| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder 27 February 1980
I started painting my shack today. It is to be red, white and blue. I started with the red.
Shortly after I began to paint, Al Douglas showed up again with his wife, Donna, their
daughters, Susie and Erin, and one of his brothers and his family. Al had remembered to
bring the come-along, a hand-winch actually. So by and by I quit painting and went down
to tackle the windmill. After a great struggle I got the last bolt in and tight. It was just
sunset as I dropped my tools from the tower and untied the wheel. By the time I hit the
ground it was spinning in a light breeze.
I walked down the road and up the hill to Douglas's to return the winch and thank
them. The sunset was beautiful.
I started painting my shack today. It is to be red, white and blue. I started with the red.
Shortly after I began to paint, Al Douglas showed up again with his wife, Donna, their
daughters, Susie and Erin, and one of his brothers and his family. Al had remembered to
bring the come-along, a hand-winch actually. So by and by I quit painting and went down
to tackle the windmill. After a great struggle I got the last bolt in and tight. It was just
sunset as I dropped my tools from the tower and untied the wheel. By the time I hit the
ground it was spinning in a light breeze.
I walked down the road and up the hill to Douglas's to return the winch and thank
them. The sunset was beautiful.
| Chapter Thirty-five ACACIA |
Johnny seems to know what he's doing. He gets things done, even in the diary. Or at least in the diary. Hand-
winches, windmills, good grief. Whatever his lifestyle is, it isn't easy.
Years later, while he was reading through the diary, Johnny paused here and looked around. All that day he
had been cutting… bougainvillea (The writer almost said acacia, how romantic!)… armloads of pink blossoms
and stabbing thorns. Johnny tied a rope around a good bunch and cinched them up tight and dragged them to
the street, trailing pink flowers on the ground, in the pool, wherever.
Hearing a noise of metal clanking, Johnny ran out to discover only the mailman. The mailman? Why should
Johnny be concerned with the mail? Why even check it? Johnny doesn't live here. Does he?
winches, windmills, good grief. Whatever his lifestyle is, it isn't easy.
Years later, while he was reading through the diary, Johnny paused here and looked around. All that day he
had been cutting… bougainvillea (The writer almost said acacia, how romantic!)… armloads of pink blossoms
and stabbing thorns. Johnny tied a rope around a good bunch and cinched them up tight and dragged them to
the street, trailing pink flowers on the ground, in the pool, wherever.
Hearing a noise of metal clanking, Johnny ran out to discover only the mailman. The mailman? Why should
Johnny be concerned with the mail? Why even check it? Johnny doesn't live here. Does he?
| * * * |
The long embrace had come in the yard outside Vi's house. She was marooned without a vehicle; the parking
authority at the mine had surrendered the Chevy truck to Ivan's parents before Violeta had learned of her
lover's death. Chela had been forced to rent a car to journey the last leg of her mission of mercy. She came
bumping into the cottonwood hollow in a dusty Honda car loaded with clothes and provisions. In her purse was
her father's credit card; in her ears was ringing his desperate admonition, that it be used only in dire necessity.
The clothes had been packed by their mother. There was half a dozen dresses, all used but in good shape, all a
little large, and all black. Mrs. Ferrerra had reasoned that her laughter and sunshine loving daughter probably
did not have a black dress to her name. She had been right.
As for Mrs. Bertman and her husband, the tables were turned slightly, when Ivan Bertman's will was read a
week later. Prior to that, the death of the son of the mine's chief financial officer was hardly a 'private
tragedy.' The flag was at half-mast in the compound between the office building and the shaft.
If Abraham Bertman had been able to make the whole work-force turn in a day's labor without pay, in
commemoration of their fallen comrades, of whom his son was one, he would have done it. Short of that, there
were several announcements over the loudspeakers, and long, professionally written elegies in the company
newsletter.
Aside from all of that, Ivan really had been well-liked by his crew-mates. He was strong and eager; he was
one of them. They had partied together and visited one another's homes. It was two of his buddies who had
made the drive into the country to let Violeta know of her loss. She was never informed by the mine or the
Bertman family.
authority at the mine had surrendered the Chevy truck to Ivan's parents before Violeta had learned of her
lover's death. Chela had been forced to rent a car to journey the last leg of her mission of mercy. She came
bumping into the cottonwood hollow in a dusty Honda car loaded with clothes and provisions. In her purse was
her father's credit card; in her ears was ringing his desperate admonition, that it be used only in dire necessity.
The clothes had been packed by their mother. There was half a dozen dresses, all used but in good shape, all a
little large, and all black. Mrs. Ferrerra had reasoned that her laughter and sunshine loving daughter probably
did not have a black dress to her name. She had been right.
As for Mrs. Bertman and her husband, the tables were turned slightly, when Ivan Bertman's will was read a
week later. Prior to that, the death of the son of the mine's chief financial officer was hardly a 'private
tragedy.' The flag was at half-mast in the compound between the office building and the shaft.
If Abraham Bertman had been able to make the whole work-force turn in a day's labor without pay, in
commemoration of their fallen comrades, of whom his son was one, he would have done it. Short of that, there
were several announcements over the loudspeakers, and long, professionally written elegies in the company
newsletter.
Aside from all of that, Ivan really had been well-liked by his crew-mates. He was strong and eager; he was
one of them. They had partied together and visited one another's homes. It was two of his buddies who had
made the drive into the country to let Violeta know of her loss. She was never informed by the mine or the
Bertman family.
| * * * |
Vikor recalled his first pillage, that trip to Birmingham four years earlier. That mother and son had talked
over this bizarre quest would have been enough for society and the law to have locked them both up forever for
intolerable conspiracy, were there such a charge.
A number of characteristics, common to many novitiates to the world of violence, did not apply to Vikor. One
was that he did not make his debut in hot blood. It was not the uncontrollable burst that might typify a Johnny
Stream.
Neither was he drunk, on drugs, or the victim of manic-depressive symptoms. He did come from a
single-parent background, not a broken home per se, but it didn't matter anyhow. Never was there a home less
broken. The bond between Vikor and his mother was strong. Cat herself had never moved from her own
mother's home. The extended family of the Devlin-Dolan farm was for twenty-five years, the wholesome nest
of Vikor.
Vikor the innocent. It wasn't association with the wrong element, with gangs on mean streets either, that led
him down the path of murder.
Nor was it poverty, or ignorance. The family had always prospered, and their living expenses were low. Vikor
and his mother were never a burden to the family. They both participated in the growing and processing of
natural home foods. Cat and Vikor loved to garden. Andrea Clare still fed the chickens, but when she could
not, it was Cat or Vikor who did. Vikor pruned fruit trees and picked fruit. All three of them turned the
kitchen into a production facility while they made jams and preserves.
Vikor was home schooled. Neither stupidity nor ignorance would work as excuses for his behavior, should he
need an excuse.
He did consider insanity for a while, but promptly lost his grip on exactly what that meant. So let's leave that
in, for madness can strike high or low on the social gradients of poverty and ignorance both, but it is
customarily considered an exemption rather than an excuse. It was the old 'he didn't do wrong because he
didn't know it was wrong.' He didn't know the difference between right and wrong.
In schools and courts, that has been the definition of insanity itself, failure or inability to distinguish between
right and wrong.
This was what left Vikor puzzled. He was an educated man, well read in a number of subjects. He saw things
in a commonsense way, a way that was heavy with simplifications. He could reduce things to a few broad
strokes, stick figures if necessary, fields of solid color, cause and effect. He needed to do this to handle the
intensity of his thought (and, eventually, his actions), to not be trivialized by details and distraction.
He knew about the millennia-old discussion of the subject. Right and wrong. He knew particularly well the
temptation that all of the various attempts to justify morality produced by their, in large, agreement with one
another. Murder, robbery, lying, disrespect, idolatry (even the atheists agree that idolatry is wrong), adultery
(for most), and the various shapes of envy and jealousy are almost unanimously condemned as evil or wrong or
immoral or incorrect.
The temptation, even for the atheists, is to believe that the moralists really are on to something. The average
atheist does not proclaim that he sees nothing wrong with murder, robbery or child abuse either. On the
contrary, atheists are typically proud of their adherence to accepted morality. That they are able to do this with
neither the threat of damnation, nor the lure of eternal happiness, is allowed by some of them to justify levels
of smug superiority in the matter.
Plus, there is a veritable feast of philosophical writings, whose authors have justified morality on a variety of
secular routes, for those atheists who want to abandon the giant in the sky but not the moral strictures that
came with him.
The various paths diverge with the addition of requirements like Mass every Sunday, or fasts, obligations,
daily, weekly, seasonal or annual observances, and definitions of blasphemy and sacrilege.
Perhaps heaping the club rules into the same category as the more profound commandments is itself a
mistake. Perhaps it's even wrong. (Who knows?) They pretty much all do it. Had Vikor been raised in the lost
faith of his mother's family, he would have been informed, as a young child, that even one failure to attend
Holy Mass could earn him punishment of infinite intensity and duration, probably (preferably?) by burning.
Hell.
If little Victor with the tarnished halo is lucky and does not die then without confession, another of the
obligations, and if he goes on to develop, later in life, into a serial killer-rapist, and then, finally, at last, after a
career of inflicting pain and fear on countless helpless victims, he is hauled before the divine tribunal and
found guilty of (unconfessed and unrepented) mortal sin, his sentence, poor guy, will be exactly the same as it
would have been for the young fiend who chose to catch crawdads down in the creek as an alternative to joining
in the celebration of the Eucharist.
Hell.
For atheists, the temptation is to see all of the denominations as being wrong, by definition, because of their
disagreements with one another. Rather, they agree that only one of them could be right; they merely disagree
as to which one that is. Not so privately, the atheists prefer to believe that they, who would not recognize a
goddess if she appeared to them in flowing linen and melody on a rock by a mountain waterfall, are the group
with the seizure on truth.
And in this tenet, they fall in step with the rest of the trample, for each of the religions of man has
proclaimed the same message about themselves: we are right.
The atheists provide no meted punishment for failure to believe and to observe the articles of their faith. We
are left to conclude that they travel their cold, stony path neither drawn by heaven nor driven by hell, but
merely for the sake of a pure thirst for truth. These guys sound more like mystics all the time.
To Vikor, there were large differences among the three ways of dealing with divinity, and specifically divinity
with some measure of invisibility, some degree of being outside of the boundaries of perception. The usual kind.
The first way was to believe in the existence of whoever or whatever it is that the book, the witnesses, the
oral tradition, the priests, or all of the above, describe.
The second way is to believe in the nonexistence of the same, and in all other chimeras of religion, magic,
prophecy and spiritualism, as well.
Way three is merely to confess ignorance.
Vikor confessed ignorance, but it wasn't much of a confession. It was more of a boast.
Also, it was not an oft repeated boast, for Vikor was not the sort to get into arguments and discussions. As he
matured in the Dove Springs community, he showed up at various functions, a barn dance here, a wedding
reception there. These were social connections that he was born into, particularly through his relationships with
the Devlins. With the other farm families, and with some of the more solid residents of both Dove Springs and
Collins Cove, the Devlin family had connections going back for generations.
Vikor had no problem with them for what they were. Every trade and profession was sampled in the mix.
Back in the depression years, before his time, the lack of money had been somewhat overcome by a flourishing
barter that tended to even out such prosperity as there was.
over this bizarre quest would have been enough for society and the law to have locked them both up forever for
intolerable conspiracy, were there such a charge.
A number of characteristics, common to many novitiates to the world of violence, did not apply to Vikor. One
was that he did not make his debut in hot blood. It was not the uncontrollable burst that might typify a Johnny
Stream.
Neither was he drunk, on drugs, or the victim of manic-depressive symptoms. He did come from a
single-parent background, not a broken home per se, but it didn't matter anyhow. Never was there a home less
broken. The bond between Vikor and his mother was strong. Cat herself had never moved from her own
mother's home. The extended family of the Devlin-Dolan farm was for twenty-five years, the wholesome nest
of Vikor.
Vikor the innocent. It wasn't association with the wrong element, with gangs on mean streets either, that led
him down the path of murder.
Nor was it poverty, or ignorance. The family had always prospered, and their living expenses were low. Vikor
and his mother were never a burden to the family. They both participated in the growing and processing of
natural home foods. Cat and Vikor loved to garden. Andrea Clare still fed the chickens, but when she could
not, it was Cat or Vikor who did. Vikor pruned fruit trees and picked fruit. All three of them turned the
kitchen into a production facility while they made jams and preserves.
Vikor was home schooled. Neither stupidity nor ignorance would work as excuses for his behavior, should he
need an excuse.
He did consider insanity for a while, but promptly lost his grip on exactly what that meant. So let's leave that
in, for madness can strike high or low on the social gradients of poverty and ignorance both, but it is
customarily considered an exemption rather than an excuse. It was the old 'he didn't do wrong because he
didn't know it was wrong.' He didn't know the difference between right and wrong.
In schools and courts, that has been the definition of insanity itself, failure or inability to distinguish between
right and wrong.
This was what left Vikor puzzled. He was an educated man, well read in a number of subjects. He saw things
in a commonsense way, a way that was heavy with simplifications. He could reduce things to a few broad
strokes, stick figures if necessary, fields of solid color, cause and effect. He needed to do this to handle the
intensity of his thought (and, eventually, his actions), to not be trivialized by details and distraction.
He knew about the millennia-old discussion of the subject. Right and wrong. He knew particularly well the
temptation that all of the various attempts to justify morality produced by their, in large, agreement with one
another. Murder, robbery, lying, disrespect, idolatry (even the atheists agree that idolatry is wrong), adultery
(for most), and the various shapes of envy and jealousy are almost unanimously condemned as evil or wrong or
immoral or incorrect.
The temptation, even for the atheists, is to believe that the moralists really are on to something. The average
atheist does not proclaim that he sees nothing wrong with murder, robbery or child abuse either. On the
contrary, atheists are typically proud of their adherence to accepted morality. That they are able to do this with
neither the threat of damnation, nor the lure of eternal happiness, is allowed by some of them to justify levels
of smug superiority in the matter.
Plus, there is a veritable feast of philosophical writings, whose authors have justified morality on a variety of
secular routes, for those atheists who want to abandon the giant in the sky but not the moral strictures that
came with him.
The various paths diverge with the addition of requirements like Mass every Sunday, or fasts, obligations,
daily, weekly, seasonal or annual observances, and definitions of blasphemy and sacrilege.
Perhaps heaping the club rules into the same category as the more profound commandments is itself a
mistake. Perhaps it's even wrong. (Who knows?) They pretty much all do it. Had Vikor been raised in the lost
faith of his mother's family, he would have been informed, as a young child, that even one failure to attend
Holy Mass could earn him punishment of infinite intensity and duration, probably (preferably?) by burning.
Hell.
If little Victor with the tarnished halo is lucky and does not die then without confession, another of the
obligations, and if he goes on to develop, later in life, into a serial killer-rapist, and then, finally, at last, after a
career of inflicting pain and fear on countless helpless victims, he is hauled before the divine tribunal and
found guilty of (unconfessed and unrepented) mortal sin, his sentence, poor guy, will be exactly the same as it
would have been for the young fiend who chose to catch crawdads down in the creek as an alternative to joining
in the celebration of the Eucharist.
Hell.
For atheists, the temptation is to see all of the denominations as being wrong, by definition, because of their
disagreements with one another. Rather, they agree that only one of them could be right; they merely disagree
as to which one that is. Not so privately, the atheists prefer to believe that they, who would not recognize a
goddess if she appeared to them in flowing linen and melody on a rock by a mountain waterfall, are the group
with the seizure on truth.
And in this tenet, they fall in step with the rest of the trample, for each of the religions of man has
proclaimed the same message about themselves: we are right.
The atheists provide no meted punishment for failure to believe and to observe the articles of their faith. We
are left to conclude that they travel their cold, stony path neither drawn by heaven nor driven by hell, but
merely for the sake of a pure thirst for truth. These guys sound more like mystics all the time.
To Vikor, there were large differences among the three ways of dealing with divinity, and specifically divinity
with some measure of invisibility, some degree of being outside of the boundaries of perception. The usual kind.
The first way was to believe in the existence of whoever or whatever it is that the book, the witnesses, the
oral tradition, the priests, or all of the above, describe.
The second way is to believe in the nonexistence of the same, and in all other chimeras of religion, magic,
prophecy and spiritualism, as well.
Way three is merely to confess ignorance.
Vikor confessed ignorance, but it wasn't much of a confession. It was more of a boast.
Also, it was not an oft repeated boast, for Vikor was not the sort to get into arguments and discussions. As he
matured in the Dove Springs community, he showed up at various functions, a barn dance here, a wedding
reception there. These were social connections that he was born into, particularly through his relationships with
the Devlins. With the other farm families, and with some of the more solid residents of both Dove Springs and
Collins Cove, the Devlin family had connections going back for generations.
Vikor had no problem with them for what they were. Every trade and profession was sampled in the mix.
Back in the depression years, before his time, the lack of money had been somewhat overcome by a flourishing
barter that tended to even out such prosperity as there was.
| * * * |
Whereas Cat One was able immediately to recognize Selabjun Kirkhaz as a member of the ivy wall
community, it was not a specific identification. He was only one of them.
Selabjun, on the other hand, had noticed Cat before. She had grown, from the twelve year old tomboy who
sometimes accompanied her mother to the library, into the twenty-four year old woman who availed herself of
the literary potential that a university's library can represent to a small town.
As a resident of Dove Springs, Catherine Dolan had a card which gave her full use of the resources of the
well-run book treasury. Though she had never taken any classes at the school itself, the library had been a
constant source of reference for her as she pursued her esoteric education.
Agnes Tawny was not her only fountain of knowledge. Leave it to that same independent tomboy to follow
her own leads and curious impulses. These had taken her with the single-minded devotion of an advanced
dilettante through explorations of philosophy, psychology, art and religion, through astronomy and geology,
politics and finance, government, anthropology, archaeology and magic.
Selabjun had seen her often, over the years, had seen her as he rushed to be assimilated into a culture that
he ostensibly visited on loan, but that he never wanted to leave.
Selabjun Kirkhaz never wanted to leave the freedom that was the United States of America. He had felt it
like a heavy coat being removed from tired shoulders in the heat of victory. Freedom. He had felt it like a
sudden expansion of his soul.
There was freedom at home. (And there was Mara) There was freedom at home; he knew that now. But it
would take an artist to find it. No, it would take a free man. It takes a free man to be free, he told himself,
looking and observing that even here in the United States of America there were many, there were dozens,
there were must be millions who were not free.
It takes a free man to be free, thought Selabjun Kirkhaz. He was smug. He was lucky, he conceded to
himself, for somehow he had been freed when the plane landed in New York City. He saw the Statue of Liberty
from the air, (luck right there) and went immediately to see it again from the ground, from the waterfront, the
boat, the island, from all around it, and from inside.
He was freed. The spell of the goddess… on him it worked. He was so tangibly aware of the effect that was
being had on him, by his being within these peaceful borders, and by visiting with this iron symbol.
This goddess, this Liberty, is a real being, he marveled to himself. Never mind that it is just a hollow idol that
I look out through the eyes of, Liberty herself is real. And she is here, he thought with pride, for she is
wherever free men are.
When he looked back to his homeland, he could see her there too. He could see her beyond the strangle of
village ways and tribal customs, beyond the grasp of government and corruption, beyond maybe even the reins
of weather and conscience, Liberty, dancing in a mountain meadow.
There were free men there too, he knew. He had heard them called bandits, fools and bums in his own
language. Even here, in the land of the free, he would have to take care not to be so lumped.
It wasn't just the freedom to make a better living, to have more luxury and privacy, that enchanted Selabjun
Kirkhaz. It was the freedom to jostle in verbal disagreement with other guys at bars and cocktail parties, to
arouse ire and maybe even to take a punch without the whole affair being taken under the wing of some
mother hen of bureaucracy, police or both. He was not afraid of taking a punch.
He was not afraid of being burgled or mugged; he could handle himself. Meanwhile, he reveled in the limber
freedom of a place where some feel unrestrained enough to walk the streets at night, without curfew, without
security, without explanation or payoff.
To go back (Mara) would either be a commitment to self-destructive anarchy, or an abandonment of principle
and a lifetime of tooth-grinding hypocrisy.
community, it was not a specific identification. He was only one of them.
Selabjun, on the other hand, had noticed Cat before. She had grown, from the twelve year old tomboy who
sometimes accompanied her mother to the library, into the twenty-four year old woman who availed herself of
the literary potential that a university's library can represent to a small town.
As a resident of Dove Springs, Catherine Dolan had a card which gave her full use of the resources of the
well-run book treasury. Though she had never taken any classes at the school itself, the library had been a
constant source of reference for her as she pursued her esoteric education.
Agnes Tawny was not her only fountain of knowledge. Leave it to that same independent tomboy to follow
her own leads and curious impulses. These had taken her with the single-minded devotion of an advanced
dilettante through explorations of philosophy, psychology, art and religion, through astronomy and geology,
politics and finance, government, anthropology, archaeology and magic.
Selabjun had seen her often, over the years, had seen her as he rushed to be assimilated into a culture that
he ostensibly visited on loan, but that he never wanted to leave.
Selabjun Kirkhaz never wanted to leave the freedom that was the United States of America. He had felt it
like a heavy coat being removed from tired shoulders in the heat of victory. Freedom. He had felt it like a
sudden expansion of his soul.
There was freedom at home. (And there was Mara) There was freedom at home; he knew that now. But it
would take an artist to find it. No, it would take a free man. It takes a free man to be free, he told himself,
looking and observing that even here in the United States of America there were many, there were dozens,
there were must be millions who were not free.
It takes a free man to be free, thought Selabjun Kirkhaz. He was smug. He was lucky, he conceded to
himself, for somehow he had been freed when the plane landed in New York City. He saw the Statue of Liberty
from the air, (luck right there) and went immediately to see it again from the ground, from the waterfront, the
boat, the island, from all around it, and from inside.
He was freed. The spell of the goddess… on him it worked. He was so tangibly aware of the effect that was
being had on him, by his being within these peaceful borders, and by visiting with this iron symbol.
This goddess, this Liberty, is a real being, he marveled to himself. Never mind that it is just a hollow idol that
I look out through the eyes of, Liberty herself is real. And she is here, he thought with pride, for she is
wherever free men are.
When he looked back to his homeland, he could see her there too. He could see her beyond the strangle of
village ways and tribal customs, beyond the grasp of government and corruption, beyond maybe even the reins
of weather and conscience, Liberty, dancing in a mountain meadow.
There were free men there too, he knew. He had heard them called bandits, fools and bums in his own
language. Even here, in the land of the free, he would have to take care not to be so lumped.
It wasn't just the freedom to make a better living, to have more luxury and privacy, that enchanted Selabjun
Kirkhaz. It was the freedom to jostle in verbal disagreement with other guys at bars and cocktail parties, to
arouse ire and maybe even to take a punch without the whole affair being taken under the wing of some
mother hen of bureaucracy, police or both. He was not afraid of taking a punch.
He was not afraid of being burgled or mugged; he could handle himself. Meanwhile, he reveled in the limber
freedom of a place where some feel unrestrained enough to walk the streets at night, without curfew, without
security, without explanation or payoff.
To go back (Mara) would either be a commitment to self-destructive anarchy, or an abandonment of principle
and a lifetime of tooth-grinding hypocrisy.
| * * * |
Johnny knew about a place back in the mountains, a remote valley on somebody's ranch, farther east and
near to the desert rim. There were horses there. Some one made sure they had water, and they were free to
roam a broad tract of land, but nobody ever rode them.
He rode over there one morning with Cabler. He unsaddled Widowmaker and slipped a halter on her when he
removed the bridle. Tying a lead to the halter ring, he handed the other end to Bob.
"Take her back to the camp and hobble her out for me, will ya, Cabler?" he asked.
"You sure you don't want me to stay and help you, man?" asked the would be assistant horse thief.
"No," said Johnny for the umpteenth time. He didn't need the help, and he was afraid that another guy and
two horses might be more noticeable if anyone did come around. "I'll be fine," he said. "I've done this before."
"What, stole a horse?" asked the young wrangler who had himself borrowed without permission a good
number of horses from his aunt's boarders, for moonlight rides.
"To catch a horse."
A day later he was back with his prize. Like a Gaelic chieftain he rode up in a sweat of gallantry on the
dapple grey gelding he had coaxed into his hands. The horse was old, but still spry. Its own new lease on life
flashed in its old brown eyes. Johnny climbed down, and, with a flourish, he handed the reins to Carol
Gallagher.
"Here," he said. "He's yours."
Carol had learned to ride on Murphy horses, with Maggie Murphy to show her how. She had ridden
Widowmaker and Spot, since the escape, but this was the first time she had ever had a horse she could call her
own.
She named the old boy Cheyenne. He was a mountain horse. When all three of the young desperadoes went
out together on horseback, the newcomer would demonstrate to Widowmaker and Spot the proper way to
negotiate whatever trail they were tackling. Streams, rocks and logs were nothing to Cheyenne. He could pick
his way in the dead of night down a steep scree without a trail, if he had to. He could mush his way up through
a stream bed, scrambling like a dog through the tangles of underbrush and little waterfalls.
He could live on the range, finding delectable treats and nutrition in the sparse patches that the dry
mountains afforded. Widowmaker and Spot learned from him. They were both faster than the old, grey nag.
But Cheyenne knew the way.
For Carol, he was a dream to ride. Bob had walked off with a nondescript saddle and a bridle from the tack
room at the stable down at Stallion Oaks one night. The saddle was a good fit, for horse and girl both. Mounted
on the dappled gelding, Carol learned how good a ride can be. Cheyenne was not like Widowmaker, who
considered each ride to be an intense, personal and delicate confrontation of power and control that demanded
every moment of the rider's attention lest the mare herself lose interest in the exercise altogether, and
emphasize this with a buck that would dislodge any but the most vigilant rider.
Nor was he like Spot, docile but brainless, a muscle to be aimed and spurred. Cheyenne would take charge on
a ride. As soon as his keen wits detected the direction or destination desired, he would make it happen,
smoothly merging his grace and energy with the will of the rider, making it look like the gal in the saddle was
doing it all, which, of course, she was. He was the perfect horse, in that respect.
He died before the fire, of age. Simple age finally cashed him in. He took a last breath, stamped his foot,
nickered his thanks to the world that was good to him, dropped to his knees, rolled over and died.
near to the desert rim. There were horses there. Some one made sure they had water, and they were free to
roam a broad tract of land, but nobody ever rode them.
He rode over there one morning with Cabler. He unsaddled Widowmaker and slipped a halter on her when he
removed the bridle. Tying a lead to the halter ring, he handed the other end to Bob.
"Take her back to the camp and hobble her out for me, will ya, Cabler?" he asked.
"You sure you don't want me to stay and help you, man?" asked the would be assistant horse thief.
"No," said Johnny for the umpteenth time. He didn't need the help, and he was afraid that another guy and
two horses might be more noticeable if anyone did come around. "I'll be fine," he said. "I've done this before."
"What, stole a horse?" asked the young wrangler who had himself borrowed without permission a good
number of horses from his aunt's boarders, for moonlight rides.
"To catch a horse."
A day later he was back with his prize. Like a Gaelic chieftain he rode up in a sweat of gallantry on the
dapple grey gelding he had coaxed into his hands. The horse was old, but still spry. Its own new lease on life
flashed in its old brown eyes. Johnny climbed down, and, with a flourish, he handed the reins to Carol
Gallagher.
"Here," he said. "He's yours."
Carol had learned to ride on Murphy horses, with Maggie Murphy to show her how. She had ridden
Widowmaker and Spot, since the escape, but this was the first time she had ever had a horse she could call her
own.
She named the old boy Cheyenne. He was a mountain horse. When all three of the young desperadoes went
out together on horseback, the newcomer would demonstrate to Widowmaker and Spot the proper way to
negotiate whatever trail they were tackling. Streams, rocks and logs were nothing to Cheyenne. He could pick
his way in the dead of night down a steep scree without a trail, if he had to. He could mush his way up through
a stream bed, scrambling like a dog through the tangles of underbrush and little waterfalls.
He could live on the range, finding delectable treats and nutrition in the sparse patches that the dry
mountains afforded. Widowmaker and Spot learned from him. They were both faster than the old, grey nag.
But Cheyenne knew the way.
For Carol, he was a dream to ride. Bob had walked off with a nondescript saddle and a bridle from the tack
room at the stable down at Stallion Oaks one night. The saddle was a good fit, for horse and girl both. Mounted
on the dappled gelding, Carol learned how good a ride can be. Cheyenne was not like Widowmaker, who
considered each ride to be an intense, personal and delicate confrontation of power and control that demanded
every moment of the rider's attention lest the mare herself lose interest in the exercise altogether, and
emphasize this with a buck that would dislodge any but the most vigilant rider.
Nor was he like Spot, docile but brainless, a muscle to be aimed and spurred. Cheyenne would take charge on
a ride. As soon as his keen wits detected the direction or destination desired, he would make it happen,
smoothly merging his grace and energy with the will of the rider, making it look like the gal in the saddle was
doing it all, which, of course, she was. He was the perfect horse, in that respect.
He died before the fire, of age. Simple age finally cashed him in. He took a last breath, stamped his foot,
nickered his thanks to the world that was good to him, dropped to his knees, rolled over and died.
| * * * |
"The smell of acacia in Del Mar and Rancho Santa Fe is so strong sometimes that you can smell it inside a
pickup truck with the doors shut and the windows up, although why anyone would have their windows up when
the 'cacia is bloomin' is beyond me. The billows of yellow fragrance in driveways and lanes can boggle you
senseless. You just float away on this thick, deep, velvet cloud of fragrance.
"Some people don't like it. Can you believe that?"
pickup truck with the doors shut and the windows up, although why anyone would have their windows up when
the 'cacia is bloomin' is beyond me. The billows of yellow fragrance in driveways and lanes can boggle you
senseless. You just float away on this thick, deep, velvet cloud of fragrance.
"Some people don't like it. Can you believe that?"
| -- Maggie Murphy, age thirteen. |
| * * * |
Joe was up one night before dawn. The Flying A was getting its tanks replaced. He had a week's leave from
the job, but he stuck to his hours, up all night, surfing in the morning, sleeping in the afternoon and rising in
the evening, depending on the waves and the moon.
The rest of the inhabitants of the rambling ranch house were asleep now. Charlene was in the bed that he
would seek in the coming afternoon. He had been up and out at twilight, and he had seen the full moon rise
from down on the point of the hill. He and the dogs.
Later, following a certain measure of partying and society, he had been in the bed, for awhile, with Charlene.
Now she slept. He, sated, went outside.
Santa Mesa had brick patios front and back. The house itself formed angles so that each patio was shielded by
the walls. The view from either was remarkable. The front courtyard was bordered by a white picket fence and
opened upon a vista that went from northwest to southwest, with steep hills crowned with eucalyptus, the wide
San Dieguito river valley in between, the Del Mar racetrack and, smack in the middle, the sun sinking into the
ocean on the very first day of spring.
Out back, one could look across the maze of level mesas to the dark cone that was Black Mountain, and to
the range of purple mountains farther east. Except that now it was night, and the moon was high. At twilight
Joe had turned just in time, after witnessing the orange ball slip into the sea, to see the ruby moon peak over
the mountain. When it was halfway up, the pinnacle of the mass of black was at the sharp center of the red
disk looming in the full glow of twilight.
Now it was pure white. Everything was suffused with pearly luminescence. Down on the patio where Joe stood
entranced, a gracious, old acacia tree opened its divine fragrance to the silver moon. It was so thick, it cloyed
the senses. He was captured by the thrill as surely as if he had been riding down the face of a perfect, powerful
wave. His sudden intake of breath was part gasp, part sigh, and if an angel had told him of a sudden that he had
died and gone to heaven, he would have found it easy to believe, for he could smell the belly button of the
goddess.
the job, but he stuck to his hours, up all night, surfing in the morning, sleeping in the afternoon and rising in
the evening, depending on the waves and the moon.
The rest of the inhabitants of the rambling ranch house were asleep now. Charlene was in the bed that he
would seek in the coming afternoon. He had been up and out at twilight, and he had seen the full moon rise
from down on the point of the hill. He and the dogs.
Later, following a certain measure of partying and society, he had been in the bed, for awhile, with Charlene.
Now she slept. He, sated, went outside.
Santa Mesa had brick patios front and back. The house itself formed angles so that each patio was shielded by
the walls. The view from either was remarkable. The front courtyard was bordered by a white picket fence and
opened upon a vista that went from northwest to southwest, with steep hills crowned with eucalyptus, the wide
San Dieguito river valley in between, the Del Mar racetrack and, smack in the middle, the sun sinking into the
ocean on the very first day of spring.
Out back, one could look across the maze of level mesas to the dark cone that was Black Mountain, and to
the range of purple mountains farther east. Except that now it was night, and the moon was high. At twilight
Joe had turned just in time, after witnessing the orange ball slip into the sea, to see the ruby moon peak over
the mountain. When it was halfway up, the pinnacle of the mass of black was at the sharp center of the red
disk looming in the full glow of twilight.
Now it was pure white. Everything was suffused with pearly luminescence. Down on the patio where Joe stood
entranced, a gracious, old acacia tree opened its divine fragrance to the silver moon. It was so thick, it cloyed
the senses. He was captured by the thrill as surely as if he had been riding down the face of a perfect, powerful
wave. His sudden intake of breath was part gasp, part sigh, and if an angel had told him of a sudden that he had
died and gone to heaven, he would have found it easy to believe, for he could smell the belly button of the
goddess.
| * * * |
During the depression, the Devlins and others in the area did not interpret the fact, that all of the money had
disappeared, to mean that John Taylor should go without mechanical help for his ancient vehicle, not when Red
Casey, right across town, was a top notch mechanic, and might otherwise be sitting on his hands.
Food was what Bill Sutton and his family needed. Though John Taylor lived in town and was eking it out
himself, he gave music lessons to the children of a number of families. Some of these, particularly on the
farms just outside of Dove Springs, faced bounties of perishable produce and other food at times with hardly
any market. Through various arrangements, from outright charity, to swinging a deal to get the silo painted,
the community acted to see that the food was distributed.
Eventually they would have rediscovered money on their own, for the simplification it offered in keeping
track. Networks of favors owed and deals half-done can grow complex. Abuse for some is a constant temptation,
for all a constant threat, and for many a constant complaint.
The Devlin's, being a source of so much, tended never to complain. Their definition of enough was calculated
in terms of the family's needs being met, not on favors owed or accounts cleared.
On the giving and doing side, Hank and Sarah Devlin found their sentiments well expressed by words that
Johnny Dolan repeated to them, words that he had heard from Old Fargo.
"House building is a success," he said, "when the finished house shelters a family, when it stands the test of
time, when it keeps out the rain and the wind and the cold, and when it is beautiful.
"Whether the guys who built it made a dime or lost their shirts, whether it was seized by creditors or
financial manipulators or conquerors from another land, it is a success."
Uncle William and Old Fargo did lose their shirts, finally. Although an active barter system can insure that
food, clothing and shelter supplies are optimized, at least to where nobody gets left out, financial fortunes are
not its concern. Bill Casey and Art Fargo never went hungry; they never slept in the rain.
More important to Arthur Fargo, the homes he had built in the past did not tumble with him. The barns and
fences all stood, keeping stock in and out and protecting the hay from the weather. All of these projects had
been successful. And he was old. That he had been manipulated out of all his material gain by the economy did
not matter much to Old Fargo. And then he died.
The Devlin-Dolan tribe did not share his misfortune. With the last survivor of the sunken ship they did share
their good fortune, however. Bill Casey was brought on board, given the extra cabin up the draw, depended on
for extra hands and child-care and rechristened Uncle William, at least by his niece.
This all took a little while, but not too long. Catherine Marie Dolan's arrival in the world had given time
another kick, as the birth of babies always does, and things moved along at a healthy pace. It was she who
turned Bill into William, somehow. Even before she could talk, she was introduced to him that way. "And this
is your Uncle William," said Andrea Clare, holding the inquisitive newborn in her arms. Maybe it was because
Cat's arrival, her very existence, promoted him from uncle to great uncle. Uncle Bill had been appropriate for
the cheerful husband of Johnny and Glow's dead Aunt Genevieve.
Bill Casey had come over to see his nephew's infant daughter. Later he would swear to himself that he had
been accompanied by the spirit of Arthur Randall "Old" Fargo.
Perhaps, he might have thought, had he been a deeper thinker, that it wasn't so much Old Fargo's presence
in "spirit" that he sensed, but the reality that familiar traits, survivors of a genetic life raft, shone at him from
the face of baby Catherine Marie Dolan.
She was Johnny's, and Johnny's mother was a Fargo.
disappeared, to mean that John Taylor should go without mechanical help for his ancient vehicle, not when Red
Casey, right across town, was a top notch mechanic, and might otherwise be sitting on his hands.
Food was what Bill Sutton and his family needed. Though John Taylor lived in town and was eking it out
himself, he gave music lessons to the children of a number of families. Some of these, particularly on the
farms just outside of Dove Springs, faced bounties of perishable produce and other food at times with hardly
any market. Through various arrangements, from outright charity, to swinging a deal to get the silo painted,
the community acted to see that the food was distributed.
Eventually they would have rediscovered money on their own, for the simplification it offered in keeping
track. Networks of favors owed and deals half-done can grow complex. Abuse for some is a constant temptation,
for all a constant threat, and for many a constant complaint.
The Devlin's, being a source of so much, tended never to complain. Their definition of enough was calculated
in terms of the family's needs being met, not on favors owed or accounts cleared.
On the giving and doing side, Hank and Sarah Devlin found their sentiments well expressed by words that
Johnny Dolan repeated to them, words that he had heard from Old Fargo.
"House building is a success," he said, "when the finished house shelters a family, when it stands the test of
time, when it keeps out the rain and the wind and the cold, and when it is beautiful.
"Whether the guys who built it made a dime or lost their shirts, whether it was seized by creditors or
financial manipulators or conquerors from another land, it is a success."
Uncle William and Old Fargo did lose their shirts, finally. Although an active barter system can insure that
food, clothing and shelter supplies are optimized, at least to where nobody gets left out, financial fortunes are
not its concern. Bill Casey and Art Fargo never went hungry; they never slept in the rain.
More important to Arthur Fargo, the homes he had built in the past did not tumble with him. The barns and
fences all stood, keeping stock in and out and protecting the hay from the weather. All of these projects had
been successful. And he was old. That he had been manipulated out of all his material gain by the economy did
not matter much to Old Fargo. And then he died.
The Devlin-Dolan tribe did not share his misfortune. With the last survivor of the sunken ship they did share
their good fortune, however. Bill Casey was brought on board, given the extra cabin up the draw, depended on
for extra hands and child-care and rechristened Uncle William, at least by his niece.
This all took a little while, but not too long. Catherine Marie Dolan's arrival in the world had given time
another kick, as the birth of babies always does, and things moved along at a healthy pace. It was she who
turned Bill into William, somehow. Even before she could talk, she was introduced to him that way. "And this
is your Uncle William," said Andrea Clare, holding the inquisitive newborn in her arms. Maybe it was because
Cat's arrival, her very existence, promoted him from uncle to great uncle. Uncle Bill had been appropriate for
the cheerful husband of Johnny and Glow's dead Aunt Genevieve.
Bill Casey had come over to see his nephew's infant daughter. Later he would swear to himself that he had
been accompanied by the spirit of Arthur Randall "Old" Fargo.
Perhaps, he might have thought, had he been a deeper thinker, that it wasn't so much Old Fargo's presence
in "spirit" that he sensed, but the reality that familiar traits, survivors of a genetic life raft, shone at him from
the face of baby Catherine Marie Dolan.
She was Johnny's, and Johnny's mother was a Fargo.
| * * * |
Maya slept. She dreamt of how she could leap and pirouette on the canny crags of this lovely heaven wherein
she dwelt. In truth, in daylight and on the mountainside with all her cousins and friends, she was the most
agile. First they would eat, when Johnny took them out onto the high ridges or up into the deep canyons.
Everything in the pasture was stale and boring; the good stuff was all gone. There was plenty, but it was plain
bulk.
Out on the range it was a tempting smorgasbord of fresh and delicious goat favorites. Oak, and its magic
namesake, that sumptuous, three-leafed, glossy salad. Lilac, manzanita later on, dozens of herbs, grass, green
even in summer by the mountain springs, and a few mouthfuls of grass never turned anyone into a sheep.
First they would eat. Then they would go up onto the rocks. It might ostensibly be in pursuit of special, prize
foods, yucca seeds perhaps. But really it was for the thrill of the rocks, and often they climbed for that alone.
A bump or two when she was little was enough; she had cracked her knee good one time, so she knew about
rock what it hurt to learn, and what had to hurt to be learned.
In her dream, Maya stood as she had stood that day, on a pinnacle high on the southern slope of the arroyo
they called Chive Valley. In reality, it was a steep canyon. She stood in perfect poise and surveyed the options.
Most of these were boulders arrayed in a random multitude at her feet, poking from the wall of brush that
cloaked the steep north side of the ridge.
She absorbed the arrangement as if it were a strain of music, or a maybe a secret howl, and when she was
ready she launched herself to the graces of wind and gravity, plucking at the chords with light, sharp hooves,
striking first this boulder, then that, in an eerie sequence that brought her in the twinkling of an eye to a
stable composure on the crown of another mass of granite, close to the bottom of the canyon. With a bare half-
dozen nimble contacts with the hard, grey threats, she had charmed a gracious descent from what otherwise
would have been a crushing fall. Bink… binkety… bink… bink… binkety… bink.
Now, Maya fairly grinned in her sleep, curled next to her sister, Crystal, who snuggled against Dee Dee, their
mom, who in turn was sandwiched between Crystal and Mazie, and happy to be there. Mazie was Dee Dee's own
mom, a big girl with big horns. It was a safe place to be. Dee Dee had her own horns, and they were nice, but
there was safety in numbers. At least, there was for Dee Dee.
Maya made a little bleat of satisfaction as she replayed in her dreams another famous leap through gravity.
She was in the timeless hours, and the wonders that she dreamed, the polished replays of the feats of life that
she had been and that she had shown the world, the flash of black and white daring that remained in her
memory, and in the memories of other kids who watched her and who did the same, and that remained in the
memory of Johnny Malone as well, existed then and exist now as eternal gems. The passing hours and
moments had no effect, and they never will.
She awoke for a second, part of the common herd snort of alarm, or worse, violation. All were on their feet in
a stamping second, but Maya had only that instant of ended dreams before the huge fangs of the mountain lion
closed on her neck and found their way through to a meeting in the passage between two vertebrae, so that her
spinal cord was severed. Instantly she died, leaving a wild cry that she never heard, but which sent the rest of
the herd in a stampede of terror. Maya's last word ruled forever in the quailed hearts of her fellows.
Tawngness moved with alacrity, to put it mildly. The scene scorched on the horrified eyes of the goats was
scorched in scant seconds. The tawny, moonlit monster that came with a leap, a seize and a bite was only in the
herd's vision for less time than it takes to tell. Then she was gone, with Maya dangling in her teeth. Tawngness
sailed with her burden back over the east fence, grazing the young doe on the hot wire. But she was fully
airborne when that occurred, and she suffered no shock, for she was not grounded. A tuft of goat hair,
whispering on a barb, was all that was left, and a drop of blood on a boulder.
At least that was all that Johnny Malone found when he counted the following morning and came up short.
After Kisa was carried off the next night, he never found even a trace.
Their absence shadowed the herd. Johnny could hardly believe that what the signs were pointing to was true.
He suspected that he was imagining it, that he was making it up. It was so easy to accuse himself of over-
dramatizing.
"I think I'm losing goats to a mountain lion," he said to the game warden, expecting to hear back, a
mountain lion, sure, they're practically extinct! You've probably got wild dogs.
But Ed French was empathetic. "It does happen," he said when Johnny spoke to him down at the Lodestone
Cafe in Descanso. He went on to mention a number of instances that he had heard about, or had investigated
himself. It was usually dogs or cats that the cougar had killed. Sometimes it was goats or calves.
she dwelt. In truth, in daylight and on the mountainside with all her cousins and friends, she was the most
agile. First they would eat, when Johnny took them out onto the high ridges or up into the deep canyons.
Everything in the pasture was stale and boring; the good stuff was all gone. There was plenty, but it was plain
bulk.
Out on the range it was a tempting smorgasbord of fresh and delicious goat favorites. Oak, and its magic
namesake, that sumptuous, three-leafed, glossy salad. Lilac, manzanita later on, dozens of herbs, grass, green
even in summer by the mountain springs, and a few mouthfuls of grass never turned anyone into a sheep.
First they would eat. Then they would go up onto the rocks. It might ostensibly be in pursuit of special, prize
foods, yucca seeds perhaps. But really it was for the thrill of the rocks, and often they climbed for that alone.
A bump or two when she was little was enough; she had cracked her knee good one time, so she knew about
rock what it hurt to learn, and what had to hurt to be learned.
In her dream, Maya stood as she had stood that day, on a pinnacle high on the southern slope of the arroyo
they called Chive Valley. In reality, it was a steep canyon. She stood in perfect poise and surveyed the options.
Most of these were boulders arrayed in a random multitude at her feet, poking from the wall of brush that
cloaked the steep north side of the ridge.
She absorbed the arrangement as if it were a strain of music, or a maybe a secret howl, and when she was
ready she launched herself to the graces of wind and gravity, plucking at the chords with light, sharp hooves,
striking first this boulder, then that, in an eerie sequence that brought her in the twinkling of an eye to a
stable composure on the crown of another mass of granite, close to the bottom of the canyon. With a bare half-
dozen nimble contacts with the hard, grey threats, she had charmed a gracious descent from what otherwise
would have been a crushing fall. Bink… binkety… bink… bink… binkety… bink.
Now, Maya fairly grinned in her sleep, curled next to her sister, Crystal, who snuggled against Dee Dee, their
mom, who in turn was sandwiched between Crystal and Mazie, and happy to be there. Mazie was Dee Dee's own
mom, a big girl with big horns. It was a safe place to be. Dee Dee had her own horns, and they were nice, but
there was safety in numbers. At least, there was for Dee Dee.
Maya made a little bleat of satisfaction as she replayed in her dreams another famous leap through gravity.
She was in the timeless hours, and the wonders that she dreamed, the polished replays of the feats of life that
she had been and that she had shown the world, the flash of black and white daring that remained in her
memory, and in the memories of other kids who watched her and who did the same, and that remained in the
memory of Johnny Malone as well, existed then and exist now as eternal gems. The passing hours and
moments had no effect, and they never will.
She awoke for a second, part of the common herd snort of alarm, or worse, violation. All were on their feet in
a stamping second, but Maya had only that instant of ended dreams before the huge fangs of the mountain lion
closed on her neck and found their way through to a meeting in the passage between two vertebrae, so that her
spinal cord was severed. Instantly she died, leaving a wild cry that she never heard, but which sent the rest of
the herd in a stampede of terror. Maya's last word ruled forever in the quailed hearts of her fellows.
Tawngness moved with alacrity, to put it mildly. The scene scorched on the horrified eyes of the goats was
scorched in scant seconds. The tawny, moonlit monster that came with a leap, a seize and a bite was only in the
herd's vision for less time than it takes to tell. Then she was gone, with Maya dangling in her teeth. Tawngness
sailed with her burden back over the east fence, grazing the young doe on the hot wire. But she was fully
airborne when that occurred, and she suffered no shock, for she was not grounded. A tuft of goat hair,
whispering on a barb, was all that was left, and a drop of blood on a boulder.
At least that was all that Johnny Malone found when he counted the following morning and came up short.
After Kisa was carried off the next night, he never found even a trace.
Their absence shadowed the herd. Johnny could hardly believe that what the signs were pointing to was true.
He suspected that he was imagining it, that he was making it up. It was so easy to accuse himself of over-
dramatizing.
"I think I'm losing goats to a mountain lion," he said to the game warden, expecting to hear back, a
mountain lion, sure, they're practically extinct! You've probably got wild dogs.
But Ed French was empathetic. "It does happen," he said when Johnny spoke to him down at the Lodestone
Cafe in Descanso. He went on to mention a number of instances that he had heard about, or had investigated
himself. It was usually dogs or cats that the cougar had killed. Sometimes it was goats or calves.
