The Mountain Knows Your Name

“It’s a job,” he muttered, “a dirty, rotten, Goddamn shameful job,” he spit, sending a brown ball of tobacco encased saliva splatting against a flat rock. “I have a wife…a family. A man has to do what a man has to do!” Grizzly whinnied and shook her head, laughing as her rider tried to convince himself he wasn’t a hypocrite. Jim and Grizzly had been riding together for some time now and her disapproval was not lost on him. They met on these same trails that fateful day Jim encountered a grizzly; he lost three fingers, but that bear lost his life. It wasn’t something he wanted to do, killing that bear, and he sure as hell didn’t want to haul its heavy ass home with a mangled arm. As he expressed his emotions through a flurry of profanities and kicks to the dead bear, a shy palomino poked her head out from the woods and shook her head in judgment. The two have been inseparable ever since.

Grizzly introduced him to his wife. “Made a damn fool of me, is what she did,” Jim would chuckle when he’d tell the story. He’d been out riding when his horse, his best friend, suddenly went wild, bucked him straight to the ground, and took off. She returned with the most striking woman Jim had ever seen. A smirk stretched her face and as she laughed at him magic danced, like thunderclouds, in her eyes. Her name was Judith of the Wailaki Nation and, for reasons he never understood, she saw as much magic in his fiery Irish eyes as he saw in her dancing thunderclouds. She called him “Ch’ahal Too,” or, in English, when she’d find amusement in his temper, “Frog Water.”

He tried not to think about her while he was on the job — this damn dirty job tainted everything he loved. “The worst Indian Hunter ever!” His bosses lamented. “He sympathizes too much with the Indians,” they’d complain. “Fuck ‘em,” he said out loud and spit again. He got the job because he was a Ranger back home in Texas. “A damn good one too,” he’d tell folks, “But, turns out I’m an even better Cowboy,” he’d wink. He got a gig driving cattle on the Sedalia trail up to Missouri, “Until that Goddamn tiff between the yanks in the north and them slave-owning bastards in the south broke out. Rebels,” he’d snort when he’d tell the story.

He came out west to get away from that tantrum. Stories of gold, plentiful land, and freedom tickled his ears. He quickly learned, however, nothing was different. Gold wasn’t for him, the land was harsh, and freedom was for folks who looked like him at the expense of those who looked like his wife. He’d leave, but he had a family to support. So, he took this Goddamn job hunting Indians in the name of “protection.” “Protection my Irish Ass!'' he cried to the wind as he was prone to do. Grizzly listened, but she’d heard it all before. So had the wind, for that matter, but they were kind enough to listen again. He pulled Grizzly to a stop as he thought about the Act for the Government and Protection of Indians, the whole reason this job existed. “Bunch of fancy legal talk for slavery,” he spit.

He looked out across the land they were now calling California: the mountain tops, valleys, crevices, and unknown. He wasn’t from here, he knew that. Not just because he wasn’t born here, or because all pale faces, like him, weren’t from here, but something else he couldn’t name. He let out a sigh as he twisted his face and squinted at the sun, “We’re just guests of any land. Here, we’re brand new guests…” he shook his head, “You’d think we’d act better.” Yet, there he was, hunting the original people of this land.

Cattle had a rough year and Judy had another bun in the oven. Indian hunting wasn’t honorable work, but it put a few extra scraps on the table. He mostly just rode the trails, looked the other way, and sold bits of false information he’d “scouted” while hunting, back to the boss man. Today, however, he was dispatched for a special pick-up and transfer job that he was none too pleased about.

“Just go to old Vasbill’s barn on Dead Indian Ridge. Package will be waiting. Pick it up, take it over the ridge, through the valley, hand it off to the agents at Saraville. And don’t be dilly-dallying along like you do,” his boss barked. “This one expires if left alone too long.” His eyes took on a harsh twinkle, “Just think of it like the cattle you use to run in Missera.” Jim cringed and fought the urge to kill the man. “I need this job,” he told himself, though he hated it with a fiery passion that burned like no other. He thought about “dilly-dallying” as his boss called it, and he thought about not going to Vasbill’s barn at all. “Fuck ‘em,” he spit, “Maybe I’ll just ride off into that sunset and quit. Fuck ‘em twice!” He started to turn Grizzly around when a long harsh scream that sounded like “STOP!” pierced through the air. Jim and Grizzly were startled as a barn owl came in for a landing.

“It’s broad daylight,'' Jim muttered as the owl perched on a nearby log and twisted its ghostly white head upside down into its chest. Straightening out his head the owl screeched again, looked Jim in his face, and made a softer purring noise. Jim remembered Judith telling him stories of the owl. He didn’t remember all the details, but he knew he should listen. “This must be important to drag you out in the middle of the day. Stop staring at me you feather-bellied bastard, out with it.” The owl spread his wings wide, let out a scream, and took off straight for Jim's face before flying up and out towards Vasbill’s barn. “Goddamn it!” Jim hollered. “Guess we’re doing our damn job today Grizz!” But Grizzly was already running and they were already on their way. They would do the job, the last job Jim decided, but he would do it his way. “Fuck ‘em three times over straight to purgatory,” he spit as they made their way with newfound urgency.

As he rode he began to fear the worst: Agents were glorified Indian slave runners, and Vasbill was a well-known Indian slave trader. Jim’s job normally consisted of finding Indians in need of protection or who broke the law. Where they went he didn’t know, because, “Damn it, ya know I just can’t find any,'' he'd shrug to his bosses while offering his made-up scouting information. Now, he feared they were taken to Vasbill’s to be transported to salacious agents. His blood boiled and his white skin turned fever red as he screamed at the pale full moon. Above him, the owl screamed back.

Jim rode through the night and he noticed the owl was no longer above him. “Must be watching over the package.” His face twisted with the word as he spit. He shook his head, “People. They’re Goddamn people and NO man has the right to own another.” He growled, riding faster. “You do your job Feather Belly and watch over those people. I’mma comin' to do mine. Not the job they hired me to do, I’mma do that one all wrong,” he grinned. “With the fury of God himself by my side I’mma do that job so wrong I’ll do it damn right!” He took a swig of whiskey, gave Grizzly a kick, and together they hollered into the night guided by something stronger than the whiskey and older than the moon itself.

He got to the Vasbill property just before dawn. The mountain air was still and densely covered in autumn fog. Jim knew the Vasbills were at some fancy-ass big to-do back east and most the ranch hands and cowboys were on a cattle run, but things felt hauntingly quiet. He slowly made his way to the gate as a ghostly face peered through the fog and that familiar high-pitched screech cut through the silence. “Hello old friend,” Jim whispered as he pushed open the gate. He knew the way to the barn but he followed the owl anyway, his eyes scanning through the fog and ears searching for any sound. All was quiet though and no one was around. Just Jim, Grizzly, and the screaming owl, but even the owl had clammed up.

The barn loomed through the thick ethereal fog. “I ain’t ever seen an uglier barn,” Jim thought to himself, “Even the Devil himself wouldn’t dance in that thing.” There was nothing particularly offensive about the barn, it was basic, big, brown, and boring. Jim spit, “Damn Vasbill sons of bitches,” and he took a moment before dismounting Grizzly. Up to this point, he’d been fueled by rage — able to think about what he was doing as a mission and the people he was about to save as abstract blurs in a heroic story he wrote for himself. As he stared at that God-forsakenly ugly barn the realization that behind those bland brown doors there wasn’t a mission or anonymous faces, but people he might know. People who might be his own relatives through Judith. His heart froze as the thought that, maybe, even Judith, herself, was in there. “This isn’t a mission and I’m no Goddamn hero,” he said softly. “I’m just a guest in a land I don’t belong to.” The owl screamed Jim out of his thoughts and he jumped off Grizzly, “And it’s time to pay rent.”

Jim pushed open the ugly barn door. Twenty eyes stared up at him, twenty arms bound so tight that tiny fingers turned purple, and twenty ankles, constricted by miniature shackles, were chained to that ugly barn floor. Ten gagged mouths tried to scream as ten small bodies cowered back into the shadows as much as they could when they saw him. Jim’s heart sank into the pits of Hell itself. “Kids…Goddamn babies,” he whispered, choking back tears that quickly dried into a volcanic rage. Both the tears and the rage had to wait though. The last thing these kids needed to see was another angry white man.

“Nsh’ong Sh-kee-ye’,” he stammered. Judith had taught him a little Wailaki and this was a greeting he remembered. “Damn it! I shoulda paid more attention,” he cursed softly to himself. He needed to get these kids to trust him and he knew that wouldn’t come easy. “Hell, I don’t want it to,” he whispered, fighting back the rage. He repeated the stuttered greeting, but the children shrunk further away. Jim sighed, not sure what to try next. He looked up to the barn rafters and that ear-piercing scream, that had come to bring him comfort, answered back. The owl flew from the rafters and landed between Jim and the kids. It twisted its chalk-white face and purred towards the kids. Jim dropped down to one knee as the owl twisted towards him and let out another purr.

“Jim,” he patted his chest softly. Skeptical but curious, the kids scooted out from under the shadows one by one. Jim dropped his other knee, “English?” he hoped. The oldest-looking child, a little girl of no more than eight, nodded her head slowly. Jim smiled and nodded back. “I’m going to come to you and take that thing outta your mouth, ok?” His eyebrows arched as he acted out the words he was saying. The little girl nodded and Jim slowly walked towards her, “I’m not going to hurt you. I want you to tell the others that too, ok?” She nodded again as he took the bandanna out of her mouth. She didn’t scream. She stretched her face, took a big breath, and stared at him with big thundercloud eyes.

“Can you tell 'em I don’t want to hurt you? I’m going to undo your hands, ok? But I’m gonna need my knife. Tell ‘em it’s for the ties, please.” Jim was not normally a particularly kind or nice man, but he knew a delicate situation when he saw one, and he thanked God Judith taught him how to be soft.

The little girl nodded and began translating. He said a silent prayer that she wasn’t telling them all to kill him, but understood if she was. “Now, can you tell 'em that after I free your hands, I’m gonna unlock the shackles.” He pointed to the key around his neck, standard Indian Hunter issue it unlocked all the shackles, even tiny ones. “And together, you and me kid, we’re gonna do the same for all our friends here, ok? Tell ‘em that please.” The little girl eyed him suspiciously as she spoke to the others. He said another silent prayer, slowly pulled his knife out, and gently cut through the ropes, careful to avoid the girl’s tiny arms. When her arms were free she began shaking life back into them as Jim unlocked her shackles, “Please don’t run, quite yet.”

Once free the little girl did not run. She looked toward the pale-faced man who had eyes like her favorite frog-catching pond, “Jim?” She pointed at him and he nodded. She patted her chest, “Morning Night Bird,” her face scrunched and she shook her head, “Mmm, Morning Owl? I think is the way you would say it in your language,” she shrugged. “But, I don’t know you. You don’t get to call me anything.” Jim smiled, “Fair enough. Ya know how to use this?” he pointed to his knife. The girl lowered her eyelids, sucked in her chubby cheeks, blew them back out, and nodded. “Good. I’m gonna give ya this knife, ok? And while I unlock the shackles, you cut the ropes, ok?” She nodded and Jim handed her the knife, once more, saying a silent prayer she wouldn’t kill him, but understood if she did.

Together they untied and unshackled the kids while the owl circled in and out of the barn keeping watch. The children didn’t run away when they were free, they ran towards each other and hugged. When the last kid joined the group Jim turned to them, “Do you know the way home?” The little girl nodded confidently. “Are you sure?” Jim asked. Morning Owl stared straight through his soul and raised an eyebrow. Jim suppressed a smile and nodded. “Good.” He crouched eye level with her, all humor gone. “Then you run. You run as fast as you can, as careful as you can. Anyone who looks like me? You hide and you stay quiet! You hear me?” he growled as his blood boiled thinking about who they might encounter. “I’d go with you,” he looked at the floor then back up, “Hell, maybe I should.”

She put her hand up and stopped him. Pointing to the owl, she shrugged, “First two nights bad white men would come to the barn…” she trailed off. “The pale-faced night bird came to us on the third night and wouldn't let them in anymore. Last night, he let you in.” Her tiny shoulders raised as her hands went out, “While we worked to free my cousins his screams became louder…” she trailed off as her face twisted and her mind worked to translate the right words “...the bad men are on their way back. You need to go your way and you need to go soon.”

Jim nodded. His job was done and, even though it went against every fiber in his body, it was time for Morning Owl to do hers. He drew a deep breath and nodded towards the owl. “You just listen to Feather Belly, ok?” Morning Owl crunched her tiny face-up, “Feather belly?” Jim chuckled, “Feather,” he waved his arms, “Belly,” he rubbed his stomach. The little girl let out a tiny giggle as she told her friends, patting her little tummy. Jim was reminded that these were little kids and he choked back tears.

“Go on now! GET!” He growled, his face red from unshed tears and rage that had to wait. The kids jumped, eyes wide with a momentary fear that was quickly replaced with squeals and giggles. “YOU TOO! Pale face frog water!” The little girl tried her best to growl back. Jim chuckled at the sound of the familiar name but he tried to remain stern, “And be QUIET Goddamn it!” Morning Owl puffed up her chest, mocking him. In the last fit of giggles, the owl screamed and all joy left her face. She nodded at him, he nodded at her, and they parted ways. Her, leading nine other kids through lands that were encoded within their souls; forced to be quiet where they should be celebrating and hiding where they should be running and dancing. Jim’s face grew redder than a cattle prod as he gave Grizzly a kick and headed back to town.

When he entered the office his boss was madder than a wet hen. “All hopped up like a frog in a sock,” Jim chuckled. “Agents said they never got the package, Jim!” His boss screamed, an angry little vein dancing across his sweaty forehead threatening to take a life of its own. Jim shrugged, “Barn was empty, Hoss.” He thumbed the top of the boss man’s desk and peered up from under his hat. “Nothing but some hay and little shackles on the floor. Guess I dilly-dallied too much and the package just evaporated or something. Hell, I don’t know.”

The boss stared at him with eyes that reminded Jim of hard-boiled eggs. He was visibly shaking and that angry vein was out for blood. “You’re a terrrrific liar, Jim. But, so help me, you are a terrible embarrassment as an Indian Hunter…” He was spitting his words and Jim grinned as he interrupted him, “Can’t argue that at all.” He sucked in his cheeks and spat a chunk of dripping brown saliva on the desk. “I quit.” He threw down his badge, tipped his hat, and turned to leave. “You try and leave Jim…” the boss’s voice took a dark tone, “Well, that wouldn’t be a good idea son. You signed a contract,” his face dripped a smug smirk, “And that squaw of yours,” he chuckled, “Well, Jim, you know what I could and would do, let alone what I could charge others.”

The last thing Jim remembered was that smug fat face, licking his lips, talking about Judith. The world went dark and thunder echoed in his ears. When things came back into focus his boss lay bleeding from the gut like a stuck pig and squealing like one too. Jim walked over and slapped the greasy hog’s face. “You’ll live Bob… probably,” he shrugged. “Ya THINK about stepping foot on my land…” he twisted the knife wedged in his boss’ gut ever so slightly, “Your sorry overripe carcass will wish I left you to rot today,” he spewed from gritted teeth. In the distance, a familiar scream filled the air and Jim smiled. “I ain’t in charge, though.”

He got up, walked over to the window, and opened it wide. He walked back over to his boss, picking up his badge from the desk on his way. Crouching down he took the pudgy overindulged hand of his boss with one hand and pulled a knife from his boot with the other. “So, just in case ya don’t make it…” his frog water eyes flashed with thunder. Closer now, the owl screamed again and Jim smiled as he plunged his knife through his badge and into the boss man’s hand, pinning it to the wall. “So they know it was me,” he winked.

On his way out of town, Jim passed the sheriff. “Howdy Jim. Grizzly,” the Sheriff stopped and tipped his hat to the horse. Jim kept riding slowly without stopping, “Howdy Lance. Bob’s probably dead…. Ya know where to find me, but I wouldn’t come a’lookin.’ I’m quite fond of you.” Jim clicked his tongue, “Come on Grizz, let’s go home.”

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Grandpa closed the old handwritten book he held yet never turned a page and looked at his Granddaughter’s big frog water eyes. “Did that really happen, Grandpa?” Her four-year-old voice squeaked in awe. Grandpa shrugged and smiled. “Maybe some of it did, maybe some of it didn’t. But you know what Granddaughter?” He asked, over pronouncing the word as he leaned towards her, his eyes like thunderclouds dancing with secrets. “It’s our story. We can tell it any Goddamn way we want to,” he leaned back and laughed from the soul and she squealed in agreement. When the laughter faded he tucked her in and as he kissed her forehead he whispered, “Nsh’ong sh-kee-ye’ Little Ch’ahal Too.”