Out of Purgatory: The Chronicles Continue

By Gary L Bridges

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 27, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462812998

Gary L Bridges

Gary Bridges’s previous novels (The Cuchara Chronicles, Out of Purgatory, The Wahatoya, The Footprint in the Lake, Los Huerfanos, and Sangre de Cristo) set the stage for his most recent adventure story about international intrigue and potential international disaster radiating from Cuchara, Colorado. Gary and his family first moved to Cuchara in 1985. He and his wife, Shawn, owned and operated three small businesses at the ski resort. Gary also served as controller of the resort and taught at the University of Southern Colorado, where he also served as dean of the School of Business. Shawn, a well-known artist, covered many Colorado walls with her paintings. The Bridges family moved back to San Antonio, Texas, in the year 2000 when Gary accepted a teaching position at the University of Texas–San Antonio. Gary retired from UTSA in 2014 and, once again, moved to Cuchara—this time, to be permanent residents. Shawn’s paintings now adorn the Timbers Restaurant, which serves as her gallery as well as her favorite eatery. Read about Gary’s previous novels at garylbridges.com, and peruse some of Shawn’s artworks at shawnkbridges.com.

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Copyright © 2007 by Gary L. Bridges.

Art Work by Shawn Kingston Bridges

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Southern Colorado The Early Days

Bear Lake Campground Near Cuchara, Colorado 1997

Rio de las Animas Perdido en Purgatorio

Towaoc and the Utes

Steve’s Campgrounds

The Fourth of July

The Ute Indians

A Man of Two Worlds

Cuchara Valley Ski Resort

Towaoc the Warrior

The Spirits of Wahatoya

Towaoc the Chief

An Inside Job

The Cuchara Wilderness Center

A Mountain Lily

A Cuchara Success

From Heaven to Hell

Towaoc the Legend

Dedication

To the muses in my life: Shawn, my wife, whose art brings life to my stories, and Annella, my daughter, whose punctuationality (obsession with commas) and imagination, make them more pleasing to the eye and to the mind.

Southern Colorado The Early Days

Father Miguel regained consciousness with a blinding flash of pain. His head was on fire. The Indian brave who scalped him had botched the job terribly. Of course, most scalping victims died from the experience. It was Miguel’s cruel fate to survive. He lifted his head out of the blood-soaked snow to look around, not remembering where he was or how he got there. Blood flowed from his mangled scalp into his right eye, which had frozen shut. With his left eye now focused, he could see bodies: deathly still, each lying in a pool of blood. The thick, heavy snow flakes fell rapidly as if trying to disguise the carnage. Miguel drew a labored and painful breath. The arrow protruding from his rib cage had punctured his left lung. With each breath, Miguel exhaled a bloody froth. He was dying. The only question was, would he freeze to death or bleed to death?

Towoac surveyed the scene stoically. When Miguel stirred, the movement caught the brave’s attention and he moved closer. He dismounted silently and bent over to look into Miguel’s face. Yes, it was him; his surrogate father. He knelt beside him so the dying man could see his face.

At first, Miguel thought that the brave had returned to kill survivors and he anticipated relief from the pain. Then he recognized Towaoc. He saw the face of the young orphan he had saved those many years ago.

Bear Lake Campground Near Cuchara, Colorado 1997

Steve Curry stood beside his pickup and surveyed the wide-spread mess. The campground trash, from all five of the thirty-three gallon cans, was scattered over a hundred yards.

Oh, crap! Steve exclaimed. What a way to start the day, he thought. Bear Lake Campground was his first stop. He also had to visit Blue Lake and Purgatory campgrounds as part of his contract with the U. S. Forest Service.

I know who did this, fumed Steve to no one in particular. The bastard. I ought to kick his ass.

Movement at the far edge of the woods caught his eye.

That’s him, muttered Steve.

Samson, Steve’s big chocolate Chesapeake Bay Retriever, came to attention and growled. Steve saw the big brute exit the trees and start moving their direction. His bravado quickly melted when he saw how big he was, probably at least three hundred pounds. Yet he appeared amazingly quick and agile. Steve glanced at his pickup and calculated the distance to the cab and safety. The miscreant approached another trash can and effortlessly swiped the cast iron lid. It flew off like a Frisbee and clanged and skipped on the gravel path for ten or fifteen yards. Then he paused. Something in the trash can caught his attention. He buried his head in a pile of rotting fish guts.

Samson, get him!

Samson shot forward, kicking up dirt and gravel behind him. He let out a long, mournful howl, and began barking ferociously. The big black bear wheeled around and stood up on his hind legs. His eyesight was terrible, but the loud baying assaulted his keen hearing, and he picked up Samson’s scent. Now he could vaguely see the source of the infernal noise and that it was moving quickly toward him. He twisted his body, as he dropped to all fours, and headed for the trees. Samson closed the gap quickly and nipped the bear’s retreating butt, breaking the skin. The bear woofed in surprise and hastened his retreat. Samson veered off to the side, his job done. He couldn’t have kept pace with the big guy anyway. Black bears can reach speeds of thirty-five miles per hour, and Samson had no desire for a long chase.

Most black bear encounters ended this way. Black bears (Ursus americanus) usually avoid confrontation and retreat from loud noise and aggressive posturing such as waving arms. When Steve was awarded the contract to manage the Forest Service campgrounds two years earlier, he set out to become an expert on bear behavior. People who lived in Colorado’s bear country had devised a variety of ways to thwart black bears from intruding. Loud barking dogs were used with notable success and seemed to fit Steve’s needs perfectly since Samson accompanied him everywhere. Samson learned quickly and soon became somewhat of a star among the campground community.

Steve knelt down to greet Samson who looked up at him expectantly.

Good job, Samson. Way to go! Steve rubbed his head then put his arm around Samson’s big neck and squeezed. He then stood up and flung Samson’s Frisbee. Samson tore after it. He captured it in mid-air and trotted back to Steve triumphantly. It was his favorite play-activity, and Steve always took time to reward Samson after he worked. After a few more flings, Steve pulled a large trash bag out of the pickup and began picking up the scattered trash. Samson flopped down in the shade, panting exuberantly.

As usual, a few campers came out to help Steve. Many had been firing up their morning campfires or propane cook stoves and had witnessed Samson’s dramatic intervention. They were eager to help Steve and were anxious to meet a local. Many of them were city slickers and were in awe of the outdoors and of those who lived and worked there. They were mostly full of questions about Steve, his job, the area and of course, Samson. What a story it would make back home! They soon learned that Steve had just graduated from Fort Lewis College in Durango, Colorado. He lived next to the large Bright and Early Coffee sign next to Highway 12.

He could tell them about the hiking trails that snaked out from the campground. He knew more about black bears than just about anyone they had met. Depending on Steve’s schedule for the day, his mood and the types of questions the campers were asking, Steve would sometimes tell how Samson had actually saved his life by killing a mountain lion six years ago.

The rest of that story was that Steve had built a crude litter and pulled Samson, who was near death, down the mountain. He and his dad, Lane Curry, had barely gotten him to the vet in time to save his life. Steve still choked up when telling about it. By the time the camper-helpers and Steve finished their trash detail, most of them were ready to pledge their daughters, with dowry, to Steve.With the scattered trash picked up and re-bagged, Steve was anxious to get on the road.

Man-oh-Man. Is he in Dog Heaven or what?

A bevy of campers who had witnessed Samson’s bold bear chase had congregated around him. They approached him cautiously, wondering if such an aggressive dog would be just as belligerent with humans.Then Samson rolled over on one side and began beating a happy crescendo with his long tail.

A little girl was rubbing Samson’s head and behind his ears while an older gentleman was patting him on the stomach. Steve could hear some of the one-way conversations.

What a big brave dog you are, yeah.

I love you, doggie, the little girl said as she hugged his big head. Samson gladly accepted the adulation.

Okay, Samson. Load up. Steve opened the pickup door. Samson sprung to his feet and bounded into the cab.

Rio de las Animas Perdido en Purgatorio

Towaoc. Is that you? Miguel wheezed.

Yes, Father. Let me help you.

Please, Towaoc. I must perform the sacraments for my comrades. Miguel struggled to remain conscious. Every word, every breath, was horribly painful. His feet were numb from the bone-chilling cold.

Father, they are all dead. It is too late.

No. God’s mercy goes beyond the grave. It’s not too late to save their souls from wandering in Purgatory. Please help me.

Towaoc wrapped Father Miguel’s right arm around his neck and pulled him to his feet. He had broken off the shaft of the arrow about six inches from the wound and was careful to keep it from rubbing against his side as he supported Miguel’s frail body.

The Ute Indians had no fear of death. They had no concept of hell or purgatory. They believed that when they died the Great Spirit would take care of them. The where or the how did not preoccupy their thoughts. To the Utes, the Spaniards seemed obsessed with their Purgatory. No matter. The only way he knew to honor Father Miguel was to help him before he, too, succumbed to his grievous wounds.

Partly carrying and partly dragging Miguel, Towaoc stopped at each of the slain Spaniards so that Miguel could whisper and wheeze the sacraments. Miguel knew that God would hear his words and his heart. When they were done, Towaoc hoisted Miguel onto his horse and swung himself up behind him.

It was a two-hour ride to the Ute spring encampment. Some of the families were scurrying to get their wickiups or tepees built. Towaoc went directly to Sai´-ar, the medicine woman or shaman, who was also his adopted Ute grandmother. He carried Miguel, who was drifting in and out of consciousness, into her wickiup. Sai΄-ar asked no questions. She knew Towaoc too well.

The fire radiated a welcome warmth. They soon had Miguel wrapped in deer hides. Sai´-ar rummaged through her medicine bundle. After wiping as much of the dried blood as she could from Miguel’s head wound, she spread pine pitch over the wound to prevent further blood loss. Towaoc had to help her pull the arrow-head from his rib cage. She then applied a mixture of pine pitch and grass onto the wound to stop the bleeding and to prevent air from escaping through his lung. Almost instantly, Miguel’s breathing became less labored.

Towaoc left the wickiup and headed for the sound of the waterfall. For some reason,he always found peace there, and right now his mind and heart were in turmoil. He knew he was responsible for Miguel’s suffering and his approaching death. He had planned the ambush of the Spaniards in retaliation for the senseless killing of several teenage Ute braves. Spanish traders had requested help unloading several pack mules, which had become stranded by the late snow storm. They had then killed the young braves to ensure secrecy. Towaoc still seethed at the thought of the dead youngsters. He had acted out of revenge but now his heart ached for the painful death in store for the priest.

Towaoc and the Utes

Towaoc was technically not a Ute, but a Jicarilla Apache. He had been captured at his tribe’s hunting camp many years ago. A Ute raiding party, in the act of stealing a pair of scruffy ponies, was surprised by an Apache hunting party, returning empty-handed from their hunt. The Utes prevailed and killed all the braves then methodically massacred the women after one of them slashed a Ute with her knive. The only survivor was a young boy, too young to ride with the hunters, who picked up a rock and with a loud yelp tried to bash the head of one of the Ute attackers. The target of his attack deftly dodged and threw the young banshee to the ground. The youngster scrambled to his feet with fire in his eyes just in time to take a crashing blow from a war club. He crumpled to the ground in agony, his femur shattered. He passed out from the pain.

The Utes debated animatedly and briefly. The target of the boy’s attack wanted to kill him. The others prevailed with the argument that they could trade the boy to the Spaniards for a horse. They threw the boy, who was by now conscious, on the back of a stolen horse and headed for their camp at the foot of the Wahatoyas.

They rode all night. Each step was agony for the young boy but he did not cry out. He grieved terribly for his mother and father. The pain in his heart almost matched the pain in his broken leg. His mother had not deserved such a violent death. He had failed to protect her. His shame was unbearable, and it fed his growing rage.

By the time the riders reached the small Spanish settlement the boy was severely dehydrated and in shock. The Utes stopped at the wood and earthen hut of the priest Miguel.

The priest had heard the horses approach so he stepped out, with some anxiety, to greet them. He never knew exactly what to expect from his Indian brethren. The Utes resented the Spanish intruders and were often hostile to the motley bunch of settlers. They did occasionally trade goods back and forth, but both the Spaniards and the Indians existed on the edge of starvation so mostly they just traded misery.

Miguel raised both his arms to the Ute party as a gesture of welcome. The Utes knew some elementary Spanish words, and Miguel had gamely learned some basic Ute language. The combined result was almost comic as both the Indians and Miguel supplemented their elementary language skills with a mixture of sign language and body language. It didn’t take long for Miguel to understand that they wanted to trade their young captive for the most precious commodity of all—a horse. Miguel approached the boy who was slumped against the back of one of his captors. His broken leg was swollen and discolored. The boy was almost comatose.

Miguel suppressed his anger and fear. The Utes could be brutal, and he had to proceed carefully. He made a disgusted face and pointed to the broken leg. He mimicked walking on a gimp leg, and shook his head vigorously back and forth to show he thought the boy would be worthless to him. The leader, whom Miguel now recognized as Serpio, made a conciliatory face but continued to negotiate in broken Spanish. Miguel thought for a moment and then gestured for the Indians to wait. He had an idea. He walked to a ramshackle corral and called out to Pablo the herdsman. A few dismal cows and some worn out horses milled around as Pablo made his way forward.

Miguel made a persuasive case to let him trade the lame plow horse for the young boy. It would save Pablo the trouble and pain of putting the animal down himself and Miguel promised him that once the boy was healthy he could be some help with the animals.

This was Miguel’s life. Nudging, cajoling and compromising, often skirting dangerously close to violating his sacred vows. He was a pragmatist though and right now he knew the boy’s life was in his hands. He would worry later about what to do with him.

He led the sorrowful mare to the Indians and steeled himself for their complaints. He knew they would slaughter the horse for food. Five or six families were close to starving at the Ute camp near the waterfall. This hunting party had obviously not been successful so the meat would be welcome.

The Indians made a show of arguing, but in the end they didn’t want to keep the injured boy and made the trade. Miguel carried him inside his hut and put him on a pile of deer skins. He washed him as carefully as he could and forced some water down the boy’s parched throat. Soon a kettle of water was bubbling over a cook fire and Miguel mixed wild onions and potatoes into a steaming gruel. As Miguel was trying to spoon—feed his young patient, he heard a low chanting coming from outside his hut.

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Sai΄-ar, The Ute Medicine Woman

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Helping Young Towoac

Why would the Utes have returned so soon? he thought as he stuck his head outside. There in the growing moonlight stood an old Ute woman with her arms outstretched upward to the night sky. She was softly chanting, almost musically, a series of redundant Ute phrases. He recognized Sai΄-ar, the Ute medicine woman. She had walked to his hut after