Oh, i have a Desert Chronicle entry today.
It is a about a real person, and since he is now dead, i can use his name. It is Blackie Harrison.
Blackie was a native american male of the Karuk tribe. He was slight of build, but i never saw him in his prime; when i knew him he shuffled along the side of the highway wearing an old beat-up felt hat with a huge pheasant feather streaming out behind him. His wife would toss him out for a few months now and then, and he had a favorite hollow tree to hole up in if the weather was too cold for his favorite spot under a bridge.
He had a problem with the whiskey. The problem was he never had enough. He carried a pint in each boot. His left boot had his personal bottle, and the one in his right boot was his sharing bottle. If anyone ever made a move for his left boot, he would likely see the flash of a knife.
But Blackie was not violent with strangers. He saved that for his family. He raised a group of boys. That became the baddest-ass bunch in Siskiyou county, bar none. Any time more than one of the boys were out of prison at once,something bad was bound to happen. And usually did. It normally involved a beating, a killing, or larceny, but i am getting ahead of myself.
One night, three of them were out of jail at once. They had gathered at their mother's house to compare notes and share some rotgut. In walks Blackie, loaded to the gills, nose glowing and his rheumy eyes dimmer than normal.
For some reason, he picked that moment to get angry at his wife. He smacked her around a bit, but the boys were on him instantly. They tied him up, hands bound behind him with some cord. They then went and caught their mother's saddle horse. They put a lariat around Blackie's feet and tied the other end to the horse. They then slapped the horse on the ass so it would run a bit, then they went back inside and partied the rest of the night away. In their minds, they had decided that dragging him to death was justifiable, and that they wouldn't get in trouble for it, since it was a family affair and the deputy was loathe to visit the Harrison residence for such trifling matters.
Anyway, because it rained a bit that night, the grass in the little pasture the horse was in was a little slick. That saved Blackie's life, as the horse didn't like the rope on it, and walked around the perimeter of the pasture all night, but he slid easy enough on the grass to avoid death. However, he had hypothermia bigtime, and enough road rash to scare a Hell's Angel. His wife untied him at dawn.
This story is absolutely 100% true, and it is one that enters my mind each year as we approach Father's day. Imagine growing up in a house where it was so bad that torturing and trying to kill your father was considered a chore to be shared among your siblings. Sort of like Saddam Hussein's son-in-laws, i guess, but you just don't see that kind of thing every day. Fortunately.
"If at first you don't succeed,
skydiving is not for you"
