out, a second felt like a minute; Einstein was right. After awhile I noticed I wasn’t cold any longer, so I unfolded my self and laid back to look at the stars. As I said, time was playing tricks on me, so I don’t know how long it was after I laid back that I heard the voice. At first, I thought it was Jimmy, but when I looked in his direction, he was staring off into the western sky, oblivious of me, and his surroundings. As I was looking towards Jimmy, I heard it again. It was in my head, and the voice was calling to me, but not by name. Aloud I said, “Are you calling me?” and the voice responded, “There is no need to use your vocal cords, think and I will hear you. For some reason this all seemed perfectly natural, as though I spoke with disembodied entities everyday.
My first, or I guess if you want to be technical, my second question was, “Who are you?” And, I swear this is what I heard, “I have many names, and have had many other names in the past. I am known to your friend Jimmy as Life Giver, I am known to you, and your culture as God. Some refer to me as Jehovah, and I am called Allah, and Krishna by others.” I don’t know why, but for some reason it did not seem strange that I was having a conversation with God.
The next thing I said, or thought, or whatever, was, “If you are who you say you are, why do you speak with me, when Jimmy has desperately, and earnestly been trying to speak with you for years?” I then heard this reply, “I have been with Jimmy all those years, and more, waiting for him to notice me. I am with my children, all my children always. I am never not with you.”
NOTE: In an effort to cut down on the prose, I offer a transcript of my conversation with the entity, which, I have come to believe was indeed who He claimed to be, Life Giver. Before you make up your mind, read the transcript in its entirety, then decide what you want to believe.
ME: It just doesn’t seem fair that I’m here speaking with you, when it should be Jimmy instead.
LG: Jimmy and I do speak all the time, but not in this way.
ME: Have you come to teach me some great truth?
LG: You have nothing to learn, none of my children have anything to learn. You only have to remember.
Me: Remember? Remember what?
LG: Who you are, and where you come from.
ME: Now I’m getting confused, didn’t You create us?
LG: Yes, and no.
ME: What?
LG: Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
ME: Yes, please.
LG: Before this universe in which you inhabit existed, before time existed, I was. It is known as The First State. Within me were the powers of creativity and I knew of their existence, but the ways to produce them were unknown to me. I existed in a State of Being, but without a means to find expression for my Being.
You were within my dreams, and while still within my dreams, I gave you consciousness. I felt pressure from you, the conscious, but still probable selves, who found yourselves in a God’s dream. To release you would give you actuality, but it would also mean losing a portion of my own consciousness. With love and longing, I let go that portion of myself, and you were free. We exploded in a flash of creation, and I lost a portion of myself.
I love all that I have created down to the least. I celebrate the dearness and uniqueness of each consciousness. I am triumphant and joyful at each development of each individual. I revel and take joy in the slightest creative act of each of you. You, my children are the expression of my Being. You are all portions of me. I am the living spirit that pervades each living thing. Everything has an inner spirit, everything has a consciousness. You are not a part from me, You are apart of me.
ME: So, you’re really God?
LG: We are God. Some refer to me as All That Is, which is more descriptive of the truth. There is only ONE, we are both a part of that ONE. This planet’s first religion was, The Law of One. In a time forgotten, man still remembered where he came from. That is what I meant when I said you only have to remember.
ME: So, why can I experience you and Jimmy can’t.
LG: As I have stated, Jimmy, you, and all of humanity experience me every day.
ME: What I mean is why am I talking to you tonight, and Jimmy is not?
LG: How do you know he is not speaking with me now as you are?
ME: Well, I guess I don’t. I reckon God can carry on more than one conversation at a time.
LG: You reckon?
ME: I didn’t know God had a sense of humor.
LG: I have what you have, you have what I have, we are ONE.
ME: I guess I was pretty lucking when Jimmy picked me up this afternoon, or else I wouldn’t be here speaking with God.
LG: It was no accident that Jimmy offered you a ride, and a place to sleep. Jimmy and I arranged it while he slept last night. We spoke in his dreams, though he has consciously forgotten our talk, he has remembered it subconsciously.
ME: Then why am I here?
LG: Do you mean why are you here tonight, or why are you here on the planet Earth?
ME: Both, I guess.
LG: You, and everyone else, are here because you want to be here. You personally are here tonight because I have a message for you, and this was the only to make sure you hear it.
ME: Before you give me the message, may I ask one more question?
LG: You may ask as many as you wish.
ME: What is the meaning of life?
LG: The meaning of life, the reason you, and all our brethren are on this planet, and on other planets, in other star systems, is to choose. Making choices is the reason for life. The choices you make are the way I express myself. When a life is completed, the experiences you bring back to me are a gift. A gift from a loving child who has volunteered to endure the hardships of the physical plane in order that its parent may BE.
ME: What if we make the wrong choices?
LG: You cannot make a wrong choice. Whatever you choose will eventually lead to evolution, and over time evolution creates balance as part of the nature of existence.
ME: Even if we make a choice, based on hate that’s okay?
LG: Remember this: Ultimately, there is only Love. All so called negative emotions, hate, anger, jealousy, just to a mention a few, stem from fear. The only way to combat fear is Love. Love is always stronger than fear.
ME: WOW!
LG: WOW, indeed.
ME: You said you had a message for me?
LG: Yes, you are planning on going home, You of course may do anything of your choosing. However, you came to the Earth to teach. Some of those you have agreed to teach will miss their lessons if you go home now.
ME: I thought you said we have nothing to learn, we only have to remember.
LG: The lessons help you to remember. As a song will bring back memories of the time you first heard it, the lessons you, and all teachers teach, help those involved to remember.
ME: I’m just a kid, how can I teach anyone anything?
LG: First of all, you are as old as I am, we existed before time began. Secondly, you teach by example. Some will learn from you after seeing you only for a moment, other will have learned their lessons after many months with you. As you in turn will learn your lessons from others you will encounter.
ME: You say I have a choice?
LG: Of course you do.
ME: Okay, as long as it’s my choice, I don’t like to be pressured, even by God. When will I know when it’s time to go home.
LG: I will tell you.
ME: Sounds like a plan.
LG: Yes it does. It is almost sun up. It would be better if you left without seeing Jimmy. You have places to go, and he has things to do. I promise you will see him again soon.
ME: Well … good-bye.
LG: I am always with you.
Well, I got my carcass up, looked over at my friend Jimmy, and mentally said good-bye to him. I walked the few hundred yards to his house, picked up my gear, which was still outside his door, and walked in to a new day.
It was my second-and–a-half-year of being on the road when I met Jimmy of The Denéé. I had left home at 17 by coning my mother into allowing me to “attempt” to hitchhike to California. I told her no one was going to pick me up anyway, and after an hour or so I would be back home; so please just let me get it out of my system. I did not make it home that day; within minutes of sticking my thumb out, I got a ride. I knew I wanted to get to California, but had no idea which roads to take, so I just went anywhere the ride was going, as long as it was in a generally western direction. This was before the Interstate system was up and running. As a light breeze carries a leaf along on a current of air, I allowed myself to be taken wherever the cars that picked me up happen to go. I ended up in Peoria, Illinois on Route 66. Yes, I did travel that fabled highway on my very first foray into the world. Gallop New Mexico, Flagstaff Arizona, San Bernardino; I got hip to that kindly tip, and I got my kicks on Route 66.
That was more than two years ago, this day I was standing on the side of US highway 90, in the State of Arizona, heading east. My thumb in the prerequisite position awaiting the chariot that would get me that much closer to home, yes, I was going home. Of course I had kept in touch with the family, but at 19 I was a bit weary of going hungry, sleeping on the side the road; and when tired of hitchhiking, being thrown out of box cars in freight yards by the “bulls.” Little did I know that the next ride I got would delay my homecoming by two years.
It was late in the day, about two hours before the sun went down, which in the summer, in the desert, meant the time was about 8:00 pm. Just then, an old blue, broken down pickup truck stops with three men and a woman in the cab, they were squeezed in like the proverbial sardines of old. The guy hanging out the passenger side window yells, “Jump in,” meaning of course the bed of the truck. At that age I was good at following orders, so I comply with the command and hop over the tailgate; before I can get settled, the truck takes off, spurring rocks and pebbles in its wake.
I ensconce myself up against the cab facing backwards. As I get settled, I noticed the bed of the truck in which I’m riding is littered with half pint bottles of O’Neil’s Irish Whiskey, there must have a hundred or a hundred and fifty little bottles lying on the floor of that truck. Well, I think to myself, I see some Irish did make it this far west. My people hadn’t made it west of the Charles River in Boston. As a Mick, it did my Irish heart good to know I was riding with some Irish cowboys. Boy, was I wrong!
After about 15 minutes, the truck made a left off the paved road and I peeked around the cab to see where we were going. It seems we were going nowhere; they had pulled off onto an unpaved road, no, it was more like a wide trail. My friend, who originally told me to get in the truck, leans his smiling face out the window and says, “ It’s getting late, want a place to stay the night?” Now ordinarily hitching at night is no big deal, but as I looked at the deserted road we had just exited, coupled with the fact that it gets mighty cold in the desert at night, I meekly said, “Yes thank you.” With that, the driver hit the accelerator and off we went. This “road,” not being paved, was a bit hard on the old backbone, so I had to retrieve my sleeping bag and use it as a cushion between my rear end and the floor of truck.
Still facing backwards with my back against the cab, I had a vey nice view of where we’ve been, though I had no idea of where we were going. After I had settled down, and gotten more or less used to the jostling about, I heard a ringing sound, no it was more like the sound of chimes that were very far away. “What the hell is that,” I thought. It took a few seconds for me to realize the sound was coming from the floor of the truck; it was all those whiskey bottles. The fact that they were touching one another, and vibrating was causing them to make music! The tintinnabulation was in perfect harmony, which would build to a crescendo before settling down to the soft chimes I had first head. Those empty whiskey bottles did indeed make the ringing sounds of many small bells. I’m loath to use the word mystical; however, there is no other word that comes to mind to describe the music those whiskey bottles played for me as I was bounced around the back of that pickup truck. And that was not the only mystical experience in store for me that evening.
After what seemed a very long time we exited the trail onto a smoother road, though still unpaved. In a few minutes, the truck screeched to a stop, the person who had done all the talking got out, and told me that this was it, and I might as well get out. No sooner had I hit the ground, then the truck lurched forward, and the guy standing on the street with me had to jump back from being sideswiped. “Damn drunken Indians,” he shouted as the truck disappeared in a cloud of dust of its own making. It was then that I noticed the man standing in front of me was a full-blooded American Indian, or as is the custom of today, a Native American. He was slight of build, not much older then me, and had the most infectious smile I have ever seen on another human being.
After a half hearted attempt at dusting himself off, he looked at me, smiled, and said, “Hi my name’s Jimmy.” He inquired if I had ever been on an Indian Reservation before. When I told him I had not, he said, “Welcome to Fort Apache Indian Reservation USGS Cedar Creek Quad, Arizona.” He then added to himself, and more as an after thought than anything else, “Quite a mouthful for a two million acre dump.” He told me they always come in the back way because, “The Tribal Police are such a pain in the butt, always messin’ with people, just because they can.” When I heard the words, Indian Reservation, I looked around and saw no teepees, no hogans, and no wigwams. The only buildings I did see were squat, little adobe buildings that were about six feet high. Jimmy pointed to the building in front of which we were standing, and said, “Home Sweet Home.” He then told me to get my gear, and suggested we get out of the street before some drunken Indian ran us down. He walked over and held the door open for me, telling me to leave my gear outside for now. As we entered, we both had to duck our heads so as not to strike them on the lintel of the door.
The first thing I noticed upon entering Jimmy’s home was an old lady who seemed to be preparing a meal. She looked up and said, “How dah.” “That’s my grandmother,” Jimmy said. He then added, “ She welcomes you to come in.” He explained as we were getting settled, that his grandmother spoke no English. The only piece of furniture in the room was a low table in the shape of a rectangle, about eight feet long and four feet wide. It sat about two feet off the floor, and situated around the table were mats, which were positioned on the floor, three to a side and one at each end of the table. Each mat was two feet long and two feet wide. The only other thing in the room that could conceivably be called furniture was the counter where Jimmy’s grandmother was working. It looked like it was built into the wall, supported by two legs, one at each end. Oh yeah, there was an old fashion wood stove in the far corner, but I did not consider that furniture. Jimmy pointed to a mat and said, “Sit, dinner will be ready shortly.”
I sat on one side of the table and Jimmy sat opposite me. I thanked him for his hospitality and asked him to thank his grandmother for hers. He asked me where I was going and where I was coming from. I didn’t go into details, I just told him I was traveling from California to Miami, which was my home. When I said Miami, he did a double take. He said, “Why that’s just down the road,” he added, “You could have walked there.” He was right there is a Miami, Arizona only a few miles from the Reservation. I apologized for being inaccurate or incomplete with my words, and told him it was Miami, Florida, which was my home. When I said that, his smile, which seemed to be continually on his face, broadened even more as he said, “Hot damn, that’s right there are two Miami’s.” I had to inform him that there were at least three that I knew of, the third being in Ohio. Jimmy got a big kick out of that. He had me talking about myself for about half an hour before I wised up and said, “Jimmy, you’re a great host. You got me yappin’ about myself when it’s I who should be asking you the questions. You know, you’re the first real Indian I’ve ever met.” And with a twinkle in his eye Jimmy asked, “Really how many fake Indians have you met?”
“Okay, okay, you know what I mean, tell me of your culture, your ways, your Medicine,” I responded. At the word Medicine the smile faded a bit, he looked pensive for a moment before saying, “Are you interested in our culture, in our Medicine?” “Damn right I am,” was my retort. I wanted to learn as much as possible from all the people I met on my travels. I considered the road my college, and the people I met my professors.
Well, he said the first thing you’ve got know, is never trust an Indian when he is speaking in his native tongue. I asked him what he meant. He then told me how when the film companies come looking for extras to play Indians in Westerns, the young men are always selected to play any speaking roles that may be in the script for Indians. He explained to me that a few years back, one of his brothers had two lines of dialogue in a movie. He said the way it works is that the assistant director is in charge of the “Indians,” and he will invariably tell those with speaking parts to, “Speak Indian when I wave my arms.” When asked by the actor/Indian what he should say, the AD will tell him, “Say anything, it doesn’t matter, no one is going to know what you’re saying anyway.” So, in what has become kind of a custom, the actor/Indian will insult the white man to his face. They always use the dirtiest words of their language. His brother looked the General straight in the eye as he told him, “Your mother is a whore, I have slept with her many times as your father looked on.” Jimmy went on to say that whenever a Western is playing at the Central Heights drive in, he and his friends pile into their pickups and go to the movies. And when an Indian speaks Na-Déné, the language of the Apache, they all laugh uproariously, great fun!
I told Jimmy that was an interesting tidbit, but wasn’t what I had in mind. He just smiled and told me he would fill me in during dinner, which was good timing because just then his grandmother put down a plate of rice and beans before each of us, and a plate of corn tortillas between us.
As we ate, Jimmy, slowly at first, began to tell me not of the Apache, but of his life. Both his parents were dead, they had died from liver disease, “Which is the fancy word for alcoholism,” he added. He had two brothers, both trying their hardest to follow in their parents footsteps. He on the other hand had sworn never to touch the stuff, not only because of what it had done to his parents, but because of what it had done to the Indian Nation as a whole. He told me that in some tribes the rate of alcoholism was over 80%! He had gone to college on a scholarship, but had dropped out during the second year. “They don’t teach you to think in those schools. They fill your mind with information and have you regurgitate it back to them in the form of ‘tests’. The information never stays with you, so what’s the point. If they only had a course in deductive reasoning, I might have stayed.” Jimmy went on to say, “Take History for example. When studying the War in the Pacific we were given only the American point-of view. I believe the correct way to tell of history, especially recent history, is to give the perspective of one side for the first half of the course. Then for the remainder of the course, give the other side’s version of events. Even bring in those who lived through that period in history to tell their side of the story, or better yet, the participants. Then let the students make up their own minds about history, no tests needed. I mean why did the Japanese attack Pearl Harbor. What did they have to fear from the Americans? They didn’t do it on a lark, I’m sure some hubris was involved; but we were basically told they did it because they were evil.” About now, Jimmy was getting up a good head of steam as he continued, “And what was the real reason for employing atom bombs on a people already defeated? Once again, we’re given only the American perspective. It would have been productive to hear the history of World War II from the Japanese point-of-view. Oh, and speaking of the Pacific Theater of World War II and Indians, did you know that in the first months of the war the American code was continually broken by the Japanese?” I told Jimmy, that no, I hadn’t known that. “Well, I’ll tell you how they fixed the problem,” said he. "They got Navajo Indians to speak their language, that’s what they did. The Signal Corp got every Navajo it could lay its hands on assigned to it, and deployed them throughout the Pacific. That was the end of any code problems for the rest of the war.” Thus having said what he wanted to say, Jimmy leaned back and smiled at me with that beautiful smile of his.
After being disillusioned with college, he had decided to learn the Medicine of his people. He told me of his teacher, The Wise One. He had been taught many things by The Wise One, and he would have brought me to his home as soon as we arrived, if he had not gotten ill and taken to the White Man’s hospital. He told me he had not been here when The Wise One was taken away. However, he had heard that he did not want to go, but was forcibly removed from his home. Jimmy then told me that he had subsequently gone to the hospital twice to bring him home, and both times was ejected from the hospital without being allowed to see him. The second time the police were called and he was told: that if he returned, he would be arrested. I told Jimmy that I was sorry his teacher had been taken to the hospital; I also did not trust hospitals to get you out alive. One hundred thousand people die in hospitals every year from illnesses that are iatrogenic in origin. The Wise One did indeed seem wise. Jimmy just sat across the table from me and nodded, his mind was somewhere else at that moment. He told me there wasn’t much else he could tell about the Apache, except that was not how they referred to themselves; Apache was a name given to them by the Zuni, it means “enemy.” They are known as The Denéé, which means The People. He said sometimes it’s spelled Diné, but pronounced the same. He went on to tell me that the people of his Nation where also know as Western Apache, and that about 6,000 members of The Denéé were living on the reservation at that time (1969).
By now, we had finished eating, and I picked up my plate to carry it over to the counter, it’s what I always did at home, and Jimmy had made me feel so much at home I guess I forgot myself for a moment. He asked me to sit down please, he appreciated what I had in mind, but his grandmother would not understand. It was her work to feed the men, and if a man intruded into her routine that meant he was not pleased with the job she was doing. Therefore, I sat back down and asked Jimmy to tell me more of his people and their ways. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Why do you want to know these things?” I told him that I had always had an interest in how the other half lived, but this was more than that; from the moment I alighted from the pickup truck, and found myself on an Indian Reservation there was an urge, no a passion, to find out as much as possible of The Denéé. Then it became crystal clear, it was not general information I hungered for, but information concerning the religion of the Denéé. I told Jimmy what I had just realized, and he said nothing, he just stared at me for what seemed an eternity. He finally roused himself from his thoughts and said, “Our coming together this day may not have been an accident. I was about to leave you for the night because I had plans, but now I think I’ll ask you to join me. I will tell you of the history of our people, and of our religion; and if you wish, you may join me in the ceremony I had planned for tonight.” I was humbled by what Jimmy had just said, and could only muster a meek, “Thank you.”
After a few moments of idle chit chat, Jimmy said, “It’s time to go, follow me.” We stood and I followed him to the door, but stopped suddenly; I had forgotten to thank his grandmother for dinner. I turned to thank her, but she wasn’t there. I mean she was there when we stood, and now she was nowhere to be seen. Jimmy asked what the hold up was, and I told him that I wanted to thank his grandmother for dinner. He just said, “Come, she knows what’s in your heart.”
We walked out of his house, if that is what it is called; that is the one question I forgot to ask that night. However, I would receive the answers to all my other questions before that night was over. I walked with Jimmy about three hundred yards until we could see a small hill, or hillock, a short distance in front of us. It stood no more than fifteen feet above the floor of the desert on which we walked. On the pinnacle of this hill stood the figure of a woman, and as we neared the rise, I could make out a tripod with something hanging from it. We reached the hill and climbed to the top. Once there I could see that it was a young girl, no more than sixteen, and not a woman. She was stirring something in a small black kettle with a diameter at the lip of about six inches. It looked like a miniature version of the kettles in which you see witches depicted while stirring their brew. The kettle was suspended from the middle of the tripod, and hung over a small fire. It was getting dark; the sun had just gone below the horizon so I couldn’t make out was in the kettle.
There were no introductions, Jimmy simply nodded to the girl and sat down at the edge of the rise with his back to her. Once seated, he motioned for me to sit beside him. We were facing west, and as I mentioned, the sun was below the horizon; but, from one end of the horizon to the other, the sky was a brilliant orange and pink color. The clouds were dark gray and had bright orange linings. The rays of the sun shone upwards from below the horizon, broken in places by the clouds. It was the inverse of the pictures you see depicting God as rays of the sun shining through clouds, but instead of the rays being white, these rays were yellow orange. After a few moments of watching the beautiful display of color granted us, Jimmy turns to me and says, “That is Life Giver.” I intuitively knew he meant the sun. He went on to explain that yes, the sun does give us life, but he was referring to what I would call God. Life Giver is represented by the sun in their culture. He then said, “I will now tell you of our creation myth.”
He then spoke these words:
“Is daze naadleeshé, or Changing Woman, lived alone, and was one day inspired to walk up a hill and build a gowa. She then laid in the gowa with her feet facing east, as the Sun came up His rays shone between her legs, and one of His rays went into her. After that, she became pregnant and had a son, Nayé Nazghane, Slayer of Monsters. Later she was impregnated by Water Old Man and gave birth to Tubaadeschine, Born of Water Old Man. Jimmy told me that next to Life Giver, Changing Woman is the deity most honored and respected.” He said all The Denéé were Is dean naadleeshé be chaghaashé, Children Of Changing Woman.
When he had finished, neither of us said a word. I was there to learn, and he would speak when he was ready. By now, the stars had started to come out, so I laid back starring up into the darkening sky as Jimmy renewed speaking. He told of how The Wise One had told him of the great Medicine Man, Geronimo, and how when Geronimo was in prison he had dictated a history of the Denéé to a white man. The Wise One told Jimmy if one day he wanted to be a great maker of Medicine, he should memorize the words of Geronimo. Jimmy said he had done what The Wise One had suggested. And now he would tell me of his people in the words of the great Medicine Man, Geronimo. I closed my eyes and listened.
Geronimo:
In the beginning, the world was covered with darkness. There was no sun, no day. The perpetual night had no moon or stars.
There were, however, all manner of beasts and birds. Among the beasts were many hideous, nameless monsters, as well as dragons, lions, tigers, wolves, foxes, beavers, rabbits, squirrels, rats, mice, and all manner of creeping things such as lizards and serpents. Mankind could not prosper under such conditions, for the beasts and serpents destroyed all human offspring.
All creatures had the power of speech and were gifted with reason.
There were two tribes of creatures: the birds or the feathered tribe and the beasts. The former were organized wider, their chief, the eagle.
These tribes often held councils, and the birds wanted light admitted. This the beasts repeatedly refused to do. Finally, the birds made war against the beasts.
The beasts were armed with clubs, but the eagle had taught his tribe to use bows and arrows. The serpents were so wise that they could not all be killed. One took refuge in a perpendicular cliff of a mountain in Arizona, and his eyes may be see in that rock to this day. The bears, when killed, would each be changed into several other bears, so that the more bears the feathered tribe killed, the more there were. The dragon could not be killed, either, for he was covered with four coats of horny scales, and the arrows would not penetrate these. One of the most hideous, vile monsters was proof against arrows, so the eagle flew high up in the air with a round, white stone, and let it fall on this monster's head, killing him instantly. This was such a good service that the stone was called sacred. They fought for many days, but at last, the birds won the victory.
After this war was over, although some evil beasts remained, the birds were able to control the councils, and light was admitted, then mankind could live and prosper. The eagle was chief in this good fight: therefore, his feathers were worn by man as emblems of wisdom, justice, and power.
Among the few human beings that were yet alive was a woman who had been blessed with many children, but these had always been destroyed by the beasts. If by any means she succeeded in eluding the others, the dragon, who was very wise and very evil, would come himself and eat her babes.
After many years, a son of the rainstorm was born to her and she dug for him a deep cave. The entrance to this cave she closed and over the spot built a campfire. This concealed the babe's hiding place and kept him warm. Every day she would remove the fire and descend into the cave, where the child's bed was, to nurse him; then she would return and rebuild the campfire.
Frequently the dragon would come and question her, but she would say, I have no more children; you have eaten all of them.
When the child was larger, he would not always stay in the cave, for he sometimes wanted to run and play. Once the dragon saw his tracks. Now this perplexed and enraged the old dragon, for he could not find the hiding place of the boy; but he said that he would destroy the mother if she did not reveal the child's hiding place. The poor mother was very much troubled; she could not give up her child, but she knew the power and cunning of the dragon, therefore she lived in constant fear.
Soon after this, the boy said that he wished to go hunting. The mother would not give her consent. She told him of the dragon, the wolves, and serpents; but he said, tomorrow I go.
At the boy's request, his uncle, who was the only man then living, made a little bow and some arrows for him, and the two went hunting the next day. They trailed the deer far up the mountain and finally the boy killed a buck. His uncle showed him how to dress the deer and broil the meat. They broiled two hindquarters, one for the child, and one for his uncle. When the meat was done, they placed it on some bushes to cool. Just then the huge form of the dragon appeared. The child was not afraid, but his uncle was so dumb with fright that he did not speak or move.
The dragon took the boy's parcel of meat and went aside with it. He placed the meat on another bush and seated himself beside it. Then he said, This is the child I have been seeking. Boy, you are nice and fat, so when I have eaten this venison I shall eat you. The boy said, No, you shall not eat me, and you shall not eat that meat. So he walked over to where the dragon sat and took the meat back to his own seat. The dragon said, I like your courage, but you are foolish; what do you think you could do? Well, said the boy, I can do enough to protect myself, as you may find out. Then the dragon took the meat again, and then the boy retook it. Four times in all the dragon took the meat, and after the fourth time the boy replaced the meat he said, Dragon, will you fight me? The dragon said, Yes, in whatever way you like. The boy said, I will stand one hundred paces distant from you and you may have four shots at me with your bow and arrows, provided that you will then exchange places with me and give me four shots. Good, said the dragon. Stand up.
Then the dragon took his bow, which was made of a large pine tree. He took four arrows from his quiver; they were made of young pine tree saplings, and each arrow was twenty feet in length. He took deliberate aim, but just as the arrow left the bow the boy made a peculiar sound and leaped into the air. Immediately the arrow was shivered into a thousand splinters, and the boy was seen standing on the top of a bright rainbow over the spot where the dragon's aim had been directed. Soon the rainbow was gone and the boy was standing on the ground again. Four times this was repeated, then the boy said, Dragon, stand here: it is my time to shoot. The dragon said, All right, your little arrows cannot pierce my first coat of horn, and I have three other coats, shoot away. The boy shot an arrow, striking the dragon just over the heart, and one coat of the great horny scales fell to the ground. The next shot another coat, and then another, and the dragon's heart was exposed. Then the dragon trembled, but could not move. Before the fourth arrow was shot the boy said, Uncle, you are dumb with fear; you have not moved; come here or the dragon will fall on you. His uncle ran toward him. Then he sped the fourth arrow with true aim, and it pierced the dragon's heart. With a tremendous roar the dragon rolled down the mountainside, down four precipices into a canyon below.
Immediately storm clouds swept the mountains, lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and the rain poured. When the rainstorm had passed, far down in the canyon below, they could see fragments of the huge body of the dragon lying among the rocks, and the bones of this dragon may still be found there.
This boy's name was Ndéén. Usen taught him how to prepare herbs for medicine, how to hunt, and how to fight. He was the first chief of the Indians and wore the eagle's feathers as the sign of justice, wisdom, and power. To him and to his people, as they were created, Usen gave homes in the land of the West.
I was born in Nodoyohn Canyon, Arizona, June 1829.
In that country which lies around the head waters of the Gila River, I was reared. This range was our fatherland; among these mountains our wigwams were hidden; the scattered valleys contained our fields; the boundless prairies, stretching away on every side, were our pastures; the rocky caverns were our burying places.
I was fourth in a family of eight children, four boys and four girls. Of that family, only myself, my brother, Porico, and my sister, Nahdaste , are yet alive. We are held as prisoners of war in this Military Reservation.
As a babe I rolled on the dirt floor of my father's tepee, hung in my tsoch at my mother's back, or suspended from the bough of a tree. I was warmed by the sun, rocked by the winds, and sheltered by the trees as other Indian babes.
When a child, my mother taught me the legends of our people; taught me of the sun and sky, the moon and stars, the clouds and storms. She also taught me to kneel and pray to Usen for strength, health, wisdom, and protection. We never prayed against any person, but if we had aught against any individual we ourselves took vengeance. We were taught that Usen does not care for the petty quarrels of men.
My father had often told me of the brave deeds of our warriors, of the pleasures of the chase, and the glories of the warpath.
With my brothers and sisters I played about my father's home. Sometimes we played at hide-and-seek among the rocks and pines; sometimes we loitered in the shade of the cottonwood trees or sought the shudock while our parents worked in the field. Sometimes we played that we were warriors. We would practice stealing upon some object that represented an enemy, and in our childish imitation often perform the feats of war. Sometimes we would hide away from our mother to see if she could find us, and often when thus concealed, go to sleep and perhaps remain hidden for many hours.
When we were old enough to be of real service, we went to the field with our parents: not to play, but to toil. When the crops were to be planted we broke the ground with wooden hoes. We planted the corn in straight rows, the beans among the corn, and the melons and pumpkins in irregular order over the field. We cultivated these crops as there was need.
Our field usually contained about two acres of ground. The fields were never fenced. It was common for many families to cultivate land in the same valley and share the burden of protecting the growing crops from destruction by the ponies of the tribe, or by deer and other wild animals.
Melons were gathered as they were consumed. In the autumn pumpkins and beans were gathered and placed in bags or baskets; ears of corn were tied together by the husks, and then the harvest was carried on the backs of ponies up to our homes. Here the corn was shelled, and all the harvest stored away in caves or other secluded places to be used in winter.
We never fed corn to our ponies, but if we kept them up in the wintertime we gave them fodder to eat. We had no cattle or other domestic animals except our dogs and ponies.
We did not cultivate tobacco, but found it growing wild. This we cut and cured in autumn, but if the supply ran out, the leaves from the stalks left standing served our purpose. All Indians smoked, men and women. No boy was allowed to smoke until he had hunted alone and killed large game, wolves and bears. Unmarried women were not prohibited from smoking, but were considered immodest if they did so. Nearly all matrons smoked.
Besides grinding the corn for bread, we sometimes crushed it and soaked it, and after it had fermented, made from this juice a tiswin, which had the power of intoxication, and was very highly prized by the Indians. This work was done by the squaws and children. When berries or nuts were to be gathered the small children and the squaws would go in parties to hunt them, and sometimes stay all day. When they went any great distance from camp they took ponies to carry the baskets.
I frequently went with these parties, and upon one of these excursions a woman named Chokole got lost from the party and was riding her pony through a thicket in search of her friends. Her little dog was following as she slowly made her way through the thick underbrush and pine trees. All at once a grizzly bear rose in her path and attacked the pony. She jumped off, and her pony escaped, but the bear attacked her, so she fought him the best she could with her knife. Her little dog, by snapping at the bear's heels and distracting his attention from the woman, enabled her for some time to keep pretty well out of his reach. Finally the grizzly struck her over the head, tearing off almost her whole scalp. She fell, but did not lose consciousness, and while prostrate struck him four good licks with her knife, and he retreated. After he had gone she replaced her torn scalp and bound it up as best she could, then she turned deathly sick and had to lie down. That night her pony came into camp with his load of nuts and berries, but no rider. The Indians hunted for her, but did not find her until the second day. They carried her home, and under the treatment of their Medicine Men all her wounds were healed.
The Indians knew what herbs to use for Medicine, how to prepare them, and how to give the Medicine. This they had been taught by Usen in the beginning, and each succeeding generation had men who were skilled in the art of healing.
In gathering the herbs, in preparing them, and in administering the Medicine, as much faith was held in prayer as in the actual effect of the Medicine. Usually about eight persons worked together in make Medicine, and there were forms of prayer and incantations to attend each stage of the process. Four attended to the incantations, and four to the preparation of the herbs.
Some of the Indians were skilled in cutting out bullets, arrowheads, and other missiles with which warriors were wounded. I myself have done much of this, using a common dirk or butcher knife.
Small children wore very little clothing in winter and none in the summer. Women usually wore a primitive skirt, which consisted of a piece of cotton cloth fastened about the waist, and extending to the knees. Men wore breechcloths and moccasins. In winter they had shirts and legging in addition.
Frequently when the tribe was in camp a number of boys and girls, by agreement, would steal away and meet at a place several miles distant, where they could play all day free from tasks. They were never punished for these frolics; but if their hiding places were discovered they were ridiculed.
To celebrate each noted event, a feast and dance would be given. Perhaps only our own people, perhaps neighboring tribes would be invited. These festivities usually lasted for about four days. By day we feasted, by night under the direction of some chief we danced. The music for our dance was singing led by the warriors, and accompanied by beating the esadadedné. No words were sung only the tones. When the feasting and dancing were over we would have horse races, foot races, wrestling, jumping, and all sorts of games.
Among these games the most noted was the tribal game of Kah. It is played as follows: Four moccasins are placed about four feet apart in holes in the ground, dug in a row on one side of the camp, and on the opposite side a similar parallel row. At night a campfire is started between these two rows of moccasins, and the players are arranged on sides, one or any number on each side. The score is kept by a bundle of sticks, from which each side takes a stick for every point won. First one side takes the bone, puts up blankets between the four moccasins and the fire so that the opposing team cannot observe their movements, and then begin to sing the legends of creation. The side having the bone represents the feathered tribe, the opposite side represents the beasts. The players representing the birds do all the singing, and while singing hide the bone in one of the moccasins, then the blankets are thrown down. They continue to sing, but as soon as the blankets are thrown down, the chosen player from the opposing team, armed with a war club, comes to their side of the campfire and with his club strikes the moccasin in which he thinks the bone is hidden. If he strikes the right moccasin, his side gets the bone, and in turn represents the birds, while the opposing team must keep quiet and guess in turn. There are only four plays; three that lose and one that wins. When all the sticks are gone from the bundle the side having the largest number of sticks is counted winner.
This game is seldom played except as a gambling game, but for the purpose it is the most popular game known to the tribe. Usually the game lasts four or five hours. It is never played in daytime.
After the games are all finished the visitors say, We are satisfied, and the camp is broken up. I was always glad when the dances and feasts were announced. So were all the other young people.
Our life also had a religious side. We had no churches, no religious organizations, no Sabbath day, no holidays, and yet we worshiped. Sometimes the whole tribe would assemble to sing and pray; sometimes a smaller number, perhaps only two or three. The songs had a few words, but were not formal. The singer would occasionally put in such words as he wished instead of the usual tone sound. Sometimes we prayed in silence; sometimes each one prayed aloud; sometimes an aged person prayed for all of us. At other times one would rise and speak to us of our duties to each other and to Usen. Our services were short.
When disease or pestilence abounded we were assembled and questioned by our leaders to ascertain what evil we had done, and how Usen could be satisfied. Sometimes sacrifice was deemed necessary. Sometimes the offending one was punished.
If any one off the Denéé had allowed his aged parents to suffer for food or shelter, if he had neglected or abused the sick, if he had profaned our religion, or had been unfaithful, he might be banished from the tribe.
The Denéé had no prisons as white men have. Instead of sending their criminals into prison they sent them out of their tribe. These faithless, cruel, lazy, or cowardly members of the tribe were excluded in such a manner that they could not join any other tribe. Neither could they have any protection from our unwritten tribal laws. Frequently these outlaw Indians banded together and committed depredations which were charged against the regular tribe. However, the life of an outlaw Indian was a hard lot, and their bands never became very large; besides, these bands frequently provoked the wrath of the tribe and secured their own destruction.
When I was about eight or ten years old I began to follow the chase, and to me this was never work.
Out on the prairies, which ran up to our mountain homes, wandered herds of deer, antelope, elk, and buffalo, to be slaughtered when we needed them.
Usually we hunted buffalo on horseback, killing them with arrows and spears. Their skins were used to make tepees and bedding; their flesh, to eat.
It required more skill to hunt the deer than any other animal. We never tried to approach a deer except against the wind. Frequently we would spend hours in stealing upon grazing deer. If they were in the open we would crawl long distances on the ground, keeping a weed or brush before us, so that our approach would not be noticed. Often we could kill several out of one herd before the others would run away. Their flesh was dried and packed in vessels, and would keep in this condition for many months. The hide of the deer soaked in water and ashes and the hair removed, and then the process of tanning continued until the buckskin was soft and pliable. Perhaps no other animal was more valuable to us than the deer.
In the forests and along the streams were many wild turkeys. These we would drive to the plains, then slowly ride up toward them until they were almost tired out. When they began to drop and hide we would ride in upon them and, by swinging from the side of our horses, catch them. If one started to fly we would ride swiftly under him and kill him with a short stick, or hunting club. In this way we could usually get as many wild turkeys as we could carry home on a horse.
There were many rabbits in our range, and we also hunted them on horseback. Our horses were trained to follow the rabbit at full speed, and as they approached them we would swing from one side of the horse and strike the rabbit with our hunting club. If he was too far away we would throw the stick and kill him. This was great sport when we were boys, but as warriors we seldom hunted small game.
There were many fish in the streams, but as we did not eat them, we did not try to catch or kill them. Small boys sometimes threw stones at them or shot at them for practice with their bows and arrows. Usen did not intend snakes, frogs, or fishes to be eaten. I have never eaten of them.
There were many eagles in the mountains. These we hunted for their feathers. It required great skill to steal upon an eagle, for besides having sharp eyes, he is wise and never stops at any place where he does not have a good view of the surrounding country.
I have killed many bears with a spear, but was never injured in a fight with one. I have killed several mountain lions with arrows, and one with a spear. Both bears and mountain lions are good for food and valuable for their skin. When we killed them we carried them home on our horses. We often made quivers for our arrows from the skin of the mountain lion. These were very pretty and very durable.
During my minority we had never seen a missionary or a priest. We had never seen a white man. Thus quietly lived the Bedonkohe.
In the summer of 1858, being at peace with the Mexican towns as well as with all the neighboring Indian tribes, we went south into Old Mexico to trade. Our whole tribe went through Sonora toward Casa Grande, our destination, but just before reaching that place we stopped at another Mexican town called by the Indians Kaskiyeh. Here we stayed for several days, camping outside the city. Every day we would go into town to trade, leaving our camp under the protection of a small guard so that our arms, supplies, and women and children would not be disturbed during our absence.
Late one afternoon when returning from town we were met by a few women and children who told us that Mexican troops from some other town had attacked our camp, killed all the warriors of the guard, captured all our ponies, secured our arms, destroyed our supplies, and killed many of our women and children. Quickly we separated, concealing ourselves as best we could until nightfall, when we assembled at our appointed place of rendezvous, a thicket by the river. Silently we stole in one by one: sentinels were placed, and, when all were counted, I found that my aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children were among the slain. There were no lights in camp, so without being noticed I silently turned away and stood by the river. How long I stood there I do not know, but when I saw the warriors arranging for a council I took my place.
That night I did not give my vote for or against any measure; but it was decided that as there were only eighty warriors left, and as we were without arms or supplies, and were furthermore surrounded by the Mexicans far inside their own territory, we could not hope to fight successfully. So our chief, Mangus-Colorado, gave the order to start at once in perfect silence for our homes in Arizona, leaving the dead upon the field.
I stood until all had passed, hardly knowing what I would do. I had no weapon, nor did I hardly wish to fight, neither did I contemplate recovering the bodies of my loved ones, for that was forbidden. I did not pray, nor did I resolve to do anything in particular, for I had no purpose left. I finally followed the tribe silently, keeping just within hearing distance of the soft noise of the feet of the retreating Denéé.
The next morning some of the Indians killed a small amount of game and we halted long enough for the tribe to cook and eat, when the march was resumed. I had killed no game, and did not eat. During the first march as well as while we were camped at this place I spoke to no one and no one spoke to me, there was nothing to say.
For two days and three nights we were on forced marches, stopping only for meals, then we made a camp near the Mexican border, where we rested two days. Here I took some food and talked with the other Indians who had lost in the massacre, but none had lost as I had, for I had lost all.
Within a few days we arrived at our own settlement. There were the decorations that Alope had made, and there were the playthings of our little ones. I burned them all, even our tepee. I also burned my mother's tepee and destroyed all her property.
I was never again contented in our quiet home. True, I could visit my father's grave, but I had vowed vengeance upon the Mexican troopers who had wronged me, and whenever I came near his grave, or saw anything to remind me of former happy days my heart would ache for revenge upon Mexico.
As soon as we had again collected some arms and supplies Mangus-Colorado, our chief, called a council and found that all our warriors were willing to take the warpath against Mexico. I was appointed to solicit the aid of other tribes in this war.
When I went to the Chokonen, Cochise, their chief, called a council at early dawn. Silently the warriors assembled at an open place in a mountain dell and took their seats on the ground, arranged in rows according to their ranks. Silently they sat smoking. At a signal from the chief I arose and presented my cause as follows:
"Kinsman, you have heard what the Mexicans have recently done without cause. You are my relatives, uncles, cousins, brothers. We are men the same as the Mexicans are, we can do to them what they have done to us. Let us go forward and trail them, I will lead you to their city; we will attack them in their homes. I will fight in the front of the battle. I only ask you to follow me to avenge this wrong done by these Mexicans, will you come? It is well, you will all come.
Remember the rule in war, men may return or they may be killed. If any of these young men are killed I want no blame from their kinsmen, for they themselves have chosen to go. If I am killed no one need mourn for me. My people have all been killed in that country, and I, too, will die if need be."
I returned to my own settlement, reported this success to my chieftain, and immediately departed to the southward into the land of the Nedni. Their chief, Whoa, heard me without comment, but he immediately issued orders for a council, and when all were ready gave a sign that I might speak. I addressed them as I had addressed the Chokonen tribe, and they also promised to help us.
It was in the summer of 1859, almost a year from the date of the massacre of Kaskiyeh, that these three tribes were assembled on the Mexican border to go upon the warpath. Their faces were painted, the war bands fastened upon their brows their long scalp-locks ready for the hand and knife of the warrior who would overcome them. Their families had been hidden away in a mountain rendezvous near the Mexican border. With these families a guard was posted, and a number of places of rendezvous designated in case the camp should be disturbed.
When all were ready the chieftains gave command to go forward. None of us were mounted and each warrior wore moccasins and also a cloth wrapped about his loins. This cloth could be spread over him when he slept, and when on the march would be ample protection as clothing. In battle, if the fight was hard, we did not wish much clothing. Each warrior carried three days' rations, but as we often killed game while on the march, we seldom were without food.
We traveled in three divisions: the Bedonheko led by Mangus-Colorado, the Chokonen by Cochise, and the Nedni by Whoa; however, there was no regular order inside the separate tribes. We usually marched about fourteen hours per day, making three stops for meals, and traveling forty to forty-five miles a day.
I acted as guide into Mexico, and we followed the river courses and mountain ranges because we could better thereby keep our movements concealed. We entered Sonora and went southward past Quitaro, Nacozari, and many smaller settlements.
When we were almost at Arispe we camped, and eight men rode out from the city to parley with us. These we captured, killed, and scalped. This was to draw the troops from the city, and the next day they came. The skirmishing lasted all day without a general engagement, but just at night we captured their supply train, so we had plenty of provisions and some more guns.
That night we posted sentinels and did not move our camp, but rested quietly all night, for we expected heavy work the next day. Early the next morning the warriors were assembled to pray, not for help, but that they might have health and avoid ambush or deceptions by the enemy.
As we had anticipated, about ten o'clock in the morning the whole Mexican force came out. There were two companies of cavalry and two of infantry. I recognized the cavalry as the soldiers who had killed my people at Kaskiyeh. This I told to the chieftains, and they said that I might direct the battle.
I was no chief and never had been, but because I had been more deeply wronged than others, this honor was conferred upon me, and I resolved to prove worthy of the trust. I arranged the Indians in a hollow circle near the river, and the Mexicans drew their infantry up in two lines, with the cavalry in reserve. We were in the timber, and they advanced until within about four hundred yards, when they halted and opened fire. Soon I led a charge against them, at the same time sending some braves to attack the rear. In all the battle I thought of my murdered mother, wife, and babies; of my father's grave and my vow of vengeance, and I fought with fury. Many fell by my hand, and constantly I led the advance. Many braves were killed The battle lasted about two hours.
At the last four Indians were alone in the center of the field, myself and three other warriors. Our arrows were all gone, our spears broken off in the bodies of dead enemies. We had only our hands and knives with which to fight, but all who had stood against us were dead. Then two armed soldiers came upon us from another part of the field. They shot down two of our men and we, the remaining two, fled toward our own warriors. My companion was struck down by a saber, but I reached our warriors, seized a spear, and turned. The one who pursued me missed his aim and fell by my spear. With his saber I met the trooper who had killed my companion and we grappled and fell. I killed him with my knife and quickly rose over his body, brandishing his saber, seeking for other troopers to kill. There were none. But the Denéé had seen. Over the bloody field, covered with the bodies of Mexicans, rang the fierce Denéé war-whoop.
Still covered with the blood of my enemies, still holding my conquering weapon, still hot with the joy of battle, victory, and vengeance, I was surrounded by the Denéé braves and made war chief of all the Denéé. Then I gave orders for scalping the slain.
I could not call back my loved ones, I could not bring back the dead Denéé, but I could rejoice in this revenge. The Denéé had avenged the massacre of Kaskiyeh.
Life Giver:
It seemed like many minutes from the time he stopped talking until I realized there was no more to come. Actually, it was probably only a few seconds. But, Jimmy was silent; it was as if he had run out of words. Once I did realize the story of Geronimo was finished, I was hesitant to open my eyes; I did not want to break the spell. Though eventually I did open them, and looked right into the face of God!
It was the stars, while Jimmy had spoken, the sun traveled to the other side of the world, and the stars had come out. Never had I seen anything like it. For three hundred and sixty degrees, the stars touched the horizon. There was no light to impede their brilliance, no buildings to block my view of that wondrous sight. There was just as much starlight as there was black sky. I felt as though I could reach out and touch them, they seemed that close. I could see how Ptolemy believed the earth was encapsulated within crystalline spheres. In the dry desert air, the stars did indeed look as though they were made of fine, delicate crystal. I saw The Great Bear, and Polaris, the only star that does not move. Orion seemed as though he could lower his arm and smite me with his club. I was in the mist of searching for other constellations when Jimmy broke my reverie. He said, “It’s time.”
As I sat up, the young girl handed me a wooden bowl, Jimmy was already holding one exactly like it. We each held our bowls with two hands in front of us, about chest high. I was told by Jimmy that the potion would help me go within, to commune with the Old Ones. “It is my hope to speak with Life Giver at times like these, but it has not happened yet. The Wise One tells me to be patient that he has only spoken to Life Giver once, though he has spoken with Changing Woman many times.” I said nothing. Jimmy reached his bowl towards me as in a toast, I did the same, and then we drank whatever was in those bowls.
Jimmy told me that we would not speak again until morning. He would continue facing west, and that I should face the north. So, I walked ninety degrees around the rise, to Jimmy’s right, sat down and awaited what was to come. It was starting to get a little cool, and I thought it would have been nice to have had the forethought to have brought a jacket. In an effort to keep warm, I brought my knees up to my chest, folded my arms about them, and rested my chin on my knees. I looked around to see what the girl was up to, but she, like the grandmother was gone. I then had nothing else to do, but settle in, and wait for the Old Ones.
Time started to stretch out, a second felt like a minute; Einstein was right. After awhile I noticed I wasn’t cold any longer, so I unfolded my self and laid back to look at the stars. As I said, time was playing tricks on me, so I don’t know how long it was after I laid back that I heard the voice. At first, I thought it was Jimmy, but when I looked in his direction, he was staring off into the western sky, oblivious of me, and his surroundings. As I was looking towards Jimmy, I heard it again. It was in my head, and the voice was calling to me, but not by name. Aloud I said, “Are you calling me?” and the voice responded, “There is no need to use your vocal cords, think and I will hear you. For some reason this all seemed perfectly natural, as though I spoke with disembodied entities everyday.
My first, or I guess if you want to be technical, my second question was, “Who are you?” And, I swear this is what I heard, “I have many names, and have had many other names in the past. I am known to your friend Jimmy as Life Giver, I am known to you, and your culture as God. Some refer to me as Jehovah, and I am called Allah, and Krishna by others.” I don’t know why, but for some reason it did not seem strange that I was having a conversation with God.
The next thing I said, or thought, or whatever, was, “If you are who you say you are, why do you speak with me, when Jimmy has desperately, and earnestly been trying to speak with you for years?” I then heard this reply, “I have been with Jimmy all those years, and more, waiting for him to notice me. I am with my children, all my children always. I am never not with you.”
NOTE: In an effort to cut down on the prose, I offer a transcript of my conversation with the entity, which, I have come to believe was indeed who He claimed to be, Life Giver. Before you make up your mind, read the transcript in its entirety, then decide what you want to believe.
ME: It just doesn’t seem fair that I’m here speaking with you, when it should be Jimmy instead.
LG: Jimmy and I do speak all the time, but not in this way.
ME: Have you come to teach me some great truth?
LG: You have nothing to learn, none of my children have anything to learn. You only have to remember.
Me: Remember? Remember what?
LG: Who you are, and where you come from.
ME: Now I’m getting confused, didn’t You create us?
LG: Yes, and no.
ME: What?
LG: Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
ME: Yes, please.
LG: Before this universe in which you inhabit existed, before time existed, I was. It is known as The First State. Within me were the powers of creativity and I knew of their existence, but the ways to produce them were unknown to me. I existed in a State of Being, but without a means to find expression for my Being.
You were within my dreams, and while still within my dreams, I gave you consciousness. I felt pressure from you, the conscious, but still probable selves, who found yourselves in a God’s dream. To release you would give you actuality, but it would also mean losing a portion of my own consciousness. With love and longing, I let go that portion of myself, and you were free. We exploded in a flash of creation, and I lost a portion of myself.
I love all that I have created down to the least. I celebrate the dearness and uniqueness of each consciousness. I am triumphant and joyful at each development of each individual. I revel and take joy in the slightest creative act of each of you. You, my children are the expression of my Being. You are all portions of me. I am the living spirit that pervades each living thing. Everything has an inner spirit, everything has a consciousness. You are not a part from me, You are apart of me.
ME: So, you’re really God?
LG: We are God. Some refer to me as All That Is, which is more descriptive of the truth. There is only ONE, we are both a part of that ONE. This planet’s first religion was, The Law of One. In a time forgotten, man still remembered where he came from. That is what I meant when I said you only have to remember.
ME: So, why can I experience you and Jimmy can’t.
LG: As I have stated, Jimmy, you, and all of humanity experience me every day.
ME: What I mean is why am I talking to you tonight, and Jimmy is not?
LG: How do you know he is not speaking with me now as you are?
ME: Well, I guess I don’t. I reckon God can carry on more than one conversation at a time.
LG: You reckon?
ME: I didn’t know God had a sense of humor.
LG: I have what you have, you have what I have, we are ONE.
ME: I guess I was pretty lucking when Jimmy picked me up this afternoon, or else I wouldn’t be here speaking with God.
LG: It was no accident that Jimmy offered you a ride, and a place to sleep. Jimmy and I arranged it while he slept last night. We spoke in his dreams, though he has consciously forgotten our talk, he has remembered it subconsciously.
ME: Then why am I here?
LG: Do you mean why are you here tonight, or why are you here on the planet Earth?
ME: Both, I guess.
LG: You, and everyone else, are here because you want to be here. You personally are here tonight because I have a message for you, and this was the only to make sure you hear it.
ME: Before you give me the message, may I ask one more question?
LG: You may ask as many as you wish.
ME: What is the meaning of life?
LG: The meaning of life, the reason you, and all our brethren are on this planet, and on other planets, in other star systems, is to choose. Making choices is the reason for life. The choices you make are the way I express myself. When a life is completed, the experiences you bring back to me are a gift. A gift from a loving child who has volunteered to endure the hardships of the physical plane in order that its parent may BE.
ME: What if we make the wrong choices?
LG: You cannot make a wrong choice. Whatever you choose will eventually lead to evolution, and over time evolution creates balance as part of the nature of existence.
ME: Even if we make a choice, based on hate that’s okay?
LG: Remember this: Ultimately, there is only Love. All so called negative emotions, hate, anger, jealousy, just to a mention a few, stem from fear. The only way to combat fear is Love. Love is always stronger than fear.
ME: WOW!
LG: WOW, indeed.
ME: You said you had a message for me?
LG: Yes, you are planning on going home, You of course may do anything of your choosing. However, you came to the Earth to teach. Some of those you have agreed to teach will miss their lessons if you go home now.
ME: I thought you said we have nothing to learn, we only have to remember.
LG: The lessons help you to remember. As a song will bring back memories of the time you first heard it, the lessons you, and all teachers teach, help those involved to remember.
ME: I’m just a kid, how can I teach anyone anything?
LG: First of all, you are as old as I am, we existed before time began. Secondly, you teach by example. Some will learn from you after seeing you only for a moment, other will have learned their lessons after many months with you. As you in turn will learn your lessons from others you will encounter.
ME: You say I have a choice?
LG: Of course you do.
ME: Okay, as long as it’s my choice, I don’t like to be pressured, even by God. When will I know when it’s time to go home.
LG: I will tell you.
ME: Sounds like a plan.
LG: Yes it does. It is almost sun up. It would be better if you left without seeing Jimmy. You have places to go, and he has things to do. I promise you will see him again soon.
ME: Well … good-bye.
LG: I am always with you.
Well, I got my carcass up, looked over at my friend Jimmy, and mentally said good-bye to him. I walked the few hundred yards to his house, picked up my gear, which was still outside his door, and walked in to a new day.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Fishin'
Johnny Donohue was my best friend when I was 12 years old. During the summers and on Saturdays we would go fishing in the early hours of the morning. Because we would arise at 3:00 am, and meet shortly thereafter, we called it “Going fishing at three in the morning.”
This particular Saturday morning when I arrived at his house (his house was closer to the lake), two of his three brothers were milling about outside. His brother Terry was a year younger and hung out with us quite a bit, so it was no surprise to see him. But, his youngest brother Matt, who was only six, was a different story. Before I could ask Johnny what was up with Matt, he, Matt, comes running up to me saying, “I want to go fishin'.”
Johnny approaches me and says, “If I try to leave him behind he’ll just follow us, or make such a racket, he’ll wake up my parents. So we bow to the inevitable, and let Matt follow us as we start for the lake. It wasn’t really a lake; it was what was called a rock pit. A rock pit being a place that was once dry land until a land company came in and started dredging the land for use in driving back the Everglades, so development can take place where once saw grass grew. What was left when they had taken as much gravel, dirt, and mud as possible, was a small lake. We were lucky, there were two such lakes within blocks of where we lived. They were identical, about a quarter mile long and half as wide. They were separated by a spit of land about a hundred yards wide.
Our 3:00 am fishing routine consisted of me, Johnny, sometimes Terry, our fishing poles, a frying pan, a can of baked beans, and a stick of butter; at sunrise we would stop fishing, clean our catch, build a fire, and cook the fish we had caught moments before. And of course, coming from good Irish (Boston) stock, we always had a side dish of Boston baked beans.
As a rule, we always fished the north lake. Why, I don’t know, probably because that’s the lake we swam in, and we felt comfortable there. However, this morning we were fishing the south lake, and by the time the sun was fixing to come up, we had caught nothing. Matt may have helped our bad luck along by throwing rocks into the water right where our lines were. So, we decided to call it day, or a night, or whatever; it was still dark out when we reeled in our lines, and stared for home.
Johnny, Terry, and I were walking north along the western shore of the south lake, Matthew was somewhere behind us. There was no need to fret about Matt, we were only blocks from his home, which he knew his way to as well as we did; and there were no “Bad Guys” to worry about, it was 1962 after all. With what happened in the next few minutes, it just goes to show you how wrong a guy can be. At this point, it’s still pitch black out, but a gray sky is only minutes away.
As we near the bit of land between the two lakes, we hear a sound, which immediately put us on guard. At the time, our neighborhood was in the boondocks, and we have never run into another living soul in all the years we went fishing at three o’clock in the morning. The sound was a scrapping sound, immediately followed by a sound that sounded like “plod.” “Scratch, plod, scratch, plod,” it had a kind of rhythm. By now the dawn had broken, it was light enough, barely, to see where the sound was coming from, and who was making it.
From fifty yards away, we could make out the silhouettes of two men and a car. The bigger of the two was leaning against the car, arms folded, watching the other digging a hole. That was the sound we had heard, the scrapping of the shovel as it was thrust into the sand, and the sand as it was heaved onto the slowly growing pile that lay in front of the man doing the digging. As we stood there watching this strange sight, it got stranger. The big guy went to the trunk, opened it, and dragged out a dead body, or what sure looked like a dead body in the semi-darkness.
At the first glimpse of the body, all three of us dropped as one, and lay prone on the ground. After all, we were the first generation of children raised on television; we’ve seen enough to know that witnesses always get “rubbed out.” Dead men tell no tales.
Johnny and I were right next to each other, with Terry behind us. We lay in that position for about five minutes wondering what would be the best course of action to take that would not end up with all three of us with bullets in our backs. Johnny and I were for slowly crawling out so as not to be seen, and Terry was for jumping up and making a run for it. Well wouldn’t you know it, little Matthew decided which course of action we should take, and it was none of the above.
As we lay there conducting the great debate, we see Matt walking up to the two men from the opposite direction. He must have circumnavigated the lake, and was heading in the general direction of home; the only problem being, two bad guys were between him and his home. Because he was so small, and the men so intent on what they were doing, Matt was able to walk right up the hole being dug and peer in into it. Even from our vantage point, we could see the men react as all reasonable men would react when burying a corpse at six o’clock in the morning without a permit; they nearly jumped out of their skins.
After taking a moment to regroup, the bigger of the two, the one not shoveling, grabbed Matt by the arm, and forced marched him about ten feet before flinging him in the direction of the street. Of course, the little kid stumbled and fell. He sat there looking up to that big bully, as the man pointed to the street. You didn’t need to read lips to know the guy was telling Matt to scram.
Now, if I may, I’d like to digress for a moment and tell you about Jonny, Terry, and myself. Johnny and I were good kids. We were alter boys, never gave the nuns at school any trouble, we were the same in those days. We kept our noses clean. Of course, as we got older and joined the Boy Scouts, Johnny made Eagle Scout while I never made it out of Tenderfoot. Johnny went on to become an FBI agent, and I went on to break many, many laws with impunity. But, on that morning, we thought alike. Now Terry on the other hand was a holy terror. Whenever he hung with us, we could expect to either be reprimanded by someone, or punished by our parents when we got home. All the Donohue boys, except Terry had red hair and freckles, Terry was different, he was a blonde. Come to think of it, he was different in a lot of ways. I tell you these things so you will understand why things turned out as they did.
Back to the story: When we left off, Matt was sitting on the ground with Mr. Big standing over him.
As Matt hits the ground, Johnny jumps up and yells, “My brother!” and starts running in the direction of all the excitement. Because he’s my pal, I’m two steps behind him, and Terry is a step behind me. We reached the scene of the crime and inject ourselves between Mr. Big and Matthew. When he sees us, the big guy turns to the guy shoveling and says,” Hey Nicky, the Cavalry to the rescue.” When he sees us, Nicky drops the shovel and pulls out a gun he had tucked into his belt, and points it at us. At this turn of events, Mr. Big says to Nicky, “Put the fuckin’ gun away, pick up your fuckin’ shovel, and dig the goddamn hole.” I thought Nicky was going to shoot him. I would have if someone spoke to me like that. But Nicky only shrugged, slipped the gun back into his belt, and resumed his spadework.
“So kids what’s the problem,” says Mr. Big “Why don’t you be good little tikes, and just run along home.” When we heard this, Jonny and I looked at one another, and spoke in that silent language only very close fiends speak, we both knew our troubles were over. All we had to do was walk away from there, go home, tell our parents, and they would take the appropriate steps to deal with the situation.
As Jonny takes Matt by the hand, and we turn to leave, we hear, “You guys gonna bury that dead body?” “Fucking Terry” was my only thought at the moment. I don’t know what Johnny was thinking, but by the look on his face, he was thinking along similar lines. With that bit of oratory, Nicky again drops his shovel and pulls out his gun. Mr. Big just stares at him until Nicky meekly puts the gun back in his belt. But in an act of defiance, he does not resume his shoveling duties. So there we are; four kids, two bad guys and a corpse. “What next,” was probably the only thought going through everyone’s head, except for Matt and Terry. Matt was too young to comprehend the situation, and Terry was just getting warmed up.
As we stood there in this Mexican standoff, we hear a groan coming from the corpse. Then the corpse raises itself on one arm and shakes its head. Now I’ve got to hand it to Mr. Big, if nothing else, he was a fast thinker. I could tell he was just as surprised as the rest of us at the resurrection taking place, probably more so;, but without missing a beat he turns to Terry and says, “You talkin’ about Marty, he’s no dead body; he just had too much to drink.” I’m thinking, “Saved by the bell, all we’ve got to do is play dumb and we can walk out here.” And no sooner had I thought those encouraging thoughts, then I hear, “Then why are you digging the hole?” You guessed it, Fucking Terry again. But no one pays any attention to him, Marty is slowly getting to his feet, and all eyes are upon this Lazarus like spectacle. The only one present who does anything is Nicky, he pulls out his gun again. Mr. Big walks over to him, slaps him on the back of the head, and says, “Not in front of the k-i-d-s.” How old did this guy think we were that we couldn’t spell kids? But that was cool, if he wanted us stupid, we could be the stupidest sons-of-bitches you ever saw. But unfortunately, we didn’t get a chance to exhibit our acting talents. Just then, Marty says to no one in particular, “You fuckin’ assholes, you tried to kill me!”
“We ain’t done trying yet,” was Nicky’s retort. With that brilliant statement, in front of witnesses none the less, Mr. Big loses his cool. He turns to Nicky and screams, “Alright, just shoot the bastard once and for all. Kill him before I kill you, you sorry son-of-a-bitch!” With that, Nicky grins from one end of his face to the other. “Right boss,” is his reply, just before raising the gun and putting two right in Marty’s head. The rest of those assembled, with the exception of Mr. Big, jumped a foot in the air with the explosion of the first shot. Marty doesn’t take it so well, he’s flung back against the car, stares at Nicky for a moment before crumbling to the ground. Us kids, we’re frozen with fear to the piece of earth we each happened to be standing on at the moment the shots were fired. Even Terry couldn’t think of anything stupid to say.
As soon as Marty hits the ground, Mr. big orders Nicky to pull the body away from the car. He , Mr. Big, gets behind the wheel and yells for Nicky to hurry up and get into the car. When Nicky decides that Marty is far enough removed from the car, he walks over to the passenger side window, sticks his head in, and asks Mr. Big, “What about the kids?” We kids were still rooted to our respective pieces of earth, so we were close enough to hear Mr. Big’s answer to Nicky’s query. “Nicky, fuck the goddamn kids, fuck Marty, fuck you, and fuck this miserable town! Get you ass in here, or so help me “I'll blow your fuckin’ head off right where you stand.” With this, Mr. Big pulls out his own gun and points it at Nicky’s head. Having his boss point a gun at his head didn’t seem to phase Nicky though, before getting into the car he turns to Jonny and me and winks, before saying, “See ya kids.” He then got into the car, and Mr. Big backs it out onto the street, turns the car around, and drives out of our lives forever.
But wait, the story isn’t over quite yet. After our friends had left, we formed a circle around Marty; we stood there looking down at him. He was lying face down in the fine white sand, and his blood had discolored the sand a kind of reddish brown. Terry says, “Cool.” Johnny looks like he wants to throw up, I am just paralyzed, and Matt is building sand castles in the sand. After a few minutes Johnny says, “Let’s go home.”
The walk home was the least eventful part of the entire morning’s fishing expedition, at least until we got to Johnny’s house. When we got there he said, “You guys wait out here, I’ll go in and tell my parents.” A few moments later we heard a scream, followed by the exclamation, “My babies!” Within seconds Mrs. Donohue wearing an old blue bathrobe, and with curlers in her hair, flies through the front door, stoops down, and like a mother hen, enfolds Matt and Terry into her arms. After a few moments and a few sniffles, she rises and shouts, while pointing to the door, “Get in there misters, before I beat you!” At that, there was nothing left for me to do but make my way to my own home. I was hungry, we hadn’t caught any fish that morning.
For some reason after that morning, we were never allowed to go fishing at three o’clock in the morning again.
This particular Saturday morning when I arrived at his house (his house was closer to the lake), two of his three brothers were milling about outside. His brother Terry was a year younger and hung out with us quite a bit, so it was no surprise to see him. But, his youngest brother Matt, who was only six, was a different story. Before I could ask Johnny what was up with Matt, he, Matt, comes running up to me saying, “I want to go fishin'.”
Johnny approaches me and says, “If I try to leave him behind he’ll just follow us, or make such a racket, he’ll wake up my parents. So we bow to the inevitable, and let Matt follow us as we start for the lake. It wasn’t really a lake; it was what was called a rock pit. A rock pit being a place that was once dry land until a land company came in and started dredging the land for use in driving back the Everglades, so development can take place where once saw grass grew. What was left when they had taken as much gravel, dirt, and mud as possible, was a small lake. We were lucky, there were two such lakes within blocks of where we lived. They were identical, about a quarter mile long and half as wide. They were separated by a spit of land about a hundred yards wide.
Our 3:00 am fishing routine consisted of me, Johnny, sometimes Terry, our fishing poles, a frying pan, a can of baked beans, and a stick of butter; at sunrise we would stop fishing, clean our catch, build a fire, and cook the fish we had caught moments before. And of course, coming from good Irish (Boston) stock, we always had a side dish of Boston baked beans.
As a rule, we always fished the north lake. Why, I don’t know, probably because that’s the lake we swam in, and we felt comfortable there. However, this morning we were fishing the south lake, and by the time the sun was fixing to come up, we had caught nothing. Matt may have helped our bad luck along by throwing rocks into the water right where our lines were. So, we decided to call it day, or a night, or whatever; it was still dark out when we reeled in our lines, and stared for home.
Johnny, Terry, and I were walking north along the western shore of the south lake, Matthew was somewhere behind us. There was no need to fret about Matt, we were only blocks from his home, which he knew his way to as well as we did; and there were no “Bad Guys” to worry about, it was 1962 after all. With what happened in the next few minutes, it just goes to show you how wrong a guy can be. At this point, it’s still pitch black out, but a gray sky is only minutes away.
As we near the bit of land between the two lakes, we hear a sound, which immediately put us on guard. At the time, our neighborhood was in the boondocks, and we have never run into another living soul in all the years we went fishing at three o’clock in the morning. The sound was a scrapping sound, immediately followed by a sound that sounded like “plod.” “Scratch, plod, scratch, plod,” it had a kind of rhythm. By now the dawn had broken, it was light enough, barely, to see where the sound was coming from, and who was making it.
From fifty yards away, we could make out the silhouettes of two men and a car. The bigger of the two was leaning against the car, arms folded, watching the other digging a hole. That was the sound we had heard, the scrapping of the shovel as it was thrust into the sand, and the sand as it was heaved onto the slowly growing pile that lay in front of the man doing the digging. As we stood there watching this strange sight, it got stranger. The big guy went to the trunk, opened it, and dragged out a dead body, or what sure looked like a dead body in the semi-darkness.
At the first glimpse of the body, all three of us dropped as one, and lay prone on the ground. After all, we were the first generation of children raised on television; we’ve seen enough to know that witnesses always get “rubbed out.” Dead men tell no tales.
Johnny and I were right next to each other, with Terry behind us. We lay in that position for about five minutes wondering what would be the best course of action to take that would not end up with all three of us with bullets in our backs. Johnny and I were for slowly crawling out so as not to be seen, and Terry was for jumping up and making a run for it. Well wouldn’t you know it, little Matthew decided which course of action we should take, and it was none of the above.
As we lay there conducting the great debate, we see Matt walking up to the two men from the opposite direction. He must have circumnavigated the lake, and was heading in the general direction of home; the only problem being, two bad guys were between him and his home. Because he was so small, and the men so intent on what they were doing, Matt was able to walk right up the hole being dug and peer in into it. Even from our vantage point, we could see the men react as all reasonable men would react when burying a corpse at six o’clock in the morning without a permit; they nearly jumped out of their skins.
After taking a moment to regroup, the bigger of the two, the one not shoveling, grabbed Matt by the arm, and forced marched him about ten feet before flinging him in the direction of the street. Of course, the little kid stumbled and fell. He sat there looking up to that big bully, as the man pointed to the street. You didn’t need to read lips to know the guy was telling Matt to scram.
Now, if I may, I’d like to digress for a moment and tell you about Jonny, Terry, and myself. Johnny and I were good kids. We were alter boys, never gave the nuns at school any trouble, we were the same in those days. We kept our noses clean. Of course, as we got older and joined the Boy Scouts, Johnny made Eagle Scout while I never made it out of Tenderfoot. Johnny went on to become an FBI agent, and I went on to break many, many laws with impunity. But, on that morning, we thought alike. Now Terry on the other hand was a holy terror. Whenever he hung with us, we could expect to either be reprimanded by someone, or punished by our parents when we got home. All the Donohue boys, except Terry had red hair and freckles, Terry was different, he was a blonde. Come to think of it, he was different in a lot of ways. I tell you these things so you will understand why things turned out as they did.
Back to the story: When we left off, Matt was sitting on the ground with Mr. Big standing over him.
As Matt hits the ground, Johnny jumps up and yells, “My brother!” and starts running in the direction of all the excitement. Because he’s my pal, I’m two steps behind him, and Terry is a step behind me. We reached the scene of the crime and inject ourselves between Mr. Big and Matthew. When he sees us, the big guy turns to the guy shoveling and says,” Hey Nicky, the Cavalry to the rescue.” When he sees us, Nicky drops the shovel and pulls out a gun he had tucked into his belt, and points it at us. At this turn of events, Mr. Big says to Nicky, “Put the fuckin’ gun away, pick up your fuckin’ shovel, and dig the goddamn hole.” I thought Nicky was going to shoot him. I would have if someone spoke to me like that. But Nicky only shrugged, slipped the gun back into his belt, and resumed his spadework.
“So kids what’s the problem,” says Mr. Big “Why don’t you be good little tikes, and just run along home.” When we heard this, Jonny and I looked at one another, and spoke in that silent language only very close fiends speak, we both knew our troubles were over. All we had to do was walk away from there, go home, tell our parents, and they would take the appropriate steps to deal with the situation.
As Jonny takes Matt by the hand, and we turn to leave, we hear, “You guys gonna bury that dead body?” “Fucking Terry” was my only thought at the moment. I don’t know what Johnny was thinking, but by the look on his face, he was thinking along similar lines. With that bit of oratory, Nicky again drops his shovel and pulls out his gun. Mr. Big just stares at him until Nicky meekly puts the gun back in his belt. But in an act of defiance, he does not resume his shoveling duties. So there we are; four kids, two bad guys and a corpse. “What next,” was probably the only thought going through everyone’s head, except for Matt and Terry. Matt was too young to comprehend the situation, and Terry was just getting warmed up.
As we stood there in this Mexican standoff, we hear a groan coming from the corpse. Then the corpse raises itself on one arm and shakes its head. Now I’ve got to hand it to Mr. Big, if nothing else, he was a fast thinker. I could tell he was just as surprised as the rest of us at the resurrection taking place, probably more so;, but without missing a beat he turns to Terry and says, “You talkin’ about Marty, he’s no dead body; he just had too much to drink.” I’m thinking, “Saved by the bell, all we’ve got to do is play dumb and we can walk out here.” And no sooner had I thought those encouraging thoughts, then I hear, “Then why are you digging the hole?” You guessed it, Fucking Terry again. But no one pays any attention to him, Marty is slowly getting to his feet, and all eyes are upon this Lazarus like spectacle. The only one present who does anything is Nicky, he pulls out his gun again. Mr. Big walks over to him, slaps him on the back of the head, and says, “Not in front of the k-i-d-s.” How old did this guy think we were that we couldn’t spell kids? But that was cool, if he wanted us stupid, we could be the stupidest sons-of-bitches you ever saw. But unfortunately, we didn’t get a chance to exhibit our acting talents. Just then, Marty says to no one in particular, “You fuckin’ assholes, you tried to kill me!”
“We ain’t done trying yet,” was Nicky’s retort. With that brilliant statement, in front of witnesses none the less, Mr. Big loses his cool. He turns to Nicky and screams, “Alright, just shoot the bastard once and for all. Kill him before I kill you, you sorry son-of-a-bitch!” With that, Nicky grins from one end of his face to the other. “Right boss,” is his reply, just before raising the gun and putting two right in Marty’s head. The rest of those assembled, with the exception of Mr. Big, jumped a foot in the air with the explosion of the first shot. Marty doesn’t take it so well, he’s flung back against the car, stares at Nicky for a moment before crumbling to the ground. Us kids, we’re frozen with fear to the piece of earth we each happened to be standing on at the moment the shots were fired. Even Terry couldn’t think of anything stupid to say.
As soon as Marty hits the ground, Mr. big orders Nicky to pull the body away from the car. He , Mr. Big, gets behind the wheel and yells for Nicky to hurry up and get into the car. When Nicky decides that Marty is far enough removed from the car, he walks over to the passenger side window, sticks his head in, and asks Mr. Big, “What about the kids?” We kids were still rooted to our respective pieces of earth, so we were close enough to hear Mr. Big’s answer to Nicky’s query. “Nicky, fuck the goddamn kids, fuck Marty, fuck you, and fuck this miserable town! Get you ass in here, or so help me “I'll blow your fuckin’ head off right where you stand.” With this, Mr. Big pulls out his own gun and points it at Nicky’s head. Having his boss point a gun at his head didn’t seem to phase Nicky though, before getting into the car he turns to Jonny and me and winks, before saying, “See ya kids.” He then got into the car, and Mr. Big backs it out onto the street, turns the car around, and drives out of our lives forever.
But wait, the story isn’t over quite yet. After our friends had left, we formed a circle around Marty; we stood there looking down at him. He was lying face down in the fine white sand, and his blood had discolored the sand a kind of reddish brown. Terry says, “Cool.” Johnny looks like he wants to throw up, I am just paralyzed, and Matt is building sand castles in the sand. After a few minutes Johnny says, “Let’s go home.”
The walk home was the least eventful part of the entire morning’s fishing expedition, at least until we got to Johnny’s house. When we got there he said, “You guys wait out here, I’ll go in and tell my parents.” A few moments later we heard a scream, followed by the exclamation, “My babies!” Within seconds Mrs. Donohue wearing an old blue bathrobe, and with curlers in her hair, flies through the front door, stoops down, and like a mother hen, enfolds Matt and Terry into her arms. After a few moments and a few sniffles, she rises and shouts, while pointing to the door, “Get in there misters, before I beat you!” At that, there was nothing left for me to do but make my way to my own home. I was hungry, we hadn’t caught any fish that morning.
For some reason after that morning, we were never allowed to go fishing at three o’clock in the morning again.
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