He felt the sharp prod of his Spanish style spurs as the tip of the fivestar swivel ripped through the thick, nearly indestructible seat of his pants and tore a piece out of his right buttock cheek as he dove ass over tea kettle into the thick undergrowth. Those new Levi brand, canvas pants with the copper riveted pockets he had bought in that little trading post a few days ago were not all they were cracked up to be. He remembered that miserly old man who sold them said, “Oh yeah, these britches’ll protect yer ass come hell ‘er high water. Nothin’ll tear em, rip em…hell, ya can’t even shoot a hole through em!”
Well, Bloke Rancid surmised that he would have to settle that score when he was done getting shut of these here injuns. That old man shouldn’t be misrepresentin stuff like that. “Maybe a good old fashioned Tennessee Hills beatin would teach im,” Bloke contemplated.
It had never really been defined, what a Tennessee Hills beating actually was, but Bloke recalled using that phrase many times over the years as he traveled from place to place. He recalled hiring on with that Mississippi barge company and working on the loading docks all along that river. There were many men who learned the hard way what a Tennessee Hills beating was and the name Bloke Rancid burned in their memories forever. Any number of reasons could account for that, from broken arms, cracked craniums, noses smashed over a man’s face, wired jaws, eyes gouged, and gonads broken beyond any country doctor’s ability to repair. That’s what it meant and Rancid’s reputation usually preceded him. He was well known, far and wide.
As Bloke Rancid huddled in his cocoon of thick undergrowth, he could see the Indians searching for him; their faces eerily blotched and streaked with war paint. The small group soon congregated around the place where Rancid squatted only a few minutes before. They examined the place where he had buried his duty with great care. The leader of the warring band had a puzzled look on his face. Bloke could hear the muffled conversation and understood nearly everything that passed between them.
He was appreciative of that winter he spent with that ole Blackfoot squaw shacked up on the edge of nowhere waiting for the cold season to pass. She taught him nearly the whole of the language and many other things about the tribal customs and ways of the Blackfeet. The one thing that stuck in his mind right now and had been eatin at him for the past few minutes was the sheer fact that these folks had a different way of viewing life than the white men. He knew that a formidable enemy was respected by these painted men, but that they would take great delight in killing that enemy at all costs and the painted man who did it would have songs and dances done in his honor for years to come.
Bloke loosened the pearl handled six shooter in its holster and pulled the thong off the hammer. “Damn, he thought, that there gouge in ma’ ass hurts like the dickens. Wish’t I’d ah taken off them spurs before squatten!” He felt the smooth handle of his pistol and a cloak of warm comfort settled over him. He had been in some tight spots over the years and that six-shooter had been his best friend and companion through it all.
He remembered well the day he took that gun off Skip Tallow, well known as the Bald Missouri Badman. Tallow was also well known for being fast with a gun. But he was most notorious for his shiny, bald head that he oiled with mutton tallow each morning. The bald badman soon learned that he was no match for Bloke’s iron fist that came crashing down on his hairless head thus causing the badman’s vertebrae to buckle in his lower neck and rendering his arms and legs useless. The badman lay on the sawdust floor of that nameless bar and groaned as Bloke removed the gun belt off the gunfighter’s waist.
“This beaut’ pearly handled pistol will be payment ‘enuf fer ma’ trouble of hav’n a sore hand for the next couple days! Bloke exclaimed as he brusquely removed the belt. Thet oughta teach ya that when the brawlin commences, ya shut yer mouth and fight! Ya don’t stand ther’ en chatter; ‘specially not with Bloke Rancid!” And thus also began the long and storied history of tough, brawlin men speaking their own names in third person…
As he crouched down, hunched low and out of sight of the murderous Indians, trying to forget the pain in his butt, he strained his ears to hear what they were saying. It seemed they were quite confused over the fact that this stupid pale face would take the time to bury his crap in Mother Earth. There appeared to be some conflict amongst the band, some wanting to leave this man alone and the others wanting to brutally kill him and take his hair. “Whatever pale faced fool would take the time to bury his crap in our Mother Earth deserves to die a quick death!” the leader of the band proclaimed. Many grunts of approval followed. But at least one fine young brave wanted to leave the man alone, feeling it was bad luck to send a man to the world of spirits so soon after he had relieved himself.
Suddenly Bloke Rancid’s left leg developed a Charlie-horse from all the squattin and hunchin. He screamed in agony and stood straight up and grabbed his leg. All worry of the murdering band of painted killers became secondary to his primal need to get the excruciating pain out of his leg. He pranced and danced around in a circle stamping his booted foot on the ground and screeching in agony. He pounded his fist into his leg, trying to reduce the huge knot that had now become the only focus of his attention while his other arm waived in the air much like the free hand of a rodeo buckin bronc rider.
The band of Indians dove for cover and looked out, witnessing the most unusual thing they had ever encountered. “What in Sam Hell is that nut doing? a grim looking warrior muttered to another. First we discover that idiot burying his duty in Mother Earth, and then he jumps from the bushes and does a war dance right in the face of death! He must be a great and brave warrior – something we have not seen amongst all the pale faces!”
Suddenly, the leader of the band lithely emerged from his position of concealment and approached the pain-crazed Rancid who was still screeching at the top of his lungs and stamping his foot. With his war club raised high above his head, his muscles rippling and his brown skin glistening in the early morning sun, he brought the club straight down on the dome of Bloke’s western-hatted head. A dull thud resonated through the lush forest and the echoes of screeching and yelling suddenly stopped as Blokes thick, bulky body slammed hard on Mother Earth. His left leg twitched for a few moments and then all was completely still and quiet. The only sound was a whippoorwill off in the distance sounding out his morning song and the ominous “caw, caw, caw!” of a crow whose tiny bird- brain was still sufficiently sized to know that death must come soon to that man laying in a twisted heap on the ground.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I. Steppin' In It
The small spring gurgled and vomited out its contents of cool clear water as it had done for centuries. The water splashed over the granite ledge and fanned out over the small plain below. The dry plain gulped and absorbed the water like a dry, parched animal kicking out its last breath of life. Small green tufts of grass grew here and there where the water flowed.
A lone coyote sauntered near the small spring seeking the life sustaining water as he had done since birth. The same as all his four legged cousins in the animal kingdom had done since the spring was first discovered by his mammalian ancestors a millennia long since past. The coyote pawed and scratched the ground making a furrow in the wet soil which caught the water thus making a puddle with which the dry throated beast could quench his thirst.
After lapping long at the water, the coyote walked to the edge of the greenery, hunched his back in a tight arch and excreted a large pile of brown dung. With a toothy, contented smile and his tongue wagging, he sauntered back into the wild.
A coyote’s brain cannot comprehend the laws of nature and the magnificent things that can occur as a result of one single act in the eternal circle of environmental occurrences. Not long after the coyote’s watering at the cool spring, a black bear came by, sniffed the coyote’s pile of dung, and then retraced his steps to the small furrow the coyote had made in the moist soil which had now become a burgeoning trench filled with cool, clear water. He drank from the trench, then, like the coyote, left his mark on that pristine society by squatting and leaving a pile right next to the coyote’s.
As the depths of water in the trench grew, pressure increased at the top end of the young trench, and like a child wanting to break the apron strings and broaden his horizons, the water pushed further down the furrow and away from its motherly genesis at the granite ledge. The growing trench reached the dung pile which, incidentally, sat atop a small knoll. The water split in its path and forked in nearly opposite directions.
After nearly a millennium, the forked furrow of water from the spring had been replenished time and again by spring runoff from melting snow. The wild torrents cascaded down the granite bluff and found an easy path in the now deep gorge created a thousand years before by the thirsty coyote. The small knoll, having collected thousands of pounds of soil building dung from animals, was now a very fertile island dotted with lush, dense green foliage.
And here we begin our story, the story of a legend, only a man in form, but one that had, in true evolutionary form, taken the characteristics of his environment, being rugged, dry, and crusty, but as lithe as a mountain goat, mean as a grizzly bear, keen and sharp as a badger, but not without at least some of the gentle sensitivities possessed by a nursing sow. And at this very moment, Bloke Rancid was, himself, squatting nearly right in the same spot the coyote had used nearly a thousand years before. Nature calls, even to the most brave and brawny of the western brawlers and brusque and smelly mountain men.
Rancid had perfected the art of squatting years before shortly after he left his father’s mountain cabin in the wilds of old Tennessee. He remembered the day well, that day the carpet bagger came calling. He was only 14 years old, but had already worked as hard as a man for nearly three of those harsh years. His muscles rippled under his buckskin shirt, the same shirt he made himself from an old buck he tracked for two days after shooting it with his homemade bow and arrows. The carpet bagger, proud and haughty, came with a deed to the Rancid place – the farm Great Grandpa, Jock Rancid, had carved out nearly a century before.
Bloke’s pappy sat pondering, being the thinking type, as he fidgeted and stewed over the carpet bagger’s claim to his land.
“Cain’t figgur this out, blast mah hide, how’n hell yah got claim to mah land. Mah pappy’s pappy settled right here nearly one hun’erd years ago!
As his pappy sat at the table with that damned carpet bagger, Bloke’s momma made herself busy at the stove fixin a side of pork with beans.
Bloke sat in the corner seething, methodically picking his teeth with the razor sharp end of his Arkansas toothpick. At fourteen, he was a daunting figure and had a reputation for having a short fuse and a wicked right jab that had already smashed and broken the jaws of more than one man. He was known as “One Punch Rancid” by the men at the bar in town. In this country, it was every man for himself and whatever women folk were nearby. The protection of women was learned very young if a man knew what was good for him.
Suddenly, Bloke came out of his chair. With a wild Tennessee yell, he grabbed the paper deed, wrapped it up tightly in his fist, and shoved all of it into the carpet bagger’s toothy mouth. Then grabbing the man’s long hair in his iron claws, he picked the man clean out of his seat and commenced slapping him with both sides of his free hand. Over and over, like a rockhard old hickory slab, Bloke’s open palm slammed into the carpet bagger’s face. Bones began to crack and within a short time, the man’s body was limp as Ma Rancid’s dish towel that hung, dangling over her cupboard door.
Bloke dropped the carpet bagger in a heap on the wooden floor, his head sounding like a ripe melon as it slammed onto the hard, slivery slabs. His face unrecognizable from the intense beating it had just endured.
“Well, well, sonny, Pa Rancid drawled, I reckon yah just killed off that thar carpet bag carry’en man. Yah know, son, yah’s goin to hav ta leave this place now! The law’ll be after yeh.”
And so that is how the last day of Bloke’s comfy, homespun, mother’s fresh cookin, warm and cozy lifestyle ended – at the age of fourteen. He surmised his departure from home was much like ole Father Adam’s was when he got hisself expelled from the Garden of Eden years ago, and now he had to make it on his own in this dreary, God forsaken land.
Now, years later, on this beautiful little island, squatting down to relieve himself, he had time to ponder. Looking out over the beautiful mountainous terrain he could see from the small island, he felt at peace as he took in the serenity of the high sierras and granite peaks he now travelled through. There was not a town in at least a week’s ride and all he had to worry about were a few roving bands of Blackfeet Indians that were rumored to be on the warpath.
Bloke Rancid was a caring man. He always dug a small hole to bury his duty in. He figured it should be the law of the land. Too many times, he had gotten up early in the mornin, walked into the forest to relieve himself, only to step in the mess of some less caring person or critter. He thought about forming a group of caring fellow humans who shared the same passion as him for duty burying – maybe he would call his group, the Sierra Club or something like that. He figured he ought to bring it up next time he rode into another big town. Surely there must be other humans as caring as him for the beauty of the land.
“Nobody should hav’ta worry ‘bout steppin in dung in these ‘er pristeen high sierras!” he exclaimed to himself.
He remembered years before when he had to beat hell out of a man who was not caring of his fellowmen. The man, drunk from an all night binge at the local bar, had stepped outside to relieve himself. The staggering drunk made it a few paces outside the bar, undid his gunbelt, pulled his pants to his knees, but did not negotiate the aim of his putrid duty as it piled in his left Mexican made, high heeled riding boot.
The man, still staggering drunk, reentered the saloon and took a position next to Bloke as he bellied up to the bar.
“A’ll hafff’ a swwwiggg e’ ginnn,” he demanded.
The smell of fresh human crap permeated the bar in less time than it took Bloke to say his last name. Acting on sheer animal instinct alone, he grabbed the man by the back of his head and slammed his face into the bar. The planed pine lumber gave way in a heave of splinters and kindling and the man’s forehead could be heard smashing whiskey bottles stored below the bar top.
“What a day that there was,” he thought to himself. Wonder whatever became of that uncaring drunk with the crap in his boot?” As he considered that, his strong arms and tough sinewy hands now methodically buried his duty and he patted the virgin soil as if he was worried it would stay put.
Suddenly, he heard the blood curdling war whoop that only a Blackfoot Indian on the warpath could make. As he quickly secured his gunbelt and tied it down low, an arrow whistled past the dome of his hatless cranium. Slamming his hat down on his head, he dove into the lush, thick foliage of the small island.
A lone coyote sauntered near the small spring seeking the life sustaining water as he had done since birth. The same as all his four legged cousins in the animal kingdom had done since the spring was first discovered by his mammalian ancestors a millennia long since past. The coyote pawed and scratched the ground making a furrow in the wet soil which caught the water thus making a puddle with which the dry throated beast could quench his thirst.
After lapping long at the water, the coyote walked to the edge of the greenery, hunched his back in a tight arch and excreted a large pile of brown dung. With a toothy, contented smile and his tongue wagging, he sauntered back into the wild.
A coyote’s brain cannot comprehend the laws of nature and the magnificent things that can occur as a result of one single act in the eternal circle of environmental occurrences. Not long after the coyote’s watering at the cool spring, a black bear came by, sniffed the coyote’s pile of dung, and then retraced his steps to the small furrow the coyote had made in the moist soil which had now become a burgeoning trench filled with cool, clear water. He drank from the trench, then, like the coyote, left his mark on that pristine society by squatting and leaving a pile right next to the coyote’s.
As the depths of water in the trench grew, pressure increased at the top end of the young trench, and like a child wanting to break the apron strings and broaden his horizons, the water pushed further down the furrow and away from its motherly genesis at the granite ledge. The growing trench reached the dung pile which, incidentally, sat atop a small knoll. The water split in its path and forked in nearly opposite directions.
After nearly a millennium, the forked furrow of water from the spring had been replenished time and again by spring runoff from melting snow. The wild torrents cascaded down the granite bluff and found an easy path in the now deep gorge created a thousand years before by the thirsty coyote. The small knoll, having collected thousands of pounds of soil building dung from animals, was now a very fertile island dotted with lush, dense green foliage.
And here we begin our story, the story of a legend, only a man in form, but one that had, in true evolutionary form, taken the characteristics of his environment, being rugged, dry, and crusty, but as lithe as a mountain goat, mean as a grizzly bear, keen and sharp as a badger, but not without at least some of the gentle sensitivities possessed by a nursing sow. And at this very moment, Bloke Rancid was, himself, squatting nearly right in the same spot the coyote had used nearly a thousand years before. Nature calls, even to the most brave and brawny of the western brawlers and brusque and smelly mountain men.
Rancid had perfected the art of squatting years before shortly after he left his father’s mountain cabin in the wilds of old Tennessee. He remembered the day well, that day the carpet bagger came calling. He was only 14 years old, but had already worked as hard as a man for nearly three of those harsh years. His muscles rippled under his buckskin shirt, the same shirt he made himself from an old buck he tracked for two days after shooting it with his homemade bow and arrows. The carpet bagger, proud and haughty, came with a deed to the Rancid place – the farm Great Grandpa, Jock Rancid, had carved out nearly a century before.
Bloke’s pappy sat pondering, being the thinking type, as he fidgeted and stewed over the carpet bagger’s claim to his land.
“Cain’t figgur this out, blast mah hide, how’n hell yah got claim to mah land. Mah pappy’s pappy settled right here nearly one hun’erd years ago!
As his pappy sat at the table with that damned carpet bagger, Bloke’s momma made herself busy at the stove fixin a side of pork with beans.
Bloke sat in the corner seething, methodically picking his teeth with the razor sharp end of his Arkansas toothpick. At fourteen, he was a daunting figure and had a reputation for having a short fuse and a wicked right jab that had already smashed and broken the jaws of more than one man. He was known as “One Punch Rancid” by the men at the bar in town. In this country, it was every man for himself and whatever women folk were nearby. The protection of women was learned very young if a man knew what was good for him.
Suddenly, Bloke came out of his chair. With a wild Tennessee yell, he grabbed the paper deed, wrapped it up tightly in his fist, and shoved all of it into the carpet bagger’s toothy mouth. Then grabbing the man’s long hair in his iron claws, he picked the man clean out of his seat and commenced slapping him with both sides of his free hand. Over and over, like a rockhard old hickory slab, Bloke’s open palm slammed into the carpet bagger’s face. Bones began to crack and within a short time, the man’s body was limp as Ma Rancid’s dish towel that hung, dangling over her cupboard door.
Bloke dropped the carpet bagger in a heap on the wooden floor, his head sounding like a ripe melon as it slammed onto the hard, slivery slabs. His face unrecognizable from the intense beating it had just endured.
“Well, well, sonny, Pa Rancid drawled, I reckon yah just killed off that thar carpet bag carry’en man. Yah know, son, yah’s goin to hav ta leave this place now! The law’ll be after yeh.”
And so that is how the last day of Bloke’s comfy, homespun, mother’s fresh cookin, warm and cozy lifestyle ended – at the age of fourteen. He surmised his departure from home was much like ole Father Adam’s was when he got hisself expelled from the Garden of Eden years ago, and now he had to make it on his own in this dreary, God forsaken land.
Now, years later, on this beautiful little island, squatting down to relieve himself, he had time to ponder. Looking out over the beautiful mountainous terrain he could see from the small island, he felt at peace as he took in the serenity of the high sierras and granite peaks he now travelled through. There was not a town in at least a week’s ride and all he had to worry about were a few roving bands of Blackfeet Indians that were rumored to be on the warpath.
Bloke Rancid was a caring man. He always dug a small hole to bury his duty in. He figured it should be the law of the land. Too many times, he had gotten up early in the mornin, walked into the forest to relieve himself, only to step in the mess of some less caring person or critter. He thought about forming a group of caring fellow humans who shared the same passion as him for duty burying – maybe he would call his group, the Sierra Club or something like that. He figured he ought to bring it up next time he rode into another big town. Surely there must be other humans as caring as him for the beauty of the land.
“Nobody should hav’ta worry ‘bout steppin in dung in these ‘er pristeen high sierras!” he exclaimed to himself.
He remembered years before when he had to beat hell out of a man who was not caring of his fellowmen. The man, drunk from an all night binge at the local bar, had stepped outside to relieve himself. The staggering drunk made it a few paces outside the bar, undid his gunbelt, pulled his pants to his knees, but did not negotiate the aim of his putrid duty as it piled in his left Mexican made, high heeled riding boot.
The man, still staggering drunk, reentered the saloon and took a position next to Bloke as he bellied up to the bar.
“A’ll hafff’ a swwwiggg e’ ginnn,” he demanded.
The smell of fresh human crap permeated the bar in less time than it took Bloke to say his last name. Acting on sheer animal instinct alone, he grabbed the man by the back of his head and slammed his face into the bar. The planed pine lumber gave way in a heave of splinters and kindling and the man’s forehead could be heard smashing whiskey bottles stored below the bar top.
“What a day that there was,” he thought to himself. Wonder whatever became of that uncaring drunk with the crap in his boot?” As he considered that, his strong arms and tough sinewy hands now methodically buried his duty and he patted the virgin soil as if he was worried it would stay put.
Suddenly, he heard the blood curdling war whoop that only a Blackfoot Indian on the warpath could make. As he quickly secured his gunbelt and tied it down low, an arrow whistled past the dome of his hatless cranium. Slamming his hat down on his head, he dove into the lush, thick foliage of the small island.
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