Mothers wedding gown went into the ground with one of the hired hands. If the dead made a favorable impression in life, the women of the Green River Valley lined rough caskets with the finest material available. Wedding dresses packed and protected across the Great Plains often lined the caskets of those who died on the frontier.
A pleasant, well-mannered Texan, about 26, Juan Olivas came to our ranch in Browns Park three months before the murder. A good hand with the horses, Father hired him to break broncs, and planned to let him stay the winter. He earned his keep.
Three strangers arrived in late fall, which meant chilly September in most of Northwest Colorado. But in Browns Park its often as much as 50 degrees warmer than the Yampa River Valley about 50 miles south near Maybell, Colorado, on the other side of Douglas Mountain or Rock Springs, Wyoming, about 50 miles northeast through Irish Canyon. We just get wind, and migrant ranch hands looking to work on the way south each autumn.
The strangers arrived in time for lunch. The aroma of sage, garlic and onion fried in chicken fat, mixed with elk broth, and the sound of Mother pounding tortillas, lured hands, Father and kids to the kitchen from anywhere in the Green River Valley.
Two of the men kicked back on rawhide-strip, aspen-framed chairs. The third leaned forward, elbows on the table, left foot in motion. Toe-forward, heel-up, the foot thumped on hard-packed dirt we called a floor. Mother said nothing about the elbows.
Sure smells good. Reminds me of home in Texas, said the elbow offender. You make these chairs and cushions?
No, Mac learned to make furniture even before he joined Lincolns Own Volunteers and learned to tan from the Utes when he came to Colorado Territory after the war, she said, compressing then stretching a pillow before putting it back on a chair and gliding back to the stove. My husband makes the furniture, and I make the pillows.
Theyre nothing but buckskin stuffed with milkweed floss, but theyre comfortable and almost make this camp look like a home, Mother said.
Lots of fellers probably passin through? Lots of fellas from Texas? His elbows remained on the table.
Now and then folks still follow Spanish Joes Trail through here. Mac and I, were always looking for news from the outside world, Mother said.
Does a feller named, whats that guys name, Vernon? Vernon shook his greasy beard. He scrunched his lips until the saliva in his mouth snapped.
His name was Juan Olivas. Thats it, said the elbow offender.
Oh, you know Juan?
Heard of him, he knew my brother.
Well hes a hand here. Mothers knife on potatoes, the thumping foot, the occasional whistle of the wind through the doorjambs highlighted pauses in conversation.
Been here all summer. Expect hes staying through the winter, if we can figure out a way to keep him on. No place better to winter than Browns Park.
I thought it was Browns Hole? He finally lifted his elbows from the table, using the back of his hand to wipe his nose.
I decided that was unsightly. They say Bible Back Brown, a French trapper, recommended the valley as a good place to hole up for the winter. Bible Back was right about the winter. But if indeed he was righteous, he would know a place named Browns Hole is no place to raise children. This is as beautiful as Central Park in New York City; Ive been there. We call it Browns Park, since I came to this country.
Mother had a way of taking charge. Uncle Stan, a confirmed bachelor, labeled Mother Snapn Sally because she was so slick with the whip while running the oxen. Here comes the first white squaw into these parts, and shes just a head higher than a fence post. And shes yelling Whoa and Gee as loud as any Kentucky skinner I ever heard, Fathers brother said over and over. A female bullwhacker. Mans freedom in this paradise is doomed.
Reckless, I had to show I knew my history too. I know some of the poem where the name Gates of Lodore comes from: The Cataract strong then plunges along, Striking and raging, As if a war waging&. I stepped to the middle of the room. The silence made me dizzy. Where was the dissonance of the potato peeling, the wind and the toe tapping? I hit the recitation that mother had been teaching to me: The Cataract of Lodore, a poem by Robert Southey. In 1813, Southey, who called himself Robert the Rhymer, was made Poet Laureate of England& He wrote the poem, and John Wesley Powell named the Canyon after the poem as his little boat was sucked into the roaring current. Some how they got through in little boats & so they got to name the canyon&
From its fountains in the mountains, Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, and dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing, And so never ending, but always descending, sound and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all oer, with a mighty uproar, And this way the Water comes down&At Lodore.
Im just trying to learn my history, I said bolting through the door, across the porch, and skidding on the dirt and gravel in front of the house. They clapped. I added: Ill call Pa and Harry and Perry&
I ducked into the barn to wonder why I have to make a fool of myself when new people are around. I stubbed my toe on an old pipe organ, while charging from light to dark through the barn door. Mother had a knack for getting stuff like that old organ shipped from out East. She put that together with her knack with horses. Several of her perfectly matched driving teams shipped by rail during the previous couple of years to buyers in the East. She kept account of the profits herself. Father never spoke much about it, though the money kept the cattle ranch going during lean times.
I curled up in the dust and straw and held my toe. As a child all Mother had to do was summon a slave to perform any task. The Civil War broke her life. She never spoke of going back. Instead she used what she learned in Virginia to create a new life, like her knowledge of horses. Mother adjusted.
I rubbed my finger through the dust on the pipe organ she shipped from Granddaddys plantation by train to the depot at Rock Springs as I steadied myself back on my feet. Father and my older brother settled us between the Gates of Lodore and Uncle Stans place at the base of Cold Spring Mountain. Whenever we had a little money, something came on the stage that ran from Rock Springs to the Uintah Valley in Utah every six weeks or so. Some of the antique pieces of furniture came by rail to the Rock Springs depot and Father hauled them home on the wagon road through Irish Canyon. After losing a wagon wheel under the weight of the pipe organ, Father said: Aint haulin no more furniture. He didnt.
I know it was 1882 because it was four years after the Southern Utes killed the Indian Agent Nathan Meeker over on the White River. I was nine. And Mother was still with us.
Meeker got what he deserved, trying to take away the Utes ponies the way he did. Mother said it was a shame about Meekers wife and daughter getting kidnapped and abused. Governor Pitkin said when the Utes left in 1881 after Chief Ourays trip to Washington to sign the treaty, there wouldnt be any more trouble on the Western Slope of Colorado.
Trouble seemed to stick to the country, though, like the din of the waters rushing through the Gates of Ladore stuck to the valley air.
A Millers moth attacked my head as I ran from the dark to light through the barn door, but I saw Juan saddling his roan. The three men sauntered to the corral. The barrel of Elbows rifle almost touched Juans lower back as he reached to hitch the bridle. The pop rushed off and mingled with the roar of the water and wind through Lodore Canyon. I could feel the blow to my stomach with the crack of the shot. But Juan grabbed his gut with his right hand and pulled a revolver from somewhere within the saddle with his left hand. Shaking, he dropped the .38 and staggered behind the chicken coop. Chickens clucked and flapped, but started to pick at the ground again as if nothing happened.
Momma, they shot Juan. No other words came to me; my mouth felt so dry and my tongue so swollen, my voice scared me as I ran to the house.
The bolt of the rifle we kept behind the kitchen door snapped as Mother cocked it. Her dark blue dress swished past me; I caught a glimpse of her brass buttons. Get in the house.
Mother swept behind the men before they could turn. The wind made it impossible to hear what she said, but the strangers threw down their Winchester rifles. I saw no need to get in the house. I might be needed from behind the chicken coop.
Mother marched the men to the puddle of blood where Juan still held his stomach. I hugged the soggy gray boards at the corner of the chicken coop. Why do chickens stink even when the wind should carrying off the stench?
That man killed my brother in Goodland, Kansas, the shooter said, kicking dust at Juan that disappeared in the wind. I trailed Juan Olivas for two years to kill him. Thats how we settle a score in Texas. His friends nodded.
Whos your brother? Mother shook, walleyed.
Duane Hanson.
Id seen Juans look before-on gut-shot elk. A man by that name married my sister, Juans voice gurgled. He beat her. He beat her over and over. I made damn sure he wasnt going to be beatin my sister no more. But I dont know these cowboys. I aint never seen none of you before.
I tell you what. Thats cowardly, I dont know what you all do in Texas, but up here in the Great Northwest, we dont sneak up and shoot people in the back, Mother said.
She leveled our Winchester, and hitched it under her chin. Now, move over there, she motioned toward the chicken coop. Line up facing the wall.
Wait a minute, M'am. Whatre you fixin to do?
Line up.
They lined up facing the rotten old boards and the chicken stink. The chickens picked and clucked, but made room for the strangers.
Lyla, you give Juan the .38, Mother said. I know youre hiding back there,
But Ma&
Dont But Ma me. Pick it up and put it in his hand.
Yes, M'am.
I put the .38 in Juans hand. Little red bubbles popped at his left nostril and the corner of his mouth. He smelled like pee. Juan arched his back and neck, and lifted the gun. The strangers kicked at the dirt and scratched themselves.
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, and dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing, And so never ending, but always descending, sound and motions forever and ever are blending, I thought.
Now Mr. Olivas, you can kill the one who shot you, or you can kill all three. Its up to you, Mother said.
Now wait a minute, M'am&
Dont you move, or Ill do the shooting.
Juan seemed to be busy examining the contents of his head. His eyes rolled to white. The thuds of his head and arm raised dust zapped into oblivion by the valley breeze. It seemed to suck everything into the Gates of Lodore and the canyon of roaring water and granite boulders behind. I tried to stop thinking of the poem: The Cataract strong then plunges along, Striking and raging, As if a war waging&
Father slid down the ridge between the bunkhouse and the barn on his heels. Harry bounced from the ridge top, springing to his feet on level ground after his butt hit the yellow sand slope. My brother, Perry, slid in behind, yelling: I went and got Pa when I heard a shot. I told some of the neighbors hands on the way back. Therell be more folks coming to help. Father and our neighbor, Harry, had been whipsawing lumber over a mile away. They did not hear the shot over the roar of Lodore.
Perry raced to the house as Father walked slowly toward Mother with his right hand raised. He eased the rifle from her shoulder, though her gaze remained locked, drawing a bead on the shooter. Perry came back with a shotgun and a .38 he handed to Harry.
Now hold on& Elbows started to say.
Hold on is right, Father said. Perry, you help Harry carry Juan inside.
O.K., Pa. Perry and Harry put down their weapons, and Mother followed them into the house.
Lyla, go help your mother tend to Juan and stay in there.
Yes, sir, I said. But I hid behind hay bales we used for a little corral where we children could practice breaking broncs on the backs of the ranch hands. Neighbors began to arrive as Perry ran from the house shouting: Hes dead. With Harry close behind they scooped up their weapons. Word spreads fast, and my brothers voice covered some ground. A group of the Two-Bar men no sooner arrived then they started the 100-mile ride to Craig, the county seat, to get the Justice of the Peace or sheriff or someone legal.
Well be back in the morning, Well bring three ropes, one said.
You might bring three coffins, too, said Harry.
We gettin a trial? I got something to say about this. He murdered my brother. Elbows rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
Yeah, youre getting a trial, said Father. Harry, why dont you see if the women need anything? I got these three.
Harry walked to the house, hollering something. Mother tried to calm him as she met him at the door. There will be justice, she said.
Now that Olivas is dead, aint no one in this valley gonna save them three, Harry said. Mother said: Dont worry. If I have to, Ill hang them myself.
I wondered if the strangers heard.
We gettin a lynchin anyway? Elbows asked.
Aint gonna be no lynchin. Father said.
He pushed back his hat and relaxed his grip on the rifle. Father studied the glint of snow on Cold Spring Mountain to his right. You all head over the barn and feed your horses. Well ride directly to Craig. Thats where the courthouse is. From where I knelt, he seemed to be a color cutout from a picture book, silhouetted against the steep black pyramids of Diamond Breaks, the jagged cliffs on the other side of the river that ushered the calm waters into the roar of Lodore. I dont know the rest of what Father said to the strangers, when he finally made his way to the barn. Too much wind and too much water echoed through the Gates.
Father told everyone the strangers got away. He never told Mother that he let them feed their horses in the barn before they fled; neither did I. Years later and still reluctant to talk, Father said, I didnt want your mother involved in a lynchin.
We never heard from the strangers again, but we got three good Winchesters.
Mother died a short time after that during the birth of my little sister. Mother was 34. Maybe we should have saved the wedding dress. We lined her casket with lace that Harrys wife brought from New York.
*~*~*~*~*
About the author...
Bill McCarthy has been the editor of business-to-business technology magazines, for Primedia Business and Penton since 1996. Prior to that he worked at the Northwest Colorado Daily Press in Craig, Colorado, and also in the Writing Across the Curriculum program at Steamboat Springs High School.
The poor economy on the Western Slope forced him back to the Front Range, where he worked at the Loveland Daily Reporter-Herald and Greeley Tribune while studying to be a history teacher.
Bill has a masters degree in history from the University of Northern Colorado. His thesis was on Big Ed Johnson, a Craig-Maybell area homesteader who became Colorados three-term governor and three-term senator and an important figure in Western politics from the Great Depression into the Cold War.
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Copyright © 2004 Bill McCarthy. All rights reserved.
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