Roy
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Well it has been a while since we have told any stories around here, and this is one I posted a few years back. Some of you may remember it, some may not, but there are quite a few who have never seen it, so I am posting it again to say thanks to all of you for your comraderie and friendship on this day.
Is this a true story? Well - read and judge for yourself. I was there and it is true to me!
One November night - round about Thanksgiving, my cousin Rusty's family and mine were out hunting coyotes and pi?on in the Bookcliffs. The day was long over, Mom had cleaned out the dutch oven and Dad had turned the generator off for the night and the only light was the moon and dying embers of the fire. Rusty and I sat around it fantasizing about the deer and elk we would kill in the future and watching the embers burn out one by one when we heard some coyotes yelping about a mile or so away. The moon was full and with about eight inches of new snow you could see just as plain as day. The night was clear - not a cloud in the sky and wind was just right so we decided to just take a walk and see if we could sneak up and get us a dog or two by the moonlight.
So off we started, walking down the ridge in pursuit of the howling critters and dreams of an amazing story ? we just didn't know how amazing it would get. We hadn't walked but about half a mile out of camp when we thought we heard the unfamiliar sound of drums and singing. Puzzled, we looked and each other and wondered if we could hear someone?s radio echoing through the draw on a crystal clear winter night. Curiously, over the top of it we could still hear the coyotes and we were getting closer. Sneaking carefully, we topped a small rise and saw the glow of a campfire in the middle of the flat. Expecting to see someone else?s camp and their rig where the music was coming from, we were astonished when we noticed it wasn?t the normal camp of any wood gatherer or coyote hunter. There were no vehicles around, just a small group of mustangs tethered with leather strings to a main line. On their flanks I thought I could make out what looked like a brand but I noticed that each one was unique and something about them seemed to beckon from a forgotten past. My focus shifted to the movement around the fire as my eyes adjusted to the light and the steady rhythm of the drums pounded in my ears. I tried to make out the words of the song, but the language was a distant mournful cry, centuries old but forgotten and misunderstood like the howl of the coyote. I could see them beating on thin drums and surrounding the fire were nine Ute Indians all dressed out in full headdresses and ceremonial buckskins with brightly colored war paint covering their faces. Nearby they had set up six lodges and smoke drifted slowly in the dark from each one of them, reaching up into the deep November sky. They were dancing and singing around the fire, and their shadows bounced angrily off the lodges, beckoning to the ghosts of a lost people and a bygone era. I think it was me, but it could have been Rusty who wondered out loud the words ?What the?? and our cover was blown. Sensing the presence of intruders, one of the big warriors saw us stared directly at as. I could see the light of the campfire flicker in his eyes and I felt my throat go dry. He turned directly towards us and let out a bloodcurdling scream, picked up his bow and lance and came running after us. Rusty was already about fifteen steps ahead of me and in my clumsy haste to get the hell out of there, I fell down twice before I really got up to speed. I had about a seventy-five yard head start but the Ute warrior was closing quickly and I could hear his moccasins crunching in the snow behind me. I looked in head of me and from out of nowhere there was one hot on Rusty's tail too. We ran toward each other - dodging branches and leaping sage brush like track stars. Our only hope was to get to the wash - if we could reach it we knew we could jump off into the soft dirt and crawl under the brush where we could hide or get away somehow. My lungs were burning and I could taste a hint of blood on the back of my tongue and my feet felt like bricks but I kept on running. I could see my breath bellow out in big puffs in the moonlight and I thought my lungs would burst. In my ears I could hear my heartbeat to the rhythmic sound of the drums fading in the distance. Fifty more yards and I would make it to the wash. All of a sudden, about ten yards from the edge of the wash we heard the crack of a gunshot - and the scream of one of the warriors - the one behind Rusty. I immediately fell to my stomach and dove into a patch of buckbrush for cover but not before I watched the Ute behind Rusty crumple in a heap behind a clearing in the brush. As he rolled over I could see a smear of blood on the snow. At the sound of the gun the warrior behind me heeled up and I saw him crouch in the brush not ten feet from me - I held my breath - waiting for a safe moment to move and for an answer to the prayer that had began shortly after I heard the drums. I knew that he knew where I was but I held still, trying not to quiver and hiding the best I could. After what seemed like an hour, finally the warrior stood up and yelled - shaking his lance to where the gunshot had came from. He ran across the flat towards the tree line on the ridge behind us where the rest of the warriors were waiting on horses. I watched him jump on the back of a black mare with the quickness and agility of a mountain lion. The warriors circled together momentarily as if discussing their next move and then began to file slowly over the ridge top. Just before they crossed over, the one who had chased me turned his horse around his horse around and ran directly at back to me but pulled up at the edge of the clearing and yelled another war cry shaking his lance in the air. The anxious black mare danced in a circle as the brave held back his charge, then he turned her and sprinted off joining, the other warriors who had already disappeared into the trees. Frozen with terror I barely dared to breathe but somehow I slowly went to where the warrior had stood and yelled to see if Rusty was alright. I reached the spot but to my amazement I saw only one set of track in the snow ? only mine. There was nothing where the warrior had stood - no trace of him ever being there at all. I ran over to Rusty he was searching in the brush for something, the dead Ute that had been chasing him. Slowly now, I made my way to where the warrior had fallen but the snow there was undisturbed also, the crimson patch of blood I had clearly seen on the new fallen snow was gone. There was no sign of a struggle or tracks of any kind, nothing at all except one lone eagle feather. I picked it up and we mutually contemplated it in silence for a moment but looking over our shoulders back to the ridge, we decided to head back to camp as fast as we had come. Not daring say a word to anyone we crawled into our bunks as quietly as we could. Neither one of us slept a wink the rest of the night. The next morning we went back out by the fire and our courage had somewhat returned. We decided to take a little hike back to where we saw the fire and heard the drums. The day was clear and bright - cold and no knew snow. We followed our tracks from the night before to the draw were we had seen the teepees and the camp but the flat was undisturbed - no marks in the snow at all. The only tracks we found there were that of three coyotes, probably the ones we had heard to begin with. We followed our tracks to where the chase ended too. I found where I had fallen in the snow and where I had laid in the buck brush and cringed at how little cover it offered. Again, no tracks or sign of the Utes at all could be found. The sparsely covered side of the ridge where they rode their ponies was also barren of tracks too. On the opposite edge of the flat, we went to the place the big warrior had last looked, to a small opening in the trees at where he shook his lance. There, we found one set of boot prints, and near the tracks one spent cartridge from a .30-30 on top of the snow. Rusty picked it up and we immediately both recognized the special marking on the side of the cartridge that only our Grandpa's re-loader made. You could still smell the sweet aroma of burnt powder. Incredulously we stared at each other for a minute and nervously walked back to camp. We decided we had had enough dog hunting so we loaded up the wood and convinced our Dads to head back to town a day early. When we got there we stopped by Grandma's house for a quick visit to see how she was doing. We forgot though that she had went back to Kansas to spend her first Thanksgiving without Grandpa at her sister?s house. The house was locked but we knew where the key was so we helped ourselves and went inside. Right there by the door, just as they had for forty-seven years (minus the eight months since his death) sat Grandpa's boots. We knew though that Grandma had shoved them deep in the closet because she never really liked them there anyway, and she didn't want them reminding her of him. We picked them up and sure enough, the treads matched the tracks we saw at the edge of the draw. We walked into the den and opened Grandpa's gun cabinet seeking his old .30-30. It was there, seemingly untouched since the day Uncle Fred had cleaned it a week after the funeral. Again we caught the smell of fresh gunpowder and the oil was smeared just above the lever. The full box of shells that we had helped Grandpa reload last Christmas was opened and was missing just one shell - the one that Rusty had in his pocket. Dumbfounded, we walked out of the house in a stupor. We didn't say a word; we both knew where we had to go. We headed to the cemetery to Grandpa's grave. We cleared the snow around the headstone and each said our silent thanks. Rusty placed the spent cartridge at the foot of the stone and I placed the eagle feather on top of it. A chill wind rushed through us at that moment and somewhere in the distance a coyote yelped and we swore that for a moment we could hear the beating of drums. Maybe so, or maybe it was just our hearts, pulsating rhythmically in our ears with the howl of the wind in the pines. Thanks TA - we owe you one!
Copyright - GAO 1999.
UTROY
Proverbs 21:19 (why I hunt!)
Is this a true story? Well - read and judge for yourself. I was there and it is true to me!
One November night - round about Thanksgiving, my cousin Rusty's family and mine were out hunting coyotes and pi?on in the Bookcliffs. The day was long over, Mom had cleaned out the dutch oven and Dad had turned the generator off for the night and the only light was the moon and dying embers of the fire. Rusty and I sat around it fantasizing about the deer and elk we would kill in the future and watching the embers burn out one by one when we heard some coyotes yelping about a mile or so away. The moon was full and with about eight inches of new snow you could see just as plain as day. The night was clear - not a cloud in the sky and wind was just right so we decided to just take a walk and see if we could sneak up and get us a dog or two by the moonlight.
So off we started, walking down the ridge in pursuit of the howling critters and dreams of an amazing story ? we just didn't know how amazing it would get. We hadn't walked but about half a mile out of camp when we thought we heard the unfamiliar sound of drums and singing. Puzzled, we looked and each other and wondered if we could hear someone?s radio echoing through the draw on a crystal clear winter night. Curiously, over the top of it we could still hear the coyotes and we were getting closer. Sneaking carefully, we topped a small rise and saw the glow of a campfire in the middle of the flat. Expecting to see someone else?s camp and their rig where the music was coming from, we were astonished when we noticed it wasn?t the normal camp of any wood gatherer or coyote hunter. There were no vehicles around, just a small group of mustangs tethered with leather strings to a main line. On their flanks I thought I could make out what looked like a brand but I noticed that each one was unique and something about them seemed to beckon from a forgotten past. My focus shifted to the movement around the fire as my eyes adjusted to the light and the steady rhythm of the drums pounded in my ears. I tried to make out the words of the song, but the language was a distant mournful cry, centuries old but forgotten and misunderstood like the howl of the coyote. I could see them beating on thin drums and surrounding the fire were nine Ute Indians all dressed out in full headdresses and ceremonial buckskins with brightly colored war paint covering their faces. Nearby they had set up six lodges and smoke drifted slowly in the dark from each one of them, reaching up into the deep November sky. They were dancing and singing around the fire, and their shadows bounced angrily off the lodges, beckoning to the ghosts of a lost people and a bygone era. I think it was me, but it could have been Rusty who wondered out loud the words ?What the?? and our cover was blown. Sensing the presence of intruders, one of the big warriors saw us stared directly at as. I could see the light of the campfire flicker in his eyes and I felt my throat go dry. He turned directly towards us and let out a bloodcurdling scream, picked up his bow and lance and came running after us. Rusty was already about fifteen steps ahead of me and in my clumsy haste to get the hell out of there, I fell down twice before I really got up to speed. I had about a seventy-five yard head start but the Ute warrior was closing quickly and I could hear his moccasins crunching in the snow behind me. I looked in head of me and from out of nowhere there was one hot on Rusty's tail too. We ran toward each other - dodging branches and leaping sage brush like track stars. Our only hope was to get to the wash - if we could reach it we knew we could jump off into the soft dirt and crawl under the brush where we could hide or get away somehow. My lungs were burning and I could taste a hint of blood on the back of my tongue and my feet felt like bricks but I kept on running. I could see my breath bellow out in big puffs in the moonlight and I thought my lungs would burst. In my ears I could hear my heartbeat to the rhythmic sound of the drums fading in the distance. Fifty more yards and I would make it to the wash. All of a sudden, about ten yards from the edge of the wash we heard the crack of a gunshot - and the scream of one of the warriors - the one behind Rusty. I immediately fell to my stomach and dove into a patch of buckbrush for cover but not before I watched the Ute behind Rusty crumple in a heap behind a clearing in the brush. As he rolled over I could see a smear of blood on the snow. At the sound of the gun the warrior behind me heeled up and I saw him crouch in the brush not ten feet from me - I held my breath - waiting for a safe moment to move and for an answer to the prayer that had began shortly after I heard the drums. I knew that he knew where I was but I held still, trying not to quiver and hiding the best I could. After what seemed like an hour, finally the warrior stood up and yelled - shaking his lance to where the gunshot had came from. He ran across the flat towards the tree line on the ridge behind us where the rest of the warriors were waiting on horses. I watched him jump on the back of a black mare with the quickness and agility of a mountain lion. The warriors circled together momentarily as if discussing their next move and then began to file slowly over the ridge top. Just before they crossed over, the one who had chased me turned his horse around his horse around and ran directly at back to me but pulled up at the edge of the clearing and yelled another war cry shaking his lance in the air. The anxious black mare danced in a circle as the brave held back his charge, then he turned her and sprinted off joining, the other warriors who had already disappeared into the trees. Frozen with terror I barely dared to breathe but somehow I slowly went to where the warrior had stood and yelled to see if Rusty was alright. I reached the spot but to my amazement I saw only one set of track in the snow ? only mine. There was nothing where the warrior had stood - no trace of him ever being there at all. I ran over to Rusty he was searching in the brush for something, the dead Ute that had been chasing him. Slowly now, I made my way to where the warrior had fallen but the snow there was undisturbed also, the crimson patch of blood I had clearly seen on the new fallen snow was gone. There was no sign of a struggle or tracks of any kind, nothing at all except one lone eagle feather. I picked it up and we mutually contemplated it in silence for a moment but looking over our shoulders back to the ridge, we decided to head back to camp as fast as we had come. Not daring say a word to anyone we crawled into our bunks as quietly as we could. Neither one of us slept a wink the rest of the night. The next morning we went back out by the fire and our courage had somewhat returned. We decided to take a little hike back to where we saw the fire and heard the drums. The day was clear and bright - cold and no knew snow. We followed our tracks from the night before to the draw were we had seen the teepees and the camp but the flat was undisturbed - no marks in the snow at all. The only tracks we found there were that of three coyotes, probably the ones we had heard to begin with. We followed our tracks to where the chase ended too. I found where I had fallen in the snow and where I had laid in the buck brush and cringed at how little cover it offered. Again, no tracks or sign of the Utes at all could be found. The sparsely covered side of the ridge where they rode their ponies was also barren of tracks too. On the opposite edge of the flat, we went to the place the big warrior had last looked, to a small opening in the trees at where he shook his lance. There, we found one set of boot prints, and near the tracks one spent cartridge from a .30-30 on top of the snow. Rusty picked it up and we immediately both recognized the special marking on the side of the cartridge that only our Grandpa's re-loader made. You could still smell the sweet aroma of burnt powder. Incredulously we stared at each other for a minute and nervously walked back to camp. We decided we had had enough dog hunting so we loaded up the wood and convinced our Dads to head back to town a day early. When we got there we stopped by Grandma's house for a quick visit to see how she was doing. We forgot though that she had went back to Kansas to spend her first Thanksgiving without Grandpa at her sister?s house. The house was locked but we knew where the key was so we helped ourselves and went inside. Right there by the door, just as they had for forty-seven years (minus the eight months since his death) sat Grandpa's boots. We knew though that Grandma had shoved them deep in the closet because she never really liked them there anyway, and she didn't want them reminding her of him. We picked them up and sure enough, the treads matched the tracks we saw at the edge of the draw. We walked into the den and opened Grandpa's gun cabinet seeking his old .30-30. It was there, seemingly untouched since the day Uncle Fred had cleaned it a week after the funeral. Again we caught the smell of fresh gunpowder and the oil was smeared just above the lever. The full box of shells that we had helped Grandpa reload last Christmas was opened and was missing just one shell - the one that Rusty had in his pocket. Dumbfounded, we walked out of the house in a stupor. We didn't say a word; we both knew where we had to go. We headed to the cemetery to Grandpa's grave. We cleared the snow around the headstone and each said our silent thanks. Rusty placed the spent cartridge at the foot of the stone and I placed the eagle feather on top of it. A chill wind rushed through us at that moment and somewhere in the distance a coyote yelped and we swore that for a moment we could hear the beating of drums. Maybe so, or maybe it was just our hearts, pulsating rhythmically in our ears with the howl of the wind in the pines. Thanks TA - we owe you one!
Copyright - GAO 1999.
UTROY
Proverbs 21:19 (why I hunt!)
