Descendents of Floyd & Grace Lytle

Ken Thompson's Unofficial Medicine Lodge Website

This page is devoted to stories about things that happened in the Gyp Hills. Some of them may be true and some of them may not be true. You be the judge. Table of Contents Talking with William There ain't no gold in them Gyp Hills The Early Dwellings at the Medicine River Read this story first to understand the story about the Cavalry. The Cavalry comes to town The Great Blizzard of '71 Medicine Lodge needs Buffalo Bill! Deacon Jim How Willie the Cripple Got His Nickname The Chestnut Mare Every chance I get, I'll publish a new Tall Tales of the Gyp Hills story, so check back often. January, 2007: The Day Muck-Muck Got His Wish

(Webmaster's note: This story is set in the future, but it is NOT Science Fiction. Those of you who don't like Science Fiction can read on ahead without worrying about aliens or ray guns or space travel.
This is a very dark and disturbing story. Some of you may not want to read it at all.)

As Muck-Muck pulled his pickup into the shallow river crossing, he thought about his Indian name and Indian heritage. He imagined himself as a great warrior of the Comanche tribe who rode alongside the great Chief Ten Bears. He was an excellent horseman and could do a barrel race in 7 minutes without falling off his horse. In high school in the white man year 2010 he had won an award in the Medicine Lodge Little Britches Rodeo. It was only when he was day dreaming, which his mother said happened all the time, when Muck-Muck would make mistakes like falling off his horse. Momentarily the pickup started to stall in the river water, and he remembered to push in the clutch. He hated clutches and wanted an automatic, but this pickup was all that was left. All the good ones were taken by the white man in the great rush to the coast.

When he was a little boy, his mother used to tell him of the Mitigawi Indian tribe in the area of the great lakes, 300 years ago. She would tell him of how the Mitigawi met the Frenchmen, and the Frenchmen named the area Minnesota in their strange language. But during the story, his mother would always turn sad, because she never got to learn the language of the Mitigawi. Her parents wanted her to fit in with the other children and only English was allowed. As an adult, she named her son Muck-Muck, a proud name from the Mitigawi tribe.

Sometimes Muck-Muck's mother would talk of his father. She always said he was a French fur trapper, but Muck-Muck always thought of his father as a great Arapaho chief. His father left when Muck-Muck was a little boy and all that Muck-Muck could remember was that his father was born in the white man's year of 1950. There were rumors that the white man took Muck-Muck's father away, but he could never find the proof.

Muck-Muck jerked as his cell phone rang and broke him out of his dream. He was surprised that it still worked, since most of the towers were gone now and there was very little reception available. In fact, he had heard that most of the phone companies had already closed and left the continent. He knew it was the white men who had closed the phone companies. The white man had caused all of his problems.

"Muck-Muck, when will you get home?" It was the voice of his wife on the phone.

"I'm surprised the phone still works. I'm crossing the river now at the shallow spot. The pickup is doing fine in the water. Have you heard if there is any gas left in town?" Muck-Muck answered.

"The Ouachita tribe in Oklahoma took over a phone tower and they've been keeping it going even though the white men tried to take the tower down. The tribe captured the oil wells and refinery in Oklahoma and they're trying to get gas to all the people in Kiowa and at the Medicine Creek."

"That's a relief! I don't know how long this pickup will last on this tank of gas. I will be home in half an hour. Love you." and he hung up. As the pickup pulled up out of the water onto the riverbank, he looked down the river at the bridge that the white man blew up with dynamite. He remembered the day the white man, the farmer, pulled his plow down the highway, splitting up the asphalt and making it impassable, and at the last minute, the farmer threw a stick of dynamite under the bridge, yelling something about damn liberals.

It was always the white man causing the problems, Muck-Muck thought to himself. They came and they captured the land. In the white man year of 1867, the white man fooled the native americans into thinking that life would be better if they would sign the Peace Treaty of Medicine Creek. Muck-Muck knew the place well, where the Elm Creek poured into the Medicine River. And he had gone into the Medicine Creek in his swimming suit and didn't like the red water, but he knew from the great stories of the Plains Indians that the water had healing powers. Sometimes he thought he wasn't following the beliefs of the Plains Indians close enough, and if he could only learn the ways and live the ways of the Plains Indians, then the water would show its healing powers.

Suddenly he jerked and broke from his thoughts as he saw a buffalo grazing along the rubble that used to be the truck stop on the four lane highway of Medicine Lodge. From this distance he couldn't see the brand, but he knew the buffalo had to be from the Z-bar ranch. He let out a big sigh of happiness at the thought of buffalo freely roaming the plains again. In a few years the herds would be big enough to start hunting them, eating the meat, and using the hides to build teepees, just like the great Plains Indians. He wished he had a rifle, but all the guns were taken away a decade ago by the White House. He remembered the fights over gun control, and that a few people were even shot in the struggle between the white men, and the group called Republicans were put in prisons when they would not give up their guns. Many of those men were dead now.

Again Muck-Muck awoke from his daydream as he turned the pickup around the rubble. It reminded him of the Pizza Hut, and the car wash, and the discount store. They were all piles of rubble, blown up by the white man. It was against the law to have dynamite, but somehow the white men and the farmers and their wives and the hunters and workers and oilmen had blown the buildings up with dynamite. They would drive their huge green tractors down the road with a plow down in the asphalt, trying to make the road impassable, yelling about the damn liberals. As he came up to the railroad tracks, the fire was still burning at what used to be a gas station. The railroad tracks were bent up like pieces of bailing wire. Muck-Muck turned the pickup right, and realized that the bridge was gone. The creek was too deep and there was no way to cross. For a moment Muck-Muck became angry, because after the white man blew up the bridge, he would always have to go back to where the highway 160 used to be. It was rubble too, from a big green tractor, but the tribe had worked hard with the few pickups and machinery left, to clear a pathway to get pickups up the hill to go into their settlement at the Medicine Creek.

He could see a faded green pickup on the slope, and realized it was his friend Bill from the tribe. He pulled up and got out to talk. "What's wrong, Bill?" he asked.

"It's not Bill anymore. I hate the white man, and now that we have our land, I'm going to go by my true name from the tribe, Running Eagle. My truck made a loud crashing noise and quit. It won't start and now the battery is dead. Do you know how to fix a truck?"

"Just a few things, not a whole lot." Muck-Muck replied. He got into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine would not spin and the starter clicked. "This sounds really bad. The engine is locked up. Maybe you broke a rod. Get in my pickup and I'll take you home. I've got carpenter tools but we'll have to go scavenging for mechanic's tools if you want to try to fix it."

Running Eagle shrugged and reached in behind the seat of the pickup. He pulled out a recurve bow and a quiver of several arrows. "Today I found a farmhouse that was not blown up. I went inside and found this bow and arrows. I'm going to learn to shoot it!" he said as he pulled back on the bow. He let go of the string, and the string scraped across the inner side of his elbow, tearing his shirt and leaving a deep scrape on his arm. "Damn those white men! I'm so glad they're gone!" he yelled out of pain and anger as his arm started to bleed.

Muck-Muck got in his pickup, and Running Eagle winced as he put his bow and arrows behind the seat and got in on the passenger side. The truck started, and they slowly moved up the slope. On one side they could see the old barn that had been there for decades and had finally caved in. On the other side was the rubble of some old buildings. They knew the buildings as a beerjoint, but someone had told them that many years ago it was a gas station and a restaurant. It was all rubble now thanks to the illegal dynamite. Farther up the slope, they saw what was left of a large truck stop. The fire was almost gone but they remembered the night the white man set it on fire and the flames reached a hundred feet into the sky. There were several old cars in the back, that were all burned out when they caught on fire too. It made Muck-Muck angry because if there was one thing they would need now it would be a gas station and extra cars.

As they crossed over the top of the hill, they could see the stockade. It was still there. Muck-Muck still didn't understand why the farmers plowed up the road, and blew up all the buildings, but left the stockade. It was just a shell of a museum, from the days when the white man would make the Plains Indians dance as they paraded down main street in a celebration about the Peace Treaty of Medicine Creek. Muck-Muck was so embarassed, and angered the way the white man treated his people. But he had revenge. Now the land belonged to its rightful owner, the Plains Indians.

With each few feet of travel, Muck-Muck had to pull around the piles of rubble from the ripped up road, and the blown up and burned out buildings along the road, or what used to be the road. More anger built up in his mind. At the corner of what the white man called Main Street and highway 160, Muck-Muck pulled his pickup up to the only house that was still standing. There were several old pickups parked around the house, and he could see several people of the tribe in the back yard. As Muck-Muck got out of the pickup and walked up to the tribe, he could tell there was lots of eager talk. He realized suddenly that there was a radio playing.

"Muck-Muck, come quick! We have news! Little Johnny Bull found batteries in the rubble of the pharmacy today and we put them in the radio! There is a station from Oklahoma with news!"

Muck-Muck and Running Eagle smiled as they listened to the radio announcer: "People of the Arapaho, Comanche, Cheyenne, Kiowa, and all the tribes, we have captured a power station and the radio transmitter. We have electricity! We are located in the Ouachita mountains of Oklahoma. We have food and drinkable water. We have buildings with beds and blankets and medicine and supplies. We ask all tribes to come to the Ouachita mountains for survival."

Muck-Muck turned sad as he realized the bad news. "It's 200 miles to the Ouachita mountains. We don't have enough gas to drive there. The white man killed all the horses when they left. All we can do is walk."

Muck-Muck's daughter tugged on the tail of his coat. "Daddy, I have to go poddy. When will you fix the bathroom?"

"I told you, there is no running water. Go behind a tree." The little girl started crying.

Muck-Muck's wife walked up and gave him a stern look. "It was your idea to vote for the Liberals! Now look at what we have to live with!" She walked away mad. She stopped, turned and looked at Muck-Muck and said, "Maybe we were better off with the white man." Muck-Muck's face turned red with rage as he ran to his wife and slapped her.

"Don't you ever say that again!" he screamed with rage. She ran into the house crying. "Those damn white men!" he screamed loud enough to drown out the radio.

Just as he stopped yelling, the radio announcer said: "The indian nations have risen again! The Liberal Party gave us our land back! Come to the Ouachita mountains to get food and supplies and medical help."

The anger relented and Muck-Muck realized what he must do. He stepped up on the porch, and raised his voice, and said, "People of the tribe, we must prepare for the night. Soon it will be dark and we will see the sky as our ancestors saw it, before the white man's light. We must sleep. We have a long journey to make to the Ouachita mountains!"

The tribe chanted, "Three cheers for Muck-Muck!"

A few men pulled up some logs and started building a campfire. An old lady stood up and spoke. "Muck-Muck, I'm 85 years old. My car was burned up by the white man. How will I make the trip to the Ouachita mountains?"

Muck-Muck looked down to the ground and scratched his forehead. "I don't know. We don't have enough gas. The gods of our ancestors will show us the way. We must sleep now."

A young man with a bandanna around his head spoke up. "Muck-Muck, I think we were better off with the white man here. What kind of life is this, living in rubble, sleeping on the ground, with no food or water?"

"Shut up!" Muck-Muck yelled. "This is how it should be! Don't you see, the white man spoiled us with his gadgets and now we have returned to our roots."

A young woman spoke up, "But I don't want to live in a teepee, sleeping on the ground, with no running water, no heat! I don't like riding horses!"

Another young man spoke up and said, "There aren't any more horses. The white man brought them here when he came 300 years ago, and he took them away or killed them, when he left last week. Medicine Lodge used to have horses everywhere, but I can't find a single one now."

Muck-Muck's rage seethed again, "Don't you ever call this place by those white man words! This is Medicine Creek, the settlement at Medicine Creek, not Medicine Lodge!" He could feel the blood rushing through his veins. He realized that he would have to regain his composure and be a good leader. "Listen, I'll tell you the story once again. This is how our people got the land back that was stolen away by the white man. This is our future. You all remember," he stood tall and told the group the story, "in the elections of 2006 the Liberals took control of the government. And in the elections of 2008 the Liberals took control of the White House. After that, the Liberals formed the Liberal Party, and won every election for the next 12 years. Remember the fights that broke out because the Conservatives said we should fight the wars? There were white men with guns trying to shoot down the white men in the Liberal Party! It was wonderful! And remember when the Liberal Party made the law to allow the gays to marry, and all the fights that started between the white men? Remember when the Liberal Party made it against the law to have Christian churches? All the white men were so angry and there was murder in the streets! This was the best thing we could hope for, to have white men killing white men! Remember how the Liberal Party made a new law of gun control? Remember the night the Liberals went all across the country and took away all the guns? They were so good to us, taking away the guns from the people who had stolen our land away. There were thousands of white men killed because they would not give up their guns, and those that weren't killed were put in prisons. Do you remember our victory day? The day we stormed the capital and forced the Liberals to give us back the land? It was the greatest day in 300 years! Remember how the tribes of indians from all over the continent rose up, and took the Liberals hostage? And we told them to leave. We told them we wanted our land back! And all those Liberals turned coward and ordered all the white men to leave the country. That was when the farmers blew everything up. I remember, the farmers who called themselves Conservatives and Republicans, saying that if they had to leave, they were going to take it all with them. The white man brought the horse, the white man took it with him when he left. The white man brought cars and pollution, the white man took the cars with him when he left. The white man brought houses, the white man destroyed the houses when he left."

Muck-Muck could feel the rage in his veins as he told the story. "Now, we have returned to our greatness. We will live like our ancestors, the proud Plains Indians."

The young man with the bandanna spoke up, "I don't need all this B.S. I want my rap music, my parachute pants and my Cadillac. I don't want no f**k*ng teepee and sleeping on the ground and trying to take a sh!t in the cold and snow! I ain't riding no horse and shootin' no bow and arrow at the buffalo! Dammit, there ain't no toilet paper anymore!"

"Get out of here and don't you ever come back!" Muck-Muck yelled, wishing he had a gun.

"Don't you worry 'cause I don't want no part of this B.S.!" The young man flipped his middle finger at Muck-Muck and walked off into the darkness.

"You just don't understand! We're not slaves anymore! The white men are gone! For 300 years we've been slaves and now we've got our land back and the white men are gone and we can live like we're supposed to live!" Muck-Muck yelled in desperation into the darkness in the direction the young man had gone.

"What's this vibration? The ground's vibrating?" Muck-Muck said. He could feel the ground vibrating. The old lady jumped up and ran off into the darkness.

"It's an earthquake!" somebody yelled.

"Daddy, I'm scared!" Muck-Muck's daughter cried. Muck-Muck picked her up and held her as he felt the ground vibrating more and more. In the faint light of the campfire, he saw what was coming. A huge buffalo bull, leading the herd, came charging at Muck-Muck. The little girl screamed, and she couldn't hold her poddy any more, and let it go all over her daddy's leg. The huge buffalo bull trampled Muck-Muck and his daughter, and the rest of the herd followed through the back yard of the house, trampling the tribe. Muck-Muck's wish came true. He lived like his ancestors and died like his ancestors.

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