A Walk in the Park
Ron Lewis Two detectives go after a bail jumping child molester. A Walk in the Park My name is Quentin Graves, but you can call…
Sort by category
Ron Lewis Two detectives go after a bail jumping child molester. A Walk in the Park My name is Quentin Graves, but you can call…
A five-year-old boy is taken someplace special by his grandfather. Setting off together to slay a giant, they have an adventure the boy will never…
While delivering the outlaw Captain Edward Powers to the Law at Larned, Kansas, the group of travelers witnesses a hanging that goes horribly wrong. Musing…
Ron Lewis Waking from a nightmare, a man finds he’s living in something much worse. From the Darkness How had this begun? What, in hell,…
Ron Lewis The way I write long short stories (yes, an oxymoron) compared to shorter short stories is different. The way I write flash stories…
Ron Lewis When people find out I’m a writer, invariable someone asks, “Have you ever considered co-authoring a story? I have this idea.” When people…
Ron Lewis Sometimes new neighbors rub you the wrong way. This is how it is for John White and his new neighbor Jason Farley. They…
Ron Lewis It’s 1974, and to become a member of Mountain Thunder Motorcycle Club, Quentin Graves, must carry out an unspeakable act. In 1947, in…
Ron Lewis A young man becomes obsessed with an old man living opposite his building. The young man was convinced the old man was a…
Ron Lewis Michelle Tanner and Nathan Meeker are joined by the Harvard educated Cherokee Indian, Buffalo Head, as they journey to Denver City. Their sojourn…
Ron Lewis
Michelle Tanner and Nathan Meeker are joined by the Harvard educated Cherokee Indian, Buffalo Head, as they journey to Denver City. Their sojourn is interrupted by a trio of confederate deserters.
Heading southwest, the three horses traveled along at a fast walk, moving at about 10 miles per hour. Leaving Kansas City, Meeker and Michelle headed toward Colorado. Eventually, passing the workers laying track to the southwest. The railroad was more than a year from reaching the Kansas border. The tracks might make it as far as Penny Kansas by snowfall. However, if they were fortunate, they might make their way to Great Bend by winter.
“Atchison and Topeka Railroad. Following the Santa Fe trail,” Meeker said. After this, he fell silent. Meeker took the southwest trek, aware this route would take longer. Still, the gunman in Kansas City worried him. It might be his old friend hired people to do him harm. A roundabout way to Denver might be the safest way to travel. Meeker lost himself in thought.
The first two days of the trek west were monotonous, and the trip was accomplished without much verbal communication. Meeker rode his horse, offering little conversation to Michelle other than simple directions or requests. He fought not only with the guilt gnawing at him over killing the gunman but why the man had tried to kill him in the first place. Joseph Nathan Meeker never got used to killing anyone. Guilt tugged at him hard, having no idea why the man would hate him enough to try to kill him.
Michelle, being excellent at reading people, left Meeker to his thoughts. Offering a few comments on occasion but not pushing conversation on the man. She contented herself with leading the packhorse and an eight-year-old gelding called Smokey, who held a few misplaced, romantic notions regarding Mary Todd.
The added weight and chafing of the brace of heavy pistols now strapped across her hips took some getting used to. The weapons were more of a nuisance than a novelty or necessary at the particular moment. At noon on the third day, Meeker’s mood changed. He glanced over at Michelle and thanked her for her quiet understanding.
“Most women,” he said, smiling at her as he pulled his horse to a standstill, “want a man to talk this sort of issue out. They would be pestering a fellow to tell them his feelings.” His eyes grew sad for a moment, “My wife was the world’s worst for wanting to talk about stuff which upset me. She would poke and prod at me in English, Crow and sign language until I would explode at her.” He almost stopped but continued as he nudged Star into a slow walk. “At last, I would finally talk about whatever was bothering me until she was satisfied, and I would go back to enjoying the peace and quiet.”
“I understand well why you have been so withdrawn lately, and I do sympathize. However, you realize the old Indian is following us, don’t you? The man who watched me ride Mary Todd the other day?” Meeker again pulled his horse to a stop. Intently staring at the young woman, a broad smile crossed his weathered face.
“My goodness Shell, I’ve been meaning to mention that to you for more than two days now. You knew it all along! Woman, you’re a wonderment, do you know that?” Again, he tapped his horse with the heels of his boots, and they continued their westward journey. “He doesn’t want to spook us, so he is catching up to us in a slow manner.”
The gap between our duo and the lone rider closed as the days wore on. At about Mid-afternoon, on the 6th day, Meeker pulled his horse to a stop. Dismounting, he tethered him to the solitary tree in the area. Michelle followed his lead. “We will give old Buffalo Head a chance to catch up with us.” Meeker pointed toward a herd of buffalo. “Go find us some fuel for a fire,” He was looking around the grassy plain, “not going to be any wood here, too far from the river. Fetch some dry buffalo chips, Shell. They burn mighty hot.”
“So, do we trust the old man?” Michelle persisted, uncertain what they were doing was the right thing.
“That old man is an educated Cherokee Indian. Some fancy university in New England taught him Vet Medicine. He’s no cutthroat.” Michelle shrugged as she grabbed an empty flour sack from the packhorse and headed out to gather the fuel. Approaching the enormous woolies, she realized they paid her no attention at all. These dumb beasts would be easy pickings for any hunter, she mused. Soon her sack was packed, and she headed back toward camp. Seeing Meeker and the Indian talking, she walked into camp wondering what this feller’s story was.
Turning away from the Indian, Meeker continued to talk to Buffalo Head and motioned for Michelle to come on in and join them.
Michelle couldn’t help but notice they were an odd-looking couple, Meeker tall and thin but muscular. He was dressed in buckskins and a rather flamboyant wide-brimmed hat with a long feather sticking up from the band. The Indian short, somewhat round, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit and bowler hat, looking ready for Sunday go to Meeting.
However, both men had one thing in common, long white hair, though Meeker was perhaps 20 years younger than the Indian. Whatever they were talking about, they continued until Michelle was close enough that Meeker did not need to yell at her.
“Buffalo Head here has a proposition for us.” Michelle walked closer as Meeker continued to talk to her. “He would like to throw in with us, thinks we find safety in numbers. I think him joining will be just fine, don’t you?” Shell nodded her head as she closed the last few feet between them. “Michelle, this is Buffalo Head, Buffalo Head, this is Michelle Tanner ...” Buffalo Head cut in on him.
“Hair of Flame, good to see you again,” he extended his hand to her. She grasped his and gripped with a firm squeeze as they shook hands. He gave her a slow grin.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Buffalo Head ...”
“He’s Doctor Buffalo Head, Michelle.”
“No, call me Buffalo Head. I have dinner for us,” turning, he went to his horse and held three cottontail rabbits by their legs. Holding the rabbits high in the air for the pair, “Don’t worry, they taste like chicken.”
Michelle busied herself building a fire while Buffalo Head cleaned the rabbits and prepared them to cook. Meeker rode south with the empty canteens to find the river and fill them with water. He tried to fill them every day, aware sometimes the group wouldn’t find water.
Michelle and the Indian talked as he began to cook the food over the fire. Telling her, he was an old man now, having graduated from Harvard more than 38 years before. His face grew sadder looking as he continued to talk, “After I graduated, I got married, and my wife had a child. Then there was the Trail of Tears. Happiness died for many moons.” Changing the subject, he talked on until his mood lightened. “What about you, Miss Tanner?”
Michelle told him of her father, her journey west, and joining Meeker. She even told the old Indian about Meeker’s determination to kill the man who murdered his wife and child.
“Hate is never a good thing. Hate feasts on your soul, eating you up. Vengeance never satisfies, never heals the wrong done to you. Justice is a different thing, but justice is difficult to find. Best to forgive; I will tell him so without telling him so.” Michelle appeared confused by the old man’s words. “I have a story.”
Soon Meeker returned with full canteens. A broad grin on his face as he dismounted as if he had a joke no one else understood. Tethering Star, he unsaddled him, and eventually, he sat next to Buffalo Head, poking the older man in the ribs.
“Penny ain’t ten miles from here. If not for Michelle, we might go down and see the badger for a bit.”
“See the badger?” Shell gazed at him confused, sipping on her coffee.
“He means, visit us some whores. Probably a fine thing you are with us, “Hair of Flame,” lest “Sleeps with Bears,” and I go into Penny with our pockets full and find too much trouble.” The old Indian laughed loud and hearty. “Besides, I don’t think Penny allows Indians in the saloon.”
“Money is money; why would your money be different than my money?” Meeker asked him with honest curiosity.
“If only all white men were like you, “Sleeps with Bears’.”
Meeker realized damn well that most whites would not allow Buffalo Head inside to eat, drink or sleep in their business. He did not understand it, but he understood such bigotry existed. Still, Meeker had not gone to see the badger for a long time. Since before, he was married. It had been a poor attempt at a joke.
“If you ‘Gentlemen’ want to go and ‘See the badger,’ then let’s all go down to Penny. Don’t bother me one whit if you want to do that. I can play me some poker there.” Michelle said, pouring a bit more coffee.
“I was only funnin’ Shell,” Meeker took the pot from her and retrieved his cup, filling it with the dark fluid. Replacing the pot, he settled back next to Buffalo Head. “Might be Doc here wants to go do some sport, but I can’t do such a thing to her memory,” meaning his wife.
“Not me, still have the want to, but the equipment don’t agree no more.” The Indian smiled, nodding his head. He continued to grin, pleased with his witticism.
“Well, this conversation is sure getting embarrassing,” Michelle said. “How long till them vittles is done?”
“About 5 minutes, I guess. Why you embarrassed, “Hair of Flame”? I’m the one with the defective parts,” still poking fun at her, hoping she did not take offense.
“Alright, you keep prodding and poking your fun at me. I don’t have any interest in anyone’s equipment anyway.”
“Figures,” the two men spoke almost in unison.
****
Captain Edward Powers, First Sergeant James Thomason, and Private Simpson were hardened men. Most often called “Halfwit,” Simpson was a violent, odd individual. Neither of the two men knew what Halfwit’s real first name was. They had always known him only as Halfwit Simpson.
Having a union ball in his brain might have caused much of the oddness. Simpson was a regular soldier before the head injury. Sociable and friendly, he was a well-liked individual. He was always a bit slow in his thought process, which earned him the nickname, Halfwit. He never took offense at anyone using the handle to call him. He did not know what the word meant.
A sharpshooter shot him in a skirmish, standing next to an officer at the rear of the lines. No one knew whether the sharpshooter aimed to hit Simpson or intended the bullet for the officer standing next to him. Still, the bullet hit him on the left side of his forehead, traversing halfway through his brain. The bullet lodged deep enough the doctors were unwilling to remove it. Afterward, he was anything but normal.
Quick to fight, he became almost uncontrollable around women. Formerly shy around women, he became aggressive to the point he was dangerous for the women. His jovial nature turned to dark desires, which he would act on any opportunity presented itself. He now had an increased sexual appetite, and any girl would do.
Whether she was cute, not so lovely, young, not so young, downright old, willing, or otherwise. Prostitute, free white woman or enslaved Negro, he would take them and have his way with no regrets. Once he completed the deed, the women feared him so much they kept their mouths shut if they were still alive.
For Powers, Simpson was easy to control. Whatever the reason was, if Captain Powers asked him to do anything, he acted on the request without hesitation. This made the man useful. Powers would give an order, and Simpson would follow it. Powers was the only person who had such an influence on Simpson.
By the time they reached Kansas, Thomason had about had his fill of these men. He had a conscience unlike the other two, which gnawed at him. Their actions bothered him, eating at his soul. He was never quite sure why he ran with these two men. He remembered Powers saying, “Let’s take off and leave this damn war to those who want to fight it.”
After the first hold-up, he should have left. After watching the two men rape and murder the first of many women, he should have killed them. He did not, for lack of courage. Powers was quite a formidable man, and Thomason feared him. Never participating in the rapes, he held back, knowing he wouldn’t do such a thing. Neither might he leave the group, no matter how much he wanted to. He was awash in emotions of hatred for these men and shame for himself. He had always been something of a coward.
They were a long way from Louisiana, having deserted from General Kirby Smith’s command during the heat of battle in March. The Red River Valley was long behind them and the Battle of Mansfield, where they rode away. Deserting their post, the men stole, killed, and raped their way from Louisiana through Texas, the Nations, and Kansas. Kansas Sheriff’s offices and Marshal’s offices had paper on the men - Wanted Dead or Alive. Notice how dead precedes alive, suggesting dead to be the preferred manner to bring the men to justice.
Three bounty hunters had failed in attempts to take the men. The trio didn’t even bother to bury the men. Leaving the dead men’s bodies a feast for the vultures and coyotes, their clean picked bones bleached whiter in the sun. Thomason listens to the men pleading for their lives in his dreams. Knowing the last thing the men saw was Prowers’s sadistic smile.
The grass stretched out on the flat Kansas prairie, a seemingly endless expanse of grassy sameness. A solitary tree here, a small hill in the distance, and a dull, flat, featureless landscape for miles and miles. Some thought the prairie to have her own beauty, while others hated it. The three men sat astride their horses, watching the single wagon. The group struggled in a vain attempt to catch up to the wagon train miles ahead. They followed the deep ruts in the sod, vainly trying to close the distance between them and the safety of the train.
Near sundown, the wagon stopped, and the occupants descended from the wagon. The man unhitched the horses, tethering them a short distance away from the wagon. A young female brought the animals’ grain in buckets. An older female made her way to a sizeable buffalo wallow to fetch some water from the muddy pond. She was the mother, not that it mattered to them.
The three men held back, following and waiting for the right time to strike. The leader of the group ran his hands over his sunburned face. Feeling the rough stubble of his days’ old growth, he wondered how long since he last shaved his face. Pushing his hat up high on his head, he studied the situation. Working his tobacco in his jaw, he built up a good wad and spat the slurry down on the ground. The thick gooey juice pooled up and soaked into the dry eager soil.
“I got me a hankering, and I need to satisfy boys. Those women over thither may well fill the bill!” The officer’s uniform showed the horizontal gold bars on his collar of the rank of captain.
“The young one can’t be more than 14.” The old sergeant said with a touch of anger present in his face and voice.
“First sergeant ... you going to give me trouble over sparking?”
“Those chicken guts on your sleeve don’t mean squat to me.” Putting his hands on the saddle horn, he adjusted himself in his saddle and turned, facing the younger man. “You’re a runner, same as me, and we got no rank anymore.” Power’s eyes locked onto Thomason’s, his brow furrowed, and his dominant personality gave him the advantage over the ‘nicer’ man. He had a short fuse, having shot men down for violating the most minor orders.
“You’re going to toe the mark, do you understand? I don’t need you if you don’t ... if you catch my meaning.” The man had his hand resting on his gun. The First Sergeant understood well what the meaning was.
“I think she is too young,” the man said, backing from his original position. His stomach knotted up as his mouth dried out. Edward Powers would have thought nothing of killing him, and he realized this. Sergeant Thomason pushed his feet forward in the stirrups and pushed back, stretching.
His butt ached. The trio had been in the saddle most of the time for over three months. All he wanted anymore was a soft bed. A soft bed, and to rise in one place in the morning and go to bed in the same place at night. His natural meanness burnt from him in the fire of their months of wanton slaughter.
When he slept, the screams of the women the other two had raped pestered him, and the faces of the men they killed haunted him. He wanted to be free of these men. He wanted to atone for his sins.
“Think what you like but keep your pie trap closed.” Powers snarled back.
The third man laughed in a strange cackle, which sounded like strangling a chicken. This was his way of showing his excitement of what was to come.
“Ain’t had any in over a week. I’m going to get me some tonight, though.” Talking and cackling like a hen at the same time, a thick stream of juice ran out of his mouth and over his chin. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke, the dark fluid laced with bits of the tobacco in his jaw. “Yes, sir, going to split her wide tonight.”
Reaching up, Simpson wiped his face with his sleeve, the gray material of which was stained close to black. Gingerly he touched his forehead. The wound had long since healed, but he was marked now with a horrid scar. Cain’s mark marred Simpson’s forehead for all to see.
“Damn, this won’t stop hurtin’. How long has it been since I got this wound?”
“A year last month,” the Captain told him.
“I done got me a bitch of a headache, ringing in my ears, every damn hour of every damn day!” Halfwit complained as he scrutinized the unsuspecting little family in the campsite.
****
Luck had been a thin, meager gruel for Joshua Culbertson and his family. Marina, his wife, and Sarah, his daughter, were plain worn out from the constant misfortune which plagued them.
Marina was haggard. Her worn-out body ached all over. She was too young to feel so old. She felt like an old woman at 37 years of age. She thought of a boy she had known in her youth. He had courted her, but she favored Joshua till death do us part. She shrugged off her thoughts and returned to the task at hand.
What rest the females managed to find didn’t refresh them. A simple month and half long journey to Denver was not half over. The family trailed the wagon train by more than three days. First was a busted wheel, followed by Joshua taking ill and a busted axle to cap off the misadventure.
The calamities of the trail kept them falling further and further behind. The axle, repaired with leather, was a constant worry. Now they could not see the other wagons. Following the deep ruts left by them but they knew they’d make their destination ... eventually.
They lacked the safety of numbers. That was what a wagon train was all about, safety of numbers. The train was not heading to Oregon or California; it was going to Denver City. Joshua was going to give prospecting a whirl in the Golden Valley. The promised land lay west of Denver City in the Rockies. He mustered out a month before they left for Denver City. Tired of the fighting, he wanted to move on and do something new. His profession no longer interested him. Cobbling was not a profession that helped a man make a mark.
Always at the back of Joshua Culbertson’s mind was a nagging thought, “You don’t provide well for your family.”
The idea gnawed at him, making him have a mighty need to do something better than anyone else. A persistent whisper from his mind plagued him. Often Culbertson was unable to sleep at night as he listed his shortcomings. He feared he would always be mediocre. He was not bad at the things he did.
In truth, Joshua was fair at everything he put his hand to, but he was not excellent at anything. He suffered from being adequate, decent enough to do the task but barely. To some people being ordinary is a failure. Indeed, he was not extraordinary at one single thing. In failure, he was only average.
Building a roaring fire with some wood, he carried in the wagon. The blaze was aided by chips thrown in for extra heat. A sizeable herd of buffalo meandered around the prairie near them. The fantastic beasts stared at the interlopers with a mild curiosity, wondering why only one of the strange animals had wheels instead of a long line of the lumbering monsters.
Exercising caution, they kept their distance, as sometimes the smaller animals with only two legs would kill one of them as if by magic. Their upper bodies had stumps like legs which they did not walk on. These would spit lightning, and one of the huge woolies would drop dead. They were never comfortable when the two-legged creatures were nearby.
The fire blazed, and Marina cooked their meal. Salted pork stewed with potatoes and carrots. She chose salted pork because the salted beef tasted so nasty. She had soaked the pork all day to remove most of the salt. Stewing was the best method to soften and rehydrate the meat.
The last of the red was fading in the western sky. Stars were visible as she began to dish up the food. They sat around on the ground enjoying each other’s company and relaxing after the hard day’s travel. They had been unaware of the eyes watching them from a distance all day.
“Hello in the camp. May we ride in?”
The voice sounded pleasant and kind.
****
“When I was a young man,” the old man said. Henry Buffalo Head graduated from Harvard School of Veterinary Medicine in 1826; a twenty-four-year-old man. Setting up practice in Georgia, he worked hard for whites and Indians. Dr. Buffalo Head built up a decent reputation taking care of cattle, horses, sheep, dogs, and house cats.
Henry married his childhood sweetheart in 1827. She gave him a daughter in 1829, the same year they found gold in Georgia. They were a happy family up until the gold find. No man ever loved his wife and child more than he did.
Buffalo Head worked hard to be the best vet in Georgia. His only desire in life was to provide for his family.
A Christian by faith, he walked a tightrope of wanting to honor his ancestors and Christ. His sorely tested faith in the coming years proved to be all which allowed him to stay sane. His faith was also the only thing inspiring him to forgive those who wronged him.
In 1830, Congress passed the Indian Removal Act. George Washington had proposed the absorption of Indians into white society. There was little difference visible in how the Buffalo Head family lived their life from any other citizens of Georgia. However, the Buffalo Heads were not citizens of Georgia or the United States either. They were members of the Native American tribe called Tsalagi or Cherokee.
Eventually, the federal government forced them to move and confiscated their lands for “reassignment.” Thus, the trio began the arduous journey in 1838. The trip was challenging, and they had to walk as the government impounded their horses to belong to others by lottery.
“It began in 1829 when gold was found in Georgia.” The old man spoke absently, like a teacher lecturing his students. “Congress passed a law setting a disaster in motion. The Tsalagi held on until ’38. We were the last tribe they moved. We don’t call ourselves Cherokee. The name others gave us. Other tribes call us the Mountain People, the Dog People, People of the Caves, People of another Tongue or Cherokee. We are Tsalagi the Real People,” The fire danced in his eyes; occasionally, he would stop and tear meat from the rabbit with his fingers, placing the meat in his mouth, chewed for some time before he swallowed the food. Afterward, he would continue.
“President Jackson was not our friend; he sided with Georgia. When the Supreme Court ruled Georgia could not impose law on the Tsalagi Nation, John Marshall wrote the opinion. Only the Federal government had authority over the Nations. Jackson said, “Marshall has made his decision ... let him enforce it. Build a fire under them. When flame gets hot enough, they will leave.” Build a fire they did, and congress passed a law. Sure got hot, and in the end, we left.” Again, he ate, drank, and resumed. His voice held no hint of malice but sounded quite melancholy.
“The damned treaty passed by a single vote, Jackson signed the thing but left office before we were moved. Chief John Ross lost his life for signing the damn paper and other leaders. I think only one of the Tsalagi who signed the treaty lived. I can’t remember his name, and it doesn’t matter. With or without the treaty, we were done in Georgia. The damn gold ensured our relocation. Jesus must have been speaking of Gold when he said money is the root of all manner of evil.
“Militia, volunteers, and regular army escorted us. Sounds so pleasant, don’t you think? Escorted us, you understand, as if we were all going together for an enjoyable picnic. They had seven thousand men with guns. Let me tell you. Seven thousand men was a lot of manpower to do the job. The regular army, volunteers, and state militiamen gathered us up at gunpoint. Herded us like so many cattle. General Winfield Scott led the men. Holding us in one place, what is the word,” He searched his mind for the right word; “concentration, yes, that is the word ...” The old man appeared pleased he had found the word. “They held us in Concentration Camps in Tennessee.
“Our lands were given away to whites in lotteries, while the soldiers burned our homes and possessions to the ground. The journey of ... I don’t know; maybe fifteen hundred miles give or take a life or two ... began. The soldiers were all around, their guns and bayonets at the ready to keep us in line. They were marching us forward to our new adventure. Yes, adventure is what the soldier boys called it. Adventure, sure; dysentery, cholera, and smallpox as well, all together makes, quite the adventure.
“In the dead of winter with no shoes or moccasins, we walked through a frozen waste. Men and women froze to death. Coldest winter in Illinois ever, I’m thinking. One month in the winter, we moved 68 miles. That’s right, 68 measly miles in an entire month. We spent three weeks with the white leaders trying to figure out how to get across the Mississippi—sitting there watching enormous blocks of ice flow down the river. So massive, they would have knocked out a barge. Hell, they did knock out a barge.
“A barge was loaded with wagons filled with goods for sale somewhere on the other side of the river. No one was on the damn thing. The operators were running their little steam engine pulling the barge from one side to the other. Half a mile-long, or longer, ropes stretched across the river. On the other side, a steam engine pulled the rope onto a spool. The rope spun off a spool on our side.
“The barge got about 50 yards out in the water, and a block of ice came crashing into the thing. Busted her to pieces. The ice left behind only so much kindling, which floated downstream, so the leaders abandoned going across until the ice stopped flowing. Not for our safety, you understand, but for theirs.
“They tell me freezing is a pleasant way to go. I don’t think I agree with them. I didn’t sleep much; I was too afraid to sleep. I didn’t let my wife or daughter sleep. People died when they slept. People lay down to sleep and never woke up. My daughter got pneumonia in the place. She died a week later. A month later, and 300 miles away, my wife died from the pox.
“Captain Charles Lexington led my group. A meaner man never lived. He forced a young girl named Tadpole Crowe to be his woman. Once relocation was completed, he left her. Six months later, she bore a child, and she called him Charlie Three Feathers. She didn’t want him to have the bastard’s last name. He must have taken after his daddy anyway because I understand he’s a mean son-of-bitch.” He stopped talking, and his eyes grew sad as he blankly stared into the fire.
“Four thousand Tsalagi died on the trail. My wife and daughter along with all the others,” pausing, he continued. “You call our journey the Trail of Tears. We call the trek, Nu Na da ul tsun yi--, the place where they cried.”
Buffalo Head stopped talking. He sat in silence, and neither Meeker nor Tanner knew what to say. After a long silence, the trio threw the nearly bare bones of their dinner into the fire.
“I seen me a blue jay fight a bear once,” Meeker spoke, changed his mind. “Oh, nobody wants to hear the story.”
“I do,” Buffalo Head told him, turning his eyes toward the man. Meeker’s bright blue eyes almost appeared red in the campfire light. The firelight dancing in his eyes was an eerie sight to Michelle.
“Well, sir, this bear wandered over near where a blue jay had a nest. The momma blue jay must have been the bravest little bird ever ...” Meeker told his story, ending with his usual warning. “As I said, damndest thing I ever did see, this old grizzly bear, running away with the little bird, diving down at grizzly’s head.” Meeker laughed aloud. “Now that is how I remember the thing. Accuracy is not ensured.”
“I think you should take up writing Dime Novels. You would get rich!” Buffalo Head nestled against his saddle. “Well, I think I will try and sleep now.”
“How can you not want to murder us in our sleep, after what you told us?” Michelle asked.
“I ask God one time if I might kill all the whites I found. He said, “No.” I asked Him if he’d allow me to hurt them. He said, “No.” I asked Him if I may hate them. Just let me hate them. I told Him, and I will follow all the other rules. He said, “No, I say you can break all the other rules as long as you forgive them.” So, I did. I didn’t want to, but I did. Still, I don’t break many rules.” Meeker understood Henry’s meaning, but he did not like the intervention. Meeker wore his hate like his buckskin, right next to his skin.
An hour after they settled in for the night, gunfire broke the peace—five or six gunshots over eight to fifteen minutes.
****
The leader of the three men called out to those in the camp. “Hello in the camp. May we ride in and join you?”
Joshua Culbertson looked at the men; the flicking flame of the fire illuminated them in a ghostly light. The men’s uniforms said they were rebels. Joshua realized they were nowhere near the border where the fighting was. He thought of his rifle under the seat of the wagon, but he had no way to move for the weapon without arousing their suspicion.
“You’re wearing the uniform of the Stars and Bars. We’re not near any action, except for raiders,” Culbertson pointed out.
“We aren’t any raiders. We mustered out a week ago, haven’t taken the time to buy new clothes. We’re heading for the Golden Valley, a feller, back yonder aways, told us a wagon train was going that-a-way and thought we would join up.” Culbertson listened to the answer to his question and felt somewhat better. However, he wondered why the confederacy would let anyone muster out when the war turned so bad for the South.
“We’re members of the train,” Culbertson related to them.
“You seem to be a mite short of wagons on this train.”
“We are behind due to a series of mishaps.”
“Well, your luck has changed then.” The man spoke as he dismounted his horse. “We can afford you protection until we all join up with them. It wouldn’t do for you to be put in a nick by some outlaw. I wouldn’t want him to blast you with his black-eye, Susan, and run a pill through you. Not with you defending your family.”
Culbertson’s quizzical expression on his face showed he did not understand. Though he got the gist, he was not familiar with the terms.
“Shoot you with his gun. I mention this only because you don’t appear to be healed. Not carrying a gun in this country, well, how foolish.” Powers looked at the man; his piercing eyes let Culbertson understood he meant him harm.
“I have a rifle under the wagon seat.”
“Well, you better go fetch her. Me, I have five beans in the wheel, all powdered and capped. Go ahead and fetch your rifle,” he paused, and a wicked grin came across his face, “let me lay eyes on her.”
Culbertson’s blood ran cold as he turned, running toward the wagon. Powers pulled his gun; firing, his aim was careful. He did not want to kill him, not yet. The ball struck Culbertson in the back of the right leg. Falling hard, he pushed to rise but faltered and fell flat on his face again.
Marina screamed as Halfwit jumped from the horse, tackling her. He at once began to rip her clothing from her, holding her face down in the dirt. Hackling and cackling in delight, Simpson held the woman down, exposing her body to the night air. Grabbing hard on the scruff of her neck and pinning her face down, he began unbuttoning his fly.
Her breath blew wisps of dust around her face. The hard dirt bruised her face while the rough hand hurt her neck. His hands were as rough as her husband’s hands were. Yet, whereas her husband touched her with tenderness, this man clutched at her with violence. Her screaming burnt her husband’s ears as if hot oil poured into them.
Sarah ran off into the dark in blind desperation.
The Sergeant pursued her atop his horse.
Running headlong away, Sarah fled the scene as fast as possible. Hitting a stone here or losing a mound of dirt, she would stumble but not fall. Soon her foot hung up on some sagebrush, and she crashed to the ground. The beating of the horse’s hooves moved toward her.
The foulness of bile filled her mouth. She spat the raw juice from her mouth. Her breathing was ragged, and her heart pounded as though it might burst. Her mother’s screams filled her ears, and gunshots sent shivers up her spine.
****
“Don’t worry, old fellow. Halfwit will only spark with her a mite. Of course, she may be ruined for anyone else to spark her in the future. Halfwit’s a mite rough, and such is life.” The leader told him sadistically, enjoying the mental picture he realized formed in the wounded man’s head. “Jump up and run, old boy. Don’t you want to protect your woman?” The woman screamed out in pain.
Culbertson forced himself up on hands and knees, pushing up on his feet. He moved forward, dragging his wounded leg.
Her face held in the dirt, a new pain split her between her legs. Marina had a rush of shame as the man forced himself into her. She screamed out again louder than before. Culbertson willed himself to move faster.
Another shot rang out. The ball lodged in his back, scraping his spine. The blood gushed out above the beltline. Both legs failed him, and he crashed to the ground. He no longer felt his legs at all. Powers was playing with him, enjoying seeing the man in pain. Walking over to him, he kicked him repeatedly in his side.
The third kick’s dull thud. The accompanying sharp crack indicated a broken rib. Another kick, another rib snapped, yet one more kick, and yet another rib. Wheezing filled the air. Culbertson spat out blood on the dry ground. The greedy soil sucked up the fluid leaving a darkened wet stain on the sod.
Culbertson rolled on the ground in agony. He pushed with his arms trying to rise to his feet. Failing to do so, Joshua started pulling himself with his hands. Digging his fingers into the hard ground, he pulled himself forward. Another shot rang out, and blood leaped from his arm.
Powers passed Culbertson climbed up on a wheel of the wagon. Reaching in under the seat, he clutched the rifle. Culbertson still tried to pull himself toward the wagon. Coughing blood and dragging himself along, he had to protect his wife and child. The urgency to protect them was all he had left now.
“Well, lookie here, lookie here, you got you a Henry rifle.” Levering the gun, he aimed at the man. “Set your Yankee eyes on me, pilgrim.” Culbertson glared at the man, “Welcome to hell,” Powers pulled the trigger, and Culbertson moved no more.
****
Helping the girl up, the First Sergeant dusted her off. “Walk toward the firelight off that-a-way.” He pointed toward a campfire in the distance. “Walk, don’t run. T’ain’t more than a quarter of a mile, girl. Please go on. You can do this. I’ll take them off in a different direction.”
Tipping his hat, the man got back on his horse and rode off, slightly away from the camp he had just come from. He rode for four or five minutes, changing his direction, so he would come back into camp away from where the girl was. Then regaining his bearings, he returned to the campsite.
“Where’s that little bitch?” Powers yelled out, trying to be heard over the woman’s screams and Halfwit’s laughter.
“I don’t know, ain’t no moon tonight. I can’t find her.”
“I don’t believe you.” Turning his attention to Simpson, he yelled, “Halfwit, stop poking that cow for a minute, will ya? We’re trying to have a conversation here.” From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the gun in the First Sergeant’s hand. Lighting fast, Powers drew, turned, and fired.
The First Sergeant fell to the ground. Bolting away from the gunfire, the man’s horse disappeared into the night.
Powers strode over toward the man. The First Sergeant clung to the gaping hole in his belly.
Bending down, Powers picked up the dropped gun. Straightening up, Powers looked down at him. He smiled.
“I told you if you pull your gun on someone, shoot them. Always admired your LeMat. Now let me study this. Complicated weapon, old salt. You cock the hammer, adjust her like this, ‘at’s right, isn’t it? Now she’ll shoot the shot barrel, right?” Pointing the pistol at the man, he pulled the trigger.
****
“Sounded like two pistol shots not too close together, a third one a bit longer apart, followed by a rifle shot, long break, again a pistol, and lastly, I think, a shotgun.” The old Indian glanced around a moment. “Over where the flicker is, another campfire. Quarter of a mile, I guess, might be a little further.”
“We can’t ride over in the night and go charging in.” Meeker was trying to convince himself, as well as the others. Standing together, they gaze at the light. Noises wafted on the breeze in their direction. Michelle was not sure what the noise was, but Meeker understood. He had heard women scream from long distances before.
Turning his back, Meeker moved away. He was standing at the tree, thinking about heading over to the camp. He stared at his saddle, realizing he was too late no matter what he did. After a bit, the faint sound stopped.
“Ain’t no screaming anymore. They must have finished.” Michelle spoke with a hopeful tone.
“More than likely, her voice gave out on her. She yelled till she couldn’t scream no more.” Meeker cursed himself for his inaction.
“We have company.” The Indian said.
“How many and where?” Meeker asked.
“Right near the runty tree, can’t you spot her? She’s a young girl.” The Indian held his pose, pointing out into the darkness.
“No,” both Michelle and Meeker said, though not quite together.
“Stand behind me and follow where my finger is pointing.” Sure enough, they spied a small figure about 300 to 400 feet from them. Neither was sure how he would tell the figure was a girl. She moved closer in a slow, plodding manner until she ran in, screaming to the trio staring at her.
Breathless, she related what happened. “They shot my daddy, and this fellow jumped on top of my mommy. She was screaming as I ran off. One of the fellows was chasing me with his horse. When I fell, he helped me up. He told me to come here and took off on his horse.” Another shot rang out.
“Well, ‘at tears it,” Meeker said and began saddling up his horse.
“You can’t go to battle in the dark,” the Indian pleaded.
“Got to,” he said as he continued saddling his horse. Michelle threw her blanket on her horse and jumped on the mare’s back. The Indian grabbed her reins, holding the mare.
“You can’t do this. Not like this, you will only find yourselves in trouble.” Meeker eyed Buffalo Head and nodded.
“Climb down, girl, we got to do some figuring before we head over yonder,” Meeker told Michelle. She slid down from Mary Todd, reluctant to give in to the men.
****
Climbing off the woman, Halfwit hollered out, “Your turn Cap’n.”
Powers walked over. Standing over the woman, he pointed the LeMat down at her chest. “No more time for fun, Halfwit. Give a look-see, over yonder; can you make out the campfire? The little bitch is over ‘ere now, allowing how bad men are hurting her folks. We got to skedaddle. Mount up, and let’s get a move on.” Pulling the trigger, the woman’s body jerked once.
“You killed the First Sergeant. Why did you murder him?”
“He turned on us,” Powers said as the pair rode south.
Riding as fast as safety allowed, the pair moved away from the camp in the dark. After a bit, Powers slowed them down enough to allow him to reload. They walked the horses for a spell to rest the beasts before they again moved hard. When the sun began to break over the horizon, Simpson complained of hunger and exhaustion. Powers pulled the horses to a stop, dug jerky out of his saddlebag, and tossed some to Simpson.
Cautiously he scanned the horizon behind them. Watching, waiting for the inevitable, all the while, Simpson complained. Again, they rode south moving their animals hard. The midsummer sun quickly heated things. Halfwit began to bellyache about how tired he was. Powers ignored him as he scanned for dust behind them. After a bit, he spotted the first faint wisps of dust rising on the wind.
“Damn it all. I figured some holier than thou bastard would be in the other camp.”
****
It was still dark when Meeker and the others hastily broke camp. Buffalo Head took charge of the packhorse and Sarah, seating the girl behind him and leading Smokey at a slow walk. Meeker and Michelle pulled ahead of them at a fast trot and entered the Culbertson camp with their pistols drawn and ready, only to find at first glance, nobody was left alive.
The woman lay on her back with her clothing in shreds and a bullet hole almost in the center of her chest. The man was about four feet from the wagon; what was left of his face was a dreadful sight. The rifle bullet had struck him in the nose. A short distance from him laid a man in a Confederate uniform bearing the stripes of a first sergeant. His face was even more of a mess, having taken a blast from what they assumed was a small-bore shotgun.
Dismounting, the Indian looked back up at the girl who still sat on his horse as if frozen in shock. He told her to stay put for now; she stared blindly at him as she clutched the saddle-horn with white-knuckled fingers. Buffalo Head entered the camp. Seeing the woman, he rushed to her. Kneeling, he felt her neck.
“Shell, fetch me my little leather case from the left saddlebag on my horse. Hurry, she is alive, only just alive. She must be a powerful woman to be still alive. Don’t let the girl come in.” Then he looked at Meeker. “Bury those men. I don’t want the child to see them.”
“I got to get after them, men. They ain’t more than a couple of miles or so out ...”
“They can’t ride fast in the dark. You can take my horse and that man’s as well. See, it returns.” As he spoke, the horse that bolted when Powers shot the First Sergeant walked timidly back into the camp. “You two will have no trouble catching up with them. Do what I ask first, then go get them.”
“You even sure you should work on her? I mean, you’re a horse doctor.”
“You know the difference between treating a horse and a human?”
“What?” Meeker asked.
“The human can tell you where it hurts.”
Michelle and Meeker dug the graves and buried the men. The old man stuck a long instrument in the open wound. Soon he pulled the bullet from the woman. He then heated a rod in the fire and stuck it in the open wound to cauterize the injury. He finished cleaning her wound, and then he stitched it closed. Finally, he tended to the horrific injuries inflicted by Halfwit as best he could. When he finished, he fetched Sarah into the camp. Bringing the girl in, he and she began to make her mother comfortable.
****
Riding south hard, Michelle and Meeker were closing the gap in rapid fashion. As the sun rose, they caught sight of the men less than two miles left to close. Without stopping, Michelle would change from one horse to the other. Meeker followed her lead. Sparing the horses in turn, the creatures stayed fresher, less winded, while those they pursued rode their cayuses hard without relief. The fleeing culprits’ animals began to find it difficult to keep pace.
The short time, the distance closed at a faster pace between the two groups. Without warning, the two men spun their animals around, heading back toward Michelle and Meeker, guns blazing. Michelle pulled her horse to a stop and leaped off, standing her ground as one of the men bore down on her.
Halfwit fired at Meeker, and Meeker returned fire. Pointing his gun in a hurry, Halfwit Simson yanked his triggers. Halfwit’s bullets missed the ear of the horse Meeker had tethered behind. While the next kicked up dirt in front of the closing animal. The third bullet hit Meeker’s saddle. The fourth passed far afield, flying off in the distance to fall to the ground a hundred yards to the rear. The fifth shot hit nearer the mark, knocking Meeker’s hat from his head.
Meeker slipped the rope from his saddle horn, releasing the tethered horse. It galloped off to the west, fleeing the noise. For the first time, as the distance between the charging animals closed in on each other, Meeker aimed and pulled the trigger.
Simpson fell from his horse. Regaining his feet, he began to walk toward Meeker, who had pulled Star to a stop.
Blood gushed from an open wound on Halfwit’s chest. Tossing his now empty gun away, he pulled a second weapon, a smaller Griswold pistol, which he carried inside his coat. Still walking toward Meeker, he began thumping his chest with one hand and shouting at his adversary.
“You fool! Bullets don’t hurt me! I been shot in the head, did nothing to me. I’m going to murder you and rape the bitch riding with you. After I’m finished, I’ll tear her apart with my ...” He fell to his knees, with an appearance of bewilderment on his face. Falling forward face down in the dirt, Halfwit Simpson died.
****
The bullets zipped around Michelle’s head, and the sharp whizzes sang by her ears. Staying calm, she didn’t even draw her weapon. Soon Powers was yanking hammers back and pulling triggers on empty chambers. Michelle’s two horses ran away from her, stopped, and turned to catch the action.
Tossing his pistols aside, Powers pulled the rifle from the scabbard. Levering the gun, he pointed the business end toward Michelle. Shell, for the first time, pulled her weapons. This was for real, not target practice. Leveling barrels with her eyes, Michelle aimed, pulled the triggers, and the guns belched loud. Smoke filled the air in front of her.
Powers tumbled off the back of his horse. The rifle fell several yards from him. Pushing up with his left arm, he found it impossible to put weight on that arm. Placing his right hand on the ground, he pushed up hard, falling. He landed on his face in the dirt. Rolling onto his back, he held his left shoulder with his right hand. The pain stretched from his shoulder down to his fingers.
“Damn it, girl, you butchered my shoulder,” he cried out as blood gushed from the two wounds. The bullet holes lay less than a quarter-inch apart on his shoulder. “Them damned mini-balls are down in the joint. Damn, this hurts - you bitch!” Clutching at his arm, he stared up as the tall woman stood over him.
Michelle Tanner put her foot on his shoulder and pushed down with her weight.
“You going to be a good boy, or do I just kill you here?” Pointing her two guns at his face, the man began to smile. Shaking his head, he laughed a soft, pained, almost hysterical laugh.
“I won’t give you any trouble,” he groaned as tears streamed down his dirty face, leaving clean tracks of skin in their wake. Taking her foot off his shoulder, she helped him to sit up. Then she tied his hands behind his back.
“You’re in luck. We got a doctor back at the camp. Course, he is a horse doctor,” she said with a crooked little grin as she shoved him roughly in the direction of his horse.
“Damn you to Hell; you man-hating bitch. I can’t ride with my hands tied behind me.”
“I can always throw you over your saddle. In fact, the way I feel right now sounds like a helluva idea. I would have to figure out how to tie you on, but I’m sure I might figure out something. Mayhap a rope around your neck under the horse and cinched tightly to your feet. Say, we might even save the Hangman a lot of bother.”
Powers whimpered softly as Shell helped him into the saddle.
****
The old Indian gave the woman some water. He wiped her brow, pressing his head to her chest. He listened. She had grown paler. He understood what he would hear. But still, he listened. A soft murmur between beats as the blood seeped from her beating heart. Not a gush, a whispered, soft sound like an echo of one of the beats as her heart pumped her blood out of the open wound. Buffalo Head put the long rod back into the fire. Henry returned to Sarah’s mother.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the semi-conscious woman. “I missed something. I’m sorry, I have to open you up and fix my mistake. If I can.” Her eyes stared at him with a blankness, “I got nothing to ease your pain or to put you under. Do you have whiskey in the wagon?”
She nodded her head, a single bob.
He glanced at the girl, he stood, and Henry moved to her, “Where’s your daddy’s whiskey? Your mom needs some.”
“Mommy doesn’t drink,” she said, not quite understanding.
“Don’t matter, girl, this is important. She needs the liquor. Go and fetch the bottle for me.” Soon, he was pouring the whole bottle down her throat. She drank the fluid down, realizing the relief the booze gave her would ease the pain.
“I think you’re too late, Doc.” Speaking in a croaky, hoarse voice, her eyes were glazed and glassy, as much from the pain as the booze. She stared with empty, dull eyes as though she saw nothing. He laid her head back down on a makeshift pillow. “I’m better now, Doc. let me rest a minute, and you can do your worst.”
Returning to the wagon, he told the young girl to sit on the wagon seat. He instructed her not to glance toward her mother. “I have to work on her, and this will not be a pleasant sight.”
“Is mommy going to die?” Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes.
“I don’t know, little one. I don’t ...”
Turning from her, Henry walked back to the woman. Squatting down, he removed the bandage from the wound … stopped. Touching her neck, he found no pulse and feared she was dead. Putting his ear to her chest, he listed and swore under his breath, his fear confirmed. Staring back at the young girl, he wondered how to tell her. Standing up again, he moved toward her.
“Lord, God, please guide my words,” he spoke to his deity. “I’m awash here, Lord.”
****
“Good Lord, my arm aches. My shoulder is throbbing like a damn drum beating out a marching cadence. You got any whiskey you can give me?”
“Wouldn’t give you any if I had any,” Meeker told him. Looking back at his kill, the man tied to his saddle, he added, “Your damn bastard partner ruined my new hat. Couldn’t find the feather,” Meeker said and turned his attention to his companion. “Michelle, don’t you ever shoot a man to wound him, again.”
“I want him to hang, as a matter of justice. My dad told me he seen a hanging one time. John Tanner swore the sight was gruesome. I think hanging’s a fitting end for this bastard.”
“Grisly is the word for hanging,” Powers spoke, his voice slightly trembling. “I saw them hang a rapist once back in Louisiana. I don’t think I want to go by the rope. Give me a gun, and I’ll end it for y’all,” the injured deserter told them, anxious to avoid the end he feared was coming.
“No, Michelle is right. A fitting end, yes, sir. A fitting end for the likes of you, I reckon she’s right. If you’re lucky, the fall will break your neck clean if the hangman puts the knot in the right spot, if the fall is perfect, if you fall far enough but not too far. If not, you may choke to death over twenty to forty minutes. Me, I’m rooting for a bad turn on the deal. Too short a fall or too long a fall will do just fine.” Smiling at the man, Meeker nodded his head toward Michelle, “For justice, Shell, for justice.”
“Is this horse doctor decent enough to be a’ working on people?” Powers was curious. His pain was horrific, but still, he was worried. As though he needed to worry much past a few weeks. Still, a chance might present itself for him to slipway and escape the hangman’s knot if the opportunity presented. Powers would like to have his shoulder fixed first.
“Buffalo Head is plenty fine for you.”
“Buffalo Head, you say? Sounds like a damn Injun.”
“It does, don’t it. I reckon his name sounds Indian because he is an Indian.”
Powers told them he wouldn’t be touched by any Indian.
****
Buffalo Head thrust the shovel down in the dirt and threw another shovel-load up. “Lord, can I kill these bastards?” Looking up to Heaven, he saw a bird fly around and land on the edge of the grave. A dove looked down at him.
“No, okay. Well, can I at least hate these bastards? Let me hate them. They are evil men, Lord, I can hate evil men, right?” Another dove landed next to the first, and the pair peered at him cocking their heads to one side. “Can I watch them hang, Lord?”
A bobcat lurched at the two doves, who flew off, leaving nothing for the cat. The cat gazed at the man and let out a long pitiful yow.
“Thank you, Lord. I’ll forgive them, but I’ll be at their hanging.” The old man looked around the grave he had dug. It was deep; his head was under the top by a good six inches.
“How the hell do I get out?”
“I reckon I might give you a hand up,” Meeker’s voice boomed as he looked down. The cat took off running. “Well, if that doesn’t just beat the band, old man. That’s one fine grave.” Getting on his knees, he held his hand down, and the old man took it.
Struggling for a few moments, at last, the old man got footing enough to haul himself up over the edge of the grave. Rolling on his back, he looked up at the sky. He found a star, its pale light only just visible. Turning his gaze to the west, he realized the sun was almost gone.
“I’m too old to be digging graves. What happened to your feather?”
“Long story. Short version, one of the bastards shot my hat off my head. He’s boots-up on his saddle.”
Meeker and Michelle dug yet another grave. The old man fixed some vittles. After they filled the graves, they ate and sat around talking. The Indian tried in vain to convince Powers into letting him operate on him.
“I’ll take the first watch,” Michelle said, looking at their prisoner.
“Wake me about two a.m., and I’ll take over,” Meeker told her as he lay back, covering his eyes with his hat. His long gray hair hung over the cantle of the saddle. Pulling his hat off, he explored the two bullet holes in it: the hole made when the bullet entered his hat and the one where it exited. “Damn, I loved this big floppy hat!”
“It may be a mite longer than that before I wake you,” Michelle told him. She realized how hard it must have been for Buffalo Head to forgive those who had harmed his people. She wanted nothing more than for this man to try to escape so that she could kill him. Staring at him hard, she almost dared him to try something.
A thought jumped into her mind, Michelle Tanner wanted to do someone harm for the first time in her life.
Soon enough, she’d see him hang.
And that’s another story.
Copyright 2014, 2015, 2017, 2022 by Ron Lewis
This is a work of fiction and not intended to be historically accurate but merely a representation of the times. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental and unintentional. Historical characters used are strictly for dramatic purposes. This story contains some violence.
Published simultaneously at Medium and Simily
Cookie | Duration | Description |
---|---|---|
cookielawinfo-checbox-analytics | 11 months | This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Analytics". |
cookielawinfo-checbox-functional | 11 months | The cookie is set by GDPR cookie consent to record the user consent for the cookies in the category "Functional". |
cookielawinfo-checbox-others | 11 months | This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Other. |
cookielawinfo-checkbox-necessary | 11 months | This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookies is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Necessary". |
cookielawinfo-checkbox-performance | 11 months | This cookie is set by GDPR Cookie Consent plugin. The cookie is used to store the user consent for the cookies in the category "Performance". |
viewed_cookie_policy | 11 months | The cookie is set by the GDPR Cookie Consent plugin and is used to store whether or not user has consented to the use of cookies. It does not store any personal data. |
There was a problem reporting this post.
Please confirm you want to block this member.
You will no longer be able to:
Please allow a few minutes for this process to complete.