OLD DAD A story I'm working on right now, by Robert Zimmerman < part one PART TWO - Barnwell At first, Standing Snake would only speak to me in dreams. Later, he’d be jabbering at me night and day. How he did all of this from the world of the dead is beyond me. Why he bothered is another worthwhile question. The dead should stay quiet in my opinion. Being dead is your chance to stop thinking and shut the heck up, for a change. My immediate concerns were more mundane than contimplating the dead, undead and nature of life in the blue beyond. I needed supplies. I’m accustomed to coffee, I also enjoy beans and needed salt. I’ll admit that more whiskey was also on my recently liquor rattled mind. Travel was slow, both because I was leading the disagreeable mule with the chiefs body and also because I had determined to stay off the commonly used trails, especially the main road north. One of the items I intended on purchasing in Barnwell was a blanket or even a rug that I could wrap up the dead chief in. At the time, he was just tied across the mule’s broad backside, in full view and quite a site. Chance encounters along the regular trails might of led to offering up explanations I wasn’t interested in providing. Three days on the trail, after subsisting on wild onions, one squirrel, and a rather plump and tastey snake, I was in sight of the boom town of Barnwell. Just south east of town I carefully hid the body of Standing Snake under some piled-up brush. Once the cheif was safely consealed from the chance passer-by, I promised him I’d be returning shortly. He promtly replied, “Don’t mourn the artist. It’s what he desires most in this life. But, it’s a bit dark all of a sudden in here.” I didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t even know if I should be responding to a man communicating from the other side of the veil which seperated life from death, so I didn’t say anything. The big mule followed along, led behind the nameless horse as I headed out through the morning mist, which seemed to hang there like a thin curtain between the day ahead and years gone by. I was appaled by how Barnwell had changed, grown like a bad seed well suited to it’s place in the sun since the last time I’d wandered through. Most everything was freshly built and smelled of raw, new-cut wood. Already however, there were bullet holes in the fresh timber sidings and common garbage lay heaped against the newly raised outside walls. Most everywhere you looked, the proud and newly erected was in the process of being defaced, demoralized and plundered. Proud for only a moment, the new is quickly beaten down and shown it’s place, I suppose. Before going to shop for my supplies, I stopped in at the Sheriff’s office, as is advisable when first arriving in a new town. A fat man was laying on the floor in the corner, a man so big in the belly that I wondered if he’d been laying there, hoping someone like myself would come along to help him up. But, he was laying there for a reason, as it turned out. The big man was fitting iron water pipe. New, half inch iron water pipes were being brought through the wall at the floor. Apparently, the town of Barwell intended on having running water in the sheriff’s office, which occured to me as a novel convenience. The huge man acknowledge me with a noncommital grunt and carried on fiddling with his heavy, iron pipes. Barnwell law enforcement were apprently doing well for themselves and the offices refected this with expensive furnishings and even some dainty uphoulsterd pillows on a fine waiting bench. Standing Snake’s wanted poster stood out among the crimminal portraits decorating the wall. It looked new, and I considered taking it with me. I controled the urge to pull it down, however and with no law man to introduce myself to, only the big pipe-fitting fellow displayed on the floor to be seen, I turned and left. The opportunity of introducing myself to the law was lost again, but I didn’t plan on lingering in Barnwell that long, anyway. Barnwell’s main supply store was owned by a man of German origin who sold all manner of goods. He charged a fair price, even though he had no competition to speak of within three hundred miles. His english was completely indecipherable, but he had taken a Japanese wife who’s english was a bit better. She spoke no German, he spoke no Japanese. The only language they communicated in was their limited english. They were blissfully happy together and ran a fine business. After loading up on the desired supplies and stepping out into the street I was somewhat rattled, irritated would be a better phrase, to be met by Andrew Lloyd Frank and his little mexican man with the big buffalo gun. The little mexican had the big gun pointed at me and was showing off a row of rotten little teeth. “Sir, I will take back possession of the chief now.” said Andrew Lloyd Frank, politely. I noted that he’d managed to acquire a fasionable and new pair of trousers. “If you would be so kind as to lead me to him, I will be most grateful.” Like many other like-minded men, I despise having firearms pointed at me. Rifles and pistols are dangerous weapons all by themselves, but even more so in the hands of irresponsible people with bad teeth. They honestly should not be sold to just anyone. I found myself becoming angry with Andrew Lloyd Frank, who had obviously allowed this dangerous little man to handle such a powerful and deadly weapon. I stepped briskly out into the street, and tied my supplies onto the mule before disarming him. It’s not a difficult thing to accomplish, disarming a man with a rifle. You simply need to assemble the nerve and stand directly in front of your adversary. In one quick motion, right hand under the rifle barrel forcing it up, then bring the left hand to the breach, twist the weapon over-head, then as the assailant resists, reverse the twist and the weapon will exchange hands. I used the butt of the heavy rifle to quickly smash the little mexican in the face and he promptly fell down and did not get back up. “See here” said Andrew Lloyd Frank, “That’s entirely unnecessary. I assure you, he had no intention of shooting you, sir.” I was going to say the obvious, that he shouldn’t have been pointing a long range, high caliber weapon at me at me if he wasn’t determined to use it, but instead I asked him why he left the dead indian in my hotel room. “ What’s your intent leaving the chief in my hotel room?”, I asked. “I did no such thing, sir” he replied, and honestly did seem surprised. “The chief was stolen from me. Now, you are saying what, exactly? That the body appeared in your hotel room? Is that what you are saying?” Once you’ve waded through enough lies, the truth tends to float to the top. Detecting lies, recognizing them when they float to the top, is an aquired skill and as with most aquired skills, requires one to do a great deal of slogging through muck first. I’ll admit to doing a great deal of muck-slogging in my time, but I don't want to delve into all of the unpleasent life lessons that led to the inclination I should believe him. I believed he was perplexed as I, suffice it to say. He went on to recount, “I did witness you leaving town with the body. You should know that. I saw you ride out of town with the body of the chief. I suffer from insomnia, which is an inability to get adequate sleep as you may know. I observed you returning to Smith empty handed, as they say, then I witnessed you departing with the body.” The little Mexican man grimaced and brought his hand to his face but didn’t attempt to straighten up. “You ... stupid” he said through his little teeth. “Well” I said, “Then who stole the indian from you?” “ I have not the slightest idea. I presumed it was you.” he said. I let the remark go. The man was obviously so unaccustomed to the ways of the west in which he now traveled that it was clear, even to me, that Andrew Lloyd Frank didn’t have the vaguest notion he had just acusssed me of being a thief and that normally knives, guns, chairs and any other weapons available would have been quickly brought to bare following his blunder. The street was hot as a wood stove so I suggested we discuss our business in the comfort of chairs over at Barnwell’s Lady of Luck Saloon. Andrew Lloyd Frank was agreeable to the suggestion and we strolled together in that direction, leaving the little Mexican lying behind us simmering in the street. As we ambled along, I unchambered the long cartirdge from the buffalo gun, it was the common single shot variety, and a fairly dirty and poorly maintained weapon. It probably hadn’t been fired in a month, evidenced by soiling that had accumulated in the firing chamber around the cartridge. The barrel showed beginings of rust. I handed the buffalo gun over to Andrew Llyod Frank and pocketed the round. “I thought you had urgent business in San Antonio” I probed him, as our drinks arrived at the table. I looked around saloon. The Lady of Luck was a finer establishment than the Smith Saloon by some measure. In comparison, the saloon had proper tables, the majority of the chairs actually matched, and the bar itself was carpenter-made with a polished slate top. What this meant, of course, was that the cost of escaping sobriety would be commiserately more demanding on the purse. Andrew Lloyd Frank, perhaps believing that I was short in the funds department, had insisted upon paying, so I was happily intent on enjoying the comforts without considering the cost. “Indeed so, San Antonio.”, he replied “But, I also have my indian and I am a business man. The body represents a good deal of money, as you well know. I intend on realizing some profit, if not from you, then some other business minded man.” This said, I swallowed the entire contents of my whiskey glass and promptly heard it knock at the escape hatch in the back of my mind, while Andrew Lloyd Frank took a dainty sip at his beer and wiped his mouth with a clean handkerchief. “Are you a business man?” he asked. For some reason, the question brought my pop to mind and as I sat looking at Andrew Lloyd Frank, who by all measures was the entire opposite of my old man. I thought about the question for longer than it was really worth thinking about but I couldn’t stop myself. I mean, was I a business man? My dad had always insisted I was born different and better than the average fellow. Perhaps he would have been pleased if I were as a business man. He’d stedfastly marched me off to school every day and bought me book after book, all of which I was required to read under his watchful eye, even though he’d no idea how to read himself, had never been educated in any way except in lessons of the wild and good hard work. I’d admired, no, worshipped that about him. It is one thing entirely, I thought, to be educated by books, which I had been, but another to be educated by the bear, by the stream, by lightning in the sky, by honest fear and hunger. This, I believed was wisdom, not the pompus ramblings of scholars and writers of literatre. Pop would trap beaver when prices were high. Driving cattle wasn’t beneath him, nor was carpentry or any other type of odd job, except, of course, farming or mining. “Never get involved with digging dirt to earn a wage!” he’d growled at me on more than one occassion. “We end up as dirt, ya know!” I’d left home when I was sixteen, unable to imagine a better path through life than my father’s way in the world, but I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint him either. So, I just left one day, disappeared, and hadn’t seen him since. That would be a harder life to accept than I imagined at the time. When I was young and scampering off to find knowledge waiting for me in the wild hills, leaving home seemed like the righteous path for a man. Later, the words from books would flash across the top of my mind like heat lightning as I lay alone in dark woods. I would think about my father as I gazed at stars and named their constelations, thanks to books and the old man having pushed the dreadful things upon me. And, I would regret what I had done, leaving the old man as I had, nine or so years back. These feelings were a sadness I carried inside like a hidden scar, but unlike a common scar on a man, this one grew longer as time passed, rather than fading. One day, I had decided, I would go back and face the old man. I didn’t know what I would say, yet. But, I would return and face him, if he were still alive. Picturing myself as a business man, with fine shiney shoes and a gentleman’s top coat did make me smile, as I looked at Andrew Lloyd Frank who rolled his clean fingers on the table, probably wondering what the heck I was smiling about. “Tell me how you killed Standing Snake” I asked. Andrew Lloyd Frank ordered me more drink. His was hardly touched. “Well, he’s dead is all I can say about it. I killed him and he’s worth a lot of money in that state.” he replied. A number of things had already made his story suspect. A shiney pistol and an unkept buffalo gun were parts that didn’t fit, for example. A weapon so badly maintained that it probably wouldn’t have fired properly, and a pistol in excellent condition were never owned by the same man in my experience. Men that took care of firearms well enough to have as fine a pistol as his, would as a rule also maintain an expensive buffalo gun in similar condition. The only explaination was that the pistol was new, store bought. I surmised that the buffalo gun had most likely been purchased recently as well, probably for no more than a dollar. At this point it was obvious, the evidence presented to the rag-tag, liquor swlling jury presiding in the decrepid courtroom of my mind, strongly suggested that Andrew Lloyd Frank stood no chance of being Standing Snakes actual killer. Any man capable of hunting and killing Standing Snake, the head jurer in gray argued, would’ve needed to be handy with weapons, or simply be a complete fool to attempt hunting the legendary chief. No one would mistake Andrew Lloyd Frank for a fool, it was argued. The evidence at hand was clear, innocent of murder on all counts, court adjerned. If he hadn’t killed the chief, then who had? Or had he simply blundered upon the old indian lying dead and hauled him away? I doubted that. An old wise man such as Standing Snake would have made arrangements for himself to die in a place of his choosing when the time was near. “Where’s the beaver pouch?” I asked. He’d put his finger to his lip, as if he were preparing to taste it. “The beaver pouch, yes. I never saw it” he said, too earnestly for my taste. “I’ve heard the stories, indeed. The magic pouch. It was not on his person, I’m afraid.” He sat back in his chair, rested both hands flat on the table and looked me squarely in the eyes for the first time. There was something rather touching about the man, I’ll admit. I’m a hard man in many ways. I do hard work, and I’m comfortable around like-minded company. A city man, made soft by comfort, was of no interest, or use to me in the world I wandered at the time. Such men could not start a fire to keep us warm in bitter cold, nor could they imagine a plump snake on a spit saving a man from starving to death. However, there was something about Andrew Lloyd Frank that suggested he understood sadness along with his own strengths and limitations. He was honest with himself. I saw it in his eyes and I admired it like a tiny fire you can’t ignore. Clearly, he hadn’t killed the old indian butcher, but I wouldn’t confront him with it out of a sense of respect, I suppose. If a man such as Andrew Lloyd Frank chooses to lie, my sense was that it would most likely be a case of honor. Perhaps he had killed the chief, but in an unexpected and unheroic way which he simply didn’t want to admit to, just yet. Perhaps he really had found the old chief lying in his death place and recognized him. Certain points were undeniable, he did have the indian, and the cheif was clearly worth $10,000. I decided I would be a business minded man, after all. For a short while, I admired the fine glass windows of the saloon. I watched passers by pass by from the confort of my seat indoors. I contemplated the situation at hand and tried to fit parts together, while admiring the way light traveled effortlessly through glass and at the same time, revealed the peculiar world beyond walls. “Things have changed since you made your proposition, Mr. Frank” I said, still meeting his eyes. “You no longer have the indian, and I do. In addition, there’s no explaination for the body appearing in my room. Dead folks don’t have a reputation for wandering off on their own accord. He was put there by someone. And, now I have him and you sir, do not.” “Your point is well taken.”” he replied nodding his head. “I believe you sir, and I wish to apologize for suggesting you are a thief. You are a man to be trusted in my estimation, as I’ve said.” He ordered me more whiskey. When the brown liquor arrived, he recounted recent events for me and I began to get the picture. Andrew Lloyd Frank had returned to the Smith stables to discover both the indian chief and his mexican man had vanished. “Obviously I was upset, but also resigned to it. My plans were simply to carry on to my business in San Antonio and forget about it. This is a lawless land, and opportunity can vaniish at a whim. But, first I wanted to find my valet. Santiago has been with me for only a short time, but he is very useful, if not always reliable.” Santiago, I realized, was the little mexican with the bad teeth. “I found him at the Saloon. I’d payed him his wages and Santiago had spent the weeks pay already and was very drunk. While I was upset he’d abandoned his post guarding the chief, I also had to blame myself. It was foolish of me to pay him while he was still on the job. He’d only done what any simple-minded man would do, he’d gone off to spend it even though it meant neglecting his duties. As a result, the body of Standing Snake was stolen. As his superior, I should have been managing his work more closely. The crew can never be blamed if the captain is also not at the helm. It is the way of all industry and I accepted the consequences. The thought kept me awake, as my thoughts often do” he recounted, almost dreamily, “and that is when I saw you leaving Smith with the chief. It wasn’t difficult to look at a map the next day, and see which way you would need to travel in route to Sacremento.” I drained my whiskey in one eye-watering swallow and he took another timid taste of his beer, followed by a quick hanky wipe to the lips. “How the chief got into your room, I’m not able to say. Perhaps the real thief simply left the body there for safe keeping while they decided what to do next. It is all speculation.” “I’m willing and able to give you $500 for the chief.” I offered bluntly. It was the $500 I had taken off my attempted assasine, Forest Sutree that I was bargaining with. Dead mans money. The irony was not lost too me that Forest was back in the woods under some rocks and I was using his money to buy a another body that was back in the woods under some brush. The entire business was certainly unusual, to say the very least. “And I’ll sign a promissory note for $250 which I will deliver to you upon collection of the reward. That’s my offer.” The Lady of Luck Saloon had glass windows, which was unusual for drinking and gambling establishments, and through the glass, I saw a large colorful wagon pass by, followed by a smaller carriage driven by Dr. Clearly, and seated beside him, the lovely Maura McMurphy. She held a bright parasol, which protected her delicate features from the harsh, mid-day sun and my mind immediately hoped the narrow fence between business to pleasure. “Make the promissory note for $350 and we’ll have a bargain well settled” said Andrew Lloyd Frank. Here was a man that wore gold cufflinks, and he was quibbling over a hundred dollars where there was ten thousand at stake. I suppose that’s how the rich stay rich. We shook hands on it, and I extracted the late Forest Sutree’s grease paper with the $500 folded inside and placed it on the table. Eager to end our business and lope off in pursuit of Laura McMurphy, I eagerly asked if there were paper and pen we could write out the note on. “Never mind that. A hand shake is as good as a signed paper in my estimation” he said grinning widely while slipping the grease paper bank roll smoothly into the breast pocket of his jacket. He produced a printed business credential with his name and address. “You can forward that money to my St. Louis address on the card at your convenience.” We shook hands again after standing. On reflection, I should have offered to buy him a drink, buy myself three more, then stayed and talked with him a bit longer because it may have saved his life. As it was, the only thing I could think of was reaquainting myself with the girl. The next time I would see Andrew Lloyd Frank, only a short hour from then, he would be dead. Not long after that, he’d also be world famous. As it was, I wandered out into the bright street. Insted of going directly in pursuit of the girl, I hurried back up the street to rescue the big mule. I’d left that disagreeable animal along with the nameless horse standing in the full sun in front of the German’s supply store, and even though I’m not entirely fond of animals, they’d be no use to me boiled down to glue. I noted that the little Mexican was no longer where I’d left him baking in the dirt. Since I was of a mind to stay in town for at least the remainder of the day, I found a good stable to keep the animals out of the sun and watered. As a consequence, I met up with Tub Phillips, who I’d worked with two years prior. Tub was now managing the stables, which as he put it, gave him plenty of opportunity for sleeping, which had always been his primary goal in life. Nothing was mentioned between us about the twenty dollars I’d lent him some time back. Tub had borrowed the money during a bad run of luck he’d suffered from and I was happy to lend it. I recalled the loan and he wouldn’t have forgotten it either. If he’d had the money to repay me, it would have been brought out straight away. It wasn’t proper to mention such debts. Men such as Tub and myself understood that when the loan could be repayed, it would be immediately done. Tub had reliably been one for good stories and I’d happily sat well into many nights listening to him yarn on. He was glad to see me even though I’d woken him up and immediately took off on one, pointing out the wagon first, which was stored in the breezeway of the stable. “Splendid Entertainment - Talented Singing and Stage Performing” were painted brightly on the side. “They came in just a few minutes ago” Tubs recounted excitedly. “A troup of actors, and stage performers they are. A tall bean pole named Dr. Clearly accompanied by a rare beauty, I tell ya. I suppose they’re going to be here and putting on a spectical of some kind” he said. Tub was one for exagerated facial ticks and his mood quickly went from bleaming to bleak, as his wooly eye brows lowered and his expression turned murky. “The tall skinny one asked about Standing Snake. He wanted to know if I’d heard anything about the chief, whether it was true he was dead.” Tub’s eyes shifted side to side as if he were expecting an ambush. “He asked me if I’d seen the body.” I chuckled a bit nervously, but perhaps convincingly, and slapped Tubs on his broad shoulder. “It’s always something” I recall saying, and then wondered what the heck that had meant. Luckily, Tubs was a simple man and didn’t read much into things. “Imagine that” Tub spouted, “asking if I’d seen the body. As if Standing Snakes body is out for public viewing. The man gave me the fits, he was wearing green, head to foot, even green shoes for heaven’s sake.” “It’s good to see you Tub,” was all I could think of to say at the time. “You always were one for a good yarn.” “Well,” Tub said, still extremely grim and working his big eye brows up and down like they were pair of fighting catapillars, “that ain’t all, because a fellow came into town late yesterday asking about Standing Snake, as well. A proper city man dressed in safari wear. He’s still here in town because I’ve got his carriage around the back, and his horses in the stalls. So, the word is going around now, the old medicine man is dead, but nobody knows where he is. Imagine that!” I decided I would not imagine that. I decided insted that it was time for me to imagine the infinate delights of lovely Laura McMurphy. There’s nothing like a lovely woman to distract a man from the appaling mess he’s made of himself. I’ll admit, I wanted to hear her voice again and the sound of her asking, anything at all. In a pathetic attempt to appear light hearted, I slapped the beefy shoulder of Tub Phillips again and repeated that it was mighty fine to see him and that I’d be seeing him later in the afternoon, which I would, but slightly sooner than I’d hoped for. Laura McMurtry sat on a crate, poised daintily, parasol in one hand, and paper fan waving lazily in the other, watching the men in her traveling troupe raise the colorful show tent. Hoping I wasn’t too unkept I stepped before her and simply said “howdy” as pleasently as I could manage. “Why, I do declare” Laura said, “ I was just thinking about you and I don't mean that to be implying anything, or to be in any way forward.” She lowered her eyes briefly and then raised the big, blue, shining stars slowly to meet my own. “I am so bored” she said casting her gaze quickly towards the blank horizon, “ and it’s so dreadfully hot here. I am at my wits end, as they say.” “That’s show business” I said, recalling in my mind that the famous actor, Reeds Gunt had remarked that the better part of the stage actors life was mostly passed in boredom and tedious waiting, which most likely explains his eventually death due to alcohol poisoning, or sudden failure of the liver. “You are so right” she said, standing and taking my hand firmly. “I spend almost every hour waiting for the few moments I can sing.” She was close to me now, her face inches away and only through remarkable resolve did I not plant the long kiss on her moist lips I desired to. Her eyes fluttered like the delicate wings of a butterfly, looking at me and perhaps waiting for that kiss, which I am glad I didn’t deliver. “Tell me,” she inquired quietly “what you have heard of the chief, the one they call Standing Snake?” Her hand was still in mine, and I suddenly felt the chill of it, grabbing me like a fish on a cold steel hook, fooled into biting bait. At once, Dr. Clearly, who moved with the practiced skill of a hunter, appeared suddenly and unexpectedly behind me and placed his long narrow hand on my shoulder. I felt the cold nudge of a small barrel press against my spine. When a man is panicked, the heart races blood to the mind so that he can think quickly. The obvious problem with this reflex is that it leaves very little blood left for actual action, we’re left knowing how bad off we are, but unable to do much about it. It’s a human condition shared by no animals I know of, except for the domesticated ones. As all that blood goes stampeeding through the brain, we quickly gain the mental resources neccessary to realize we’re in touble, we’re at the same time left with very little remaining fuel to command action and do much about it. By the time the brain has figured it all out and started the blood back on it’s pathway to the parts that need to take action, it’s usually too late. I imagine it’s the quality of the heart that determines how individuals cope when distressing circumstances reveal themselves. If the heart is very strong, it’s capable of sending that blood up to the brain and then turning it around just as quick to the arms, legs or fingers. My heart had always served me fairly well and kept the blood to moving quick enough to keep me alive, but on this occassion, it wasn’t ready, or perhaps I was just getting old. As soon as I realized that things weren’t feeling exactly right, my legs went weak and and my arms, for the moment were unable to respond. I was again grateful to Old Dad. Just as he had before, when Andrew Lloyd Frank mistakenly placed his hands on me, the dog was suddenly there and quickly tearing into Dr. Clearly’s green pants. Old Dad would reveal himself to me later as something more than an ordinary dog, but at the time I thought it was simply uncanny that he could appear at the very moment I needed an ally most. While Old Dad distracted Dr. Clearly with his attack, my heart had delivered my blood back to where I needed it, which in this case were my fingers which I put to good use by drawing my revolver and directing it upwards to point at the forehead of Dr. Clearly. As soon as my gun was raised, Old Dad backed away, sat down, licked his gawls and let his tounge hang from his open mouth as if he had just enjoyed a fine squirrel dinner. Dr. Clearly held a dainty derringer pistol, a gun common among gamblers and fancied by women as well. As my big gun quickly came up, he loosened his hold on the little weapon and let it fall to the ground. As with Andrew Loyd Frank, Dr Clearly’s nice green pant leg was properly shredded. “What’s going on here, Doctor?” “Why, my good man” said Clearly “perhaps I am mistaken. But, you appear to be trying to gain the favor of my wife.” I glanced over to Laura, who quickly averted her eyes and pretended to be examining her shoes. This certainly put a different saddle on the horse I thought I was riding. I lowered my sidearm, which suddenly felt unnaturally heavy in my hand and took two steps backwards between me and the man in green. “Your wife?” was all I could manage to say. He raised one eyebrow, an effect I imagined he had practiced until he got it just right and said “Is she flirting again? Damn that girl, she is a flirt.” My pistol suddenly went from feeling heavy to quite eager in my hand. The weapon itself seemed to pull at me, urging me to use it’s deadly power to restore my own sense of dignity. One glance over to Old Dad and he seemed alert to the impasse as well. There’s a great deal of study into the bare workings of a mans guts and organs. How the heart beats and how the liver cleans the blood are all fairly well understood. Doctors of medicine in the big cities cut men up and sew them back together on a regular basis and with reasonable results. Very little is understood yet about how the mind works, however and I imagine it will be a popular and highly celebrated profession one day. I imagine there will be much fanfare, followed by heated debate as professors of the mind announce that the brain of man is arranged in a similar way to the common animals we observe in the wild every day. Faced with an uncertain cicumstance, one that’s unfamiliar, the wild animal will have only one of two reactions. One is to run, the other is to fight. I predict science will uncover that the mind of man is no better. Faced with indignity and backed into a corner, we are all the bear, the wildcat, the bull. We fight, or we run. Between man and the bear the only differnce is that perhaps man can be aware of these tendancies, and with that understanding, at least manage to wrestle with them from time to time. At the time, I simply chose to walk away, which I suppose is to run. Dr. Clearly laughed at my back as I strode away in silence. His laughter of course only made the bear in me rage even more, but I kept it caged, I forced that bear down, and simply hurried my step away. As I walked on, I realized that like the running bear, my instincts had served me well, at least well enough that I could fight another day, when the time came. Old Dad, who had picked up my trail and followed along, wasn’t feeling so composed. He turned and barked once sharply at the man in green, but I didn’t need to restrain him. He’d followed along after that with dignity. Laura Mc Murphy was not completely as she had seemed, that was clear, but her question about Standing Snake, when her lips had beckoned mine had been out of place, a part that didn’t fit. Her question was calculated and she’d drawn my lips close to hers so she could spin a clever web around me. It had been the second time she’d asked me about the chief. The first time had seemed like an uncomfortable coincidence, but the second time, it was simply too close to be by chance alone. I heard Standing Snake talking to me in my mind. He told me in clear language that he was fed up with my delays and he was becoming terribly uncomfortable under the brush, to boot. It was time to be moving. “Let this pass” he said. “ I am under a bush, I think. It is disagreeable and we need to move on”, he had said to me. Tub was asleep when I arrived back at the stable. He was a man that slept well and I had to admire it. Tub could sleep with a boot as a pillow and be as content as a child. I found him propped up against a wagon wheel, his head nestled between the rough cut rungs, his hat drawn down covering his smiling face and his arms crossed serenely over his chest. From experience with the man, I knew it was often difficult, if not impossible to wake him. I poked at his boot, called his name twice, and even rocked him back and forth at the shoulder with no results. He slept on smacking his lips and only seemed to drift deeper into dreamland with every attempt to wake him. Feeling as if I needed to put some distance between myself and recent events, I slipped a dollar coin into his boot for payment, as he had no shirt pocket, and went to gather up the horse and mule. That’s when I discovered the body of Andrew Lloyd Frank. Actually, Old Dad found him first. He’d sat down at the entrance to the stall, looking over the body as if corpses were things he’d seen enough of to render them mundane. Andrew Lloyd Frank lay on his belly, his palms facing upwards at his sides and his head turned awkwardly as if he had attempted to eye the long knife protruding between his shoudler blands before he died. Unfortunately, he lay in the very stall where my own horse and mule stood nervously at a distance, eyeing the lifeless body. I didn’t consider this to be an odd coincidence either. It was obvious the man had intentionally been left there. He had been dead only a short while, the blood was only then congelling. I’m ashamed to admit, I went through his breast pocket first. His fall had left his coat spread to either side, easy enough to search. I felt ahsamed, but at the same time, dead men don’t have need for money. The grease paper bankroll I’d given him was there in his inside pocket, and I took it from him. I also checked his ankle, just to see for myself that he really didn’t have the white beaver skin pouch, which he did not. Murdered without being robbed? A strange crime scene to be sure. The knife in his back was a common Green River skinners knife, a fine tool, but not an ideal fighting blade. It was more of a working knife, popular with the more successful trappers, so who ever had owned it was probably in that sort of trade as it had few other practicle uses other than what it was well designed for, which was skinning. It had happened over and over again in my life, to see a man smiling and carrying on one hour, then dead the next. Death is just as natural a state as life, but it’s still something we’re not supposed to get accustomed to, either. To see it is just to be reminded of ourselves, I suppose and how easy it is for death to track a man down. I’d felt as if I should take care of him somehow, but realized it would be foolish of me and that Andrew Lloyd Frank was now beyond noticing kindness, anyway. No doubt about one thing, it was clear that I was being framed and I needed to be moving along. Old Dad seemed anxious to be going as well. He hadn’t bothered nosing around the body and was waiting for me at the back entrance to the stables. I took another moment to try and figure things out. When Tub woke up, he’d eventually discover the murder scene. He’d also quickly recognize that it was where my horse and mule had been kept. Seeing that I had left, he’d naturallly suspect the worst and he’d be obligated to contact the local law to inform them of what he knew. The local law, which I already knew to be well financed, would most likely be sending a well armed militia on my trail. Still, the option of staying around to defend myself in person wasn’t a notion I was interested in comtemplating. I rolled Andrew Lloyd Frank’s limp remains to the side for a moment, then walked the horse and mule out of the stall, making sure they walked where the body had just layed. Once the animals were in the stable breezeway, I went back in and returned the corpse to it’s orginal position. I kicked the dirt and hay around to cover up the fact that he had been dragged to the side, but I’d also been careful not to tred on the fresh tracks of the horse and mule, which now passed under the body. I knew Tub to be an expert tracker. He’d notice the prints showing how the horse and mule had been led out out, and hopefully assume that the body must have been left there only after I had departed. It may have been a wasted effort, but it was all I could think of at the time. As I walked the animals out the back entrance to the stables, I saw that Old Dad was sniffing around at Andrew Lloyd Frank’s carriage which was still sitting there. Prompted by the dog, I took a quick glance in the back, lifting the oil skin tarp covering the bed of his wagon and was surprised to find an art eisle, a wide assortment of paint brushes and a huge collection, perhaps 40 or 50 canvas paintings smelling fresh of oil. Many depicted landscapes of the surrounding area, and by my limited knowledge of art, were expertly done. The blue skies were brilliant, depicting the high thin clouds soaked in the light, familiar to anyone who traveled the open west. Long shadows, painted rocks and twisted lonely trees fighting againt the hard life of thirst and wind seemed to be his favorite subjects. I admired the man greatly as I took in the art works, he was more than he’d seemed, that was for certain. I handled a roll of sketches on paper, many depicted fine portrait drawings of indian women, and cowhands. It’s said that an artist can never achieve the recognition they seek in life until they are dead and buried. Was this to be the way with Andrew Lloyd Frank as well? Would the art world mourn and then celebrate his death with profits for everyone but him? Perhaps we are all similar to the artist. We’re kicked around while we struggle here on earth, then are praised, toasted and remembered fondly only after we are safely covered with dirt. Laying there amongst the supplies I immediately recognized the buffalo gun I had handed over to him only a short hour before, which led me to ponder the where-abouts of his little mexican man, Santiago. Old Dad and I noticed a cat at about the same time. It probably made it’s home in stables and for all I knew might have been Tub’s pet. It was an orange tabby that had put on some weight as those cats tend to do when living a life of leisure. Old Dad gave me a look, as if to say “I’ll be seeing you” and went to work after that tabby, with both of them disappearing back into the shadows of the stables with Old Dad closing in fast. I wouldn’t see him again for another three days. I covered the wagon bed, mounted the horse and slowly led the packed mule out of town, passing directly in front of the sherrifs office, the same way I’d come in. The big man who had been fitting the iron pipe was loading his cart with tools. To my surprise, he was speaking with Laura Mc Murphy, and shaking his head from side to side as I approached, but then brought up a finger when he saw me and pointed my way. Laura turned her head, and lifted her wide skirt to come running to meet me. “I am so sorry” she had said. “I’m certain you think the worst and I can hardly blame you.” I decided not to say anything and kept the horse and mule moving along. She half trotted along side, looking up at me. “He’s not my husband. That’s a lie. I would never marry such a man as that, I assure you. He’s a dreadful man.” Women lie. That’s a lesson that most men spend a life-time never really learning. They lie worse than men, though, and it’s a fact. They lie for protection, they lie for money, they lie for love, and they lie for the crazy thrill of it as well. Once a man catches a woman in a lie, it’s hard to stomach, like finding a bed bug in your blanket. It’s best to get used to the fact that when you find a bed bug, there are thousands more where that one came from. If I find one, I just burn the blanket on the spot. “He just wants the old Indian” she’d said, still trotting along and winded by then. “He wants the body for his traveling show.” At that point I put the mule a horse into a healthy gait, and she quickly fell behind. I heard her calling behind me. “Damn it!” she said harshly to my back, but I kept riding. I’d heard her and I’d think about it later. Having fallen for her charms once was understandable, but twice would be unforgivable. Find a bed bug and burn the blanket, that’s my philosophy. I would see her again, I knew that much. The town was busy, mostly with the local mining trade which was bringing in more fortune seekers every month. Wagon loads of supplies, and trade of every sort kept the streets bustling with constant activity. As I entered the outskirts of town, even the outlying shanty’s were lively with people and what might pass for business. My tracks would be impossible to follow from the stables, this I was certain, but once I reached the open range, the mule and horse would leave an easy to follow trail if anyone took the trouble to look. I’d also be moving slow because of the load and the ponderous mule. Just before sunset, I’d uncovered Standing Snake from the brush and brambles piled on top his body and carefully rolled him up in the cheap rug I’d purchased from the German and his Japanese wife. Luckily, the moon was almost full, so I was able to ride all night, with plenty of time to think. part three >