MissouriGreen

I'm not sure when I'll be able to return to my search, but I hope to sometime in the near future. I'm trying to find a Lacey Smith, though he's long been dead and the only event of any note in his life that I can see is he shot and killed Polk Grimes the first of February 1, 1870 in a town called Jollification.

I discovered Lacey Smith by accident when I was looking for Missouri mills and discovered the Jolly Mill. Jolly, short for Jollification; so named, as the good rumor goes, but not fact as the stuffier insist, because of the whiskey mill that formed the heart of this small but thriving community nestled against a limestone hill and surrounded by good corn growing land.

The town died, oh long ago, when the train came through…elsewhere. At its time though, it was something, but that was before the Union soldiers burned the town down during the Civil war, it is said though I can't find any real record of the Union army actually setting fire to the town. The Union soldiers came through several times, killed people, but no one ever mentioned about Sargent Whatsit lighting a match and saying to the troops, "Watch this town light up like the 4th of July, boys!" That's what I would have said.

The mill still stands, bought by people in the county and turned into a park with picnic tables and such. They also recreated the town from descriptions, and moved a one room school house to the site. I went out there in early fall to take photos and check out the place where Lacey Smith shot Polk Grimes, but was a bit disappointed. Oh the mill is nice and the school is quaint, but across the pond are homes of people wealthy enough so that no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't see a thing other than "No trespassing". The sun was too hot for good photos, but I did enjoy the turtles on the logs and a white heron that seemed as curious about me as I was about him.

He walked in the water on the opposite side of the pond from me, until I got to the mill and went out as far as I could on the rocks near the building and he went out on the rocks across from me and we just stared at each other until he finally decided I wasn't all that interesting and took off: long skinny black legs pulled straight back, body like a bullet in flight.

The caretaker and her two young children were at the faux village; she was mowing and the kids were playing. I think I asked something, not sure what, and she was polite but not over friendly. I was going to ask where the Grimes family cemetery was, to see where Polk was buried, but felt uncomfortable.

There was old Baptist church with a cemetery on the road to the Mill, so I made do with it. I stopped on the way back and walked among the stones, trying to see if Lacey was among them ("…strung up for killing that poor boy, Polk…"). No such luck. I did find one Grimes, by marriage only though. I wondered that she was buried with her family rather than her husband.

I liked the old church. It reminded of the story–I think it was in "Let us Now Praise Famous Men", by James Agee and Walker Evans–about them stopping by a plain white back country church alongside a dusty road in the south, when a young black couple came walking by. I can remember the words, about the couple walking side by side only their hips touching; the clean white of their clothes; not saying a word–I wish I could write like this, where you still see the picture the words formed long after you forgot where you read them.

No young black couple that day, but a couple of farm dogs came towards me out of one of the fields of uncut hay. They were silent, just a determined march through the field: one mottled black, white, and brown, the other, one of those dogs with light blue eyes. I measured my distance to the car in heart beats; I've always been afraid of the loose dogs along the Missouri back roads. I walked, did not run, to the car but only breathed when I was inside. Turning around, I saw the dogs cross the road behind me, not once looking my way, just continuing the same determined, silent march into the next field.

Of the Grimes, James P. "Polk" Grimes' father was William Grimes who himself was murdered in 1878. The man who murdered him, by the name of Connor or O'Connor was tried once, convicted, and then tried again and convicted again. I figured this had something to do with his lawyers because Goodspeed's historian wrote about how they "…worked the law through all its many crevices."

William's father was Gainsford Grimes from England who came over to America just in time to fight with George Washington. After having done so, Mr. Grimes returned to England after the war to take a bride, a Nancy Poe. A "…member of the celebrated Poe family, who about this time immigrated to America. This also according to Goodspeed's 1888 History of Newton County.

Anyway, among Nancy Poe's famous relatives was Aaron Poe, the 'celebrated indian fighter'. It took the longest time before I decided to try a variation on the name to realize that the historian got the name wrong; he meant Andrew Poe. Andrew was a celebrated indian fighter in the Ohio valley area, and ended up having another son who also became a famous indian fighter. Whether Andrew and Nancy were related to that other famous Poe, Edgar Allen, is difficult to say; their ancestors all came from England about the same time. Cousins, let's make them cousins. Heck, yeah that works. History doesn't have to be factual, only interesting. You wait, and I'll work Jesse James into this, too.

There's an interesting story behind the Goodspeed histories. Goodspeed was a small publishing house in the 1800's that published complete histories of several midwestern and southern counties. I find the one from Newton county to be enormously entertaining. For instance, from the "crime" section:

Horace Tongue, who shot and killed Samuel Rice, at Neosho, in the Spring of 1856, was tried, but acquitted, as the murdered man interfered in his family.

Reece Crabtree was wounded near Pilot Grove by Confederates, but while en route to Neosho, died. Immediately after, bushwhackers arrived to kill him outright, but, finding him dead, departed.

John C. Moss, who resided five miles south of Joplin, believed himself to be Christ in the summer of 1881, and was placed in jail by Sherriff McElhaney. At the time Hall, another insane man confined there, hearing the yells of Moss, said to the latter: "Get up from there and stop your howlin'; I believe you are crazy anyhow." It was this Hall, on being led to a spring, would play in the water like a duck.

A dead body, supposed to be that of Jesse James, was found by miners eight miles south of Joplin, in November, 1879.

The same time Lacey Smith killed Polk Grimes, the James gang were riding the lands of Missouri robbing banks and avenging the Confederacy; joining with other so-called Bushwhackers–former confederate soldiers unhappy at the outcome of the war. Missouri probably has more caves than almost any where else, and every one of them harbored a bushwhacker at some point. But that leads us back to the day when Lacey Smith shot and killed Polk Grimes.

Polk was only 25 and Smith not much older, but why the one shot another I don't know. When I go to Columbus and look through the old newspaper archives, maybe I'll find out the whys and wherefores. "Lacey Smith killed Polk Grimes for messin' with his family", or some such thing. The Grimes served in the Confederacy, and some say that Newton county had its own civil war; that brother killing brother wasn't so far off. Maybe Smith was a Union sympathizer but if so, he should have been the dead one because there was no sympathy for the Union in Jollification–after all, they did burn down the town. Not the Mill, though.

On February 10, ten days after Lacey Smith shot and killed James P. "Polk" Grimes, the Neosho Times reported that Smith was tried and committed for action by the grand jury by one Wolcott and Smith Esquire, (we're assuming no relation to the accused). Two guards were assigned to take him to Neosho, but between Jolly and Neosho, all three disappeared. Several days later, the papers the guards were carrying showed up, folded neat as a pin and laid on the porch of Grave's & Co, a store co-operative in Neosho.

You see now? It was interesting to read about the three going missing, but people go missing all the time and back in those days and in that area, a lot of people went missing and died, or just plain died. But it was the papers, folded up and left on the store's porch–now that just catches at you.

The road to Alley Spring Mill is full of twists and turns, and I gave up watching the speedometer about the time when I realized there was no chance I'd be going over the speed limit. Most of the trees along the way were still leafless, and twisted, white branches mixed in with the short pine, only partially obscuring views of rolling hills, stretching out as far as the eye can see.

The Ozarks are old; old, and filled with vague memories of mountains that split this land, greater than the tallest peaks of the Cascades, mightier than the Rockies. So old that time has worn them down and softened their edges; carving the rocks scattered about, great boulders that once lay at the bottom of long, gone seas.

Small towns dotted the way with names like "Steelville" and "Eminence", most still retaining both their original look and their vitality. Each was a pure slice of post-war prosperity, perserved for all time, except that Betty's Beauty Salon is now The House of Tanning.

As the road crossed the many creeks and rivers that threaded the hills, it would shrink–at one time becoming a one lane crossing with warnings on both sides to "Yield to oncoming traffic". I've wondered what would happen if two cars approached at the exact same time. Would they both slow until stopped, lost in a mix of politeness and caution? Or would the aggressive hit the pedal and the two cars collide mid-bridge? Then I thought of how little traffic I'd seen along the way and realized that the point was mute.

I had a headache when I started out on the trip. In fact, I have a headache most days, lately; and too many mornings being greeted by a face in frowns in the mirror. However, as I drove deeper into the Ozarks, the headache began to recede and I notched my speed up just a hair; just enough to add a swoop to the feel as I drove down the hills and around the corners.

I put on my own customized travel CD, the one with all the really good travel music. Listening to the mix of songs–"Born to Be Wild" between "Stop the Rock" and "Dueling Banjos", "Gimme Some Loving" followed by "Queen of the Night" followed by "Rave On"–I edged the speed up just a tad more until I must have been going, my, close to 50. A wild woman on wheels, and mamas hide your sons! Wheee!

(Hot music is for hills. I save the soft stuff for the plains and the moody crap for the ocean.)

At the Mill I parked in the lot and grabbed my camera bag, but decided to leave my walking stick. It's only a short walk on a path by the river to the Mill, and you can easily see its bright, red color against the dead winter grasses. However, it wasn't until I was at the bridge over the creek to the Mill that I was able to see it's surroundings, and I stumbled to a stop at the sight.

The water that rushed past the mill filled a hollow before flowing into the stream leading away. A trick of the light and shadow painted it a bright aqua color, as it foamed in a wide circle from the falls; however, as I got close to the water, I could see it was clear. Clear enough to see the individual tiny rocks at the stream's bottom, and the bright green plants–watercress–that floated just beneath the surface.

The Mill was in a hollow, with steep limestone cliffs on the other side of the spring basin formed by the backed up water. In the cliffs, water and time had worn small pockets in the rock, forming caves just deep enough to leave the back wall in shadow.

I explored along the spring's edge for a time, and then walked along the Mill back porch, right above the overflow gate. I was surprised at how fast the water was flowing and how much there was, especially this time of year.

I stared, mesmerized, into the flowing water until I noticed something white and wispy in the dark blue, at the gate where the water entered. It looked like a skeleton of a fish that had become trapped and died, with the force of the water stripping most of its flesh away.

A family walked by while I was lost in the waters, following a trail that cut into the cliff above the basin. I waited until the laughter and the sounds of their passing had died, and then followed. I wanted the place to myself, to savor the feel of the true Ozarks. It was a very intimate moment for me; I almost put my hand on ground, thinking I would feel the heartbeat of the mountain if I did.

The spring basin is an odd thing. According to descriptions, it's 32 feet deep, and forms a funnel shape. It had a mirror like stillness, and the waters were clear, but you could only see so far down. A tree was growing out of the hill above the water in one spot, and underneath what looked like another tree had fallen in and become covered in green growth. It was eerie and I actually began to feel a little uncomfortable. Deep water has that effect on me.

But then, so do holes in cliff walls when I cannot see the back, and the trail I needed to take led directly between the two: lake and short, steep hill on one side; tall, pocketed and carved cliffs on the other. I desperately wanted my stick on the moment and I had no idea why because the only living things around were the birds, and I imagine cousins of the fish whose skeleton now decorated the Mill.

The path was wide enough for a family to walk side by side, but I teetered along the middle, equidistant between my twin fears of shadowed water and shadowed rock. I think if I had closed my eyes, I could have walked the path safely, the fear was that tangible. I wonder if this is how soldiers during war feel–held upright and kept moving by a fear of shadows; except for them, the monsters in the dark are real. If I were one of those soldiers, I think I would go mad; at the least, I would become numb.

The basin isn't really big and the cliff mostly solid and I started to relax as I walked until I was, again, enjoying myself. I ended up stopping every few feet to take a photo of rock formations, the Mill, the stream, the Mill, and all variations of the three. The trail followed the spring as it headed to the river, with foot bridges to cross just after the basin and at the end of the park. I took the last one and then circled down by the spring, in the space between the bushes and the water.

I hadn't heard anyone for a while, so I assumed I had the place to myself. Round a corner, though, was an old man sitting in a lawn chair by the river, ice chest by his side, sipping a coke. He wasn't particularly remarkable looking: lined face, gray hair, and wearing a white shirt and jeans. I started to walk past, not wanting him to intrude into my privacy, but he called out "Nice day, isn't it?" as I drew near, raising his can in salute.

I sighed softly to myself, stopped, and agreed that yes, the weather was nice.

"You know, you look tired and thirsty. Why don't you stop for a moment, and have a cold coke."

As he said this, he reached into the ice chest, pulled out a can and held it out to me. I was thirsty, having forgotten to bring any water, and the pop did look good. I also thought it would be rude to just say, "No, thanks" and move along. Besides, I've found from past experience that people who sit and stare into water are usually people who have something interesting to say.

As we sipped our drinks, I asked if he was from this area, and he said no, he was born in Oklahoma and moved to Missouri after he served in the war. From his age, I thought he probably meant the Korean war, but he could have meant World War II or even Vietnam. I didn't want to pry, though.

He asked how long I'd been in Missouri, and I said only a couple of years. He nodded, and said he could see that. I thought it was an odd thing to say, and asked him about it. He replied, that I looked a person who had found home, but wasn't used to it yet.

I could agree with him, about finding home. Every time I visit the Ozarks, I feel as if all the worries of every day life just sort of fall away, leaving only peace and contentment behind. I even remarked on it, telling him I'd seen most of the country and some beautiful places, but nothing had the pull for me that Missoui did.

He nodded his head in understanding, and said it was because I had a "…grain of Missouri dirt buried deep inside". A grain of Missouri dirt buried deep inside? Seeing my puzzled look, he chuckled and said it was an expression he picked up from a story his Dad used to tell him when he was a kid.

According to the old man, his father used to tell him of a time, many years ago when the earth had cooled, the grasses in the plain had sprouted, and people were ready to be born. The spirits of the earth ("or angels, if you prefer", he said) each grabbed up a handful of dirt from all around the plant and then tossed it high into the air. Higher than the mountains the dirt flew, until it was captured by the Winds that blew around the world. In the Winds the dirt became all mixed up, until a speck of Paris dirt was alongside one from Hawaii, and one from China next to one from South Africa, and so on.

As each person is born, a speck of this dirt falls to the earth and becomes embedded, deep inside them, at the very center of their being. This speck, this land of their soul would stay inside the person all their life. Then, when they died, at the very moment after the last breath, the spirits would gently retrieve it, and toss it back into the wind.

("My Dad swore he saw this once, when my great aunt died, but I think he was pulling my leg. Made my mother angry, though; she thought something was wrong with me when I told her I wanted to go to the hospital and watch people die.")

Now, the speck of dirt a person gets could be from the homes of their birth, and some people live their whole lives being content to stay in one place. Most folks, though, are born with specks of dirt outside their homes, and this leaves them with both a curiosity and fascination with faraway lands.

Not all can travel, though, and those who can't eventually grow to appreciate the land where they live, but never with that strong pull that you find between a person and the land of their soul. Even among travelers, most will never find this land, but for those who do, the attraction may defy both reason and understanding.

The land pulls them, pulls at the speck of dirt within them, trying to reclaim that bit of itself lost long ago. And if you ask the people why they love the land so much, most of the time they'll say that they feel like they've come home

Over time as some of the specks are claimed and reclaimed by people who never find their lands, they change, become less defined, as if all that bouncing about brushing up against strange places rounds the edges. People who get these specks seem to be happy wherever they are, even if it's a tar hut in North Dakota. ("And I've lived in a tar hut in North Dakota; you'd have to be crazy or a priest to be happy in a tar hut in North Dakota.")

Others, though, are born without any speck at all and this is a great tragedy. It's like a piece of their soul is gone, leaving them always hungry, always wanting and reaching for more in an effort to find what they never can. They may end up rich and powerful and even leaders of many nations–but they'll never be happy, and they'll never be content.

"So that's why I said that you must have been born with a grain of Missouri dirt", the old man finished. Enthralled I could only nod my head in agreement. Of course, makes sense. I have Missouri dirt inside. That explains why I hate Los Angeles–no affinity to my dirt.

I thought, though, on those moments of fear I felt of the shadowed caves and the deep water; of the time when I was lost in the woods; and the other time when I wouldn't walk into the crack in the ground at Pickle Creek. I didn't want to tell man I was afraid of a little water or a rock formation, but I did tell him I have had moments in the Ozarks when I've been afraid. I asked him wouldn't the land of my soul be a place where I wouldn't be afraid? Where there would be no fear?

"Live in a place without fear? Why would someone want to live in a place without fear," he laughed at the idea.

"What would be the fun of that?"

I'd finished my pop and since it was getting late and I still had a four hour drive home. I thanked the old man, both for the pop and the wonderful story and headed back to my car. Once there, as I was putting my photo pack in the back seat, I noticed that I did have a bottle of water in the bottle pocket. Must be getting old, I thought, to forget I'd brought water.

I started the car and rolled the windows down because it was warm and I wanted to enjoy the smell of green in the air. As I was driving down the lot to the exit, though, I noticed that there were no other cars. I slowed down and stopped and looked carefully around, but couldn't see any other car but mine.

It was just like that time at Elephant Rocks, when I came upon that guy who was stopped by the side of the path, gazing into the quarry pond; except that one told me the story about his dad and quarry mining. On that day, too, I remembered there was no car other than my own in the parking lot when I left.

A cool breeze blew in the open window, causing me to shiver, and I rolled the windows back up.

What would be the fun of that, indeed.

The point along the Katy Trail most recommended is the area around Rocheport, and in particular, the Rocheport Tunnel. This was my goal last week when I left early in the morning to get to the town before the Missouri mid-day heat. But what started out in the heat of day, ended up in the cold, dark reaches of indian lore before this journey was over.

The Rocheport Tunnel is near the town but I wasn't sure which way to head from the parking lot; I picked the direction to my left, which was wrong, of course. However, this stretch of the trail leads by the Missouri and past several handsome limestone cliffs, and the time spent exploring wasn't a waste.

Katy really is a biking trail and I was the only walker among several cyclists out and about. Since the trail is long, I can see why bikes would be handy, but I think the cyclists miss the specialness of this trail by moving along at the faster speeds, view focused ahead on the loose limestone paths. The area around Rocheport is especially rich with character, and I seemed to be the only recipient of its mysteries, as I would stop and peer about at this break in the foliage, that interesting view — forming a kind of movable hazard for the bikers along the way.

Of course the Missouri river's always fun to walk beside, and this is one of the few places along the Katy Trail where both were together rather than being separated by a strip of farmland and trees.

There was a underground stream that broke through the cliff wall at one point, behind some bushes, but you couldn't see it unless you're walking along; leisurely walking along at that, paying attention to your surroundings rather than burning fat on your thighs. When I stopped to check it out more closely, I found an old MKT (Missouri, Kansas, and Texas) Railway mark, sealed into the side of the hill.

In another spot I found a break in the bushes along the side of the trail and a path that led to what looked like an old abandoned stone home that had literally been built into the side of the hill underneath an overhang. Next to it was another split in the wall, and I couldn't help thinking that the place would have to be a natural home for black bear in the winter.

In the winter, yeah, and this is summer and Missouri bears are regular teddies, but I still only went so close to both dwellings. I wouldn't walk up to them, peer in. It wasn't because of the bears, as much as it was that the dwellings had a odd feel to them, and there was no mention of them in any of the Katy Trail guides. Maybe there's a reason and a risk?

Fanciful thoughts that Missouri seems to grow as plentifully as it grows the Green.

As interesting as the trail was, after a while — a hour or so — I realized I went the wrong way and turned back. I killed some time in town, getting an ice tea, chatting with some of the cyclists (finding all sorts of new trails to try, thanks to their suggestions), and finally headed towards the Tunnel.

Of course, the Tunnel is right on the Trail, at the very edge of the town only ten minutes from the parking lot. By this time of day, the weather was hot under the mid-day sun and I was looking forward to the shade of the Tunnel. Still, when I crossed the bridge over the tributory leading to the Missouri, and approached the entrance, I again experienced that same unease and reluctance to enter as I experienced earlier with the stone dwellings.

It wasn't because I was afraid of the dark or the Tunnel — you can see the other end easily, the Tunnel is obviously solid and sound, and people are all about. Nothing to fear, but I had to push myself to enter.

(Using self-taunts of "Big Baby afraid of the dark, eh? Whimp." to goad myself the entire time.)

I figured once I was in, I'd have no problems. I've been in caves and tunnels before, some a lot deeper, darker, and longer than this tunnel. However, I remained uncomfortable the entire time, and kept looking up over my head, behind me, glancing at the sides of the cave out of the corner of my eye.

Have you ever been in a place where you can feel the walls? Not that they're closing in, as you would experience with claustrophobia; they just seem to be there, radiating their existence. I think if I had closed my eyes and held my arms out, I could have walked dead down the center of that Tunnel just by "feeling" the sides of it around me.

The interior was very dark, so I used the flash to take a couple of pictures. No hesitation on using it, what was I going to disturb? Rocks? Stone? There was nothing in the cave. Look at the photo — can you see anything in the cave but rock?

The entrace was rough rock, but the roof of the Tunnel is old hand hewn brick. Considering it's over a hundred years old, the stability of the work is rather impressive. At the other end of the Tunnel, the entrace was cut stone — pretty in fact. I stayed outside to admire it for a while, exploring the other side of the Tunnel. Still, it was hot, and I was tired. Home it was.

Entering the Tunnel was easier going back, but if there had been any way around the Tunnel, I think I would have taken it. Self-taunts aside. Hard to figure, too, because I love tunnels.

There wasn't anyone around returning back through the Tunnel, so I was able to hear the noise easily. Two sounds: the high pitched squeek of a bat and an owl.

The bat didn't surprise me and I figured the flash may have disturbed it. I'm not worried about bats, and have always considered them to be rather cute, but I was surprised by the owl. There are several species of owls in the state, but it's rare that you ever stumble on any of them unless you have a barn, or go walking around in the forest at night. No one goes out walking in the forest at night in Missouri.

The sound of the bat and the owl overcame my nervousness and I quickly entered more deeply into the tunnel, hoping to get a glance of one or the other. As I walked, I examining the ceiling overhead and the rocks at the side, trying to find a crevice big enough for a bird. Nothing,

Just as I started walking under the rough rock portion of the cave I heard a rustle and looking up, I spotted the movement of a bird among the rocks. But it was a pigeon, not an owl, or a bat. A pigeon that landed on a protruding bit of rock leading between the rough portion of the cave and the smooth, almost as if it were a guardian saying, "You've been this way before." Yeah, go back.

Odd that mistake with the sound. I can usually differentiate between a pigeon and a owl, or a pigeon and a bat. Still, I couldn't see anything else, and perhaps the echos in the Tunnel distorted the sound enough to make it sound like an owl.

I was curious about the Tunnel and when I got home, I decided to do a little research into it's history. And what a history that bit of land has.

It would seem that the hill that the Tunnel went through was very well known in the 1800's, and figured prominantely in Lewis and Clark's expedition journals. At that time, the hill was called Manitou Bluff because of the huge cave drawings painted along the sides of the limestone cliffs.

From the Ozark Avalon magazine:

The term Manitou was applied to human-like figures that were included with other images — often with what appeared to be antlers emerging from their heads — in rock paintings, or pictographs, that unknown Native American artists placed on prominent projecting rocks or on the faces of bluffs.
,,,
These Manitou Bluffs, covered as they were with mysterious and undecipherable symbols and images, excited the imaginations of the American, French, and other European travelers who first encountered them. Some of these observers even speculated that the pictograph groups, especially those containing Manitous, were pictorial representations of spiritual concepts held sacred by the unknown Native American artists who inched their way along narrow rock ledges high above the ground to execute their paintings. The observers suspected that the rock paintings marked these cliffs as places particularly favored by a higher spiritual being (or Manitou) and, therefore, invested with sacred powers.

One expedition member, Sergeant John Ordway, wrote:

"We passed a high clifts of Rocks on which was painted the Pickture of the Deavel."

We passed a high clifts of Rocks on which was painted the Pickture of the Deavel…. Picture of the Devil.

During the 1800's the Manitou Bluffs were a common attraction among those that traveled the Missouri river during this golden age of river transportation. This was the era of Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn, with steam boats speeding elegantly past barges and bargemen poling along the sides. Rocheport was a popular destination for these travelers, as well as a trading spot for French trappers, earlier.

Rocheport, or, translated — Rock Port. Rock Port, for the limestone cliffs and the Manitou paintings.

Of course this idyllic era ended in a burst of efficiency when the railway came through at beginning of the 1900's. Railmen didn't see pictographs, or spiritual symbols in the cliffs overlooking Rocheport — they saw a hill that had to be moved through, and move they did. With dynamite and rough pick, the hole was dug, and the pictures, what were considered the best of their kind, were gone.

Drawings were made of the pictographs before they were destroyed. According to the Ozark Avalon:

Future generations are lucky that Teubner made his drawings when he did, for a devastating chapter in the Manitou Bluffs saga was about to take place in the form of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas (Katy) Railroad, which began in 1892 to construct its St. Louis branch along the north side of the river. Construction crews showed no mercy for the aboriginal landmarks that had so fascinated early adventurers. As much as a hundred tons of bluff rock could be brought down with a single charge of powerful explosives. If any trace of the pictographs at Big Moniteau Creek were still visible when the railroad blasted its tunnel through the bluff at Rocheport, none has been seen since. A decade later, the Missouri Pacific built its line on the south side of the river and in the process may have destroyed all or a portion of the Little Manitou Rock. There have been no observations of the Little Manitou pictograph since Duke Paul wrote about seeing it in 1823. Not only did the railroads sound the death knell for the golden era of river transportation but they probably also literally destroyed some of the most mysterious human traces of a vanished age — the strange symbols that had excited the imagination of many river wanders who are themselves now part of a lost and romantic era.

I tried to locate the name of the people that made the drawings, but there was no identification of tribe with the descriptions of the rocks. At the time, though, the Osage land overlapped from Oklahoma into Missouri, and there's a good chance it was Osage. This makes sense, the Osage are a very spiritual people, and they are identified with other pictographs in the area.

Coming from a town that bordered the Colville Indian Reservation, meeting other people from other tribes over time, I've always been fascinated and interested in Native American lore and culture. The Osage are probably one of the most fascinating of the tribes, with a rich heritage and significant history. Other tribes feared them because they were a cunning people, capable warriers, and tall — most averaging 6 feet in height, and this during a time when average heights were about 5 1/2 feet.

Though pushed about by the long knives, the white man, as with other tribes, the Osage held its own more than others. Additionally, as I said earlier, they are a very spiritual people with fascinating stories and legends surviving through the ages. Among the many Osage beliefs is that of little people. Supernatural spirits.

Of course, coming from Irish ancestory, I know the little people, and I'm sure you do also, coming from whatever people you call your own. Mine were friendly and mischevious, jokers, pranksters but with no real harm to them. However, the same cannot be said for the Osage Little People, all of whom were Osage who died without paint, and without honor. They were the mialuschka, the Lost Souls.

The Osage Little People are treated with both respect and fear because unlike friendly spirits, they are vindictive, dangerous, even deadly. They walk the earth hungry and full of hatred for their unsettled state and they would like nothing better than to add to their ranks from among those they consider their prey. This would include any who desecrate their holy lands — burial and other ceremonial lands. Lands that Osage shaman would sometimes paint with great big pictures, of Manitou and other creatures.

The Little People might be content with playing a prank, or scaring their Prey. They might spoil food, or chase a skunk into a home. But their pranks could become deadly — trees falling on a windless day, or rocks falling down from a cliff with no creatures present. If the Little People were very angry, the Prey would have to get a blessing from a Shaman, and even then, that would sometimes not be enough to turn aside their wrath.

The thing with the Little People, only an Osage Shaman can sense their presence — a Shaman or the sometimes the Prey themselves. If you were such a one you might see them as indians dressed in the native costume of the time. Hair shaved into a mohawk, blanket wrapped, face without paint. Dead eyes, burning with the light of night.

Sometimes, though, you won't see the Little People as people, but they're still about. They have another guise, that of a bird. An owl to be exact. And you'll know they're around you, when they're looking at you, when they've spotted you as prey, when you hear the owl's song.