Thursday 6 September 2012

The Club


The Club
The club was very special, probably only one person in a generation, in any country in the world, got an invitation to become a member.

The invitation would arrive one morning in a gilt envelope and would contain a simple message,

" You are invited to a special reception at "Immortals" on Friday evening at 8:00pm"

Brief directions were given.

The strange thing was the directions were different for every person that got an invitation as they had been since Immortals first appeared 10,000 years ago.

You could (if you new where to look, and what you were looking for) find the staircase on the corner or every block in every major city in the world.

A set of simple unadorned steel steps leading  to a large door and an entrance hall leading to a second large door.

Nobody ever noticed the stairs, only that one with an invitation.

Amazing thing, it was always just a short walk from their home!

---------------------------------------

It was Friday morning in Makiki Honolulu, Hawai'i.

A young  man of colour with mixed African and white American descent walked out to the mail box.

It was August 4, 1979 and it was his 18 birthday.

He was eager to see if he had any cards.

When he opened the box there was just one gilt envelope.

He opened it as he walked back up the path to his grandmothers house.

Inside was a simple card with a few words and directions on it.

" You are invited to a special reception at Immortals on Friday evening at 8:00pm"

At a building just a block away from his home.

He thought it was a joke but decided to play along with it.

At 7:30PM it was already dark.

The young man kissed his grandmother and made his way out.

He walked for a few minutes and easily found the steel stair case leaning up the side of an old factory block.

Now he knew it was a joke, but still he played along.

He slowly climbed the steps and  was about to bang on the door when it opened.

A short man from Indian in a white robe opened the door, the young man was sure he knew his face.

The man just smiled and ushered him in.

There was a strange tingling down his spine as he passed through the second door.

First thing he saw was a fat Englishman smoking a large cigar, booming out a laugh in a deep gravel voice

As, A middle aged Italian dressed in a strange monk like garb, held up a sketch of an enigmatic black haired woman with an en witching smile and shouted noooooooooo she was ugly as hell!


At the next table was a guy with a huge shock of curly hair, who from his accent was German, he was saying, "I am convinced that God does not play dice."

The man sitting next to him said with a definite Greek accent "Albert your a rouge" and they both laughed out loud.

As he moved forward he was sure Albert called the Greek, Odysseus, he shook his head, no he misheard!

The young man looked around and all the faces around him were familiar in some way.

A beautiful English woman walked over to the young man and the Indian and said "Thanks Mahatma, I will take over from here", The Indian smiled and said simply "your welcome Florence".

Florence took the young mans arm and guided him across the room to a dark corner where a group of men sat around a  table in the shadows.

They all looked up as Florence and the young man approached.

She said "gentlemen this is the young man we have all been waiting for".

Florence introduced them one by one, as she did the young mans eyes grew wider and wider.

Socrates,

Plato,

Aristotle,

Marcus Aurelius,

Thomas Aquinas,

Voltaire,

Mencius,
 
Confucius,

Al-Kindī,

Siddhārtha Gautama,

Sun Tzu,

The Young man laughed and said "man this is some joke, where are the guys?"

The men at the table looked at him seriously for a long moment.

Then the man introduced simply as Voltaire stood up and said with a thick French accent, "Young man we have been waiting a very long time for you.

Sun Tzu, pulled out a chair and offered the young man a seat at the table.


-------------------------------------------------------------

On August 25 2009 few minutes after 8PM in Washington DC, the sun had gone down.

A middle aged black American of mixed race, slipped out of a door into a service yard at the back of the White House and climbed a set of simple unadorned steel steps leading  to a large door and an entrance hall leading to a second large door......................

If I Could Turn Back The Hands Of Time

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Love- Reposted from 2009

Before I was I
As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I notice that, you carry the weight of your years on your shoulders like an old heavy trench coat.
The burden you have carried for so long diminishing the body but not the soul.


As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I see time pass for you like the winding down of an old clock.
The spring slowly unwinding, time ticking down to that final tick.


As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I wonder at the zest for life that has carried you forward, while so many others have fallen along the way.
I wonder at the sheer will power that has lifted you from sleep to meet the mountainous challenges of another day.

As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I reflect on how you carry the burden of pain with you every day.
But packed deep away, so that only those who know how to see can tell its there.

As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I remember the distance that had grown between us for so long.
Now I cherish the bond and love we have developed in the the sunset years.

As I sit across the room and watch you as you sleep.
I finally allow the obvious to surface from the deep recesses of my mind.
I am you.

                       bAZ
©2009
(based on a previous commentary)

     

Life's NOT a Safe Haven!

sunrise1a


BigSur2

We have two choices in life we can sit around thinking about it, or we can get off our butts and live it!



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Faith in spirituality enables us to trust ourselves.

With trust we can let go of the past and have the courage to dare.

To dare with courage gives us the confidence to know that we can achieve what we set out to achieve.

If we begin with doubt then we have sown the seed of possible failure.

Faith in spirituality always allows us to win. Every step of faith opens another chapter in our lives.

The Bridge


The Bridge

Critchley had walked to the bridge and sat on the bench to eat his lunch for the last 60 years. It had fond memories for him, he had met his wife in this park in 1949, he was 23. They had sat on this bench holding hands on their first date.

On the back of the bench carved into one of the boards was a heart with the initials JC and AM inside. Jim Critchley was 83, born during the last days of 1926. He had married Amanda Morrison in 1951.

They had 4 short years together before she was taken after being struck down with meningitis. He sat at her hospital bed for 12 days while she was in a coma, never moving from her side.

On the evening of the 12 day as he sat in a chair next to her bed, he felt her fingers close on his hand, he looked up and her eyes were open, her lips were moving, but her voice so weak he could not hear. He moved close to her his ear near to her mouth. "I will be at the bridge" is all she said and a long sigh escaped her lips. He looked up her eyes were open, but Amanda Morrison was gone. He bowed his head and wept long groaning sobs.

The Hospital staff took 2 hours to persuade him to release his embrace on her lifeless body.

After that Critchley had existed, simply going through the functions of day to day life, working, eating, sleeping  and going to the bridge every day at lunchtime. Summer and Winter. Autumn and Spring. No matter what the weather, he was there. He did not notice the years pass. In reality Critchley did not notice much of anything.

Today Critchley picked up his Pastrami on Rye from the Deli on the corner of 25 and Idaho and walked slowly with the aid of his stick to the park and the Bridge. He eased himself down onto the bench with a soft groan his bones aching more than ever. He did as he always did ate his lunch and thought about his short time with Amanda and what she had whispered in his ear.

Life went on around Critchley without him ever really noticing, passers by a blur of movement and sound. Unusually Critchley slowly dozed off, half his lunch sandwich falling to the ground for the birds to quickly scavenge.

It was dusk when a voice jogged Critchley from his sleep. A soft familiar whisper, "Critch", "Critch" "Its Time Darling", he rubbed his blurry eyes and looked up in the half light he saw a woman standing on the bridge, there seemed to be something familiar about her in his half dream state. "Come on Critch, its time for us to go".

Slowly Critchley eased himself up from the bench, and was suddenly shocked to find he had no pain, he looked up and noticed a strange glow around the bridge and the woman was standing her hand held out towards him, with an oh so familiar smile on her face.

Critchley ran to the bridge and looked into the eyes of his one and only love, Amanda Morrison.
She took his hand and guided him over the bridge into the shadows of the park, the glow around the bridge was gone.

At 11.50pm Sergeant Patrick O'Shaunasey was taking a short cut home through the park from the station house. He found Critchley's body still sitting on the bench with the crumbs left by the birds around his feet. His eyes were still open he was looking in the direction of the bridge with a grin on his face, but Jim Critchley was gone.

Journey

Journey

We travel the road alone, we arrive alone, we depart alone.

Along the way friends and loved ones come and go.

They colour and paint our lives in the most extraordinary ways.

Father to Son, Father to Son.

Mother to Daughter, Mother to Daughter.

From friends we learn throughout our lives.

They rally to us in moments of need and uncertainty.

The journey is indeed an uncertain one, for we know not its direction or terminus.

Most of the time we travel in the light our path clear and certain.

At other moments the way is dark and undefined.

At these times those closest to us, are our guiding lights.

This closeness not measured in distance

But in love and comradeship

There is I have no doubt, a way, a route, a path to what we seek

The journey different for each of us but a journey it is!

If we  are diligent and with a little luck we may find  Enlightenment along the way

If as the song says you still have not found what your looking for.

Don't stop Looking.

It is out there.

Somewhere!




A Buenaventure Love Story



It was a perfect evening, the sun slowly sinking in the West. Painting the sky with golden and red hues.

He had tied the boat up for the night in the prearranged place, just a few miles outside the city.Sitting in the cabin he waited for his visitor to arrive.

There was excitement and nervousness in his mind.
Opening the door of a small cabinet he took out a bottle of Glenmorangie - Single Malt Scotch Whisky, dropped ice in a glass and poured a double shot.

Tonight was going to be make or break for Mike. What happened between him and Alejandra would decide his future.

The Fact she was so beautiful made things even more daunting for him. He could not get her sensuous curved body out of his mind.

But he knew that he had to convince her that what he was offering was the real thing. So he would keep his mind clear and be sure that she accepted him for what he was.

She had to drive out to the bay from Buenaventure and depending on the traffic should be there anytime.

Mike sipped his scotch and considered how he was going to get from Alejandra what he wanted. He knew she was interested in what he had to offer and what he wanted from her.

A broad smile had crossed her soft lips when he had suggested meeting on the boat in a secluded place. She had kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear so that none at the party would hear.

So here he waited at the appointed time, praying that everything would go as smoothly as it had in his dreams.

There was the sound of tyres on gravel and lights cast shadows through the cabin windows. A car door slammed and he could hear the crunch of the gravel as she walked to the dock.

Alejandra was a beautiful 37 year old woman who knew what she wanted. Tonight was going to be make or break for Alejandra.

What happened between her and Mike would decide her future. The fact he was so handsome made things even more daunting for her.

She could not get his strong muscular body out of her mind.But she knew that she had to convince him that what she was offering was the real thing.

So she would keep her mind clear and be sure that he accepted her for what she was.

They met on the dock and he kissed her on both cheeks and welcomed her. Putting an arm around her waist he guided her up the ladder and onto the cruser.

He noticed that she had a night bag with her and that surprised him a little. He had not expected that she would be that prepared for what he had suggested to her at the party.

He offered her a drink she said she would drink what he was drinking. They talked the small talk for a while and then Mike suggested that they sit down and discuss his proposal.

That broard smile crossed her lips and she said that no discussion was needed and that he should show her what he had to offer.

Mike grinned that stupid boyish grin as he did when he knew he was going to get what he wanted.

He turned and went to the cabinet and pulled out a briefcase clicked the locks and opened the lid.

As he turned he heard the sound of a zip being slowly slid open, that grin returning to his face.

As he looked into her eyes, his grin disappeared in an instant.

Alejandra Escobar Gaviria stood before him with her fathers Uzi Submachine Pistol in her hand that she had taken from the night bag.

As Mike went to speak she fired off 2 shots, both hitting Mike squarely in the forehead, the case fell from his hand and he was dead before he hit the floor.

Alejandra Escobar Gaviria was a beautiful Colombian woman, but more than that she was the daughter of imprisoned, Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria the most notorious and violent drug lord of the Medellín Cartel.

She looked at Mikes body almost sadly as she picked up the bags of white powder that had fallen from the case, he had been such a beautiful man.

But far more importantly, tonight a new dynasty of the 
Medellín Cartel had been born!

Tears of a Clown


Tears of a Clown

Tears you can not see
Tears inside his head
Arms out stretched and a sad refrain
Can not belie his inner pain
Time upon time had come and gone
Child to man
to grave and on
Each best friend
The same sad fate
To make the final journey to heavens gate
But here he waits for another chance
A child to protect and life enhance.
Age upon age
Eon to Eon
The tears of the clown
flow on and on
Grief for Friends
now all long gone

Georgia's Final Gift! HighFall state Park Ga

I thought you might like to see one last Gem that Georgia offered me as I drove to the Airport to return home from one of my trips to see Gator.

As I headed for Atlanta yesterday, I found myself only an hour from the car rental depot and 6 hours ahead of schedule, a quick look at the map showed that there was a tiny state park a mile off the next junction, I did not expect much, but boy was I mistaken!

In the early 1800s, the site was a prosperous industrial town with several stores, a grist mill, cotton gin, blacksmith shop, shoe factory and hotel. High Falls became a ghost town in the 1880s when a major railroad bypassed it. Today, park visitors can enjoy the scenic waterfall on the Towaliga River and hike to the remaining grist mill foundation. A campground, picnic areas and canoe rental are also available. This pretty park in middle Georgia is conveniently located near I-75 and makes a restful side trip for travelers.
Highfalls State Park Ga

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Highfalls State Park Ga

Highfalls State Park Ga
Highfalls State Park Ga
The Rest of the pics from the shoot are in a new Gallery

Ernest Thompson Seton & LOBO THE KING OF CURRUMPAW

 

I reposted this because people expressed interest in the story of Lobo.


I hope you find it interesting



Ernest Thompson Seton

&

LOBO THE KING OF CURRUMPAW572px-Ernest_Thompson_Seton



Ernest Thompson Seton (August 14, 1860 - October 23, 1946) was a Scoto-Canadian (and naturalized U.S. citizen) who became a noted author, wildlife artist, founder of the Woodcraft Indians, and founding pioneer of the Boy Scouts of America (BSA).


He was born Ernest Evan Thompson in South Shields, County Durham (now part of South Tyneside, Tyne and Wear), England of Scottish parents and his family emigrated to Canada in 1866. As a youth, he retreated to the woods to draw and study animals as a way of avoiding his abusive father. He won a scholarship in art to the Royal Academy in London, England.


He developed a fascination for wolves while working as a naturalist for Manitoba. He became successful as a writer, artist and naturalist, later moving to New York City to further his career. Seton later lived at Wyndygoul an estate that he built in Cos Cob, a section of Greenwich, Connecticut.


Seaton wrote an account of an encounter with a wolf when he was working as a wolf tracker and hunter, the wolf  profoundley affected him and the encounter indirectly provided the foundation of the environmental movement in America.


Ernest Thompson Seton's account of how he hunted a cattle-killing wolf became a pivotal part of American history, helping to change the way people see wolves and the wilderness. In his efforts to find, capture, and kill Lobo, Seton came to understand the animal's intelligence, loyalty and warmth. Although he finally succeeded in his task, he never killed a wolf again.


This is the short story he wrote.


010

LOBO THE KING OF CURRUMPAW

Currumpaw is a vast cattle range in northern New Mexico. It is a land of rich pastures and teeming flocks and herds, a land of rolling mesas and precious running waters that at length unite in the Currumpaw River, from which the whole region is named. And the king whose despotic power was felt over its entire extent was an old gray wolf.
Old Lobo, or the king, as the Mexicans called him, was the gigantic leader of a remarkable pack of gray wolves, that had ravaged the Currumpaw Valley for a number of years. All the shepherds and ranchmen knew him well, and, wherever he appeared with his trusty band, terror reigned supreme among the cattle, and wrath and despair among their owners. Old Lobo was a giant among wolves, and was cunning and strong in proportion to his size. His voice at night was well-known and easily distinguished from that of any of his fellows. An ordinary wolf might howl half the night about the herdsman's bivouac without attracting more than a passing notice, but when the deep roar of the old king came booming down the cañon, the watcher bestirred himself and prepared to learn in the morning that fresh and serious inroads had been made among the herds.
Old Lobo's band was but a small one. This I never quite understood, for usually, when a wolf rises to the position and power that he had, he attracts a numerous following. It may be that he had as many as he desired, or perhaps his ferocious temper prevented the increase of his pack. Certain is it that Lobo had only five followers during the latter part of his reign. Each of these, however, was a wolf of renown, most of them were above the ordinary size, one in particular, the second in command, was a veritable giant, but even he was far below the leader in size and prowess. Several of the band, besides the two leaders, were especially noted. One of those was a beautiful white wolf, that the Mexicans called Blanca; this was supposed to be a female, possibly Lobo's mate. Another was a yellow wolf of remarkable swiftness, which, according to current stories, had, on several occasions, captured an antelope for the pack.
It will be seen, then, that these wolves were thoroughly well-known to the cowboys and shepherds. They were frequently seen and oftener heard, and their lives were intimately associated with those of the cattlemen, who would so gladly have destroyed them. There was not a stockman on the Currumpaw who would not readily have given the value of many steers for the scalp of any one of Lobo's band, but they seemed to possess charmed lives, and defied all manner of devices to kill them. They scorned all hunters, derided all poisons, and continued, for at least five years, to exact their tribute from the Currumpaw ranchers to the extent, many said, of a cow each day. According to this estimate, therefore, the band had killed more than two thousand of the finest stock, for, as was only too well-known, they selected the best in every instance.
The old idea that a wolf was constantly in a starving state, and therefore ready to eat anything, was as far as possible from the truth in this case, for these freebooters were always sleek and well-conditioned, and were in fact most fastidious about what they ate. Any animal that had died from natural causes, or that was diseased or tainted, they would not touch, and they even rejected anything that had been killed by the stockmen. Their choice and daily food was the tenderer part of a freshly killed yearling heifer. An old bull or cow they disdained, and though they occasionally took a young calf or colt, it was quite clear that veal or horseflesh was not their favorite diet. It was also known that they were not fond of mutton, although they often amused themselves by killing sheep. One night in November, 1893, Blanca and the yellow wolf killed two hundred and fifty sheep, apparently for the fun of it, and did not eat an ounce of their flesh.
These are examples of many stories which I might repeat, to show the ravages of this destructive band. Many new devices for their extinction were tried each year, but still they lived and throve in spite of all the efforts of their foes. A great price was set on Lobo's head, and in consequence poison in a score of subtle forms was put out for him, but he never failed to detect and avoid it. One thing only he feared—that was firearms, and knowing full well that all men in this region carried them, he never was known to attack or face a human being. Indeed, the set policy of his band was to take refuge in flight whenever, in the daytime, a man was descried, no matter at what distance. Lobo's habit of permitting the pack to eat only that which they themselves had killed, was in numerous cases their salvation, and the keenness of his scent to detect the taint of human hands or the poison itself, completed their immunity.
On one occasion, one of the cowboys heard the too familiar rallying-cry of Old Lobo, and stealthily approaching, he found the Currumpaw pack in a hollow, where they had 'rounded up' a small herd of cattle. Lobo sat apart on a knoll, while Blanca with the rest was endeavoring to 'cut out' a young cow, which they had selected; but the cattle were standing in a compact mass with their heads outward, and presented to the foe a line of horns, unbroken save when some cow, frightened by a fresh onset of the wolves, tried to retreat into the middle of the herd. It was only by taking advantage of these breaks that the wolves had succeeded at all in wounding the selected cow, but she was far from being disabled, and it seemed that Lobo at length lost patience with his followers, for he left his position on the hill, and, uttering a deep roar, dashed toward the herd. The terrified rank broke at his charge, and he sprang in among them. Then the cattle scattered like the pieces of a bursting bomb. Away went the chosen victim, but ere she had gone twenty-five yards Lobo was upon her. Seizing her by the neck he suddenly held back with all his force and so threw her heavily to the ground. The shock must have been tremendous, for the heifer was thrown heels over head. Lobo also turned a somersault, but immediately recovered himself, and his followers falling on the poor cow, killed her in a few seconds. Lobo took no part in the killing—after having thrown the victim, he seemed to say, "Now, why could not some of you have done that at once without wasting so much time?"
The man now rode up shouting, the wolves as usual retired, and he, having a bottle of strychnine, quickly poisoned the carcass in three places, then went away, knowing they would return to feed, as they had killed the animals themselves. But next morning, on going to look for his expected victims, he found that, although the wolves had eaten the heifer, they had carefully cut out and thrown aside all those parts that had been poisoned.
The dread of this great wolf spread yearly among the ranchmen, and each year a larger price was set on his head, until at last it reached $1,000, an unparalleled wolf-bounty, surely; many a good man has been hunted down for less. Tempted by the promised reward, a Texan ranger named Tannerey came one day galloping up the cañon of the Currumpaw. He had a superb outfit for wolf-hunting—the best of guns and horses, and a pack of enormous wolf-hounds. Far out on the plains of the Panhandle, he and his dogs had killed many a wolf, and now he never doubted that, within a few days, old Lobo's scalp would dangle at his saddle-bow.
Away they went bravely on their hunt in the gray dawn of a summer morning, and soon the great dogs gave joyous tongue to say that they were already on the track of their quarry. Within two miles, the grizzly band of Currumpaw leaped into view, and the chase grew fast and furious. The part of the wolf-hounds was merely to hold the wolves at bay till the hunter could ride up and shoot them, and this usually was easy on the open plains of Texas; but here a new feature of the country came into play, and showed how well Lobo had chosen his range; for the rocky cañons of the Currumpaw and its tributaries intersect the prairies in every direction. The old wolf at once made for the nearest of these and by crossing it got rid of the horsemen. His band then scattered and thereby scattered the dogs, and when they reunited at a distant point of course all of the dogs did not turn up, and the wolves, no longer outnumbered, turned on their pursuers and killed or desperately wounded them all. That night when Tannerey mustered his dogs, only six of them returned, and of these, two were terribly lacerated. This hunter made two other attempts to capture the royal scalp, but neither of them was more successful than the first, and on the last occasion his best horse met its death by a fall; so he gave up the chase in disgust and went back to Texas, leaving Lobo more than ever the despot of the region.
Next year, two other hunters appeared, determined to win the promised bounty. Each believed he could destroy this noted wolf, the first by means of a newly devised poison, which was to be laid out in an entirely new manner; the other a French Canadian, by poison assisted with certain spells and charms, for he firmly believed that Lobo was a veritable 'loup-garou,' and could not be killed by ordinary means. But cunningly compounded poisons, charms, and incantations were all of no avail against this grizzly devastator. He made his weekly rounds and daily banquets as aforetime, and before many weeks had passed, Calone and Laloche gave up in despair and went elsewhere to hunt.
In the spring of 1893, after his unsuccessful attempt to capture Lobo, Joe Calone had a humiliating experience, which seems to show that the big wolf simply scorned his enemies, and had absolute confidence in himself. Calone's farm was on a small tributary of the Currumpaw, in a picturesque cañon, and among the rocks of this very cañon, within a thousand yards of the house, old Lobo and his mate selected their den and raised their family that season. There they lived all summer, and killed Joe's cattle, sheep, and dogs, but laughed at all his poisons and traps, and rested securely among the recesses of the cavernous cliffs, while Joe vainly racked his brain for some method of smoking them out, or of reaching them with dynamite. But they escaped entirely unscathed, and continued their ravages as before. "There's where he lived all last summer," said Joe, pointing to the face of the cliff, "and I couldn't do a thing with him. I was like a fool to him.

This history, gathered so far from the cowboys, I found hard to believe until, in the fall of 1893, I made the acquaintance of the wily marauder, and at length came to know him more thoroughly than anyone else. Some years before, in the Bingo days, I had been a wolf-hunter, but my occupations since then had been of another sort, chaining me to stool and desk. I was much in need of a change, and when a friend, who was also a ranch-owner on the Currumpaw, asked me to come to New Mexico and try if I could do anything with this predatory pack, I accepted the invitation and, eager to make the acquaintance of its king, was as soon as possible among the mesas of that region. I spent some time riding about to learn the country, and at intervals, my guide would point to the skeleton of a cow to which the hide still adhered, and remark, "That's some of his work."
It became quite clear to me that, in this rough country, it was useless to think of pursuing Lobo with hounds and horses, so that poison or traps were the only available expedients. At present we had no traps large enough, so I set to work with poison.
I need not enter into the details of a hundred devices that I employed to circumvent this 'loup-garou'; there was no combination of strychnine, arsenic, cyanide, or prussic acid, that I did not essay; there was no manner of flesh that I did not try as bait; but morning after morning, as I rode forth to learn the result, I found that all my efforts had been useless. The old king was too cunning for me. A single instance will show his wonderful sagacity. Acting on the hint of an old trapper, I melted some cheese together with the kidney fat of a freshly killed heifer, stewing it in a china dish, and cutting it with a bone knife to avoid the taint of metal. When the mixture was cool, I cut it into lumps, and making a hole in one side of each lump, I inserted a large dose of strychnine and cyanide, contained in a capsule that was impermeable by any odor; finally I sealed the holes up with pieces of the cheese itself. During the whole process, I wore a pair of gloves steeped in the hot blood of the heifer, and even avoided breathing on the baits. When all was ready, I put them in a raw-hide bag rubbed all over with blood, and rode forth dragging the liver and kidneys of the beef at the end of a rope. With this I made a ten-mile circuit, dropping a bait at each quarter of a mile, and taking the utmost care, always, not to touch any with my hands.
Lobo, generally, came into this part of the range in the early part of each week, and passed the latter part, it was supposed, around the base of Sierra Grande. This was Monday, and that same evening, as we were about to retire, I heard the deep bass howl of his majesty. On hearing it one of the boys briefly remarked, "There he is, we'll see."
The next morning I went forth, eager to know the result. I soon came on the fresh trail of the robbers, with Lobo in the lead—his track was always easily distinguished. An ordinary wolf's forefoot is 4-1/2 inches long, that of a large wolf 4-3/4 inches, but Lobo's, as measured a number of times, was 5-1/2 inches from claw to heel; I afterward found that his other proportions were commensurate, for he stood three feet high at the shoulder, and weighed 150 pounds. His trail, therefore, though obscured by those of his followers, was never difficult to trace. The pack had soon found the track of my drag, and as usual followed it. I could see that Lobo had come to the first bait, sniffed about it, and had finally picked it up.
Then I could not conceal my delight. "I've got him at last," I exclaimed; "I shall find him stark within a mile," and I galloped on with eager eyes fixed on the great broad track in the dust. It led me to the second bait and that also was gone. How I exulted—I surely have him now and perhaps several of his band. But there was the broad paw-mark still on the drag; and though I stood in the stirrup and scanned the plain I saw nothing that looked like a dead wolf. Again I followed—to find now that the third bait was gone—and the king-wolf's track led on to the fourth, there to learn that he had not really taken a bait at all, but had merely carried them in his mouth. Then having piled the three on the fourth, he scattered filth over them to express his utter contempt for my devices. After this he left my drag and went about his business with the pack he guarded so effectively.
This is only one of many similar experiences which convinced me that poison would never avail to destroy this robber, and though I continued to use it while awaiting the arrival of the traps, it was only because it was meanwhile a sure means of killing many prairie wolves and other destructive vermin.
About this time there came under my observation an incident that will illustrate Lobo's diabolic cunning. These wolves had at least one pursuit which was merely an amusement, it was stampeding and killing sheep, though they rarely ate them. The sheep are usually kept in flocks of from one thousand to three thousand under one or more shepherds. At night they are gathered in the most sheltered place available, and a herdsman sleeps on each side of the flock to give additional protection. Sheep are such senseless creatures that they are liable to be stampeded by the veriest trifle, but they have deeply ingrained in their nature one, and perhaps only one, strong weakness, namely, to follow their leader. And this the shepherds turn to good account by putting half a dozen goats in the flock of sheep. The latter recognize the superior intelligence of their bearded cousins, and when a night alarm occurs they crowd around them, and usually, are thus saved from a stampede and are easily protected. But it was not always so. One night late in last November, two Perico shepherds were aroused by an onset of wolves. Their flocks huddled around the goats, which being neither fools nor cowards, stood their ground and were bravely defiant; but alas for them, no common wolf was heading this attack. Old Lobo, the weir-wolf, knew as well as the shepherds that the goats were the moral force of the flock, so hastily running over the backs of the densely packed sheep, he fell on these leaders, slew them all in a few minutes, and soon had the luckless sheep stampeding in a thousand different directions. For weeks afterward I was almost daily accosted by some anxious shepherd, who asked, "Have you seen any stray OTO sheep lately?" and usually I was obliged to say I had; one day it was, "Yes, I came on some five or six carcasses by Diamond Springs;" or another, it was to the effect that I had seen a small 'bunch' running on the Malpai Mesa; or again, "No, but Juan Meira saw about twenty, freshly killed, on the Cedra Monte two days ago."
At length the wolf traps arrived, and with two men I worked a whole week to get them properly set out. We spared no labor or pains, I adopted every device I could think of that might help to insure success. The second day after the traps arrived, I rode around to inspect, and soon came upon Lobo's trail running from trap to trap. In the dust I could read the whole story of his doings that night. He had trotted along in the darkness, and although the traps were so carefully concealed, he had instantly detected the first one. Stopping the onward march of the pack, he had cautiously scratched around it until he had disclosed the trap, the chain, and the log, then left them wholly exposed to view with the trap still unsprung, and passing on he treated over a dozen traps in the same fashion. Very soon I noticed that he stopped and turned aside as soon as he detected suspicious signs on the trail, and a new plan to outwit him at once suggested itself. I set the traps in the form of an H; that is, with a row of traps on each side of the trail, and one on the trail for the cross-bar of the H. Before long, I had an opportunity to count another failure. Lobo came trotting along the trail, and was fairly between the parallel lines before he detected the single trap in the trail, but he stopped in time, and why and how he knew enough I cannot tell; the Angel of the wild things must have been with him, but without turning an inch to the right or left, he slowly and cautiously backed on his own tracks, putting each paw exactly in its old track until he was off the dangerous ground. Then returning at one side he scratched clods and stones with his hind feet till he had sprung every trap. This he did on many other occasions, and although I varied my methods and redoubled my precautions, he was never deceived, his sagacity seemed never at fault, and he might have been pursuing his career of rapine to-day, but for an unfortunate alliance that proved his ruin and added his name to the long list of heroes who, unassailable when alone, have fallen through the indiscretion of a trusted ally.
028

Lobo and Blanca

Once or twice, I had found indications that everything was not quite right in the Currumpaw pack. There were signs of irregularity, I thought; for instance there was clearly the trail of a smaller wolf running ahead of the leader, at times, and this I could not understand until a cowboy made a remark which explained the matter.

"I saw them to-day," he said, "and the wild one that breaks away is Blanca." Then the truth dawned upon me, and I added, "Now, I know that Blanca is a she-wolf, because were a he-wolf to act thus, Lobo would kill him at once."
This suggested a new plan. I killed a heifer, and set one or two rather obvious traps about the carcass. Then cutting off the head, which is considered useless offal, and quite beneath the notice of a wolf, I set it a little apart and around it placed six powerful steel traps properly deodorized and concealed with the utmost care. During my operations I kept my hands, boots, and implements smeared with fresh blood, and afterward sprinkled the ground with the same, as though it had flowed from the head; and when the traps were buried in the dust I brushed the place over with the skin of a coyote, and with a foot of the same animal made a number of tracks over the traps. The head was so placed that there was a narrow passage between it and some tussocks, and in this passage I buried two of my best traps, fastening them to the head itself.
Wolves have the habit of approaching every carcass they get the wind of, in order to examine it, even when they have no intention of eating it, and I hoped that this habit would bring the Currumpaw pack within reach of my latest stratagem. I did not doubt that Lobo would detect my handiwork about the meat, and prevent the pack approaching it, but I did build some hopes on the head, for it looked as though it had been thrown aside as useless.
Next morning, I sallied forth to inspect the traps, and there, oh, joy! were the tracks of the pack, and the place where the beef-head and its traps had been was empty. A hasty study of the trail showed that Lobo had kept the pack from approaching the meat, but one, a small wolf, had evidently gone on to examine the head as it lay apart and had walked right into one of the traps.
We set out on the trail, and within a mile discovered that the hapless wolf was Blanca. Away she went, however, at a gallop, and although encumbered by the beef-head, which weighed over fifty pounds, she speedily distanced my companion who was on foot. But we overtook her when she reached the rocks, for the horns of the cow's head became caught and held her fast. She was the handsomest wolf I had ever seen. Her coat was in perfect condition and nearly white.
She turned to fight, and raising her voice in the rallying cry of her race, sent a long howl rolling over the cañon. From far away upon the mesa came a deep response, the cry of Old Lobo. That was her last call, for now we had closed in on her, and all her energy and breath were devoted to combat.
Then followed the inevitable tragedy, the idea of which I shrank from afterward more than at the time. We each threw a lasso over the neck of the doomed wolf, and strained our horses in opposite directions until the blood burst from her mouth, her eyes glazed, her limbs stiffened and then fell limp. Homeward then we rode, carrying the dead wolf, and exulting over this, the first death-blow we had been able to inflict on the Currumpaw pack.
At intervals during the tragedy, and afterward as we rode homeward, we heard the roar of Lobo as he wandered about on the distant mesas, where he seemed to be searching for Blanca. He had never really deserted her, but knowing that he could not save her, his deep-rooted dread of firearms had been too much for him when he saw us approaching. All that day we heard him wailing as he roamed in his quest, and I remarked at length to one of the boys, "Now, indeed, I truly know that Blanca was his mate."
As evening fell he seemed to be coming toward the home cañon, for his voice sounded continually nearer. There was an unmistakable note of sorrow in it now. It was no longer the loud, defiant howl, but a long, plaintive wail: "Blanca! Blanca!" he seemed to call. And as night came down, I noticed that he was not far from the place where we had overtaken her. At length he seemed to find the trail, and when he came to the spot where we had killed her, his heart-broken wailing was piteous to hear. It was sadder than I could possibly have believed. Even the stolid cowboys noticed it, and said they had "never heard a wolf carry on like that before." He seemed to know exactly what had taken place, for her blood had stained the place of her death.
Then he took up the trail of the horses and followed it to the ranch-house. Whether in hopes of finding her there, or in quest of revenge, I know not, but the latter was what he found, for he surprised our unfortunate watchdog outside and tore him to little bits within fifty yards of the door. He evidently came alone this time, for I found but one trail next morning, and he had galloped about in a reckless manner that was very unusual with him. I had half expected this, and had set a number of additional traps about the pasture. Afterward I found that he had indeed fallen into one of these, but such was his strength, he had torn himself loose and cast it aside.
I believed that he would continue in the neighborhood until he found her body at least, so I concentrated all my energies on this one enterprise of catching him before he left the region, and while yet in this reckless mood. Then I realized what a mistake I had made in killing Blanca, for by using her as a decoy I might have secured him the next night.
I gathered in all the traps I could command, one hundred and thirty strong steel wolf-traps, and set them in fours in every trail that led into the cañon; each trap was separately fastened to a log, and each log was separately buried. In burying them, I carefully removed the sod and every particle of earth that was lifted we put in blankets, so that after the sod was replaced and all was finished the eye could detect no trace of human handiwork. When the traps were concealed I trailed the body of poor Blanca over each place, and made of it a drag that circled all about the ranch, and finally I took off one of her paws and made with it a line of tracks over each trap. Every precaution and device known to me I used, and retired at a late hour to await the result.
Once during the night I thought I heard Old Lobo, but was not sure of it. Next day I rode around, but darkness came on before I completed the circuit of the north cañon, and I had nothing to report. At supper one of the cowboys said, "There was a great row among the cattle in the north cañon this morning, maybe there is something in the traps there." It was afternoon of the next day before I got to the place referred to, and as I drew near a great grizzly form arose from the ground, vainly endeavoring to escape, and there revealed before me stood Lobo, King of the Currumpaw, firmly held in the traps. Poor old hero, he had never ceased to search for his darling, and when he found the trail her body had made he followed it recklessly, and so fell into the snare prepared for him. There he lay in the iron grasp of all four traps, perfectly helpless, and all around him were numerous tracks showing how the cattle had gathered about him to insult the fallen despot, without daring to approach within his reach. For two days and two nights he had lain there, and now was worn out with struggling. Yet, when I went near him, he rose up with bristling mane and raised his voice, and for the last time made the cañon reverberate with his deep bass roar, a call for help, the muster call of his band. But there was none to answer him, and, left alone in his extremity, he whirled about with all his strength and made a desperate effort to get at me. All in vain, each trap was a dead drag of over three hundred pounds, and in their relentless fourfold grasp, with great steel jaws on every foot, and the heavy logs and chains all entangled together, he was absolutely powerless. How his huge ivory tusks did grind on those cruel chains, and when I ventured to touch him with my rifle-barrel he left grooves on it which are there to this day. His eyes glared green with hate and fury, and his jaws snapped with a hollow 'chop,' as he vainly endeavored to reach me and my trembling horse. But he was worn out with hunger and struggling and loss of blood, and he soon sank exhausted to the ground.
Something like compunction came over me, as I prepared to deal out to him that which so many had suffered at his hands.
"Grand old outlaw, hero of a thousand lawless raids, in a few minutes you will be but a great load of carrion. It cannot be otherwise." Then I swung my lasso and sent it whistling over his head. But not so fast; he was yet far from being subdued, and, before the supple coils had fallen on his neck he seized the noose and, with one fierce chop, cut through its hard thick strands, and dropped it in two pieces at his feet.
Of course I had my rifle as a last resource, but I did not wish to spoil his royal hide, so I galloped back to the camp and returned with a cowboy and a fresh lasso. We threw to our victim a stick of wood which he seized in his teeth, and before he could relinquish it our lassoes whistled through the air and tightened on his neck.
Yet before the light had died from his fierce eyes, I cried, "Stay, we will not kill him; let us take him alive to the camp." He was so completely powerless now that it was easy to put a stout stick through his mouth, behind his tusks, and then lash his jaws with a heavy cord which was also fastened to the stick. The stick kept the cord in, and the cord kept the stick in, so he was harmless. As soon as he felt his jaws were tied he made no further resistance, and uttered no sound, but looked calmly at us and seemed to say, "Well, you have got me at last, do as you please with me." And from that time he took no more notice of us.
We tied his feet securely, but he never groaned, nor growled, nor turned his head. Then with our united strength we were just able to put him on my horse. His breath came evenly as though sleeping, and his eyes were bright and clear again, but did not rest on us. Afar on the great rolling mesas they were fixed, his passing kingdom, where his famous band was now scattered. And he gazed till the pony descended the pathway into the cañon, and the rocks cut off the view.
By travelling slowly we reached the ranch in safety, and after securing him with a collar and a strong chain, we staked him out in the pasture and removed the cords. Then for the first time I could examine him closely, and proved how unreliable is vulgar report where a living hero or tyrant is concerned. He had not a collar of gold about his neck, nor was there on his shoulders an inverted cross to denote that he had leagued himself with Satan. But I did find on one haunch a great broad scar, that tradition says was the fang-mark of Juno, the leader of Tannerey's wolf-hounds—a mark which she gave him the moment before he stretched her lifeless on the sand of the cañon.

I set meat and water beside him, but he paid no heed. He lay calmly on his breast, and gazed with those steadfast yellow eyes away past me down through the gateway of the cañon, over the open plains—his plains—nor moved a muscle when I touched him. When the sun went down he was still gazing fixedly across the prairie. I expected he would call up his band when night came, and prepared for them, but he had called once in his extremity, and none had come; he would never call again.

A lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom, or a dove bereft of his mate, all die, it is said, of a broken heart; and who will aver that this grim bandit could bear the threefold brunt, heart-whole? This only I know, that when the morning dawned, he was lying there still in his position of calm repose, but his spirit was gone-the old king-wolf was dead.

I took the chain from his neck, a cowboy helped me to carry him to the shed where lay the remains of Blanca, and as we laid him beside her, the cattle-man exclaimed: "There, you would come to her, now you are together again.

After these events Seaton was so moved that he became an ardent campaigner for the protection of the American environmet and wilderness and out of that was born the American Environmental movement