Young Butcher Redoak
Photo From Book, "A Stranger in London Smoke."
Butcher Redoak in Later Years
A Time to Remember
Butcher Redoak
By Ronnie Powell
Butcher and I met many years ago at a crossroads in my life. I was very young at the time, wounded somewhat, disillusioned and disappointed by folks around me. I had suffered a devastating fall resulting in losing my voice. I could only communicate with clarity by writing on a piece of paper about what I had to say or answer. Most folks were kind and understanding, but there were those who of course poked fun at me or said I was mentally challenged. I retreated as best I could to get away from this nightmare. I had lost my voice that had been good enough to sing in a quartet and played a Martin guitar Grandmother Carrie had bought for me and in my thinking I gave up playing it. I turned instead to rambling up and down Dousinberry creek and became interested in Prehistory Indians. This past time led me further away from my ordeal, but was also fascinating and for many years afterwards I continued my journey into Prehistory. Whether it was self pity or just a way to survive helped to shape me as I am today, intolerant of those who mistreat disadvantage people and left me perhaps a bit too independent.
Time finally healed the wound after about a year and again I could speak, but not with the voice I had been born with. But it has served me well, with the exception at times when it fades to within a whisper. Singing is out of the question, or rarely so and when I slipped away from home at sixteen to go to Texas, I fell into hard times and had to pawn the guitar for $2.25.
After returning home and while in Springfield one day with some friends and my twin brother I was confronted by to burley men who did not favor the way I was dressed, a western hat, shirt, jeans and boots. They proceeded to cut the buttons from my shirt and stomped my hat and then challenged me to meet them in the rear of the building we were in. It was at this point of time I truly met Butcher although he had been at my side for a long time, but I had yet to discover his name. I accepted the challenge with reasonable certainty that with the help of my friends, my brother and Butcher we could handle the pair. But the closer we got to the rear of the building, the further behind my friends and brother became. Only Butcher walked beside me. And to make a long story short one of the men among four now facing me whipped me soundly and I fell to the ground. I could hear Butcher’s voice urging me to get up and so I did and again faced the man. He laughed and swung and I ducked and I swung with all my one hundred ten pounds and hit the man in his left eye. The eye popped out and after that I don’t remember much, for the remaining three men beat me to the ground and kicked me under a car.
A couple of years later I saw that man I had injured at a skating rink. He was a good distance away from me, but recognized him without a doubt. He was wearing a black patch over his left eye.
Butcher and I became close, for we shared the same dreams, fought the same battles and shared the same friends.
During the next several years I never turned my back on Butcher. The name Butcher was given him by an old friend of mine. Butcher loved to carve wood and so the name stuck, Butcher of wood, but the name or part of it would change.
There was another side to Butcher. At a very young age he discovered he was fast with a gun and over the years twenty five men and one stagecoach driver, a woman challenged his gun and lost.
One evening, I believe in the spring of 1970, I received a call from a professor friend of mine in Columbia, Missouri, requesting that I guide a small group of college students through a part of McKee Cave, situated high on a bluff of the Niangua River. I agreed and a date was set for their arrival.
The students, accompanied by the professor were late and by the time we arrived at the site overlooking the cave, darkness was fast closing in. I led the way down the treacherous slope and soon came to a ledge where I stopped and waited for the party to catch up.
“It is imperative that I take your hand and help you down to the next level, otherwise you could fall to your death on the rocks below,” said I.
One by one they stepped up and were safely deposited in front of the massive cave entrance, well, all by one, a young Indian woman, fiercely independent who said. “No, I can take care of myself.”
The woman turned to step down, lost her footing and would probably have perished if not for Butcher who reached out. He grasped a handful of her flowing black hair and pulled her to safety. Later she quietly apologized for her carelessness. The matter was forgotten or so we thought.
Approximately two months later, a man, appearing to be of Indian heritage arrived at Bennett Spring Trout Hatchery inquiring about Butcher where he and I were employed. He was a short man about five feet eight inches tall, stoutly built, with distinctive Indian features, high cheekbones and rather dark eyes and hair. The man extended no hand in greeting when arriving on the scene where Butcher and I stood, but remained aloof, not necessarily an unfriendly stance, but rather as man unaccustomed to presenting himself to strangers.
“I am a Searcher and I have come with a gift,” he said to Butcher. “It is not something you can hold in your hand or wear, but will become a part of you. It is not given lightly, but comes deep from the soul of another. This gift belongs to no other and will remain so. Redoak is your name, as in stout of limb and courage as the roots of the great tree embedded in Mother Earth.”
“I don’t understand,” Butcher replied. “Whom is the gift from?”
I could detect only a slight reaction in the man’s face when he answered. “I am the father of the woman you pulled to safety at the Cave of McKee. Your bold and unselfish gift to her must be returned with a gift of equal worth.”
The man said nothing more, turned and walked away.
In the months and years following the strange appearance of the Searcher, Butcher Redoak began casting a distinctive shadow, that of his own that rival mine, a man with often reckless abandon, more so than in previous years. The gun battles continued and he walked away as the victor. He became a Captain in the 8th The Missouri Cavalry, and often pitched a tent with mountain men, buck skinners and stood with the best of them on the firing line. He acquired a lead part in a movie titled, Arkansas Yankees, became marshal of Buffalo Head and fought in the Battle of Womack Mill and met up with a man called Ike.
The town of Buffalo Head, sat huddled on Fifteen Mile Prairie, a lawless place, where rendezvoused the Indians, Wild Bill Hickok, mountain men and a troupe of players of whom performed a nightly melodrama. The Rusty Bucket Saloon and Old Theater were the main attractions. There were preaching men, the melancholy sounds of balladeers, Mountain Banjos and dance halls girls. Prairie Days was a time to remember.
On one particular hot August noon, two men strode onto the wide front street of Buffalo Head, one being Marshal Redoak and the outlaw Ike. Along each side of the street people stood waiting and watching in silence as the two men closed the distance between them. A child whimpered and clutched her mother’s skirt.
Both men stopped, stood for a time and then the flash of a revolver in each of their hands hurled black smoke and fire. Butcher Redoak, stumbled shot down that day.
In reality Butcher did not perish on that hot dusty street as some may believe, for in reality he was and is a part of me, an alter ego I suppose that helped guide me away from a demoralizing wound and became another aspect of my being and a good friend of whom I will not abandon easily. It has been and hopefully will continue being a colorful and interesting experience sharing life with Butcher Redoak. Adios
A Time to Remember
Butcher Redoak
By Ronnie Powell
Butcher and I met many years ago at a crossroads in my life. I was very young at the time, wounded somewhat, disillusioned and disappointed by folks around me. I had suffered a devastating fall resulting in losing my voice. I could only communicate with clarity by writing on a piece of paper about what I had to say or answer. Most folks were kind and understanding, but there were those who of course poked fun at me or said I was mentally challenged. I retreated as best I could to get away from this nightmare. I had lost my voice that had been good enough to sing in a quartet and played a Martin guitar Grandmother Carrie had bought for me and in my thinking I gave up playing it. I turned instead to rambling up and down Dousinberry creek and became interested in Prehistory Indians. This past time led me further away from my ordeal, but was also fascinating and for many years afterwards I continued my journey into Prehistory. Whether it was self pity or just a way to survive helped to shape me as I am today, intolerant of those who mistreat disadvantage people and left me perhaps a bit too independent.
Time finally healed the wound after about a year and again I could speak, but not with the voice I had been born with. But it has served me well, with the exception at times when it fades to within a whisper. Singing is out of the question, or rarely so and when I slipped away from home at sixteen to go to Texas, I fell into hard times and had to pawn the guitar for $2.25.
After returning home and while in Springfield one day with some friends and my twin brother I was confronted by to burley men who did not favor the way I was dressed, a western hat, shirt, jeans and boots. They proceeded to cut the buttons from my shirt and stomped my hat and then challenged me to meet them in the rear of the building we were in. It was at this point of time I truly met Butcher although he had been at my side for a long time, but I had yet to discover his name. I accepted the challenge with reasonable certainty that with the help of my friends, my brother and Butcher we could handle the pair. But the closer we got to the rear of the building, the further behind my friends and brother became. Only Butcher walked beside me. And to make a long story short one of the men among four now facing me whipped me soundly and I fell to the ground. I could hear Butcher’s voice urging me to get up and so I did and again faced the man. He laughed and swung and I ducked and I swung with all my one hundred ten pounds and hit the man in his left eye. The eye popped out and after that I don’t remember much, for the remaining three men beat me to the ground and kicked me under a car.
A couple of years later I saw that man I had injured at a skating rink. He was a good distance away from me, but recognized him without a doubt. He was wearing a black patch over his left eye.
Butcher and I became close, for we shared the same dreams, fought the same battles and shared the same friends.
During the next several years I never turned my back on Butcher. The name Butcher was given him by an old friend of mine. Butcher loved to carve wood and so the name stuck, Butcher of wood, but the name or part of it would change.
There was another side to Butcher. At a very young age he discovered he was fast with a gun and over the years twenty five men and one stagecoach driver, a woman challenged his gun and lost.
One evening, I believe in the spring of 1970, I received a call from a professor friend of mine in Columbia, Missouri, requesting that I guide a small group of college students through a part of McKee Cave, situated high on a bluff of the Niangua River. I agreed and a date was set for their arrival.
The students, accompanied by the professor were late and by the time we arrived at the site overlooking the cave, darkness was fast closing in. I led the way down the treacherous slope and soon came to a ledge where I stopped and waited for the party to catch up.
“It is imperative that I take your hand and help you down to the next level, otherwise you could fall to your death on the rocks below,” said I.
One by one they stepped up and were safely deposited in front of the massive cave entrance, well, all by one, a young Indian woman, fiercely independent who said. “No, I can take care of myself.”
The woman turned to step down, lost her footing and would probably have perished if not for Butcher who reached out. He grasped a handful of her flowing black hair and pulled her to safety. Later she quietly apologized for her carelessness. The matter was forgotten or so we thought.
Approximately two months later, a man, appearing to be of Indian heritage arrived at Bennett Spring Trout Hatchery inquiring about Butcher where he and I were employed. He was a short man about five feet eight inches tall, stoutly built, with distinctive Indian features, high cheekbones and rather dark eyes and hair. The man extended no hand in greeting when arriving on the scene where Butcher and I stood, but remained aloof, not necessarily an unfriendly stance, but rather as man unaccustomed to presenting himself to strangers.
“I am a Searcher and I have come with a gift,” he said to Butcher. “It is not something you can hold in your hand or wear, but will become a part of you. It is not given lightly, but comes deep from the soul of another. This gift belongs to no other and will remain so. Redoak is your name, as in stout of limb and courage as the roots of the great tree embedded in Mother Earth.”
“I don’t understand,” Butcher replied. “Whom is the gift from?”
I could detect only a slight reaction in the man’s face when he answered. “I am the father of the woman you pulled to safety at the Cave of McKee. Your bold and unselfish gift to her must be returned with a gift of equal worth.”
The man said nothing more, turned and walked away.
In the months and years following the strange appearance of the Searcher, Butcher Redoak began casting a distinctive shadow, that of his own that rival mine, a man with often reckless abandon, more so than in previous years. The gun battles continued and he walked away as the victor. He became a Captain in the 8th The Missouri Cavalry, and often pitched a tent with mountain men, buck skinners and stood with the best of them on the firing line. He acquired a lead part in a movie titled, Arkansas Yankees, became marshal of Buffalo Head and fought in the Battle of Womack Mill and met up with a man called Ike.
The town of Buffalo Head, sat huddled on Fifteen Mile Prairie, a lawless place, where rendezvoused the Indians, Wild Bill Hickok, mountain men and a troupe of players of whom performed a nightly melodrama. The Rusty Bucket Saloon and Old Theater were the main attractions. There were preaching men, the melancholy sounds of balladeers, Mountain Banjos and dance halls girls. Prairie Days was a time to remember.
On one particular hot August noon, two men strode onto the wide front street of Buffalo Head, one being Marshal Redoak and the outlaw Ike. Along each side of the street people stood waiting and watching in silence as the two men closed the distance between them. A child whimpered and clutched her mother’s skirt.
Both men stopped, stood for a time and then the flash of a revolver in each of their hands hurled black smoke and fire. Butcher Redoak, stumbled shot down that day.
In reality Butcher did not perish on that hot dusty street as some may believe, for in reality he was and is a part of me, an alter ego I suppose that helped guide me away from a demoralizing wound and became another aspect of my being and a good friend of whom I will not abandon easily. It has been and hopefully will continue being a colorful and interesting experience sharing life with Butcher Redoak. Adios
1 comment:
Another story or two I haven't heard. I will tuck them away in my mind.
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