Maybe Elizabeth Warren can get 1/32 of it (Yeah, I know- Cherokee, not Sioux) and Ward Churchill…well…nevermind:

South Dakota’s Black Hills, home to the granite faces carved into Mt. Rushmore, should be restored as Native American tribal lands, a United Nations official recently said.

James Anaya, a U.N. special rapporteur on the rights of indigenous people, completed a fact-finding mission on Friday that included meetings with a number of Native American tribal leaders as well as White House officials. His investigation led him to suggest that the United States take additional steps to repair the nation’s legacy of oppression against Native Americans.

Reuters:

[James Anaya] met with representatives of indigenous peoples in the District of Columbia, Arizona, Alaska, Oregon, Washington State, South Dakota, and Oklahoma. He also met with U.S. government officials.

“I have heard stories that make evident the profound hurt that indigenous peoples continue to feel because of the history of oppression they have faced,” Anaya said in a statement issued by the U.N. human rights office in Geneva.

That oppression, he said, has included the seizure of lands and resources, the removal of children from their families and communities, the loss of languages, violation of treaties, and brutality, all grounded in racial discrimination.

Anaya welcomed the U.S. decision to endorse the U.N. Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in 2010 and other steps the government has taken, but said more was needed. His findings will be included in a final report submitted to the U.N. Human Rights Council. While not binding, the recommendations carry moral weight that can influence governments.

“It is clear that this history does not just blemish the past, but translates into present day disadvantage for indigenous peoples in the country,” Anaya said.

“There have still not been adequate measures of reconciliation to overcome the persistent legacies of the history of oppression, and that there is still much healing that needs to be done,” he said.

~~~

“Past uncontrolled and irresponsible extractive activities, including uranium mining in the Southwest, have resulted in the contamination of indigenous peoples’ water sources and other resources, and in numerous documented negative health effects among Native Americans,” he said.

He said indigenous peoples feel they have too little control over geographic regions considered sacred to them, like the San Francisco Peaks in Arizona and the Black Hills in South Dakota. Anaya suggested such lands should be returned to Native peoples.

“Securing the rights of indigenous peoples to their lands is of central importance to indigenous peoples’ socioeconomic development, self-determination, and cultural integrity,” Anaya said.

“Continued efforts to resolve, clarify, and strengthen the protection of indigenous lands, resources, and sacred sites should be made,” he added.

Mount Rushmore, a popular tourist attraction, is located in the Black Hills, which the Sioux tribe consider to be sacred and have territorial claims to based on an 1868 treaty. Shortly after that treaty was signed, gold was discovered in the region. U.S. Congress eventually passed a law taking over the land.

The U.S. Supreme Court ruled in 1980 that the seizure of the land was illegal and ordered the government to pay compensation. But the Sioux rejected the money and has continued to demand the return of the now public lands.

Are Native Americans still being oppressed? Are they a separate people from the rest of America? At what point in history do we let go and move on? A generation? 100 years? 200 years? A millennium? Never? To always hold grudges and claim victimhood for one’s situation today due to what happened to one’s ancestors, generations removed? And what of those Americans of “oppressed ancestry” who are currently experiencing great prosperity in today’s America? Who have benefited because of the course America took- good and bad, just and unjust- in its formulation?

In the case of Japanese-Americans receiving compensation for internment, that I can understand and am more sympathetic to, because those directly affected are still around.

With upwards of 70% unemployment on two Sioux reservations in South Dakota, Hot Air points out:

The report goes on for paragraph after paragraph about proposed plans based on the concept of systemic racism against indigenous people, but it does also manage to touch on one issue which is very real.

Anaya visited an Oglala Sioux reservation where the per capita income is around $7,000 a year, less than one-sixth of the national average, and life expectancy is about 50 years.

The two Sioux reservations in South Dakota – Rosebud and Pine Ridge – have some of the country’s poorest living conditions, including mass unemployment and the highest suicide rate in the western hemisphere with an epidemic of teenagers killing themselves.

“You can see they’re in a somewhat precarious situation in terms of their basic existence and the stability of their communities given that precarious land tenure situation. It’s not like they have large fisheries as a resource base to sustain them. In basic economic terms it’s a very difficult situation. You have upwards of 70% unemployment on the reservation and all kinds of social ills accompanying that. Very tough conditions,” he said.

Conditions on many of the reservations are indeed horrible. There are some exceptions, of course, among some in the Northwest with ocean access and others with casinos, but many of the tribal lands are simply desolate pools of poverty. If there is anything to the questions being raised by the UN, though, it is likely to be found less in some sort of nebulous cure for any sort of endemic racism than in the technicalities of a court of law.

The United States has indeed made many treaties with Native Americans spanning three centuries. Some were honored, (at least in part) but many were either ignored or crafted in patently unfair ways.

Everyone’s ancestors (let aside the possibility of immediate family members) at some point in time and in history has suffered injustices and oppression at the hands of some invading tribe or army, pillaging, raping, conquering. What is the practical solution to righting the wrongs of the past? The U.S. government is still around but the people involved on both sides of the equation are long gone. When do you cut your losses and say, “Time to move on” and quit blaming your circumstances on what happened centuries ago?

The Dog Days of Summer Are Here

Some of us are willing to give a tacit seal of approval to people who eat dogs, but if someone has the audacity to tie a dog cage with a dog inside to the top of their station wagon, before embarking on a family vacation, a serious breach of the holy covenant between man and dog has been breached. I assume most of you are aware that people in Indo-China, Indonesia, Korea, and our president have enjoyed the flesh of dogs with no misgivings; however, in all the world, no one agrees with securing the family dog to the roof of a car.

Many people consider this single infraction to be serious enough to refuse to vote for Romney. They are willing to overlook our ruinous debt, the total disregard by White House personnel to pay Third World Hookers their hard earned money, A refusal to draft a budget, An energy policy that causes the rest of the world to laugh at us, Fast and Furious insanity that has cost the lives of a federal agent and hundreds of Mexican nationals, the paying of hundreds of millions of dollars in phony Green Energy Scams to Obama bundlers, an Attorney General who refuses to answer questions and is primarily concerned with justice for “His People,” a GSA crew that spends money in gross indulgences, Leon Panetta’s personal indulgences of flying on the government’s magic carpets for his personal trips, and Michelle’s personal indulgence of vacation flying on her own Air Force One to arrive four hours early and avoid the crowded conditions on her husband’s plane, while the First Couple lectures the rest of us on energy consumption.

Just because our president admits to enjoying dogs for dinner in his best seller, “Dreams From My Father” is no reason to look down on him; it was Romney who tied the dog to the car and risked all types of misfortune and personal injury to the dog.

“With Lolo, I learned how to eat small green chill peppers raw with dinner (plenty of rice), and, away from the dinner table, I was introduced to dog meat (tough), snake meat (tougher), and roasted grasshopper (crunchy). Like many Indonesians, Lolo followed a brand of Islam that could make room for the remnants of more ancient animist and Hindu faiths. He explained that a man took on the powers of whatever he ate: One day soon, he promised, he would bring home a piece of tiger meat for us to share.”

(Many Americans are wondering if our president and Lolo had too many peacock dinners.)

If Romney would have eaten the dog before the trip or barbecued the dog for a road snack during the trip, the public would have found his actions to be far more palatable.

This is a serious election and we must keep our priorities in a logical perspective; otherwise, we will put too much emphasis in the failures of a flawed leader and dog eater, and fail to concentrate on a man who drove with a dog on the top of his car.

Epilogue: No dogs were eaten by me or Romney, while writing this article.

Our fate can change the course of our lives in a split second; often, it is beyond our control, but we must be ready to adapt and be resourceful enough to make the best of new circumstances. America is likely to see some dramatic economic changes in the next few months. We must be resolute to endure the possible collapse of the world’s economic systems. I suggest having supplies on hand to last at least a month and plans to unite with family members in case communications fail. I hope, I am wrong, but with leadership that seems intent on destroying or at least inhibiting the economy, the possibility of collapse is a real possibility that is heightened with the refusal of profligate members of the EU to impose austerity upon their entitled masses or the reluctance of those entitled masses to accept sacrifice; therefore, despite efforts by the overly leveraged Obama administration to avert the collapse of European Socialism, essentially by borrowing money to loan it to countries drowning in debt and unable to borrow the same money from legitimate sources. The world will now see how interrelated the international banking systems are and how fragile the US economy is under an incompetent Socialist leadership that like the leaders of the EU refuses to confront the problems of debt, entitlement, and profligate spending. Perhaps this story will give us hope for the future and for overcoming adversity by turning a disaster into a future with different possibilities.

This is part three of the Oregon Trail story. If you haven’t read the first two parts, Three Island Crossing and The Spaniard don’t worry about it, there’s still an adventure story here, without the other two. The violence is graphic as is life: you will not find me being politically correct, so please don’t bother to mention those indiscretions.

Cougar Cub of the Metis (pronounced MayTee)

Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, as he was named by a proud French father with a sense of humor, who spent a total of three winters with a beautiful Indian maiden before deserting her to go trapping in the wilds of what was to become British Columbia, and never bothering to return. She died of starvation four winters later and left her child to beg for survival among the village of teepees belonging to the Metis people of Lac La Biche, near Fort Edmonton. Louis ingratiated himself from family to family as the food supplies fluctuated with the hunting success among different families.

Louis earned the nickname Cougar Cub honestly enough, by raising an abandoned Cougar Cub to maturity, as a boy of about twelve. The cougar stayed with him for almost two years; until, the call of the wild beckoned it, away from Louis, to join nature in its true feral state. From the day the Cougar left and for the rest of his life, Louis was never called Louis again; he was Cougar Cub of the Metis. Cougar was a bright lad destined for leadership. At least, several of the Metis elders considered him an excellent choice. He was not given to hard liquor, a vice that ruined many of the young men. He wasn’t quarrelsome or mean to weaker people. He had a quick mind and often provided good suggestions in the tribal lodge. He also had keen eyesight an uncanny ability to carve objects from wood.

He was an orphan of the mixed blood people, a large tribe called Metis; a mixture of different Native American tribes and French or other European types, they lived not quite as natives and not quite as Whites. They were unique and made every effort to remain that way. True eclectics, they had no reservations against adopting the features they liked from either culture.

They were a hardy race. Horses, hunting, singing, drinking, and the lusty pursuits occupied their free time. They often worked as voyagers, courier du bois, and trappers, but their favorite pastime was hunting buffalo.

Every year, a hunt was organized from Fort Edmonton in the fall. It was not just for men; it was a family affair with a dichotomy of labor that recognized the importance of women within the family. It was also a chance to renew old friendships and learn the news of the Metis people. Women, children, and old people were all anxious to participate in securing meat for the winter and the one big annual gathering of the Metis people.

The vehicle of choice was the Red River Cart, a single axle horse or ox drawn cart with wooden axles; actually, there was no nails or metal; the entire vehicle was built of wood using mortise and tenon, and dove tail joinery. For people who could not afford nails and screws, the Red River Cart, named for the area that would eventually become Manitoba, the wooden cart was a creation of genius. With axles made of Maple to reduce flex, felloes were made of ash or oak because it could be bent with steam and because of its durability, and the hubs were made of elm because of its resistance to splitting; the Red River Cart came into prominence in 1800, primarily to service the fur trade, it was in use from Minnesota and into the farthest trading posts of Canada. The carts were primarily pulled by oxen; especially, in the boggy country, the maximum payload was nine hundred pounds on trail conditions and forage that a horse couldn’t survive on. An ox could cover 25 miles a day in the bog country without roads. In the drier prairies, horses were used about half the time. The could manage sixty miles a day, but the payload was reduced to five hundred pounds.

In the east and in Minnesota, the cart was primarily used for the fur trade, but once the Metis saw the advantages of the Red River Cart in buffalo hunting and migration, their lives were changed almost instantly.

The Red River Cart, named after the original designation for the country that was to become Manitoba, where it was the only vehicle that could travel through the bogs, it became a symbol of pride for the Metis; for it reflected the migratory ability of the horse Indians of the Plains, who used the travois and the pack horse to carry their possessions and yet, the technological advantages of a wheeled vehicle, without a complicated steering mechanism for a front axle, reflected their White heritage.

The Metis’ carts of the plains carried supplies for each family, and their teepee or wickiup, the buffalo hide tents of the plains. The children, old people, and women carrying children or with infants took turns walking and riding; while the young men dashed around on fiery horses trying to impress the young women. Older men, who had already had their share of horse falls and the broken bones that come with such accidents, were content to walk their horses with an occasional burst of speed for something important.

The teenage girls rode their horses in a group at a walk and tried not be too obvious in their admiration of the wild and reckless riding of the young men competing for their attention. They giggled and covered their mouths as they looked at each other when a youth would ride by and drop off one side of his horse at a gallop to let his feet hit the ground and be thrown almost effortlessly back on the horse’s back.

There were approximately 800 carts when they left the campground South of Fort Edmonton and more would join up as they traveled south to hunt the traditional hunting grounds West of Medicine Hat to the mountains. The buffalo could be anywhere in this vast country. The scouts were excellent trackers and they would be sent out to find the herds and then report back. They would find the buffalo eventually, but until then, everyone who wasn’t a scout was taking part in a celebration of life and the social life of the hunt.

The wheels and axles of the carts were without grease, because the grease became a trap for dirt and sand, causing the wheels to seize from trapped dirt; thus the continuous whine of wood upon wood was horrendous. The noise was so loud when hundreds of them were moving, that people could no longer carry on conversations. The screeching noise could be heard for miles. Whites from England, who heard the noise compared it to a thousand bagpipes getting started.

The Metis didn’t like the orderly White man’s method of travel, they preferred to spread out on line and not breathe the dust of those in front of them, at least if they weren’t following a narrow trail.

The Metis were a proud and handsome race from many different tribes, but in time and after a few generations, they lost the cultural traits of their home tribes and felt alienated as their connections became less distinct. Whites often discriminated against them, thus they felt united in their common heritage, which was a diverse mixture of heritages and blood.

There was bitterness among some who felt the sharp slap of rejection from both Whites and Native tribes, but most had a surreal appreciation for life and nature, with a cheerful disposition and a smile for everyone, they were determined to let no one else intrude on their happiness with bigotry and hatred.

Cougar was one of these young men. He loved the outdoors and the animals, but he had an uncanny ability with wood. With only the most basic tools, he made tables, chairs, and desks with a fascinating ease that seemed effortless.

At Lac La Biche, an old carpenter from Switzerland observed him working as a boy, using little more than a knife. He was amused and brought out an old leather satchel with fine old European carpenter tools.

He gave young Cougar a combination square, a ruler, two chisels, a plane, two saws, a brace and bit, and a small spirit level. He spent several hours with the boy teaching him about numbers, how to use the different tools, and how to sharpen them.

From that afternoon of instruction and those few tools, Cougar became a carpenter and eventually had a thriving business in Fort Edmonton by the time he was twenty. He was wealthy enough to buy tools and hardwoods for furniture from Ontario and have it shipped to his shop in Fort Edmonton. The wives of Edmonton’s most successful men, all wanted the furniture that Cougar made in his bustling shop.

He had missed the hunt for several years, but he planned to go this year and renew his old friendships. He had a traditional Red River Cart that he used to deliver his furniture and various projects, but he wanted to show off his skills and appreciable success, with a new finely made Red River Cart. He ordered iron axles and steel rimmed oak wheels with iron races from Ontario and began drawing plans for the most beautiful Red River Cart ever built.

He was not a man who could do anything half way. The cart would reflect his pride and craftsmanship. He had no family, so he would drive the wagon and have a hunting horse tied to the back for the actual hunt.

He ordered a new rifle, he could afford the best, so he bought the new Sharps buffalo rifle. The project was easy for him, but he still went out of his way to make his cart a work of art. The body was framed in Oak, sheathed in Maple, and trimmed in Walnut. The wood was finished with a walnut stain made by Cougar by cooking walnut hulls down to a gelatinous mass and straining away the solids, then applying the stain in thin layers until he obtained the color enhancing quality of the stain that allowed the beautiful grain patterns to show through. Hot bees wax was later rubbed into the wood to preserve the finish. Traditionally, the carts were built free of nails by using classic mortise and tenon and dovetail joinery, this aspect was Cougars stock and trade.

Cougar dreamed of driving his cart across the prairies for more than acquiring a buffalo. For this was a chance for him to say to the friends of his childhood, that he had become a success in life.

When Cougar finished his cart, he hitched up his driving horse and drove through the dirt roads of Fort Edmonton. Whites, Metis, and Indians all cheered the young man and his masterpiece whether they knew him or not, for his cart was an image of grace and beauty, that represented the open prairies and the freedom of the Metis people.

Cougar felt a mixture of pride and happiness for his cart to be so well received. Now, he needed his cooking and sleeping gear, and a teepee. He drove over to the fur trading post and told the manager he needed a smaller buffalo hide teepee and the rails. He bought cooking utensils and a set of crockery; he splurged a bit on the crockery in case he met a potential wife and invited her and her parents for dinner.

He drove out onto the campsite at daylight on the morning the hunt was to begin. The teepees were being taken down and the camping gear loaded on the carts.

He received many admiring glances when he joined the procession and a few faces showed scorn, especially from some of the young men riding spirited half broke horses.

They were the least of Cougar’s worries, he was here to see boyhood friends and find a wife.

Cougar brought his basic carpenter tools and fixed several wagons for people, free of charge.

The Metis hunters traveled far to the Southwest searching for the elusive herds. The scouts had located massive herds of a hundred thousand spread out along the Sheep River, about three hundred miles south of fort Edmonton. These people had a different concept of time, for them the objective of the hunt was to secure meat for the winter, so the distance was of little concern. After driving for several days, they camped on Fish Creek and made plans for the hunt the next morning on Sheep Creek about ten miles to the South.

The hunters planned to encircle the herd before daylight and kill as many as possible before they stampeded, they would then follow the herd until the horses were exhausted and kill as many as possible. They would try to kill enough so that every wagon had a carcass and a buffalo robe to take home for the winter.

There was a problem, Cougar couldn’t hunt and drive his cart at the same time.

He made several repairs for Jerome, who had a charming wife and a beautiful daughter. He had been admiring the sixteen-year old maiden, Hawk’s Cry from a distance; she resembled the high-cheeked native type more than her French ancestors, she had thick long black hair, there was only one feature that gave away her White heritage, her eyes were green with a golden brown ring around them.

Although her father wore the White Man’s clothing like Cougar, she and her mother dressed in traditional native dresses of tanned leather with intricate beadwork and porcupine quills decorating the area covering their breasts. They could barely communicate with Cougar, since they mainly spoke in their native tongue. Cougar spoke in a combination of French and English that was difficult for someone unused to the Metis to understand.

He invited Hawk’s Cry and her parents to dinner that night. It was a simple dinner, but they were impressed with the polite young man’s friendly nature and a well-cooked meal of bacon, beans, potatoes with butter, and cornbread.

After dinner he asked in sign if Hawk’s Cry could drive his wagon to his kill site, since he was alone. Her parents looked at her with a look that said it was her choice. He could see the disappointment in her eyes at first, because she was an excellent rider and hoped to borrow a horse, to be as close to the action as possible, not back with the screaming kids and old people, but she realized that Cougar Cub was a special catch and he might lose interest if she said no.

She agreed with a smile and the dinner party was over, Cougar asked Hawk Cry’s father, Jerome Fast Horses, if he would ride with him in the morning. Jerome’s eyes flashed and he was proud to have the young man ask him to ride with him. He was thirty-nine, and most men were no longer riding on the buffalo hunts at that age. Jerome promised to be ready at two hours before daylight.

It was customary for women to break camp and load the gear, but Cougar thought it might seem presumptuous of him to expect Hawk’s Cry to load his teepee.

Everything was loaded and his driving horse was hitched to the cart when Hawk’s Cry walked to his camp. She smiled, climbed in the driver’s seat and was one of the first carts to get on the trail. She arrived on a hill above Sheep Creek about a mile away and heard the first rifle shots just as the sun was burning away the early morning fog away.

The buffalo stood in silent confusion as thirty or forty of them dropped to their knees and then fell over sideways. One of the shots was poorly aimed and hit a hoof. The animal bellowed in pain and started to run on three legs. This strange behavior caused the rest of the herd to stampede to the West. Some of the herd crossed the creek and were shot as they scrambled up the opposite bank. Soon all the hunters were running alongside the horses and firing at close range into their backs.

Within a few minutes, the majority of the buffalo had outrun the horses, and it was all over. There were buffalo carcasses spread out for five miles along Sheep Creek and she saw where at least two riders and their horses had fallen, and were trampled to death.

She felt a moment of sadness, but this was life, you hunted and sometimes you died in the pursuit of the animals. It was a fairly simple explanation for the human toll below.

She drove Cougar’s cart down to the river to look for the men and her mother followed in her father’s old cart. She heard her mother call her name and turned to see her pointing to a small Fleur de Lis flag waving in the air about a mile up stream. Her father’s father had given it to Jerome when he was a young man. It was awarded by French soldiers to her relative for gallantry in a battle back East. He always had it with him and today it was perfect for his wife to locate his buffalo.

Hawk’s Cry saw Cougar working on a huge carcass about two hundred yards beyond her father; he had the traditional blue and white Metis flag, with the symbol for infinity. She waved to her mother and drove up to Cougar with a big grin. She was dressed in a white smoke tanned deerskin dress trimmed with martin and moose hide moccasins trimmed in beaver. These clothes were not meant for work, they were worn to catch Cougar’s attention.

The ploy worked well, when he saw her, he was speechless. He stood up to look at her, stepped backward to trip and fall over the gut pile. She smiled with flashing eyes and a mouth full of snow white teeth, he still couldn’t say anything in front of her overwhelming beauty.

She told him he had killed a good buffalo in sign language and turned to let him appreciate her feminine form. He still was unable to speak. She said in a language he didn’t understand, “I will put on my work dress, and help,” but he was oblivious. He watched her in awe as she pulled her best dress over her head to reveal one of nature’s most perfect feminine forms. She wondered why Cougar was being rude and staring at her nude body. She wasn’t shy, but it was considered rude to stare at someone’s nude form.

Cougar stared at the first nude female he had ever seen, for half a minute and then dropped down to continue skinning the carcass. Hawk’s Cry laughed at his strangeness and slipped one of her old dresses over her head and changed moccasins. She started to tie the leather thong to tighten the V neck opening over her breasts, but then decided to leave it open, since Cougar seemed to enjoy looking at her nakedness, maybe he might want to look some more.

She was quick with her hands and together they skinned the buffalo in short order. Cougar was lost in love, but he couldn’t look at her, and she was beginning to realize the power she had over this talented young man.

Cougar split the skull with an ax to remove the brain for tanning the hide and cut out the tongue for lunch. They quartered the animal and Cougar lifted the quarters into the cart. Hawk’s Cry tried to help with the lifting, but he was so strong, she was just in the way.

They drove over to her dad’s kill and Hawk’s Cry felt so proud sitting next to this handsome young man with the finely made cart and the freshly killed buffalo in the back. She decided, she wanted this young man for a husband, the sooner the better.

When they drove up to her parent’s buffalo, Cougar handed the reins to Hawk’s Cry and jumped out to help Jerome lift the quarters into the cart and then suggested they wash upstream and cook lunch. Her parents somehow understood or at least agreed to follow him to a nice campsite away from the gore and the stench resulting from butchering so many large animals.

The four of them washed at the creek, Jerome told Hawk’s Cry of what a fearless hunter Cougar was and how he shot four animals by riding right next to the buffalo with the reins on his horses neck and riding with just his legs. He said Cougar was just like the hunters of the old days.

Hawk’s Cry listened, but showed none of her parents’ enthusiasm; she seemed to be oblivious to the hunting abilities of Cougar as she pulled up her skirt to expose thighs the color moose hide moccasins and began to wash the blood from her knees and hands. Cougar was watching from such short range that he lost his balance on a slick rock a fell into the swift water. The others laughed and Cougar felt awkward and humiliated. Jerome and his wife suspected that Cougar was smitten with their daughter, and they were excited to see how this ancient dance of love was to be played out.

They decided to set up their teepees and spend the night, then leave early the next morning. They cooked a big feast that night and many people stopped by to congratulate Cougar and thank him for his hunting skills. There were several single girls who looked at Cougar with an appraising eye, but Hawk’s Cry made sure to be sitting next to him throughout the evening and smiling at all the visitors. Cougar felt funny, he wasn’t self-conscious around the other girls and they were much easier to talk with, since it was more common to speak a mixture of French and English rather than the native tongue, but the other girls respected Hawk’s Cry and her claim to the handsome young buffalo killer.

A group of young men came into their camp after dark. It was obvious they had been drinking. They took plates of food without asking, but it was a feast. The leader was loud and belligerent. After taking a few bites he said the buffalo was spoiled and unfit to eat. He broke his plate by throwing it on a stone next to the fire and then turned to smile at Hawk’s Cry as if she might be impressed with his behavior.

Jerome stood up and tried to walk the young man out of the camp, but he pushed Jerome away and pulled a knife and looked at Jerome and then Cougar.

He told them the girl was his and he was going to take her. Cougar jumped to his feet and walked toward his rifle and suddenly felt the razor edge of a skinning knife cut his cheek through to the teeth. The drunken boy drew back to slash again when he was hit above the eye with a good sized rock, thrown by Hawk’s Cry. Cougar started for his rifle again and felt the boy on top of him. He grabbed the boy’s wrist that held the knife and they were locked in mortal combat.

Cougar tripped the boy and they fell. Cougar wrapped both his hands around the boy’s knife hand, took the knife away from him and stood up. The boy stood up and lunged for Cougar’s rifle, but he had no idea how to work the mechanism and when he realized it was hopeless, he swung it like a club at Cougar’s head.

Cougar ducked and jumped forward and cut into the boy’s gut with the knife. He heard air escaping and the foul odor of a bowel being cut open, the boy had his hands around Cougar’s throat and was cutting off Cougar’s air in a last ditch effort to kill him. Cougar aimed the knife upward and thrust it hard toward the boy’s heart. The hot blood squirted all over his fore arm and wet Cougar’s body from the waist down with the hot pulsing liquid, the boy went limp and fell to the ground. He was dead.

Cougar looked at the boy and knew the Red Coats patrolling the country for American whisky sellers would hang him for killing the boy, no matter what the circumstances. The boy’s friends were mounting their horses and soon galloped away into the night.

He had to move fast. Cougar started loading his cart. Jerome talked with his family for a few minutes and started loading his cart. Cougar had his cart loaded and told Jerome in sign language that he was heading south to the United States. Jerome tapped his chest and then pointed his vertical palm south and then pointed with his index finger.

It looked like Cougar was going to have company along for the ride on his bid for freedom. Suddenly, he had an idea. Jerome and the women would take the carts south to Sweetwater Montana and Cougar would head straight for the Glaciers to the South. The Red Coats would track the wagons and if they caught up to the wagons it would be too late to catch him. They would then drive down to the Great Falls and he would meet them there in two weeks.

The communication was all in sign language, for them it was much more accurate than trying to speak in the fragments of several languages.

They left a few moments later: the wagons bound to the Southeast and Cougar in a lope to the South.

Cougar would cross the High River about ten o’clock and then cross the Oldman River before noon. With luck he should cross the border before daylight the next day.

The NWMP detachment sent one man to bring in the killer, Mike Irons or Iron Mike as he was known to the Indians and American Whiskey traders. Most outlaws gave up when they knew Iron Mike was on their trail. He inspired respect and fear in the wild country. He was fair, but if you resisted, Iron Mike shot you before the court could hang you. He was an expert tracker and used to Indians making a run for the border. He was on the trail of the two carts by nine the next morning. It would be easy to run down the two Red River Carts.

The story he heard from the Metis boys didn’t add up, but that wasn’t his problem. That’s what they have courts for, he was just a man hunter and the law west of Medicine Hat. He slowed his pace and tried to piece together the odd story. Young man by himself, old man with beautiful daughter and wife, they are hunting buffalo and camped together. They get two buffalo and a young man comes into their camp and gets butchered.

“Wait a dang minute,” Mike said aloud to himself, “They were supposed to have four horses. There’s only tracks for three.”

He dismounted and walked a circle around the tracks to be sure, “Well, I’ll be, they almost out smarted Iron Mike.”

He rode hard to the southwest looking for a lone track headed straight south.

About ten miles from the border, he picked up a single track. The horse was exhausted and unable to track straight. This had to be him. He came to the border and saw Cougar leading his horse about sixty yards into the US.

“This is Constable Mike Irons of the North West Mounted Police, turn around and come back or I will shoot you dead.”

Mike fired a warning shot and Cougar pulled his rifle from the scabbard and shot Mike’s horse through the heart in less than a second, and then dropped down below a hill and disappeared.

Mike felt fear for the first time in his career, he felt his blood turn cold and he felt himself shaking; he had just looked death in the eye, this young man was a stone cold killer and a deadeye shot.

He took his tack off the dead horse and started the long walk home, feeling lucky to be alive.

Cougar kept his horse walking until they had walked several miles to the east and came to a nice valley with good feed and a creek. He turned his horse loose and laid down to sleep between two rocks. Cougar slept the rest of the day and all through the night. He caught his horse the next morning. The horse was still exhausted and sore. He walked beside his horse, so that the only weight he carried was the saddle. Cougar carried his rifle; he didn’t want to have someone like Iron Mike getting the drop on him again.

After two days of walking beside his horse, the horse seemed to be regaining its strength, but Cougar kept walking, hoping to insure the recovery of his horse.

A few days ago, he had a beautiful cart that was admired by almost everyone in the Metis nation, a possible romance with the most alluring girl he had ever seen, a closeness with a family group he genuinely liked, a buffalo carcass in his wagon, and a good meal in his belly. Now, because a drunk walked into his camp, he could be hanged in Canada, he was on the verge of starvation, and leading a lame horse.

Life’s fortunes can change quickly; especially when you are trying to be someone you aren’t. He was a carpenter with a good business at Fort Edmonton, not a buffalo hunter.

They will be shocked to hear he is wanted for murder. He had a few carpenter tools in the wagon, not much more than the old Swiss carpenter had given him when he was a boy, but they were in his cart and hopefully his cart was in Great Falls.

He met some Indians on the trail. He had never seen Indians like these. There were three of them and they each had human scalps tied to their saddles.

Cougar used sign language to tell them he was Metis from Canada and the Red Coats wanted to hang him for killing a man.

Their faces showed no emotion, until he said a Red Coat was hunting him and wanted to hang him, he then saw a measure of respect emerge from the eyes of these warriors. They asked when he had last seen the Red Coat and he said he had shot his horse two days ago at the border.

The warriors admired his rifle and he thought they might try to kill him for his rifle, but instead they gave him a foot long piece of pemmican. Cougar asked how far to Great Falls and the warriors said it was two more days to walk and he would cross a good trail when he walked through these rocks hills.

He was surprised when they told him they wanted to hunt this Red Coat and they had to leave. The three warriors rode off silently as they followed Cougar’s back trail.

The three warriors were the most dangerous men Cougar had ever seen, but he had learned some valuable lessons: never show fear, and violent men respect men who are capable of violence.

They had treated him well and had even given him food to ward off starvation, but now he had a new problem, his moccasins were worn out after walking over this rocky trail and his feet would soon be bleeding if his horse didn’t overcome his lameness.

Iron Mike cached his tack under a cottonwood and continued on with just his rifle, when the bullet ripped through his thigh and he felt his right boot fill up with blood almost immediately. He looked down to see the pulsing of his blood moving his military issue riding trousers. He knew this would be his last fight.

The rider who shot him now was riding straight towards Mike with a lance aimed for his chest. Mike waited until the horse was only two strides away and sent a bullet through the center of the man’s chest.

The Indian dropped his lance and rode harmlessly by Mike to fall and die a few seconds later. The second rider was charging right behind the first, he fired and missed Mike. Mike drew his revolver and fired three rounds before the last round hit the man in the center of the forehead, rolling him backwards out of the saddle. Mike emptied his revolver at the third rider as the lance tore through his chest, killing him instantly.

The third rider turned his horse to look at the battle scene and the glory that no one would hear ever about at tribal fires. He could hear the air sucking through the hole in his chest as the lung filled with blood and he felt lightheaded while drowning in his own blood.

He thought to himself, “These Red Coats are great warriors,” he raised his hand to appeal to the spirit world and fell from his saddle to die a few minutes later gasping for air.

Cougar rode the last thirty miles into Great Falls and found his people camped upstream on the North side of the river. They greeted him like long lost family and made cooked a feast of buffalo hump roast and potatoes.

Hawk’s Cry traded several roasts for a new pair of over the ankle winter moccasins for Cougar and he was touched by her concern for his welfare.

After dinner that night, Cougar asked Jerome what he planned to do. Jerome said there was free land in Oregon and he thought they could all go there together in the spring. Cougar felt tears come to his eyes at the sense of belonging to a family group. The two men embraced and Cougar told him they would head to Oregon together.

That night, as Cougar was sleeping in his teepee, Hawk’s Cry slipped in between his blankets. At first he thought she was cold, but then he realized she had ideas of her own. He had no idea of what to do, but Hawk’s Cry was an excellent teacher. From that moment on, they communicated in the language of love. The next morning, she moved all her belongings into Cougar’s teepee and they became a couple for the rest of their days.

The winter seemed a magical time for Cougar’s family. He and Hawk’s Cry fell deeper in love with the passage of time. The family had great meals in the evening and Jerome’s family had a quick mind for learning the English of the frontiersmen.

The fur trader of Great Falls paid Cougar a twenty dollar gold piece to build a twenty by twenty log home.

People were amazed at Cougar’s craftsmanship and tried to entice Cougar into staying in the area to build homes, but Cougar wanted to distance himself from his crime in Canada and Oregon, with its free land, seemed like a good idea.

In the spring after the creeks and rivers settled down and were safe to cross, the little family of four, that was soon to be a family of five, set out to the southwest, hopefully to join up with emigrants on the North side of the snake, and continue on to Oregon.

They were on a well-worn trail that had been used for thousands of years by buffalo hunters, but now the trail was busy with miners headed north to the Montana Gold Rush of 1860. The miners were causing resentment among the native people, and there were already incidents of violence.

Cougar’s family avoided the hostility, because they traveled with women and showed respect to the natives they met on the trail.

The trail was an ancient migration route that had served Indians and wildlife for thousands of years as it weaved through the mountain valleys and crossed into the country that was to become Idaho. In Idaho the winds raged and left them exhausted at the end of each day.

They met some Shoshone along a fast, deep river and asked the name of the river. The leader made a wriggling motion with his hand out away from his body several times. In the international language of the Plains Indian, this meant the River of Many Fish.

Jerome and Cougar made sure they traded with the Indians they met. Cougar kept them well supplied with buffalo and elk with his Sharps rifle. Cougar also carved small figures of buffalo, fish, eagles, and horses. The Indians considered them to be sacred talismans and traded valuable goods and camas root for them.

On an early morning during breakfast, Cougar and his family saw five Indian buffalo hunters on horseback chasing a buffalo that bristled from so many arrows stuck in its hide, that he looked like a big speed porcupine; except the bull was much faster than a porcupine and much faster than the exhausted Indian ponies. None of the arrows seemed to be deep or lethal enough to cause the animal to slow down enough to allow them to finish him with their spears.

Cougar pulled his Sharps out of the scabbard and at a distance of two hundred yards, put a 50 caliber round just behind the left shoulder of the running buffalo in mid-stride. In the split second before the front feet hit the ground, the animal lost all control and power in its front legs and collapsed onto his great shaggy head. His momentum caused him to roll on over onto his back after standing on his head for an instant, he bounced on his back and into the air twice before the massive body came to a complete stop. He was dead.

The Indians yelled out some cheers and held their bows in the air and then rode over to the dead bull and attacked the still bleeding carcass like wolves. While Cougar’s family began to break camp, they noticed the Indians cutting off long portions of the gut and squeezing out the contents from one end and eating the intestine from the other end. Another Indian was eating the heart and still another was eating from a huge chunk of raw liver.

Jerome laid his hand on Cougar’s shoulder and said in a mixture of languages and sign, “They are starving. Their bodies tell them to eat the most nutritious organs first; this is what starvation looks like. You are a good provider my son; otherwise, we might be in the same condition.”

The scene had a profound effect on Cougar, and he vowed to never allow his wife or her parents to ever go hungry.

They passed near the carcass and the Indians waved them over. There were five of them and they had the bull cut up and divided into six equal piles on the hide. The Indians loaded one of the piles into the two carts along with the huge tongue as a measure of appreciation. They each rode up to Cougar and touched him with their hands and bows to try and share in his uncanny accuracy with the rifle.

Cougar reached under the seat and gave each of them a small wooden talisman and for the young chief, Bull Calf, he placed a buffalo carving, about half the size of a fist with a small hole drilled through its back and suspended from a leather thong, around his neck.

It was this small act of kindness that insured the legacy of Cougar and their safety. The Blackfeet were in a famine and Cougar broke the famine. He later gave the hunters talismans and they all had great success from that point forward. Cougar was given a status of protection until they passed into Oregon and later on the protection was extended to Colonel Fallon’s wagon train. He was considered to be a shaman and a legend among Indians of the Northwest.

The word spread by moccasin telegraph of the Metis from Canada with the repeating rifle who never needed a second shot, who was a shaman who carved animal spirits from wood that gave hunters and warriors extra spiritual guidance. Thus many Indians were willing to travel for days to get a buffalo or elk carving that would enhance their hunting skills.

Whether there was actually magic in the carvings is debatable, but the results were never in dispute, for the Blackfoot nation once again regained their hunting luck and the tribe began eating well. To the mind of a stone-age man, Cougar was the man who changed their luck, many gamblers of modern cultures blame lesser objects for good luck or bad. Perhaps Cougar gave them the confidence they needed or maybe there was magic in his carvings, the main thing was that the people were no longer starving and they gave the credit to Cougar.

Cougar had heard the miners speak of the Snake River and how treacherous it was, but if it was more treacherous than the River of Many Fish, it must be an extremely dangerous river, it was at that moment, he realized the problem. The Whites were interpreting the wavy hand-signal as the symbol for a Snake, when it was actually the symbol for many fish. This was a great relief and he quit looking for a ford. He could now follow the Snake on the North bank and join up with a wagon train on this side or he could meet a wagon train on the north side of the Three Island Crossing.

As they traveled on the plateaus of the North Snake, they were accepted without the hostility and animosity that was building because of the increased traffic of miners and emigrants. The Indians were intrigued by these mixed bloods, who were fluent in sign and traveling in these amazing carts. They came to trade salmon and flint knives for amulets carved by Cougar. The carved salmon, buffalo, horses, and eagles were the most popular.

Cougar’s group came to the Three Island Crossing and he did a brisk business repairing damaged wagons. He passed up opportunities to travel with different groups because he felt there was a need to wait for the right wagon train.

Jerome had learned to trust the instincts of Cougar, and even though he wanted to go on to Oregon, he trusted Cougar’s judgment.

When Cougar saw Colonel Fallon with his cavalry hat, he knew that this was the group he was supposed to pair up with. He stood by on the bank and watched helplessly while Captain Levin drowned, but when his body was recovered along with the wreckage of his wagon, he started building the Captain a casket from the wreck of the wagon.

Colonel Fallon was astounded at the speed and accuracy that the young man used to create the dove tail corners and mortise and tenon top and bottom.

After the little ceremony, Cougar asked the Colonel for permission to join the wagon train. He told him he comes with his own Blackfeet escort that will follow them to Oregon and make sure they will not lose stock to horse thieves and they will not be attacked.

The Colonel was suspicious, but Cougar told him he was regarded as a type of shaman and the Blackfeet had sworn to protect him as long as he was in their territory.

The Colonel called over Mr. Tomlin to translate for him since there was a combination of languages and the Colonel wasn’t sure of the message. Mr Tomlin and Cougar talked in sign and then Cougar turned to call in the Blackfoot chief with the buffalo carving, and he and Mr. Tomin engaged in several minutes of parley in sign.

“Colonel, we best take this young Metis, Cougar is his name, with us. He is the best insurance policy we can have. Anyone who tries to hurt him will die by the hand of these hostiles. They rarely like each other, but Cougar kept their tribe from starving and they figure he is pretty special. We better take him and be glad he wants to travel with us.”

The Colonel was surprised at Mr. Tomlin’s candor and trust. He turned to look Cougar in the eye and said to Mr. Tomlin, “Tell him we try to make fifteen to twenty miles a day and he and his father-in-law will be expected to keep up and pitch in with camp chores.”

Mr. Tomlin used sign to translate the message and Cougar broke into a big grin and replied in sign.

Mr. Tomlin looked at the Colonel and said, “He says the two carts can easily make fifty miles a day and he is an excellent hunter and marksman, if we need meat.”

“He’ll make friends fast if he can bring a buffalo into camp,” the Colonel told Mr. Tomlin.

Cougar laughed grabbed his rifle and said something to his wife in the native language and jumped on his horse to ride off with the Blackfeet.

Later on that afternoon, Cougar returned and the two carts headed North and returned close to dark with half a buffalo in each cart. Some of the wagon train members came to him with tears in their eyes to thank him for the fresh meat; many of them had been living on fry bread and a few bits of smoked salmon they had traded the last of their silver coins for.

Cougar had made friends once again.

Epilogue: This is a novel with a degree of historical accuracy. The characters are fictional; their struggles are real and based heavily on the author’s experiences in the wild country.

The Seville family survived the Moors during the invasion of Spain in the early 8th Century; actually, their sword making techniques, during the occupation, made the Seville family wealthy. The Moors had a deep respect for the technology involved in manufacturing a fine honed blade, thus they allowed the Seville family to prosper; eventually, Moors married into the family and the family became one of the wealthiest families in Spain.

Over a thousand years later, the family members were titled and wealthy aristocrats; they were a handsome family, noted for dark skin tones as well as blue and green eyes. They were considered to be capable and intelligent; unfortunately, because of the early practice of marrying cousins to keep the family estate intact and perhaps, because of incestuous relationships over time, there was a strain of madness that permeated the Seville bloodline. However, Toledo made the best steel swords in the world and the Seville family was considered to be the best sword and knife makers in Toledo.

A good sword had strength, flex, and the ability to hold a razor’s edge. The Seville swords and sabers were easily recognized by men of arms, whether they were duelists or the arms buyers for the armies of Europe. Inferior swords often broke in combat and if they couldn’t hold an edge they were useless and cost lives. The secret was in the purity of the iron, the carbon and the tempering process. In an era of coal fired forges, there were no thermometers; however, temperatures were critical, if the temperatures were too high when the steel was quenched, the iron would be too brittle and the steel would break like glass. If the steel was too cold, the blade wouldn’t hold an edge and the sword would bend. The control of the temperature, the application of carbon, and the quench or cooling phase were all important factors needed to make a good sword.

Young Ignacio was the son of a younger brother of the Don who headed up the family. He would never inherit the wealth of the family. His most obvious options were the military or the church. Young men like Ignacio were supposed to be men of leisure, horse riding, fencing, and seducing astronomical numbers of maidens were considered worthy pursuits for wealthy dilettantes, but Ignacio was different. He learned the steel business from the smelting of iron to the sharpening and polishing of the finished blade.

His family was incensed when young Ignacio came from working in the mills and forges with coal dust and dirt covering his body and clothes. His male cousins laughed at him and the females rolled their eyes with smirking grins. Despite his family’s disapproval, Ignacio was being recognized as an important member of the sword making enterprise.

If someone was sick or if someone died, Ignacio stepped forward and trained a new worker. He still rode horses and took fencing lessons; except, he had a strength of both body and mind that his brothers and cousins secretly envied.

There was one cousin that envied Ignacio’s skills and hated him for his work ethic and his knowledge; Carlos was in line to inherit the sword making factory. His life was spent in gluttony, wine drinking and being a bully to anyone beneath his social station, which was almost everyone. He was waiting for his invalided father to die so that he could inherit all the money to continue his life of unfettered debauchery, until the family estate went bankrupt or he died of excess.

Such young men resent those who make them look useless. Thus, Carlo’s hatred for Ignacio seethed; he waited patiently for the chance to rid himself of this cousin who served only to remind him of his wasted and irresponsible life.

Saturday evening belonged to Ignacio and he would go to a small cafe on the plaza to get a glimpse of the love of his life. Louisa would be there with her older brothers. Her impossibly blue eyes that flashed and sparkled like the forges at work and her long flowing black hair that curled in waves down to her lower back were her most striking features. At 5 foot 8, she towered over most of the men in the village. Yet she was the romantic daydream of every male with a libido in the village.

Ignacio was allowed to join Louisa and her two brothers to stroll on the promenade where flirting and flashing eyes were a formal tradition in selection of possible matrimonial partners. Young girls paraded their charms and chastity while chaperoned by older male relatives who glared at men who showed an interest. To walk with a young girl, a suitor must ask the chaperone for permission to speak to the maiden. He then had to ask to walk alongside of her. This was his chance to engage in conversation and make a favorable impression. Many potential suitors asked, but few were accepted; it was fashionable to be in demand, but not to seem too approachable.

If a man was deemed suitable, he was asked to Sunday dinner. After several dinners, he was expected to propose or he might be challenged to a duel by a brother or cousin of the maiden. Honor and respect were expected and disputes were often settled with blood and death. Courtship was a serious matter to the caballeros of this class and to those who ascribed to the old traditions.

Young single women of lower socio-economic classes and some who weren’t so young or single used the promenade as a chance to set up liaisons of passion. A glance, an eye movement, or a toss of the head were all part of a ritual that helped unite lovers later on that evening. The danger from male relatives and husbands was intimidating in a village where every man owned a sword and was trained in its use. But in the village of Paloma near Toledo, it was accepted that its people were a lusty bunch, even by Latin standards.

Ignacio could have met with hundreds of peasant girls or frustrated married women for a few minutes of lust, but he had already been invited to Louisa’s family dinner and he was under close scrutiny as a possible mate for Louisa, it was imperative not to be caught up in some scandal. It was easy to be caught, for although it was considered the actions of a degenerate for a man to speak of his sexual conquests, it was a great topic of conversation for women to speak of their sexual conquests, listing all the important details of each encounter to any female who would listen. Thus men sometimes died after a glowing review was told and retold, until an enraged male relative demanded satisfaction and one of the two men was either seriously wounded or killed. It was a part of their culture, flawed as it may have been, it kept a measure of honor and cohesion within the group.

On this fateful night, after walking with Louisa and her brothers for a respectable twenty minutes, one of the brothers said it was time to say goodnight. Ignacio stood about 18 inches away, a distance that made her relatives nervous and said good night to Louisa and telling her he hoped to see her soon. He bowed his head and his torso slightly. When he stood up, one of the brothers told him they would be serving dinner tomorrow at 3 o’clock and that he should come at 2 o’clock.

Ignacio thanked the relative and said he would be at their hacienda at 2 o’clock.

The trio walked toward their home and Ignacio was ecstatic. This was his second invitation; if he were invited two more times, he was expected to propose. He decided to have a glass of wine to calm his nerves while he was oblivious to the admiring glances of many females.

After drinking the wine without tasting it, he mounted his horse and decided to ride by Louisa’s family estate on the way home. He had to feel close to her, just one more time this evening. He was in a dream world and the beautiful Spanish maiden never left his thoughts.

A short distance out of town, Ignacio saw two men in the road and one of them was in agony. He jumped off his horse and held onto the reins as he knelt to offer assistance. It was Louisa’s brothers, they had been stabbed multiple times and were bleeding profusely. The one who asked him to dinner said they were dying and not to worry over them, but Louisa had been kidnapped by Carlos Seville and several brigands. He pointed to the wagon tracks of a carriage and told him to save Louisa.

Ignacio said, “May God hold you in his arms tonight.” The dying man said, “Vaya con Diaz” (“Go with God) and laid back to die. Ignacio jumped on his horse and followed the tracks to a room in the back of a cantina. The carriage was parked beneath a tree and several evil looking men were lounging around the carriage. Without forethought he walked up to the men as they slowly stood and put their hands on swords and knives. He drew his sword and slashed the first man through the right collar bone and down through the chest cavity. The sword finished its diagonal arc through the left abdomen of the man and Ignacio brought his sword up at lightening speed and thrust it through the breast bone and the heart of the next man, killing him instantly. He lost valuable seconds while trying to dislodge his sword from the bone. One of the cowards ran into the night, but the other one drew his sword and thrust at Ignacio just as his sword broke free. The thrust of the sword was stopped by the ribs of Ignacio, the man lacked the strength to break the ribs and force his sword into the chest cavity to deliver a killing thrust. The blade glanced off the ribs leaving only a jagged cut and chipped ribs. Ignacio raised his sword and brought the razor sharp edge across with speed and power. The blade entered the side of the man’s neck and exited the other side without slowing down. He dropped his sword and grabbed his neck with both hands in a futile effort to stop the bleeding. Ignacio left him to bleed out on his knees and ran into the small room. His cousin was on the naked Louisa, she was bitten and bruised as if the hunting hounds had nearly torn her to pieces, her face was unrecognizable, her eyes were bruised and swollen shut, her nose was broken, and her lips protruded many times beyond their normal shape.

He hesitated to stare in horror at the scene of debauchery in front of him. Carlos reached for his sword and the two engaged in mortal combat next to the violated girl. As often happened, when two expert swordsmen meet in combat, they thrust at the same instant and each sword met flesh. Carlos’ sword cleaved the left cheekbone and below the eye of Ignacio, blinding him with pain and blood. The blade of Ignacio pierced the belly of Carlos and would have been a killing wound except for the roll of belly fat around his middle and the intense pain of Ignacio’s wound causing him not to complete his thrust. If Carlos would have been a stronger man, he could have finished off Ignacio, but the sight of his own blood scared him and he ran to his carriage, barely noticing the bodies of his brigands, as he left to acquire medical assistance at home.

Ignacio overcame his pain and covered his love with her torn clothes. With difficulty from the pain of his two wounds he mounted his horse while holding his beloved’s broken and bleeding body. He rode to the home of his older sister Emilia, Emilia and was a serious woman who understood the gravity of the situation. She tended to Louisa and had one of her maids tend to the wounds of Ignacio. She told a stable groom to prepare a coach with their best team.

When the two young people were bandaged, she gave them a hamper of food, two bottles of wine and a bottle of brandy, she told them to drink the brandy for pain and to drink the wine at night to sleep. She pressed a leather sack of gold and silver coins into the hands of Ignacio and told him, “Head for the port of Malaga, Andalucia, we are shipping swords and knives to Lavaca, Matagorda, and the ship leaves in ten days, the ship is the Corazon de Mexico, give the captain this letter and you will be safe, now go!”

The groom drove them to the coast and left them with the ship and the Captain who treated the couple as royalty. Louisa was withdrawn and rarely ventured from their cabin during the five week trip across the Atlantic. Ignacio realized she would need time to recover and he was determined to give her all the time she required.

The village of Lavaca was a cultural shock for the young couple. The roughshod Texican seemed to be little more than uncouth barbarians; yet, they were respectful with a strong sense of justice and fearlessness.

At first Ignacio disliked these frontier ruffians, but he soon realized the very element of independence and self-reliance that made him learn the weapon manufacturing business is what drives these Texans. He learned to admire their rugged individualism and sense of right and wrong.

With the Mexicans, there was a distinct set of social classes that reminded him of Spain. They were among the upper levels of society, since they were born of Spanish aristocracy. The Mexican born of Spanish blood was next, followed by the Mexican born of Indian and Spanish blood. The Indian was of the lowest class. The aristocrats considered beneath their station to associate with lesser people. Yet, people from lower social classes were always trying to marry their children to a higher social group to attain entry to a higher level and hopefully any wealth that might part of the deal.

Ignacio had already seen the caste system at its worst. He preferred the Texans, they showed only a minimal respect to aristocrats; although, it was no wonder, among the Texans, there was a mixing of the social classes, for the wealthy aristocratic Texans were just as uncultured as the lowest classes.

It was a short time after their arrival, they met acquaintances from Spain. Fearing the possibility of Carlos sending assassins or coming to Monterey himself to kill them both in an effort to avoid repercussions in the future, they were anxious to keep moving.

Louisa hated this new country and wanted to socialize with no one, even the one man who loved her. She wore a veil to hide her crooked nose and her shame, for she now knew she was pregnant with the seed of Carlos. She had told Ignacio to tell people they were brother and sister, since she was with child and she felt as if she could never marry, because of her disgrace and her crooked nose.

When she felt the swelling begin in her belly, she told Ignacio. She expected him to throw her into the street, but he told her that he would love this child and raise it as his own. At that moment, she fell in love with the brave young man that had saved her life and told herself that she could never look at another. She told him she wanted to start a new life in Oregon, to be away from the old world and the horrible memories. Ignacio longed for adventure and told her that Oregon would be a good place for them to build a life. He kissed her cheek, she felt herself swoon and she almost fainted.

At some point in the future, she knew they would marry and could live as man and wife; she knew that day would come in their future, when she felt safe and free of the Old World.

Ignacio thought the wagons of Texas were weak and poorly made, there was no comparison in the craftsmanship of Toledo and Mexico, but he bought one of the inferior wagons, for he was sure that his future wife would be unable to ride all the way to Texas in her present condition.

He purchased the best wagon he could find and enough supplies to carry them to Texas. He hired two young vaqueros to guard them and help with the chores. The vaqueros were just boys with quick smiles, but they were quick, brave, strong, and fearless. Alejandro and Pepe were of true Mexican stock. They were illiterate, but possessed the skills of master horsemen and stockmen. They also had that Spanish trait of undying loyalty to a patron. He was sure they would fight to the death to defend Louisa, for that feature was embedded deep within the soul of the Hispanic and his culture of machismo.

Ignacio knew of the Comanche and the even more ruthless Comanchero, the mixed blood offspring who traded with the Comanche for slaves and gold, and supplied them with guns; they had a reputation for hating everyone and everything. He swore if they were under attack, Louisa would never be taken alive. He made sure that his vaqueros understood his wishes in that regard. They each nodded with solemnity, indicating that they understood their responsibilities; at that instant they had both respect and love for their Spanish patron, for he gave them this great measure of trust and responsibility that is so important to the young men of the Mexican culture.

During the trip through Texas, Ignacio was glad he had his vaqueros with him. They rode past many men who looked to be bandits, but the bandits seemed to dislike the possibility of armed resistance from three well armed men. In the desert of North Texas, they were camped for the night when the voice of a gringo caught their attention, “Hello the camp, Ranger Mckee, coming in.”

Ignacio drew his pistol as did his vaqueros.

Ranger Mckee walked into the light of the fire leading his horse. He looked strange and frightening, he stood over six feet tall and had multiple weapons on his belt and in scabbards on his horse. As he walked into camp he smiled and said, “buenos noches”, with the horrible gringo accent. Everyone was silent as they stared at this stranger who seemed to travel alone. He asked if he could have a bowl of beans, Ignacio nodded his head and the ranger opened a saddle bag to withdraw a wooden bowl and spoon. He ate several bites and asked if they knew Querna Vaca was tracking them.

“Who is Querna Vaca?” asked Ignacio.

“If you live long enough, you will meet him and his men just before daylight.”

Ignacio asked the ranger to explain.

He is one of the worst Comanches that has ever lived and he has eight or ten of the most bloodthirsty Comanches and Comancheros in Texas as his companeros. Tommorrow they plan to kill you and your men, and steal your woman and anything you have of value.

At first, Ignacio thought Ranger Makee might be an assassin, but this sounded much worse. He asked the ranger how he knew all this information.

Mckee smiled and said, “I’ve been tracking him for three months; you’ens are the first victims I’ve found, before he killed them.”

“What do you intend on doing,” Ignacio asked.

“I’m going to wait until he comes in the morning and kill him and his men or die trying.”

“Can we help you, Señor?”

“The help would be appreciated, but they will be coming fast and ready to kill. If you hesitate you will die. If they captures you alive, they will torture you for hours, just so you know what to expect.”

“We will fight, Señor. We will fight to the death.”

“I was hoping you wanted to fight. Put out the fire and roll the wagon over here. We’ll turn it over in this coulee and build a redoubt. I want the four of you in the fort, I’m going back in that brush and shoot them in the back as they run past me. I may come up out of that hole with guns blazing if it looks like you are going to be overrun, so don’t shoot me.”

Ignacio made sure his vaqueros understood the battle plan and they began preparing for the battle.

The first Comanche crawled to within thirty yards of Ignacio’s little group and stood up to charge at a full speed run with a blood curdling scream. Ignacio and his vaqueros all three fired into the torso and the Comanche was sliding forward with his momentum and stopped within a few feet of the coulee. One of the vaqueros was shot through the hip, but he turned to fire at another charging Comanche. Ignacio could see the ranger firing into the backs of the attackers and then walking forward with both revolvers firing. It was almost over when a bullet smashed into his kneecap, Ignacio fell forward onto the lifeless body of Pepe. Ignacio raised his revolver to fire just as Querna Vaca brought his war ax down on the left temple of Ignacio, exposing a portion of his brain. Louisa drew Ignacio’s sword and plunged it upward into the belly of Querna Vaca until it pierced his heart. Querna dropped his weapons and touched his fingertips to his chest and mouthed a silent scream; until, he fell forward and pushed the sword all the way through his back. The battle was over, the three men who were protecting her were all dead and she was going into labor.

Ranger McKee carried her from the carnage and into the shade of a small tree. After she tried to deliver the baby for the rest of the day and into the night, Ranger Mckee told her he knew how to help cows deliver and if she didn’t deliver the baby soon, she would be too weak to deliver the baby and they would both die.

Louisa told him to do what he needed to do, while she still had the strength to help.

McKee felt in the birth canal and found the head in a normal position, but one foot was beside the head and there wasn’t enough room for the baby to be born. Using his knowledge of cows, he placed her lower back on his thigh and pushed the baby back with all his might, when he felt the baby slip backward, he pushed on the little foot until it slipped backward and upward in the birth canal. The baby slid forward at a tremendous rate of speed and was born. Louisa passed out when the baby was slid into Mckee’s hands. He cleaned up the baby boy with his bandana and held the baby to Louisa’s breast to suckle. While holding the baby, he laughed at its’ aggressive appetite. He looked sadly at he bite scars on her thighs and breasts and assumed she was ravaged by Comanches, it probably happened at the same time her nose was broken. It wasn’t a terrible break, the lower half was angled to the left a quarter inch or so, but it was the only blemish on an angelic face, a face that was beyond comparison on the frontier of Texas.

She would need help, Makee’s rangering contract was up and since Querna Vaca and his merry band was dead, he no longer had other responsibilities. He would take care of her and the baby, until they were with her people. He held the baby when it was done feeding and drifted into a light sleep, while Louisa slept a deep sleep.

Mckee introduced her to her baby before daylight the next morning and explained that the baby had already fed during the night and he had an excellent appetite. She smiled at the baby as if he was the most beautiful treasure in the world, while Mckee wandered into the brush to round up as many horses as he could find to get them moving. By noon Mckee had his horse, the team for the wagon and the vaqueros’ horses, as well as several of the comanche horses. He didn’t know how she was set for finances, but the horses had value and some of them could fetch a twenty dollar gold piece.

He retrieved all the weapons from the battle and the fine Spanish sword Louisa had used so well to stop that homicidal bastard Querna Vaca. He found the leather pouch carrying the gold and silver Spanish coins on Ignacio and put them into the wagon. She was pretty well set up, he could accompany her wherever she wanted to go and she would have enough money to support herself for a long time or until she could find a husband.

Louisa looked upon Mckee as almost a god, he came to them out of the blue, to warn them of an indian attack, an attack she and her baby would not have survived. He then delivered her baby, when it was caught in a position that would have killed her and the baby. He was truly a special man, yet he was so humble and polite. He had seen her scarred body and crooked nose, but didn’t ask the questions she didn’t want to answer. She could feel herself falling in love with this gentle giant, this gringo, who smiled so openly, when he looked her in the eye, he never stared at her crooked nose. With him she felt safe and accepted: she never wore a veil again for the rest of her life. If this giant gringo could accept her without questions, the rest of the world could accept her as well.

He laid Ignacio, Pepe, and Alejandro in shallow graves and by mid-afternoon, they were ready to travel a few miles before dark. He felt it was important for the mental health of Louisa to get away from the scene of the battle.

When they were ready to start, he asked Louisa where she would like him to take her. He could have fallen over when she said Oregon.

He once rode all the way to Santa Fe to shoot a cold blooded killer, but that was the farthest he had ever been outside of Texas. There was no hope of her reaching Oregon, unless he helped her, but there were no guarantees she would make it, even with his help.

Heading North Out Of Texas

Makee was born on a ranch in West Texas twenty seven years earlier, He had been in twelve skirmishes with Comanches, had fought countless Comancheros, and had hanged many renegades and horse thieves, but he had never been north of Texas. It was late fall, but he knew if he stayed East of the Rockies they could probably travel all winter; at least, if the snow didn’t get too deep.

The woman and the baby seemed to grow stronger each day. Louisa and Ranger Mckee took turns riding and driving the wagon. Mckee was actually beginning to like the baby. He was a strong little fellow that would grab his finger and hang on then smile and giggle. McKee was ten years old and an only child, when the Comanches killed his parents. After the death of his parents, he had lived off the land and by using his wits, until he was big enough to lie about his age of thirteen and become a ranger. He had never been around children and this was a new experience for him, an experience he was really starting to enjoy.

Growing up as a ranger meant long hours in the saddle and moments of extreme danger. They never chased and hanged good men. He had mainly been exposed to the worst examples of human kind. The only women he had known were the women of the saloons. they loved his boyish smiles and shy mannerisms, but he always had an empty feeling in his soul the next morning. After awhile, he stopped joining his ranger buddies for a chance to relax with whiskey and women at a saloon after a successful patrol. He would rather enjoy a full night’s sleep. He never really developed a taste for whiskey; he had just liked the camaraderie of his friends and the attention of the whores.

He became a recluse, there was no chance of securing a wife, there was no woman who wanted to live as a wife alone and never knowing whether her husband was dead and scalped on the Staked Plains or in old Mexico.

In his imagination, he made himself think of Louisa as his wife and of the boy Dominic as his own son. For the first time in his life, Ranger Makee was feeling content and happy. Louisa enjoyed riding and often showed off her equestrian skills. It was obvious she had learned real riding skills from a master in Spain.

They spoke in a mix of Spanish and English and although Mckee had no concept of verb tenses, for few Spanish speakers in the New World mastered the correct usage of Spanish, he was learning the grammatically correct aristocratic Spanish from Louisa; unfortunately, she was picking up the same imperfections in English that Mckee had, as well as his direct, slow speech patterns, but she was learning McKee’s imprecise English at a tremendous rate.

Sometimes Mckee wondered whether she expected him to ride back to Texas after they arrived in Oregon or whether she might want him to stay in Oregon. Maybe he could be a substitute father of Dominic and a friend of Louisa, for he never thought this fine Spanish lady would look upon him as a possible husband. She is a cultured beautiful Spanish Lady: he is an Indian fighter, tracker of horse thieves, and a Texas Ranger, he had been a ranger since he was thirteen, he had spent most of his life in the saddle, he had been wounded by twelve bullets and arrows, she probably thought of him as just a little better than a half civilized Comanche.

For the first time in his life, he was not alone. He had ridden with many rangers and seen too many of them die, but even when he rode with these rough men, he was alone. He now had a spiritual partner and he felt fulfilled. For the first time, since his parents were killed, he had deep loving feelings for a human being; he thought maybe he was falling in love with Dominic and Louisa.

It was mid-afternoon when two human figures came running down from the foothills to the East. They were running very hard and about a mile away from the wagon.

Ranger Mckee, said to himself, “What’s going on here?”

He drew his rifle from his scabbard and started to trot toward the two figures. Suddenly, a group of eight riders rode down from the hill. The ranger spurred his horse into a gallop and said to himself, “I don’t like the way this looks.”

He fired twice at the lead rider and missed both times, the rider was within twenty yards of one of the runners and was ready to throw his lance. McKee aimed as well as could on his galloping horse from sixty yards and fired just as the lance left his hand. The bullet from the Sharps struck the Apache in the center of the chest and he flew backwards out of the saddle, but McKee watched in horror as the lance arced through the air and struck the running Indian woman in the lower back, the blade and part of the shaft were sticking out of her lower abdomen.

McKee could see that she was carrying a newborn baby and he flew into a killing rage. He draped the Sharps over the saddle horn by a leather thong he kept tied to the rifle. He then drew the Navy Colts and killed the other Apaches with a bloodlust he had never felt before. In less than a minute, the Apaches were all knocked from their saddles. He finished off two of them with a double barrel shotgun he kept in a saddle scabbard and finished off the last one with his Bowie knife. As Louisa drove up in the wagon he reloaded his pistols and put a bullet in the head of each Apache. He learned a long time ago not to trust Apaches to die, just because they had a mortal wound. He then joined the Indian who was trying to comfort his dying wife.

Louisa ran up and asked the ranger in Spanish if there was anything they could do. Mckee tightened his lips and shook his head no. She was on her knees and was holding her newborn to her breast. Eventually, she sat down on her calves and tried to be as comfortable as possible while waiting to die.

Mckee and the man were communicating with sign language. Louisa asked what the man was saying. He says his wife can’t die in peace, knowing that her baby daughter will starve to death.

Louisa looked shocked and said, “Ranger Mckee, you tell her that I will feed her baby like it is my own and raise her up to be a young woman.”

Mckee gave the appropriate hand signals and the young Indian woman’s facial expression took on a look of peacefulness. She held out the baby to Louisa and slumped down to die.

They laid her in the wagon and drove to a little hill and buried her at sunset. Louisa fixed dinner, while the men dug the grave. They buried her in silence. After dinner the Indian man sang a funeral song in his own language. It was a haunting song that made the hair stand up on Mckee’s arms. When he was finished, Louisa sang a Spanish song of love, life, and death. During the song, the Indian man started crying and Ranger Mckee felt all the emotion of twenty-six years boil to the surface and he began to cry, not so much from death and sorrow, but from the happiness of having a good woman with him and the expression of kindness she showed by taking on the little Indian baby. His family was getting bigger.

Louisa now began to realize why the Texas Rangers are regarded so highly. Ranger Mckee didn’t hesitate when he saw an injustice. He was not only the peace officer, but he was the judge, jury, and executioner as well. He was a magnificent man, but he was as humble and unassuming as he was brave. She decided that this was the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

The next morning at daylight, Mckee was awakened to the sound of an animal in camp. He jumped out of his bedroll to see the Indian cut the throat of an exhausted bull elk. Mckee helped the man butcher the animal, but he was astounded by what he had just seen.

When the men were cooking elk steaks, beans with onions, and coffee, Mckee began to ask the man how he had caught the elk and brought it into camp.

The Indian explained that he was from the Tarahumara tribe from the high mountains of Northwestern Mexico. They were legendary runners who hunt game by running it down. They live in the high mountains and usually don’t venture away from home, because they are shy of the rest of the world.

They had to leave their home because his wife was in a contract of marriage to a chief’s son, it was arranged when she was a small girl, but she had fallen in love with him, Chi Chi and they decided to elope, so they ran away.

They didn’t expect the chief to hire Apaches to hunt them down. The Apaches had been on their trail for over a year and if they wouldn’t have run into Ranger Mckee, he too would have died with his wife and since Ranger Mckee had saved his life he was bound to serve him for the rest of his life.

In all his days of rangering, Mckee had never heard such a story. He had heard of the Tarahumara, but considered them to be legends. They were said to be able to run distances of a hundred and even two hundred miles. No wonder those Apaches looked so gaunt, they had spent a year trying to run down these two young runners, “foot throwers” they call themselves, it was no telling how many horses the Apaches had stolen trying to keep up with the runners. The Apaches were among some of the best trackers, they were considered legendary like McKee, but to run down people who can run over a hundred miles a day would kill horses, you would kill a horse every few days.

Mckee wondered if he could have run down these two. The Apaches were relentless and would have considered it to be a matter of honor; although, from their appearances, they looked more dead than alive, they couldn’t have pursued the young couple much farther before the pursuers would have died on the trail. The story was even more phenomenal when you consider his wife ran during her pregnancy and gave birth a few days ago; yet, they were still running and they looked to be in great shape.

He told the tale to Louisa and she began to cry. Mckee put his hand on her shoulder and said that at least the two lovers were together for a year and that the fruit of their love would now live under their protection. Louisa spun into Mckee and wrapped her arms tightly around his middle and squeezed with an unimagined strength. She was five foot eight, Mckee was six foot two and an extremely strong man, but her strength was almost frightening. She cried even harder and Mckee patted her back with his hand and told her that things would work out.

Later, Mckee was overwhelmed with the strength of Louisa’s bear hug around his belly. She was visibly upset, but was she upset with him, did he do something wrong? It was all very confusing for Mckee, for he was the fearless Indian fighter and tracker of horse thieves, because the fearless hunter and executioner of bad men had no experience in affairs of the heart.

Ranger Mckee had never considered having a servant and disliked the term itself, but Chi Chi was proving himself to be very useful. Every afternoon, he would run ahead to find a good campsite with good water and feed for the horses. He’d have a fire started and fresh meat or fish cooking, when the wagon arrived.

One morning, Chi Chi saw a lone buffalo about a mile in the distance. He told Mckee to be ready because he was going to run way around the buffalo and then spook it towards Mckee and his horse. Mckee started to signal him that buffalo may turn to fight, but Chi Chi was already running away to flank the buffalo.

Chi Chi was an excellent hunter, so Mckee assumed he knew what he was doing.

In the distance, Mckee saw Chi Chi run toward the buffalo to spook him. The buffalo took three strides in retreat and then spun to fight. Chi Chi kept running straight at him and slapped the buffalo on the forehead and ran toward Mckee.

“Well, he don’t lack for nerve,” Mckee said out loud when the buffalo followed Chi Chi with a frightening burst of speed.

The distance was eaten up by the speed of Chi Chi and the rampaging bull in a few minutes. Chi Chi swung North away from the wagon, to take Louisa and the children out of danger and Mckee charged the buffalo at full speed. He saw his first two rounds sink deep into the chest cavity, he was then galloping alongside the buffalo, the animal did not slow or show signs of distress, McKee put the muzzle up against the animal’s back and fired. The bullet destroyed the heart of the beast and he collapsed in a rolling heap.

Chi Chi let out a war cry and came back to dance around the buffalo in celebration. Mckee let out a Comanche war whoop as Louisa drove up in the wagon. They were celebrating because of the kill and partially because they knew, there would be no starvation for the rest of the winter. For they could carry all the meat on the wagon and the meat would be preserved in the cold. That day they celebrated with a day of rest and a meal of tongue with wild prairie onions.

Later that afternoon, Chi Chi began mixing and cooking a pot of cactus and other plants he had been collecting along the trail. He rendered some of the buffalo fat and mixed it in with the residue of the plants. Once it was stirred well, Chi Chi placed it in the snow to cool.

Two hours later it had congealed into a gel, he presented the mixture to Louisa in a wooden bowl. She looked at him with a question on her face. He made the motions of rubbing the mixture on his chest. At first she thought it was meant as a breast salve, but then he pointed to a scar on his forearm and put a small amount on the scar.

He had surely seen the scars from the bites on her breasts, they were still vivid red marks on her ivory skin. She thanked him and thought she would first experiment and apply the mixture to the scars on her abdomen. Her breasts were the only things keeping the helpless babies alive and she didn’t want to take a chance of ruining their feed supply.

She applied the medicine that evening and in the morning she looked at the scars in disbelief, they were nearly gone. The angry looking redness had disappeared and the scars were much harder to see. She was overjoyed and quickly applied the medicine to all the scars she could see and reach. Within days of applying Chi Chi’s salve the scars had all but disappeared, there were only faint traces of the marks.

She thought of the ranger and how good it felt to hug him and hold him to her body. He had been so embarrassed and at a loss to know to hug her back. She laughed at his naive nature that she admired so much. He was a darling man and she needed him to hold her.

She devised a plan. When Chi Chi went out on one of his two hour runs, she called Mckee into the wagon under the pretense of rubbing the salve on her back. He was rubbing the salve into the scars of her back, when she pushed the sheet covering her backside to expose a few scars he had never seen. Mckee began rubbing the salve into these new scars very dutifully and professionally, as Louisa made a low guttural cat noise in her throat and turned around to embrace Mckee to her naked body. Mckee started to panic, when he felt the abnormally strong Louisa grab him in a fit of passion, but he forced himself to relax and returned the raw passion of a woman overwhelmed with a combination of love and lust, and responded with a gentle loving touch, a response that inflamed Louisa’s aggressive raw passion even more.

In less than two hours, they had consummated the passions that had been pent up for years within both these young souls and had pledged their love and commitment to each other for the rest of their lives. Thus a true American love story was born from tragedy and pain.

Their love was to span six decades.

Later on that summer, Ranger McKee and his family met Colonel Fallon’s wagon train in the area that was to become Montana. They were shocked to see the suffering these Americans had endured; for while the American wagons were falling apart and many of the people seemed on the verge of starvation, their wagon was still sound and they had eaten quite well on the trail, thanks to Chi Chi with his unique skills at hunting and gathering wild food.

The Americans found it astounding that the Mckee wagon had been on the trail all winter.

Colonel Fallon was glad to have the experienced lawman and Indian fighter with him, but he had never met a man so instilled with the thoughts of right and wrong and the sense of being the law, the judge, and the executioner. Colonel Fallon took time to explain to Ranger Mckee that the laws of Texas don’t necessarily apply to someone who had never been to Texas. Mckee was in a state of shock at the concept of jurisdictions, in Mckee’s mind, Texas was the only law west of the Red River and the idea that they were in an area with no real law, other than the Colonel’s jurisdiction over the wagon train was very confusing for a Ranger.

The Colonel appointed Ranger Mckee as his second in command and began instructing Mckee in the Constitution and of how America had won its Independence. Thus from these early history lessons and of teaching McKee to read, there emerged a brilliant mind from this rustic frontiersman, for he read every book the people in the wagon train had to offer. Captain Levin introduced him to Plato and they had great philosophical discussions that often left the old sea captain perplexed and amazed at the young man’s ability to grasp complex concepts so soon after learning to read. This was the nucleus of the transformation of a rugged Texas Ranger into a judge for the future state of Oregon.

The Colonel married the couple a few days after they joined the wagon train, Louisa was beginning to swell and she wanted to talk to the other ladies, using her newly acquired English with a back country Texas accent, she wanted to talk about of her new baby and her Ranger. She was quickly accepted among the women of the wagon train, who admired her for taking in the orphaned baby and her knowledge of ladylike culture.

Chi Chi began working closely with the Colonel and the guide Mr Tomlin, to find forage and water.

The new wagon brought hope and strength to the wagon train, because of their positive attitude and their ability to thrive in the wilderness. Americans were fulfilling these dreams of Manifest Destiny. They were bringing these ideas of nationhood and freedom to the Pacific Northwest with a resourcefulness and richness of ability. There was a richness of intellect and ingenuity that would help them tame this new country and make it safe and civilized in the near future.

Epilogue: This is a chapter from a novel about the Oregon Trail. It is meant to portray how Americans from diverse cultures have used their abilities to overcome almost insurmountable obstacles. These people relied on themselves and each other to accomplish great things. There was no need for the government to come in and regulate every phase of their lives, dependency on the government and the hunger for power and control by politicians would come much later. As humans weakened and developed fear of the unknown and the future, some people felt the need for benevolent despots to guide and protect them. These concepts were almost unheard of by those who ventured to Oregon; for them, the weak died along the way and the cowards never started. The cowards came much later.

This is the latest popular image that seems to be making its rounds amongst my liberal friends on Facebook…

Conquests and Cultures:

Another cliché among the American chattering class is that the European discovery of the Western hemisphere was an unmitigated disaster for the native peoples. Columbus Day is now an occasion for mourning and self-flagellation. But, Sowell points out, there were benefits as well as costs. Diseases that ravaged the natives were spread by whites—ruthless conquistador and benevolent missionary alike—but so was the ability to combat all disease. Liquor led to much drunkenness, but European manufactured goods, such as cloth, were superior to the products the Indians could produce themselves, and they gladly traded to get them. There certainly was inexcusable brutality against the Indians, but, given the degree of brutality that had existed among Indians for centuries, establishing the Western idea of the rule of law undoubtedly reduced the prevalence of violence in the long run.

The fact that cultural contact gave some benefits to the Indians is no justification for forced resettlements, reneging on treaties, or massacres. Sowell makes no such argument. He merely observes that history is a very mixed bag of causes and effects.

It’s no longer politically correct, and hasn’t been for decades, but…Happy Columbus Day!

In fairness, Columbus was an exceptional sailor and entrepreneur who was obsessed, as so many were at the time, with finding a quicker and more cost-effective route from Europe to China and India. He bumped into America because it was in the way.

So Columbus’ motivation was self-interest. He did not explore to improve humanity, but he didn’t do it to inflict catastrophe either.

I’m not even sure why we celebrate/recognize Columbus Day at all since it only peripherally has anything at all remotely to do with North America…

Three Island Crossing

The Oregon Trail: August 1, 1860, South Side of the Snake

My name is Sable, my husband and I left Saint Louis on the 30th of March, 1843 on a riverboat, there was a cold North wind with snow flurries. We traveled 500 miles upstream from the mouth of the Missouri to Westport, Kansas.

The Great Trek Begins

Westport was considered to be the beginning of the frontier; there were thousands of emigrants gathering up in groups to head West. Some were headed for Santa Fe, others were bound for California, and some like us were headed to Oregon.

Westport was a busy hive of activity. There were many Negroes working at various jobs and many Mexicans working for the Santa Fe traders. It was also a gathering place for many Indians and their shaggy ponies.

There were Sacs and Foxes who shaved their heads and painted their faces. The Shawnee and Delaware wore calico frocks and turbans. The Delaware are the same ones that had been allies of William Penn, but had now become the scourge of the plains. They raided from Canada to Mexico and lived solely to wage war and plunder. They adopted the culture of the horse very quickly and were excellent buffalo hunters. The Wyandot were also there; they dressed in the style of white men and worked at jobs on the docks. There were also mountain men in town. They are surely the wildest White men that ever lived. The Canadians were everywhere and were mainly of French and Indian extraction and called themselves Metis.

My husband and I drove over to the town of Independence, while waiting to join up with a good group of emigrants. There were many shops open to service the Santa Fe traders and emigrants with the necessaries for the trip west. There was a continual ring of blacksmith hammers as they were shoeing mules, horses, and oxen. The cost was three dollars a hoof; an outrageous price, but they were the only ones that could shoe your stock until you arrived at your destination. There were also shops that repaired the wagons and their wheels. Many of these wagons had already traveled from Conestoga road near Philadelphia and many people wanted their wooden wheels with their iron tires tuned up by the only wheelwrights between here and the West Coast.

My husband and I didn’t like the look of most of the emigrants, they had the nare-do-well look of ruffians, gamblers, and adventurers, among them were even more vile outcasts. My husband said such people would cause problems on the trail; especially, when things started to go wrong.

He husband insisted we wait for the right group, a solid group that could be counted on to have character and integrity, thus we would avoid many potential problems.

We eventually found a solid group that was led by Colonel Fallon, a retired cavalry officer and former plantation owner from Virginia.

Colonel Fallon was waiting for a guide when we were lucky enough to join his group. He told my husband that he doubted the character of many of the mountain men; they were often drunk and prone to fighting and gambling. Eventually he chose a Mr. Tomlin, a bona fide mountain man. He had an Indian wife and could speak the language of many of the Indian tribes, if he was unfamiliar with a particular language, he reverted to a universal sign language that seemed to work just as well as a spoken language.

Mr. Tomlin is a rough coarse man, but he doesn’t swear unless he is angry and he frets over everyone’s safety and welfare when he is in camp. He seems to have a kind heart and I feel safe with Mr. Tomlin as our guide.

He insisted on leaving right away, despite the cold winds and snow that made for miserable travel. Mr. Tomlin laughed at the complainers and told them it is better to shiver on the prairie than to freeze and starve in the mountains this winter.

The Colonel said we had to trust the judgment of our guide in such matters relating to the trail. He had selected several Captains in charge of a group of wagons, he told them to prepare to leave in the morning. He delegated responsibility among his Captains and insisted on discipline; otherwise, an act of insubordination could result in being banished from the group.

The Colonel retired from the military and gave manumission to all his slaves on a family plantation in Virginia and then sold the plantation. He could see a Civil War in the nation’s future over the issue of slavery. He didn’t want to take up arms against his own country nor his friends and family of Virginia. His life long friend and personal valet was Jim. He was given freedom, but insisted on staying on with the Colonel as an employee, so that they would always be together. Now he helped with the wagon train duties and driving the Colonel’s wagon. They were great friends and had a deep emotional bond between them.

Everyone had to agree to the terms of Colonel Fallon, the terms were foreign to many of the members, but the Colonel said they would need a new wagon master if they couldn’t accept his rules. He was used to discipline and he would have leadership with discipline or they could find another leader.

My husband stood up and said if we were to reach Oregon, we would need a strong leader; a leader who knew how to set up a defense and lead a military campaign was the best kind of leader to have and we were lucky to have the Colonel. The others agreed and swore an oath of allegiance to the Colonel.

The Trail

Since I am half Cherokee, I have a keen interest in the Indians we see on the plains. My mother was a Cherokee maiden, she escaped a raid by White men and traveled to Tennessee. My father found her in a state of starvation and nursed her back to health. I was born a year later and raised in a log house as a White girl. I grew up wearing dresses, learned to read, write, and cipher. My dad was a horseman and taught me to ride and train horses.

My father taught to me read with the bible and my mother taught me about the native spirits. I considered myself much more educated than most because of having two cultures and a loving family.

The first group of nomadic Indians we encountered on the trail were the Delaware returning from a buffalo hunting trip. Both men and women were riding horses, they had many pack mules loaded with buffalo meat, hides, cooking kettles, and all the necessaries for life on the trail.

An old man rode up to my husband and asked who our chief was and what tribe I was from. He made a motion like he was smoking a pipe and my husband gave him a small pouch of tobacco and pointed to the Colonel. He told the old man I was a Cherokee.

A Cowboy Tries To Trade A Nice Horse For An Indian Maiden

The old man grunted his approval and gave my husband a casing of pemmican. His pony had a mane and tail full of burrs. His saddle was a wooden Spanish type covered with a blanket. The stirrups were carved from wood. He then asked if my husband would trade me for some horses or mules. My husband told him we had too many horses for the trip. The old man shrugged and rode away.

My husband and I are professional breeders and trainers. We have thirty head of horses, all breeding stock. I am much more aware of horse types and equipment than most people and I have a good eye for horseflesh..

The most colorful Indians were the Kickapoo. They were lounging at the trader’s store near Fort Leavenworth. The men painted their faces red, green, black, and white, with a variety of patterns and designs. They wore bright calico shirts and wrapped themselves in red and blue blankets. The men also wore large brass earrings and wampum necklaces; they rode the most wretched ponies of the prairie.

One of the most remarkable scenes of Indian life we saw was near the Platte, a band of Dakota were breaking camp to hunt buffalo. The women began by pulling the sewed buffalo hides from the poles that formed the foundation of the teepees and lashing the poles to the sides of horses by using a packsaddle to support the rails of the travois that would carry their earthly belongings.

In just a few minutes, a peaceful village of lodges turned into mass confusion and chaos. The lodges were spread on the ground and all possessions were spread alongside. There were piles of buffalo robes and wooden frames with painted leather sides that contained dried meat. There were copper kettles, stone mallets and ladles of horn all waiting to be stowed.

The women bustled about the business of loading up the camp in a stoic attitude while the old women screamed at one another at the top of their lungs.

The tops of the lodge poles were lashed to the sides of the horses and the butt end of the rails trailed out behind the horses to form a travois. These were braced with cross rails lashed tightly to the frame and all their worldly possessions were stuffed in baskets and then lashed to the frame.

Goods were then stacked on the packsaddle to an unbelievable height.

During this period of breaking down the camp and preparing to depart, the men sat around campfires in stoic silence and holding onto the reins of their favorite saddle horse.

In twenty minutes the camp was moving the warriors broke from their meditation and joined the procession. A group of old men who were smoking a pipe while watching, mounted their ponies and rode down to join the melee. There were smiling young girls, with all sorts of gaudy decorations, riding mules and horses, they feigned bashfulness when the White men gazed at them. Boys with miniature bows and arrows wandered over the plains shooting birds and small animals. There were groups of young braves with paint and feathers racing around in groups of three or four on fleet ponies to prove their horsemanship and the speed of their ponies. Scattered amongst the throng were solemn old men with white Buffalo Robes, these were the old warriors whose age demanded a certain amount of dignity. Each packhorse had two or three small children clinging to the load, thus increasing the remarkable burden the packhorse was expected to carry.

We never asked a packhorse to carry over 160 pounds, but each of these horses was carrying at least two or three times that much.

There were countless dogs running through the exodus, they kept up a continuous howling rather than barking. I told my husband they sounded like their cousin the wolf. He thought they were nervous about moving and the confusion of the migration. My husband has a way with animals and can often tell you what they are thinking.

It was mass confusion; yet, the Indian camp was moving within twenty minutes. How different from our slow, orderly, and precise movement that seems so boring in comparison. The Indians left nothing along the trail, but along our trail are shattered wrecks of claw footed oak tables and large maple bureaus that were worth a small fortune at one time. Now that survival is in question, cherished family heirlooms from England or Europe are tossed out of wagons to scorch and crack in the sun.

The Dakota tribe traveled along side for about a half day, when we were treated to the sight of a young boy chasing a buffalo bull along the length of the wagon train. The shaggy bull came bounding out of a hollow with the boy whipping his pony closer and closer to the gigantic running bull.

The bull ran with his tail erect and his foaming tongue hanging out a foot or more while he strained his strength and endurance to the maximum to stay in front of the boy and his pony.

A moment later, the boy pulled along side the bull. He dropped the reins over the withers and jerked an arrow out of the quiver on his back at lightening speed. He let the arrow fly at the lungs and it sank deep in the chest cavity. The first arrow was followed by a second that landed next to the first arrow.

Suddenly the bull leaped at the pony to gore it with his horns. The pony leaped to the side with the boy clinging to the bear hide that served as a saddle as if he were part of the horse. The boy turned to look me straight in the eye and laughed with bravado at the danger, just before he sent another arrow into the bull’s heart.

The bull stopped and glared through a shaggy mane with red eyes at the boy on his pony. The blood was flowing from his nostrils and mouth with air bubbles indicating mortal wounds. The bull stood to collect his strength and would charge the boy.

The boy and his avoided these charges with seeming effortless movements.

After several charges, the bull stopped and struggled to get his breath with his chin resting on the ground. Finally, the bull gurgled a death rattle deep in his chest and let out a groan when he fell to the earth and died.

Several warriors rode up and within minutes, their knives reduced the huge carcass to several piles of meat stacked upon the hide. The men cracked open the leg bones and ate the marrow on the spot along with the heart, liver, and lungs.

The boy rode over on his pony and offered me a leg bone with the rich marrow exposed. I accepted gracefully and pulled a blue ribbon from my hair as a return gift. The boy was ecstatic and rode over to a young girl and gave her the ribbon. She shrieked with joy and promptly tied the ribbon in her hair as she rode her pony. She waved to me and I realized how different I was from these people who are so close to my heritage. I looked like them, but I was from another culture and I could never go back. I placed the bone under the wagon seat. My dog would enjoy it later on in the day.

We have lived a lifetime worth of experiences on this journey and we have been through some harrowing experiences that turned out well because of the foresight of Mr. Tomlin and the cool nerve of Colonel Fallon.

Mr. Tomlin keeps preparing everyone for dangers of the Snake River crossing. He is not a man who exaggerates and is not the type to make a tempest in a teapot; everyone is thinking about the crossing and the possibility of losing everything..

We have buried twenty-four emigrants since we left Independence and I fear my sweet loving husband will be number twenty-five. The Colonel insisted we camp upstream of all the previously used campsites to avoid the fever and cholera that seemed to plague the old campsites, but occasionally someone would catch the fever or chamblains. They usually lasted two or three days before they died. My husband is on his second day and he has lost all his muscles and is little more than a rack of bones. I don’t expect him to live through tomorrow. We have no children, but I am driving a huge wagon with starving oxen and I have thirty head of horses I am bring with me to Oregon. I can’t stop and I can’t turn around. My situation is becoming desperate.

The Colonel and Mr. Tomlin check in on me several times a day to ask about my husband, but he will be lucky to survive the night. He is so sick it would be a blessing if he would just pass away.

We have seen countless graves from the wagon trains ahead of us and it is terrible. The graves are seldom dug deep enough to keep the wolves and bears from digging them up and eating the bodies. We pass ten or twelve half eaten bodies a day. My husband asked that I make sure he is buried deep enough that the animals wont eat his flesh.

The problem is the time and manpower it takes to dig a grave. The ground is very hard and often must be chopped with a pick or an ax to dig just a few inches.

Morning

My husband died during the night. He was a brave man and passed on without remorse by saying that he was ready and for me to find another man who will take care of me.

Mr. Tomlin and the Colonel helped me bury my husband. They dug the grave at least four foot deep and wrapped my husband in a sheet. Mr. Tomlin built a fire over the grave with grass and brush. He assured me that the scent would be burned away and the animals wouldn’t know there was a body buried beneath. Mr. Tomlin knows a lot of wondrous things about the country; I trust his judgment and feel my husband’s body will be secure.

Mr. Levin

There is a kind older gentleman, Mr. Levin, who helps me with my wagon at night so that I have time to check on the horses. Unfortunately, there have been many horses stolen and my horse band is only half of what it was in the beginning.

I have now lost my husband and most of the horses I own and wonder if I should go on or just give up.

Mr. Levin is an Irish Jew who has spent his life sailing around the world in search of the Sperm Whale. He started as an orphan by stowing away and worked his way up until he was a captain.

He is a learned man who would read the bible or philosophy every night.

He reads passages from the bible and the Greek philosophers to me in the evening when chores are finished and I find the strength to face the morrow. He also tells me about the wondrous places of the world that few people ever see except for men of the sea like him. He is a kindly man that is strong of character and body. Although, he is of advanced years, he works harder and longer than most young men.

The Breakdown

I am so lucky to have three men Mr. Tomlin, The Colonel, and Mr. Levin to help me hitch up my wagon and check in on me to make sure I am safe. I don’t know what might happen without my “Three Gentlemen” as I call them.

We were three days from the Snake River Crossing when the iron tire from a rear wheel on the wagon rolled off and continued on its’ own, passing me and the front of the wagon before coming to rest against a large sage bush.

I stopped the oxen and Mr. Levin came over and looked at the wooden wheel. “It’s beyond repair,” he said.

An Ox Shoe From The Oregon Trail

I asked What I should do.

“Throw away everything but your most important gear and put that in the front half of your wagon. I will saw your wagon in half and make a cart.”

I looked at the oak wheel, it had disintegrated and couldn’t be repaired. Without a wheelwright, it was hopeless.

I threw away our few pieces of furniture and my husband’s belongings. No one else wanted them because of the extra weight.

Mr. Tomlin cut away the back half of the wagon, made the front wheels so that they wouldn’t turn to the side, and fashioned a back end that was ingenious with a drop down gate.

I was moving within an hour.

The oxen seemed to appreciate the lighter load. My heart hurts for their willingness to toil so hard to pull these wagons.

The Proposal

In the evening, Colonel Fallon came to inspect my new transportation. He congratulated Mr. Levin on an excellent job and asked if he could talk to me a few minutes.

We walked out in the high desert in the cool night air and he told me that I was in a desperate situation.

I agreed, but there was no other choice but to continue on with the trip. He told me I could become his wife before the crossing and that we could make a life together in Oregon.

I was in a state of shock. The Colonel was an officer and a gentleman, and I was a half-Indian widow; I didn’t think that any other men would take me for a wife.

I told him, “Yes, a thousand times yes. I will be a very good wife and work very hard to make your life better.”

He took me in his arms and said that it was unusual to propose so close to a widow’s husband’s funeral, but these were extraordinary times.

I agreed and he kissed me. My knees buckled and I swooned. I was in love, once again.

I was breathless after that kiss, like never before. The Colonel walked me back to my wagon and told Mr. Levin the news. Mr. Levin congratulated the Colonel and brought out a bottle of Irish Whisky. He poured out a very small amount in two glasses and the two of them drank a toast to our new life and the new country.

The Colonel asked Mr. Levin if he would conduct the service on the night before we crossed the Snake and help him with some other unrelated legal papers before the wedding.

Mr. Levin said he would be honored to help in any capacity.

I couldn’t sleep that night, because of dreaming of the future.

The Ceremony

We arrived at the Three Island Crossing and we planned to rest up for a day before attempting to cross the fast treacherous waters of the Snake.

The Colonel held a meeting and asked everyone to write a last will and testament, so that he could disperse people’s goods in case there was an accident crossing the river. He said he didn’t like dividing the goods of deceased people and he needed some direction.

Suddenly people began to realize the danger of crossing the Snake.

The papers were written and collected by Mr. Levin. He helped people who were at a loss of what to do and wrote for those who couldn’t read or write. Mr. Levin gave the documents to the Colonel and the Colonel said he would give the documents back to their owners at the conclusion of the journey.

The Indians came to trade with dried fish and pemmican. The wagon trail people were glad to have something new to their diets.

Later that night, we had the wedding ceremony. It was a beautiful ceremony. Mr. Levin read scripture from the bible, but I didn’t hear anything. I had a new dress that I had never worn and flowers from the desert woven into my hair. Everyone was happy and forgot about the dangers of the morrow.

The Crossing

Click here to view the embedded video.

Hint: (From a man who has crossed a lot of different extremely wild and dangerous rivers, when the horses are swimming, get out of the saddle, hold on to the mane and the reins, and let them swim. They aren’t designed to swim with a lard ass on their back. When you stay in the saddle, you are essentially trying to drown your horse.

The driving horses and oxen fare much better, even though they are pulling a wagon, because they don’t have all that weight on their back.)

That night seemed to float by as if I was in a dream world. I had faith in the future and no longer felt the fear of being alone.

The colonel gave the remnants of my wagon to Jim, his former slave and lifelong friend. He seemed to be proud of his new possession and drove the oxen to the river with pride.

I moved my belongings into the Colonel’s wagon and felt like I had a home.

Ours was the first wagon to cross. The Colonel told me to jump downstream if we tipped over and to hold on to a small barrel with a rope tied around it. He said the water is fast enough to roll the wagon over and over, so I must swim away and stay clear of the oxen.

Crossing the Snake in a Covered Wagon

(Dale is a lifelong friend of mine)

He wasn’t smiling when he gave me my instructions and I realized how dangerous the colonel considered the crossing.

The pull of the river was frightening. The oxen struggled desperately against the current and barely kept the wagon from being swept away.

Once the other wagons saw how desperate our team fought to keep the wagon from being lost, some decided not to cross the river and headed South West to California, others began throwing away their precious valuables after hauling them so far.

One by one the wagons crossed the river. Mr. Levin’s wagon was swept away and he was drowned in the swift current. His body came to rest on the bank of the second island. One of the Indian boys swam over and put a rope around his chest and pulled him over to the North side of the river.

There was another family that was swept away, but their bodies went under water and were never seen again.

The river crossing has been one of the most dangerous parts of the long trip.

Jim the former slave made it across effortlessly in my old wagon that had been sawed in half by kind old Mr. Levin. He was so relieved, he was laughing out loud as the oxen pulled his new cart up on the bank of the river.

The Funeral

Several men began digging Mr. Levin’s grave on the upper bank of the river, above the high water marks.

He was laid in his grave and the Colonel read from the bible. It was sad, but we have seen so much tragedy on the trip, we are almost with out feeling for the loss of another. Although, Mr. Levin showed me kindness and offered encouragement; I will surely remember him for the rest of my days.

We listened to my new husband read the bible with tenderness, it was obvious that he respected and liked Mr. Levin.

He read the will after some ladies sang a church hymn.

Colonel Fallon, if you are reading this will, it probably means that I was drowned in the river. It is ironic that the one man who has sailed all the oceans and seas of the world, should drown in this wee bit of fresh water, but I accept my fate with dignity and offer no complaints.

I am a wealthy man. I arranged to have an agricultural implement and hardware store in Oregon. There will be the stock for the store and papers of remittance on the coast. I have contracted to build a store on the mouth of the Columbia.

These earthly goods and funds, I am leaving with Jim the former slave and Sable my dear friend, who has recently married. Jim is a former slave and has traveled from bondage into the wilderness, like my people so long ago, when they traveled out of bondage in Egypt to wander in the wilderness with Moses, much like we have traveled with Colonel Fallon. Sable was faced with the loss of her husband and was desperate. I was too old to offer her my hand in matrimony, but thankfully, the Colonel stepped forward to take care of her.

Do not grieve for me; I have lived a full life and have traveled the world. I accept my destiny. God speed and help all of you, David Levin.

Both of these people are honest and good people and I am sure they can run this business together, with a little help from the Colonel now and then.

Captain, David Levin

A dear friend is driving the oxen in the above photo.

Epilogue: This is a synopsis of a book I am writing. It is based on reading many journals from the Oregon Trail and of the Three Mile Crossing. It is intended to offer a different perspective to race in America and help those who are looking for alternative, an example of what might or could be if we tried a little harder.

A worker stands guard beside the charred remains of House of Reeves furniture shop in Croydon, south London, which was burnt to the ground in Sunday night's violence.

Good editorial by Allister Heath today about the riots and the changes this event, and the poor, lackadaisical response by authorities, has wrought:

…From royal fairytale to banana republic in one summer: it has been a shameful, embarrassing disaster, not just for the tourism industries but also for foreign direct investment.

The cost in terms of lost reputation – internationally but also domestically – will be hugely higher than the £100m insurance bill. Global firms, already unnerved by over-regulation and excessive tax, will worry even more about allocating resources or key staff to the UK. Large retail chains will think twice about investing in many urban areas; the middle classes may follow suit and start moving out from many neighbourhoods. Needless to say, the human cost, in terms of deaths, injuries, shattered lives, ruined businesses, trauma and stress is immeasurable; the vast majority of the public is united in its immense anger at the savages and vandals that believe that they had the right to loot, pillage and maim. The way businesses and shops, often run by hard-working, entrepreneurial immigrant families, were targeted by low-lives was despicable; the greatest victims of these unforgivable actions were the very people who work the hardest, often for little pay, for their communities. It was so, so wrong, which is why Boris Johnson, David Cameron and also the wider political establishment are in much greater trouble than they realise.

What the riots most definitely show is the end result of the leftist agenda. To quote the mob itself:

It’s the rich people. It’s the rich people, the people who’ve got businesses, and that’s why this has happened.

Never mind that their Socialist society pays for almost everything, from housing to medical care. It’s still the fault of those damn business owners daring to employ their neighbors.

Belief in the “underclass” meme sets England’s anarchy apart from most other austerity-related vandalism. The protests in Wisconsin, for example, were a combination of well-to-do leftists chasing Vietnam-era nostalgia and a privileged public-sector union class who wanted to maintain their favored position. Conversely, the English rioters genuinely appear to believe that they are somehow cheated.

As a result, those who have their schooling, food, housing, and medical care paid for are now turning on their benefactors, ostensibly as punishment for the benefactors’ privilege. It is not so difficult to see how such a deeply ingrained sense of entitlement and backward view of personal property can come to exist.

Decades of Socialism have set this in motion. Decades of leftism have set this in motion:

What we have seen unfolding before our horrified gaze over the past four days in Britain is the true legacy of Tony Blair’s shattering defeat, in the two years or so after he came to power in 1997, at the hands of the ultra-feminists and cultural Marxist wreckers in his Cabinet and party who were determined above all to destroy the traditional nuclear family and institute the sexual free-for-all that exists today. Blair stood virtually alone against Gramsci’s acolytes, and lost.

One of them, Harriet Harman, was on TV last night preposterously blaming cuts in educational allowances, of all things, for the fact that teenagers and pre-pubescent children have been torching and looting shops and robbing and murdering people in the streets. It was Harman, of course, who was one of the principal forces behind the promotion of lone parenthood and the marginalisation of fathers as the only progressive position. Yet here she is, faced with the Hobbesian scenes of violent anarchy which are the result of those policies, still parroting the same old claptrap and still totally incapable of acknowledging the terrible damage to individuals, social destruction and de-civilisation she has helped wreak.

Add to this the associated breakdown in education, criminal justice and policing that have also taken place over the past three decades as a result of the same ‘long march through the institutions’, and you have the explanation of what the British riots actually signify: a society whose intelligentsia has been bent for three decades on social suicide — and which, having been the first into the Enlightenment, is now, as we can see from the ‘armies of ants’ torching and looting British cities, leading the way out.

Or as Max Hastings wrote “Years of liberal dogma have spawned a generation of amoral, uneducated, welfare dependent, brutalised youngsters”

Is this what we have to look forward to?

What the frak are they doing to my superheroes?!

I was checking in over at the Washington Post and just discovered that the superhero closest to my childhood heart, Peter Parker, is dead:

Oh my God! They killed Spidey! It’s true. More than 10 years ago, writer Brian Michael Bendis brought Ultimate Spider-Man into the world, and today he’s taken him out. According to Bendis, this isn’t temporary, either. Is there a future for a Spider-Man without Peter Parker?

I have no idea what Ultimate Spider-Man and Bendis were about; the last I had paid attention to Spiderman was when Peter Parker and Mary Jane got married in 1987(and while doing some research for this post, I discover their marriage also had ended a few years ago! Egad!)

But in the WaPo article I read, it wasn’t the death of my favorite superhero that made my skin crawl. What really bugs me is that they have a new replacement Spiderman and are making much hoopla over his biracial ethnicity:

It’s not simply about publicity and stirring things up to get people talking (although Marvel surely welcomes those, too). It’s about a black kid in D.C., a Dominican kid in the Bronx or a young Mexicano from California being able to read a comic and come away from it saying, “I can be Spider-Man.” Generations of minority comic-book fans before this day, couldn’t say such a thing.

I call bullcrap:

~~~

Take a look at the photo at the top. Is there anything strikingly odd about the photo? What do you see? I see a “ridiculous” little Asian boy pretending to be a cowboy, and proud of wearing the get-up. I say “ridiculous”, because, of course, there weren’t really any Asian cowboys out in the Wild West. If anything, I should be playing the part of an Injun. But back then, at the time, I didn’t feel ridiculous. I thought I looked like Robert Conrad.

I didn’t see the movie version of Wild Wild West (starring Will Smith). But it certainly didn’t have to do with not being able to envision a black man in the role; or myself having a hero who is black (Tony Dorsett was my football hero I wanted to emulate). But I do associate Robert Conrad with being James West in the same way that William Shatner is the definitive Captain James T. Kirk.

Of course, if you’re going to ignore established character ethnicities and canon, does that mean when a reimagining of Star Trek sees fit to have Kanye West play Captain Kirk, that Matt Damon is up to play Sulu and Angelina Jolie gets to be Uhura? That Chekhov is cast as a Pakistani rather than a Russian? Or maybe they just kill off the entire crew and start afresh, yet still call the series “Star Trek” and reshuffle the diverse crew because they were never…um….diverse enough?

Wolverine isn’t Asian. He isn’t even American. Yet he’s another superhero I loved while growing up. It wasn’t his non-Asiatic ethnicity that made it difficult for me to see when I looked in the mirror: It was the hairstyle, my unconvincing scowl, and lack of chest hair. Minor physical details, though. It didn’t stop me from pretending. I could, however, identify with his short stature (he’s supposed to be 5′ 4″ – sorry bub, if you happen to be 6 ft tall and want to pretend you’re Wolverine).

When Jim Rhodes replaced Tony Stark as Iron Man before becoming War Machine, that wasn’t the same as what they’ve done to Spiderman, here.

What’s in “poor taste” is killing off an American pop icon and yet trying to keep the franchise alive by turning this into a teachable moment/selling point on the value and importance of ethnic diversity and multiculturalism. Blech!

After the death of Peter Parker, rumors started that a focus on ethnic diversity would play a part in the new casting of Spider-Man. It turns out rumors were right on the money. Miles Morales is half-black, half-Hispanic, and at least a few percent spider. It’s a bold move from writer Brian Michael Bendis, since cape-and-tights heroics still continue to be a mostly all-white affair.

Says Marvel editor in chief Axel Alonso, “What you have is a Spider-Man for the 21st century who’s reflective of our culture and diversity. We think that readers will fall in love with Miles Morales the same way they fell in love with Peter Parker.”

It really drives me nuts that in the 21st century, what this is really reflective of isn’t that we’ve moved beyond race, but that we are still fixated on making it into an issue. That we are still paying attention to the content of skin-color and identifying ourselves by ethnic pride/ties/loyalty/heritage.

Is it a bad thing to acknowledge where you came from and honoring ancestral heritage? To take pride in it? No. But when people whine about Generations of minority comic-book fans before this day, couldn’t say “I can be Spiderman”, I just can’t help but feel horribly bothered by such sentiments. Instead of just creating a whole new Marvel character, they essentially want to do to Peter Parker what they did to Nick Fury in the movies (which wasn’t so irksome as this whole line of thinking):

Axel Alonso, Marvel’s new editor-in-chief, says that Spider-Man’s newfound diversity was something that was considered the moment Marvel knew that their ultimate universe Peter Parker was headed to the grave.

“We knew that the death of the Ultimate Spider-Man/Peter Parker was coming,” Alonso told Comic Riffs by phone Wednesday. “The question quickly became: Who will be the person to fill those tights? We knew very quickly what had to be done. Having a character as iconic as Spider-Man, when he peels off that mask, having a new demographic be able to relate to him, we’re very excited about that.

The reason why I related to Peter Parker when I was very young was because I felt awkward and nerdy as a kid…just like him. I identified with him and his desire to do good in the world.

Alonso said a Marvel title accurately reflecting the society we live in is nothing new and that it’s been going on since Stan Lee was in charge, agreeing that X-Men in the ’60s was just as much about the civil-rights movement as it was the hatred of mutants.

Yup….and yet these new clowns at Marvel, like most Democrats and liberals, are still mired in fighting the good fights of the 60s and have not moved beyond it to the next level (like most Republicans and conservatives have): Transcending melanin count for content of character.

And here’s some moral condescension (yes, I realize I’m guilty of exercising this as well in my criticism) from David Betancourt (who identifies with the new Spidey based upon shared biracial makeup):

“For the small portion of the fan base who hates anything changing from their childhood, who say Peter Parker can crawl on a ceiling but Miles Morales can’t, they need this change the most.”

You want racism to disappear? As Morgan Freeman said on 60 Minutes, “Stop talking about it.” And what he meant by that (as I understood it) wasn’t to ignore the issue of racism and pretend that it doesn’t exist, but to quit obsessing over it, keeping it alive by making it into such a big issue.

Spiderman’s dead. Writers other than the original creators killed him off. Let him rest in peace. Call this other guy, Miles Morales, the Arachnid Kid or something else.

There’s only one Spiderman, and that was Peter Parker…

…and his white ethnicity didn’t matter.

Big Testicles

Virginia Tice of Bonneau, S.C., is fighting to display her testicles. She feels the First Amendment grants her the right to display her large testicles and she is challenging Police Chief Franco Fuda in court for the right to display her testicles in public.

On July 5, Chief Fuda issued he’d her a citation for displaying her testicles in the parking lot of a gas station convenience store. The citation has a $445 fine.

South Carolinians are circling the wagons in support of 65 year old Ms Tice, to protect First Amendment Rights and to allow her to display her rather large testicles.

among them attorney Scott Bischoff, with Savage & Savage in Charleston. Bischoff said his firm has offered Tice free representation as she fights the ticket.

“We’ll let a jury decide whether this is really criminal behavior. I don’t want to take anything away from the importance of free speech, but this is really comical,” Bischoff told reporters.

Obviously the founding fathers failed to foresee the need to hang plastic testicles from the bumper of a woman’s pick up truck and there were no exact stipulations written within the Constitution concerning this particular issue; however, it is surely going to set some precedents in South Carolina if not the rest of the country.

Small Testicles

Hopefully, the Chief doesn’t have a case of testicle envy; this case could expose a lot of issues that aren’t usually discussed.

The Fairly Large Testicles Of Ms Tice

The moral equivalence apologists (and Chris Matthews) for Islamic terrorism who have long cited Timothy McVeigh, Jared Loughner, abortion bombers, the Spanish Inquisition, Crusaders, Nazis as somehow examples of right-wing Christian fanaticism and hate-mongering have finally got an actual real example of it:

“What we know is that he is right wing and he is Christian fundamentalist,” deputy police chief Roger Andresen said Saturday morning at a televised news conference. “We have not been able to link him up to an anti-Islamic group.” He said that the suspect had not been arrested before, and that police were unsure if he had acted alone.

“We find him responsible for both of the attacks,” Andresen said. “At the moment we have no other people to arrest.”

Norwegian media identified the suspect as Anders Behring Breivik and posted pictures of the blond and blue-eyed Norwegian. A security official speaking on the condition of anonymity because the official was not allowed to release the name publicly said that the name was correct.

~~~

He said that police were still trying to piece together the suspect’s motives.

“The politically motivated violence that Norway has seen in the modern age has come from the extreme rightist side,” Stoere said. “This is a phenomenon that we have addressed very seriously.”

So not all the facts are in, yet there’s no apparent rush to judgment here is there? I’m not questioning that the facts thus far are wrong here- just the double-standard in how whenever it is an Islamic extremist or homegrown terrorist involved, we are cautioned not to jump to conclusions.

For those who initially suspected Islamic terror and “Norway’s 9/11″, it sounds as though they weren’t alone: Jihadi forums also jumped at the thought of claiming attaboy responsibility, in glee:

But many residents of Oslo said the attacks would probably have a deep impact. For years, the most fortified building in town has been the U.S. Embassy — the subject of eye-rolling from those who thought the security measures were unnecessary.

“This is one of those events that will change everything,” Christopher Wright, 35, of Oslo said by telephone. He was at a bakery a thousand feet from the government buildings when the explosion happened.

Several analysts said a coordinated attack of such a caliber would have required sophistication and preparation.

Chatter on online jihadist forums praising the attacks started almost immediately afterward, terrorism analysts said, but claims of responsibility were soon retracted.

Ansar al-Jihad al-Alami praised the bombing. But instead of Norway’s 9/11, what we have is their version of an Oklahoma City Bombing.

Norway seems woefully ill-prepared to prevent and handle terror attacks:

A memo written in 2009, describes the country’s security service as “in over its head” and adds “it simply cannot keep up.”

Separate cables state that the country felt “immune” from terrorism and that groups such as Al Qaeda were “not a direct threat”.

One memo describes how US authorities had to “press” their Norwegian counterparts to take terrorism seriously and says there was a feeling “that terrorism happens elsewhere, not in peaceful Norway.”

Talking about an attempt by the Police Security Service (PST) to track one particular suspected Al Qaeda terror cell, a cable written by the US Ambassador to Norway, Barry White, describes investigators as “committed, competent and co-operative, generally”.

But he goes on to describe how they refused the help of the UK authorities to put surveillance on a potential suspect and adds: “Not only will they not put their own resources on him…but they also just turned down the visiting UK intel service’s offer of two twelve-person surveillance teams.”

~~~

A memo written in 2008 shows how the US felt that Norway was not awake to the possibility of a potential terrorist attack. The cable reads: “We repeatedly press Norwegian authorities to take terrorism seriously.

“We will seek to build on this momentum to fight the still-prevalent feeling that terrorism happens elsewhere, not in peaceful Norway.”

And a cable written just last year adds: “The PST still viewed Denmark as more of a target than Norway, for reasons very specific to the cartoon controversy.”

While Islamists and jihadis are probably celebrating, what Christian right-wingers are out there, celebrating this senseless loss of life?

Prayers and condolences for Norway and the family of the victims of this horrible attack.

Also blogging:
The Anchoress
Brutally Honest/Wizbang
The Jawa Report