Cottonwood, an Observation: Eighty-Five Years of History, Love, and Progress

By J.P. Lucas

Cottonwood, an Observation is based on the lifetime of a cottonwood tree and the things seen by him over an eighty-five-year period from 1842 until the end of WWI. He watches the development of the country around him, from pristine prairie, the time of the Buffalo and the Indian, through the settlement and development of a city nearly under his branches. Cottonwood becomes intimately involved in the lives of the main characters of the book from what he sees and hears from his point of observation above the Sweetwater River, in the developing state of Wyoming. He observes the wars of the era, the medical developments of those years, the passing of the Indian, the coming and the passing of the Pony Express. He watches as the telegraph, telephone, and the railroad come into his part of the world.

He becomes intimately involved in the stories of those passing his post. He inspires introspection into our personal lives by his constant attempt to analyze the actions of human beings, their sometimes peaceful and sometimes deadly interactions with one another.

He records the stories of the lives of those fleeing the confusion and discord of Europe as they search for opportunity in the New World. We watch, through the eyes of Cottonwood, as a woman in Appalachia struggles, with an iron will, to break the bonds and stereotyping of ignorant mountain women.

Cottonwood observes as the love of two men bring salvation to an incorrigible Indian warrior. He watches as love heals the broken lives of two WWI survivors and catalogs those things he has seen, felt, and questioned.

The fact that freedom, dreams, love, and courage overcome every obstacle is the true conclusion of Cottonwoods narrative.

Cottonwood, the observer, makes us take a critical look at ourselves, our actions, our motives, and why we are here.

Cottonwood, the book, makes us look at our nation and why this unique place called America and its God-given freedoms are here. He leaves us with the fervent hope that we will continue to deserve and appreciate those blessings and benefits that only Americans enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Oct 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466960497

J.P. Lucas

The author has a wide range of life experience: raised in a near nineteenth-century Appalachian mountain environment; an American history student and a revolutionary war descendant; a student of human characteristics and behavior, lifelong businessman, father, mountain horseman, hunter, pilot, machinist, heavy equipment operator, MSHA instructor, mine owner; and an inventor, writer, speaker, and musician.

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Contents

Special Acknowledgements

Prologue

Part 1 High Plains Transformation

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part 2 Emmie

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part 3 Sweetwater

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Part 4 To End All Wars

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Dedication

So many times I have wondered why I have been so blessed to have the family God has given me. I re-read the dedication of my last book, Men In The Land. I thought of how it came to be and I have come to the same conclusion. It is because of my wonderful wife and children. And so again I dedicate this book to them and thank them for all they have done to make this book possible. They have been my inspiration and my support. I thank God for them.

For many years I have written stories, poems, dissertations, and songs.

Polly and I sang, and played, Gospel Music across the country for a lot of happy years.

As for writing, over those years, I wrote simply because I liked doing it. Some things I wrote about my wife, some about my children and some about the goodness of God and His blessings, or just about life, history and my experiences.

Now, I get the chance to dedicate this book, to the greatest of all blessings, my children, Anna, Wesley, Tammy, Lance and Laine and, my wonderful wife Polly.

Wesley and Tammy have made the publishing of this book possible. Their encouragement and, financial support, have given me the time to compile its content.

Wesley has spent many, essential hours, negotiating and coordinating the business process of the project.

Anna’s, wonderful sketches, have added to the appeal of the final product.

My other children have been an invaluable source of encouragement to me.

Polly has been my rock for 50 years. Her never ending support has been the thing that has allowed me to pursue so many projects, which have ranged from the insurance business, construction contracting, coal mining, aviation, design and development of various inventions.

She has made it possible for me to fly, ride, pack and hunt the beautiful Rocky Mountain country, from which I have gathered much to write about. She has wrapped my busted ribs and broken ankles, caused when horses and I have had, for one reason or another, suddenly, crossed paths, or parted ways. I have lost a couple of engines, in flight and had a wing partially disintegrate on a plane I was flying. I survived and Polly was always there to pick me up, shake her head and take me home. She has prayed for me and nursed me back, from the abyss, a number of times and encouraged me to make another stab at accomplishment, no matter what it was.

She has supported me, morally and financially, which has given me the ability to experience much more, in my lifetime, than one man can reasonably expect. She has encouraged me and given me the freedom, to be involved in, any venture I could find, from land development to politics. That has given me the ability to say, as I have grown older, I have lived. She has encouraged our children to, really, live life, become leaders and Stand For Something good in our world. Because of her, they have, and are, doing that.

It is to this special group of people, I am privileged to know, my family, that I dedicate this effort, this work.

Jp

9/6/2012

Special Acknowledgements

It is my privilege to acknowledge the contributions made to the finishing of this book and its publication to my wife Paulette and my daughter Anna. They spent many hours reading, re-reading, suggesting, correcting my less than perfect punctuation and encouraging me, as this work went along and was finalized.

I thank my son Wesley and my daughter Tammy for their financial support as I spent many weeks, working on this book, instead of having to keep my nose to the grindstone. They, along with Paulette, grounded me until I was done with the book and made it possible for me to do what was necessary, to complete the story of Cottonwood.

Then there were two special little ladies, my granddaughters, Kendra and Molly Prouse, who were the ghost writers for the letter illustrations found in the book written to Coleman by Becca.

I say a special thanks and I Love You, to all of them.

Jp

9/6/2012

Prologue

August 26 th 1790. On this damp and overcast day on the banks of the Great Kanawha River in western Virginia a new voice was heard along the river valley. It was the fresh cry of one Jacob Reed Young. On this day in Lewis Tacketts fort, at the junction of the Great Kanawha and Coal Rivers, Keziah Townsend Young brought forth a son and presented the wet and wiggly thing to her husband, John Young, Lieutenant in the frontier militia of Virginia.

This particular afternoon the ferocious Shawnee, operating out of Ohio, attacked children from the fort playing ball along the Kanawha. Their attack alerted the settlers at the fort and they began to repulse the attack. As afternoon became evening, the defenders of the fort and those in their homes along the river were beginning to see the hopelessness of their situation, they began to make preparation to abandon the fort at the first opportunity.

Unfortunately for almost everyone in and around the fort their efforts to survive this brutal assault were futile. However, a tremendously violent rainstorm moved along the valley and as darkness fell, John Young wrapped his wife and newborn baby in a pallet used for a bed and ran desperately to the Kanawha.

The darkness and the violence of the storm gave Young sufficient cover to allow him to reach the river and a canoe into which he threw his wife and baby and pushed into the river.

The Shawnee, seeing what was happening released a hail of gunfire and arrows into the river directed at the fleeing man and his little family. Fortunately Young had gotten far enough into the river and the blinding storm to escape the attempt to kill him.

Sad to say, everyone else in the fort, that was burned to the ground, that fateful night, were either killed, or captured.

The baby, Jacob Young, forever after, known as the Child of the Storm, born that day, lived for another 89 years.

That child in his old age had seen the advancement of the American nation through some of the most momentous developments in the history of the world.

That man had seen the valley of the Kanawha River, in what is now West Virginia, develop from a pristine wilderness with a half dozen families living at his birthplace to the beginnings of a modern industrial city with a railroad running within a few hundred yards past the place of his narrow escape as a baby.

When he had been born, no one could have imagined the world and the intervening development that he had seen, in his 89 years of life.

Enter Cottonwood.

Cottonwood first arrived on earth in the year 1834. Jacob Young was approaching the middle of his life. He had seen many changes in the world during this, 44 years and would see much more before his death. Cottonwoods observation of the developments taking place over a similar length of time, 85 years, were so astounding that Jacob Young, had he lived another short 30 years would have had a hard time believing them.

As far as is known, Jacob Reed Young did not record what he saw or what he thought of the developments of his lifetime. Fortunately, Cottonwoods Biographer has given us a glimpse into his earth-shattering thoughts and remembrances of his consequential time in our history.

* John Young was the authors 5th great grandfather.

Part 1

 High Plains Transformation

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Chapter 1

The two huge bulls strained against each other, the muscles of their hind legs, standing out, like gigantic knots, on a dark, oaken log. Each, trying to surge forward, and displace his opponent in this titanic battle for supremacy.

Their hooves tore away great pieces of the earth beneath their feet. Dust from their struggle, lifted high into the sky above the ravine, upon whose slopes they battled. The shaggy hair on their shoulders seemed a fitting match for the ragged breathing of the two sweating, dusty, brown beasts.

The bison cows, over whom, they fought, were more absorbed in their contented grazing than in the battle that raged near them, because of them. The sun had risen high, over this scene of deadly violence and now, the effect of the continued exertion of the fight was beginning to tell on the two opponents. Blood was flowing freely, from several wounds on the shoulders and flanks of the gladiators, and then, suddenly, the surrender of the larger and older bull, to the victor was made apparent by his hasty turning from the fight, and weary half-loping retreat. The effects of that fight would be long term, and would, in fact, change the complexion of the land in this locality, for scores of years. The time of the buffalo would pass, but their imprint upon the land, would not be easily erased.

Chapter 2

The scars upon the ground, where the opponents had fought the year before were slowly beginning to show through the rotting snow lying against the bank of the dry bed of the ravine, this spring. Deep within one of the fading hoof-prints, a seed was beginning to awaken from a long time sleep in the ravine where it had previously been blown, to lie until disturbed. The war between the behemoths had disturbed the earth around it the past summer and had nearly uncovered it, exposing it to the warming effect of the springtime sun, and the slight moisture of the high plains winter, and spring. Now, the warmth of the early springtime sun, and an awakened thirst for moisture and sunlight, was causing the seed to open, to fulfill its promise. The miniature giant began to unwind itself, break out of its hull and stretch toward the fullness of its potential greatness.

As with everything in nature the fight, before it, required strength. Yet the miniscule, seed, began, in spite of every obstacle, too push its way upward toward, what somehow it knew, was a place that it would find sunlight and the opportunity to grow.

The snow had melted by the time the plant, of two small leaves, had reached the surface of the ground and unfurled its tiny green flags before the world. By this act, the insignificant plant forewarned all, that it had come to conquer and claim, all the territory within its reach.

It said: "Behold, I Cottonwood the Great, have come. I shall, in my time, reach far above the height of the great buffalo. I will rise to survey that which has been sheltered from other eyes. I shall never again be trampled upon by the feet of those lesser than I. You may come to me for refuge and shade, but you shall never, again, stamp your lowly feet upon my particular piece of ground, nor disturb me again. I will be the observer of much greater things, than those who choose to make a home within my shelter.

Raven, you may stop for rest upon my outstretched arms, you may live your ten years, may fly far, and see much, but I shall live much longer, and see far more. I will be the refuge, to which the robin will entrust its young. My monumental height, will guide the traveler. My spreading branches will provide welcome shade, and a pleasant place of rest for the worn, and weary. The branches I drop upon the ground, will supply much firewood to warm teepee’s and homes. They will build the campfires of, and warm the food of, the sojourner. I will study history from my vantage point, with my head in the clouds, and my feet planted solidly in the ground of my coulee."

At the end of his speech, there was no applause. No one seemed to hear the declaration of the tiny cottonwood. No one recognized his stately manner of speech, nor his regal bearing. He, had suddenly, burst upon the scene of life. Yet unbeknownst to him, he had stepped onto the hardest stage in the universe upon which to perform. He had come from a world of darkness to face the footlights, of the real world. He would discover that fine speeches would not be required of him, but performance would be tantamount to survival.

There was no water in the dry coulee, for the next two years of his sudden burst upon the scene. The mighty introductory speech, he had given, was not heeded by the gods of rain. As week ran into week, the tiny tree began to, withdraw within himself. No more, fancy, flowering, speeches, extolling his wondrous plans for the future, were heard along the walls of the coulee. He curled up and hid deep within the dust, of the forgotten glory of his declared grandeur.

Chapter 3

In the year or our Lord, 1836, it rained. It didn’t rain much, but it rained occasionally. The water soaked into the ground around the publicly declared, future, King of Cottonwoods and he began immediately to awaken and reach downward.

He had realized his mistake in reaching too quickly for the sun two years before. Now in a semi-slumber, he began to reach deep within mother earth with tentacles of tiny root, to embrace his source of super strength, brought by the rain.

Drawing nourishment from the rich topsoil blown into the ravine over the centuries and the sufficient moisture, he began to stretch his arms toward a warm and welcoming sky at last. It was to be a good summer for Cottonwood. Adequate moisture, lots of sunshine, and no invasion of the shaggy giants of the prairie.

By the coming of the fall winds, Cottonwood had claimed a respectable height from which to look down on the lesser sage brush and skimpy clumps of grass. He was two feet tall when he cast off his first real leaves. Going to sleep for the winter meant a drawing down of life giving sap into the reasonably deep reaches of his root system, which equaled in depth, the height of his now branching limbs. With frost came a respectable amount of snow this particular year. Soon, standing, somewhat close to the rim of the coulee, on the west side, the snow began to drift into the wind sheltered area, beneath the rim. The new-fallen snow began to drift and gather around him, and snuggle him into the depths of its soft folds. His position in the shade of the cut-bank facing to the northeast, gave little opportunity for the low winter sun, to melt the snow in which he stood.

Deep winter had caused an accumulation of snow that had nearly covered him. Farther down the slope, in the wide bottom of the coulee, the snow was even deeper. The depth of the coulee and its sheltering walls prevented the wind from moving the continually accumulating snow. It appeared, in the glow of the sunlight, to be a huge mirrored bowl. Nothing moved within the canyon for weeks, except for the, occasionally falling snow.

Then, a warm Chinook wind blew down from the mountains, to the west, for nearly two whole days and nights. It appeared that the snow was going to melt around Cottonwood, when following immediately upon the heels of the fresh warm, winds a plunge in temperatures caused the surface of the softened snow to freeze, into a hard glare of ice. Now, only a short piece, of the top of Cottonwood, stood above the hard surface of the snow. Yet, enough of him was exposed to allow him to observe the weather and the movements of the animals around him, as they drifted down the coulee toward the river that had created the big valley a short distance from him. He stood, in silence, alone.

One day he watched as merciless, gaunt, green-eyed, wolves ran a beautiful, long-limbed, cow elk, down country a short distance past where he stood. She had no chance against her tormentors. She had nearly fallen upon him as she broke over the edge of the coulee above him. At that moment, one of the wolves had grabbed the back of her hind leg, just above the hock, and had bitten through the hamstring of that leg. As she had gone by him, her wound had forced her to turn directly down the slope. Hitting the deeper snow there, he saw how her legs plunged through the ice crusted snow, trapping her in its icy grip. Every desperate, crippled leap she made had nearly brought her to a standstill, as she struggled in vain to evade and outrun the starving demons on her heels.

It was over now. A short distance below him, lying on the hard glistening snow, a grey and glutted wolf licked his bloody lips as he seemed to smile, at the peace, a good meal had brought to his now distended paunch. Some of the others of his pack were beginning to drift on down the ravine and soon he lazily moved off to join them. Now Cottonwood was treated to the raucous music of the crows and magpies, as they finished the cleaning of the cow’s bones, which proceeded into the dusk. Soon the coyotes, the skunks and the porcupines, would complete the salvage of the rest of the remains. Cottonwood thought how fortunate he had been, to not have been involved in the raging life and death struggle that had taken place at his front door.

Another day, the frightful flight of a snowshoe hare, passed in front of Cottonwood. This day however, the pursued, left the pursuer far behind, because of a reversal of traits in the hunter, and the hunted.

Snowshoe, flew past Cottonwood, on the crust of the snow, as swiftly as an arrow, flung from a fine bow. Poor slat-ribbed coyote continually broke through the surface of the ice covered snow, which had begun to soften again. Disappointed, coyote finally conceded his dinner to the great, sprawling feet that had supported Snowshoe, in his flight down-country.

It was with relief that Cottonwood counted among his blessings, the fact that he had not been in the position of Snowshoe, or Mother Elk. He was not pursued by anyone, or in danger of the teeth of the prowling carnivores, that filled the country around him.

It was not until several days later, that the first feeling of vulnerability shattered Cottonwood’s peace and complacency. He was to learn, quickly, one of life’s most valuable lessons.

Snowshoe had had an extremely hard time finding something edible as the cold continued, and the snow buried every source of his sustenance, deeper and deeper. It was on his way back up the coulee down which he had fled a few days ago, that he saw the top of the small cottonwood protruding from the snow, along, and below, an embankment, part way up the canyon wall. He had stopped to sniff at the leafless twig for only a moment, when Coyote appeared, as if from nowhere, at the top of the bank. This time, the race was to the swift. A hundred yards beyond Cottonwood, down the coulee, coyote, not being disturbed by other pests, finally finished feasting on his fleet-footed, friend and lay down on the snow to rest.

Cottonwood felt relief that the big snowshoe hare would not come sniffing again at his tender, stretching, arm’s, above the snow. Snowshoe had been a giant. Standing on his hind legs, he had been five times as tall, as the short piece of Cottonwood extending above the snow and was an intimidating figure to him. Spring would soon come, he knew and other hidden greenery, beneath the snow, would be exposed to satisfy the hunger of all the country’s grazing animals. Still there were weeks of winter to come. Cottonwood, shocked into reality, pondered his future.

Day drifted into bright, or dreary, frigid, winter day. It was on a night, not far removed from the spring breakup of the river ice, when Cottontail, the tiny cousin of Snowshoe, drifted along on his zigzag way, from down-country somewhere. He had seen the tip of Cottonwood from some distance away and had began to lean more in the direction of Cottonwood as he went along. Cottonwood had seen and watched the little creature and became more and more nervous as he began to realize, Cottontail was definitely coming in his direction. Cottontail saw Cottonwood as a potentially delicious, nourishing morsel that would possibly stave off the hunger pangs in his innards.

Having clipped Cottonwood back to the very top of the ice within which he was entrapped, Cottontail continued on his hoppity way, in search of another life giving morsel.

His view of the world having been obscured by his unintended offer of food to Cottontail, Cottonwood did not see much more until the warm winds and sunshine of spring began to melt the surrounding snow. He had, however, learned one of the greatest lessons, of anyone’s lifetime. It may not always be the obvious, well-known and gigantic dangers in life that one should be aware of. It may well be the little, soft, furry, seemingly harmless things, that we easily ignore, that slip up on one and cause much potentially deadly, damage to us. However, Cottonwood, knowing he had been temporarily set back in the attainment of his goals, was determined to recover from the temporary distraction of Cottontail, and his assault upon his upper limbs.

Where Cottontail had snipped off the upper small branches of Cottonwood, he determined to grow limbs on each side of the pruning, thus actually benefitting by the giving of a small meal, he had supplied to another. Thus, doubly blessed, because of his giving to a less fortunate other, Cottonwood grew stronger in the end. Now, moisture, from the slowly melting snow was reaching deep into the earth, to provide sustenance to the ever determined Cottonwood.

His resolute reach for a part of the surrounding sky, and another two years of adequate moisture, caused Cottonwood to grow to a height that made him proud of his stature in the surrounding coulee.

Chapter 4

From the great height of ten feet, in the spring of 1843, Cottonwood watched the great herds of buffalo return to the country. He watched the cows, as they brought their young into the world. He saw the now sleek, wolves with their ears laid back behind merciless slant eyes, on their tireless, limber legged, patrol along the outskirts of the herds, in search of weak, sick, or vulnerable newborn, animals.

It was during the late summer, nearing fall, of this year, that Cottonwood had his second, real bout, with fear. It had been dry, for a time and the country was mostly deserted. The buffalo had withdrawn to the high, cool, mountain meadows above him, and to the river valley below. Then, on this hot August afternoon, the very tips of his ever deepening roots began to feel a sinister trembling in the earth.

He stood extraordinarily attentive then, for several moments, and there it was again. A stronger and more steady trembling of the solid earth the unshakable foundation of his hitherto stability; the earth that he gripped with all his might, in breeze or prairie gale. The future King of Cottonwoods found himself, also shaking.

Was mother earth shaking from some unseen fear?

Was this possible?

Was there anything, anywhere that could cause the sure sustainer of his life, to tremble? He actually felt the fear now. What on earth, could literally, shake his world?

Cottonwood was used to seeing bands and small herds of buffalo below him in the coulee, where he stood. But now, dozens of the huge beasts began to spill over the edge all along the coulee. Then, in minutes the edge of the ravine above him burst into flying earth, dust, and debris, caused by tens of thousands of cloven hooves, of an apparently endless stream of stampeding buffalo, as they fled toward the river valley.

Most of the animals around Cottonwood cleared the edge of the steep ravine, up, and down the canyon from him, without a problem, but many stumbled, fell and were immediately overrun and trampled by thousands of their panicked kin. This melee went on for at least an hour during which time hundreds of the passing animals, in his particular area, ran over him, whipped him back and forth, then ran over him again, repeatedly.

By the time the flood tide of hysterical giants had passed around and over him, he could hardly stand. Bark was stripped from him. Some of the respectable sized limbs he was beginning to thrust upward toward the sun were broken, or missing. He had been a proud and strong, healthy, green tree, only a couple of hours ago. Now, he was stripped of his leafy dress, his pride and nearly his life. In this damaged and distressed state, he, who would be king, stood mutely, to observe the approach of the Indian men and women who had brought this stampede upon him.

He watched, in his state of muted silence, as Two Axe and his Loup band of Pawnee began to strip the hide and meat, from the carcasses of the dead and wounded buffalo. As was their custom, they cut this meat into strips to dry, making jerky, to sustain them through the winter. They stretched and pegged the hides on the ground to be cleaned, dried and prepared for tanning, to make clothes, tepee covers and, warm robes.

To do this, they had to have long poles, from which to make racks, upon which to hang the meat to dry. In their search for suitable material from which to make these racks, they passed the trampled Cottonwood. He was far too small, at this time, for their purposes.

He watched with wonder for the next several days as they prepared their meat, and hides. They were an industrious group. The men helped bring in the meat, and then, more or less, left the work to the women of the tribe. In the end however, he observed they had a very expert and efficient, system devised. There was little loss of anything of value. Everything usable was salvaged from the slaughter. Then, when the work was done, the time of rejoicing and celebrating the success of their hunt had taken place. Having completed this much of their summer hunt, the Pawnee packed up and simply disappeared, within a few hours.

Now, the prairie around, and the coulee in which Cottonwood shakily stood, was as quiet as a tomb. Cottonwood was left standing, barely standing, among a veritable bone yard, to face the coming winter stripped of all his fall finery, before it had been time. But, as with all of nature, Cottonwood was submissive to that which he could not prevent, and in his patience, and resolution, he prepared himself to face another winter, and look forward, with optimism, to another spring.

Chapter 5

Cottonwood spent a cold, but uneventful winter, and by the spring of 1844 he had begun to recover well from the thrashing he had taken from the buffalo the year before. The scars from where the bark had been stripped from him had healed and he had straightened well.

He had watched, through the winter, as Cottontails relatives passed him by. Now, Snowshoe and he, were no longer, a threat, to Cottonwood, because of his formidable size. He had watched the slovenly porcupines, passing through the charnel-house around him, stop to gnaw on the bones of the dead buffalo, in search of calcium. This search for nourishment would start the decomposition of those bones. In a few years, these deteriorating remains would begin to enrich the earth around the roots of Cottonwood, and thus repay him, for the damage the buffalo had done to him, in their panicked stampede.

Spring was kind to him again, with a sufficient amount of rain. Some water even stood, for a time, close beneath him, in the coulee, soaking into the earth at root level, to Cottonwood. The branches, that had survived, along his sides, had grown in well and were reaching again for their destination, high above.

Cottonwood noticed that along the sides and bottom of the coulee, there had appeared others of his kind. The plowing of the earth, by the thousands of hooves the year before, had loosened the ground around other cottonwood seeds. They had blown into this depression in the land over the years and were now enjoying the moisture allowed into the ground, and the rich soil, to start a journey of growth along the valley floor. They were just as determined to attain high goals, as he had been. Some would achieve them, some would not have the staying power of Cottonwood, but all would try.

Chapter 6

Years inevitably, roll by for all. Babies become children. Children become adults, in a term equal to the speed of a lightning bolt. One need only ask an old man, how quickly he can tell the tale of his life and even the most experienced and adventuresome person will only require a few minutes, to tell his entire life story. Life is a vapor that appeareth for a little time and then vanisheth away.

Anyone who may, at some point, think little pieces of time can be frittered away, without great loss, should think again, for in less than the length of time it takes to have that thought, one’s life may be over. Thus, Cottonwood, in spite of a less than ideal amount of moisture, a pruning back by Cottontail, and a buffalo stampede that nearly destroyed him, suddenly found himself in his eleventh year, stretching to the great height, of twelve feet tall. This, the fall of 1845, found the leaves of Cottonwood turning a beautiful, golden brown as they started to loosen from their secure attachment along his strengthening, gracefully upward arching limbs. Then, they were blown, intermixed with the first light winter snows, along the coulee and down the ravine. They were not yet great in number, but in time, as Cottonwood grew, they would become more numerous and would lie in layers along the ground, under and around Cottonwood, and hold in the winter and spring moisture much longer when winter ended. Thus, Cottonwood would assure himself and others, a more enduring source of moisture and nutrients for his continued journey toward the sky.

The next two years would see Cottonwood beginning to rise above the confining sides of the coulee, and begin to view the wider world of the countryside around him. Now he could see out over the broad prairie and as far away as the wide river into which the spring runoff water from his coulee ran.

Chapter 7

In the momentous year of 1846, according to the Julian Calendar President of the United States of America, James Knox Polk spoke to the United States Congress. Mexico has passed the boundary of the United States, has invaded our territory and shed American blood, upon American soil. War exists, and not withstanding all our efforts to avoid it, exists by the act of Mexico herself.

In January of that year, Gen. Zachary Taylor, future President of the U. S. himself, advanced to the Rio Grande River and invaded Mexican territory, and shortly thereafter, the United States officially declared war on Mexico. That decision created other issues that, eventually, caused Mexico to lose California, New Mexico and parts of the future state of Wyoming to the United States. The foundation’s for a migration and an expansion, into the western United States, that was unprecedented in the history of the world, was put in place. The progress, and the human tragedies, that would occur in Cottonwoods lifetime were incomparable to anything ever to occur in the history of the world.

On this particularly unbelievable day, Cottonwoods world was transformed into a preview of heaven. It was a warm summer day on the prairie, of that same busy and consequential year, eighteen forty-six. A day perfectly suited to receive an abundance of that peculiar phenomenon known in the scientific world, as white light.

Coming directly from the sun, to the outer reaches of our atmosphere, this white light, is made up of a mixture, of every awesome color of the rainbow. Immediately upon entering earth’s atmosphere, it is divided into its rainbow spectrum of colors by the separation of its chemical elements.

The most abundant element in our atmosphere is nitrogen and it is this dispersant that scatters the color blue across our sky, more than any other. Thus, we are blessed with numerous days of heavenly blue skies. This day was a day of blue sky perfection. Painted upon this canvas of blue perfection, were wondrous puffs and towers of brilliantly white, cotton candy, cumulous, clouds. It was one of those wonderful days of peace and beauty that only the Great Creator could bless the world with.

Cottonwood wondered, at the beauty, of the place. The prairie was the pleasant, sleepy, grey green, of this early part of summertime. Sudden, short, wisps of refreshing breeze, ruffled Cottonwoods leaves. Occasional small swales, or rolling hills on the prairie, were painted onto the landscape in striking colors by oceans of yellow coneflowers or black-eyed Susan’s. Glorious fields of bluebells, prairie flax, and blue prairie sage seemed to reflect the over-arching canopy of the big sky.

Here and there were splashed patches of lustrous ivory, flowing over the plains, as great herds of white-rumped antelope poured across the scene.

An occasional mule deer would walk daintily along the low stretches of the coulee, his or her ears ever alert, twitching and rotating atop their heads. Brilliantly black, obsidian eyes, microscopically, searching their surroundings. Their noses grasping invisible snippets of the wonderful high-country air, carefully filtering it for any hint of the dangerous, or harmful.

Beautiful children of nature, ever cautious, even in their moments of most graceful stunning pose. Dream creatures, from a fairy tale, seemingly poised to fly away, never to be caught off guard even in this time of amazing quietness and peace.

Along the river, far in the distance, Cottonwood saw for the first time since he had become tall enough to see the river, a long line of wispy dust. The line moved lazily along the valley. As he looked, toward the mirror-like water, he began to see a long train of travois making its way down the trail, by the river. As it moved closer, he could see individuals.

Alongside their burdened horses and dogs, moved the old men and women of the band of Pawnee that had slaughtered the buffalo around him two summers ago. Laughing, happy children ran in and out of the slowly moving column of brightly variegated color.

The back-drop of the hazy, blue mountains, in the distance with their mirror-like, white, snow caps, the dark green mountain sides, and the multitude of other muted colors, was a breathtaking example of natures elegance. A scene, taken from a spectacularly painted, picture book of tranquility.

A flowing painting of a primitive people and their animals, doing what human beings enjoy most in life, interacting with those they love, working toward some particular goal that will enhance their lives. People no doubt, enjoying this glorious day, as much as he.

Then, he saw from his vantage point, a large group of nearly naked, mounted men, faces and bodies painted in hideous designs, easing down from their horses, to lie close against the ground behind a low hill, overlooking the river trail.

Cottonwood realized the significance of what he saw but even though he was future King Cottonwood, the proud senior member of his band of sprouting trees, along the coulee, still he was just another observer of the happenings of the world around him. He would silently watch the unfolding of time and happening, from a greater and greater height, until it was his time to recline and refresh the earth around him with his own contribution, the return of his gathered nourishment to mother earth.

He watched with restrained emotion as those behind the hill lay silently, as the approaching caravan of unsuspecting nomads, wandered to within reach of them and their deadly intentions.

Remounting their war horses, the Sioux warriors began a slow, snaking, single line advance, down an intersecting ravine that would take them, unobserved, to within a few hundred feet of the hapless column.

Now, far in the distance, approaching from down the river, Cottonwood saw a group of riders, moving at breakneck speed, apparently trying to reach the moving village, coming down-river.

Suddenly, the stealthy raiders flung themselves out of their hideaway onto the unsuspecting women, children and old men, the peaceful travelers in the column. The surprise of their attack was so complete, that hardly a hand was raised, among the travelers, to defend themselves. Cottonwood watched as those women and children, fortunate enough to escape the initial assault, scattered into the hills, and coulees, in desperate flight for their lives.

Old men stood, fought as best they could, died, were mutilated and scalped, in defense of those they loved.

When everything they could take of value, women, worth the taking and children included, was secured upon their horses, the Sioux raiders gathered the loose horse herd of the village and retreated with their bloody, ill gotten bounty, and faded back into the beauty of the evening prairie.

The remaining women and children began to drift back into the smoking, bloody rubble of their devastated and burning belongings. The crying of the children, and the keening of the women, carried up, down and across the valley. Then, the men of the village charged onto the scene from downriver, too late to do anything except mourn, for their unimaginable losses and prepare to bury their dead.

Lying among the sagebrush, yucca, and scrub brush, in a nearby coulee, was a weeping and brokenhearted, Pawnee boy. Ashamed to come out of hiding, with tears flooding his cheeks and his breath coming to him in heart-rending gasps, he lay until he was able to control his shattered emotions. Then, hardening his heart, suppressing his hurt and wiping his tears, the little, heartbroken boy, made a vow, to himself that would cost the Sioux, beyond measure, over the course of his lifetime.

Amazingly, nothing beyond the sight and sound, of the destroyed and grieving people of the violated and battered village, was disturbed by this played out, act of violence.

The beauty, and tranquility of the valley, the fantastic colors of a now, other worldly, purple and golden streaked evening sky, were unaffected, in any way, by the misery and suffering, brought by men upon men, in this miniscule space along the breathtakingly beautiful river.

Within a couple days, the river valley was as before. The Pawnee had moved on, the dust had covered the blood and gore of the place, and only an occasionally curious, sniffing wolf, or coyote, so much as hesitated to smell the dust as they passed the scene of such recent anguish and misery.

Cottonwood pondered the recent massacre, near the mouth of his coulee. It was a thing, not easily forgotten.

After this tragic event, Cottonwood would see events were beginning to happen rapidly in this part of the vast high plains and mountain section of the country, which had seen little change, in thousands of years.

Chapter 8

Fall had advanced quickly, over the Ohio valley this year. This day was far into the season, and it was a late, wet, and dreary Louisville, Kentucky evening.

She was broken hearted and the weather fit her mood. Life is hard and doubly hard, when one finds they are in harness, part of a team, mismatched. Today, they had hauled the final load to the end of the road. His gait was different than hers and he was continually inclined to pull at a different speed, in a different direction.

Her people had told her, wisely, that this union would never survive. Yet, she had married a gentile, hoping to convert him, to her terribly unpopular religion.

Now, the decision had to be made, and he had given her a choice. She could go west with the Saints, and follow Joseph Smith, or she could stay with him, give up her crazy religion and they would work hard to sort out their differences and reconcile.

She was thankful there were no children involved, yet, but her dreams of a home, and family were heaped on the funeral pyre of sacrifice, for what she had come to believe. If she were to go, she must go now. The coming winter would make it impossible, for her to get to Nauvoo, before the Mormons must, according to their agreement with the state of Illinois, abandon Nauvoo in the spring of 1846.

This final day, at home had been more than miserable. Depression had ridden Mary for months. He had told her repeatedly that if she left, she would be alone. He would not share, any part, of his growing wealth with her, support her in any way, or grant her a divorce.

Women owned nothing in mid-nineteenth century America, and therefore, if she left him, she would be impoverished. She had said she had made her final, heart rending decision and would go west with the Saints this day. He had turned and walked out of the house into the rain. He had not returned and she knew he would not return, until she had made good on her determination to leave.

She had asked one favor, and he had agreed. He had given to her the old wooden wheeled barrow. It was a rickety descendant of the single wheeled, ancient, barowe of Old England, more than well used. It would hold every personal item in the world, she possessed. This alone, was all the help he would give her, in her folly. This wheel barrow that was falling apart, was the single item he had agreed to let her have when she left.

She had five dollars of her own money, which she had earned darning socks for neighbors, over many months. He had let her keep it. He said he wouldn’t stoop so low as to take a penny, from a deserter and home wrecker. Now, the heartbroken deserter and home wrecker, wrapped her dark shawl about her shoulders, tied on the only bonnet she possessed and walked out into the drizzling, cold rain.

She knew, deep inside, she still loved her husband and she would never wish to keep him away from his warm and comfortable home, this gloomy, miserable night. As for her, the rain was a miserly comfort to her, for it helped wash the scalding tears from her face and somewhat disguise them, as they ran across her grief contorted features and dripped from her chin.

She walked in a semi-daze, to the river. There she found shelter in a leaky, run-down shed, near the flat-bottomed ferry and at daylight, she paid the six and one quarter cent fee, pushed her drenched and rickety wheelbarrow aboard the ferry and crossed the Ohio River, to Clarksville, Indiana.

For Mary Hudson, there was no time to waste. Threatened by the onset of winter, short rations and short on cash, she took the first steps of the long impossible journey. Mary was short on every tangible thing in the world, except determination, and her unflagging faith. She placed one foot, in front of the other, faced into the chilling wind and started her wet and weary, three hundred and fifty mile, wade and push, trip, through the mud, too far off Nauvoo, to join the migration of the Mormon Saints westward.

Not long after the destruction of the Pawnee, from far down the river, on the north bank of the braided course of the wide flat river, Cottonwood saw a strange procession of the rare to this country, people of a lighter complexion, than that of the Sioux, the Pawnee, or the Otoe. Draft animals that looked like they had seen far better days, were laboring to haul tall, battered, two wheeled carts upriver, headed west.

Gaunt, bewhiskered men, most of them in broad brimmed, black hats, women in long black dresses and barefoot children, pushed, pulled and dragged handcarts, wheel barrows and small sleds along. Something gave Cottonwood the feeling this group was traveling on dogged determination, rather than a tangible substance. Some of the men and women, appeared to not have families. Some carried backpacks, or led single mules with packs. Others pushed, or pulled doggedly on handcarts of every description. They all, moved with urgency.

There was one woman who Cottonwood watched particularly. She moved forward with a noticeable kind of grace that carried her more easily along than many of her companions. By the way she moved and the look on her determined face as she pushed an ancient, small wheelbarrow, covered with a scrap of canvas, Cottonwood could see she was an example and an encouragement, to others in her procession. There was no doubt that she was a strong segment, in the powerful backbone and energy of her movement.

Cottonwood was not alone in his observations. These strange people were observed by others, as well.

A very young Red Eagle had watched them vigilantly from the moment they had come into, what he considered, Pawnee country. They were trespassers, yet they were different. He wished to know more about them before he ended their travels. He would watch them many more days, in fact, until they were clear of his country. He often would wonder about this. Why had he never fallen upon them? He would never know why, but he let them travel on. They would never know they were in such imminent danger. Cottonwood would live long enough to hear white men refer to their track along the river as the Mormon Trail and they would always refer to, God’s protecting hand.

Later in the fall of that year, Cottonwood watched as a large party of well armed mountain men moved south-east along the river trail. This was one of the last trains of packhorses loaded with bales of furs and buffalo hides, for which the mountain men would trade, bound for the New York markets. These men were becoming scarce in the mountains and their passing was rather irregular now. The end of the fur trade was obviously near.

In the spring, pirogues, the wooden boats of the white men, hollowed out of the trunk of a single tree, would drift downriver loaded with the beautiful coats of the beaver, bound for Europe, to become top-hats, for gentlemen of wealth and fashion.

After this year, the trappers of the mountains would become guides and, scouts for the army and wagon trains, bound for the western country they had helped open to immigrants of the world. Now, they would preside over the demise and destruction of the denizens of the plains, their customs, institutions and their life and livelihood, the buffalo.

It would be a short forty-one years and the life, and times of the American Plains Indian, would abruptly end. Cottonwood would live far longer than the mighty tribes that he would observe after this day. During that forty-one year period, that Cottonwood would observe, from the discovery of gold in California, until the massacre of the Sioux at Wounded Knee, South Dakota, in eighteen-ninety, over half of the real estate on the North American Continent, would change hands.

Cottonwood, in his heroic speech