OLD DAD A story I'm working on right now, by Robert Zimmerman Part One - Smith It starts with the dog. I call him Old Dad. He arrived at the begining of this story, and he survived until the unlikely end. He also saved my life along the way, for whatever it’s worth. The dog and I met in the town of Smith, Arizona. I was thinking about whiskey, which I would require a great deal of and Old Dad was living the poor life of a saloon dog. His job as a cat killer, I would soon realize, wasn’t going so well. Smith, like many other towns, had aquired itself a cat problem. It was the rats, it should be noted, that came first. The rat population grew to such fearsome numbers, it was calculated that the citizens of Smith were outnumbered ten to one by the filty rodents. Outraged, and noticing that single women were moving away at a decidely unattractive rate, town officials responded to the crisis by enlisting cats from far and wide to kill the hairy invaders. At first this grand extermination scheme actually seemed to work. All the cats became fat and the rats nearly disappeared. The citizens of Smith rejoiced. Single women, it was happily noted, stopped moving away. All the cute kittens that suddenly appeared were adopted by school children and grateful families. Three were brought home by the mayor himself. Before long however, the rats returned, this time in even more perplexing numbers than before. Worse yet, the cats were suddenly and inexplicably outnumbering town residents by a conservative estimate of two to one, with most of them roaming wild and breeding their young in the alley ways and barn cribs of Smith. Concerned town officials gathered again and met late into the night discussing the new rat and cat infestation. The majority of them were admitedly drunk by the time it was decided, after lengthy debate to remidy the situation by bringing in dogs. Old Dad, as it turned out, was simply a recruit in an escalating and futile vermin control plan. At the time however, I didn’t feel the inclination to ponder the social political implications of Smith’s disturbing animal control nightmare. I was just dirty and wanted to drink a load of whiskey. The first time I saw the dog that would save my life, he was charging out of the saloon in pursuit of fresh cat meat, simply doing his job, no matter how hopeless. I stopped the horse, curious to see what would transpire. The cat turned, lashed out five or six quick, nasty claws on Old Dads face and the dog backed off quicker than a preacher who’d stumbled into a whorehouse. Then the cat slowly licked the dog blood from it’s paws and casually sauntered off, attending to its regular cat business. Had the Smith’s town council made even the most fundemental inqueries iinto the facts, they would have realized that cats are faster, meaner and more equiped for dealing pain than any dog will ever be. Old Dad certainly knew it. The dog and I exchanged understated, yet understanding nods as if we were members of an underground cat hating fraterniity. We couldn’t defeat them, but that didn’t mean we had to side with them either. I imagined us exchanging the secret handshake the brotherhood, interlocking our thumbs, then bowing with index finger and pinky interlocked. That’s where life as I once knew it ended, man facing mutt in a dusty street and me imaginging a dog with thumbs. It was going to get a heck of lot stranger than that, unfortunately. I hadn't yet begun to think of him as Old Dad quite yet, though. The moniker would come later that evening as I stared at him across a camp fire, when illuminated by glowing coals, he would remind me of someone lost in my wandering life. Before that encounter would take place however, I’d seriously consider buying the body of a dead indian chief, meet a beautiful woman and fall half crazy in love with her, club a fat bar tender half to death and leave Smith forever. Only after all of that would I name the dog that would save my life. Travel had been slow as I’d made my way towards Smith, mostly because of the mule, a diagreeable animal who’d once belonged to the recently departed, Will Bottles. Will had been dead for a week by the time I found him along the trail. Most of him had been carried off by coyotes. His face, I’m sorry to admit, wasn’t unrecognizabe, but his awful hat was. He’d worn that terrible hat every day of his peculiar life since I’d known him. I’d never seen him without it on, even while taking a bath. Pretty much the only intact part remaining of Will, when I found him, was his head, and that damn awful hat was still on his head. He was stubborn about it, no doubt. I also recognized the mule, which had been left tied to a tree and was almost dead too, but not quite. The mule had no name. Will had had advised me, years ago, that naming critters wasn’t a good idea. When they died, he said you wouldn’t miss them as much. It was advise that seemed peculiar, but I’d adpated it myself. I don't actually like animals much, but unlike cats, some are neccessary so I deal with them as best I’m able. I have no personal relations or understanding shared between me and my animals. For example, I don’t talk to my horse, like a lot of fellows tend to do. There’s no sense in talking to a horse, in my opinion. I’m certain they’d have no interest in what we’ve got to say, even if they did understand us. After finding and burying what little remained of Will, I took his ornary mule with me. If things got really bad, I thought, I could at least eat it. I also took a hundred dollars in gold coins left in his pouch. The dead don’t have much need for money, or mules and Will would have thought so too. I was only sorry I didn’t get there to bury more of him than was available at the time. I tied Will’s mule and my own nameless horse in front of Smith’s only saloon and I tossed my last morsel of jerk meat to Old Dad. I was ready for whiskey and I intended on drinking as much as I could before falling over. I was also hoping to get a hot bath before the falling over part of my plan was realized. With those thoughts in mind, I stepped into the saloon. I'm not a man that needs to size up situations. When they enter a new town, when they step into an unfamiliar situation, “sizing up the situation” is what a lot of men do. I’m not that way. If something happens, well then something happens and sizing up won’t change a thing in my opinion. It’s a solid waste of time. I walked into that saloon like I've walked into a thousand others, without looking at a single man except the bar tender, who unknown to me at the time was the fellow I would beat half to death later that same night. The saloon was what you’d expect for a small town like Smith. The bar itself was a collection of rough planks over a crooked line of empty water barrels. The place had no door, a dirt floor, and no decorations or refinements to speak of, except for an unoccupied upright piano against the northern wall. The tables were mostly wooden crates of various sizes and shape. A healthy number of whiskey bottles were lined up on a crooked shelf against the wall and they were all that interested me at the time. I decided I’d best put a short leash on my whiskey cravings for a bit and to start myself with a beer first, then work myself up to whiskey. The bar man, who looked like he deserved the beating even before I provided it, delivered the beer. I examined what appeared to be sawdust floating lazily around in the brew. I was about to pour it down my dry neck anyway, when a man stepped up from the nearest table and put an elbow down next to mine. I gave him some room, figuring he was drunk. He wore cuff-links of polished gold, so I revised my initial impression and figured he was a rich drunk. The stranger started talking, not looking at me, but insted he addressed the bottles lined up against the bare wall in front of us, introducing himself to them as Andrew Lloyd Frank. “I’m attempting to locate a business minded man who's riding North” he said. “Situations demand that I sell out of a particular business concern.” After a pause, giving me an opening to ask how much, what and why, which I declined by simply staring at my beer, he ventured on, “I have a shipment which needs to be taken to Sacramento, a certain package I’d be willing to part with at the right price. Once delivered the parcel will bring a guaranteed return of ten times what I’d be willing offer for it”, he explained, still addressing the indifferent booze bottles lined up against the wall. He’d taken in my rough looks and placed that observation alongside the lack of greetings or even acknowledgements from the locals, and pegged me as a stranger passing through. I gathered he’d also seen that I had a mule. Why ask someone to carry something unless you know in advance that they can be of service? Andrew Lloyd Frank already knew these things about me, I realized, and that vexed me a bit. All I knew about him was that he was a rich drunk. So, I continued to ignore him and sipped my tainted beer. Others were drinking the same concoction and none of them lay dead or dying, so I tipped the brew back and swallowed my fill, while he waited. There are some men that I simply desire to smash with a fist. It’s obviously irrational, but it’s a truth in me never-the-less. Those type of feelings usually rise up after liquor has passed my lips and found it’s way to that place in my mind where the irrational builds it’s swinging bridge to reality. Draining the beer into my empty belly was quickly followed by the familiar and happy inclination to smash face. Andrew Lloyd Frank stayed quiet. Maybe he sensed my irrational trait. Maybe he feared it might be his nice face that would receive the next smashing. Maybe he was begining to regret even talking to me in the first place. I hadn’t yet uttered a word. I rolled a smoke and thought about his proposition. I buy what he's got and carry what ever it is to Sacramento where I make back ten times my money. Opportunities that simple were usually window dressing on a bear trap, but I’d decided long ago that expecting the worst was the only true path to happiness. If you expected bear traps, then you won’t be disappointed when they’re digging into your leg. Anyway, my thinking was racing ahead as follows: Ten times my money. Then: Sacramento was a long way from where I was, but I was heading North with no particular idea of where I might end up. Then: I’d spent most of my life wandering, just to see what the next day would show me. Followed by thinking that wandering’s a trait born in me, passed down from my old man. I inherited restlessness from my family as others might inherit land or fortunes. No doubt, it’s peculiar how my mind does its business. It seems to gallop forwards and backward at the same time. Anyway, wandering to Sacramento wasn’t out of the question and tens times my money couldn’t be wiped off the mental chalk board easily. The initial desire to watch my fist slam into his wide face had passed so I asked how big the package was and lit the smoke I'd rolled. “Five and half feet, 95 pounds” he said, matter of factly. So I figure right away he's talking about hauling a dead body to Sacramento, which turns out to be exactly right. I told the fellow he needed an undertaker, not a delivery service. “Dead bodies make me nervous” I told him, which was true. Who’d ever heard of selling dead bodies, anyway? I figured that had ended our business and ordered a bottle of whiskey to swagger upstairs with. The man didn't leave though. He stayed planted just as he was. “It's the body of a killer” he said. “Maybe you’ve heard of him, name was Chief Standing Snake”. There wasn’t a man, woman or child within a thousand miles that hadn’t heard of Standing Snake. The name alone was capable of turning a wagon train of other-wise brave men in a different direction. Standing Snake was not exactly a chief, even though he was widely known by that title. He was in fact a medicine man and prophet who also took a fancy to chopping up white men. The legend of the old indian centered around speculation that he was unkillable and possibly immortal. The story was that Standing Snake had received powerful magic from a white beaver he’d trapped. The White Beaver was some sort of sorcerer and spoke to him in the fashion that magical animals are apt to do. He told Standing Snake that chopping up white men was a very good idea. If worn about the ankle, his magic beaver hide would allow anyone who wore the pelt, to kill as many pesky white men as he liked, and in turn, never be killed himself. Beavers, of course, were being butchered by the thousands by fur-loving trappers, so the magical beaver was obviously sacrificing his own skin, so to speak, for the sake of the greater beaver good, which is a noble thing to consider. Standing Snake had taken the beavers advise, killed and skinned the magical beaver on the spot and then, as the story went, proceeded to murder himself as many white men as he could find. No one knows, of course, exactly what transpired between the talking beaver and Standing Snake on that fateful day, but as legends tend to be, the facts didn’t matter much anyway. Standing Snake had aquired a reputation for butchering white men, and leaving the women and children to tell the story. The reward for killing the old indian was common knowledge, but so far no one had been fool enough to try it, at least any fool that had lived to tell about it. Andrew Lloyd Frank informed the bottles against the wall that he killed the Indian for the famous reward. “ In order to collect the money” he said, “the chief’s got to be taken to Sacramento for proper identification”. A man knows when parts fit together. He can look them over and see what they make before even starting. So I can tell you this, nothing about the parts in front of me looked like they could ever make a thing, other than a proper mess. The man who claimed he was the chief’s killer was dressed in the fashion of a big game hunter from the east, garb which is commonly refered to as “safari wear”. He might be shooting buffalos from the comfort of a train car window, but not much more. The notion that a man such as Andrew Lloyd Frank was responsible for killing Standing Snake was highly suspect, but at the same time, there was nothing menacing or dangerous about the man either. On the contrary, he was amiable and good natured to an irritating degree. I said, “Look mister, you killed him, you haul him”. My bottle came so I snatched it up and started towards the stairs, but he grabbed me by the arm as I turned to leave, which turned out to be a really lousy idea. Folks handling me sets my rattler off, I’m just that way. I hardly feel comfortable touching myself, much less someone else doing the handling. So I was fixing to wheel on him with the fist to the face I’d been thinking about anyway, but held up short as I became distracted by movement in the corner of my eye, which turned out to be Old Dad charging down on the man. With practiced efficiancy, the dog was upon him and began tearing up his fine pants like a mangy cat. I backed off and the fancy Indian killer began jumping around, yelping and folks began standing up at nearby tables for the unexpected free entertainment. Old Dad let go of him just as quick as he had attacked, without drawing any blood. He backed the man away, making it clear that putting hands on me was not going to be an option unless the other pants leg required the same sort of attention. It was impressive loyalty for a dog I didn’t even know. Andrew Lloyd Frank looked down, puzzled at his newly shredded pant leg. The attack had come and gone so quickly that the man was honestly trying to figure out if it had happened at all. The pant leg seemed to prove the point. I wondered if the dog had decided to take my side simply because I’d tossed him some sorry old jerk meat. Was the dog that desperate for kindness? Later I would understand. As it turns out, the dog and I were now players together on a stage, acting out our respective parts in the first act of a peculiar drama. I was currently playing the dirty fellow fresh from the trail, who just wanted to get drunk and the dog was playing the supporting role of defending the stanger who just wants to get drunk. “Is this your dog, sir?” Andrew Lloyd Frank inquired, too politely for my taste. I told him that the dog belonged to himself. The dog showed me his pink tounge when I said that, as if it were something I’d be interested in examining. I decided to leave Old Dad and Andrew Lloyd Frank to sort out their own affairs. Climbing the stairs I could hear the man shouting at me, saying I should see here, or see something or another, while below me, Old Dad kept his advesary in place by the makeshift bar. Upstairs, I had a little oriental woman draw me a bath. I hadn’t been around women for a spell and she was a lovely thing to witness, moving with grace, averting her dark eyes. I sat in the warm tub and drank my whiskey. I’d decided that if I were going to get drunk and fall down that at least I’d be clean when I did it. The room was a simple place, with windows neatly drawn against the day, it was bare but clean. When I closed my eyes I imagined Chief Standing Snake, all dead and stiff and stuck in a packing crate in somebodies storeroom. One problem with dying is that folks get to do with you what they want, without you being able to say one thing about it. That bothers me. I thought it was the whiskey, having not been around strong drink for more time than I was accustomed. I saw the pine box, standing up straight, with the lid like a door, rusty hinges and a rope pull. I saw myself go up to the box and open the lid, the indian stood there as straight and tall as timber, a massive savage with smooth dark flesh rippled with muscles and was covered with intricate designs, picture messages painted in what most assuredly was white mens blood. I must have been dreaming, but I don't recollect waking up. The bath water was cold when I realized where I was again. I had the little woman glide across the room and bring hot water till the tub wouldn't hold any more. After the bath and bottle, I was clean and drunk. But, I wasn’t so bad off that I didn’t know what I was about. I intended on taking care of the still knowing what I was about part as soon as possible, but first I conscientiously took care of the horse and mule. No sign of either the fancy indian killer or Old Dad in bar below, so I half walked, half stumbled across to the stables with the animals in tow. The man who ran the stables recommended I eat at Fangs, so after lodging the horse and mule, I wandered off in that direction. The streets were lively with lots of folks doing business, so I was starting to feel good about staying on there a couple of days in Smith and picking up some work. That wouldn’t happen. As I’ve learned over time, if you’re new to a small town, it’s advisable to introduce yourself to the local law as soon as possible. It can ease things, especially if you’re well on your way to falling down drunk. At least the law would know who I was when they found me laying face down in one of their horse troughs. The door to the Sherrif’s office stood wide open, but no one was about and the single jail cell was unoccupied. All behind the Sheriffs desk the wanted stared out from their posters, lined up in rows, one atop the other like some kind of no good choir. Billy McGuire wanted for Train Robbery and Murder, $1000 dead or alive. Frank James, wanted for Horse Thieving, Jumping Bail, Fraud, and 10 Counts of Murder, $2,000 dead or alive. Aliah Wood wanted for killing his wife and mother-in-law, $500 Dead or Alive. There wasn't one poster that offered money for a man only if he was brought in alive. Made me wonder why they even bothered suggesting the alive option. Dead men are certainly less trouble to bring in. Feeding them isn’t neccessary for one thing, and they never complain, either. I found the poster for Chief Standing Snake, wanted for Town Burning, Looting and Murder of unknown numbers of white men, $10,000 Dead or Alive. More money was not offered for any other criminal on the wall. I continued my weaving way over to Fangs. The restaurant was run by a chinaman and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Fang I presumed. They had six long tables with seating to accomodate a Chinese railroad crew and their extended families, none of which were occupied. A fat black goose scratched in the dirt floor of the place looking for bugs and I imagined he’d be on tomorrows menu. The food smelled good enough. I settled down on a bench beside the kitchen door and watched the goings on in the street as I ate from the plate. I recall the lady had given me a fork and feeling oblidged to use it, had some trouble guiding the thing to my mouth. Lack of practice, compounded with a healthy portion of whiskey can produce embarassing results, no doubt. A girl with a bright parasol and hoop skirt passed by, the sort of high caliber woman you’d see in big cities. She looked me over with her bright blue eyes, her lips parted slightly. I liked the looks of her right away because of her golden hair. She didn't stop to make conversation so I didn't think much else about her for the time being. The fine ladies from back east were known to be stangely attracted to the rough men of the west. They saw something in us that we never saw in ourselves, I suppose. We’re untamed, and women fancy the notion of taming wild things, or at least wrestling with them for a spell. I'm a man that's never had any trouble attracting women. They seem easily drawn to me for one reason or another, both the city girls and those girls more familiar with my type. Perhaps it's that I never stay in one place for too long and they never really get to know me. Maybe they don't want to know me. It makes about as much sense to try and understand women as it does to try and understand the roll of dice or the chatter of birds on a wire. Old Dad was sitting across the street, looking right at me, so I broke out of my thoughts of women and their ways and waved to him. He cocked his head to the side in the manner that dogs do, as if he'd never seen any one do that before. A cat caught his attention, a skinny black with three dirty white feet had just come out the kitchen door carrying a live rat. The cat dropped the rat and watched it hobble away, dragging the chewed remains of a tail. The cat pounced on it again and then let it try to escape once more. Cats are the only animals I know of that make death a game. Perhaps it’s why I don’t care for them. Snakes don’t play with their food, nor do any other animals I’m aware of. The rat scurried between two stacks of lumber and the cat went in after it. I went back to my meal and shortly after that, recognized Andrew Lloyd Frank’s torn pants leg as it stepped in front of me. I looked up at him and he's looking back down at me, smiling his idiotic smile. “Would you like to see my dead indian, sir?” he asks. His face was plain and wide in a friendly, forthright sort of way. His eyes looked like they hadn’t seen much, but might be interested in finding out what there was to see. He was soft and round in the way that city men often are and his hands were smooth and clean. I often measure a man by their hands because they tell you things, such as what a fellow does to get by. I noticed that his nails held flecks of color under them, white and blue. He wore a gun under his long coat, in well kept and polished condition, which I admired. I imagined him using it in a gentlemens dual, and maybe doing well, but couldn't see him fighting Indians, though one never knows. I told the guy that I'd seen dead bodies before. “No surprises from a dead man”, I told him. He said he wanted to show me anyway, that if I saw the body I might change my mind about his offer. I watched Old Dad tear across the street. The cat came bolting out from between the lumber stacks. They disappeared between two buildings with Old loosing ground. I admired the dogs tenacity. He didn’t stand a chance, but he wasn’t giving up either. I told Andrew Lloyd Frank that I figure numbers with no problem. I didn’t need to haul out my chalk and tablet to figure he was offering to sell out his interest in the corpse for a thousand dollars. I told him that was a wagon load of money, to a man like myself. “Off hand, I can easily think of at least half a dozen things I’d like to buy before investing in a corpse. Haul the body yourself, the exercise will do you good,” I told him. “I need not be reminded of the money involved, sir” he said, “But I have urgent business to attend to in San Antonio and will be traveling in that direction as soon as possible.” He explained in detail how the body would be unrecognizable by the time he returned north, and unsuitable for positive identification, due to the natural effects of being dead in a hot box under the sun. It was more than I cared to be thinking about at the time, but he was right. Bodies don’t tend to last long in the summer. I spotted Old Dad trotting proudly back out onto the street with a cat between his jaws. The one he’d been chasing was black, this one was orange. He sauntered over with it and dropped the thing at my feet. It looked like it had been dead for maybe a week or more. He hung his pink tongue out and looked at me before nudging the cat corpse towards me with his nose. Andrew Lloyd Frank slowly backed away and told me to call my dog off, even though Old Dad wasn't paying him any attention. Eventually, Old Dad wandered off of his own accord, taking the cat with him. Looking back on it now, I should have snatched up the dead feline and taken a healthy bite of it. As it was, I didn’t understand the dog at all yet. He’d offered me some of his game and I’d turned him down. That fact had settled it in his mind. Later I would be half starved to death and he would be eatting well in the bush. I decided, what the hell, I'd go have a look at the Chief. I'd go see his monster in a box. What made me change my mind is that I’m just that way. One minute I’m one direction, the next I’m riding off in another, especially with whiskey racing through me. When I would lay among the rocks half dead a month from then, I’d vow to change this in myself if I survived. Not the whiskey part, of course, just the changing directions as the winds blows part. If I ever give up the whiskey part I hope it’s because somebody’s throwing dirt on me to keep the buzzards away. We walked towards the stables and I followed the man at ten paces. His walk was dignified in a practiced way, but the effect he’d cultivated was ruined by the chewed pants. The torn fabric flapped stupidly back and forth, slapping against his other leg. Chief Standing Snake was laying in state in one of the horse stalls, with a rusted chain manacle around his skinny indian neck. A nervous little mexican guard sat in the back corner of the stall with a buffalo gun. I watched a bead of sweat drip off the end of his crooked little nose and something about it sobered me up. A good bottle of whiskey, wasted. I’d hold a grudge against that mexican for some time to come for that, even after smashing him over the head with that very buffalo gun a few days later. The white beaver skin pouch was missing from the chiefs ankle, it was the first thing I’d looked for. My pap told me the story when I was a lad, and I’d often thought what it might be like to own such a powerful magic. No bullet, knife, or spear could kill the man who wore it, thanks to a talking beaver willing to sacrifice his own skin. It was something to consider. No surprise that the pouch was missing. It would be the first thing anyone would take as a prize. Standing Snake was a little old man. He was ugly by anyone’s standard, and looked miserable about being dead. Perhaps it was just the manacle about his neck. The dead should at least be comfortable. There were no visible signs of the old man having been shot, and no blood. He looked as much like a killer as my Grandma Bee. Oddly enough, the dead chief did look uncannily like his wanted poster portrait. The drawing I’d seen had depicted a skinny, old, little, indian man, just like the one I was looking at. It was a fine likeness. “Well, sir?” said Andrew Lloyd Frank. “I ain’t in the market for buying dead bodies” I reminded him. There was only a bit of truth there. The thought of taking the old indian to Sacramento, even then, had begun to bridge it’s way through my mind, connecting the dark places where really lousy ideas are stored with the sunny area of my to do list. Unfortunately, I could see it happening before me as surely as another predictable and gaudy sun set. Andrew Lloyd Frank folded his arms across his chest and grinned wider the absurd grin he always seemed to be wearing. He extended his soft hand out for a hand shake deal. “All could be arranged” he said, “a promissory note, signed by you for the money would be sufficient in my mind” he said. “I trust you” he said, with his hand still extended. “You are a man who can be relied upon, in my estimation. I will not expect any payment until the reward is collected” he offered, too sincerely for my taste. “Perhaps you have some money as a deposit?” said Andrew Lloyd Frank. “In that way, we can be business-like and establish relations. He was right of course. I was actually the man he was describing, for better or worse. If I were to take a job, collect all the money, and take my cut, the disagreeable truth is that I’d promptly return the balance, no matter what. But, I told him that I wasn't signing no papers, no promissory note as he liked to say, and I wasn't buying no body of a dead indian. Shamefully, I did want to inquire about the beaver pouch. Perhaps it came with the indian. But it was unseemly. I dislike the dead, honestly, and the thought of buying their property brought to mind a retched buzzard picking flesh. I simply turned around and walked out, trying to pull my boot out of a slippery ditch it had already gone into. What I needed to do was find more whiskey and get back to the business of falling over. I felt certain it would cure me of the entire notion. I got myself a room overlooking the street, just south of the saloon. After I'd paid the man and he’d shown it to me, I wondered why I'd bothered. A solid year had passed since the last time I slept atop a real bed. Once I laid down on it and looked up at the ceiling I knew I'd made a mistake. Ceilings can never be high enough as far as I'm concerned. I feel them staring down at me like the weight of judgement day. Sometimes the moon and stars aren’t even high enough for me. Perhaps the room was an escape from Chief Standing Snake, and a feeling that was growing in me. Or maybe it was just the money in my pocket that made me do it. Whenever I've got money, there's just no rest until I've spent every bit. Fortunately, the hotel offered bottles of whiskey at unreasonable prices, so I’d been able to burn a bit more loot and started happily pouring it down my throat. Not only did I have the money of Will Bottles, I had a good deal more of my own. In fact, I was what you’d call “well healed”. My last job had kept me in the woods for nearly three months, clearing timber land, stripping timber and sending it off to float down river to who knows where. It was good work for better wages. Good labor keeps a man out of trouble by offering their hands something to do, I’m no exception. With no towns within three days ride of the timber camp, the crew just stayed up there till the work was done. There was no place at all to spend our money and we were all holding near five hundred dollars when we left. Most of the boys rode off to the North, heading for Reed which was the closest town. I decided to go my own way to the South, mosty because I just wanted to be rid them. The first night out I camped by Deer Spring, had a fire that evening, made coffee and just sat there enjoying being by myself for a change. As the fire started to die down I heard someone coming in, walking his horse. It was the last thing he’d ever accomplish as a mortal. I called out, asking who it was. The fellah in the dark replies that he's Forest Sutree, a man I knew from the timber crew. I had never taken much of a liking to him, but I told him to ride on in. He said he could smell my coffee. Turns out what he wants to do is rob me. When he came full into the light of the fire, his gun was raised. He knew I was carrying the same money he was. Sutree figured he'd double his earnings easy with a quick bullet. What he didn't know was that my gun was out, as well. As mentioned, I didn't appreciate the man and I didn't much trust him either. When it comes to two fellows pointing guns at each other, the first man to put a slug in the other is usually the one that gets to carry on making faces and telling jokes, and I slammed the first slug in Sutree. I shot Forest full in the belly as soon as I saw his rifle barrel come into the light. He said “hand over”, but didn't finish the entire thought, because by then his inards were exposed and he’d fallen beside his horse, screaming. Sutree rolled around clinching his gut and moaning while I pushed him over with my boot to have a look. His belly was a mess, I could see inside where his parts were all busted up. The smell of his intestines was sour and strong and his eyes were like a fish, just staring out without really seeing. Every man dies and it’s never pretty to look at. Even what they call a natural death, I've seen those and never seen one that was even remotley pleasent. The face of the dead always looks more like a stiff mask than flesh. The thought of being like that myself someday, with folks looking at me, it bothers me I've got to admit it. Forest was going to be lucky I figured, because no one would be seeing him. I pulled him up against a tree and he went unconscious. I figured he was just going to bleed to death and it wouldn't take long. Unfortunately, he didn’t bleed to death at all. I must have been sleeping for a while, because when I opened my eyes again, the fire was nothing but red embers. Forest had woken me up, moaning, and crying out to God and Jesus, so I got up and kicked life into the fire. I went over and looked at him in the dark and he told me to kill him. He said he wouldn't make it till morning and that he was afraid. Sutree was right, it was obvious that he was going to die. He’d probably moan and carry on in doing so that I'd be suffering right along with him. So, I told him I’d kill him and he said he thanked me. Now, I wish I’d just let him bleed to death and suffered the short while listening to him. I pointed my gun at him, but couldn't pull the trigger. I told him to stop looking at me, but that didn't help. All the while he keeps telling me to kill him and I told him to shut the hell up and he told me to kill him and told him to shut the hell up, and he told me to kill him. Finally I took the blanket off his horse, threw it over him and shot him all covered up, like he was a heap of junk. A year after the fact I’m still wondering if the memory will ever leave me alone. Something tells me not. Whiskey was serving as a temporary remidy, like one of those potions you can buy for chronic conditions. The potions don't actually work, but pouring the elixers down your neck sure takes the mind off whatever ails you. There’s a bit more to that story, which should make me feel better, but doesn’t. A search of Sutree’s kit and I came up with his money. He had over $1000 on him. Five hundred of it was rolled up in grease paper, another five hundred was folded in a bandanna. I recognized the bandanna right away. I’d seen it dozens of times as I followed Big Bull Thornwood up the hill side. He kept the bandana dangling from his back pocket, and stored chewing tobacco in it, which he often shared with me. Mingled within the folding money I found tiny bits of tobacco. I sat down, right on the ground there beside the body of Sutree and tears rose up in my eyes. Big Bull had told me about his maw whenever we talked, speaking of her as if she were the love of his life, that there was no woman finer. His fond stories of her stuck to me, not having a maw I ever knew of my own. He was a big warm bear of a man. He’d lend you a dollar if you asked for a nickle. I had taught him to tie his shoes when I saw they were nothing but knots one morning. I was proud to be his friend. Part of Sutree’s pack also produced a small army shovel, which I would bury him with. I used the shovel to dig a shallow grave. I pushed Sutree into it and threw what rocks were available on top. I was of half a mind to just leave him laying out there for the animals. He sure didn't deserve any better. I covered him anyway. Who knows why? At that time, I didn’t have a horse. I’d traveled on foot, mostly because I never had the money to buy a proper horse. There was no compunction at all about taking Sutrees. It was a fine sorrel, with a decent saddle. I backtracked the trail ridden by him until I found Big Bull. Sutree had left the big man dead in the trail. He’d been shot squarely in the chest and was most likely dead before he hit the ground. His horse was nowhere to be seen. I buried him with Sutrees shovel, and left the red bandanna with him, offering no ceremony, no words to the sky, not even a tip of the hat. I’d learned from the man himself, Big Bull wouldn’t have wanted a ceremony. He’d told me, “Any man or woman weeping over my dead body never really knew me”. I’d understood it when he said so, and respected it when I planted him. Anyway, that's how I got the money. Five hundred of it I figured belonged to Big Bull's maw who lived in the state of State of Texas. Bull told me he was raised in a town called Horn Of Plenty. Normally I wouldn't recall details such as a mans home town, but I’d put horn together with bull in my mind. I don't like to admit it, but that's how I remember most things that I manage to remember. The mental technique is called “association”. It makes me sound sort of stupid I suppose, but who cares? Five hundred of the money was what I'd taken as my pay, and the other five hundred had belonged to Forest Sutree. Forest's money, I figured it belonged to me. Big Bull’s maw would get her son’s money, I’d see to that, and in a round about way, the determination to get it to her would eventually change the course of history. Odd the way things happen. Two days later, I would ride up on what was left of Will Bottles and bury him as well with the same shovel, taking another hundred dollars and a nameless mule. So, for the time being, I was rich and restless with the cash. I sat on the bed, rolling cigarettes and drinking from the bottle. I lit one, put the others in my sewn on shirt pocket, stuck the bottle under the pillow and went out to the street. Sitting there and drinking by myself wasn’t going to happen. I could hear music coming from the saloon and my whiskey-soaked mind wandered back to the golden haired girl I’d eye-balled earlier. Lively piano playing drifted to the street and Smith managed to create itself a lively night time crowd. A year later I would share an infirmary room with that piano player, and become good friends. Reynold Sikes would not only turn out to be a gifted musician, but also a companiable fellow in close quarters. That night, I would only hear him playing. Before the dry goods got a chance to close, I walked in to buy myself some more tobacco and papers. I'm inclined to smoke about twenty cigarettes a day, so when I buy tobacco I like to buy enough to last me for a while. If I run out I get irritable. After that, I wandered over to the stables, with the idea that I was going to check the horse and mule, but honestly knowing I was really checking on Standing Snakes body. The stables were dark, the horses were asleep and for some reason, it didn’t surprise me that the old indian was gone. The stable where he’d been laying was empty. I looked for Old Dad as I crossed over to the saloon, where my future piano playing friend, Reynold Sikes was banging out an energetic redition of a popular tune called Camp Town Races. The first thing that caught my attention was the girl in the hoop skirt, the one I had fancied earlier with the golden hair. She looked at me and it was a meeting of the eyes that’s understood. I'm not a man for aggressive courting of women. Women let a man know what they want and it seems to me that most take offense at listening to suggestion. Of course, I'm not a man that knows much about women. But I knew she would come to me, and she did. She asked if I'd buy her a ginger beer. That’s a modern woman for you. I’m particular about women. The slightest discouraging detail can turn me away from one. It can be the wrong shoes, or even a tasteless hair tie. These details are important. They reveal part of the story before you even turn her first page. A woman will spend a good deal of time looking at herself and changing until she’s satisfed. The results are her story to everyone else. If her hair looks absurd, it’s best to keep in mind that it’s exactly the way she wanted it and you can take it from there. Few men of my sort are accustomed to girls in hoop skirts. They are not the sort of luxury seen very often in the rough towns of the west. Strange, yet beautiful things they are, like pedestals, or lovely frames when placed around lovely pictures. Her dress was cut in such a way that her bosom attracted the most attention. It’s funny that women wear such things as draw attention to their bust, when everyone knows it's not considered much manners to be looking. Not that I think that way myself. I look anyway. No offense, but if a woman shows you something, I figure they want you to pay attention. Her ginger beer came and I ordered myself a drink of whiskey as if I needed more, which I did. She said her name was Laura McMurphy. The soft charm of her voice lingering on the “mur” in Murphy as if it were an invitation more than an introduction, as her big blue eyes rolled upwards to meet mine. The question came into my mind why I had never taken a wife and settled down, just to hear a woman’s voice in the air. A man, separated from women for as long as I had been, soon forgets how essential the pleasant movement and nature of a woman is. We create pictures of ourselves as complete and it’s good to be reminded that we’re not. “I’m with the show” she said. It was of the traveling theater type with singing and stage acting, managed and lead by a fellow whose name was Dr. Clearly. She pointed out Dr. Clearly to me across the noisy bar room, a man dressed in green from head to toe, thin as a railroad tie and tall enough to be called a true freak. I’d only missed him up until that moment because my attention had been solely dedicated to the welcome site of healthy clevage. Otherwise, there was no missing Dr. Clearly. The man did not blend in. I took one look at him, and the next time I looked his way, he was gone, as if he were someone I’d only imagined, which I definately had not. The saloon was loud and smoke and liquor were starting to take their lubricating effect on the crowd. The girls voice was quiet and I found myself leaning forward to catch what she said. I don't mind saying from that vantage point, I could admire the depth of her loveliness with more appreciation, and envisioned myself diving with wild abandon into that dark crevice, arms flapping, mouth gasping. I pictured myself down there in the warm dark, falling quietly, serenely, into dreamless sleep. She said that there was talk going around that Chief Standing Snake was dead and did I know that, which promptly brought me out of my state of imaginary bliss like a rusty bugle call. I kept my mouth shut, however and let her do the talking. Women like that, I've come to understand, doing most of the talking I mean. I hadn’t been with a woman in nearly six months and already I was falling into the familiar business of dealing with them as I knew they wished to be dealt with. “The less you talk” my pap used to say “ the better a woman will treat you”, and he was right about that. Women love mysteries and there’s nothing more intriguing in their world as a strong silent man, at least that’s the way I understand it. She said that she hoped the stories were true and didn't I hope so too? Dr. Clearly was happy about it, she said. They hadn't moved the show in weeks from fear of being butchered by the Chief. Not only that, their welcome had just about worn out in the town of Smith. Ticket sales for the show were down to nothing because most everybody in town had seen the performance once or twice already. The act never changed. I would have gladly paid to hear her sing, but I didn’t admit so at the time, thinking it would have sounded forward of me. Insted, I told the girl that she and Dr. Clearly probably had nothing to worry about, that the rumors were probably true. “Most likely, the chief is dead”, I said plainly and downed my whiskey. The brown liquor hit the back of my head like thunder. I felt I may be happily close to my initial goal of falling over when a commotion in the back of the saloon caught my attention. The bartender, a heavy dark fellow with long greasy hair was flailing a club over his head. I figured a fight had started, but a closer look revealed that he was using the club on Old Dad, beating the cowering dog along the back side and cursing about about staying out of the slops. I’m inclined to impulsive actions whether drinking or not, although I often regret it more when alcohol is part of the mix. That I could and should be swaying the fine Laura McMurphy and reveling in her abundant pleasures was not erased at all from my mind. On the contrary, it was clear as a perfect day, even if seen at the time through a dirty window. I walked back, I turned that big man around, I twisted the club from his fist and smacked him with it once over the head. Not hard enough to kill him, not even hard enough to crack his skull, but I hit him hard enough to put him on the floor and that's just where he ended up. Old Dad lay still beside him, his backside bloody. It’s possible I had saved the dogs life, which later would turn out to be a fortunate thing for me, even though the immediate consequences were going to be a lot less than desirable. I realized as soon as I had finished the beating that leaving town that very evening would be necessary. In fact, I knew this even before I left the compelling wonders of Laura McMurphy’s company. The consequences were known to me, and I cursed my very nature for it, before and after. Not only that, I seemed to be completely sober, yet again. Still holding onto the club and standing over the barman, I saw that not a body had made a move in my direction in defense of the downed, greasy headed barman, which was a good thing. They probably thought I was a crazy man. Perhaps, rightly so. Beating men was no ordinary business with me, but I’ll admit it had come easily. I felt calm and ready for anything else that might happen. Folks made room for me as I walked out, cradling Old Dad in my arms. Without looking, I felt the eyes of the girl on me as I left. When I got to the door I turned and backed out, looking only at my victim, the barman, who I could see was still laying face down on the dirt floor. I made my way back to the hotel to retrieve my pistol and rifle and what was left in the whiskey bottle under the pillow, with the intention of getting out of town as quickly as possible. My room was dark. I carefully layed Old dad on the floor and fumbled about in the black till I had lit the oil lantern. That's when I seen that the dead indian was propped up in the bed. I’m not ashamed to admit that I yelled out. The unexpected doesn’t usually affect me that way, but I can say without embarasment that my heart was racing. I had to sit on the floor for a while to catch my breath. I recall laughing at myself and Old Dad cocking an ear to that, which made me feel like he was going to be fine, after all. The chief looked about the same as I last saw him, no deader than before. Perhaps it was the first time the thought crossed my mind, I wondered when he'd been killed. He seemed limber, not stiff with the rigarmortis like you'd expect. I didn't think much of it. His flesh was cold and his blood wasn't moving any more than he was. From the window I could see up the street to the saloon. Some men were standing in the light from the doorway and looking at the hotel, one of them pointing up towards my window. Making short work of gathering my gear, I extinguished the burning lantern before quickly heading down the back stairs of the hotel, leaving the old indian and the dog in the room behind me. They looked as if they were comfortable together. Little did I know. It’s no good to be showing up in a town and clubbing a barman over the head, no matter what the circumstances. I’d surely end up in jail, at least for a few days if I didn’t make tracks out of town. No one would bother looking for me if I left. It was a shame. I would have dearly loved to make a long a tender inquiry into the finer ways of Miss Laura Mc”Mur”try, and I’m certain the opportunity would have been available to do so. Instead, I’d saved the dog. Without question and as I stated, I would later be very grateful. At the time though, I’ll admit, the trade didn’t seem in my favor. I rode at a quick pace. The mob assembled in front of the saloon now included the Sheriff, so I thought it best to let my intentions be known. I raced the horse up to the angry crowd. “I’ll be leaving town” I told them. “I don't want any trouble, but I also can’t abide a man punishing an animal like that.” The Sheriff was holding a fine Winchester rifle, the type that had just come out and a very trustworthy firearm. He held it across his chest, but made no attempt to stop me. I loped the horse into the dark and looked back to see the Sheriff waving everyone back inside. I would learn a year later, from Reynold Sikes, my good friend who had played piano at the Smith Saloon that night, that the Sheriff was an animal lover and also an accomplished veterinarian. He had severely berated the bartender for his behavior, but was also glad for me to be on my way. I’d spared him the aggravation of dealing with the matter. It was not the last I would see of Smith. In fact, I would be returning there that very night. Still unknown to me at the time, I was simply an unwitting actor in a larger drama. I was, in fact, like a wooden puppet about to be turned into a real live boy before he’s even discovered his strings. I camped, not far from Smith, but far enough away that I felt at ease. My rations were very few. I‘d planned on stocking up while in town before moving on and I certainly had the money for it. Not that it did me any good at that time. It occurred to me that I could be richest man on earth and still die of thirst, which isn’t a profound thought or a point of conjecture brought up origanlly by myself, but when you actually live such a thought it can change you in ways. I put down a rough dinner of wild onions roasted on the fire and polished back the whiskey in the bottle before falling asleep. The dream has stayed with me as vivid as my best memories, which is an unusual thing. Normally I’m hard-pressed to keep a dream in my head until mid day. Standing Snake stood before me like a totem pole, rigid, muscular and stern. His arms were to his sides, his massive chest thrust forward towards me with the inscriptions in human blood written across his body. Of course, the actual man bore no resemblance to the one in my dream, but as dreams often are, I knew it was him never-the-less. The writings across his chest were symbols and drawings that began to give shape to movement and story-telling. They weaved their way into my understanding, they insisted their message to me. I was part of a great plan, written there, and already complete. My necessary fate was determined in their symbols. They told me I belonged to a story whose ending had been written long ago. I woke. Perhaps I had been asleep for only a few moments. My mouth was painfully dry from the whsikey I’d poured down my throat. The fire was still burning well, and across the fire sat the dog, who turned his head to look at me. I could see the grey in his beard. He looked, for that one moment like my own father, staring back at me with his patient understanding coupled with the familiar look of disapproval, eyes that my pap saw me through through till I left, I imagined. That’s when I decided to name the dog, and I have not named another animal since, nor do I intend to. For much of my life, I’ve used my own simple methods to remind myself that I’m real. I look at my shadow, for example. I’ll look down and stare at it intentionally, just to prove to myself that I am the one that’s making it, that I’m the one thinking the thoughts I’m listening to. I don't believe I’m different from most folks I meet, in that many of us walk the world with only the vaguest notion that we are actually here. There is so little that separates the real world, from the world of our vivid dreams, it’s easy to wander through life without ever really knowing that we do belong to ourselves, that the life we have really is our own. That night, as Old Dad looked at me across the fire, would be the beginning of not just owning my shadow, but owning what makes it as well. My way back into town that night was slow and determined. I felt at ease. The town of Smith was asleep as I made my way to the stables. Old Will Bottles stupid mule was still there where I’d left him and he didn’t seem surprised, or even interested to see me. I took a dollar coin from my pouch and slipped it into the sleeping stablemans shirt pocket. He shifted, scratched his nose and continued snoring loudly from his cot. I led the mule quietly back to the hotel where I climbed the stairs, easily picked up the body of Standing Snake, carried him down and laid him across the big mule. I was back at my camp before sunrise. There was no sign of Old Dad. I wouldn’t see him again for three days. I've posted part two here, as if anyone would actually be interested...