Rollin Ridge
Sacramento and Yuma, California
Fall 1853
I
gripped my stomach. My liver suffered bilious complaints after drafting article after article covering the sightings and sudden disappearances of the notorious California thief, Joaquín Murieta. Some writers drank coffee, like Delano. Most newspapermen I knew sipped whiskey while drafting a story and drowned themselves in the bottle after ending it. It was the same with California politicians. Brandy loosened the tongue and made government men lose their stutter, so their lies flowed easier. My pay from following bandits and politicians kept me in cheap whiskey, although it ran this already poor newspaperman afoul. After gambling my lot, I doubled the morning’s hangover, tripling the previous night’s regrets.
To rob rich politicians and businessmen, Joaquín needed money and horses. These he could not get except by robbery and murder, and thus he became an outlaw and a bandit on the verge of his nineteenth year. He walked into the future, as a dark, determined criminal, and his proud nobility of soul existed only in memory.1 Armed to his teeth, on a quest for justice for his people, the iron in his fist merged too deeply into his soul for him to stop.2 Most said he was only fit to grace the gallows, for his merits certainly entitled him to such distinguished elevation.3
Sitting at the bar, I saw Joaquín’s face in my glass of brown liquor. Had Fate chosen not to send me to California, had my mother not kept so many secrets, I may have been the Joaquín Murieta of Cherokee Nation. If I hadn’t left, I might have masked my face, robbed Ross and brother Lewis, and returned so many stolen coins. They belonged to my people, after all. After the tragedy of the trail, the debt was owed to them, paid in full, with heartbroken tears from dispossession, disease, and death in the snow. Murieta’s motivation, like my own, was why I became so fascinated by the Mexican bandit’s Robin Hood schemes.
Sitting at the bar, I finished my drink and made my way through the dark saloon to the daylight to meet my editor. Colonel Grant lived in his shabby office above a restaurant. Newspapers from across the country stacked on his floor in tall piles, with the most recent on top of decade-old copies stuck to the hardwood floor. Sitting at his desk, he was boxed in by the news.
His desk wasn’t much more organized than the floor, with an overly full ashtray of cigar butts, small glasses, scrap receipts, correspondence, and submissions. The room smelled of molding paper and the tang of stale smoke.
Grant sat behind the desk and didn’t lift his head after hearing the ringing bell over his door. A single clock hung above him, left unwound forever. Every time I was in here, it read 8:52. Papa’s watch said it was past noon. I stood before him for more than a minute as he scribbled at the bottom of a page. His handwriting was unreadable to anyone other than the author.
I coughed. Colonel Grant made what I assumed to be his last mark, threw his pen on his desk, and leaned back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head.
“Ahh, Rollin, you’re a welcome sight, haven’t seen your face in a month. You still have that nobility about your eyes. I dare say, in your new suit, you’re the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. Bet you have no trouble attracting attention from every female you pass.” He gestured for me to sit. Before I could, I had to remove Grant’s characteristic white coat, several newspapers, and a case of the paste that he swore whitened the teeth. He might sell more if he used his own product.
I sat down, saying, “There’s only one I want, and she’s in Arkansas.”
In a hurry, Grant asked, shuffling papers on his desk, “Why did you come to see me today? I have places to be.”
He was a complex man to catch, so I took advantage of the opportunity. “I’d like to request an assignment, but I’d be away for a while. I want to begin a series. Maybe turn it into a novel. Bottom line is this. Joaquín Murieta’s been spotted in Yuma. I thought of aligning myself with the Indians nearby and tracking the bandit. I know what he looks like. Our readers might find vicarious adventure in ‘The Celebrated Life of Joaquín Murieta’. Just a working title.”
Grant said, “Write that down somewhere, ‘vicarious adventure’. You know, many have tried to get close to him.”
“Delano said once the man was most disguised when showing his genuine face.”4
“Aren’t we all,” he mumbled and reached out his hand for his coat. “It is a wild goose chase. Paper after paper say they know his hangouts between here and Mexico, but no one can nail him to one spot. If you heard he’s in Yuma, he’s long gone by now.” My hands shook while handing him his coat.
“You feelin’ okay?” he asked.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I put my trembling hand between my knees. “With your consent, I’d still like to try.”
“That’s right. I nearly forgot. You don’t look very native wearing that suit. Although that blade you wear is a dangerous reminder.”
I said, “To myself more than any other. If you give me your permission, I’ll post pieces every two weeks. I’ve got responsibilities. Who knows? I might follow James Cooper’s lead. Pen a novel.”
Grant headed for his door. “If you want to capture the real Joaquín, you need to show him you’d write him as more than an outlaw. Like Cooper, you’ll have to turn him into a hero on a quest to avenge his country’s wrongs—washing out the disgrace forced upon his people with the blood of their enemies.” He held the door open for me, implying he needed to go to some appointment or another. Impressed by his own turn of phrase, he said, “That’s good.” Then, he said, “Write that down.”
We left the office, ringing the bell again. I said, “I will. Thank you.”
He left me standing there alone as he walked down the street, shouting over his shoulder. “Every two weeks, Ridge. Don’t be late with those submissions, and don’t get scalped. Your wife might be upset if she shows up in California, and you’ve lost all that dashing hair of yours.”
I took a swig from the flask in my breast coat pocket. The tasteless whiskey no longer burned my throat but calmed the shakes, which returned if I didn’t imbibe. I was eager to change out of this suit, pack my belongings, and ride to Yuma. I threw my new black coat on the hotel bed, undid the tie at my neck, and let it fall. I left the cap off the whiskey bottle and grabbed paper and pen to write Lizzie and Mama.
Fiction was easier than lies. Clumps of paper cluttered the desk and the surrounding floor, with each draft decreasing the liquor in the bottle. Neither Mother nor Lizzie would condone such a journey, riding into a gang of thieves and murderers. Mother would fear I would become what my father hated—a dishonest man. Lizzie would say I chased the cattywampus, bound to lose my mind. Neither was entirely wrong, but Joaquín was no wildcat. He was a horseman, too. Still, I wasn’t so far gone as to be senseless. I chuckled to myself and thought how that was what all drunks believed.
I tipped another whiskey back with my scripted salutation and placed the empty cup beside the letter. I lied to them, saying I would not write this next month because I was in bed with stomach complaints. Not entirely a lie. I’d retched once tonight and surely would again before sunrise. I read over the deception. Such brevity seemed believable. So, I leaned back in my chair, deciding it was a waste of time to pour the whiskey into a glass, and finished the bottle’s contents straight from the source.
L
Southern California country was full of lawlessness and desperate men who bore the name of Americans but failed to support the honor and dignity of that title.5 Without jury trial or proper conviction, the sheriff and local townspeople offered: “$5,000 Reward for Joaquín Murieta.”6 The printer used his largest font for the declaration, “Dead or Alive.” I chuckled at the common phrase, knowing the law could only deliver him in one of those two states. Such a high dollar amount was likely propaganda. But, if the local citizenry wanted Joaquín’s head on a platter, they’d have to pay.
They posted flyers on every hitching post and postmaster board. The crude drawing underneath didn’t match the man’s face. The sheriff watched me ride in, hidden under my duster with my hat tipped low. I tied my horse to the post near the jail and climbed the stairs. The sheriff bent his head to examine my face. Then, he said to another man seated in an old weather-beaten chair, “Nope. Ain’t him.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Who’d you think I was?”
“That Mexican, Joaquín Murieta. Nope. Don’t look nothing like that renderin’.” He pointed at the wanted poster. “You’re not as dark as he is. But you’ve got the copper. You Indian?” After his question, he slapped the seated man’s chest, gathering his attention, before adding, “Better hold down our hats, deputy, or we might lose our scalps.”
Prejudices of color and the antipathy of races are stronger and more bitter than the ignorant and unlettered. It could not be overcome.7 White man wouldn’t change because it afforded them such a convenient excuse for cruelty. Telling them so only wasted my time.
Instead, I asked, “Do you think Murieta would turn himself in to collect his own reward?”
“Probably not.” He introduced himself. “I’m sheriff here in Yuma.” He gestured to the bored man next to him. “This here is my deputy. What you need, Indian?” He broke apart the words, tucked his chin low as to make his voice monotone, and stressed every syllable.
The sheriff was gullible, stupid, and not likely to catch the infamous bandit with only those qualities at his disposal. But rather than tell him of his asinine ignorance, I asked for his advice.
“You’ve seen Murieta? I’m Rollin Ridge, writer for the True Delta. I was told he made his presence known in Yuma earlier this week.”
The sheriff said, “Damn my eyes if I saw him. I was busy letting down a corpse. I hate a horse thief.”
There was a sentiment where we both could agree. I asked, “How’d you know he was here?”
“Follow me. I’ll show you.”
As the sheriff opened the door of his jail, I stepped out of his way. A rancid smell hit me. Had to be why the sheriff and his deputy sat outside. A drunkard repeatedly dry-heaved into a wooden bucket in one of the two holding cells. The sound of his hurling, the image of him throwing his head forward, doubled the putridity.
The sheriff quickly took a paper from his desk and passed me, stepping back to the porch. I followed, toward fresher air, while the sheriff reached around me, grabbed the door handle, and pulled it shut.
It wasn’t my place to say, but sympathy motivated me to speak up for the fellow sinner inside, heaving his humanity behind bars. I said, “Should let in some air. Get that prisoner some water.”
“We tried. Hurls it right back up. That’s why we’re out here. Giving him time to vomit his livers and sleep off the whiskey.”
“Ahh,” I said, reminded of how I had done the same after writing to Lizzie. It was the reason I left a day later than I intended. Shaking away memory’s burn of the bile in my throat, an aftermath accompanied by guilt, I returned my hat to my head and changed the subject. “So, Joaquín?”
“Look you, right here.” He handed me a copy of the flyer, wadded up and flattened again. This one wasn’t as brown and weathered as those hanging down the street. This paper was soft with oil stains on the corners where dirty hands had creased the page.
I asked, “What makes this one so special? A hundred more on the way here.”
The sheriff poked his finger toward the bottom of the page. He recited the tale as if he’d said it a thousand times. “On Monday, see, we’d had us a hanging, so there were plenty of people in town. But fewer than a dozen saw that young Mexican ride in. He got off his black horse and walked right up to it to investigate the wanted poster. Then, to beat it all, he took a pencil out of his vest pocket and scribbled on the bottom of the poster. Look. Right there.”
Underneath the “$5,000 Reward” the bandit wrote, “I will give $10,000. Sincerely, Joaquín.”8
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, no matter how much I pursed my lips.
“Man was bold enough to ride into town with his compadre, Three-Fingered Jack, double his reward, and ride back out before anyone figured it was him.”
“Did you and he,” and I pointed toward the deputy studying a stretch of empty road, “track Murieta and Three-Fingered Jack?”
“Got as far as the mineral springs on the Colorado. But there was no sight of them so, we turned back.”
I stepped down the stairs and untied my horse from the post when the sheriff lifted his voice. “You a bounty hunter? Going to track him for the reward?”
“I told you, I’m a newspaperman. I’d rather talk to him, write his story, and survive the encounter.”
“You’ll never find his camp. If you do, you’ll never get close enough without being sniped by one of his gang. Won’t see the shot that kills you. Guaranteed to meet your maker. Murieta will kill you for knowing where he buries his gold.”
Taking the reins, I put my boot in the stirrup and swung my leg over the saddle.
“Then, if I can find his hideout, I’ll ride in blindfolded.”
“How are you gonna see where you’re going?” he asked, assuming the same of me as I regarded him—an idiot. The lawman and I kept our opinions to ourselves.
“Horses have eyes,” I said, and turned my sorrel toward the Colorado.
L
I’d ridden an hour or more, following the river bends, anticipating the echoes of gunfire at every passing moment. Still, I heard not so much as a breath of wind careening between the bluffs. So, I dismounted on the river trail, now wide and straight, aged by time. My hands shook; my thigh muscles ached. Walk it off or down a bottle; either would cure my ills.
I dismounted near a makeshift cairn with dead fern bouquets and bound sticks placed underneath three towering rocks. Its shape struck me as unusual because it defied gravity, balanced on its thin base. When looked at it from the right angle, the boulders created the profile of a hunched old woman guarding the entrance to the cliffs nearby. My horse wandered, and I squatted at the foot of the formation, retrieving the flask from my pocket.
No sooner did I put its metal spout to my lips than I heard a voice from horseback speak above me. “This is a place to pray, not to drink.”
With the stranger’s interruption, I threaded the cap closed and raised myself from my squat on boot heels. I said, “Then I’ll be on my way.”
The young man steered his horse to scale the rock shelf beside the old woman. He was bare-chested and barefoot, with not much more covering him than his breechcloth. There was a single feather in his hair, which stretched halfway down his back. He swung his leg over his horse. “Didn’t you stop here to pray to her for a safe journey?” He gestured at the meager gifts already at the old woman’s feet. “Many before you have done so.”
I said, “My people’s Great Spirit stopped listening to me fourteen years ago.”
“But still you ride?” he questioned.
I turned my feet away from the late afternoon sun and looked east. I told the stranger, “Just in the wrong direction.”
He laughed. “Ahh, a funny man. He goes where he doesn’t want to go. If you no longer talk to your people’s spirits, how do you know which is the right direction?”
“The ghosts tell me.”
The Indian said, “How can you hear ghosts if you don’t pray?”
I looked away from his curious face, replying, “I manage.”
He knelt under the old woman’s feet and lowered his head for a silent moment. Then, ending his prayer, he looked me in the eye. “I have had dreams of a coming traveler. A selfish, lost man who saw too many choices and refused to decide. Stared to the east but couldn’t see. Dove through water but couldn’t feel. Dug in the ground but couldn’t find. He walked west on living land but listened to those who’d passed beyond. Couldn’t sing with the spirits. He hadn’t yet learned their songs.”
He touched the hard spot under my coat, where I’d hidden my flask. “This will take you West too soon. You won’t have liver enough to make it to dawn.”
“Are you a shaman? My sister sees beyond, although it was never a gift the Great Spirit granted me.”
“My people believe if I speak of my gift, our spirits will deny the power I have.”
“Shaman, your dreams are simple to predict. Most people are from the East, displaced miners looking for some other way to make money.”
“Is that what you’re looking for? Money? Gold? Ahh, I remember you now.” He gestured to the old woman. “She was in my dreams, too. Called you by an odd name—dalonige. You know such a word?”
His remark made me shudder, and I stepped backward from such a prophecy. In Cherokee, dalonige means yellow. Both awe and its antithesis stunned me. My mind whipped backward. Hearing my father call my Cherokee name, tousling my hair, smelling the earth and ink on his hands. I squinted so his vision might dissipate. I couldn’t allow myself to be so affected. Not now.
I said, “I’m looking for a gang led by a Mexican robber who rides beside a thick man with three fingers. Law’s chasing them. These bandits might stay away and leave horses grazing for long stretches. Seen anyone like that?”
“Some men, like those you speak of, build fires near Rock with a Crevice. The Old Ones walk the same trail. If you travel there, you must throw a stone on top of the cliff to honor them.”
Then, addressing the old woman again, he pulled wildflowers out of a satchel slung across his chest and added them to the gifts previously laid underneath her. He grabbed his horse’s reins to remount in one seamless dance. “Under the cliff, you’ll find what you seek. It is a powerful place. Let its strength pass over you, under you. It will turn back the yellow in your eyes. You will hear the Great Spirit’s stories again. Stay here tonight. Pray to the old woman. Tomorrow, she will lead you where you seek, if you are sober enough to listen.”
He rode up the path into a canyon and left me alone with my chaotic thoughts. I circled the holy formation to gather river driftwood and threw some grass at my horse. My temptation to down the flask’s contents remained constant. If I did, I’d numb the Yuma shaman’s words and Papa’s memory, swallowing both away. But the old woman’s eyes followed me, judged me.
And I was guilty. I punished myself. From its hiding place inside my vest pocket, I undid the cap on the flask and poured its contents into the dirt between my boots. My cure was gone, but the disease urged me to ride back into Yuma and visit one of its tiny saloons.
Inside my saddlebag, matches spilled from their casing, and I had to reach deep to remove a few. Pulling my hand free, Papa’s journal fell among the gifts left under the old woman’s altar. I retrieved it. Holding it in my hand, I knew that opening its green and gold binding meant I’d be forced to listen. Listening would anger me. Anger would make me turn back for Yuma, and I would solve nothing. I’d never find Joaquín if I was too drunk to look. I returned Papa’s journal to my saddlebag and hid it beside another clean shirt and sundry supplies.
Unable to sit still, feeling the need to occupy empty hands, I squatted and began stacking the found kindling for a fire, and lit the match on my boot.
After sunset, cold crept along the lowlands under foreboding rocks and sparse trees. From the ragged clouds, stars struggled to shine their dim light. The blanket around my shoulders didn’t ease the trembling. My head chased echoes, bounding, and retreating, that called my name. “Cheesquatalawny.” Perhaps it was the voice of Yuma’s old woman; maybe it was Papa’s.
I gathered Papa’s journal from my saddlebag. It was the only way to suffer the night, avoiding whiskey’s cure for insomnia. Midnight, with its dangers and troubles, would find me regardless, protected solely by the voice keeping watch at my flank.
In 1832, Papa changed his mind, standing beside the banks of the Potomac. After condemning removal to its most staunch advocate, he accepted that Cherokee’s survival depended on moving the people West. When he left the riverside that day, he dedicated his life to preparing a safe place for his people to begin again.
I read of Papa’s anger, recognizing my tones in his similar phrases. He wrote of Ross’ continued machinations in ‘33 and ‘34, his outrageous request of Congress for twenty million in removal money, and Congress’ expedient laughter, then of their outrage, and their final denial.10 Then Ross presented another ridiculous alternative, moving the Cherokee to Mexico.11 Papa said Ross’ pleas were those of a desperate man.
Papa’s uphill battle began by building the Treaty Party on a solid foundation, convincing many to support him as chief. Ross and his men delayed elections and shut down Elias’ free press. The problem was, many Cherokees who’d supported removal had already packed their families and traveled West, taking their votes with them.11 Ross’ authoritarian control over the people deterred any who might consider an alternative.
After closing Papa’s journal, I read a letter from Brigadier General Arbuckle to his commanding officer. In it, Arbuckle chronicled Ross’ attacks on the old settlers, friends of the Treaty Party. Arbuckle reported that duringd the Double Spring Council, Ross’ principal men planned Papa, Grandpa, and Elias’ executions. This general presented a substantial case that Ross’ hired guns were to blame.12
Everything I suspected was true. Everything I knew to be true became real. So, I pulled paper and ink from my saddlebag and wrote Stand.
I am tormented by the folks at home whenever I talk about returning to the nation. They urge me in their letters not to venture to Arkansas with my family. I am resolved to quiet their fears by providing for my family in this country, to place them above all want. Only then, I will be at liberty to follow the bend of my mind, leading me back to my people and returning to my country. It is only on my mother’s account that I have stayed away for so long. It was on her account that I did not go back in the spring of ‘50 and risk trial. I am not afraid to do so, provided my friends will back me. But let that be as it may. I intend someday, eventually, to plant my foot in the Cherokee Nation and stay there, too, or die. I would rather die than surrender my rights. You recollect there is a gap in Cherokee history that needs filling. Boudinot is dead, John Ridge and Major Ridge are dead, and are but partially avenged. I don’t know how you feel now, but there was a time when that brave heart of yours grew dark over the memory of our wrongs. But we will not talk about it because I believe you feel right yet, and I admire your prudence in keeping so quiet.
I want to preserve the dignity of our family name; I want the memory of my distinguished relatives to live long after we have all rotted in our graves. I want to write the history of the Cherokee Nation as it should be written, and not as certain white men will write it. They will tell the tale to screen and justify themselves. All this I can never do unless I get into the proper position to wield influence and make money. Don’t you see how much precious time I waste in California? Instead of writing for my living here, I should use my pen on behalf of my people and rescue from oblivion the proud names of our race. Stand, I assure you, this is no idle talk. If there was ever a man upon earth that loved his people and his kindred, I am that man.13 I will write their justice.
Yellow Bird
By the time I finished the letter, the horizon lit, turning the sky the color of steel. I went to water. After dousing, I dressed to ease dawn’s cold and was again bound to the leather thong holding Kell’s bowie knife sheathed around my thigh. After fasting to prepare my mind for the day ahead, I mounted and rode the singular beaten path to Rock with a Crevice.
At a distance too far for bullets, I wrapped the kerchief around my eyes and tied it tight. Chilled by the shadows, I knew I was under the cliff that the Yuma shaman spoke of. I swung my leg over my horse and touched the rock-ridden ground. I held the strap around my horse’s girth to bend and retrieve a handful of stones. When I stood, my hand found the saddle horn, and I steadied the horse and myself.
I tossed one rock, and it hit my hat. I tried again with the same result. The third hit the horse, and he skirted away. I tossed the fourth with my left hand, stretching wide and bending my wrist to flick the stone toward the cliff. The fourth didn’t fall. My fifth attempt must have reached the outcrop too. Trusting that my gift satisfied Yuma’s Old Ones, I felt for the stirrup, placed my boot, and mounted again. Although, if Joaquín’s henchmen were here, the stones would announce my presence. If so, my horse carried us both into simultaneous suicide.
Papa died before my initiation of the long night, the trial for a Cherokee boy passing into manhood. Better late than never, I thought. I’d never ridden blind. Every imagined sight triggered my ears, keener, more apt to search for sound. A hawk cawed and announced the metal ticks of cocking pistols. Blood pumped and set my veins on fire, but it made me feel better, more alert than I’d been in weeks.
Boots approached. My horse whinnied and snuffled. Momentum ceased, and as a result, I lunged forward. Someone grabbed the reins and a familiar voice spoke with an accent born south of the Rio Grande.
“Ahh, Knife Slinger. Have you come all this way only to lose at cards again? Dealt by the notorious bandolero, Joaquín Murieta? I would still like to win that blade from you, or, better yet, take you and your blade into my service.”
“I am no knife slinger; I wield a pen. Call me Yellow Bird. The bowie knife, I cannot bet. Its curses and blessings are mine.” I said, “Joaquín, I have a proposition for you.”
He said, “I’m listening, my sober and sightless friend. Take off your mask.”