Shamwu-a Bo Jon Littlehorse P.I. series.
The finale of Bo Jon Littlehorse p.i.: "Shamwu". In the upper territory of Arizona oil-rigging is going on. Much has been caused by drilling and pollution. Many know how the white-man has destroyed pristine lands for money and power. A simple whiteman becomes a part of the story. A lone shaman is killed in the outer highway roads territory. No one knows who was the accomplice. The white man who was always diligent is picked as a symbol against the land spirit who will send destruction in 6 days. That he has to act fast. Bo Jon is chosen as a representative of the Tribes. Called in by the Native Elders and they two must compel this great and destructive being. Read: "Shamwu-finale of Bo Jon Little horse p.i. series."
[Sample:]
“SHAM-WU”: Final Bo Jon Little-horse P.I. episode, part V.
By
Danny E. Allen
KDP publishing
@ Copyright 2023 Danny E. Allen
KDP publishing edition
Table to Contents
The spirits of the western natives are strong, decided and powerful. That josh contends the soul of her people, so are obedient, bestowed portrayed as keepers, and gods of fate, fortune and fostering. Certain people are chosen and others cursed by the ways and laws of native American. Bo has to face off this being, intendind to reckone with against the destructions by the white-man. Is this true, are there certain other occurring realities at stake....
[Chapter One]
Begin:
It was 4:30 am. Charles Sawls, was riding to work as usual, on a Tuesday... The northeast Arizona-sun was rising-behind him, in a low spraying-avalanche of clouds and sunlight. Just another-day, the birds flew-out over the lower Masas; as the road spread-forward, like it always did-in April. Spring had arrived, and the westerners and native-reserves, would be readying for Spring-Festivals across the state. The institution that was the upper-AZ, was the best-place for travel, vacation, hunting, fishing and just-riding the highways-West. It was an hospitable-place, not Texas, not Oklahoma and not California. It was the perfect-backdrop, to a native desist...
He was there as an oil-speculator traveling-businessman, appointee and opportunist to visit area oil-wells and to speculate-on anyone of these, in the near-future... Charles, was a good-script of the weather, he was from Kansas originally, so tornadoes and rough-changes, were his forte. He took-up oil-well jumping, because he liked the solitude and the wealthy-excitement. He was a natural, at geophysics, prediction and inspection, which put him and his 4-year petroleum engineering-degree; right at the top of desired-jobs.
But what really, endured him was the need for a rig-rectifier. He was called all-over the countryside to inspect and label-rigs for operations. It was like being a technical-agent that makes others' handwork-decided and to be allowed. He was like that after his wife died, and their four kids had all went-off, on their own lives. He was a good father, but grandchildren were not his forte. Kids especially, not his-own became burdensome and obliviously, needy... So he stayed-home then moved-to the Arizona-landscape and fulfilled; what others needed in order to be respected and imp laced. His two daughters were restaurateurs in Phoenix, their home-town.
His deceased-wife Beatrice was a great cook, wine aficionado and all around good-mother. But she was beholding and loved her-husband, this had activated the needy-side to his-life. Because she was gone, he tried to fill the void of loneliness, with a needed and crucial-job. He saw road signs that ran for twenty miles along Navajo country. He had great respect for the natives, they were proud of their ancient-land, people and ways. There were natives in every-role in the state. But most stayed, on their land. He had good acquaintances with them, due to his-job. But there was nothing, like their-land. Where the very-life of Arizona-living, made a certain-sense above and beyond. They taught him to be a more calm and respectful-person.
He'd attended many ceremonials, they presented each year to define and refine; their-atoning and assailing-celebrations... The natives had really, striking-women, he thought of almost marrying one. But it was their people that belonged, and was bestowed-upon them. So he was a enjoyed of local native American fair. He was a true relocated-Arizonian. For years, as the many seasonal, social and professional-terms were to bare. So he enjoyed the morning-sunrise, at 7:30 am. He knew his job well, he might be seen as a heroic-genius; due to his minute-man, like abilities...
But that was what others said. He believed he was just in the right-place at the right-time. He'd remembered, the Hopi's saying; that being there for others is the music and harmony of life, that you did what was important that was your lucky-role in life. So he didn't dispel anything about his job... He'd had a deep-focus about work, family and life. He liked the natives in the area, they were friendly, respectful, decent and dignified. That their culture was as old as the ancient societies. The very rocks in their foundations were known by all.
The colors in the skies, or the winds that blow; all had there respect and power. But one thing that he'd found-scary and menacing, was some of the bad-karma, about the white-man's invasion of native-territory. He was going to take the cut-off in the barren-landscape highway, it was as pretty as a Coned Nat photo. The air was pure and the area quite-calm and peaceful, so he headed North to reach oil rig-country. The back-country areas, that were being made-desolate, by man-made toil and toll. That a fathom-facet was how the area even far from civilization, was being destroyed for “black-gold”....
He'd seen the banishing-threat, of all white-men; whom couldn't see beyond their-own noses... As proper and proponent-issues, that were mere-folly for as a founding. As an interest, and issue; it flew in the face of American-justice... ...In a way, he supported-both native and con notables; by the fears and fosters of the territories, that might need-to be seen, by an all-seeing eye. He-was from a strong-religious-family from Kansas; in the nineteen-thirties, when life was difficult-for everyone. His Matriarchal Grandmother-kept after them, until everyone got back-on their feet... She took-in sewing, dress-making, and sold-milk and butter; from a couple of cows, she-bought on consignment; from a rural-farmer... They always had-food, shelter and clothing; along with the comfort of a home, full of people and place... She'd walk-down to the local Lutheran-Church and prayed every-Sunday. Although her husband, son and daughter wasn't around, she knew that her kids were always a blessing.
During all their-struggles, nothing meant more than love-of family, devotion and caring; about home, and nature. By-time he was 8, his uncle-Joseph; trekked-with him and his three-siblings, down to the local-lake and enjoyed, the Summer... They fished all day and brought back fresh fish to cook on Sunday. He finally, left for a better life by being a Navy-man on first tour over the Korean territories. He felt he'd probably never see them again. So life went on, and he proved his success in life. As he road the I-10 territorial spans, leading to the High-tower rig zone, he began to see the huge truck tracks.
Then he rode into the rig plateau and began searching for the northern rigs which had just been set by Pablo Alto Oil company. The PA was a run of the mill oil-industrial, paid for by money up-North, and sold on finding oil; as sort of a reflection of trials, times and tests. They were powerful, as far as money was concern, but weren't they all. That there was a plethora of oil-hungry tycoons from somewhere-else looking to find oil, some other place.... Oil had a way of riding the wind and reverberating. It was simple for the rich money-grabbers, put in some frugal-funds by some hardworking wild-carter and take their job and get paid hundreds of time more. It was a way of life, that for those who are diligent that oil flowed and regions were plundered by land-plumes. He knew that a lot went into it, but also that the point was to do it for the money, and forget what was done to the land. He knew Patrick Horsehair, a native who'd taught him a lot... That in all the determined and deriving progress was simply stupid men wanting oblivious-things. That they'd learn their lesson, and forget; in this physically, demanding way of hope and greed. He remarked that the best-thing to do is to stay-away from them, and let them go-through their process...
It was lots of days that Horsehair stood-in the rain, during the Spring; when the territory was still barren and he'd be there for hours. He said that was a way of replenishing and strengthening the people who didn't know what they were doing. That their place could lead to omens, and he knew that he was protecting all, to satisfy the greed and shame of so many stupid people. He didn't associate with those that made profit from the decline of the land, but observed their works from afar. He wanted the issues to stand alone. But he was defiant like all people. It was his resign to stand alone and be the seer of deeds and discretion. That he and all his people might take back after all was done. He got to know Horsehair and maybe learn even deeper and just realize his peeked interests. Design and discretion was a way for the natives to deal with things that they could not understand. He was not a follower of the Indian ways, but he liked those great and grand, were always having their own import and imparting.
It would seem synonymous, that everything mean and dirty about White-Americans was easily, felt and transposed by those other under-cultures, caused-by Whites... But American-natives knew from the start that Europeans were self-dominating, restrictive and innately, defiant; about all-others. He knew through-out life in the Deep South that minorities were easily inflicted, by those that had and those that had not. That bigotry, bestowal and betrayal; by those having constrictive-control, was a constant. But he knew they, were inspired and encouraged, to hold-on and contend-with; a lifestyle and living-standards. This part of the country had native-lands, that were not to be crossed, denied or in in auspiciousness... That their inner-discrimination, was not extolled or exceeded; to their own rightful-perceptions or parallels. It was an American-reality, but as much a social-presiding. In the West, things were simple, but a profound. That in many quarters, were the situation and circumstance, that most accepted, some felt moved and others acted-against. But there was harmony and propriety across the region. But the whites and the native-Americans were resides and committees of relevance and relegation of their perspective-places, in life. The whites were rustics and reveres of their-region, and times. No one made excuses, but many were proud and devoted. That went a long way in the immense of their living-standards. He was a dedicated-worker, but like many Arizonians; he kept the faith, worked-hard and wise; like many there...
Horsehair knew all-this, that in his-circumstance; he remained true to his-people, and knew only what was their-residing. But he had insight and devotion to those who were his-blood, their reverence and representation. He'd already learned what others thought, that others lived and lamented on their terms. But he had immense wisdom, but many said it was nothing more than an issue, but others said he was preparing for his stand-off with evil, some incredible coming of a war that required certain people to do certain things. And that this was only done by someone kept and held within the force of strength, character and devotion. But he didn't tend to believe any folklore or tales. But he respected native-beliefs. He was a hero in his own right, that what he did everyday required duty, dedication and essentially, importance, and a person of need and crucial... He rode over the next pass and came to the plateau which had been carved by men seeking the oil far-below the ground.
That all of man's ingenuity, had removed millions of barrels of petroleum, and was still doing it. There was a logistics about drilling, that it taught you like a mother giving-milk. That without question your future depended on-love, honor and deserving; which didn't always mean reward but made you hope even without knowledge, fact or promise. He was a Baptist devout, and he knew in some strange way, this was as good. That to prevent despair, they dug deep into the land, sight unseen. But family, towns and businesses awaited what was just oil, but meant so much more. It was an ancient design and determination as the natives knew, but unlike them; they knew it was worthless to take from the land and use it to be self-benefiting. Of Mother Earth's gauging and scraping, and then polluting Her air and rivers. It was a strange story that would eventually, lead to decline and dissolution.
But he knew men had to survive on their-terms. And that the specifics and espousal, only went one-way. That mankind decided and divorced himself from ode and order, to become rich and wealthy; forgetting that the land had to be lived-upon, and that money fell right-through your hands... He realized that it wasn't the best most civil-jobs, but someone had to do it. He left the inspired, to make work if he wanted to keep being paid. And that was a mantra-for a lot of people. People whose lives existed because oil-flowed, and could be happy-surviving. That the issues of money-making and profit, were not their pay-level. Some of the people in the area had come to make a living; than any other way. It was the other coal-mining idea, that was all the indigent could do, successfully.
[Chapter Two]
So he was now well-off, by both schooling and an immense, technical-work assignments... So he would look-after his-duties, be an effective-analyzer and business-man, and be a life's blood to the locals. He-noticed the red-clay, become brilliant-countryside; as the riggers, awaited his-arrival and inspection. The rig, was a no. 4V contract drill-deck, made in the late-80s; when wild-carters, were becoming more-opportune. ...Probably, during the hurricane-season. It was known to drill 28-miles, in the basins... The crew there, knew what to expect; even though it was probably, their-director; who set-it up... There were thirty-crewmen, awaiting-over by the supervisors' trailer, until given an okay. He could see the veterans, they stayed-away; looking, with the eyes of an observer; seeing what, when and how of what was next to-do. ...There were the paid-routines, and they kept-things running-smoothly. Indeed, he-knew they were worth their-weight; in gold. He made sure to look-over all the crowd, if any looked uncomfortable, unsteady or over-zealous; because someone's life, might depend-on it...
Doing this, while gloving and noticing; the gauges-on the rigs. Any abnormalities, meant a shut-down; or even reset, by retrieving the day's rig-drilling. Then, he smelled the residue, it smelled of thirty-level-perfect... Then he tested the octane, it was asset correctly; then, he had to climb-under the rig; and observed, the sounds-resonating in any-way... After-all this, he walked-out away from the rig, which meant he was ready to give his-analysis. ...Spec-code-fulfilled for three-months, as he rode off he noticed the sun-shine on the rig, and how it fell over the plateaus as the men were already fast at work. There-were three new-spots, to check by three pm... He was to head to the small community of a plurality, about twelve-miles away, due-west. Perplex, Arizona; was a 100-population of local-residences, that of those who lived-by that purpose and prospect; of a minor and crucial-living. He knew the gas-station owner by name, he and him were born in Kansas, and lived hard-lives. He was a Navy-man just 20 years after Vietnam, and settled out-West to be alone; and to do what he-wanted, with his life. Both had been married for a time, but neither-wanted to do that again. His daughter ran the register when not out taking pictures as a photographer. She graduated U of A, in 2018 and gave up that over-complicated life to do what she wanted, like her dad.
So the two talked over a quick cup of coffee, and he had a full-tank of gas in his Suburban and rode-off south, to reach rigs in Docile-territory. Docile, was a small, almost unknown-area... It was one of the wetter-regions because the three large-creeks, ran through it. So about 22-miles in, he could see the deepened-grooves of river erosion that meant the ancient-waters were near. The rig was on a crest that had to be made a road for. Like everything in man-made arenas, construction/destruction was in a necessary and fascinating aura. It was a plain-necessity, and he was now using this utility-railway; that lead to lucidity and now an embossed-work... The men were taking their coffee-break and smoking, he was done about three-hours later; and he left: “approved”... He straightened all his on-board files, of each rig; and their-requirements' protocols...
Only-thing was, was that the flowing-streams went in-fluxing in; which meant rain was coming-up territory. The areas and spill-ways of Arizona were like a dry-Georgia, in-Spring. And by winter you could get a storm, when an area was ultra-dry; and they made the rivers, flow like an artificial-design... It was a deeding-parable, how waters behaved... ...He went north along a near-creek, and then crossed a bridge; to go South and recover the rig-site no. Z-129. It was a major oil-well. California was an easy drop-off for the oil-rig-to tank sites, from-each... At this site, the owners didn't play-around, every drop of oil; coming-out was in Carlsbad, CA by that evening. They didn't play-games, Strickland Oil refinery, was a tycoon's pawn. And oil, was a major past-time. It was an adamant and ideal, when he came to work; and went to study-it... You had to be inspired, to be an inspector and espouse of territory-work... With this warm season, you better know weather, regions and ratifiers; and this-one was a breeze...
He saw this estate-carefully, inspected and sealed-it; to the manager, with him taking the correct-forms to and of, himself. He was a skilled and instrument-to the state, agency and its instituted-applications... By 4:45 pm, the sun was over the west and he was heading into E Pasco, to check-in and leave; before the long commute-back for three more-days of travel, and traversing. The stars, were-out; after the last-rays of sun, went over-the-horizon. He went home by 6:21 pm, when his-home in the suburbs sat-quiet, as the neighborhood went blissfully, to sleep... He-awoke at 8:45 am, when the neighbor's pet Rottweiler, smelled the area-rabbits, running afoot outside. His-pet Parakeet, was scrawling about the new-day-light. ...By 9:40 am, he was on the road; with all his-equipment, his completed check-in with the office, and a map; to find-out all-rigs, this-time in Calderas county.
Calderas, was a good-hunting site; for coyotes, and pronghorn... And the rattlesnakes, were rampant. If you were really, hungry; you could feast-on snake for life, it was so many-there. He went up Highway I-59, to the reserve; then west-out into the countryside. His spirit was strong, one of the medicine men told him, natives could be found; in any area, but in groups they were scarce; that perhaps numbers put too many at-risk. And celebrations were solemn, respected and proud. Some white-men thought that if you saw a native in the morning, someone was leaving-for good. But he never-thought that way, he thought that everyone should be kind and accept these first-Americans; like a solemn and worthy-people. He never-wanted to be discombobulation, about anyone; especially, their rightful-place and community. The instances, he was awaiting for, was when these oil-rigs all dried-up; to leave this land and live-together; with their own communities. There was so much the US could admonish and decide; but money, power and deceit, kept everyone caught-up in a quagmire... He hoped, that everyone would land-on their-feet and forget; all the past-events and actions...
He-plotted the geography, the land conformity, the curvature-symmetry; and the conditions for contentions-ahead, for the riggers... Especial ed and empowered, most-people who ran these wells got stuck on the money-side; and either-ignored or avoided, any concerns that might-be a problem. His old-boss taught him to suspect-all things-simple and sublime; that the character of the landscape, acted and told-answers; about all-things. That the ants on the ground, the birds in the trees and the clouds in the skies; spoke everyday, and moment. Today the sky was wide and bright, but ever so; often streaks of embankments blew-in and then they'd set-into rising dunes... Which meant there were storms awaiting, entry; on the coasts, and that a beckoning-event was to be awaited. He rode-up along the no. NW-171 rig... A fully-active site, one that assured and seared; their working-nexus, to be active and availing; in an achieving, oil-rich-sales... He sat in his SUV, until everyone was removed-from a rig.
The rules were that no one but site-manager, could be there with an inspector. That an accord and accommodation, were to followed-codes and procedures-wise. He was nearly, half done; when clouds drew-in from the East. Which was quite unusual, but his car could easily take a downpour. But as the men prepared, the clouds began a steady-shower, and the ground-became saturated. He talked to the supervisor for sometime, then he headed-out and the rains, ceased. The men were drying off and were setting up for the oil tanking. But their society entailed that they fulfill and follow-custom. He thought of how closely, they matched as a tribe of natives; in the pursuit of working for an everyday-life. So he'd thought he'd ride into Tonya Township, to ride-out the late-Spring storms... He figured-it would pass in about an hour, until then; he'd call one of the local-region agents and ask what if any-concerns he had about any territorial-instances...
If an entity popped-up, he could help solve them... It was Bob York, Northwest agent-associate; he was there, since the head-director asked him to come-in. ...That other agents were out on-assignment to rains up in McClellan territory; a major-area for tourist, commercial-traffic and native-ceremonial concerns... Bob said he was concerned about native-organizational-protocol... That noon in his office wanted to interfere or allow someone to affect them. ...Arizonians, believed-in their natives, having a free-reign... That other than citizenry, natives had the rights; to do as they pleased. So he asked if there was anything, he could do. He waved him-off, due-to his-people were to handle most-every procedure, he-said he should perhaps head toward reservation-borders; to enlist to be a state-observer, which he had the legal-code to do.