tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34839959039815861072024-02-21T07:46:55.069-08:00Thoughts from the WestThoughts and essays from the overactive imagination of an infrequently published author of Western novels, short stories, poems and songs, and the romantic dreamer of dreams ...Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-67468820862024891862014-05-30T17:43:00.002-07:002014-05-30T17:43:53.109-07:00MONTE WALSH, Lee Marvin 1970I just finished watching, for possibly the tenth time, but certainly not for the last, the 1970 Western, MONTE WALSH. I would be doing my Western-watching friends a disservice if I didn't do a review of this movie for you all. <br />
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I don't know how, but director William Fraker came up with what I believe to be THE ultimate cowboy movie when he made this little-known Western in 1970. Don't get me wrong. When I say "cowboy movie," I MEAN cowboy movie. Not gunfighter movie. Not Indian movie. Not WESTERN, but COWBOY movie.<br />
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I am told that this movie did not follow Jack Shaefer's novel, and that this is a shame. I can't judge that. I have read Shaefer's SHANE several times, but I have never read Monte Walsh. So I can judge this movie only on its own merits. And I judge it to be THE best cowboy movie ever made.<br />
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I don't want this to come across to anyone as a rip on Tom Selleck session for his remake of Monte Walsh. I love Selleck's Westerns. I really do. He makes a great hero. He's a great actor. He has done a lot of great things. But why ANYONE would ever choose to out-do Lee Marvin and Jack Palance is WAY beyond me. I know that I sure would not want to follow in those shoes. The fact that Selleck pretty much used the same screenplay, mostly just changing what was a great beginning and a great ending in the original movie, made the reason for the remake even worse. There are so many great books out there just begging to be made into movies. Not just mine, but many others. Why would anyone remake a proven classic? 3:10 to Yuma. Monte Walsh. True Grit. And now they are going to try doing The Cowboys over. No accounting for brains, I reckon. But, back to 1970's M.W.<br />
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The movie deals with aging cowboys Monte and Chet, as the days of the open range are ending. A bad winter has just wiped out most of the neighboring ranches, including the one Monte and Chet were working on, and they have narrowly missed being put out of work altogether. While Monte takes this in stride and just wants to go get a drink, Chet (Palance) is much more realistic, and he can already start to see the end of the cowboy era.<br />
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There is a lot of good humor in the movie, but there is a lot of sobering drama and sadness as well, especially if you are a nostalgic like I am. I don't remember the movie having so many tear-jerking moments, and probably for the run-of-the-mill viewer it doesn't. But for a man like me, now aging himself and who grew up on the myth of the cowboy, it was a very sobering movie.<br />
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One of the saddest scenes in the movie is when Monte and Chet are delivering barbed wire to an old man who is left now with nothing but mending fences. This old man, who once rode with "Fighting Joe Hooker" in the Civil War, says, "I had a good life." But in his eyes you can see that life is over. Later, he relives his most memorable moment, riding down "Missionary Ridge" to his death. If he couldn't be a cowboy anymore, he had no reason left to live.<br />
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The best line in the movie, and one of the best lines in ANY movie, in my opinion, was delivered by Chet to Monte right after he announces that he is breaking up their long-time partnership by getting married and moving to town.<br />
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Chet says, "Nobody gets to be a cowboy forever." It could be carved in my tombstone. Nobody gets to be a cowboy forever. To those of us who grew up in the era of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood movies and Johnny West action figures, when every night there was at least one Western series on TV and we could still drive to the local theater and watch John and Clint on the big screen, this is a very poignant line. Nobody gets to be a cowboy forever. <br />
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CBS has released this movie again on DVD, and it is as fabulous as the day it was released. With a beautiful song sung by Mama Cass at beginning and end, and a fabulous score by John Barry throughout, with impeccable acting by a score of your favorite Western stand-bys, and with Oscar-class acting by Marvin, Palance, and Jim Davis, this is a movie not to be missed, and not to be viewed lightly. It tells of the end of an era that was quintessential "America," the era of the cowboy.<br />
<br />Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-21482793876209108002014-04-13T13:11:00.000-07:002014-04-13T13:11:00.236-07:00THE WOLF--HE IS OUR RESPONSIBILITY<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">Before anyone ever starts calling me a wolf hater, I wonder if I might put my stance in a totally different way than anything I've said so far. Please bear with me, all right? And please do read this. I think it might clear up a lot of things.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">First, I like wolves. They are beautiful and majestic and loving of their own families. And born and raised to kill, to solve boredom, for exercise, and to eat. We all need to understand this simple truth.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">It has been said, and very recently on this wall, that we shouldn't be "killing wolves," and that all we have to do is put them in a more controlled environment. What? You mean like in a zoo? I hope that's what the maker of the comment meant. No, never mind. I already know that isn't what they meant. They meant to put them in a place like Yellowstone National Park. What, and then tell them "STAY"? In a firm, resolute voice? Maybe we need to train them longer to "stay" and then even paint orange lines all around their territory so they won't step out of it. And next, train them not to kill anyone's dog, cat, sheep, goat, horse, cow, llama. Okay, well you get the picture.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">The photos I've included here are just a sampling of animals. Let's bring them all back to their native environment. Bison. A bull can weigh over 2000 pounds. Back in their native environment means my garden. My lawn. YOUR golf course. Your city street. Elephants? Same thing. Ask the people living in Africa what kind of damage a herd of 14,000 pound bull elephants can do to the crops they rely on to survive. Grizzlies? Yeah. Your back yard, not mine. </span><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">Now let's say that I should turn my 10 rattlesnakes loose. I'm going to do it right here in my yard and not let them go into anyone else's yard. They'll stay. I just have to teach them, right? I want to know a year from now what my neighbors have to say about that. Snakes, like wolves, bison, elephants, and grizzly bears, don't stay. They have NO idea when you put them in a certain place that you intend for them to remain there--not that they would care even if they did know.</span><br />
<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">I really like wolves. I admire them a lot. They have a lot of great qualities, and they, like bears and bison--and rattlesnakes--symbolize the wild. But unless you want to spend your own pocket money spaying and neutering them to control their populations--you know, so they won't have to be murdered (or what's the fashionable word, slaughtered?), then you need to understand that wolves, like any other animal, cannot be allowed to breed willy nilly, not in our modern world. This is about common sense. All of us--BOTH SIDES--need to leave emotion out of it. The wolf haters and the wolf worshippers need to come together and meet in the middle. This situation is out of control. Why and when did wolves become more important than dogs, horses, cats, any other animal, or even people? It is time to wake up, America. Step back, stuff your hearts back in your chest and trot your brains back out to the forefront. We can enjoy wolves, and the whole call of the wild thing, but still keep them under control. This is a stupid saying and I don't generally use it, but we can't have our cake and eat it too. If we want wolves here as part of our environment, we are going to have to help them to survive. And letting them run rampant across our land with no control is NOT the help the species needs.</span> Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-22446673941728536602012-12-18T16:19:00.000-08:002012-12-18T16:19:44.927-08:00RED DAWN Movie Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>All right, I guess it was inevitable that I make an "official" review of the movie RED DAWN. Which one? you might ask. Well, both. A couple of weeks ago I saw the remake, and I wrote what appears to be a highly agreed upon, very brief, review.</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>Well, I have had the DVD of the original movie from 1981, I believe, sitting in its cellophane wrapper for quite some time now, and having bought this new computer I'm typing this review on just last night, and wishing to try out the player, I popped in RED DAWN, with the simple intention of making sure it would play. Two hours later, I was done watching the movie.</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>That would not have happened with the remake of this movie, starring Chris Hemsworth, for two reasons. One, I would have never <em>owned</em> that DVD, and two, if I had I certainly wouldn't have used it to test out my DVD player. I guess there are three reasons: If I <em>had </em>made the mistake of beginning to watch the remake I would quickly have thought better of it and turned it off. The only reason I watched it all the way through the first time is because I knew it just <em>had</em> to improve. WRONG.</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>All right. Let's admit this upfront: Critics also blasted the original RD, starring one of my favorite actors, Patrick Swayze, as Jed. They still do blast it. I, however, do not. Did it have its problems? Well, sure. Hollywood did make the movie, after all. Let's face it. Hollywood always has to be Hollywood. The story, about a group of high school kids and one high school graduate, played by Swayze, who escape into the forest after an enemy invasion of the Rockies, and from there conduct rebel warfare against the invaders, is full of action. Some of it is believable, some not. But far more of the original story is believable than the remake. The major problem is that in the original NO ONE involved in this group called the "Wolverines" had ANY reason to understand how to use missile launchers or automatic weapons of war, and yet they all used them throughout the movie, and generally with pretty satisfactory results. At least in the remake Chris Hemsworth, now playing Jed's part, was just out of the marine corps and could feasibly teach the others to use these weapons. That is unfortunately about the only thing the remake can boast over the original.</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong> </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>In the original, we had a darn good cast, in my opinion. Patrick Swayze, Charlie Sheen (whether you like him personally or not, he is still a good actor), Lea Thompson, Powers Booth, Ben Johnson, William Smith, and C. Thomas Howell. In the new movie they had . . . um . . . Chris Hemsworth. By the way, this movie was originally made in 2009 and has sat on the shelf since then, and it was AFTER the making of RD, not before, that Hemsworth was cast as THOR. Just a bit of trivia there.</strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>Anyway, the characters in the original RD played very believable parts. They went from terrified kids, to hardened soldiers, and finally to worn-out vets who just wanted to die if that was the only way they could find true peace. They showed them passing through those different stages very believably. The remake forgot to address that. They also forgot to put any emotion into the remake. In fact, if anything I only wanted to punch Josh's young brother Matt in the face, not see him and Josh have touching moments together. </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>The action in the remake was choppy and annoying, often overbearing. The action in the original was tasteful, generally feasible (except, again, for the war scenes which no untrained force of high school kids could likely have carried out against trained armies, and if they hadn't suspended reality in that part, then there would have been no movie). </strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong></strong></span><br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>If you are going to spend money on RD, go rent or buy the original. Chris Hemsworth is an awesome guy to look at--a real man's man. But you are better off buying a poster of him and hanging it on your wall then wasting any of your time or money watching this lousy remake. Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen are still the kings of Red Dawn.</strong></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-12533008457736636142012-12-16T11:34:00.003-08:002012-12-16T11:34:33.195-08:00LET ME BE A SHEEPDOG<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">To all sheep: </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please allow me to remain a sheepdog. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is not a new idea. It is recycled. I am simply putting my own spin on the idea. Please listen with an open mind to what I have to say, as you know I would you.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">There are three kinds of people in the world. There have always existed these three distinct kinds of people. You have your sheep, who will run with the crowd when they run, even to the point of running off a cliff in blind, emotional panic. They are good people. They want good laws, laws that are enforced. They want their rights to be defended.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">You have your wolves. These are the "villains," the "bad guys," if you will. These are the Snidley Whiplashes, the Darth Vaders, the "black hats." They are those who will prey on the sheep, rape them, beat them, kill them. They live by the knowledge that they are bigger and badder and stronger, and if they aren't physically then they will use some man-made means to make it so. They live by intimidation and the willingness to hurt others to get what they want, even if what they want is merely to hurt others for their own sadistic pleasure.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then there are the sheepdogs. These are your defenders. Your cops, your military, and anyone of like convictions. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am a sheepdog.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Although I am no longer a police officer, I still have that mindset. I have carried that mentality since I was a child, when my grandfather was the sheriff of the county I grew up in, when I spent countless hours watching Matt Dillon, on GUNSMOKE, save the day and rescue the helpless, and when I watched Davy Crockett walk into the Alamo and fight for Texas against all odds. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I spent a young childhood being picked on at school and watching others be mercilessly harassed as well, and that is why I started lifting weights--to be a sheepdog. To be the one who stood up for the underdog--the "sheep," who "equalized" for those who weren't as strong. It is also why I became a cop, and then a firefighter. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">As an off-duty cop, I once waded into the middle of a riot of people of a ... different color of skin than my own. I had two things going for me--a badge and a gun. I took my own life in my hands to stop a riot which ended up being five or ten people beating to death one who was of the same skin color they were.I have no doubt that he would be dead today if I hadn't stepped in, and if I hadn't been armed. Was it a little suicidal? I guess so. But the gamble worked.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am the one carrying a weapon wherever I go. Why? Not because every day I walk out of the house I am paranoid that I will be set upon by thugs or murderers. But because I know that on ANY day there is always that chance. And too many times innocent lives have been lost because there were NO sheepdogs present when there were wolves, or the sheepdogs who were present were not equipped and ready to play their necessary role in society. They were unprepared.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Now... Do I take a sheepdog and pull his teeth and still expect him to fight the wolves? NO!!!! My sheepdog, to defend the flocks of sheep whose lives I am in charge of, MUST have the same weapons the wolf will always have. He MUST have the same teeth. In the human world, like it or not, those teeth are guns.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you want to be a sheep, or for whatever reason you feel like you HAVE to be a sheep, that is fine. I have many friends in that category, who are unable, either physically, mentally or emotionally, to play the part of a defender, of self or others. I will defend my right to defend them, no matter what. But if I choose to pull my own 'teeth," in other words give up my guns, or if my teeth are pulled by the laws of the land that are supposed to protect me, and I abide by it, and then I am forced to watch innocent lives be taken when I could have stopped it if I only still had my teeth, then I am at fault. And I will always mourn that I was not there when I could, and should, have been.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I defend anyone's right to be a sheep. I don't understand it, but I defend it. And understand that I am not using the term "sheep" in a derogatory sense. Of course there are the innocent children and the frail or handicapped. I KNOW they can't defend themselves. And then there are some people who simply can't wrap their minds around taking another human life, even if it is in defense of someone they love. This concept is so far from my understanding that no amount of debate could ever change my mind. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">But as for me, I refuse to be part of the "flock." So PLEASE do not take away my right to be a sheep dog. PLEASE do not take away my ability to defend the innocent or the helpless, whether they be sheep by choice or by circumstance. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will defend my own "sheep" and any I see around me who are in need of defense with everything I have, but hitting a wolf with my tail because my teeth have been removed isn't much of a defense, I'm afraid. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wolves will always be wolves, and sheep will most likely always be sheep.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">And until my dying day I pray that I can say I will always be the sheepdog, even if I am standing alone. Please do not take away my ability to "equalize."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">It has been said, if we can outlaw guns and save even one life, isn't it worth it? My response is, "You are forgetting about the countless millions that have been saved BECAUSE of guns." What of them? Were they, then, not worth saving because we used guns to save them?</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is the anthem of Colonel Colt's revolver: </span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Be not afraid of any man,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">No matter what his size;</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">When danger threatens, call on me,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">And I will equalize."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I am a sheepdog. I am here to defend the helpless and those unwilling to fight against the wolves that will ALWAYS plague our society, as they have done from the very beginning. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">I will not require you to become a sheepdog, against your nature. In turn, I ask one thing:</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;">Please do not take a part in removing the teeth I need to defend you and your loved ones.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
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<br />Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-78916295361563204872012-08-14T12:00:00.001-07:002012-08-14T12:00:17.086-07:00THE SECRET OF TWO HAWKS (chapters 1 to 3)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><u><span style="font-size: large;"><b>THE SECRET OF TWO HAWKS</b></span></u></i></div>
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<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Winner of 2010 Spur Award for Best Western Novel on Audio</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Audio read by Kevin Foley, Books in Motion, Spokane, Washington</b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>to be released, fall 2012 </b></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="color: #f6b26b;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: orange;"><i>Publisher's note: </i>"The Secret of Two Hawks <i>tells the story of young Austin Everett, a conflicted boy of sixteen, who has been beaten by his father, his only blood relative, his entire childhood and has no understanding of the real love of family. Austin meets another lost soul, Alto Martinez, whose wife and daughter have been killed and who is on the trail of a killer. When Austin's father is murdered in the night, Austin sets out to find and kill the man, and he becomes partners with Martinez and a third partner, the one-armed, one-eyed Mexican named "Lefty." This is the triumphant story of the true love of friends, of revenge, betrayal and lies, and the one secret that carries the story through like a continuous flash of lightning and the thunderous boom that inevitably comes at its end. A story long to be remembered, about the triumph of love and of unexpected justice."</i></span></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>T</b></span><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b>o the memories of the best of friends:<br />Dave, Loui, Rick, and Shawn<br />And to my good friend Mike Corkish,<br />without whose help the town of Helena and its<br />environs would have been an uncharted jungle</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #d9ead3;">
<span style="color: #ffd966; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /><span style="color: #d9ead3;">Also, to Dell Mangum—</span><br style="color: #d9ead3;" /><span style="color: #d9ead3;">yes, the same “Dell” in the book</span></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #d9ead3;">
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<span style="color: #ffd966; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #ffd966; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><b></b></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Far and away the most startling and tragic realization in
life is the revelation that the old adage is true: You never know who your
friends are.</span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; font-size: 24.0pt; layout-grid-mode: line; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
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<h1 style="text-align: center;">
<i style="color: #6fa8dc;"><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter One</span></i><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin Everett and
a green willow switch would never be friends. But intimate acquaintances they
were. All too often it was hard to tell where the switch left off and Austin’s
scarred back began.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The swat of the
branch made a hiss in the air and a whip-cracking, wicked <i>snap</i> across the sixteen-year-old’s back. His teeth ached from
clenching them, and blood ran down the inside of his cheek where he had bit
down at the first stroke.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But oddly, the
switch didn’t hurt much anymore. Austin Everett had forgotten the last time it
had hurt bad. Some time lost to fickle memory it had stopped feeling like
new-kindled fire and begun to seem more like the slap of the old cow’s
manure-matted tail—annoying, but nothing that would bring tears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He heard the switch
whistle through the air before it slapped his back. In a detached sort of way,
he listened to the <i>whoosh</i>, then the
solid <i>whack</i>—which didn’t seem so
solid anymore. And it wasn’t that his father was losing his strength, nor his
knack for corporal punishment. If anything, he was improving. But Austin’s
ability not to feel was improving faster. To survive, he had adapted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The old man’s
tenth blow hadn’t brought so much as a whimper from Austin.
So the next broke with vehemence over his scarred young hide, and Austin
winced. But still he refused to cry out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
slipped into a dream world. He pictured the branch’s graceful arc, the raising
of a new scarlet welt as it crossed a T or an X. The entire design must be a
unique etching by now—Old Rock Everett’s brutal work of art.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After the
fifteenth swat Old Rock began to apply his soul. Austin
felt the change with almost a sense of relief, for he knew his father was
growing weary of the beating. Austin’s
strength began to wane. His will drained away with the warm rivulets coursing
down his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">With a final,
blood-letting blow, his father brought an end to the day’s lesson. But Austin
didn’t feel it. His conscious thoughts and his strength had failed him, and he
was already headed for the ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Rub it on there
thick, woman, or he’s bound to get worms in them cuts.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Through a cobweb
of semi-consciousness, Old Rock’s voice clawed into Austin Everett’s ears. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Layer it on.
Boy’s gonna have to be healed an’ ready to pull them stumps, an’ there’s a ten
acre stretch of field yet to be plowed.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The woman’s voice
was harsh like the man’s, but ragged and worn thin. “I’m doin’ same as always.
Let me do the doctorin’. You done yore part.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">An unintelligible
rejoinder followed, spiced by sullen curse words. Austin
didn’t listen. He’d heard the same basic exchange many times.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hunger began to
gnaw at his insides. But he didn’t dare let on he was waking up, even though he
was usually safe after Lucille started slathering the grease on his wounds. By
then his pa was either worn out from the beating or didn’t want to waste good
grease. Maybe he’d best wake up now if he wanted to catch some hint what had
brought on the beating. He guessed it was the broken hinge on the barn door,
which hadn’t been his fault. Old Dolly, the plow horse, had done that. The old
lummox. But he couldn’t blame her for being old and clumsy. Apparently his
father didn’t blame her either. Why should he? He had a better scapegoat in his
son.</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="color: #d9ead3;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He lay there for a while longer. Even with Lucille’s
rough hands there was no pain—or none he would let himself feel. He actually
liked the feel of the heavy grease oozing into his wounds, in part because it
meant the humiliation of the beating was over, and that was the part he hated
most.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He knew by the
earthy odor of corn shucks in the mattress and by the mustiness of the quilt
crushed against his face that he was lying in a bed. But this wasn’t the smell
of his own blankets, which didn’t surprise him since even as powerful as Rock
was it would have been a big chore and called for a block and tackle to haul a
boy of his size up the vertical ladder into his loft. Before he decided to own
up to being conscious, he heard the lumbering steps of Old Rock fading away
across the puncheon floor. He lay there for a minute more, smelling the grease,
the corn shucks, the musty quilt and the stale odor of fried meat trapped in
the broad ax-scarred log wall near his head. He groaned to the rough feel of
Lucille’s calluses on the worst of his wounds. She stopped her motion and waited.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After several
seconds, she grunted. “Boy, I can hear you awake. You may’s well get up now. He
ain’t gonna waste good grease on beatin’ you no more today. ’Sides, he’s fixin’
to heal you up for plowin’ while he takes the hosses and that bunch of steers over
to Challis.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Knowing he was
caught, Austin started to rise, but
the woman pushed him back down, her hands not hard, yet not gentle. “Hold on a
minute, boy. Let me wrap you up, else you gonna get this mess over everything.
I shore am tired of you causin’ trouble, you know it? Seems like half my days I
spend smearin’ you with grease after you got a whuppin’. I wish you’d grow up
or leave this place. Rock an’ me could get along just fine without you. You
know that?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
worked his face deeper into the rough-sewn blanket. When Lucille finished
wrapping his torso and tying off the bandage, she stood up from the bed. “Yore
free to go, boy. Now try an’ stay out of trouble, would yuh?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He pushed to a
sitting position on the edge of the bed, his head throbbing. He looked toward
the woman through bleary eyes, but she was walking away. In his head, he called
her a name—after the mother of the new pups that lived behind the barn. And
that animal didn’t have an official moniker, only a category.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille was her
real name, but he couldn’t remember saying it more than once or twice. Cuss
words seemed to fit her better, though not near as well as they fit his pa.
Lucille had come around not very long after a runaway team killed his mother in
the streets of Corinne, Utah,
eight years ago, back in seventy-one. This rough-talking woman had fit right in
with his pa. So well, in fact, that he sometimes wondered if his mother’s death
hadn’t been more than an accident.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Viewed solely from
the back, Lucille wasn’t all that mean looking of a woman. A slender thing, the
two drab dresses she owned hung off her frame like curtains, squaring at the
shoulders then dropping straight down and wrapped around her loosely like they
might possibly have held two of her, had she been Siamese twins. Her hair was a
mop of greasy, dead blond strings, seldom put up, seldom even tied. She just
threw it back out of her face and let it part itself and hang how it chose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille chanced a
look toward Austin, and he met her
eyes defiantly and from her drew a frown. She motioned toward a plate on the
counter. “Yore pa said not to give you any food, but you may’s well eat that
’fore he comes back in and I’ll tell ’im I did it. He says to strengthen yuh up
so’s you c’n do the work around here, an’ I shore don’t see how we gon’ do that
if’n yore hungry.” She stared at him, and he stared back. “Well, come on,
fraidy cat. It ain’t me that hurts yuh—don’t know what yore always so scared
of.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Pursing his lips, Austin
glanced about the room to be sure the old man was gone. He stood and edged
toward the plate, which was scantily covered with grits and a tad of pork not
much bigger than bite-size to an overgrown shrew. He wolfed this down while
Lucille glanced at him now and then out of the corner of her eye. Then he
scooted out of the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Outside, he
scanned the yard. The moment he heard the ring of the ax around back he made
for the barn as fast as he could walk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
found haven inside the barn. He glanced up at the raw, sturdy rafters, at the
near-empty loft. It had been a long winter, and it was good the grass was
coming on, for their hay supply was nearly down to toothpicks. Climbing into
the loft, he sank down to his stomach on the rough-hewn floor. From here he
could stare out the window, across the long, upsloping meadow toward the creek.
From here he could dream.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But he dreamed of
a flailing willow switch . . .</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
had noticed one thing long ago. When he was younger, his father’s beatings were
never long. Back then, he couldn’t hide his pain, and after five or six blows
he would begin to cry, even if only very softly. Not long after, Old Rock would
stop. There were no soft words, sometimes no words at all. More often it was a
growled warning about “next time,” and Austin
was left for the night to nurse his wounded pride on an empty stomach.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But sometime after
his thirteenth birthday, Austin’s
ability to hurt seemed to vanish, or at least crept into the far reaches of his
brain. He didn’t remember ever consciously trying to block the pain. It just
happened. After that, his father’s cruelty seemed only to grow with each
passing year. He seemed to need reassurance that his calculated whippings
caused pain, and not receiving that proof drove him into a frenzy. The last few
times ended with Austin’s going
unconscious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But even knowing
how he could get out of the greatest of the blows, Austin
couldn’t escape like that. His father could beat him into jerked meat if he
wanted to, but Austin Everett was not about to cry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in the house
late that afternoon, Austin heard
the dog barking out in the yard, and, sometime after, strange voices. Curiosity
staved off his pain, and he limped to the kitchen window—the <i>only </i>glass window they had—and peered
out. Four men sat their horses in the yard, leaning in the saddle in various
muscle-stretching contortions while a fifth man stood in front of Old Rock.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hands on his hips,
Austin’s father exchanged words
with the man on the ground.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Creek water’s
free to ever’body,” his father was saying. “As to victuals, I don’t know how fur
along the woman is on supper. You of a mind to stay, I don’t mind the
company—if you’re peaceable.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The man on the
ground was friendly looking, and smooth-faced but for a well-trimmed brown
mustache. He was handsome even on his own, but compared to Old Rock, Austin
imagined him to look like one of the ancient, fabled princes his mother used to
tell him about. But then being handsome was something no one ever accused Rock
of. The stranger held a pair of white doeskin gauntlets in one hand, and a big
shiny Peacemaker tilted in a cross-draw holster on his left hip.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Fact is, mister,”
the stranger said, “the lot of us are about tuckered out. Been ridin’ nigh five
days on these same broncs, and we could stand to rest them. A trade would be
even better.” As he spoke, he glanced beyond Rock Everett at the corral full of
horses leaning their heads over to eyeball the strange mounts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock Everett
looked over the jaded animals. Then he slowly shook his head. “Like I said,
boys. Water’s free, and I don’t mind the comp’ny. But I breed hosses fur a
livin’, and I got no use fur them’ns yer ridin’.<span> </span>I’m takin’ these to Challis fur sale. I’d
like ’em lookin’ fresh, and yours ain’t.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
looked from the handsome man to the mounted crowd. One big man with hair as
black as his father’s sighed and stepped down from a long-legged, mostly white
pinto horse with an arching, muscular neck. The only markings that were obvious
were a sorrel blanket across its hips and a sort of cap of the same color that
covered the top of its head and its ears. It was, he remembered a visitor once
telling him, what they called a medicine hat.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The big man eased
around one side of the medicine hat
as if checking his cinch. He was starting to draw a rifle out of the boot when
the sound of Lucille’s voice farther along the wall at the front room window
opening startled Austin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Best find a place
to rest yer hands, mister,” the woman growled. Austin
looked over as the double hammers of the shotgun clicked back. Lucille freed a
hand to push a greasy hank of hair out of her face. “There ain’t no deer in
this yard, ’n’ if you go shuckin’ thet rifle I’m gonna s’pose you mean to use
it for no good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The dark-haired
man pivoted, and slowly his hand slid away from the rifle. But he wasn’t
scared. A half-smile tilted up one side of his mouth, and he stared at the
woman for a long time, his eyes glittering. Then he walked around the horse to
stand beside his handsomer cohort. “Put the scattergun away, Missus. I don’t
aim no harm. But I do aim to trade that hoss of mine.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
looked the black-haired one up and down. He didn’t appear to be the leader
here, but he was the biggest of them, and his face could have been broken from
the same weather-worn granite as Rock’s. His mouth cut a wide, ugly gash
through his whiskers, and a wrinkle deep enough to have been hacked with a
hatchet ran down his forehead to the top of his nose. He wore an open-crowned
hat with battered brim, and a pistol inside the front of his waistband. His
hands were big—near as big as Rock’s.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
couldn’t see his father’s face, but his words were clear and bold. “You c’n
trade that hoss of your’n in. I would, too. But y’ain’t tradin’ it here. I take
pride in my stock, ’n’ thet crockhead ain’t worth the saddle on his back.” Austin
wondered if Old Rock were talking only to talk, because one thing the old man
had taught him was horses, and the pinto looked pretty good to him. It was
young, but it would fill out, and it had the looks of making an impressive
saddle horse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The black-haired
man’s eyes turned flat and mean, flickering over at his cohort and back. The
handsome man had a smirk on his face, and he looked from Rock to his partner.
Before either Rock or the black-haired one could speak, the handsome one’s lips
moved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Mister, you look
like a wagerin’ man. And I don’t need to add that you appear capable of lickin’
your weight in wet bearskins. Bill, here, he’s quite a man himself when it
comes to knuckle dustin’ and crackin’ heads. I’d like to propose a challenge.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock scanned the
handsome man’s face. “What challenge?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You an’ Bill go
hand to hand. If he wins, we trade horses. You win, you take his rifle. And
don’t sell that pinto short. He’s wore out now, but he’s a mighty fine horse.
Pure saddlebred, and a breedin’ stud.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Rock nodded. “You
ain’t from around here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>“No,” Handsome said. An amused twinkle perked
his eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s obvious.
Men from around here don’t gen’rally challenge Rock Everett to fisticuffs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Handsome rocked
easily on his heels and showed a brief sparkle of teeth. “My name’s Matt
Mosbrucker, Mr. Everett. And this is Bill Warjack. Name fits him, too—he sure
likes his little wars. Like you say, I’m not from around here, so I don’t know
any better, and neither does Bill. You take the challenge, or don’t you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What kinda gun
you got?” Rock asked Bill Warjack.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack’s eyes
narrowed, and he gave a little smile. “A brand new Winchester
.44 carbine.<span> </span>It don’t have more’n twenty
rounds through it. But <i>you</i> ain’t
puttin’ none through it. Nobody whips Bill Warjack.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="color: #d9ead3;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock’s head pivoted, taking in the other riders.
“Sure they don’t. Not when you got four hoot owls to back you up.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack looked
around at the others. “Boys, this fight is mine. Anybody takes a hand in it
I’ll personally break their arm.” He spoke with a smile that lacked a couple of
teeth and bragged others that were browned by tobacco. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Rock Everett
was a bear of a man, with small, narrow-set eyes and a wide, oft-broken nose.
He was broad across the forehead and shoulders, and the hips, too. Finesse did
not know him. His black hair was cropped short and uneven, parted in the middle
and greased down until it looked like a melted candle top. The only practiced
expression of his habitually whiskered face was a scowl.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Old</i> Rock Everett
wasn’t really old. He could be over fifty, perhaps under forty-five. Austin
had never heard. The power of the man was legend throughout Alturas
County, a county that in the year
of 1879 covered a good fourth of the Idaho
Territory.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You want a hoss
awful bad,” said Rock, and he turned to look back at the house, where Lucille’s
shotgun still leaned on the windowsill. “Lucy, if this buck beats me fair and
square give ’im his choice of the hosses. And the rest of ’em too.” Lucille
just nodded, forcing a bored frown.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock turned back
to Bill Warjack, his hands dangling along his thighs. “Wal, <i>Whore</i>-jack,” he said with contempt and
spat. “Come on over here’n’ let’s see if you can muss my hair.”</span></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoBodyTextIndent2" style="color: #d9ead3; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack snaked
out his pistol and handed it to a smug-looking Matt Mosbrucker. His hat came
next. Dipping his chin, he walked toward Rock, swiping a hand the length of his
whisker-blackened jaw. When he got close to Rock, he looked him up and down,
his eyes hating and hard and full of intent to do great harm. Warjack was no
gentleman, guessed Austin. He must
have killed men before.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack’s fist
shot out, and Austin couldn’t
remember seeing his father move so fast. One moment his blocky head was a bold
target. The next, he had Warjack by the arm and was slamming a knee into his
belly. Austin was astonished, for
he had heard stories about his father’s fights but had never seen one. He was
just a boy of sixteen, and he hadn’t been around other boys enough to practice
up on fighting of his own. It wasn’t until that moment that he started to
realize what it took to win a fight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The two men fought
around and around the yard, and Rock didn’t always appear to be the top dog.
Warjack got in enough blows of his own to ugly Rock Everett even more, but
every time Rock seemed like he was out of wind and about to go down he found a
reserve somewhere.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack, breathing
in and out with fierce gusts, finally had enough, and he whirled on his
comrades. “Get off yer horses and give ’im hell!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hesitantly, two of
them started to climb down, but Matt Mosbrucker’s cold voice stopped them, and
for the first time the smile was gone from his eyes. “You boys plant your
seats. I promised a fair fight, and that’s just what we’ll have. Bill—” he looked
at his cohort disdainfully “—I thought better of you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack stared at
Mosbrucker, and finally he spat blood at his feet. “To hell with you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He turned to
finish the fight. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t long
before Rock landed a blow to the bridge
of Warjack’s nose that brought him
to his knees. A kick to his chest finished him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock Everett
stood breathing in ragged gasps, sputtering blood and pawing at his face like
some fiery ogre. Mosbrucker and the others stared at him while Warjack lay like
waste meat in the black soil of the yard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mosbrucker raised
his eyebrows and sighed. He walked around to the right side of Warjack’s horse
with the sound of shotgun hammers clicking in the house behind him. Giving no
indication that he’d heard, he jerked the shiny new ’73 Winchester
from Warjack’s scabbard and walked over to hand it butt-first to Rock. The big
man looked it up and down, but he couldn’t speak yet. He let his lungs fill up
and empty a couple of times, then gave Mosbrucker a grudging nod.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Man of yer word,”
he said, and sucked a deep breath. “If’n you want—you c’n trade your horse—for
any in the correll. An’ thet fella, too.” He heaved more air and pointed to the
only other man who hadn’t made an attempt to answer Warjack’s call for help. He
was a little man with slanted eyes, red hair and big ears that protruded
comically to the sides under a buckskin-colored hat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That’s Sherm
Edgley,” said Mosbrucker with a smile. “The other two are Jim Dillard and
Fingers Bronson.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin’s
eyes snapped to the hands of Fingers Bronson, seeking a clue as to his odd
name. He had made the right guess: two missing fingers made Bronson’s left hand
resemble a disfigured claw.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sherm Edgley gave
a shy smile, but Jim Dillard sat as sullen as Fingers Bronson. Both had been
singled out as unworthy to trade horses. They must have known why, but it was
obvious that didn’t make it easier.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Mosbrucker turned
back to Rock. “I sure appreciate the offer, Mister Everett. I think Sherm and
me will take you up on it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Rock nodded
and jacked the lever of the Winchester,
making a full cartridge spin out of the chamber and land in the dust. Rock had
always taught Austin not to leave a
cartridge in the chamber until he expected to use it; obviously, Warjack had
intended to. “Go pick yer hosses,” Rock said, bending over to retrieve the
cartridge as his waistband forced a long sigh out of him. Mosbrucker was eyeing
the carbine, and Rock looked down at it as if surprised it was there. “Don’t
worry ’bout the rifle. Sometimes there’s coyotes in my yard.” As he said it he
gave Bill Warjack a hard look.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Come on, Elf,”
Mosbrucker said to the little redhead, and he tramped off to the corral,
leading his buckskin. Sherm Edgley touched spurs to his bay and followed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
didn’t go outside. He didn’t know what kind of humiliating treatment he would
get from his father in front of the strangers. He didn’t think Rock ever <i>meant</i> to make him look bad. That was
just how the old man was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After five
minutes, Edgley and Mosbrucker rode back around the house on two horses that Austin
recognized as two of his father’s prize animals. Mosbrucker had chosen a buckskin
that looked a lot like the one he had been riding before, and Edgley sat a
beautiful blue roan. The buckskin was easy to identify because the blaze that
ran from under its forelock to its upper lip was broken in three places,
resembling a dotted line, and all four of its legs were black up past its
knees. Old Rock’s expression didn’t waver. He only nodded when the two men
stopped in front of him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Will these do?”
asked Mosbrucker, swinging down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They’ll do,” said
Rock. “You got a good eye fur hoss flesh.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Matt Mosbrucker
walked over to his still-unconscious comrade and nudged him in the ribs with a
toe. “But I guess I don’t have too good an eye for pardners.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Old Rock grunted.
He turned and yelled at Lucille to bring him a pail of water. When she brought
it, Rock emptied it on Bill Warjack’s head. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The downed man
sputtered and shook the hair out of his eyes. At last he pushed up to his hands
and knees, then rocked back on his haunches. Bleary-eyed, he looked around him
until his eyes came to focus on Rock Everett. He started to speak, then must
have thought better of it as he staggered to his feet and pawed dirt and blood
off his face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Warjack finally
looked beyond Rock, to the window where Lucille still stood. For a long,
breathless moment he pierced the woman with his hard black eyes. “You people
ain’t seen the last of Bill Warjack. Next time I come here it’ll be to kill
you.” The last words were directed at Rock.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock watched him,
and for the first time Austin
noticed the ready spring to his old man’s legs. His father might have looked
like an oaf at first glance, but Austin
felt a strange sense of pride fill his chest. That was his father standing out
there!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He was still at
the window, watching out across the sagebrush-covered valley long after the riders
had disappeared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin Everett
woke to the sounds of Lucille screaming, their dog yapping and horses
galloping.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #d9ead3; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He heard his
father roar, and shots exploded in the night like fireworks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
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<h1 align="left" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 20.0pt;"> </span></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<h1 style="color: #b6d7a8;">
<i><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter Two</span></i></h1>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Nearly falling out
of bed, Austin groped for his
shoes. He pulled them on and scaled down the ladder by dangerous leaps, landing
with a thud on the puncheon floor. As he reached the front door, a shape loomed
up and crashed into him. By the smell and the size he recognized Lucille. He
stood as if in a trance as she fumbled for matches and lit the coal oil lamp on
the front room table, making her face come into view in a sickly yellow light.
It was wreathed in purple spots, and blood trickled from one corner of her
mouth. Lucille ran and got the shotgun, thumbing in shells as she made her way
back to the front door and out on the porch. Austin
didn’t have a gun of his own, but he trailed outside with her just the same.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By now the horse
sounds had faded, except for a restless whinnying and a whirl of hooves from
the corrals out back. Austin looked
over to see puffs of smoke coming from one of their sheds, which sat off to the
right, toward the Salmon City-Challis highway. The sound of Old Rock cursing
came from there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille almost
threw down the shotgun when she realized the shed was on fire, and she and
Austin rushed out to help. By the time they got there Rock had the fire down to
smoldering embers. He had reacted quickly and sensibly enough to wet a gunny
sack in the nearby horse trough and beat out the flames. Now he was using the
gunny sack, wadded up, like a scrub brush to snuff out remaining embers. The
fire hadn’t really had time to get going well, so it hadn’t been much of a
fight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Neither Lucille
nor Austin dared be anywhere near Rock now, and both backed away from the shed
to wait for the ebbing of the big man’s tirade. Rock was throwing things
around, cursing what Lucille called a “blue streak,” or, as Old Rock would say,
“like a Frisco whore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The tantrum went
longer than normal, but after fifteen minutes, when it was surprising he would
even have a voice left, he came out of the shed toting his new carbine. Lucille
had lit a lantern, and in its light they could see the big man’s face and hands
were smeared with soot, and there was scarlet dribbling down his right cheek.
He flung out a few more curses, but the enthusiasm had gone from his voice.
Lucille and Austin waited breathlessly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Got a bunch of
stuff out of the shed,” he said huskily. “An’ got off with probably ten head of
hosses. I stopped ’em ’fore they c’d git to the other corral.” He stopped and
stared at his wife as if noticing the forming bruises and the blood on her face
for the first time. “They hurt you bad?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille shook her
head quickly and lowered her eyes. “Slapped me mostly, and did a lot of
cussin’. It was all that big man—Bill. He was gonna—” She stopped, looking down
at the torn shoulder of her dress, then over at Austin.
“…Gonna do more. But that Mosbuck fellow stopped him, wouldn’t let it happen.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock glowered at his
son, then looked back at the woman. “Well, I hurt ’em, that’s shore. There’ll
be a dead horse lyin’ out in the fields, I ’spect. I’d a killed the rider, too,
but he got out there in the dark, and the others set up a cover fire while he
got the saddle off and skinned out.” He paused and stared at Lucille again. “So
. . . you say the feller I beat down was the one set on you . . . and that
Mossbucker feller stopped him, uh? Mebbe I’ll recollect that come killin’ time.
They shoulda left a plain enough trail. I’ll catch up with ’em.” Saying that,
the big man wandered off toward the creek, disappearing in the dark.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille turned
back to the boy. “You wanna keep from gettin’ in his way, boy. I’s you I’d
hightail it for bed ’fore he comes back. He’ll likely be lookin’ for somethin’
to make pain for.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
appreciated the advice, and knowing she was right he turned and headed back to
the house, climbing the ladder to his bed. It was late in the night before he
was able to drift off to sleep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span> </span>Early the next morning Rock Everett made ready
to set out for Challis, the supply point for Custer, Bonanza and the other
mining towns along the Yankee Fork of the Salmon River,
as well as Bay Horse and Clayton. In the last couple of years, Challis had
become an important market for beef and horses, a market with which the
scattered ranches in the area had to work to keep up. The Everetts
also sold corn, wheat, red beets and potatoes there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">From trailing the
plentiful tracks, Rock had also learned it was the direction the thieves had
run with the horse herd. Going after them was going to be convenient.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">With the sun
bursting fresh across the eastern slopes, Austin
sat on the log porch in front of the house, feeling the irritating tickle of
his wool shirt catching against the scabs on his back every time he moved. Old
Rock rode up on a stocky bay every bit as ugly and swollen-nosed as its rider.
He was leading a string of horses, each one tied to the tail of the one in
front of it. He held his new Winchester
across the fork of his saddle, and he swiveled it until it very nearly pointed
at his son’s midsection. He didn’t seem to notice.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Now, boy. You
keep yer tongue in check with my woman. Understand? Do as she tells you an’ you
finish up what I said. I’ll maybe try to bring somethin’ back for you, maybe a
new jackknife or a lassoo or some boots, if I get a good price on the stock.
An’ you know they’re sellin’ high on the Yankee Fork. Them boys’re ’bout
starved out up there. How’s yer back? It shore is gettin’ ugly.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
shrugged, looking away briefly, then back to meet his father’s eyes. “It’s
healin’ up, I reckon. That grease does good.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Good, good. Well
sir, I reckon Lucy’s still a-sleepin’, ’n’ I won’t wake ’er up. Tell ’er I
should be back in five, six days at the most, ’n’ she c’n plan on waitin’ ready
with the so’rdough biscuits. I aim to be horngry as a hog with a cut throat
when I git back. You take care of that ugly mug of your’n now, hear? I’ll bring
you somethin’.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I will, Pa. Pa?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What about them
men? You aim to . . . fight ’em all?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t you worry
’bout yer old man, sonny. Ain’t no five men c’n whip the likes of me.” He
winked. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Austin
stood up, walking a few steps out toward Old Rock’s horse. He yearned to shake
his pa’s hand before he left. But the only time they ever touched was when Austin
had done something wrong—or leastwise when Rock figured he had.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock Everett
saw his boy coming closer, and like a skittish horse he dipped his chin in
farewell and started off toward the pen where he had kept fifteen fat steers
overnight. Six days he would be gone, most likely. Six days Austin
knew he wouldn’t have to be beaten. But still, he didn’t like being left here
alone with Lucille. At least Rock and he shared the same blood. He and the
woman hardly shared a smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Over the winter,
the ground had frozen hard, and now spring thaw was deep within the earth.
These two acts of nature had heaved at corral posts, but more importantly at
tree stumps. Owing to this helping hand, April and early May were the prime
months to pull a stump, and Austin tore into the job with a vehemence, wanting
to prove to Old Rock that he was a man.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He harnessed the
old sorrel plow horse, Dolly, and drove her mercilessly through the day,
pulling at stumps when he wasn’t chopping stubborn roots with the twin-bit axe.
As the stumps came out he made the old horse drag them into a line, a makeshift
fence. At the least, the roots would make a home for rabbits, and this would
one day be a prime hunting spot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The next day, he
decided he needed to break ground on some of the many acres of sagebrush Rock
had left him. This he had dreaded, because of the sores healing on his back.
But he had no choice. He went at the plowing with the same vigor he had savaged
the stumps, and soon much of the sagebrush land lay in furrows, waiting to be
seeded.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He went home that
evening with his shirt stuck firmly to his back.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">On the second day
he tried to plow, but with his back in bloody agony he could do little before
his will gave way. He would lower his pride enough to allow Lucille to grease
up his back, then he would rest an hour or two, eat a big meal, and go at the
plow again. It was a job that must be done, to avoid a new whipping before the
blood was dried from the previous one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The third morning
and the fourth were even worse, for his back seemed to be festering. But he
went out all the same, with his father’s threats ringing in his ears. He wasn’t
worth much. He knew that because Old Rock had told him since as far back as he
could recall. But if he could get all that plowing done, along with the stumps
cleared, maybe Rock would start to think different. If he could ignore the pain
his back was giving him and just work his blamedest while Old Rock was gone,
maybe he could avoid another beating and win some respect to boot. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The fifth morning Austin
was sick with fever, so he lay in bed. Lucille yelled at him a few times, and
when he heard her coming up the ladder to the loft he groaned inwardly. Was she
going to beat him, too? More likely she would just wait for Rock to come home
and tell him his good-for-nothing son had slept in past sunrise. That would
bring a healthy beating on, maybe even a few blows from Rock’s fists.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To Austin’s
surprise, when Lucille saw him she didn’t say a word. He feigned sleep and
heard her step toward him. The back of her hand, cool from the morning air, lay
gently across his forehead. Then, strangely, her palm came to rest against his
cheek. It was the briefest of touches, and then it withdrew. Much more quietly
than she had ascended, Lucille went back down the ladder. She brought a glass
and a pitcher of water up later, but other than that he didn’t see her again
until she brought him a big bowl of chicken broth around noon, and again in the evening.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The sixth morning,
Austin was up early, with the fever
still burning deep in his back. Cold sweat stood out all over his face, and he
shook with sickness. But there were still three stumps to pull out of the field
and five acres of land to plow before he could call his work finished. There
was fresh salve on his back this morning, not because Lucille had pulled her
lazy carcass out of bed to do it, but because he had improvised with a long
wooden spoon. But thanks to the plow straps, his back would be a long time
healing. It was far worse now than it had been the first day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">All day long Austin
drove the old horse. The sweat standing on his skin was cold. Once, he went and
had a few bites, but he threw them up later. He pushed and pulled at the stump
roots, chopped, even attempted to burn them. But one of the stumps would not be
moved. He had to do it, just to show Rock he was a man. He had to show him he
could do what had been left to him. Then perhaps the beatings might stop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But the heart of
the horse gave way before the stump did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By evening Old
Dolly’s eyes were glazed, the pupils swollen, and blood ran from one corner of
her mouth. The faithful old horse lay dead in the field.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: yellow; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And Austin
slumped there in the new-plowed earth, leaned on the sweat-dampened old ribcage
and wept. No one could see him here. He would never have cried if they could.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i><b><span style="color: orange; font-size: 24pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter Three</span></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The medicine
hat stallion’s name was Valeroso, meaning valiant. He
had been gone for more than six days. The tall, handsome, broad-shouldered
Mexican with eyes like shotgun barrels dogged the thieving <i>bandidos</i> relentlessly, but he was getting no closer. These men were
running scared. Like most men who rode the wild country, particularly those who
had called themselves “cowboy,” the Mexican was adept at reading sign. And this
time in particular it was little challenge, for he followed six horses over
mountain trails deep and oozing with spring melt. But the thieves had a long
head start, and the only thing in his favor was a determination born of hate.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">His name was Elmer
Martinez, and he was of Hispanic blood but born to Texas.
The given name was English in origin, and it meant noble—highborn. But he
didn’t feel very noble or highborn right now. He rode alone, without adjutants
or porters, without a soul who would hear his orders even if he gave any. His
face was wreathed in bruises, and the grime and stink of days on the trail
stuck to him like tar. He was a weary man, but that weariness would have to
wait to be salved. Until his gun was smoking and at his feet a man lay dead he
did not intend to stop.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
had no concern about the rose dun gelding beneath him. Little Pueblo was born
to country like this, had run it with his mother and the wild mustangs of Idaho
until he was almost two years old, when Martinez
roped him from a herd of bachelor studs. Next to a mountain goat, there wasn’t
a more sure-footed animal than Pueblo.
And with Martinez standing
six-foot-two and one hundred ninety pounds it would have taken one brute of a
mountain goat to carry him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Back in the mining
town of Rocky Bar they had stolen
his horses, Valeroso and Pueblo,
taken them out of the livery as brazen as street corner prostitutes. It wasn’t
an act of chance; the five thieves had targeted Martinez
and taken his horses to foil pursuit. That was after cornering him in a
secluded alley and beating him unconscious. But it hadn’t stopped Martinez.
Their mistake was not being smart enough to kill him or cut off his feet.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He had been laid
up for four days in a hotel room until he could recover from ribs that should
have been broken but appeared to have been only bruised, eyes that had both
been swollen completely shut the morning following the beating, and a forearm
that he still wasn’t sure didn’t have hairline fractures. But the moment he
thought he could travel again, he packed his gear and made ready.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He had used every
last bit of money he had to his name for his five nights in the hotel and meals
to nourish him back to strength. He had nothing left with which to buy another
horse. But the thieves were wrong if they thought being set afoot would stop a
Texan with hatred in his heart. Martinez
was bent on justice—or revenge, whatever a man wished to call it. He would not
be turned aside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sore-footed and
near exhausted from packing his rifle, saddle and bedding, Martinez
had arrived in the mining camp of Atlanta
late that same evening. Fourteen miles of mountain travel had left his feet raw
and aching inside tall-heeled riding boots. He soaked them in the icy waters of
the Boise River,
rolled out his bedding in the freezing cold grass along the bank, and awakened
more angry and determined than ever to track these men down the river Styx
if he had to.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But fortune was
with Martinez. Fortune and a
faithful horse. The morning of the second day, with the sun striking full force
down through the ponderosa pines to warm the Mexican’s shoulders and burn into
the scabs on his face as he hiked along the thieves’ trail, he heard the drum
of a horse’s hooves. Waiting beside the trail, he was surprised to see Little
Pueblo come rounding the bend. The dun must have broken away from his captors,
and his escape trail led him back the way he had come. The way he had last seen
his friend. Martinez had no idea
how far away the horse must have broken free of the thieves, but certainly it
was many miles. And days! But still it didn’t surprise Martinez
to see his friend coming back. The horse was gaunt from hard travel and lack of
good feed, but he wasn’t much worse for the wear, and he was glad to greet his
friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez had had
no idea how exhausted he was until he settled into that saddle—the saddle he
had packed by then nearly eighteen miles in hopes of finding something to fit
it. He was too honest to steal a horse. But he had known people with the mercy
to loan a lame traveler a horse, and it was that mercy he had banked on in
packing the saddle. He had not figured on seeing Little Pueblo again for some
time. Then again, the saddle had been a gift from his wife, a wife who now lay
beneath the sod. It would have been tough to leave it behind. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Around noon of the seventh day on the trail, Martinez
spotted the house blending into the sage a couple hundred feet below. It was a
crude cabin—one room, maybe two, with a tall roof section that likely held a
loft. A log barn squatted close by, an empty corral tacked up to it, and an
array of outbuildings scattered through the pale sage. He could make out one
cow, half a dozen hogs in one pen, and what appeared to be more cattle grazing
far out in the brush, hundreds of yards beyond the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Even as Martinez
nudged Pueblo’s ribs with his spurs
and started him down the decline, movement from the left drew his attention.
Pulling on the reins and setting Pueblo
crosswise on the slope again, he shifted his eyes to take in a lone rider
coming slow along the ranch lane from the direction of what appeared to be a
well-used highway. He was a big man—that was notable even from four hundred
yards. His height couldn’t be told, but the great bulk of his body was
remarkable. He sat the bay horse like a man who didn’t belong there, and it was
a good bet the horse wished he wasn’t.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The big man swayed
in the saddle, headed for the cabin yet in no great hurry to get there. In the
group who stole Martinez’s gaited
pinto there would be no man as big as this. Between the weight of the man and a
horse that big, the tracks would be deep, and there were no such tracks in the
bunch Martinez followed. Besides,
no man that big could have kept up the merciless pace the others were setting.
No, this man he was watching had nothing to do with the stolen horse—except for
the fact that the tracks Martinez
was following led straight down the mountain toward this ranch. So perhaps this
man had at least seen them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But something made
Martinez wait and watch. Pueblo
wanted to be moving. He fidgeted and tossed his head, stamping a hoof against
the damp soil. Yet Martinez was
cautious, for some men did not like to be ridden up on and taken by surprise. Martinez
was one of those men himself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The stranger drew
up, and Martinez watched him
studying what appeared to be a dead horse lying in a freshly plowed field. The
stranger watched the dead horse for a time, then moved on. He reached the barn,
and after looking about for a moment he rode on inside. Martinez
had just started Pueblo down the
slope when he caught sight of a slighter figure striding from the house and out
toward the barn. A woman stood at the front of the house with her hands on her
hips, watching after the other one, who appeared by his light gait to be a boy.
By all appearances the man in the barn was a family man. That was good. It had
been a while since he had been around people who cared about each other. It
would do his heart good to sit down to a meal with family people—if they would
invite him. Some white people would not stand for a Mexican at their table.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
let Pueblo pick his way down the
ridge, his eyes on the barn. He was unworried about the mustang’s footing, even
on the muddy, rock-impregnated slope. He was watching the barn’s big, open doorway
when the slighter man—or boy—came reeling out and landed in the dirt.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
jerked back on the reins. The little dun responded appropriately, but he didn’t
like the treatment. He tossed his head, tearing some of the rein out of his
rider’s hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
didn’t even have time to apologize to the horse. As he watched, the big man
lumbered out of the barn and came at the other one. As he reached him, he bent
and jerked him off the ground, backhanding him across the face and sending him
to earth again. Judging by the treatment, and by the way the man was able to
throw him around, Martinez had
decided this was indeed a boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anger twisted his
features, his thin-haired mustache curving around a lopsided grimace. There was
no thinking in him now, only unreasonable anger. He drew the sleeve of his
hickory shirt across his mouth so it nearly ripped skin off his lips. But it
didn’t wipe off his scowl. With his eyes watering up so he could hardly see, he
rolled his spurs and started downhill.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was instantly
obvious Pueblo had no intention of
making that steep descent at the speed Martinez
wanted. He jammed the spurs deeper, his eyes still set on the man below. Even
as Martinez sank the spurs, the big
man once more struck the boy, who made no move to get away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When Pueblo
felt the spurs, he reacted with a jump. Martinez
wasn’t a man to misuse a horse, so Pueblo was unaccustomed to the bite of the
spur. He came down wrong on a scree outcrop and lost his footing. As he started
to tip to the side, Martinez came
to his senses enough to kick his feet free of the tapaderos and shove at the
dinner plate saddle horn, trying to avoid what was sure to be a nasty fall. But
Pueblo already had his momentum,
and as he went over sideways he took the Mexican with him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The horse plunged
to his left side, Martinez still
scrambling to clear him. When Pueblo
rolled onto his back, as he had no choice but to do, he jerked Martinez
clear over him and past his flailing hooves, sending him sprawling down the
slope. Certain he was bound for the bottom of the hill, Martinez
was stunned when he slammed up against the tangled base of a serviceberry bush.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Numb, the Mexican
sat up, and instinct made him reach for the Colt Army in his belt. It was still
there, the grip scuffed. His hands went next to his face, and his gloves came
away streaked with blood. Uphill several yards, Pueblo
stood blowing in fright and confusion. Wild-eyed, he looked down at Martinez
and shook his head violently.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">His legs and heart
shaking, Martinez stood up,
brushing off his brown-striped, rough-woven pants, which had a ragged tear in
one knee. After his own harrowing mishap, he had forgotten the scene below. But
now he turned his eyes that way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They must have
heard Pueblo’s scream of fright as
he fell, for the big man stood looking up at him, hands on his hips, and the
woman had come out to stand beside him. The boy sat on the ground, holding his
bowed head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After what could
have been a deadly fall, Martinez’s
surge of anger had ebbed. Watching the people in the yard, he pulled off his
gloves and palmed his face, wiping the blood back on his gloves. He drew a
breath and looked up the slope at Pueblo.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, amigo, we
might as well go down there. Their fight’s over, and I’m out of wind. You
better watch those rocks, <i>caballo</i>. And
I promise to watch the spurs.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The Mexican looked
down again toward the three people who watched him, waiting. The anger he had
felt before the fall might have left his face, but it dwelt in a more dangerous
place—his heart. He was afraid something bad would happen if he went down the
hill. But nothing could be worse than what Elmer Martinez had already been
through—the tragic incident which had led him to his brutal beating at Rocky
Bar.<span> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Climbing the
several yards to the horse, he picked up the trailing reins and started
downhill once more. Only this time he trod with care.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By the time Martinez
reached the ranch yard, the boy had picked himself up and gone to the house.
The man and woman stood beside each other waiting, and Martinez
stopped before them and dropped the reins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Took a bad fall,
stranger. I count you lucky to be standin’ here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
gave a wry, one-sided grin to the heavy-set man, his cheek dimpling. He pulled
off his flat-crowned gray hat and swept back collar-length hair, dabbing again
at the oozing cut on his cheek. “The horse is young.” He tossed his head toward
Pueblo and lied: “He doesn’t know
the way of the mountains. Mind if I water him here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hell, water him,
mister. Looks like he c’d use it. Name’s Everett,”
the man said. “Rock Everett. And
this here’s Lucy.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The man held out a
thick, black-haired hand, and Martinez
looked down at it, then shook his head with a slight smile. “I have blood on my
hand.” He held up the palm of his right hand for them to see. “You don’t want
to shake with me.” In truth, it was the other way around.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Laws,” growled Everett,
spitting to one side. “I fit Injuns, I skinnt rotted cows an’ all kinds o’
critters. Ain’t no little bit o’ blood goin’ bother me.” But even as he
finished speaking his broad hand was falling away, gladdening Martinez.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What about the
water?” He glanced around the yard.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Creek out back o’
the barn,” Everett said, giving a
wave that direction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“When you done,
come back to the house,” the string-haired blonde woman added. “You ’pear nigh
starved to death.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
nearly turned down the offer. He <i>was </i>hungry,
right enough. But that was not why he stayed. It was no longer for pining to be
in the company of family affection, either. He would find that more quickly
among a pack of wolves than among this clan. He didn’t rightly know why he
agreed to stay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">When he had
watered Pueblo and turned him loose
on a field of bright green grass spotted with blue lupine and white clover, Martinez
went to satisfy his own hunger. The inside of the house was dark, with tattered
gunnysacks languishing over one hole that served as a window, and a film over
the only glass window, in the kitchen. The floor was puncheon, so roughly cut
it would not behoove a man to walk barefoot across it. The crooked slab table
held a spread of victuals that made Martinez’s
mouth water.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
was strongly aware of the boy’s absence when they sat down at the table. “I
hope I’m not eating the boy’s food.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everett
jerked his eyes up from his plate, then sliced a glance toward the woman. He
dabbed a hunk of pan bread into his gravy and shoved it into his mouth, then
spoke around it, “We didn’t catch your name, stranger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
shrugged. “Elmer. Elmer Martinez, up from Texas.
Most folks call me Alto.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Leaning down over
his plate for a drip of gravy to fall off his chin, Everett
raised his eyebrows to look up at his dinner guest. “Texas,
eh? You don’t say!” He straightened up and looked over at his woman, food
pooching out his lower lip. “You don’t say. I sorta thought you might be from Mexico,”
he said with a dry chuckle, swallowing his mouthful and picking up a thick
steak with his fork to rip a bite out of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
gave his little half smile and tugged at the thin tuft of hair below his bottom
lip.<span> </span>He wasn’t sure if Everett
was so ignorant as to believe everyone of Hispanic origin came from Mexico,
or if he didn’t care. “Yes, of course you would have guessed that,” he said. He
changed the subject. “I should have asked before—did you see five riders come
by this direction?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Woman was here,” Everett
said with a shrug, looking at Lucille questioningly as he wiped another dribble
of grease from the point of his chin.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The woman
shrugged. “Nobody been by while I was lookin’. Why you ask?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They stole a
tall, rangy pinto from me. A medicine hat.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rock Everett
made a loud noise when he swallowed, then slurped at a tumbler of cider,
letting out a belch. A dark look came over his face as he looked back at Martinez.
“Yeah, I know ’bout losin’ a hoss. Boy just kilt my plow hoss. Drove her int’
the ground.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Killed her how?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Told you. Drove
her int’ the ground pulling out tree stumps.” He glanced darkly at Lucille. Her
eyes were lowered, looking at her plate as she carved away a piece of steak.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It sounds like
the boy was working hard,” Martinez
mused. “A hard-working boy’s not easy to find.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Hard-workin’, my
laig!” Everett snapped. “Lazy
good-for-nothin’ ain’t done a full day’s work in his life.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
forced his eyes down as he worked a mound of potatoes onto his fork and put it
in his mouth. If the boy had killed the horse pulling stumps, it sounded like
he was working hard. But who was Martinez
to say? He didn’t know the boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Boy!” Everett
bellowed. “You ’bout done cowerin’ up there? Git down here an’ go take care of
ole Ned. He’s gone hungry ’n’ still saddled ’cause o’ your stupid doin’s.” Old
Rock was apparently not the quintessential horseman who always cared for his
horse first.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There came a
scrape on the floor of the loft, and the boy appeared and came down the ladder,
a thin blanket wrapped about his shoulders. His face was almost gaunt, and very
pale at the moment. Droplets of sweat stood out all over his forehead and
cheeks, and his eyes appeared sunken in. He started past the table, not looking
at its occupants, but Rock Everett towered out of his chair and grabbed at a
corner of the blanket as the boy went by.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What you dressin’
like a Injun fer? Go git clothes on ’fore you come down with comp’ny here.” He
yanked the blanket from the boy, leaving him standing shirtless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
felt his teeth grind against one another until he thought they would crack. He
looked at the boy, but he could hardly see him through eyes blurred by anger.
He fought his vision clear and glanced down at his food, not daring look at
Rock Everett. But as the boy went to make his way back up to the loft, and Everett
flung the blanket after him with the order to take it with him, Martinez
turned his eyes back to the boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The white skin of
the boy’s back was a road map of welts, bruises, old scars and nasty wounds
scabbing over. A switch had made most of the marks. A switch in the hands of a
hateful, worthless man who in Martinez’s
opinion knew nothing about raising a boy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
dropped his eyes to avoid looking at Everett.
He concentrated on his food, cutting into his steak with a vengeance. But even
as he chewed he could not taste it. There was no pleasure left in this meal—if
there ever had been.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Suddenly, Martinez
stood. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said through tight lips. “I’m not getting
any closer to those thieves sitting here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everett
stared up at Martinez with his
half-open mouth full of steak. As if he had just remembered it, he gave it
three quick chews and swallowed it in a big lump, slurping cider. Neither he
nor his wife stood up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, you should
stay longer. We don’t git comp’ny here much,” Everett
said as his hand fumbled after another piece of pan bread. “Hope y’ find them
rustlers. Ain’t nobody so worthless as a thief.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
nodded and thought, <i>At least there aren’t
very many people worse. </i>He turned from the table, picking up his hat at the
door. With a deep breath, he forced himself out into the sunshine and off
toward the barn.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He had not gone
far before he heard Rock Everett’s voice behind him, from the porch. “Say,
stranger! How many men d’you say you’s chasin’?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
turned back. “Five.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Everett
glanced back into the house, then stepped into the dust. “There <i>was</i> five men here, but it ain’t been
recent, or I’d a mentioned it sooner. It’s been some days back. One of them was
ridin’ a ugly lookin’ long-legged pinto hoss. Reason I think of it is that hoss
was a medicine hat, like you
mentioned.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A fire started
once more to burn deep in Martinez’s
guts. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Can you tell me
more about the horse?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Not much hoss.
Tall stewball stallion, but with that medicine hat.
Had a sorrel blanket on his rump. Don’t remember much other color.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The description of
the horse was dead on, other than the man’s misuse of the word skewbald,
meaning a brown and white pinto horse. Martinez’s
interest was piqued, but one more question needed answering. “Did the men say
who they were?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“One dandy by the
name o’ Mossbucker and another by the—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
took an urgent step closer. “Mosbrucker, you say? Where’d these men go?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, they went
on to Challis, but I missed ’em there. Last I knew they had turned around and
was headed thataway, t’ward Blackfoot. Must of slid past me in the dark.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If Matt Mosbrucker
was headed toward the freighting town of Blackfoot,
maybe he would lay up there. Maybe, too, he would die there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Martinez
gleaned as much more information on the horse thieves as he could before
turning away from the yard. His thoughts were on Matt Mosbrucker, murderer of
babies and women. But sitting in the saddle he flinched at the last sound he
heard as he rode grimly away—Rock Everett bellowing and the sound of an open
hand striking flesh. He clenched his teeth and sank into his saddle, tickling Pueblo
with the spurs.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">That same night,
Austin Everett heaved himself up in bed, soaked with sweat. He had been having
a nightmare. But in a moment it was plain that was not what had awakened him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Outside, he heard
his father shouting, and then the bellow of a rifle. More shots followed, and
the faint sound of hoofbeats.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Again! They had
never had trouble in this place before. Now twice in one week!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Deliriously, Austin
rolled off his bed, losing his balance while trying to struggle into his canvas
britches. Neglecting to put on his tattered old shoes, he scrambled down out of
the loft, leaping from the third rung of the ladder and nearly landing on top
of Lucille.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Swearing at him,
Lucille reached the cupboard, and he heard her curse again at the sound of
shotgun shells rattling around the floor. Austin
ran outside. All he could see was a dim vision of the yard by the sliver of the
moon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The pound of horse
hooves rolled back to him from off toward the road, and then all was silent.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Rock!” Austin
cried into the night. “Rock!” Not even a cricket answered him as he stepped out
away from the house.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lucille suddenly
stood beside him. He looked over to see her quivering, holding the shotgun up
chest-high and searching the darkness almost frantically. “Rock! Rock, you out
there?” Again, there was only quiet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Bewildered, Austin
started toward the shed until Lucille’s snarled words stopped him. “Boy! They
might still be out there.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Who?” he asked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I dunno. Whoever
come. Maybe they got old Ned. Injuns. I’ll bet them Bannocks again! You know
how they was at it last year.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A chill ran up Austin’s
spine, and he backed toward the house. Lucille must have scared herself at the
thought of the Bannocks, for she followed him. Her eyes, gone wide, dodged this
way and that in the dark, the moonlight shining off the whites of them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">They made it to
the house, and Lucille slammed the door behind them and dropped the bar in
place, for all the good it would do with the two big windows. And then once
more the silence settled in. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #ead1dc; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">After a long, long
time they heard the first tentative cricket begin to chirp, and soon there was
a chorus of them. Their music seemed to drown out the world.</span></div>
Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-42916534612456074672012-07-18T01:25:00.002-07:002012-07-18T01:26:08.977-07:00MAYBELLE<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUajKY8cW564s-kVZUDOb20hvnhUNo5kESxGBUlWqwqN51TK7-E-7IRwwuWFsepnc_HBVKkqMJZ3GDgeLQPQP9g-TPQcsmRHBUs666JiZWTRbgY1k25__LUIzfMRz7Eo_8zdphaRfS2Z3O/s1600/IMG_0242e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUajKY8cW564s-kVZUDOb20hvnhUNo5kESxGBUlWqwqN51TK7-E-7IRwwuWFsepnc_HBVKkqMJZ3GDgeLQPQP9g-TPQcsmRHBUs666JiZWTRbgY1k25__LUIzfMRz7Eo_8zdphaRfS2Z3O/s320/IMG_0242e.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She was ninety-four years old, but
she would sit eating fresh, crisp carrots with her own strong, white teeth, and
when she looked at you it with eyes that seemed to know everything, or at least
something about everything. She seemed to be looking straight through you at
times, and at other times reading your mind, or your soul.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybelle Dohi was a full-blood
Navajo Indian who when my wife and I met her was living in Cameron,
Arizona, on the Navajo reservation. She was
living within the city limits—if I can use that term loosely—for the first time
in her entire life.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybelle’s hair was still more
black than gray, even at her advanced age. Although her face was craggy with
wrinkles, her eyes and the impish smile on her face held a hint of youth that
time could never take away. Turquoise jewelry adorned her almost all the time,
and in spite of its beauty it seemed to weigh her down when we met, for she
walked with a series bend at her waist. I think her back was bothering her, but
she was never going to complain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybelle was quiet when I first met
her. She sat at the dinner table eating carrot sticks, staring off into space
as if somewhere out there she could see the ghost of her husband, or the goats
and sheep she used to raise on their ranch thirty miles outside of town. But at
other times she would watch you with this knowing look, this look like she
somehow knew every minor detail of your life, and somehow it struck her as
mildly humorous that you should be so bold as to dare sitting in her company.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But Maybelle warmed up, and when
she did she began to tell this story of an elk she had killed, only the year
before. Some friends had taken her out hunting, and she stood waiting with her .30/30
Winchester, and at last, when the
big bull came in sight, she shot him. In the head. She was very matter of fact
about this harvest of a majestic animal, yet in her eyes was mighty big pride,
for this woman, who covered in clay mud couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds and who stood no more
than four foot nine inches tall, had taken down an animal with a shot that would put most
hunters to shame. That was Maybelle Dohi.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">We wanted to see her house, which
her children had built for her when she moved to town. Mind you, Cameron is not
any kind of town in most people’s estimation. It is a wide spot in the road
with a trading post, a hotel and a gas station, not much more. Houses surround
these businesses, standing stark and lonely against the pink desert sand and
the scattered rocks. Yet to Maybelle this was a real town, for that thirty
miles out to her ranch was not thirty miles as a modern traveler might think of
it. This thirty miles went across rutted road, sandy road, rocky road, road so
bad at times that a traveler might feel himself lucky to get back out alive. This
was no twenty or thirty minute drive. This was an hour long drive, on a good
day, and any water she and her husband had to drink out there had to be hauled
out from town. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Out there in that inhospitable
land, where the wind blew mercilessly and the sun shone fiercely down almost
every day of the year, that was where Maybelle and her husband lived their
lives, raised their goats and sheep, and were happy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But at last, over the crest of the ninety
year mark, Maybelle had lost her husband and was finally forced to move into
town. There, she would sit at her window in the mornings and gaze out at the
cars going by on the street. Or sometimes, when she would take the notion, she
would drive her old pickup into Flagstaff,
and she had no fear of the traffic there. She was very proud to announce it,
with that twinkle in her eyes and that smile that was always almost, but never
quite, on her lips.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She proudly showed us her house,
her wood box, her faucet. I am not joking when I say that Maybelle walked to
her kitchen faucet and told us very seriously that here (she pointed at the
faucet handle) all she had to do was lift this, and water would come right out
of it. She turned it on to prove it, and sure enough, water came out. A
convenience my wife and I have been enjoying since we were old enough to
remember, Maybelle first experienced in her own home in her nineties. To her,
it might have been one of the world’s seven wonders.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She took us through every single
room in the house, showed us her water heater, which, honest to goodness,
heated water right there in her house and made it come warm—or hot—right out of
that same tap she had shown us. Maybelle’s excitement over the wonders of her
new home sure made a person ponder on how spoiled we have become in mainstream America.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I had my photo taken with Maybelle
Dohi. Standing there with this woman who, in spite of her frailty, had so
easily climbed into my heart to stay. I treasure that photo. The last I saw of
Maybelle was her face peering out the window as she sat at her perch. The next
morning, as I drove away, Maybelle wasn’t there. Probably out shooting
jackrabbits or something.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="color: cyan; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I heard that Maybelle Dohi had a
stroke a while ago, and at ninety-four years she left this world alone. And
when I say alone, I am referring to the world, not to Maybelle, and I do not
use that term “alone” lightly. I can feel the solitary sadness of Cameron,
Arizona now. I can feel the sadness in the
entire world, or perhaps it is just a sadness in my heart. The world is a less
colorful place now that Maybelle is no longer with us, but heaven has gained a
great asset. I hope she is now making friends with that elk she harvested, that
she is joined once again with her long lost man who loved her. I will miss
Maybelle, and each time I drive through Cameron now I fear I will shed a tear
as I look to see that dark, empty window staring back at me. </span></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-31260577805616149282012-05-15T14:07:00.000-07:002012-05-15T14:07:09.775-07:00FRUSTRATION OF THE INTERNET<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>So I guess you could say I've never had a much more discouraging day ATTEMPTING to use the Internet. I can't use the phrase "using the Internet," because I have hardly been USING it. First, I attempted quite unsuccessfully to write a new blog--which wasn't even THIS blog. This idea was forced upon me. Then I tried to create an official page for "Kirby Jonas, the author" on Facebook. That was a joke. Not only did the powers that be on Facebook, which are so self-important that they cannot be contacted by any of us lowly humans, tell me "our automated system will not allow use of that name," but until I accidentally spelled my name wrong, as Kirbby Jonas, I couldn't do ANYTHING. I am now officially Kirbby Jonas, and I'm not stuttering. What's next?</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;"><strong>I could go on and on, but I would like this blog to be funny, and right now I am not in even a slightly humorous mood toward the Internet.</strong></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-57646159853467521432012-04-05T18:08:00.002-07:002012-04-05T18:47:34.508-07:00LUCKY ROCK--"Sent to help"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKMR7sGnEk0mIDJ1hd8-h1S9PBAMrL2E96guMzahZ6olMZ-DzqKEuuPcQJeohPzCPmi5RMcpJADrm8FIH06RHfgLSuVkU_SI8n77Y5ak3jCmvkQt93H9E99Ddq32bB6TLCBnk0AN9MOnr/s1600/IMG_0557.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5728098352168413490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKMR7sGnEk0mIDJ1hd8-h1S9PBAMrL2E96guMzahZ6olMZ-DzqKEuuPcQJeohPzCPmi5RMcpJADrm8FIH06RHfgLSuVkU_SI8n77Y5ak3jCmvkQt93H9E99Ddq32bB6TLCBnk0AN9MOnr/s400/IMG_0557.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>The first car flashed its headlights at me twice. In the middle of the Utah desert, between the small towns of Monticello and Moab, I could think of only three reasons for this. One, there was a policeman waiting ahead to pull over speeders--in which case I was fine, as I was hauling a load of rocks and sand and in no position to be speeding. I was getting just over 9 miles to the gallon as it was. Two, there could be wildlife on the road. But it was nearing twelve o'clock noon, and most animals are bedded down by then, particularly out in the hot sands of the Utah desert. Three--and the thing I dreaded--was a wreck in the road ahead.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>When the second car flashed its lights, my wife suggested that maybe something was falling apart on my truck. That would have been no suprise, as I had already had three automotive issues while in Arizona, two of those fairly traumatic. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>But then I saw the vehicles pulled over to the shoulder maybe a half mile ahead, and people running across the road. It was then I knew my EMT training was about to be called upon. But I could still pray I was wrong . . .</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>As I neared the chaotic scene near the crest of the hill on Highway 191, I saw the remains of a Chevy Tahoe lying upside down in the orange sand down about thirty feet down a rock and sank embankment. For many years, I have kept a pair of surgical gloves from my work at the Pocatello, Idaho Fire Department in a compartment in my door. Until this day I had only used them once. I pulled to the shoulder, grabbed my gloves and one way breathing mask and headed across the road, where I saw an elderly man covered profusely in blood, being held in a sitting position beside the remains of his vehicle. There were possibly ten onlookers milling around, but other than the one nearest the victim none seemed busy with aiding anyone from the vehicle. When I asked, "What do we have?" all I received in answer were blank stares.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>Getting on my knees in the glass-strewn sand, I could see a pair of tennis shoes and khaki pants protruding from the front seat area of the vehicle, and I heard those God-sent words, "I'm a paramedic." Until then, going by sheer odds, I was betting that I was the only other medically trained person on scene. I was never much happier to hear three words in my life.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>It turned out "Peter," who lives in Cortez, Colorado and works sometimes in, of all strange places to which to commute, Alaska, was heading southbound and home when he came upon the scene of the crash. He had already pulled the old fellow, whom I will refer to as "George," from his partially ejected place near the driver's window of the vehicle. Peter was now in the act of holding George's wife up, quite literally, in the front passenger seat--and she was upside down!</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>Peter, also quite obviously relieved when I told him I was a Pocatello firefighter and EMT, told me he had done a brief once-over of George and that he found no major damage, just a lot of surface abrasions and torn skin, most of it on his head. Head wounds are notorious for copious amounts of blood, and Peter's analysis fit what I had seen at a glance and set my mind at ease.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>However, his wife, whom I will call Carol, was a different story. Peter had been forced to release her seatbelt because in the position she was in, hanging upside down, it had been compromising her airway. However, because of the horrible nature of the crash, the condition of the vehicle, whose passenger side roof was caved to within inches of the bottom of the window, he did not want to risk pulling her roughly out of the vehicle. So, by some miracle I don't understand even now, Peter, who lay on his left side, had his right arm foreward, holding up Carol's entire body weight so that she didn't fall down and possibly injure her neck worse than it might already have been. Other than the sheer power of God and a good dose of adrenaline, I don't know to this day how Peter had this kind of strength, but he managed to hold Carol in that upside down seated position for the entire fifteen or twenty minutes of this rescue.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>I learned that at this point Carol was still coherent and could answer questions, which judging by the condition of the vehicle and the launch it had taken down into this gully was nothing short of amazing. Peter's main concern was the strong smell of gasoline and an eerie hissing coming from inside the engine compartment. I tried to help him by getting on the passenger side of the vehicle to hold Carol up, but access on that side was impossible, even though I got down in the glass on my side and tried to reach up inside. Peter was thus left to his own devices, with my prayers that his strength would hold out.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>We had one small fire extinguisher on the scene, which a passing semi truck driver had brought down, and I managed to roundup another one when a passing car containing another EMT, a beautiful Hispanic woman, arrived. I don't really know how beautiful she was, but when I learned we had a third EMT she sure looked beautiful!! Probably about the same way that my voice had sounded beautiful to Peter when I said the word "EMT," if you can understand that.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>I had the newcomer hold traction on George's head, so he couldn't move around and injure himself worse, as I tried to get the bleeding stopped on his arms and face. Bless his heart, all George cared about was Carol, and he kept on asking about her welfare. Peter seemed to take this repeated questioning as a sign of a head injury, but I could see into George's face when he was asking, and it was nothing but genuine concern for his bride.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>I know now the vast feeling of relief that comes with the sound of a distant siren. As the rescue trucks and police officers began to arrive from Monticello and Moab, I was flooded with a sense of gratitude to God for saving these people. Then two ambulances arrived, and my relief was double. I stayed to help in the packaging of George, because, bless their hearts, the EMT's on the ambulance had apparently not had a whole lot of experience in that arena, and they gladly let me continue my work. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>We got George on a stretcher, a collar protecting his neck, spider strapped him on, then with six people managed to get him up the slick sandstone embankment to the first ambulance. My EMT angle was at his head, and I held one hand behind her back and one hand on the backboard, in case she slipped and fell on the very dangerous rocks, which she had already done once while pulling George onto the board. This entire time, George's only concern was that they not take him away until his sweetheart was also packaged and ready to go.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>As the ambulances finally rolled away, I thought back to a decision I had made a half hour earlier, and suddenly I realized that God had sent me a message, and inadvertently I had heeded it. You see, for twenty years I had been driving this highway, pretty much every March. And every March I had been passing this monolith of red and yellow sandstone whose name I don't know even now. It stands a sentinel out in the sage and sand, grazed about by red and black cattle. At its base is a black hole, which for all of these years I have believed was a cave. But this monolith of rock stands far out in the desert, five hundred yards from the road behind a padlocked gate. And every year when I pass it I am generally in a hurry to get back home, and other than stopping behind the gate for a photo now and then I simply admire it and hurry on.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>Today, however, something--or someONE--had said, "Go get a closer look. Go see the cave. Get close and personal." This year is possibly the last year I will take this annual trek to Arizona with my oldest son, Jacob, and I have spent a week of mixed emotions with him, my wife and son Matthew because of that. So although we were already two days behind schedule, my wife and I both decided to go behind the locked gate this time, to walk out and see what this cave at the base of the monolith was all about.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>As it turns out, it is a hole that has been blasted there by man. You can still see the drill marks for the placement of the dynamite. It is a ten foot high, fifteen feet wide, fifteen feet deep hole. Nothing more. At one time it may have bene used to store hay. Now it stands empty, and it is a place for passing dreamers and lovers to carve their hearts and their names. But at least I knew, at last. And more importantly, I had delayed my progress--or someone Whose power is far beyond mine had delayed it--just long enough for the wreck to have happened shortly before my arrival. Incidentally, it turned out that George had fallen asleep, probably three hundred yards before the final resting place of his Tahoe, and taken out a whole line of reflector posts, leaving vehicle parts strewn all along the way.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>But both George and Carol were fine, when I last saw them, and I have every reason to believe they remain so to this day. Thank heaven for Paramedic Peter and his superhuman strength, and thank God for making my curiosity get the better of me, so that I decided after twenty years to see that hole in the rock. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>I think, in honor of George and Carol, I am going to name it for myself: Lucky Rock.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-40387885617697231472012-02-29T16:21:00.002-08:002012-02-29T16:46:35.537-08:00EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASsHoIUMgt_zzzDTFsERTkN7M4HXb5Ihu2g71WHhcRZfv_VsUq9PYAR1uCLqI7LPduhmF7sAKR1kb9nz3MJ6hOMhk0fLXkid1cjxKJgBvFdPtg5PMmcUvO6sH1uLGhc5Xt707GY6MI6BS/s1600/IMG_0164e.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714723652136121042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiASsHoIUMgt_zzzDTFsERTkN7M4HXb5Ihu2g71WHhcRZfv_VsUq9PYAR1uCLqI7LPduhmF7sAKR1kb9nz3MJ6hOMhk0fLXkid1cjxKJgBvFdPtg5PMmcUvO6sH1uLGhc5Xt707GY6MI6BS/s400/IMG_0164e.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>I don't know exactly why it is that our Father in Heaven gets the thanks--or the blame--for every single thing that happens. Now, lest I sound blasphemous, I don't mean this in a bad way whatsoever. I want to thank God for everything he has given me, everything he has made me. Even the bad things that happen often end up being blessings in their own way, if we learn something from them. Having said that, I want to talk about my 1990 Cadillac Fleetwood.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>When, in the late 1990's, my friend Bob Hammer died, I purchased this beautiful silver two door from his wife, Inez. Other than the smell of cigarette smoke, which thanks to leather seats ended up disippating until you couldn't smell it anymore the car was immaculate. Bob always kept it clean, and nicely protected in an old garage, which unfortunately was more than I could offer the old girl. But I still loved that car, kept the maintenance up on it faithfully, and together, she and my family traveled many thousands of miles and some twenty states, one time for twenty-eight days straight.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Well, not too long ago the driver's window began having problems, and there came a time when it would no longer work. By this time, we had four children, and we decided to buy a mini van. We made the mistake of picking a Dodge, but that's a story for another blog! Anyway, we temporarily retired the Cadillac and took the plates off it to put on the van.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Well, in that strange way they have, the city code folks caught wind of this horrible looking, (spotless, beautiful silver) Cadillac on my property, so they put the screws on, so to speak. They wouldn't rest until it was in an enclosed garage--which we don't now have and never did. So finally, in desperation, I moved the Cadillac to a friend's property, where we parked it next to his old garage, which sits across the street from his house.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Now, in this part of southern Idaho, we have these things that some know as "winds." But they are not really winds. They are more like sustained cyclones or hurricanes, except that the wind almost all comes out of the southwest, rather than going in a circle. We had two weekends of these winds recently, and I was blissfully ignorant, or at least forgetful, of the cottonwood trees hovering over my beloved Cadillac, so I left it sitting where it was . . .</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Let me back up a minute to say that my oldest boy, Jacob, has recently acquired his driver's license, and he was very excited to have me fix up the beautiful old Caddy for him to drive. He has this early morning missionary preparation class he wanted to attend two days a week, and without the car he would be walking the two miles to school in all kinds of weather. So I decided to grant him his wish. However, I was, shall we say, a little slow . . .</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Which takes me back to my Cadillac. Last Saturday night, the winds howled hard for the second week in a row, and we received a call from the friend on whose property our Caddy was taking her ease. It seemed that sometime in the night, that tired old cottonwood next to his garage had at last succumbed to the howling wind. But rather than fall in the direction the wind was blowing it, it turned at right angles and fell all the way down the length of my Caddy, from trunk to hood, totalling the car.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>My reaction upon going down to see it, even as my wife was bursting into tears, was to laugh and tell my friend, "That's now by far the most expensive firewood I've ever had." What could I do but laugh? Crying or swearing certainly wasn't going to get my car back.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>But now, after this long lead-in, I come to the point of this blog. There are many out there who would say, "Everything happens for a reason." And at that point they would start to conjecture that, as I jokingly did on Facebook, perhaps my boy would have been in a bad wreck with the Cadillac the very first day he drove it. So God was protecting him by letting that tree fall on top of it. Try to think of any other "silver lining." I'm sure if you are good at that game there could be others.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>I, however, do not subscribe to this way of thinking. There is not always a reason for everything that happens. Life just . . . happens. You go along, and good things happen to you, and then suddenly something bad happens. Maybe a whole bunch of bad things. Well, believe me, God did not "do something to you." It just happened. Did he stop it? No. But we were put on this earth to face challenges and see how we would handle them. God could make happen or stop from happening anything he wanted to, but that is not generally part of the plan. If there is some really important reason for something to happen a different way that Mother Nature has it planned, God is always free to step in. But I firmly believe He almost never does. He lets us choose how the bad--or the good--things will affect us.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>I have always been slightly offended when told that someone's relative or friend died and left this world because God wanted them with him, because they were just too special of a spirit to be left in this horrible world. That is telling me, indirectly, that not only I, my wife, and all my friends and family, and also my own four beautiful children, just weren't special enough to be taken out of this world by God, to go live with him. I do not for one moment believe that God makes a practice of pulling innocent people--or those not-so-innocent--out of this world. He just allows life--and death--to happen. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>Everything, in my opinion, does NOT have to happen for a reason. To paraphrase Forest Gump, sometimes "stuff happens." It just happens. We live with it and keep our sense of humor. Or we get bitter about it and blame God, that is if we search and search and can't find the reason why he either "did" this to us or let it happen. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>I am now going to have to find another car for my son. Unless I want him to walk two miles to school in howling wind and 25 degree temperatures, as he did this morning before dawn. But that Cadillac wasn't destined to be crushed because God wanted me to buy Jake a compact car so he could save gas. It wasn't crushed because we needed a less flashy color. It wasn't crushed because God doesn't likke Cadillacs. It was simply crushed because a tree fell on it, which trees sometimes do. I was just the lucky one this time--the lottery winner. Had I taken the car out a week ago and had it fixed, it would still be a nice car. </strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>The "reason" this happened is because the wind blew hard one night and a big tree decided to topple, and gravity made it topple in the exact direction of my Cadillac. End of story. No deep soul searching needed to figure this one out.</strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;"><strong>But wait . . . Perhaps my Cadillac was simply too special and beautiful to be here in this horrible world, and Heavenly Father wanted it up there with him. It could be, couldn't it?</strong></span></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-8777163125845335462012-02-11T19:51:00.000-08:002012-02-11T19:59:47.834-08:00TRIBUTE TO MY FRIEND, PETER BRECK<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkLAsvBUnTK4O-5ZhKMySkpkk9rbkqmpTsoqvC7KjWM00kx6yFiQemSeNKHDfXM2P2nb9plIVwBB5AH_57K3TX3ete79WyIJsdVChYPlNVJrUSveVCRZsVAZRF_l-C1cURyz8s6rVwHW1/s1600/PeterBreck2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708093756350886898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIkLAsvBUnTK4O-5ZhKMySkpkk9rbkqmpTsoqvC7KjWM00kx6yFiQemSeNKHDfXM2P2nb9plIVwBB5AH_57K3TX3ete79WyIJsdVChYPlNVJrUSveVCRZsVAZRF_l-C1cURyz8s6rVwHW1/s400/PeterBreck2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#00cccc;">It is one of those days you foolishly hope will never come. I almost wish I had not come in to work today. But I did. And on one of my discussion groups I read the astonishing news: Peter Breck, a.k.a. Nick Barkley, is dead.</span></strong></div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#00cccc;"><br /><br /><br /><div><br />When I was young, I became a huge fan of Peter's in watching The Big Valley reruns. My brother and I would often play the Barkleys when we played what we referred to as "big men," rather than "cowboys." My cousin Cory often joined in as well. Of course, I never got to be Nick, because that was forever my brother, Jamie's part. And if Cory was there, he was always Heath, so strangely the younger brother became the oldest brother, Jarrod. </div><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Time moved on, and in time, in March of 1999, I met and began a friendship with the real man behind Nick, Peter Breck. We met at a "Festival of the West," in Scottsdale, Arizona, where I gave him a copy of my book, Death of an Eagle. Unbeknownst to me, he was a huge fan of eagles, and I guess that explains our instant connection. He immediately told me if I ever put the book on audio he would love to be the man reading it. Of course, that honor eventually went to another great friend, James Drury, "The Virginian," but I would have loved it just as well in Peter's voice.</div><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Later on the day I met Peter, my wife and I seated ourselves to watch a concert, and Debbie pointed to our right, where I found Peter sitting with his ever-present gloves on top of his head. That was Peter. Funny to the end. He sat there with those gloves perched on top of his full head of brown hair, looking as serious as a broken femur.</div><br /><br /><br /><div><br />One of my favorite stories about Peter happened around 2001, when I received a late evening phone call. "Hi, this is Peter Breck." I was stunned, but of course happy. We chatted for a while, after he apparently dropped a stack of papers he had been holding. He sounded like he might have been drinking a little, but that, with Peter, was even endearing. At one time he told me to "give your mother a hug. Give ALL your family a hug. And aim low--they might be crawling." </div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>He called another time to ask for "Jimmy Drury's phone number." I never could stand the name Jimmy, but that's what Peter called him, and to Jim Peter was "Pete." Anyway, I gave him Jim's phone number, and after we chatted briefly he hung up to call him. Debbie was standing there in awe, and she said the words I will never forget: "Would you have ever thought Nick Barkley would be calling you to get the Virginian's phone number?"</div><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Over the past few years I kept meaning to call Peter, but I kept putting it off. As I keep in touch regularly with Jim, it is a shame that I let Peter go, but I did. I just thought he would always be there when I needed him. And then I saw the news. Peter died on Monday, and before that he was suffering from dementia. It brings me back to the sad knowledge that Clint Walker, another hero, is in the early stages of this disease himself, and has suffered it for longer than Peter did. I find myself wondering how long Clint will last, and it is hard to keep tears out of my eyes.</span></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#00cccc;"><br />And so our heroes pass before our eyes into the Great Beyond, leaving only their memories behind, and their images on old film. I loved that man, Peter Breck, and I cherish the memories of the times we talked about his days on The Big Valley. I only wish I could have gone to stay with him in Vancouver as he invited me to do so long ago. You always think there will be one more day.</span></strong></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-73849376948984218232012-01-19T16:35:00.000-08:002012-01-19T16:38:06.613-08:00TRIBUTE TO BRIAN HOWELL<div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#33ffff;"><strong><em></em></strong></span></span></div><br /><div align="left"><strong><em><span style="font-family:Trebuchet MS;font-size:130%;color:#33ffff;">This is a poem I wrote for my good friend Brian Howell, who finally succumbed to a brain tumor last spring after giving it a valiant fight. He survived chemo, radiation, and several operations where they told him, "We think we got it all." We miss you, Brian.</span></em></strong></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#33ffff;"><strong><em></em></strong></span></span></div><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#33ffff;"><strong><em>THE COWBOY—TOO TOUGH TO DIE<br /></em><br /><br />I can’t believe he’s gone—the cowboy rode too tall to die;<br />Now he’s sitting that old saddle, riding herd up in the sky.<br />He didn’t stand too tall of stature; some might have even called him small;<br />But it’s what’s inside that really counted, and he was taller than them all.<br /><br />I can’t believe it beat him, that hungry beast that knows no friends;<br />But the cowboy kept on laughing, right up to the bitter end.<br />He never lost his sense of humor—never lost his sense of love;<br />And we know he’s standing guard now, from his cow horse up above.<br /><br />I can’t believe our cowboy rode on, to ranges way up in the sky;<br />Too tell the truth, we thought he’d beat it, and he’d keep on riding high.<br />Now tall in the saddle he smiles, up on the mountain they call Scout;<br />Even if that funeral pyre claims our cowboy has bucked out.<br /><br />He left a wife and left a family, who will fly his banner high;<br />Who will long to see him smiling, from his saddle in the sky.<br />And the friends who called him brother, will keep the campfire burning bright;<br />For the buckaroo we all loved dearly, who rides the sky tonight.<br /><br />We will miss our compañero, till the angels call us home;<br />For he left us way too young, those far-off ranges for to roam.<br />We will hear him in the thunder, and in the breezes’ sigh;<br />We will miss our smiling partner until the day we die.<br /><br /><br /><br />—Kirby Jonas, May 3, 2011</strong></span> </span></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-81346276995484664292011-03-15T19:06:00.000-07:002011-03-15T19:11:29.460-07:00FAT OFF, DAY 61<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">Well, it is with great shame that I say when I got sick over a month ago and was out of commission for a week and a half it shattered my willpower. I have done horribly at my diet in the last month, and consequently have gained back a few pounds. In light of the fact that I still continue to harden up my physique overall I don't think the photographs, which I should have taken tomorrow, will show me looking worse than the last set, but probably not much better either. So I have let down anyone who was looking to me to show them it is possible to get lean in three months. As I said, I'll be posting my latest photographs soon so you can see my progress, or lack thereof, and realize that this fitness thing is an ongoing, everchanging process that cannot be cheated.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">I will still be ready to do the photo session in May for the last book of my "Gray Eagle" series and for the cover painting of my new book, NEPHI WAS MY FRIEND, but it is going to take some heavy duty running for me to catch up to where I was. Oh well. Such are the sacrifices of life. DON'T GIVE UP. That is the main thing about fitness. Never give up.</span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-35069819279515771242011-03-06T22:49:00.000-08:002011-03-06T22:54:50.149-08:00LONG WINTER<span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong>It seems to be true for most people this year, unless you talk to a skier: It has been a LONG winter. I have enjoyed the way the snow looks. It's beautiful when it's falling, beautiful when it lies like diamond-shot cotton on the spruce boughs and when it blankets the fields. It seems as if you could walk into it and scoop up enough diamonds to retire on, but as you walk they simply disappear.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong>Unfortunately, the winter itself is NOT disappearing. For me, a non-skier, although I'm very glad to have the snowpack built up, in hopes of having a decent water supply this summer, this winter has seemed endless. </strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong>I won't complain too loudly, however, because I'm not a fan of any day much over 80, either, unless I'm on the beach, which is almost . . . never. But I do love spring, and I am greatly looking forward to those warmer days, and the blooming of my flowers--at least it makes for good deer food, anyway. They usually get 50% or more of my tulips before I get to see a bloom!</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ccff;"><strong>My new book is almost finished, and I need to thank Old Man Winter for that. I have stayed in the house an awful lot in the last few months, and I have to admit I don't get much writing done when it's beautiful outside. So here is my nod to winter. Now go away whenever you get a chance!</strong></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-47424370278342050632011-02-07T20:48:00.000-08:002011-02-07T21:01:55.211-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 33<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0Kx3fg9fCb5CFOGCfIPg-CZ1O5p5UE_4bLOpccbS7lwOACPX4vSNbMzPmHy0fXNupLb6Yxg0XQcs50X9-o9LAsvl6LdWsgf27VLh_Gvf5qSooyvgXfsGkpry6zzJDLe8iSToLmj3bpKy/s1600/F2b.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 272px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571179109424354994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0Kx3fg9fCb5CFOGCfIPg-CZ1O5p5UE_4bLOpccbS7lwOACPX4vSNbMzPmHy0fXNupLb6Yxg0XQcs50X9-o9LAsvl6LdWsgf27VLh_Gvf5qSooyvgXfsGkpry6zzJDLe8iSToLmj3bpKy/s400/F2b.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMYtiBf9vt_dR1KSWkeS8sW4te1Tr_NfFRUYJbXHUpwf_g2xR4pAUOnTH2h4qYf6FZZQT7CvY999PaHZ5d_w3o41_l7D-W3pWuh6sZHfMFJbYRoXjtkFD_tFyODya8OvwOPzbwbpkfFDc/s1600/R1b.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 208px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571179104954651650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMMYtiBf9vt_dR1KSWkeS8sW4te1Tr_NfFRUYJbXHUpwf_g2xR4pAUOnTH2h4qYf6FZZQT7CvY999PaHZ5d_w3o41_l7D-W3pWuh6sZHfMFJbYRoXjtkFD_tFyODya8OvwOPzbwbpkfFDc/s400/R1b.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJMn5Vq8FuPTep0o9Z1maPJo-FamoHTAuTXp7J3mPIqkQXp73oA43jW7ryfpqZ4qCYqG0Ovf9jbNWjJuOdYjtx_53Y8MPwQ_P2MlfEkeqg7YfSXV2gLf-_oFPgYa5i-JEhtus9-8m7cI1/s1600/L1b.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571179096338442146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHJMn5Vq8FuPTep0o9Z1maPJo-FamoHTAuTXp7J3mPIqkQXp73oA43jW7ryfpqZ4qCYqG0Ovf9jbNWjJuOdYjtx_53Y8MPwQ_P2MlfEkeqg7YfSXV2gLf-_oFPgYa5i-JEhtus9-8m7cI1/s400/L1b.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbb-AzRJfreSIOCO0OMoxFuzUe9zKGWScn4cZexOGtOqUzJMKJJd4PxirCuAhSvJDmKbDOh-RNCbpHth0BU3ARtWyEV0jMJF1hAoTJAgI0oHVjjxDx0D5tyLDukPf9YG8ZcYib7xw3rW8/s1600/B1b.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571179092210286434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDbb-AzRJfreSIOCO0OMoxFuzUe9zKGWScn4cZexOGtOqUzJMKJJd4PxirCuAhSvJDmKbDOh-RNCbpHth0BU3ARtWyEV0jMJF1hAoTJAgI0oHVjjxDx0D5tyLDukPf9YG8ZcYib7xw3rW8/s400/B1b.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff66;"><strong>All right, I am back! I wasn't seeing a whole lot of commentary on the bottoms of these blogs, so going with that I decided not to knock myself out putting a blog up daily. However, I have not stopped keeping track of everything myself, except that I have slacked off on writing down every bite of food I take in. The first month was spent "getting to know" my foods a little better, calorie count, protein and carbohydrate contribution, etc. After that part was done, I pretty much tried to stick to the same type of diet throughout, varying only here and there. Spinach remains a mainstay, and I have created an egg white and spinach souffle that is absolutely terrific. The only problem is the spinach is of course cooked. To offset that problem, I also do a fruit juice/spinach shake in the morning and a water/spinach/vinegar/olive oil shake in the evening--it's sort of like a spinach salad, only already digested for you! Just kidding. I know that sounds gross, but it really isn't bad. And if, like me, you have braces on your teeth it is even that much better. There is NO toothpicking afterward.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff66;"><strong>Today I am posting photos I took on the last day of my fourth week. On the evening of these photos, taken last Sunday, I had eight weeks to go in my program, but I am liking this routine so much I may add on another 4 weeks and make it a 16 week program. The workout is becoming very drastic, and I have started sticking to one major body part in the morning, then doing the second one in the evening, when possible. I will also throw in six or eight more quick sets of the first body part in the evening if I can, making a total of 20 sets or so a day of, say, chest.<br /></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff66;"><strong>I have stalled out around 205 pounds now, but as I am still losing body fat I am not going to panic. I had gained enough muscle during my building phase that I questioned the feasibility of my goal of 185 pounds, so I think as I go I'm going to have to re-think. 6 % body fat is my main goal anyway, regardless of what my weight ends up at.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff66;"><strong>The main thing: Keep on working out!</strong></span></div></div></div></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-52410903166332565872011-01-13T23:29:00.000-08:002011-01-13T23:44:32.060-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 11<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifD4gfefBhxdEuLZiFuvPDGb3_omqzQiPMCLEMpwyp5srkk1hJwxGiCfD0_PHui3VZkXkO351orduSaIe2foggivwPslspj2RzenFEwZ2p22Td8ThTeWrg3WMD16z8aSbsRh7mT-nyf5Ej/s1600/Frontbest.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 243px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561943766327087154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifD4gfefBhxdEuLZiFuvPDGb3_omqzQiPMCLEMpwyp5srkk1hJwxGiCfD0_PHui3VZkXkO351orduSaIe2foggivwPslspj2RzenFEwZ2p22Td8ThTeWrg3WMD16z8aSbsRh7mT-nyf5Ej/s400/Frontbest.jpg" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#9999ff;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Here I am at Day 11, and I'm writing this late, so I have no cute or informative notes to add. Is this photo showing my progress to date? NO!!!! This is a reminder of how much blubber I was packing on Day 0. I'll try to get new photos the night before I begin week 3. Am I brave putting these fat shots up? I guess so, but what good is this blog and how honest am I if I don't have any of those nasty "before" photos?</strong></span></span></div><div><span style="color:#9999ff;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Whoa! Wait a minute: I keep meaning to tell you that getting LOTS of sleep is imperative to your success, so don't scrimp. If you can find them, 8 to 10 hours is optimal. Some people sleep less, but I think you are compromising your success if you do. I often take a good power nap or 2 during the day as well as my night sleep, but honestly I don't think I ever get more than 6 hours a night. However, I say that with full knowledge that my success would be better if I were to follow my own advice.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>As I predicted, today's weight went back up, and quite considerably. I assume part of that was something to do with the scale, but I also retained a lot of water, I think, to help "salve" the muscles that got swollen up from yesterday's rough workout. I guess tomorrow's weigh-in will show the truth. Don't get too excited about the day to day drops and gains. It's the end of the week compared to the beginning that will really reveal the true trend, and hopefully that will show a minimum of 2 pounds a week for the first two weeks. Generally it should be much more.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Today I drank several protein shakes and had a huge vegetable shake in the evening made of a processed vegetable juice augmented with carrots and frozen broccoli. I added 2 cloves of garlic and a cup of cottage cheese and blended it until smooth. I am a garlic fan, especially raw garlic, and if you really desire to have long and healthy life you'd better become one too.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>I splurged and also had a small piece of blueberry pie one of the other firefighters left in the fridge. When you see my workout today you'll see why I was able to justify that.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Today was chest and triceps day again, and we finished off with abdominals.</strong><br /><strong>For chest it was flat flyes, incline flyes, and cable crossovers, and you need to concentrate on a SERIOUS stretch at the bottom of all these and a very hard squeeze throughout the movement but especially at your peak contraction. </strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Close grip bench, pushdowns, and kickbacks served to put my triceps into overdrive, and due to a lack of time we supersetted each triceps exercise with the corresponding chest exercise. We were able to do this only because these particular chest exercises concentrate on the chest and don't involve any triceps work.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>For abs we did old-fashioned situps, the best way to gain strength in the upper abdominals. I did one set with no weight, then the next two with first a 5 and then a 10 lb plate behind my head. We finished off the routine with crossover crunches, both left and right, and center crunches. 15 reps of each of these will suffice.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>Later, at the fire station, I did ten or twelve sets of cable crossovers and 50 very slow pushups.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>In the evening, I ran one hour on the treadmill and weighed in at 203.75. Yes, I sweat a lot! Most of that weight I have probably gained back in water by now. But the 961 calories the treadmill computer said I burned in that workout allowed me to feel okay about the piece of blueberry pie. It was good to get some glycogen stores back in my muscle tissue.</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /></div></span></span><strong></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-46548457069383971562011-01-13T23:17:00.000-08:002011-01-13T23:28:58.076-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 10<span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6666;"><strong>I'm already up to day 10, and if you're following this blog you can see the weight has been dropping off pretty steadily and in good amounts. I wish I could convince you all how good the food is that I'm eating. Is it a feast? No, but I don't feel hungry, and I feel much healthier than when I'm eating the normal junk that 99.99 percent of the population eats every day of their lives. Believe me, it's not as bad as you think. All you need are some basic staples, some spices, and a good knowledge of nutrution or someone who can impart theirs to you. It's not rocket science! Give it a try for just 12 weeks, and I think you'll agree that the way you will look and feel is worth it. Or maybe it's just me being vain!<br /><br />Today's weight is 205.5, so I'm down 7 pounds and it is day 10. Several pounds more of my body weight are in muscle now than last time I was down to 6% body fat, so at the end of my goal time period I don't really believe I'll be at my goal weight of 185. That is just a guideline. I am much more worried about the 6% than I am about the body weight.<br /><br />But if by chance the 6% takes me down to 185 then I have 20 pounds left to go, and believe me, these 20 will be far harder than the first 7. I wish I could say different, but the first one or two weeks are always easy compared to the last 10.<br /><br />Today I was neglectful of writing my diet and daily routine down, so I don't have much to report other than I did a few more carbs than normal, mostly in brown rice. I am also trying to incorporate much more protein into each day.<br /><br />Eating beans three times a week at least is good, along with brown rice, wheat, and sweet potatoes. Try to steer clear of regular potatoes, at least during this phase when you're trying to strip fat. And always steer clear of white rice and white flour if possible. White sugar too. They are not your friends. In fact, other than the sweeteners stevia and xylitol you should really be cautious of ANY sweetener. I use some agave syrup, however, and sometimes I will eat molasses or honey. But almost none during this fat stripping phase.<br /><br />Today's body parts were back and biceps, with a less emphasis on the forearms, which should have been worked to some extent when you did back and biceps. I am going to be sticking to the same number of sets and reps for a few weeks, so I'll stop writing the fine details and just say I did deadlifts, bent rows and pullovers for my back, dumbbell curls, concentration curls and hammer curls for my biceps, and a variety of exercises equalling 6 sets for forearms.<br /><br />Today was also Sprint 8 day, and with all the fat I've lost I've lost some energy as well, so I re-set my incline down to 2.5% and ran a 9 mph, a 10, an 11, and the rest 12's.<br /><br />Overall, a good day, but with all the water I drank and the hard work inflaming my muscles I can't expect to weigh tomorrow what I did today.</strong></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-228344140837300112011-01-11T20:38:00.001-08:002011-01-13T23:17:00.288-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 9<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#c0c0c0;">DAY 9<br /><br />Today’s weight: 207.75, exactly 5 pounds off since beginning day 1<br /><br />Today’s note: I’ve talked about it before and will talk about it again: If you are ignoring your stretching you are not only risking serious injury you are also neglecting a major key to muscular strength. A stretched, limber muscle is a strong muscle, and after being in the gym a while you will start to notice you can lift a lot more weight when you’ve been following a strict stretching regimen than when you haven’t.<br /><br />Schedule today:<br /><br />5:15: Rise and drink 16 oz water<br />5:50: Drink one smoothie, 16 oz with typical ingredients. It’s key to note that this “16 oz” is after it’s been frothed up in the blender. It is probably really close to 10-12. About 220 cal<br />6:32-7:25: Weight workout and only 4 to 5 swallows of quality protein drink. I was still full from the smoothie.<br />8:00-8:30: 2 servings of protein shake, 54 grams of protein, 280 calories<br />10:05: 16 oz water<br />10:15: 1 serving protein, ¼ cup oatmeal, 27 grams protein, 140 cal<br />11:30: 16 oz water<br />12:00: canned chili 580 calories, 40 grams protein; 8 oz water<br />12:30:1:15: power nap<br />3:20: 8 oz water, 30 grams protein, 140 calories<br />4:50-5:00: performed a quick follow-up upright row workout to stress my shoulder muscles; 15 reps for 6 sets of a moderate weight<br />5:02: 8 oz water, 2 fish oil pills, 1 serving protein, 24 grams plus 120 calories<br />8:15: 16 oz water with spinach “ghoulash” and 3 cloves of garlic. I forgot the oatmeal in the ghoulash, and it wasn’t nearly as tasty as last night.<br />9:15: 16 oz water<br /><br />Today’s totals: 2080 calories; about 240 grams of protein, 13 cups water<br /><br /><br />Today’s workout:<br /><br />Squats and Military press supersetted: 15, 12, 10 reps each<br />Leg press and lateral deltoid raise: 15, 12, 10 reps each<br />Stiff-legged deadlift and barbell shrugs: 15, 12, 10 reps each<br />Leg extensions, leg curls: 15, 12, 10 reps each<br />Calf raises: 40, 35, 30, 25, 20, 15 plus 30 for burnout<br /><br />This is the second day of my second week and also the week somewhere in which I will start to see my awesome weight loss slow way down. This is actually a good thing. There are so many toxins stored in the fat in your body that you don’t want to flush them all out too fast and send them careening through your filtering organs. Take it easy. 1-2 pounds is a good, sustainable amount of weight loss per week, especially if you want to keep it off over the long haul.</span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-85101662603096409572011-01-11T20:37:00.000-08:002011-01-13T23:16:19.254-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 8<span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc66cc;"><strong>DAY 8:<br /><br />Note of the day: ABOUT PROTEIN. You should be eating at a minimum 1 gram of protein per day per pound of body weight. If you are lifting hard you will have to eat more to see any gains. The majority of the population does not eat anywhere near enough quality protein. Egg whites are probably the best all around source because they are almost sheer protein. Cottage cheese is also good. Protein shakes are an excellent source and can serve as an entire “meal.” Remember, when I say 6 to 7 meals a day, I’m not talking about normal American meals of 1200 calories or more a shot! You do NOT have to take out the egg yolks if you don’t want to, but it isn’t a bad idea to remove half of them either. I.e., a 6 egg omelet can be made with 3 whole eggs plus 3 egg whites. Also, if you are serious about losing weight and getting lean, you could conceivably get by with 7 protein shakes a day (for a 200 pound person) and four servings of spinach throughout the day plus one or two sweet potatoes and a half cup of oatmeal.<br /><br />Today’s weight: 208, meaning 4.75 pounds of weight lost in week one of the regimen </strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc66cc;"><strong><br />Today’s schedule:<br /><br />10:00: get up. It will be almost impossible to get 6 to 7 meals if you rise this late, but sleeping in felt good, and getting 8 to 10 hours of sleep is very important for muscle gains and fat loss.<br />Consumed smoothie with all normal ingredients<br />24 oz wter<br />11:00: Worked on my new book<br />11:30: 2 TBS peanut butter<br />12:58-2:03: Weight routine plus Sprint 8 on the treadmill<br />Consumed protein shake throughout<br />4:30: Handful of nuts and seeds<br />5:00: Protein drink<br />24 oz water<br />7:00: Spinach “ghoulash,” approximately 500-600 calories<br />9:00: Protein drink, last meal of the day<br /><br />Workout:<br /><br />Flat bench: 15, 12, 10 reps<br />Incline bench: 12, 10, 10 reps<br />Decline bench: 15, 12, 8 plus 2<br />Close grip bench: 15, 12, 10<br />Single dumbbell press behind the head: 15, 12, 10<br />Skull crushers: 15, 12, 10<br /><br />Cardio work, Sprint 8 workout: 4 degree incline, 3 minute warmup, runs done at 9, 10, 11, 12, 11.5, 11, 10.5 and 10 mph, with a five minute cooldown: 1.87 miles total. The key to this workout, again, is to run at the fastest sprint YOU can, not the fastest sprint your neighbor can do. Your max is your own max and no one else’s. Just give it all you have. </strong></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-59530457444909080362011-01-11T20:34:00.000-08:002011-01-13T23:15:47.547-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 7<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#9999ff;">DAY 7</span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#9999ff;">: DAY (mostly) OFF<br /><br />NOTE: EAT SPINACH EVERY DAY!!!<br /><br />7:15: Wake up, 8 oz water<br />7:30: smoothie and all supplements (skipping the protein powder in the smoothie!)<br />8:30: Dumbbell curl workout to supplement yesterday<br />24 oz water<br />9:30: 1 TBS peanut butter<br />9:45: 1 ½ TBS coconut oil<br />9:55: 1 TBS peanut butter<br />11:00: ½ cup cottage cheese<br />11:50: brunch with the other firefighters: omelets, sausage, mushrooms, potatoes<br />8 oz water<br />3:00: 8 oz water, 2 TBS peanut butter<br />3:30: Extra workout (Yeah, I’m cheating!) one arm pulley rows, pull-ups, military presses<br />3:45: More of this morning’s smoothie<br />8 oz water<br />5:00: ½ cup cottage cheese<br />6:30: half a cup elk burger, 2 whole eggs, 4 egg whites, 1/4 cup oatmeal scrambled together with two cloves of garlic and Frank's Red Hot sauce<br />8:30: Four small chocolates from Germany (why do these people tempt me so?!?!)</span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-9511964098150094642011-01-11T20:31:00.000-08:002011-01-11T20:34:32.936-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 6<span style="font-size:130%;color:#66ff99;">DAY 6: </span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#66ff99;"><br />I am now at the end of week one of the fat-off routine, and down somewhere between 2 to 3 pounds. That sounds good, but between now and the end of next week fat burning and weight loss will come screeching to a halt without some extra emphasis on the diet and even a little cardio on my off-cardio days. Sorry for the not-so-exciting news.<br /><br />Note: Shock bombing is a technique that has been used by body builders for many years to “bring up” a lagging body part. For instance, it works really well with the forearms and can be used profitably for up to 5 days straight, although with the larger muscle groups 2 or at most 3 days should be the limit. To “shock bomb” you can do, for instance, three sets of forearm work every hour, up to 8 times a day. Do this 3 to 5 consecutive days a week and you should see gains in muscles that have been holding back in their growth in comparison to the rest of the body. DO NOT DO MAJOR MUSCLE GROUPS MORE THAN THREE DAYS IN A ROW, and do not shock bomb a muscle group, even forearms and calves, more than once a month.<br /><br />Today’s schedule:<br /><br />8:40: Rise and shine. Yes, I slept in, and it felt great!<br />3 TB S vanilla yogurt, 8 oz water<br />9:50: Smoothie with vanilla flavored protein, spinach, yogurt, grape juice. From now on do protein shake and smoothie separate. This was HORRIBLE.<br />10:45: Family member funeral (in-law), forced to go too long between meals<br />1:15: Funeral dinner. Starving stomach forced me to cave! Ham, potatoes, fruit salad, 2 very small pieces of cake. Total about 900 calories. Don’t do this again! Note to self: Convince all friends and relatives to live a good long life so I can avoid funeral dinners.<br />2:46-3:44: workout<br />3:44: guzzled remainder of disgusting protein smoothie<br />5:00: 4 whole grain crackers with cheddar cheese<br />7:00: 3 small German chocolates (hey, they were a gift I couldn’t turn down!)<br />10:30: 1 TBS peanut butter<br /><br />Today’s body parts: Back and biceps, with a minor emphasis on the forearms<br /><br />Today’s workout:<br /><br />Seated rows with a wider grip: 15; Underhand grip: 12; Overhand narrower grip: 10<br />One arm dumbbell row: 15, 12, 10<br />Pulldown: 15, 12, 10<br /><br />Barbell curls: 15, 12, 10<br />Preacher bench curls with chamfered bar: 15, 12, 10<br />“Outside” dumbbell curls: 15, 12, 10 (performed with hands as far away from each other as possible<br /><br />“Rotator swivels” (movement performed by holding a dumbbell in each hand, arm bent at 45 degrees, and pivoting from side to side with the hands, keeping the body and hips stable: 15 reps<br />One arm dumbbell wrist curls: 15, 15<br />Reverse wrist curls: 20<br />Reverse curls, lowering the bar to a count of 10 full seconds: 10, 10 </span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-61784327841414916692011-01-11T20:27:00.000-08:002011-01-11T20:31:32.694-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY 5<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6666;">DAY 5:<br /><br />Day five, and it's a wonderful life. It's a great accomplishment to say you even made it through one day of this, so 5 is an incredible feeling of power. Try it!<br /><br />Note of the day: The only oils you should be cooking your food in are coconut oil, by far the preferred oil, or butter. Olive oil is very heart-healthy—until you heat it. After 250 degrees it loses its good qualities. Do NOT cook with other oils, especially partially hydrogenated oils.<br /><br />Today’s body parts: Legs and shoulders<br /><br />Today’s body weight: 209, weighed in after morning smoothie<br /><br />Schedule:<br /><br />7:00: 24 rise and drink ounces of water<br />7:52: 8 oz water plus all supplements<br />8:00: Smoothie of protein mix, grape juice, spinach<br />2 green tea capsules, but actual green tea is probably best if you have time<br />9:10-10:49: gym<br />10:19: Protein shake<br />10:40: Protein shake<br />11:00: 1 TBS peanut butter, all natural with only peanuts and salt, 8 oz water<br />12:00: 1 clove garlic, 8 oz water<br />1:00: 16 oz water, 1 serving chili<br />2:00: 24 oz. water, 1 serving chili<br />3:00: Extra shoulder workout consisting of military {overhead} presses, 6 sets, and one set of lateral raises<br />4:00: 2 TBS peanut butter, 12 oz water<br />6:30: 8 oz water, shake made of spinach, broccoli, celery, salsa, water, 2 cloves garlic, cottage cheese, 5 grain cereal. Very tasty, believe it or not.<br />7:00: Last extra shoulder workout consisting of all upright rows<br /><br />Note: Do not do this extra routine for any muscle group as a normal part of your year-round workouts. I’ll address this in tomorrow’s blog.<br /><br /><br />Today’s workout:<br /><br />Squats done on Smith machine: 15, 12, 10 reps, one minute rest<br />Extensions, holding for two seconds at the top: 15, 12, 10 reps<br />Leg press on hip sled: 15, 12, 10 reps, last three reps being your hardest three<br /><br />Superset the following:<br />Stiff leg deadlifts, performed with a moderate weight: 15, 12, 10 reps<br />Rear laterals: 15, 12, 10<br /><br />Superset the following:<br />Leg curls: 15, 12, 10<br />Front deltoid raise: 15, 12, 10<br /><br />Superset the following:<br />Dumbbell shrugs, 15, 12, 10<br />Calf raises with body weight: 40, 35, 30, 25 (Be sure to concentrate on a HARD squeeze at the top and a thorough stretch at the bottom. The last 5-10 reps can be done faster for a good burnout.<br /><br />Sprint 8: 4% incline, 5 minute rest, intervals of 1 ½ minutes rest, 20-30 seconds all-out sprint at these speeds: 9, 10, 11, 12, 12, 11.5, 11, 10.5 1.88 miles total</span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-14369958454632498442011-01-07T06:27:00.001-08:002011-01-07T06:42:48.170-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY FOUR<strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Today's weight: 210.75. Another quarter pound and I will have lost two pounds since Monday.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Here I am at day four <em>already.</em> Yes, this can seem like forever when you're looking ahead to the end of the twelfth week! I honestly almost skipped today's workout. Yes, I weakened! I had an orthodontist appointment at 8:00, and I just didn't have the energy to get up earlier. But knowing this blog is being looked at gave me the will to workout after the appointment. Thanks, Internet!</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Today we are back to chest and triceps.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">The lesson for today is: WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING YOU TAKE IN FOR AT LEAST A WEEK AND KEEP TRACK OF THE CALORIES. You can find calorie charts all over the Internet to help you. If you do this you will quickly see how easy it is to pack on the calories. Remember, you have to burn over 3000 calories more than you take in to burn one pound! So if you're doing this cutting phase I'm in, if you can get it down to 2000 calories you will be much happier in the long run. So far, none of my days have been under 2000. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Stick to the same number of sets and reps today as the first workout. 3 sets of 15, 12, and 10 reps if possible. That's the goal, but if you have to stop at less reps because you bit off more than you could chew, that's okay. Just adjust it next time.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Today's chest exercises: Flat flyes, Incline flyes, Cable crossovers. These are all isolation movements that should be hitting your pectoral muscles HARD, and you should concentrate on squeezing hard all the way, but especially at the top of the movement, and get an extreme stretch at the bottom. Don't go too heavy until you know how it feels at the deep stretching end. You sure don't want to get hurt at this point.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Today's triceps movements: Close grip bench (a mass building movement, of which you should perform one occasionally so as not to lose too much of what you gained in your mass building phase), rope pushdowns, kickbacks. (Perform all with a hard flex at the top of the exercise. Kickbacks should be held a moment at the top, and alternate the rotation of your hand to hit the entire triceps area).</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">7:10: today I succumbed to the Almond Roca in my drawer and had ONE PIECE. 90 calories</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">7:30: 12 oz water, all supplements, handful of peanuts, 8 oz milk</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">9:15: 3 whole eggs, 2 whites, 2 slice of toast with butter, 16 oz water</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">9:50-10:30 workout</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">12:00: 1/4 cup protein powder; 1 1/2 TBS peanut butter</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">12:20: 12 oz water</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">2:00: 1 TBS peanut butter</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">2:45: 1 TBS peanut butter (stick to the all natural refridgerated kind)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">4:30: 1 TBS peanut butter</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">5:30: seven inches kolbasa sausage with lots of mustard, 1 clove garlic </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">6:30: 6 eggs whole, potatoes</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Note: mustard is very good for you and can be eaten every day. Eat lots of it, but be sure it's the yellow kind. What's good about it: it's full of the spice turmeric.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-70399306283322175362011-01-07T06:05:00.000-08:002011-01-07T06:26:52.171-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY THREE<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Well, Day 3 has come and gone. That means I have made it through all of my body parts and survived. Time to start over with chest and triceps tomorrow . . .</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">My story for the day is about a housewife I see infrequently at the gym. Her husband is a fellow firefighter, and I must say she is one of the more attractive ladies in the gym. But she is not meeting her fitness goals. She often asks for tips on different exercises and the way to perform them to best benefit, and I help all I can, but the conversation we got into the other day explained why she hasn't--and unless she changes her attitude never will--meet her goals. It's because they aren't really "goals." She won't eat the way she's supposed to because, in her words, she has to eat the way she fixes food for her children. Okay, there are two things I would say to this: One, you might watch more carefully exactly how you're feeding your children, because chances are pretty good you're not doing them any favors either. And two, then you don't want it bad enough. Even when I'm the one making the meals at home, I feed myself differently than I feed everyone else. Not that they eat an unhealthy diet, but the fact is if you are trying to burn fat to be in competition-shape you CANNOT eat like the rest of the world. That is a fact. But remember what I said before: Nothing tastes as good as being fit and looking good feels. You have to want this, my friends. You really have to want to look good unless you're one of those freaks of nature with metabolism on your side. And even then, ANYONE CAN IMPROVE.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Today's body parts: Back and biceps</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Today's body weight: 211.75</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Workout time: 9:03-9:44 for weights</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"> Intervals (alternate sprinting/walking) 25 minutes</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"> Forearm workout, 8 minutes</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Deadlifts: 3 sets, 15, 12, 10</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Bentover rows: 3 sets, 15, 12, 10</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Pullovers: 3 sets, 15, 12, 10</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Dumbbell curls: 3 sets, 15, 12, 10</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Concentration curls: 3 sets, 12, 12, 12</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Hammer curls: 3 sets, 15, 12, 10</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Remember, on the weights you should be raising the amount of weight for each set of an exercise. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Also remember to only rest one minute or less between sets of the same exercise and no more than 2 minutes before starting the next exercise.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Because of the radically short rest periods, you should be pretty drained by the end of the weight routine. Get five or ten minutes rest, drink 16 oz or so of water to rehydrate, then get on your cardio machine of choice. Mine is the treadmill (or as it's spelled on a sign in my gym, "tredmill). I was running at an incline of 3.5 and did 8 sprints (the workout is Sprint 8) at 12 mph.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Forearm work: 6 sets, 1 each of 6 different exercises</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">The day's routine would read something like this:</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">7:35: Up and at 'em!</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">7:40: 16 oz water, take all vitamin and mineral supplements (see previous days)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">8:07: 3/4 cup potato salad, 1 1/2 TBS coconut oil, grape juice/spinach smoothie (680 cal)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">9:00-11:35: Protein drink, 12 oz water during workout (160 cal)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">11:45: 12 oz water</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">1:00: 1/2 cup cottage cheese, cucumber slices with artichoke dip, 1 TBS coconut oil, 1 clove raw garlic, 2 green tea capsules, 3 fish oil, vitamin B-100, 32 oz water: 360 calories</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">3:45: Scrambled eggs: two whole, 4 whites, 1 clove garlic, 4 whole-grain crackers, cheddar cheese, 16 oz water, all supplements, including another shot of green tea capsules (580 calories)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">6:45 2/3 cup cottage cheese, 1 scoop protein powder, 8 oz water (380 calories)</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Total calorie intake: 2160</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">A good day: I'm down almost a pound in three days.</span></strong>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-34433319803857763742011-01-04T16:37:00.000-08:002011-01-04T17:00:14.748-08:00FAT-OFF, DAY TWO<span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">Already Day 2. I'll try to keep these dailies as succinct as possible. I know the first one was a little long, but as you get into the routine I will need less and less detail--I hope!<br /><br />Quote of the day: Nothing is worth doing unless it's worth doing right.<br /><br />List of the day: The top ten foods you should consume every day. I've added a golden 3 to this one, one of which is garlic, included in the top ten essentials, so it now totals 12.<br /><br />1. GARLIC<br />2. Spinach<br />3. Grape juice<br />4: Cocoa--mix up with water and just drink it! Hold your nose if you must!<br />5. Nuts, especially almonds, walnuts--raw, unsalted<br />6. Green, leafy vegetables (I know, it sounds an awful lot like more spinach. Maybe that should tell you something about the importance of spinach!)<br />7. Fish, particularly salmon (also fish oil capsules)<br />8. Berries, particularly strong on blueberries and raspberries<br />9. 1/4 yellow onion (reduces chances of getting cancer by possibly 80%!!!!)<br />10. Eggs, including yolks if you like<br /><br />GOLDEN THREE: One clove Garlic (I do 3, and no, my wife doesn't like it!); 3 TBS coconut oil, raw and unprocessed; 2 TBS spices/herbs--obviously it will help financially if you can start growing your own, as this will add up) This combination kills yeast in the body, which cuts down on your cravings for sugary foods. White sugar is probably enemy number 1 to your workout plan.<br /><br />Cooking tip: Use olive oil raw. If you cook it it will lose its value. If you are cooking, use coconut oil or butter. The doctors are lying to you when they tell you any other oil is good for you, and that includes canola oil. A particular enemy is soybean oil, which seems to be in about every prepared food in existence.<br /><br />Today's workout concentrates on legs and shoulders<br /><br />15, 12, 10 reps of squats. This EXTREMELY important exercise releases HGH, or human growth hormone naturally into the body, augmenting the effectiveness of all your other exercises. This is also true of deadlifts. Other exercises to a lesser extent.<br /><br />15, 12, 10 reps Leg extensions on the machine. Hold each rep at the top and pause at a full stretch at the bottom.<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Leg presses (In the interest of time, I began supersetting each leg exercise at this point with a shoulder exercise. Your rest period ends up being longer than 1 minute, but it does not feel like it. It feels like less. Very intense method of cutting fat and toning up muscle.)<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Military press with dumbbells<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Stiff legged deadlifts (USE A MODERATE WEIGHT, OR YOU WILL GET HURT)<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Side laterals. Flex deltoid muscles of your shoulders very hard all the way through, especially at the bottom. Hold briefly at full extention if you can.<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Leg curls<br /><br />15, 12, 10 Barbell shrugs--very good for building the trapezius muscles. I know this is my toning phase, but I will continue to use an occasional building exercise throughout so as to not lose what I've gained in muscle. MUSCLE IS AN IMPORTANT KEY TO BURNING FAT.<br /><br />Calf presses: Do six sets with a full contraction and stretch. Contract HARD at the top, and keep your rests to a minimum, even just long enough to write down your numbers. I did 40, 35, 30, 25, 20 and 15, and I contracted hard enough that I could barely walk at the end.<br /><br />The day's schedule:<br /><br />6:00 AM: 8 oz water with the usual supplements<br />6:20 AM: Smoothie, same basic ingredients as day one. Ends up being something like 300 calories<br />Consume protein shake throughout workout!<br />6:45 to 7:39: workout<br />8:00 Finish protein shake with 8 oz water. I make my shakes with water rather than milk, but that is personal preference.<br />8:30: 16 oz water<br />10:30 110 cal in sardines, 6 whole grain crackers, 1 TBS coconut oil<br />10:40: 16 oz water, fruit pills, vitamin B-100<br />10:46: 8 oz water--GET HYDRATED EARLY and stay hydrated throughout the day or your muscles and cells will pay for it.<br />1:00 Protein shake made with 8 oz water<br />1:35: small portion of potato casserole with some sausage: 350 calories; 8 oz water<br />4:00 1 cup cottage cheese (200 cal); 1 green bell pepper (minimal calories); 8 oz water<br /><br />Your goal meals should be 6 to 7, and all should be fairly small. No gut-wrenching meals that keep you from being able to eat again in another 2 to 3 hours.<br /><br />Body weight: 212.25. And YES, GET ON THE SCALE EVERY SINGLE DAY, PREFERABLY ALWAYS THE SAME SCALE.<br /><br /></span>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3483995903981586107.post-50828599931407429652011-01-04T15:50:00.001-08:002011-01-04T16:36:08.573-08:00FAT-OFF DAY ONE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCxtApC9eSQv5Bw_32XpiIQR9_Fhrh-4PRZsFGHpEGYliwzGZT_cLDx7zH1GK1Z1iXQH5hKKb3TjIv2D45wX0YzljUZYx5h3x7rAMrfnytvG1VRc8NmgHuG03plT7KTBtWdcFSQM7UVCK/s1600/R2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 178px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558492917537799250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioCxtApC9eSQv5Bw_32XpiIQR9_Fhrh-4PRZsFGHpEGYliwzGZT_cLDx7zH1GK1Z1iXQH5hKKb3TjIv2D45wX0YzljUZYx5h3x7rAMrfnytvG1VRc8NmgHuG03plT7KTBtWdcFSQM7UVCK/s400/R2.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ufg0haxa31-ixbMDHpTgny6Sup9AY-v1qx2IbXDijSINeGnW6a2beXfiUcws-bB4Pypimm3m57jsDvBjRMn8ZIOorlVtWgjEgsOghfTd1aFPGXBgYTfWXjdVp4fcHJrmNJpSIu-HqEd/s1600/L1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 182px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558492910432300914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5ufg0haxa31-ixbMDHpTgny6Sup9AY-v1qx2IbXDijSINeGnW6a2beXfiUcws-bB4Pypimm3m57jsDvBjRMn8ZIOorlVtWgjEgsOghfTd1aFPGXBgYTfWXjdVp4fcHJrmNJpSIu-HqEd/s400/L1.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPAQqh0p4elXh00GGavR9HmKoIymlgiSSPkLALsEhjqxPbamYZuWjrkpuhNv6udL3Ddk5OLqrxIHiD6-u8vKbJdh5bYptyQUcWG1HgZ_qgkbFq7cWoFXglK7hGIZ7c4UK50PlLneBB2jC/s1600/Back3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 222px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558492906210114450" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsPAQqh0p4elXh00GGavR9HmKoIymlgiSSPkLALsEhjqxPbamYZuWjrkpuhNv6udL3Ddk5OLqrxIHiD6-u8vKbJdh5bYptyQUcWG1HgZ_qgkbFq7cWoFXglK7hGIZ7c4UK50PlLneBB2jC/s400/Back3.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOZaINVNwK-dS6j9VtUUY3Er3PDi-uSryMvw3ZIjnh6DuiRgAPbgIcSXA6B3GCrp9Fy9Cndmexb4AtA8kH8pXsTaNhr91Sy15qxCtC_pQ1CfQQnyhJAKrLxnrE6kjBClEkqREUA7OCHUJ/s1600/Front5.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558492898376756610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOZaINVNwK-dS6j9VtUUY3Er3PDi-uSryMvw3ZIjnh6DuiRgAPbgIcSXA6B3GCrp9Fy9Cndmexb4AtA8kH8pXsTaNhr91Sy15qxCtC_pQ1CfQQnyhJAKrLxnrE6kjBClEkqREUA7OCHUJ/s400/Front5.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>The journey has begun. Along with listing my schedule, body stats, workout particulars and diet, I will be occasionally including a few tips that you might find useful in your daily trek toward fitness. I hope this helps somebody else out there to reach their goals. </strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Quote of the Day: Nothing tastes as good as being fit and strong feels.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>EAT FOR FUNCTION, NOT TASTE.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>EAT TO LIVE, DON'T LIVE TO EAT.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>At day one I begin with approximately 20% body fat. My goal for the final photo shoot is 6%. My tiny bit of math skill tells me I have 14% body fat to take off, incidentally my favorite number--don't ask why, because seriously I have no idea.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>I weigh 212.5 pounds and am actually up to a Levi's size 35 waist 501 jeans. My goal weight is 185 with a goal pant size of 33. I am at a handicap where the body mass index charts are concerned. My lean weight is listed as 163, at which weight all of my body building for the last twenty or so years would be for nothing--and I am supposed to maintain 16% body fat at that weight! When I was 9% body fat at 187 pounds last October I was charted as morbidly obese. No kidding. The handicap is that if you are a serious weight lifter you will always necessarily weigh far more than the charts say you should. NEVER forget to take this into account. Things are figured differently in the body building world. Don't get discouraged. You are a world apart.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Day one's workout concentrates on the muscles of the chest and triceps. I begin at 10:25 AM and end at 11:09, as far as the weight lifting part of the workout. My cardio intervals and ab workout bring this to 12:00 PM.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Here is the workout:</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12 and 10 reps of flat bench press, AFTER a warmup set, raising weight each set, ending with a set that needs a spotter. All sets should have a carefully timed one minute rest between.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12 and 10 reps of incline bench, same as above but without the warmup set.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12 and 7 reps decline bench. Last rep is all I can muster, for a level 10 out of a possible 10 on effort.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>For triceps (no warmup, as bench work covered this):</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12, 10 reps close grip bench press, one minute rests</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12, 10 reps pushdowns</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>15, 12, 10 skull crushers--don't let the name scare you off. If you do this right, with a good stretch, it will give you great results.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Weight workout ends, now begins cardio work.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>The "Sprint 8" workout consists of a 3-5 minute warmup on the treadmill, then a 20-30 second all-out sprint, 90 second rest at 3 MPH. Repeat this 8 times, then cool down as long as you need. At the end of this interval workout you should be ready to collapse. You will NOT want to do one more sprint. DRINK A TALL GLASS OF WATER.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Abdominal work: Leg lifts on the end of a weight bench: 15, done to a cadence of a count of 3 up, count of 3 down. Keep it slow, keep your stomach sucked in, keep your stomach muscles contracted. Believe me, 15 will be a LOT. Leg lifts resting on left hip: 15 ; Leg lifts resting on right hip: 15; Straight crunch on bench: 15 ; Right crossover crunch on bench, 15 ; L crossover crunch on bench, 15. Both of these were done as partial reps, keeping it contracted at the top of the movement.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Now here is how the whole day's schedule went:</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>7:20 AM: 16 oz water</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>7:30 AM: Protein drink, 50 calories worth</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>9:45 AM: Smoothie containing: 1/2 cup vanilla yogurt; 3 cups spinach; 1 medium banana; 5 ice cubes; 8 oz water; 80 calories worth of frozen concentrate grape juice. This concoction sounds and looks nasty, but it is actually pretty tasty, and a great way to get your spinach down without even tasting it. Two months I got braces put on, so this is perfect for me.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>9:50: 8 oz. water</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>10:45-12:00, workout</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>11:00: Protein drink, 120 calories (sip this during your workout for maximum effect and absorption into the muscle cells.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>1:30: lean ham, 230 calories</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>3:45: 3/4 cup cottage cheese, 150 calories; 3 cloves of minced garlic. (just shove it in with a spoon and follow with a tall glass of water.); 1 1/2 TBS raw, unprocessed coconut oil (actually tastes pretty good, although the texture initially takes a little getting used to); 1 cup Diet Pepsi (this is VERY bad for you, and my only excuse is that I had a 2 liter bottle I'm using up; when it's gone you won't see pop of any kind on my lists if I can help it.); </strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Supplements: 3 fish oil; 1 glucosamine-chondroitin; 2 gree tea capsules; 1 multivitamin; 1 calcium (more on this in a future blog); 2 concentrated vegetable pills; 1 vit B complex; 8 oz water</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>6:00 PM: 16 oz water with 2 cups of elk meatballs, boiled; 1 TBS coconut oil, 1 vitamin B complex; 2 green tea; handful of trailmix including cranberries, raisins, pumpkins kernels, cashews, sunflower seeds--spendy but very nutritious.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>8:00 PM: 16 oz water, 6 whole grain crackers with a half avocado; Protein shake mixed up with spinach, banana, yogurt and grape juice into a smoothie.</strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>Day's calorie count: approx 3000 calories, which I'll gradually start cutting as my 12 program goes on.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>GET PLENTY OF SLEEP</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>WATER GOAL: 10-12 eight oz cups a day. It's not as much as you think and is critical to your success.</strong></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffff00;"><strong>I am beyond embarrassed at having gained this much weight during my bulking up phase, but it is vital to this program that I show what I look like in the beginning, thus the inclusion of the lovely photos.</strong></span></div><div></div><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>Kirby Jonashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16803549885594533119noreply@blogger.com2