We’ve all heard the story “The boy who cried wolf” about the boy who falsely cried out so often that when the wolf finally appeared none of the townsfolk came to his assistance because they assumed he was once again lying. The same thing has been happening in the United States with the charge of racism. The problem is, when the word racism is used so often by so many people in such patently absurd contexts the charge and the word cease to have any value.

Of course, what many people often refer to as racism is in reality racial discrimination, and in most cases the activity charged as racism is neither.

Racism is a belief in an inherent difference in the cognitive and physical abilities of members of different groups based on race, which manifest themselves in social and economic achievement. Such differences are usually organized in hierarchical manner putting the proponent of the theory’s race in the superior position.

Racial discrimination is the treatment or making a distinction, gift or punishment for or against, a person or group based on the race to which that person or persons belong rather than on individual / group merit.

The dilution of the charge of racism has been going on in the United States for decades. The housing crisis that brought about the economic meltdown in which we find ourselves today was the direct result of federal regulations intended to counteract false claims of racist / discriminatory practices on the part of mortgage lenders.

More recently the cries of racism have been thrown around like rice at a wedding since Barack Obama became a candidate for President. From individuals to Tea Party activists to radio talk show hosts, every disagreement with the policies of Barack Obama is at some point reduced to the simple charge of racism. It does not even appear as if race itself is a defense against such claims as can be seen by the denunciations of Herman Cain.

Is it possible that by 2012 the overuse of the charge of racism has finally contributed to its own demise? Perhaps two absurd events from last week will be a sign of the false charge’s swan song.

The first comes from Dallas and has to do with Microsoft’s purported “Avoid the Ghetto” app for smartphones – a name suggested by critics rather than the company. The app, which is said to use crime statistic data, is supposed to offer drivers and pedestrians the opportunity to set routes to their destination that avoid high crime areas.

Dallas NAACP President Juanita Wallace seems to be unhappy about the as of yet unavailable product: “It’s almost like gerrymandering,” she said. “It’s stereotyping for sure and without a doubt; I can’t emphasize enough, it’s discriminatory.” However, the app will not label communities based on race. It is not going to tell users to avoid minorities or minority communities. It is is rather simply going to inform users about neighborhoods where a high number of crimes have been reported and offer them alternative routes to getting to their destinations. Certainly James Cooper and James Kouzaris could have used it.

Whatever the demographics of the neighborhoods drivers or pedestrians avoid as a result of Microsoft’s app, claims of racism or racial discrimination are absurd. Crime is crime, regardless of who perpetrates it. Indeed, it is President Wallace who has suggested the connection between crime and minority communities, not Microsoft.

The second story comes from Burlington, Vermont. At a time when consumers are put off by many bank’s limited hours and increasingly automated services, TD Bank sees an opportunity to distinguish itself from its competitors by opening for business every day other than Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter Sunday and New Years Day. In the highly competitive marketplace the bank is seeking to succeed by providing more services to attract more customers. The result? The branch in Burlington, Vermont was picketed for being open and serving its customers on the MLK holiday. Protesters printed flyers suggesting the bank was racist: “Dear TD Bank, you are defying the King holiday. Shame, Shame, Shame. This is a racist act. Shame, Shame, Shame.”

In what universe is a company seeking to provide its clients – all clients, regardless of race – with better service acting in a racist, or more accurately, a racially discriminatory manner? Only in a leftist, victim mentality universe fueled by the Democratic Party.

As we approach the battle for the White House those of us who disagree with the policies of President Obama should be prepared to be labeled racists for virtually every utterance. Of course it is possible that the false charge of racism has jumped the shark and will finally be disregarded by citizens as just another Democratic tool of intimidation and slander. Possible, but unfortunately… unlikely.

I’m afraid it’s more likely to be another Hollywood creation, Freddy from the Friday the 13th franchise that more accurately characterizes the future of the false charge of racism. Even when it is so widely seen as debased and hollow, when it should be dead after so many false utterances, the charge of racism is likely to once again be an instrument of the left with which it seeks to intimidate conservatives and distract voters from the abject failure of decades of Democratic policies – whose victims are both black and white. That’s unfortunate because real examples of racism and racial discrimination do indeed exist, but because the left has purloined the charge for its insidious ends those real examples are far less likely to be taken seriously. And for that we are less well off.

First is this answer to one more race baiting question from Juan

Click here to view the embedded video.

This one wasn’t bad either.

Click here to view the embedded video.

You think Mitt will hire Newt as his Press Secretary? That man would be awesome at it.

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.

Michele Bachmann walked on the Jimmy Fallon show, while the band played the song “Lyin’ Ass Bitch” without the lyrics. The drummer was named as the scapegoat and no one has yet figured out how the band knew to play the song without knowing the title or who on the show approves the musical selections.

NBC maintains that the drummer, who bragged about the incident on his tweeter account, has since been grounded rather than fired. Like an adolescent, the drummer has been “grounded”? Does this mean the drummer received a tongue in cheek reprimand for committing gross disrespect for a presidential candidate.

The band took responsibility, with this anemic explanation:

“The performance was a tongue-in-cheek and spur-of-the-moment decision.”

So there you have an explanation that excuses the band of sexism and of disrespect, but let’s examine this a little closer, under a different microscope. If the drummer,

Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson

had been White, and the insult was directed at Michelle Obama, what would have been the reaction of the press and the public?

Would the drummer have been fired? If you say no, you are a “Lyin’ Ass Bitch” and you are perpetuating this double standard in the show business world, the MSM, and the propaganda business that seems to direct or control the first two.

In all fairness, Bachmann was oblivious to the dreadful insult implied with the song, until she learned of the band’s duplicity after the show, so while those who were familiar with the song and the lyrics were laughing their “asses” off, a presidential candidate was onstage and had no idea she was being humiliated.

No, if the incident would have been reversed and the other Michelle would have been humiliated in a racially charged situation, the drummer would not have been “severely reprimanded”; no let’s not kid ourselves, the band would have been fired and the show would be in jeopardy.

Fallon, being a class act in the shallow tradition of Hollywood, offered an apology on twitter, but Bachmann demanded an apology from NBC. Doug Vaughan, NBC’s senior vice-president, apologized in a letter, for the incident and stated that it was:

“not only unfortunate but also unacceptable”

Unfortunately, those responsible, still have their jobs, but NBC proudly proclaims:

“She accepted the apology,”

Therefore, they are resolved of guilt and all is forgotten.

Yes, Michele Bachmann is a nice woman and forgives in a Christian way, but the hatred and deceit that precipitated the event is still there beneath the surface; along with the attitude of the show’s writers, producers, and performers who have given their implied approval of such actions by not responding in an appropriate manner immediately. The public is left asking why Michele had to ask for an apology from NBC and why the band, if not the show is still on the air, instead of claiming an absolution of guilt because Michele accepted the apology she asked for.

Michele brought up the reference to Michelle Obama and the aftermath of such a vicious attack by a band:

“If that song had been played for Michelle Obama I have no doubt that NBC would’ve apologized to her and likely they could’ve fired the drummer or at least suspended him. None of that happened from NBC and this is clearly a form of the bias on the part of the Hollywood entertainment elite,”

The drummer bragged of the band’s planned attack on Bachmann’s character with this tweeter post, prior to the show:

“Aight late night walkon song devotees: you love it when we snark: this next one takes the cake. ask around cause i aint tweeting title.”

We are continually amazed at the mean-spiritness and general evil that seems to lurk in the party that pronounces its love for humanity; yet, actions speak much louder than words, and in this incident, the double standard, the hatred, and prejudice is screaming.

Having spent three quarters of my adult life working in restaurants, I can tell you that I find the accusations against Herman Cain difficult to believe. Not that sexual harassment doesn’t occur in the restaurant industry, because it does. Rather, because the industry has no shortage of itinerant and attractive young women who would be more than happy to indulge Mr. Cain in whatever peccadilloes he might have. If Mr. Cain were prone to using his position to coerce women into sexual favors, which is exactly what Ms. Bialek is accusing him of, I cannot imagine that there would not be women coming out of the woodwork with stories of his antics. Frankly, he wouldn’t have even needed to use coercion. For a man of power and influence seeking to find willing partners, the restaurant industry would be the equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel.

Instead of credible, demonstrably true charges, what we have is a handful of women coming out with specifically non specific accusations of “sexual harassment”. And the problem is, there seems to be no way for Mr. Cain to escape the attacks. It’s like being asked “Mr. Smith, are you still beating your wife?” and you respond that you’ve never laid a hand on her but the headline the next day shouts “Mr. Smith says he’s no longer beating his wife.” The accusation alone is enough. Enabled by a pliant media, these women have been able to detour, if not derail, a promising political campaign.

Who might benefit from this? Primarily two groups: The left (read Democrats) and Washington insiders of both parties.

The left does not like Herman Cain for two reasons. The first is because he’s an unabashed believer in American exceptionalism. At the end of the day he believes that a man in America has the opportunity to succeed through his own efforts, regardless of their background or demographic characteristics. The second reason they don’t like him is that he has the temerity to believe those things while being black.

That latter bit is what really makes the Democrats nervous. The fact that Herman Cain is a black conservative who is a vociferous opponent of the entitlement state creates a potential fatal crack in one of their core constituencies, blacks. Blacks make up about 13% of the population and they vote Democrat in excess of 90% of the time – 96% of blacks voted for Barack Obama. To put that in perspective, if a candidate needs 50% of the total vote to claim victory and they automatically get 90% of the black vote, they already have 11% of their 50% right there. That means that of the remaining 87% of the population, said candidate need only attract 39% of the vote. That’s a pretty good deal for Democrats.

Herman Cain puts that math in jeopardy. By demonstrating that a black man can succeed in the United States without depending on affirmative action, without being a ward of the state, without being an agitator for redistribution of wealth, he shatters the myth propagated by the left that blacks are victims and cannot succeed without government help. Once they recognize that, that 90% Democratic foundation begins to crumble.

The veracity of this fact can be seen in the way that the left treats Cain. “He’s a black man who knows his place” or he needs to “Get off the symbolic crack pipe”. They are trying to demonstrate that he is not an authentic black, his story is an aberration and that his success is not the kind of success that other blacks can aspire to or expect from themselves or their families.

Therefore, his candidacy must be destroyed. It must not be allowed to succeed because if he were to convince even 20% of blacks to vote for him, President Obama and much of the Democratic machine would be toast. A Democrat party without its most reliable constituency would crumble.

At the same time, political insiders on both sides of the isle dislike Cain for a completely different reason. He seeks to upset their Washington metro apple cart. You know, the one that has the highest income level in the United States. The one that has the power to set the rules for the rest of the country.

The Herman Cain candidacy is potentially Armageddon for those people. As a conservative, Cain believes that the government should be limited to doing only those things it is constitutionally empowered to do, rather than all the things politicians and bureaucrats want to do. As such, he would likely clean house. He would likely slash, if not eliminate, major elements of the government bureaucracy, particularly in the areas of education and energy as well as environmental and corporate regulation.

To understand why this scares insiders so much, imagine the impact of his 999 plan. By streamlining and simplifying the tax code, by eliminating most exemptions, he would immediately gut the number of accountants America needs, as well as making tens of thousands of IRS employees redundant. That proposal alone would immediately save Americans’ hundreds of billions of dollars in accounting costs. Thousands of accountants and IRS types would have to find productive jobs elsewhere. Now imagine that same level of efficiency brought to the Departments of Education, Energy, HUD and HHS.

Simply put, Herman Cain is an outsider to the Washington insider cabal. That cabal, which includes bureaucrats, lobbyists and politicians of both parties, is shaking in its boots. The prospect of a businessman not accustomed to the built in inefficiencies, the go along to get along mentality that permeates Washington, scares those people to death. Unfortunately for them, Cain worries about the effects of government employees and regulation on the American people and the American economy, not the other way around.

His goal is to remove the yoke of government from the backs of the American entrepreneur so that prosperity can return. If you are a lobbying firm who collects hundreds of millions of dollars a year to influence government, you don’t want to see someone elected who might sink your ship. Same thing if you’re a bureaucrat living in Mclean Virginia and making $150,000 a year with rock solid job security. Same if you are a politician who sits on a committee that gives you power over 10% of the American economy. If you are part of that yoke on the neck of the American people, you don’t want to see Cain get elected and would do whatever is necessary to make it not so.

Herman Cain’s unorthodox candidacy and his outsider perspective presents a sufficient threat to both Democrats and Washington insiders that they will do whatever they must in order to get him out of the race. For the Democrats it’s their party, for the insiders it’s their power and privilege and for both it’s their basic survival. At the root, there are literally trillions of dollars are at stake. Every day we read about the most heinous of crimes being committed for far lower stakes, so why then does it seem so farfetched that this just might be an orchestrated hit job to sink the Cain campaign? Maybe it’s not so farfetched after all.

Many already know all these facts but it’s well presented and well worth the watch: (h/t The Other McCain)

Click here to view the embedded video.

Nice Deb brings up some courageous conservative black females who are bucking the tradition of those brainwashed into believing the Democrat party is where blacks should be.

Then you have another black conservative who just so happens to be running for President. It takes real courage for anyone to break out of the Democrat straitjacket to face the bias and double-standards.

Take for example the sexual harassment charges against him….my how the rules of changed:

Arkansas Governor Bill Clinton allegedly trolled for women, using state troopers as his procurers. As president, Clinton engaged in oral sex with Monica Lewinsky in the Oval Office. He lied about it under oath and was impeached, though later acquitted by the U.S. Senate. Other sexual accusations tainted Clinton, including one that he raped one Juanita Broaddrick. That “everybody lies about sex” and “it was just sex” and didn’t affect his public responsibilities, were just two of the exculpatory statements from Clinton’s Democratic defenders. James Carville slimed Paula Jones, one of Clinton’s accusers, by saying you never know what you’ll find “when you drag a hundred-dollar bill through a trailer park.”

Many other Democrats in modern times have been caught with their pants down — JFK, John Edwards. Some paid a political price. Most did not because their policies were favored by the liberal media, which gave them cover.

Conservatives point out who the real racists are, and many in the media don’t like it one bit.

Click here to view the embedded video.

If President Bush had marched, and spoke to, the KKK there would be hell to pay…and rightly so.

When then candidate Obama marched with, and spoke to, another hate group called the New Panther Party we get crickets instead. The MSM and the Democrat Party all ignore it.

New photographs obtained exclusively by BigGovernment.com reveal that Barack Obama appeared and marched with members of the New Black Panther Party as he campaigned for president in Selma, Alabama in March 2007.

The photographs, captured from a Flickr photo-sharing account before it was scrubbed, are the latest evidence of the mainstream media’s failure to examine Obama’s extremist ties and radical roots.

In addition, the new images raise questions about the possible motives of the Obama administration in its infamous decision to drop the prosecution of the Panthers for voter intimidation.

The images, presented below, also renew doubts about the transparency of the White House’s guest logs–in particular, whether Panther National Chief Malik Zulu Shabazz is the same “Malik Shabazz” listed among the Obama administration’s early visitors.

Later, Malik Shabazz would reminisce about the march with Obama:

Click here to view the embedded video.

Question: What is it that he said either in Selma, Alabama or that you’ve seen him say recently that particularly pleased you?

Shabazz: Well when he was in Selma, when he spoke at the black church there and he was able to again draw out of the tenets of black liberation theology. Because he was teaching about the story of [inaudible - Jesus?] and Moses and Pharaoh and the children of Israel and the Pharaoh as it is written in the Torah or the Old Testament. And he was drawing the comparison to the struggle for justice through slavery here in America and comparing us to the children of Israel. And so I knew that he had a…a based in some sound theology that is rooted in our community. And at that point I knew that he…he understood what was going on.

The New Black Panther party admitted to walking with Obama as they raised black power salutes, and even said that Malik Shabazz spoke with our future President.

This is the same group that admired and supported Osama bin-Laden, the same group whose leader (prior to Malik Shabazz taking the reins) told its members to kill white people:

We kill the women. We kill the babies, we kill the blind. We kill the cripples. We kill them all. We kill the faggot. We kill the lesbian… When you get through killing them all, go to the goddamn graveyard and dig up the grave and kill them a-goddamn-gain because they didn’t die hard enough.

And once Malik Shabazz took over the reins he said:

“You want freedom? You gonna have to kill some crackers! You gonna have to kill some of their babies!”

This is the group President Obama marched with, the group he spoke to, and the group he supported.

And those weren’t the only racists he mingled with, and learned from

Click here to view the embedded video.

Any wonder his Department of Justice refused to prosecute the racists inside the New Black Panther party for voter intimidation?

We Are Proud Of Our Dark Horse

A Black Liberal cyber friend wrote in commentary, “the GOP will never nominate a Black”. This is a profound statement and I am sure he thinks it is the truth and it may well be, but I have heard many Conservatives on talk radio express the opposite opinion.

Let me start by saying Conservatives and Republicans may swim in the same pond, but since Reagan, there have been some major differences. A Republican will consider a Conservative part of the GOP, but many Conservatives are looking at the profligate and capitulating behavior of leading GOP members in Washington with indignation, while wondering if their voices are heard and if they may as well be whispering to a typhoon. Consequently, with resignation, many Conservatives only consider themselves Republicans by default.

I liked Cain the first time I heard him speak on the radio, almost two years ago. I knew he was a Black by the sound of his deep commanding voice, but the color of his hide wasn’t important to me; he was a man with a message and I liked the message. No, Obama hasn’t soured me toward Blacks as leaders, but I will never trust an undocumented teleprompter reader again during my time on earth, regardless of pigmentation.

Herman Cain is a Conservative and understands the machinations of business from the bottom up. If you have read of his techniques in turning companies around, you will realize this is a man who isn’t too proud to work next to the lowest employee in order to learn the nature of a company from the bottom up.

He could have easily been an elitist and ridden around in a limousine, hiring capable people and demanding results, but he is a man of the people, a man with humility. A leader with humility will have a greater chance of pulling our country together and uniting us under common goals. Electing another polarizing personality will only increase this festering animosity in America. Our last three presidents have all been polarizing leaders and each has managed to out perform his predecessor in this counter productive ability that causes Americans to dislike each other.

There is a long way to go in the nomination process, but Cain doesn’t seem to get a fair shake from the media. He is there and still in the race; the others are displaying their true natures and Cain may still have a chance, even though he is in the back of the pack. The cards are being played and I will back the winner, but I still like Cain.

He receives no visible support from Black America and the Congressional Black Caucus is only trivializing itself by insulting him and other Black Conservatives. Yet, they may be hastening their own premature demise; since, we may see America’s greatest Black leaders emerge as Conservatives. The formula is there for the right man and if it happens, the Democrat Party’s suffocating hold on the neck of Black America will be over. Potential Black leaders, who are ready to pick up the reins of traditional Liberalism stand a hundred deep, but Black Conservatives have a different message, a message offering an alternative to collective entitlement based on race.

Men like Cain and West (not a candidate) stand as inspirations to all Americans, not just Black Americans. When ‘they’ speak of “my people,” no Americans need to feel excluded, except by their own devices and choices. These men inspire faith with their undoubted loyalty to this great country, and yes, they will not hesitate to tell you of the greatness of this country and of the opportunities available to all Americans. This is exactly the type of leader that will be needed if we are to bring America together once again. Some of the other candidates may have those qualities, many Republicans and some intrepid Democrats stand poised to make the decision on who will win the Republican nomination, thanks to open primaries: we can only hope they will use the Buckley parable and nominate the Conservative that stands the best chance of being elected, but also a nominee that can unite our great country once again.

It is for certain, Obama is not the great unifier he was promoted as being by our corrupt and despicable MSM, an organization that little more than a propaganda bureau for the Democrat Party and Obama.

The next GOP candidate should be the type of Conservative that can inspire people with oratory and be a strong diplomat that commands respect, a diplomat that allies and enemies feel obliged to respect.

To be blunt, no one respects a man who begins his presidency by bowing and apologizing to strongmen and dictators around the world.

Cain is a great speaker, he doesn’t need a teleprompter on each side to engage an audience and no one thinks of him as a wimp. He deserves a closer look.

But since there is a black President, he gets a pass.

Unhappy members of the Congressional Black Caucus “probably would be marching on the White House” if Obama were not president, according to CBC Chairman Rep. Emanuel Cleaver (D-Mo.).

“If [former President] Bill Clinton had been in the White House and had failed to address this problem, we probably would be marching on the White House,” Cleaver told “The Miami Herald” in comments published Sunday. “There is a less-volatile reaction in the CBC because nobody wants to do anything that would empower the people who hate the president.”

They’re angry at Obama so they target the Tea Party:

Rather than targeting Obama’s leadership, many CBC members aimed their fire at the Tea Party movement over the summer’s congressional recess. Waters said in a public meeting in her district that the Tea Party “can go straight to hell.” Another member, Rep. Frederica Wilson (D-Fla.), called the Tea Party “the real enemy” seeking to hold Congress “hostage.”

Rep. Allen West(R-FL) threatened to leave the CBC over vicious outbursts from some of its members:

Rep. Allen West (R-Fla.), the only Republican member of the CBC and also a member of the Tea Party Caucus, objected to hostile language used by members targeting the Tea Party movement and threatened to leave the caucus unless Cleaver condemned remarks made by other members. West singled out comments from Rep. André Carson (D-Ind.), the CBC’s whip, who said that Tea Party-affiliated members of Congress see African-Americans as “second-class citizens” and would be happy to see them “hanging from a tree.”

But this part caught my eye above all:

Cleaver acknowledged that some of the things members of his caucus say might not be in the best interests of the “aggressive agenda” he said he is seeking to develop as chairman.

“Maxine Waters represents central Los Angeles first and she has to represent her constituents first and she’s going to say things in order to represent them,” he said.

“…she has to represent her constituents first and she’s going to say things in order to represent them.”

Holy Sol Alinsky!

This is a both a remarkable and depressing statement. Is this to say that black people on those district won’t vote for someone who doesn’t hate white people?

Instigating racial hatred appears to be the path to getting re-elected for many members of the CBC. One expects this kind of thing from Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. One would hope that those serving in the Congress of the United States would be above such sordid behavior.

But one would be wrong.

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.