BOUNTY HUNTERS

Alias Smith and Jones - or Rogers and Cameron

 

      BAM, BAM, BAM! ….. BAM, BAM, BAM!!! …. “What the ….?””Who the ….?” BAM, BAM, BAM, again! Our flimsy trailer door rattled with every insistent pound. It was after 11 p.m. and well past the time Elders should be in bed. I rolled out of my cozy sleeping bag on the couch, felt my way to the door, opened it a crack and peeked out. There stood our Crownpoint LDS Branch President. “Mission messenger service with an urgent request for Elder Cameron,” he said with a smile.

      By now Elder Cameron was coming out of the bedroom, almost awake. “It seems your Elders in Thoreau have gone off the grid,” continued the Branch President. “They won’t answer letters or return phone calls from the Mission President. He wants you to drive over there first thing in the morning and see what’s going on. That’s it. Message delivered. Now I’m going home to bed!”  He then added, “Aren’t you lucky, Elder Cameron. You’re the District Leader and responsible for the Elders and Sisters in your District.” And with a playful salute he disappeared into the night. “Will do! Message received!” Elder Cameron called after him.

      The Senior Companion in Thoreau was an exuberant, outgoing soul from Trinidad. Not answering letters or phone calls from the Mission President was definitely out of character! President Baird was a well-respected spiritual leader. When he made a request we went out of our way to make it happen. 

Red cliffs of Thoreau, New Mexico

              Early the next morning we were up and out the door eager to help solve the mystery. Thoreau was 30 miles south of Crownpoint. Thirty miles of real paved road winding its way out of the hills and canyons, and T-boning into Route 66, the famous east-west highway from Chicago to Santa Monica, California. It wasn’t long before we turned off the pavement and bounced our way into the small reservation settlement. What a beautiful location, with green fields bumping up against red sandstone cliffs. As we approached the elders’ small trailer there were no obvious signs of activity. Their truck was gone and a padlock hung from the trailer’s door latch. Hmm, what now? Where do we begin our search?

An old house 1960's trailer near Thoreau.

      The Trading Post was always a great place to start. Traders usually knew everyone in their small community. When we asked him if he had seen the Mormon Elders recently he said that they had stopped by earlier to gas up their truck. “Did they say anything about where they were headed?” we asked. “I heard them talking about going to Albuquerque,” he replied. “Do you know anyone nearby who might know the nature of their trip?” we continued. “The LDS Branch President works at the Elementary school down the road. Maybe he can help you out,” he said. Then wishing us good luck the trader turned to help a customer.

Old Trading Post at Thoreau, New Mexico

      Our conversation with the Thoreau Branch president was eye opening to say the least! The Elders had basically given up doing missionary work a couple of weeks ago. Since then they had been hanging out with a lady and her young son. The Branch President had been concerned enough to alert the Mission President but the situation hadn’t changed. When we asked him about the Elders’ trip to Albuquerque he just smiled and shook his head. The Elders had become this lady’s personal taxi service. If it wasn’t Albuquerque, it was Gallup, Grants, Window Rock, or anywhere she wanted them to take her. The Mission rules clearly stated that missionaries were not to leave their area without permission.

      As we left the Branch President it was easy to see why President Baird was so concerned. In the silence that followed we both had the same thought, “What do we do now?” We could stay in Thoreau and wait for them to return. However, I pointed out that Albuquerque was over a hundred miles away and they most likely wouldn’t be back until late that evening.

City of Albuquerque, New Mexico. 1960s.

     Elder Cameron didn’t respond. He was staring in the direction of Albuquerque, stroking his chin, deep in thought. He suddenly grabbed my arm and announced, “We’re going to Albuquerque!” “Really?” I questioned. Drive a hundred miles and find them in a city of over three hundred thousand people? It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. “Jump in the truck, time is wasting!” Elder Cameron insisted in his most authoritative voice. “We’ll find the runaways and send them back to their area where they belong!” I thought to myself that it sounded a bit crazy, but he was the District Leader and must know something I didn’t.

Historic Route 66. New Mexico.

      The tires on our pickup truck hummed as we raced mile after mile eastward on Route 66. I hadn’t driven on this much paved road since I left home over a year ago. As we cruised along I tried to engage Elder Cameron in conversation about the “good old days” and our escapades at BY High, but it was like talking to a brick wall. He was totally focused on the task at hand. He was in the “Sherlock Zone.”

Acoma Pueblo, New Mexico.

      We passed several pueblo villages as we sped along. The Navajo Reservation was far behind us now. We had left it shortly after turning onto Route 66. After what seemed like hours of driving we finally crested the last hill and began the long descent into the big city. There sat Albuquerque spreading out for miles beneath the Sandia mountain range. Albuquerque, home of the University of New Mexico and their Lobo athletic teams.

City of Albuquerque, New Mexico, situated at the base of the Sandia mountain range.

      We worked our way through the crowded streets like hunting dogs hot on the trail. Where could they be? “Where would we be?” we asked ourselves. At a restaurant, we theorized, searching for great food, the kind you couldn’t find on the reservation. So where was the gourmet food district? Strangely, our question was answered almost immediately by a gas station attendant as he filled up our tank.

El Pinto Restaurant. Albuquerque, New Mexico.

       Fifteen minutes later we were cruising past the best dining establishments Albuquerque had to offer. Our eagle eyes squinted into parking lots surrounding the eateries. Time passed with no luck. Finding them was really a long shot. If they were nearby it shouldn’t be that hard to spot a mission truck with its shiny aluminum camper shell! We resorted to entering each parking lot to take a closer look. Still no luck. Just as we were beginning to doubt our course of action – miracle of miracles – there it was: a mission truck parked in the shadow of the finest upscale smorgasbord in town. On closer inspection our suspicions were confirmed. Pay dirt!

       The delicious aromas surrounding the restaurant were tempting me, but that wasn't why we were here. Our search was almost at an end. Stepping inside we began scanning the customers. "Over there!" Elder Cameron gestured. Sitting in a padded booth, laughing and enjoying plates loaded with every delicious tidbit known to man were the two delinquent Elders and their two guests, the lady and her young son. 

       Elder Cameron politely called the two Elders aside and wasted no words laying down the law. He then abruptly marched them to the nearest payphone and called the Mission Home. It took a few minutes before President Baird was on the line. After explaining the situation Elder Cameron handed the phone to the Senior Companion and said, “President Baird would like to speak with you.”

President, J. Edwin Baird. LDS Southwest Indian Mission.

      As it turned out they were instructed to return immediately to Thoreau, pack their bags and hustle their buns to the mission home in Holbrook, Arizona. There they would have a frank discussion with President Baird himself about keeping the mission rules. After they finished their meals, we escorted them to the edge of town where they began the long uphill climb out of Albuquerque, embarrassed, their pride wounded, and their tails dragging. Hopefully President Bard could help them refocus on missionary work.  

      Assignment completed! “What now, Elder Cameron?” I prodded. Following a thoughtful pause he spoke up. “Well, we can’t leave town without stuffing ourselves at that smorgasbord. The food looked incredible. But first I have to call my dad.” “What? Call your dad in Utah?” “No,” Elder Cameron reluctantly replied. “He’s here in town for the BYU–New Mexico football game.” “Your dad’s here in town? Right now? Today?" You’ve got to be kidding? I thought to myself.

Hotel Albuquerque - Old Town. Albuquerque, New Mexico.

      Back at the smorgasbord we stuffed ourselves to near bursting, before leaving to meet Elder Cameron’s dad at the team’s luxurious hotel. He was the Dean of Students at Brigham Young University and often traveled with the team. We visited for some time with Dean Cameron and his entourage. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two VIP tickets to the big game. Well glory be! He just happened to have two extra tickets for the best seats in the stadium and here we were, two missionaries in Albuquerque, only 130 miles from our area. What incredible luck! The Lobos were BYU’s arch enemies! I’d watched the two schools battle it out for years.

University of New Mexico Lobos football helmet

Brigham Young University Cougars football helmet

      Well, as Paul Harvey would have said, “Now for the rest of the story.” I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard Elder Cameron regretfully inform his dad that in good conscience we couldn’t accept the tickets. We had come to Albuquerque at the request of our mission president and going to the game would be bad form. It was getting late and we had a long drive ahead of us. For a brief moment, Elder Cameron stood tall basking in his proud father's approval. It was obvious Dean Cameron admired his son's integrity. Loving goodbyes were exchanged. Turning to me Dean Cameron said he would call my parents when he got back to Provo and let them know he had visited with us in Albuquerque and all was well.

Dean J. Elliott Cameron

      As I pressed down on the gas pedal, accelerating up the long hill out of Albuquerque, I couldn’t help smiling. It was strange how things went down. Yup, very strange! The saying "Killing two birds with one stone" kept running through my mind. This would be a great story to tell someday. Ah, the irony, the irony!

GRAVE DIGGERS

Pinewood Coffin.

        “Throw down that heavy bar!” I yelled up to Elder Cameron. “I need something to break up this  rock.”

      Why would anyone choose to put a cemetery in this God forsaken spot? It was a rock quarry from Hades. We had been digging away since first light. Now it was mid afternoon and we were still at it. The late August sun had been beating down on us all day. Purgatory couldn’t be any hotter! “Doing service should have its limits,” I silently thought to myself.

Blazing sun beating down.

      “I think we are about seven feet deep!” I called up to Bruce. “Oops! I mean Elder Cameron.” Bruce and I had been good friends in High School and now we were missionary companions digging graves on the Navajo Reservation. The irony was overwhelming. Bruce had written me over a year ago, expounding on the discomforts of digging graves and getting stuck in the mud. And now here we were, tag team partners digging graves together in Crownpoint, New Mexico. With thousands of missionaries and hundreds of missions, what were the chances?

Grave digging with a shovel.

      The only way we could continue digging deeper was to scoop up the rock chips with a small shovel, then lift the heavy bucket filled with rubble above our heads and hopefully into the hands of a waiting companion. While holding the bucket up high I began to feel light headed, a bit dizzy. I think the heat and lack of water were getting to me. You might say, I was losing it!

Crownpoint Cemetery. New Mexico.

       “Why are WE doing the digging, rather than the funeral party’s relatives?” I asked myself. Oh, that’s right – “superstition.” Fortunately for the deceased’s family, they had recently accepted the gospel, but unfortunately for the missionaries they still clung to a few superstitions such as digging graves and touching dead bodies.

      Even now the two sister missionaries assigned to Crownpoint were in the basement of the small rock-walled hospital dressing the body of the deceased woman. No doubt she would look great for tomorrow’s funeral service at the LDS chapel.

Gravel side of a freshly dug grave.

      Several months earlier I personally witnessed superstitions concerning the dead. After completing the grave site formalities the wooden casket was slowly being lowered into the deep hole.  Holding the ends of two heavy ropes, four strong men (two on each side of the grave) used extreme caution, carefully balancing the coffin as they eased it slowly downward.

      Suddenly, without warning, the gravel sides of the hole gave way sending the casket crashing to the bottom, followed close behind by all four men who landed in a tangled heap on top of one another. This may sound a bit irreverent, but the scene that followed was total chaos. Tumbling into an open grave and landing on top of a pine coffin was the worst thing that could possibly happen. It was unthinkable, an experience nightmares are made of!

      In an effort to escape the men in the deep hole were frantically jumping about in a desperate attempt to reach the outstretched arms of those trying to help. Unfortunately the gravel sides continued to collapse sending some of the unsuspecting helpers into the abyss. The screams of those witnessing the event and the mad scramble that ensued was almost comical. As an outsider it reminded me of the old Keystone Cops silent movies. As we watched the chaotic scene unfold, my companion and I struggled to maintain a dignified composure. Eventually ropes were used to extract the funeral victims and with great joy the problem was finally resolved. I’m sure a local shaman was called to assist in the cleansing process. Ah, those hard to shake superstitions!

Looking up from deep in a grave.

      Now where was I? Oh yes, at the bottom of a deep grave, delirious with impending sun stroke. Elder Cameron and I finally finished up work at the cemetery, the Sisters did their part beautifully, and the funeral service the next day went off without a hitch.

Crownpoint, New Mexico.

      You wouldn’t think that being assigned to Crownpoint, only 30 miles south of Whiterock, would have been a big change – but it was. Crownpoint was the cultural center of the southeast corner of the Reservation. There was a Bureau of Indian Affairs office and a very old rock hospital with minimal services (probably built soon after the Long Walk); a road service center sporting a dump truck, loader and a couple of graders, and, of yes, I can’t forget the one gas station! Hallelujah, hallelujah! No more hauling of 50 gallon drums of gasoline.

Windstorm and lone stop sign in Crownpoint, New Mexico. 1965.

      To put things in perspective, the town’s streets were almost all dirt roads with a few exceptions found around government buildings and housing areas. We did have one stop sign right next to the official post office. Crownpoint did have a trading post, but unlike the one in Lake Valley, it served mainly as a community grocery and convenience store where one could find fresh fruit and vegetables, along with some hardware items. Directly across the road from our LDS Chapel was a handy dandy laundromat. Chances were, if you used it, your clothes would come out dirtier than when they went in, especially after a previous patron had just washed their grimy saddle blankets, etc.

Current Crownpoint Elementary School, NM, with the familiar yellow school buses.

      The most notable difference was the number of children. Everywhere you looked there were kids, and more kids. This small town enjoyed the luxury of a public elementary school to which kids were bussed a considerable distance from the nearby communities of Burrego Pass, Dalton Pass, and Coyote Canyon. The town also had Government Boarding schools for both Elementary and Junior High students living away from home. The town’s population of about 200 adults was made up primarily of Native Americans, most of whom worked at the schools or for other services provided by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. 

Crowpoint LDS Chapel. 1965.

      One of the biggest changes was having our own chapel with a cultural hall and basketball hoops. For the Elders this was big deal! Even better, we had LDS adults who ran the Branch and took charge of church meetings. In addition to proselyting, the Elders and Sisters worked in support positions in the Branch, mostly teaching and conducting activities for the youth. Working with the youth was one of the most enjoyable parts of my mission!

Elder Rogers' Primary class with a bobcat skin. LDS Chapel, Crownpoint, NM. 1965.

      Elder Cameron and I lived in an old trailer next to the chapel. Wow! Indoor plumbing and electricity. How had I lived without these? From time to time, though, I missed the charms of the simple, rustic life I had led in the wilds of Whiterock. It was hard to beat the hot artesian shower.

Current view of the Elders' home in old abandoned trading post in Whiterock, NM. 2012.

      The Sister missionaries lived in a much nicer trailer close to the government housing area. Since there were no restaurants in town it was wonderful to have two Polynesian Sisters who loved to surprise us with tasty, mouth-watering “Island cuisine.” Not that they didn’t owe us big time for all the occasions when we dug their van out of the mud. They seemed to have a knack for finding the worst spots to get stuck! But, all in all, I was looking forward to the new experiences Crownpoint held in store. 

Elder Rogers digging the Sister Missionaries' van out of the mud. 1965.

SNEAK PREVIEW: THE BISHOP’S DOG

        As a youngster I had plugged a few hairy mutts with my Daisy Red Rider. They had been out roaming the neighborhood, up to no good, squatting and lifting their hind legs, then laughing as they worked their way down the street looking for the next nicely kept yard. So, I felt no guilt using my BB gun to encourage them on their way. After being stung they would turn, look back smugly with a dog-lipped smirk as if to say, “Ha. That didn’t hurt a bit!”     
       

        Years later I was a little surprised at how the “Bishop’s Dog” events unfolded. Our small rental home sat adjacent to our bishop’s nice but modest home. No fences, no problem, so I thought. At the time our city had not invested in deluxe plastic garbage containers. So we fared the best we could with the old aluminum trash cans, much to the delight of the local canine population. Our two young kids, Chaunine and Mike still in diapers, were pooping up a storm. By garbage day the aluminum cans out back were filled to the brim with disposables and their ghastly contents.

Classic old metal garbage can.

        One morning while getting ready for work, I spotted white objects scattered over our back yard. On closer investigation I found one of our aluminum trash cans turned over and gross garbage spread across the entire back lawn. The beast that had done this had really enjoyed himself. Each stinking diaper had been ripped open leaving its soggy remains everywhere. What a mess! Picking up the foul crap made my insides boil. I swore this would not happen again! But it did.

        We tightened the lids and even weigh them down with cement blocks. Weeks went by with no problem, but then – surprise, surprise. The phantom mutt had taken up the challenge. The disgusting mess was back, worse than ever. This needed to come to an abrupt halt. A good sting in the butt might just discourage the perpetrator. I went shopping for a BB gun. A handsome Daisy pistol caught my eye. A plan was taking shape. I removed the screen from the bathroom window above the tub. From that vantage point I could survey the entire back yard. Locked and loaded, I placed the BB pistol behind the curtain on the window sill. I was ready for action. Of course nothing happened. The creature must have been on to me.

        Weeks went by and then, early one morning while shaving, I heard the garbage can fall over. The beast was back. As quietly as possible I crept to the tub, straddled it, and picked up the pistol. In the dim light of early morning, there it was, caught in the act of ripping. Suddenly it stopped, lifted its head and began sniffing the air. Finding my scent it turned towards me and for the briefest moment our eyes met. Then it was off, sprinting across the yard, making its getaway. “Not this time,” I thought. With BB pistol in hand, sights lined up, the barrel followed the bounding intruder. Ping! The shot was off. 

        “YEOWWW!” The dog released a painful howl and leaped high, pawing at the air. Then in a flash it was gone, scrambling around the corner. Mission accomplished! Maybe our yard would no longer be on its hit list.

        That evening I was relaxing comfortably in my easy chair when my wife returned from Relief Society in tears. “Someone shot the Bishop’s dog! They think it might be paralyzed,” she cried with concern. “Who would do a thing like that!” Needless to say I lovingly consoled her and then ditched the incriminating evidence. 

        Time passed and the Bishop’s dog miraculously recovered from what turned out to be a minor flesh wound. And to our joy our garbage can was never molested again. But from that point on each time I met with the Bishop he would pause during our conversation and look deep into my eyes with his penetrating gaze. I had to wonder, “Does he know? Does he really know who shot his dog? Is he expecting me to ‘fess up?” Not a chance! After all, it was HIS dog that had terrorized the neighborhood.

Victory!