Thursday, March 14, 2024

Bearclaw Summons (A Serialized Story)

 dontravis.com blog post #645

Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 




Although this story started out as a short story, it looks to be turning into a mini novella. Hope you stay with me on this.

 


****

BEARCLAW SUMMONS (Part 4)

Bart was pleasantly surprised by Mark’s method. The lawyer took a long time making Willy feel easier before getting around to asking what he wanted to know. He seemed to understand that it would take the young Apache awhile to grow comfortable with a stranger from the outside. He spoke slowly, almost in a southwestern drawl. Dropping hints about his own personal experiences to give his client some insight into his new lawyer, Mark eventually led Willy Spurs through the story, exhibiting unsuspected patience while he waited for the other man to sort out answers to his questions. Bart smiled on the inside of his mouth. Old Mark had learned something from their long friendship after all.

At length, the lawyer ran out of questions. “Willy, there are a couple of points of law I want to check on, and then I think we should go to the base for a talk with the commandant. I’ll do your talking for you. I’ll tell him exactly what I want him to know. If there’s something I don’t tell him, then it’s something I don’t want him to know, and I don’t want you to volunteer it. Do you understand?”

“Yessir. “

“But if you hear me tell him something that’s wrong, I want you to stop me right there and put it right. I don’t care how small a thing it is, if it’s wrong, if I’ve misunderstood, you stop me and correct me. Do you understand that?” Willy nodded. “Do you trust me, Willy?”

“Y... yessir. “

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

“Bart Shortlance trusts you, so I guess I do too.”

“Fair enough. If I tell you to go home tonight and come back in the morning, will you do it?”

They all waited in silence while Willy chewed that one over. Finally, the young man nodded.

“All right, then I trust you too. Be here at nine o’clock in the morning. And if something should happen in the meantime, simply ask them to call me. Here’s a card with my office and home phone numbers on it.”

Willy swallowed manfully and put the card in his shirt pocket.

All the way back to the reservation, Bart fought a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wished he understood why it rode there.

****

A smartly‑uniformed, blue‑scarved airman smartly processed the car through the main gate of the airbase. An attractive WAF non‑com smilingly saw to their needs as they waited until the commandant was available, but as soon as he saw the colonel’s face, Mark knew they had problems. He was willing to bet that if he opened the door that had just closed behind them, there would be an Air Policeman within easy hailing distance.

“Mr. Charles, Mr. Spurs.” The colonel indicated a man dressed in civilian clothing. “This is Special Agent Hill of the FBI. I’ve taken the liberty of asking him to join us. I hope you don’t object.”

“Not at all,” Mark said quickly, aware of Willy’s growing alarm. “I thought of this as a purely military matter, or I would have invited Mr. Hill’s office or ATF myself.”

“Well, it’s true that this is a military base, but Mr. Spurs is a civilian employee as well as a member of an Indian tribe, I believe.”

“We’ll figure out the jurisdictional considerations later, Colonel Marsh,” the agent drawled easily.

“Right. Shall we be seated? Around the table, I think,” the officer indicated chairs clustered around a walnut coffee table in one corner of the room.

Mark picked up the reins when they were all seated. “As I indicated on the telephone, Mr. Spurs is my client. He has brought a matter to my attention which I felt should be discussed with you. Mr. Spurs believes that the theft of government property has taken place and that he has been manipulated so that he unwittingly assisted in the crime.”

Mark told them the facts as related by Willy. “At the end of the shift on the day the threat was made when he refused to take out the third case of rifles, Mr. Spurs left the military reservation and has not returned until I brought him here today.”

“Mr. Spurs,” the colonel addressed Willy directly. “You should have immediately advised your supervisor of the situation and‑‑”

Mark interrupted. “Colonel, Mr. Spurs had been on the job for a total of three months. As I understand it, Mr. Burke is one of his supervisors. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. He had no experience upon which to draw. Given the circumstances, I consider that he acted in a prudent manner. We are now advising the proper authorities that we have reason to believe that a number of military rifles have been stolen.”

The colonel rolled his eyes over to the FBI agent who picked up the conversation.

 “That may be, but it would certainly have made life simpler for Mr. Spurs if he had acted as Colonel Marsh suggested. You see, someone has already reported the theft. A total of one‑hundred‑thirty‑six rifles have, in fact, been removed from Warehouse B‑15 where Mr. Spurs worked, and he has been named as the individual who took them.”

“By whom?”

The agent consulted a folder he held in his hand. “A Mr. Harlen B. Burke, the Day Supervisor at Warehouse B‑15—”

“When was this allegation made?”

“Yesterday afternoon at the end of the shift.”

“Has a warrant been issued for my client?”

“Not at this time, but that is merely a formality.”

“Perhaps so, but it’s a rather important formality. I want to advise you right now, Mr. Hill, that if one is issued, I want to be told so that Mr. Spurs can surrender himself rather than be subjected to the indignity of an arrest.”

“He can avoid that easily enough. He can surrender himself right now. “

“At this time you don’t know that you are going to arrest him. As soon as you know, let me know.”

“Well now, Counselor, I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Of course you can. But if the allegation was only made yesterday afternoon, you haven’t even had time to conduct a decent investigation of the facts.”

“Well, we’ve determined that the weapons are missing,” the colonel snorted.

“And that’s about all. An obvious question comes to mind. Mr. Spurs was employed for only around three months. Unless security simply doesn’t exist in this place, I should think that it would be very difficult to remove a hundred and... how many?... thirty‑six? A hundred and thirty‑six rifles in that amount of time.”

“Difficult, but not impossible. He admits to removing two cases,” the agent reminded him.

“Two cases hauled out as a favor to Mr. Burke, his direct supervisor who did not have room in his own vehicle. Two cases are one thing, Mr. Hill, that’s what ... a dozen rifles? That’s a far cry from a hundred and thirty‑six.”

“There’s a witness, Mr. Charles.”

“Let me guess... his name’s Avila.”

“That’s right. Mr. James V. Avila.”

“And why didn’t Mr. Avila, sterling citizen that he is, immediately report this crime to his supervisor so that the culprit could be apprehended at the gate?”

“Claims that he thought the case he saw in Mr. Spurs’ pickup was empty. He thought Mr. Spurs was taking it home to make a table or something out of it.”

“Are these cases free for the asking?”

“No, but Mr. Avila didn’t feel it was necessary to blow the whistle on a new man for carting an empty wooden box out. But when the missing rifles came to light, well, that was another matter. He stepped forward immediately.”

“I’ll bet he did. Well, we can all take comfort in one thing. With the United States Air Force and the Federal Bureau of Investigation looking after things, we can be confident that there will be no attempt to take the easy way out and pin this thing on a fellow who doesn’t have the money or the moxey to take care of himself. We can rest assured that nobody’s going to simply try to wipe the slate clean with Willy Spurs as the eraser. I take great comfort in that. I think it’s time to go now, Willy. These gentlemen are going to want to get your statement in writing so that they can use it in their investigation, and we’re anxious for them to have it; but you will not answer any questions for them or anyone else about this matter unless I am present. Do you understand?” Willy nodded. Mark doubted that the man could have uttered a word if called upon to do so. Willy’s eyes would have made respectable dials for a pocket watch. “I think that’s all, then.”

Willy did not need to be told twice. He was on his feet and headed for the door before the rest of them moved. No one tried to stop them, although the AP Mark had predicted was standing in the anteroom. Nonetheless, Mark did not breathe easy until they had passed safely through the front gate of the base.

This was, he told himself, going to be a very interesting case.

 ****

Interesting case for Mark Charles, a lawyer, but probably not so pleasant for Willy Spurs. But maybe between Bart and Mark, they can spare the young man real unpleasantness. We’ll see.

 See you next week.

Stay safe and stay strong until we meet again.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.


Don

New posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain Time

Thursday, March 7, 2024

Bearclaw Summons (A Serialized Story)

 dontravis.com blog post #644

Image Courtesy of Pinterest:


 


Our story continues. Hope it’s holding your interest. Let me know.

 


****

BEARCLAW SUMMONS (Part 3)

Bart elected to tow a horse trailer to Rising Rock and then enter the mountains horseback. 

Years past, Bart had often used Lead Scout Canyon as a refuge, believing himself sheltered from everyone except He‑Who‑Created-All‑Things. Now, he recognized his childhood haven had served him poorly. Narrow and slab‑sided, the ravine was neither remote enough nor high enough in the mountains to discourage traffic from the reservation or trespass by outsiders. To make matters worse, the soaring walls at the upper end formed a trap. He had no trouble finding Willy Spurs in the box canyon.

The young man, clad in denims, hair held out of his eyes by a bandana serving as a headband, gave his total concentration to the canvas he worked. The artist did not appear to hear Bart until he was close enough to see the subject of the work was a spectacular rock formation known as the Stone Medicine Pipe. Willy turned sullen when Bart greeted him.

“Ain’t got time to talk right now. Light’s changing fast,” he mumbled.

Bart decided to put him in his place right away. “You sound like a white man, Your grandfather taught you better than that.”

Willy’s wide mouth formed a straight line. He dabbed furiously at the canvas.

Bart dismounted and studied the situation. The box containing Willy’s paints and the easel holding the stretched canvas looked new and expensive. Two blank canvases lay propped against a nearby rock.

“You ever been up on it?” Bart asked, pointing at the formation with his chin.

Willy shook his head, refusing to interrupt his work.

“You ought to,” Bart went on. “From up there, it doesn’t look anything like a pipe. That’s what happens when you get too close to things. You can’t really see what they look like.” Bart waited to see if he got through. He didn’t want to beat the other man over the head with his meaning.

“That’s what’s happened to you on this other thing, Willy. You’re too close to it to see what it can do to you. Not your uncle. Big Jack sees it all right. And so do I.”

The artist continued to paint with a stubborn intensity.

“These fellas, this Burke and Avila, they’re going to see you get the blame. You’ll lose your job and get arrested and go to prison.”

“Not gonna have nothing to do with them no more,” the young man finally answered. “Ain’t going to have nothing to do with no white man at all.”

“That’d be good, if it could be.”

“It will. You wait and see.”

“‘What are you going to do, stay up here all your life?”

“Why not? It ain’t a bad place.

“Willy, don’t be a fool. You’re going to be accused of stealing guns. If there’s anything worse than stealing a white man’s money, it’s stealing his guns. It’s a bad rap. They won’t stand still for that.”

“Have to find me first.”

“That’s not going to be hard. They’ll put a hundred men in here if they have to, but shit! They won’t even have to do that. A dozen men with a few dogs, and you’ll be treed within a day. They’ll haul you down in irons in front of your family and your friends. Don’t you understand, man! Your kids are going to see you chained up like a fucking criminal! Do you want that?”

“Only have one kid. A boy. And he’s too young to know anything. Besides, Amadeo says to stay away from them. The whites. All the whites.”

And there was the problem. He had to be careful. Old Amadeo had been a medicine man since before Bart was born. He was good with bear sickness and the snake sickness and colds and warts, and he was smart enough to know what was likely to happen, but for his own reasons, the old shaman had counseled Willy’s mother to avoid contact with white men however unlikely that eventuality appeared. It would be hard to get around the old bastard. Bart could not tell if Willy believed in the medicine man or if he simply took the advice because it was what he wanted to hear.

“Amadeo is a wise man,” Bart conceded carefully. “He knows all there is to know about the Tinneh. But he doesn’t know much about the Indah. I do. And Big Jack does. We both know they’re going to come and get you. Were you old enough to remember when Jimmie Littledog raped that girl down in White Pine a few years back? Well, I was. They came right on the reservation and hunted him down like a wild pig. They ran him to ground and dragged him out and shamed him in front of everyone. It was bad for Jimmie, but he was guilty and deserved it. But his family didn’t deserve it. And neither did the Tinneh. Caused hard feelings for a long time.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Willy said placidly. “If they come drag me off, it oughta cause hard feelings. Besides, you don’t know what them two snakes are gonna do. Why’d they try and lay it all on me? Why’d they say anything at all? I go away and keep my mouth shut, they’ll do the same thing and be glad I’m gone.”

“Think about it, Willy. What would you do if you were them? Stand over in their moccasins and think like they would. You’re a piece of good luck for them. One of these days somebody is going to find out those rifles are gone. Willy, they had you bring out two cases of guns. How many others have they stolen you don’t know about? If you were doing the stealing, you’d know that someday somebody’s going to start counting and raise hell when there aren’t enough rifles where they’re supposed to be. If you had a poor sap you could lay it on, wouldn’t you? Especially if you thought that sap was an Indian too dumb or too scared to let out a squawk.”

“I’ll raise a squawk. I’ll yell like hell if they come for me.”

“Yell like hell right now! You let the Army know the rifles are gone. You be the one to point a finger. The white man’s law is funny. If you don’t yell, you might be in cahoots with Avila and Burke, guilty of doing it with them since you hauled out a couple of cases in your truck.”

“Crazy white man’s law!”

“I won’t argue that, but it is the law. And we gotta live with it.”

“A man ought to mind his own business,” Willy spoke the words with a double meaning.

“Ordinarily, he ought to. But when his family’s going to pay if he doesn’t, then he better speak up. I’ll be blunt, Willy. I don’t really know you, but Big Jack is my friend, and the Tinneh sure as hell mean something to me. And since you’re Tinneh, I guess that means you do too. I don’t want white men swarming all over this place causing everybody’s eyes to go flat and chins to go firm. I don’t want our own police having to help hunt you down and turning everybody against them for just doing their job. I don’t want Big Jack’s people’s guts twisting while they watch you hauled off in handcuffs. And it doesn’t have to be. It’s so fucking simple. Just go with me to see Mr. Charles and let him help.”

“Go see Mr. Charles and it’s all over, huh?”

“No. Go see Mr. Charles with me today, and even if you do exactly what he says, there’s a good chance you’ll be in the county jail by tonight. You’re going there anyway, but this way, somebody’ll be looking after you to see they don’t do something to you they shouldn’t. And he’ll do everything he can to see that you don’t stay there a minute longer than necessary. And he’s going to see that they don’t lay the blame on you for good. You’ll only have to stay until he can show that you’re not the one they want. Might not even have to go, but I can’t lie to you. You might have to.”

Willy put down his brush and palette and turned to face him. “Can’t get locked up like that. Go crazy. They oughta kill me and be done with it.”

“That’s fool talk. A man can do whatever he has to. When you don’t have a choice, you do what has to be done and make the best of it. Being locked up for a little while isn’t the end of the world. Hell, Mr. Charles can get you paper and charcoal. You’d have new pictures to draw. An experience you’ve never had before, and”—Bart added hopefully—“and won’t have again.”

“I’d die from the shame of it.”

“Where’s the shame if you’re not guilty and your people know it?” Bart watched the indecision in the other’s face settle into determination. He experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. Old Amadeo had won… or lost, as the case may be.

Willy shook his head. “Uh-uh. Not going.”

For a moment, Bart seriously considered slugging the younger man and dragging him down the canyon. He might have done so, if Big Jack’s words had not come back to him at that moment. Instead, he strode past Willy and began collecting his things.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Willy yelled in alarm. “Leave my stuff alone!”

Bart laid the wet canvas on a rock and turned his attention to collapsing the aluminum easel. That done, he wrested the paint box from Willy’s hands. The artist put up a half‑hearted scuffle before backing off and sullenly watching while Bart destroyed the blank canvases and loaded the rest of the gear aboard his Princess.

This will be at Big Jack Bearclaw’s anytime you want to come for it.” Bart turned his back on the man and rode down the canyon about half a mile where he waited in some bushes until he heard the sound of hooves on the path. He urged Princess forward and took his place beside the dejected young man.

They rode to Jack’s camp in absolute silence, a quiet that was bearing a load of strain by the time they finished a meal Jack’s wife served them. The rest of the family, from oldest to youngest stood or sat around owl‑eyed, offering voiceless support. When they had drawn sufficient sustenance from the table and the communion, Bart retrieved his jeep from Rising Rock and loaded Willy into the vehicle. He stopped in White Pine to phone Mark at his law office and drove into town.

  ****

As they say… the plot thickens. Will Willy behave himself or not?

 

See you next week.

Stay safe and stay strong until we meet again.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

Please check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

 Don

 New posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

 

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Bearclaw Summons (A Serialized Story)

 dontravis.com blog post #643

 Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 



Did the first installment grab your attention. If you have any interest in multicultural tales, I suspect it did.

 

Here’s the second part of the story.

 


****

BEARCLAW SUMMONS (Part 2)

“He’ll come in the morning.”

“Maybe it’s not smart for him to miss work. Might put them on guard. He loses his job, those two will see the rifles are discovered missing, and he’ll get the blame.”

“That might be, but anybody can be sick one or two days. He’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“All right. I’ll be at Snakehead at noon.”

“Thank you, nephew. Uh ... Willy’s the only one in his family working. He ain’t got much money. You have any idea what it’ll cost?”

Again Bart was silent for a few seconds. “You say he paints?”

The man and his wife both nodded. “Nora,” Big Jack said quietly. The woman went into the other room and returned with two framed canvases.

One was an Apache Mountain Spirit Dancer, masked and wearing a headdress. The second was a view of the Sacred White Mountain from the south. The dancer was done in a primitive style, in stark, vibrant colors. The landscape was different; it had depth and perspective and light and shadow. Bart’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two oils.

He sighed. “It’s going to be expensive. Lawyers cost money. I’m afraid it will take both of them.”

Big Jack and his wife resumed breathing. They were satisfied. Their nephew would pay his own way without swiping food from the family table.

“But understand, Jack, I have to feel good about this before I go to my friend. Willy has to talk straight to me, and I’ll have to test his words. You’re a good judge of men, Big Jack Bearclaw, but in some matters, a man’s gotta take his own measure.”

“That’s fair. Willy’s words will sound right to you because they are right. I don’t doubt it, or I wouldn’t put a strain on our friendship.”

 

Bart ’fessed up to his foreman and wrangled a couple of days off. He arrived at his old camp at Snakehead Spring precisely at noon. A motor died somewhere beyond the trees. A door slammed. Moments later, a short young man scratched on Bart’s wickiup. The face was familiar from around the fringes of Big Jack’s camp.

They greeted one another warily, almost like adversaries entering an arena. Bart ignored his camp chairs and sank to the rug on the floor he’d dusted a few minutes earlier. They spoke awhile of people they both knew. Because he was needed for branding, Bart acted like a white man and cut the polite conversation to a minimum. Willy’s story was almost identical to the one Big Jack had related the night before except Willy provided two names, Burke and Avila.

“How long have you been working there?” Bart asked when the other had finished.

“Three months next week.”

“When did they ask you to do them the favor the first time?”

“First week I was there.”

“Next time?”

“Couple of weeks later.”

“Why did you do it?”

Willy Saltbush shrugged eloquently. The young man wore his hair short. His nose and lips were fleshy, the rest of him plain and dark. The eyes were bright, however. Bright and constantly roving. It took some time to understand that it was the artist in the man examining light and shadow and structure. Even when his gaze was on Bart’s shoulder—never on his eyes—Willy’s pupils flickered as he studied plane and tone. This was a man who both saw much more and much less than most. He would spot a highlight others would miss, understand the darkness of a deep cavity, but he would be less curious about the motives of another human. Others had seen this in him and used it to advantage.

Abruptly, Bart stood. “You’ll have to tell all of this to Mr. Charles. He’s an Indah, but he’s a good man. He won’t know how to behave like you, so you’ll have to behave like him. Open up to him. When he talks to you, look him in the eye. That’s not the way you were taught, but it has to be. The whites think you’re not being honest if you can’t look at them when you talk. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the way they are. Speak up and don’t mumble. If you have to think about an answer, that’s okay, but when you’re ready to give it, be clear and firm.” He saw Willy’s Adam’s apple bob a couple of times.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Meet me in front of the Mission Church at nine in the morning. Bring the two pictures you painted with you.”

“Can’t you do it for me?” There was a plaintive note in the young man’s voice.

“No. If you don’t talk to him face to face, how can he tell what kind of man you are? Besides, he’ll have questions that I can’t answer.

“Will you be there with me?”

“If you want. But you’ll have to answer him yourself.”

Willy gave a short, choppy nod. His footsteps as he left seemed heavy.

****

Bart waited in the church parking lot until ten before admitting that it was not merely a matter of “Indian time”, Willy was not going to show. He went to Mark Charles’ office and claimed a chair.

“He chickened out.”

“Maybe he just needs more time to screw up his courage,” the lawyer suggested. “You didn’t give me much when you called. Tell me all you know about it.” Bart complied. Mark whistled. “You better get your man in here pronto. That’s a federal rap he’s playing with. He’s not going to be able to shrug it off and hope it goes away. This Burke and Avila are going to lay the dark deed right on his doorstep when they’re found out.”

“Uh ... by the way,” Bart said warily. “This one comes under the heading of gaining experience.”

“You mean it’s a freebie.”

“Not exactly. The kid’s an artist. You’re bartering for your fee. Two paintings. They’re good. I’ve seen them.”

“Oh, well. The place needs a dab of color. You hogtie him, and I’ll see if I can still lay a brand.”

Bart detoured through the reservation, hoping to find Big Jack without having to drive clear up to Bigrock and encountered the fat man working his way out of the front door of the trading post outside of White Pine where he’d been trying to phone him at Mark’s office.

“Just found out he didn’t show up an hour ago. Tried to catch you at the Charles boy’s place, but you was gone. Glad you come by.”

Bart followed the fat man around to the shady side of the building where the mules hauling Big Jake’s wagon eyed them like they were following the conversation.

“Willy’s mamma went to old Amadeo yesterday, and that one told her to keep Willy away from the whites... all of them.” Jack’s tone let it be known that he considered the shaman to be a fake, but he didn’t voice the words.

“Willy was scared, and them’s the words he wanted to hear. He lit out for the high country. His brother went out to find him this morning.”

“They’ll come for him, Jake. The FBI’ll come right in and flush him out no matter how high up he goes. This is serious.”

“So what are you going to do about it, nephew?”

“Me? Hell, how’d it get to be my problem?”

“By way of knowing more about the outside than most of us, I guess. Can you just walk away knowing what’s gonna happen to him?”

“Shit, Jack, don’t lay that on me! This is branding season.  I’m up to my ass in slicks and hot irons.”

“I guess so,” the fat man wheezed, “but this is one of the People.”

“All right,” he sighed. “Send word to me when his brother gets back. I’ll go up early tomorrow if I hear from you. Is he armed?”

“Yeah, with a handful of paint brushes.”

****

The call didn’t come until after eight o’clock that night. Bart picked up the receiver in the bunkhouse, heard a wheeze, and knew that it was Big Jack. The man did not like telephones, so he started right in without preamble.

“Willy’s brother didn’t get back till late, and I had to pry the information out of the son of a bitch. Damned if he don’t act like I’m in cahoots with the white eyes.” Indignation oozed over the wire. “Anyhow, he’s at the high end of Lead Scout Canyon. They’s a balsam—”

Yeah, I know where it is. Why would he hide out in a box canyon where anybody can trap him?”

“Damn fool’s been wanting to paint something up there for a long time. Figgers, this is his chance, I guess. Hell, I don’t know! Must be some Navajo blood in the kid somewhere.”

“That’s not as far up or as hard a trip as I thought. I’ll ride up tomorrow and drag him back.”

“Just swipe his paintbrushes, and he’ll follow you all the way back,” Jack said dryly.

“Okay, I’ll head out at first light. Should be back by noon. I’ll take an extra horse.”

"No need. He'll be on his old paint. Thank you, nephew. I’ll be in your debt.”

 ****

If Willy ever ends up in the white man’s court, I wonder if the Judge will understand that a shaman’s advice might cause a young man to simply paint pictures rather than attend legal matters? Doubt it, don’t you?

 See you next week.

My Mantra: Kee on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say... so say it!

Check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series published by Dreamspinner Press. The books are a good read... but then, I'm prejudiced.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday:


Don

New posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.

Thursday, February 22, 2024

Bearclaw Summons (A Serialized Story)

 dontravis.com blog post #642

 Image Courtesy of Pinterest:

 


Hope you enjoyed the story of Pauly and Streak. Every short story writer needs to tell the story of a kid and his dog… at least once.

 

Today, we start on a different journey. Let’s get at it. This first installment is a little long, so please stick with it.

 

****

BEARCLAW SUMMONS (Part 1)

Dead tired from a day of branding and cutting new stock, Bart Shortlance entered the bunkhouse, pulled off his boots, and flopped onto his bunk. He didn’t know which side of him was more exhausted, his white father’s or his Apache mother’s. Put them together, and he was totally whipped. It was gonna be an effort just to hit the shower.

As he contemplated that chore, Tex Duncan, another YWZ cowboy, entered and handed Bart a scrap of paper.

“A Injun kid rode up, said to give it to you,.”

Bart examined the markings on the paper: a stylized bear claw.

“Whut’s it mean?” Tex wanted to know.

“A friend wants to see me.”

“Why didn’t the kid just say so?”

Bart grinned at the Texan. “You know us inscrutable Indians.”

“I’ll say!”

He hauled himself up and rushed through a shower to borrow the ranch’s Jeep for the half-dozen mile trip south. Darkness was falling, but he knew from the proliferation of kids that he’d arrived at Big Jack Bearclaw’s camp. One of the children ushered him into the house. No one except Big Jack was there, but the place seemed filled. For as long as he could remember, Bearclaw had been a large man, but Bart had never seen him this fat. The man wheezed his way to a standing position as Bart approached.

“Nephew!”

“Uncle,” Bart played along with the courtesy. “You’re looking good, Jack.”

“See you’ve learned to speak with the white man’s forked tongue,” the man growled sourly, rubbing his big stomach. Then he let go of a laugh that shook the walls. Jack wasn’t a bigot, but neither was he above a little humor at the white man’s expense. “Sit down. Sit down. Let me get you something to drink.” He let out a bellow, and one of the older daughters served them.

“Hits the spot,” Bart complemented his host on the whiskey the girl served.

“They may be worthless sons a bitches, but the white eyes sure know how to make good liquor. There ain’t no tulapai in the world as good as this.”

“I’ll have to agree with you there.”

“That was my daughter, Dora. She’s next to the oldest. Smart girl, like her momma. Knows how to sew and makes all her clothes. She can weave like a born Navajo and makes better bracelets than a Zuni.”

Bart felt like a young buck sitting before his prospective father‑in‑law. Instinctively, he tucked his chin and inspected the far corners of the room. “Real beauty.”  Surely, this was not why Big Jack had sent for him.

The fat man motioned with his lips to Bart’s battered face. “You been fighting them white men you work for?”

Bart fingered a bruised eye. “Naw. Party. Too much liquor about, and I had to straighten out somebody who got outa line.” Bart lied with a straight face, knowing that it made a better story than than getting tossed by a half-grown slick that didn’t want to get castrated. Just part of a cowboy’s working day.

“Damned Indian bars,” Jack groused. “Ain’t good for nothing but getting our young men in trouble.  In may day, wasn’t so easy. Got drunk out in the woods or in a gully somewhere. Had to chug it down ’fore some white man come along and took it away from you, claiming you didn’t have no right to do what he done ever day of the week. Nowadays, a fella just go up and plop down money and take a drink. Too easy. Don’t take no effort or no smarts.” Jack switched on him again. “Been a while since you been back on the rez.”

“Yeah. Keep thinking on it, then work or something gets in the way..”

“That mean you ain’t coming back?”

“One of these days. The‑One‑Who‑Was‑My‑Grandmother would want it that way.” He used the indirect form of address because Jack would have had a heart attack to hear the name of a dead woman uttered in his house.

“You still working up on that white man’s ranch, I hear. They treating you all right?”

Bart nodded. “I’m fine, Jack.”

“Look good. Got flesh on your bones, but you ain’t got no belly yet. Lean.” The man chuckled.  “When you was a kid, wasn’t nothing to you at all. Arms and legs like sticks and not much else. We both come a long trail from that pine grove at Rising Rock. That musta been a sight for tourists. A two‑room cabin, a tipi, and one brush wickiup.” Jack laughed and went on down the memory trail. “Then there was that old paint of yours. A real Indian pony ever there was one. And the old woman. Shit! We was better’n a western shoot-’em-up movie. Shoulda sold tickets. The Indah would have paid a nickel apiece just to walk through,” Jack used the word for whites.

Jack’s wife Nora entered and took a chair at the kitchen table. Apparently, the time for polite conversation was at an end. He would now learn why Big Jack had sent for him.

Jack started the real conversation. “That rancher’s boy still good friend of yours?”

Bart nodded affirmatively.

“He’s a lawyer, I hear. He a good one,” Jack probed.

“He’s smart, so I guess he’s a good one.”

The fat man grunted his appreciation of the candor. “You figure the white man’s law works for the red man?”

“Maybe I’m not the one to ask.”

“I know who I’m asking,” Jack said sharply. “It’s your thoughts I want.”

“Then honestly, sometimes yes. Sometimes no.”

“When is it yes?”

“When a white man with power is interested enough to see that it works.”

“Like your friend?”

Bart hesitated. “He has the knowledge, but I don’t know if he’s got the power.”

The answer stumped Big Jack for a minute. He reflected before continuing. “Does your friend want to see justice done for a Redman?”

“I call my friend brother,” Bart answered.

Big Jack wouldn’t accept such ambiguity. “There’s brothers and then there’s brothers.”

“This brother swears he can’t see a man’s color.”

Jack let out a wheeze. “Nora’s brother’s boy got hisself in some trouble.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Willy Saltbush. He works out at the airbase. Cleans up one of the big warehouses out there. Good job. Couple of men he works with asked him to carry something out for them. He’s got a pickup; and they was in a car. He didn’t think nothing about it. New man on the job, he wants to get along, so he done it. Took out a box in the bed of his truck where them two laid it and covered it up with a tarp. Delivered it to one of the other men’s house. Week or so later, they wanted him to do it again, so he done it. Yesterday, they asked him again. Didn’t look right to him because one of them was in his van. Could’ve taken it out easy in the van. So he said no. They told him he better because he already stole a dozen rifles, and they’d turn him in for it if he didn’t do what he was told and keep his mouth shut.

“Now Willy, he’d rather paint pictures than eat, but that don’t make him a complete fool. He knows one of these days, the base brass gonna find out about them missing guns and start checking up. Worried him enough so he come to Big Jack wanting to know what to do. Only thing I could think of was to ask you about the your lawyer friend.”

Bart went quiet for a few moments. Both Big Jack and his wife had better manners than to intrude on his thoughts. At length, he spoke: “Did he bring out the other case?”

“No. They didn’t press him on it right then. But they will.”

“I want to talk to him,” Bart said.

 ****

Interesting situation. Mixed cultures always intrigue me. Anglo, Apache, and mixed-blood. And now one culture’s clashing with another. Can Bart get justice for this young Apache who only wants feed his family and paint pictures?

 See you next week.

Stay safe and stay strong until we meet again.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something say... so say it!

Please check out my mystery novels published by Dreamspinner Press starting with The Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

X: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.


Don

New posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.


Pauly Pittman and the Pit Bull (Part 3 of 3 Parts)

 dontravis.com blog post #641

 Image Courtesy of Vector Portal:

 


Today, we have the conclusion to the story of Pauly Pittman and the feral dog that’s been hanging around him. Hope you enjoy.

 

****

PAULY PITTMAN AND THE PIT BULL

Monday morning, Pauly wrapped his sweater tighter around him as he waited for the yellow bus. Colder than it looked. Only a couple more weeks before school let out, and he could stop coming up to the road and waiting in the weather for it to show up. He glanced at his Mickey Mouse. Dadgummit, he’d arrived ten minutes too soon.

A big, black dog trotting down the road interrupted his musings. Didn’t look friendly. Tail wasn’t wagging. That and laid-back ears told him the beast wasn’t coming to greet a friend.

“Whoa!” he called.

To his surprise, the dog whoaed. For a second. Then it took deliberate—and threatening—steps toward Pauly.

He tried again. “Whoa!”

“The dog ignored him this time. His lips curled and a snarl came from somewhere deep inside him.

As the beast advanced, Pauly backed away, managing to keep space between him and the threatening animal… until he tripped and went down on his backside. Panic boiled up inside him and he heard himself holler something unintelligible as ferocious growling and snarling split the air. The dog! Two dogs?

Pauly lay half in the borrow ditch at the side of the road with his head on the low end, so he couldn’t see the road where the ruckus was coming from. By the time he managed to sit up, he saw the black dog racing away with another on his tail. The pit bull? He couldn’t tell.

Heart still pitter-pattering like crazy, he picked up his schoolbooks as the bus came over the hill and screeched to a halt. He scooted aboard and found a seat beside Billy. He couldn’t talk for a moment until his breathing calmed.

“You won’t believe what just happened,” he finally managed to get out.

“Try me.”

“A big black dog attacked me.”

“Don’t see bite marks on you.”

“That pit bull saved me.”

“That same pit bull from the other day.”

“Yeah. Well, I think so.” Pauly explained he’d ended up in the ditch looking up at his shoes, but he was pretty sure that’s what happened.

Billy was doubtful.

****

All during class, Pauly glanced out the window, halfway expecting to see the pit bull in the shade of the cottonwood, but the dog never showed. Had he gotten into a fight with the black dog and was hurt? His heart dropped into his stomach, and his mood followed. The school day took a long time passing.

When he said goodbye to Billy at the bus stop, Pauly watched carefully for the dog—both dogs, as a matter of fact. But all the way home, he saw nothing.

He was feeding the chickens when his father came roaring in from the fields on his tractor and headed for the kitchen door.

“Saw your pit bull,” he threw over his shoulder as he barreled through the door. A minute later, he came back out carrying his shotgun.

“Wh-what’re you gonna do?”

“Shed the neighborhood of a feral dog.”

“Wait!” Pauly yelled. His father didn’t, but Pauly ran beside him as the man started across the field on foot. “He saved me this morning. From another dog.”

His father listened as Pauly told him what had happened this morning. His reaction mirrored Billy’s.

“So you didn’t really see him?”

“Well… just a glimpse.”

“Can you swear it was the pit bull you saw?”

“Swear? I dunno, but I’m sure.”

His father started walking again. “Not good enough. And if it was the bull, chances are the black dog was rabid. If they tangled, he’d get bitten and catch rabies too. Be a mercy to spare him that kinda suffering.”

“You don’t know that!” Pauly protested.

“You don’t know he saved you either.”

Pauly stuck to his father’s heels as they crossed the field and entered the woods beyond.

“Onery critter,” his dad mumbled. “Come on, show yourself.”

After half an hour they broke through to a little glen and started across. Out of the corner of his eye, Pauly saw movement. He halted in his track as the pit bull came charging out of the tree line heading straight for them. No, for his father. The dog was attacking his father!

“Dad!” he shouted.

He was too late. The tan and gray form launched itself into the air and hurtled for Pauly’s dad.

His father saw the dog at the last minute and tried to swing his shotgun around, but the dog flung himself sideways and barreled into the man’s side, sending him crashing to the ground. The shotgun went flying.

As his father scrambled for the weapon, Pauly spotted something.

“Dad! Wait! Look!”

In possession of the shotgun again, his father hesitated. The dog stood twenty feet away, panting heavily.

And there in the grass, directly in what had been his father’s path, lay the coiled form of an agitated rattlesnake.

“He saved you, Dad. You’d a stepped on that rattler for sure.”

His father loosed an oath… but it was a soft curse. “You may be right.”

“Just like he saved me from the black dog.”

The subject of their discussion stood looking from man to boy as they spoke. His tail, stiff at first, began to wag a bit.

Pauly fell to his knees and held out his hands. “Come on, boy.”

“Now wait—”

His father’s protest died as the dog lowered his head and trotted to Pauly, giving his face a huge lick.

“Pauly, you get away from that animal. We don’t know if—”

The pit bull moved to the man and nudged his knee. Pauly figured things would turn out okay when his dad put hands to the dog, sort of petting him, but Pauly understood he was actually looking for bite marks. There didn’t seem to be any.

After giving the man his attention, the dog moved back to Pauly, who hugged him to his chest.

“All right,” his father said. “What are you gonna name him?”

“Streak,” Pauly said promptly. “He streaked to save me from a dog, and he streaked to save you from a rattler. So Streak’s a good name.”

“Then Streak it is. And speaking of rattlers….”

But the snake had more sense than to hang around and get blown away by a shotgun. It was gone.

 ****

So Pauly now has a new dog named Streak. It appears that pit bulls have gotten a raw deal. From all accounts, they are friendly, loyal animals. Sometimes might not abide other dogs, but are friendly to humans. Mind you, I’m only repeating what pit bull owners have told me and what I’ve read. I’ve never owned one, not have I sat for one back in the days when Betty and I dog sat. She passed fifteen years ago, and once the dogs we cared for faded away, I didn’t accept new animals. Sometimes I really miss them.

 I have no clue what’s coming up next week, but I’ll manage something.

 See you then.

Stay safe and stay strong until we meet again.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say...so say it!

Take a look on Amazon at my BJ Vinson murder mystery series consisting of The Zozobra Incident, The Bisti Business, The City of Rocks, and four others.

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

X" @dpmtravo3

See you next Thursday


Don

New posts every Thursday at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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