| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goatherder January 23, 1980 (continued)
Suzy, my . 22 revolver, lay on the woodstove. I took her out and put her in the trunk,
unbuckled Betsy, my . 357 Magnum, and put her in the trunk too.
Suzy, my . 22 revolver, lay on the woodstove. I took her out and put her in the trunk,
unbuckled Betsy, my . 357 Magnum, and put her in the trunk too.
| Chapter Nine UNCLE WILLIAM |
He began, "Once upon a time… " Cat One curled up on her pillow by the fire. Outside it was cold and bitter
bright, the wind stinging and leaves whirling. Inside it was warm and dark.
Once upon a time there was a valley, not far from the sea. It was a sweet place where beans and barley and
clover grew in lush patchworks, and maples whispered back and forth with streams and small rivers.
Cat's mind followed the voice to story land, but then like a crystal hung by a thread in a sunny window,
twisting with the waft and the earthly inertia, the afternoon dream flashed. Maples turned to sycamores, and
lush clover was now the hot alfalfa of the southern clime. High in the mountains a different dreamer was
surprised in a different dream.
A goatherder, living in the future, and lost in the past, he raged and he mourned. Death had come to the ones
he thought of as his children, and death had left a baby goat bleeding on the earth.
bright, the wind stinging and leaves whirling. Inside it was warm and dark.
Once upon a time there was a valley, not far from the sea. It was a sweet place where beans and barley and
clover grew in lush patchworks, and maples whispered back and forth with streams and small rivers.
Cat's mind followed the voice to story land, but then like a crystal hung by a thread in a sunny window,
twisting with the waft and the earthly inertia, the afternoon dream flashed. Maples turned to sycamores, and
lush clover was now the hot alfalfa of the southern clime. High in the mountains a different dreamer was
surprised in a different dream.
A goatherder, living in the future, and lost in the past, he raged and he mourned. Death had come to the ones
he thought of as his children, and death had left a baby goat bleeding on the earth.
| * * * |
The mountain lion enchanted Johnny. It lived by hunting. But hunting Johnny's child was going too far. The
warrior cat defended the castle. Now here was a goat pen-castle of bloody violation. The puppy sacrificed in
defense against the perdition of a different kind of cat, a panther, a mountain lion.
But she, who was the very devil when appearing in the midst of the goat pen, was mother benefactress herself
to her kittens on the nights when she appeared at the lair with a warm kid.
Johnny could see that it all depended on how you looked at it. He felt free of restraint, and full of the power of
unjustified violence. No excuse could be made, so none was needed.
warrior cat defended the castle. Now here was a goat pen-castle of bloody violation. The puppy sacrificed in
defense against the perdition of a different kind of cat, a panther, a mountain lion.
But she, who was the very devil when appearing in the midst of the goat pen, was mother benefactress herself
to her kittens on the nights when she appeared at the lair with a warm kid.
Johnny could see that it all depended on how you looked at it. He felt free of restraint, and full of the power of
unjustified violence. No excuse could be made, so none was needed.
| * * * |
Once when Johnny was in the Navy, he had mess duty for several weeks while they were pier side in Guam.
The ship was having it's "reefers", its refrigerators and freezers, rebuilt, so all the provisions were being
stored in refrigerated truck trailers on the pier.
Just before lunch one day, Johnny came out to one of the trailers for some butter. He opened the big door in
the back and walked into the chill. The butter was up front, and once up there Johnny bent over the box to
take out a couple of pounds for lunch. Suddenly the door was swung closed and latched. It caught him by
surprise, a little. Johnny walked to the rear of the truck, but the latch was on the outside. There was no
emergency device.
Outside it was 110 degrees Fahrenheit; inside it was nearer forty. Peering through the crack, Johnny could
see the watch on the quarterdeck, fifty or sixty feet away. If Johnny had shouted loudly and persistently, they
would have heard him.
But where would have been the fun in that? An hour later one of the other galley slaves, a black kid named
West, opened the door to find him nodding off to sleep, sitting on a wooden pallet. Johnny had stuffed packing
paper under his shirt to insulate himself a little, and he had merely waited it out. He knew that after lunch
someone would find him, and meanwhile he had enjoyed an unscheduled break.
If he had yelled and hollered… oh, hell, he'd rather freeze to death. Besides, it was worth seeing the
expression on West's face, when he discovered him.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, no one was likely to discover him for a long spell. Stella Brown had been by
with her kids a little earlier, had just left, in fact, and Johnny probably wouldn't get any more visitors that day.
It was just about noon.
Using his arms and his good leg, he struggled awkwardly to his feet. He wasn't hurting much at all, but when
he tried to put some weight on the wounded leg, it buckled, and a spasm of pain electrified his attention. Okay!
No walking on that leg.
He returned his hands to the ground, and, taking hold of the gun belt, he began to creep up the path, dragging
the hurt leg behind him.
Shortly he reached his revolver, lying in the dirt where he had pitched it. He considered it for a moment, and
then replaced it in the holster. He kept crawling.
Ages later he reached his car, which was parked near the house trailer. The trunk was open, and he tossed
the gun belt in and slammed the lid.
Onward to the trailer. With the pistol locked in the trunk, he had chosen to live. Later on, Flo would ask him
what would he have done if he had been unable to get to help.
"I still had five more bullets in the gun," he said.
He thought about it. Easy enough to avoid the coming pain and struggle with a bullet in his brain. But he
guessed that from his point of view right then, the rewards of accepting the challenge were worth it.
When Michael was still staying at the ranch, the two of them had walked down Fugitive Creek one day, all the
way to Boulder Creek and the big swimming hole by the old mine. They explored the mine and took a swim,
and later, sitting dripping on a big rock, they turned their conversation to Johnny's friend, George Rubino.
It was in a place very like the one they sat talking in, a wild creek full of rocks and pools, in Texas, that
George had dove into eight years before. He broke his neck and floated helplessly, face down in the river, until
just before he would have had to take that first breath of water, his buddy reached him and turned him over.
He had been confined to a wheelchair ever since.
"This may sound cold," said Michael. "I'm sorry, but I think he should have died."
Michael made it a point to be cynical, and was never really sorry, but Johnny understood what he meant. Life
marches on, and the fallen remain by the roadside. Only the strong survive.
"I wouldn't live like that," Michael went on.
Now there's the truth, he thought. "I'm not sure I would either," he replied. "But I've talked to him a lot
about that very thing. I guess it's all different from his point of view. "
Johnny had talked to George a lot about it, when he was caring for him those first few months out of the
hospital.
He offered him death, as a friend. George said that he would let him know.
The ship was having it's "reefers", its refrigerators and freezers, rebuilt, so all the provisions were being
stored in refrigerated truck trailers on the pier.
Just before lunch one day, Johnny came out to one of the trailers for some butter. He opened the big door in
the back and walked into the chill. The butter was up front, and once up there Johnny bent over the box to
take out a couple of pounds for lunch. Suddenly the door was swung closed and latched. It caught him by
surprise, a little. Johnny walked to the rear of the truck, but the latch was on the outside. There was no
emergency device.
Outside it was 110 degrees Fahrenheit; inside it was nearer forty. Peering through the crack, Johnny could
see the watch on the quarterdeck, fifty or sixty feet away. If Johnny had shouted loudly and persistently, they
would have heard him.
But where would have been the fun in that? An hour later one of the other galley slaves, a black kid named
West, opened the door to find him nodding off to sleep, sitting on a wooden pallet. Johnny had stuffed packing
paper under his shirt to insulate himself a little, and he had merely waited it out. He knew that after lunch
someone would find him, and meanwhile he had enjoyed an unscheduled break.
If he had yelled and hollered… oh, hell, he'd rather freeze to death. Besides, it was worth seeing the
expression on West's face, when he discovered him.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, no one was likely to discover him for a long spell. Stella Brown had been by
with her kids a little earlier, had just left, in fact, and Johnny probably wouldn't get any more visitors that day.
It was just about noon.
Using his arms and his good leg, he struggled awkwardly to his feet. He wasn't hurting much at all, but when
he tried to put some weight on the wounded leg, it buckled, and a spasm of pain electrified his attention. Okay!
No walking on that leg.
He returned his hands to the ground, and, taking hold of the gun belt, he began to creep up the path, dragging
the hurt leg behind him.
Shortly he reached his revolver, lying in the dirt where he had pitched it. He considered it for a moment, and
then replaced it in the holster. He kept crawling.
Ages later he reached his car, which was parked near the house trailer. The trunk was open, and he tossed
the gun belt in and slammed the lid.
Onward to the trailer. With the pistol locked in the trunk, he had chosen to live. Later on, Flo would ask him
what would he have done if he had been unable to get to help.
"I still had five more bullets in the gun," he said.
He thought about it. Easy enough to avoid the coming pain and struggle with a bullet in his brain. But he
guessed that from his point of view right then, the rewards of accepting the challenge were worth it.
When Michael was still staying at the ranch, the two of them had walked down Fugitive Creek one day, all the
way to Boulder Creek and the big swimming hole by the old mine. They explored the mine and took a swim,
and later, sitting dripping on a big rock, they turned their conversation to Johnny's friend, George Rubino.
It was in a place very like the one they sat talking in, a wild creek full of rocks and pools, in Texas, that
George had dove into eight years before. He broke his neck and floated helplessly, face down in the river, until
just before he would have had to take that first breath of water, his buddy reached him and turned him over.
He had been confined to a wheelchair ever since.
"This may sound cold," said Michael. "I'm sorry, but I think he should have died."
Michael made it a point to be cynical, and was never really sorry, but Johnny understood what he meant. Life
marches on, and the fallen remain by the roadside. Only the strong survive.
"I wouldn't live like that," Michael went on.
Now there's the truth, he thought. "I'm not sure I would either," he replied. "But I've talked to him a lot
about that very thing. I guess it's all different from his point of view. "
Johnny had talked to George a lot about it, when he was caring for him those first few months out of the
hospital.
He offered him death, as a friend. George said that he would let him know.
