A Tale of Two Women

During the Nineteenth-Century, not all encounters between whites and reds on the High Plains were violent. 


From Fort Lincoln, Dakota Territory, Libbie Custer (left, with husband, George) recalled an incident when Running Antelope and several other braves visited in her home one day.

While he spoke, lifting his graceful hands toward Heaven in appeal, one of my husband's birds that was uncaged floated down and alighted on the venerable warrior's head. It had been so petted, no ordinary movement startled the little thing. It maintained its poise, spreading its wings to keep its balance, as the Indian moved his head in gesture. The orator saw that the faces of the Indians showed signs of humor, but he was ignorant of what amused them. His inquiring eyes saw no solution in the general's, for, fearing to disconcert him, General Custer controlled every muscle in his face. Finally the bird whirled up to his favorite resting-place on the horn of the buffalo head, and the warrior understood the unusual sight of a smile from his people.

Not all women were so gracious and sensitive as Libbie. During a peace council with the Kiowa and Southern Cheyenne at Fort Larned, Kansas, several westering wives decided to get a closer look. Wrote one observer:

These Indians . . . all sat in a circle, silently smoking, with the interpreter, a half-breed woman, Celestia Adams. . . . Several officers were seated in the circle. One of the women from among the traveling caravans seated herself next to Celestia, in spite of the latter's whispered remonstrances, and when the pipe of peace was passed around to each individual in the circle, she took a whiff herself, to the surprised consternation of her husband and the indignant chiefs. But it was done, and after asking Celestia to tell them to "come again," she withdrew from the circle.

The head chief, noted those present, "was insulted, and frowned with a malignant eye at the fun-loving white squaw."

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Photo of the Day

Where the Coyotes Howl

Since I was thoroughly fried earlier this week, guess we had a great time in western Kansas last weekend.

After a six hour drive Friday, we spoke in tiny Atwood, Kansas, at the Aberdeen Restaurant. This beautiful building that must date back to the 1880's is being restored to former opulence by our good friends, Jeff and Alice Hill. There is a really cool saloon attached to the dining room as well. The forty or so in attendance seemed to enjoy the talk but it was Deb's hillbilly anecdotes that drew the most laughter. That night we stayed with the Hills at their Beaver Creek Ranch nestled among the cactus and yucca and coyotes.

Over bourbon, Jeff noted that he had seen several mountain lions on his place, including one so close (ten yards) that there is absolutely no mistaking the fact. Our host also has seen, of all things, several elk, which now seem to be roaming western Kansas again. Porcupines, too.

Saturday, after Jeff gave us a tour of Beaver Creek Valley, which included an adobe still inhabited, we took in two performances of the film, Bloody Dawn, at the refurbished Jayhawk Theater downtown. Despite a sparsely populated region, the matinee was nearly packed. The evening show was packed. What great and energetic organizers are the folks in Rawlins County, Kansas!

As a sidebar, the parents of former governor, Mike Hayden, were at our Friday night talk. Easy to see where Mike got his smarts and tenacity. Though getting on in years, these parents were something. In the first issue of our magazine, Deb did an article on the Governor and his stint in Vietnam. This issue sells for $50 and we only have a few left. Still, this was a no-brainer and we gladly gave the couple a copy.

In sum, the folks out there in Atwood and northwest Kansas are some of the most decent and hospitable people on the face of the planet. For nearly 48 hours we felt as if we were surrounded by nothing but family and friends. Must admit, sitting here right now: A part of me remains out there on those high, dry plains "where the coyotes howl and the wind is free."

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Future Car of the Day 
 

 

Stone Cold

A handsome young baseball coach who is killed by a line drive in Arkansas. Two young workers fall a thousand feet to their deaths from the tower near Topeka. An elevator worker here in town who slips and literally drowns in a mountain of grain. An old woman in Virginia who is attacked and eaten by pit bulls. The Brazilian who is swallowed whole by an anaconda. Teens dying on amusement rides. . .

No one really wants to die, but no one wants to die in pointless ways like the people above. There are good ways to die and there are bad ways to die. There is something unworthy, or shameful, or unjust, or unfair, or just not right to die after being beaned in a baseball game. Or how about the relatives of that man swallowed by the snake? What do they talk about at the funeral? Hmmm! No one wants their obituary to read: Elmer Fudd, 56, died at home yesterday after choking on a chicken bone. These sort of deaths negate an entire lifetime simply because an odd or ridiculous demise sticks; it is the last, lingering thing we remember of the victim. No matter how much was accomplished, no matter how many good deeds done, the grand culmination of years and years of living is: He had his head chopped off by a helicopter blade. That will be the last mortal act of the deceased and the first thing remembered about a person: He tripped and fell into a vat of acid.
 
The way I definitely don't want to go? "Poor Tom . . . he died of rectal cancer." Or "Poor Tom . . . a piece of space junk fell and hit him square in the skull!" Or "Poor Tom, ha, ha, ha. . . . And, to think, he was a vegetarian, and to be killed like he was . . . smashed flat by a meat wagon as he crossed a Wendy's parking lot!"

No, if we must go down then let us go "in our sleep," or just via a simple heart attack, or please, just with normal lung or brain cancer. Better still, let a man go down doing something grand, something heroic: Like dying while saving a bus full of nuns as the runaway vehicle is about to careen over a cliff, or while rescuing caged animals at a burning pet store, or in a gunfight after killing all three muggers attempting to rob and rape a woman. Now those are deaths I can live . . . rather, those are deaths I can die with. 

Necro-nut that she is, coward and selfish person that I know her to be, Deb's dream death, I'm sure, is to simply drop dead in a grave yard w/o saving anyone, preferably at the cemetery in Richmond where all those rebels are buried, or the one overlooking Plymouth in Massachusetts, or the one in Metarie, Louisiana, or Selma, Alabama, or Hank's grave in Montgomery, or, if she's really lucky, she'd love to catch the A Train in the Père-Lachaise in Paris. Death could be scripted no better for Deb.

My dream death: To just drop stone cold while I am walking along the banks of the Kaw by myself. If I miss the river and fail to fall in and am not flushed away to the Gulf of Mexico, that's okay too, just as long as my body is never found. I will fertilize the tree I fall near, or provide food for some scavenging animals, will be no fuss or bother to anyone, and I will save Deb about 10K in funeral expenses.

Final note: A year or so ago, a guy was killed in Kansas City in a fight over a woman. Where? The Wild West Saloon. No kidding! Poor devil. But you gotta love his sense of history!

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Future bike of the Day

July the 5th

Here in Kansas, just like in any other semi-civilized state . . . fireworks cannot be sold after July 4th. Well, a long time ago, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, Dad and I were on the slow road to Topeka. To get to the Capital City, the old man would often eschew the highways and choose this tiny gravel road that snaked over, around, under, and through a remote backwoods area known on the ridges above and beyond as Dog Holler. The denizens within call it Greenwood Valley. This jumble of woods, bluffs and valleys was as close as Kansas could get to the "land that time forgot." Won't say all folks who lived in Dog Holler were bad, ignorant, poor, or vicious, but many of those I knew WERE. Some lived in trailers, shacks and cabins and at least two families allowed chickens and pigs to come and go as they pleased, courtesy of torn screen doors.

Any way, there was one family in particular living out there who met most of the above criteria. I know 'cause my Dad visited the place at least once in his duty as a moonlighting TV repairman. The issue of this crew, a bucktoothed buck of a hillbilly about my age, was big and dumb as an ox, but not without a modicum of ambition, it seems. One hot summer he got it into his thick rock that he could get rich quick by selling fireworks to other Dog Hollerites. Sounded good in theory, I suppose, but. . . .

Now, there could not have been more than ten cars pass daily on that hilly, rocky, narrow, broken down, poor excuse of a road, even on its busiest heyday. But I guess the brilliant plan went something like this: Build it . . . and they'll come. So, the family dragged an old shed or chicken coop right up to the edge of the road, knocked out a hole facing the road, put a chair inside, stocked the mess with fireworks, then sat back and waited for the crowds to arrive.

On the day in question, July the Fifth, Nineteen Fifty-something, Dad and I rattled along the dusty gravel road and approached this crew's almost-hidden cabin. Suddenly, Dad and I were startled to see a white streak racing through the leaves and tree limbs, dashing straight for the fireworks stand. It was quite literally just a white blur. As we passed slowly by the hovel, we saw this backwoods capitalist, shoeless, shirtless, sitting with his feet propped up on the counter, arms crossed, and a satisfied smile spread across his face as though he had been there all day and business was brisk.

I guess this poor fool was so fretful about eating his loss that he was willing to risk even a state fine just to get rid of a little of it. For all I know, he's still there in his shack, trying to unload all that inventory. Even years later, at each retelling of this "July the Fifth" story, my Dad laughed till he cried.