Stone Amnesty

Issaquah, a forced hobbling of the native word Squak after the sound that many birds living in the area made on the shoreline of the Sammamish lake. For years real growth and prosperity chose other paths when it came to the sleepy unincorporated town of Issaquah.  The First Nation people who had lived there gradually moved away more by displacement than actual force. The mountainsides grew steadily more diluted over the coming years. Tiger mountain’s stripes faded as coal was removed. Cougar Mountain’s mass of fir becoming thinner and matted. Lumber mills stocks were responsible now for giving the north slope of the Tiger the local nickname of Mount Baldy. Another small humiliation, but the views from the old cat’s forehead were remarkable. Now and then, the craggy fellow noted the tiny fools leaping off her in paragliders like so much springtime dandelion fluff.

Ages past insignificant to rock Squak valley on the Sammamish shore had gone from hunting grounds to a plantation of hops. The spirits that rested there now contained in bottles. Salmon still swam the beaches and streams come late spring, urgent as they were to explore and grow fat in the coming years when they fled and late fall when they returned to share stories of the wild near beyond before they expired. One of the few constants that the bald Tiger could rely upon for news beyond its feet.

People came, but the hard, immobile will of the rock kept the town small. A bit of layered subconscious flex of will convinced men tucked away in Seattle that maybe a railroad out this direction was not so important. Eventually, it came anyway, but an excuse was always found to keep the line running small.

Ultimately foreign to the toes they now occupied, it was discouraging for the old stanchion at the double standard they applied to new folks moving in.

***

The Quong Chong & Company had worked a deal with the Wold Brothers. The price of hops had sunk to record lows.  Ingebright and Lars agreed that at the current rate of expected pay, they were to give the settlers and Natives it would be cheaper if they were just to set their crops to burn.

Lars thought the piney smell would be pleasant if they went such a route, but while he craved pleasant aromas, he craved them keeping the farm more.

The directors of the Company knew that many of their people from Yesler’s sawmill or the nearby coal mines would see that opportunity to pick hops as a kind of vacation. Spend three weeks or a month outdoors picking hops, and then they’d come fresh and ready to dive into dusty mountains and sawmills. Squak had run out of coal, if not trees. This chance to come in on the seasonal hops market gave them another avenue to expand. The natives typically tightly controlled the hops market on the Seattle shoreline, arriving seasonally in their skiffs and canoes just in time, as if they smelled the piney tang in the wind. This once to the Company’s directors, it looked like they had overplayed their hand. With the Wold Brothers’ blessing back in Squak valley, it looked like a new shoreline was about to be made for the burgeoning yellow tide.

***

It distressed Sam to see all the Chinamen filing in from the train to the Wolds Brothers’ farm. Sam had first seen them as three scores stopped at George Tibbets store. George was near apoplectic at the intrusion and gave Ingebright a good talking to.

“I need the hands to pick the crops before they rot, George, and those ‘damn yellow fingers,’ as you so disparagingly called them, are a might less green and cupiditas than the ones to be found living here.” Ingebright Wold said frustrated at being stymied at buying his men supplies.

“At least our men, both white and red, keep the money flowing here. Those China buggers keep sending it back home.”

Lars spoke, “How much do you think we’re paying them?  The monies not going to be traveling anywhere without them. They need ta eat and clothe themselves, George.  Just run yer services, ya fool, and they’ll be gone in a month after spending their pay in this town just like anyone else.”

“Most the town won’t let dem spend a dime of it on these shores, and you know it!” George huffed.

“Fools if they don’t!” Ingebright called back as he turned to lead the men to where they could set up their tents and camp.

Sam lurked behind various goods throughout the exchange, he hated seeing foreigners coming in. It was hard enough for the people who lived here to get enough jobs. Next the fools would want to live here. He paid for a bottle of whiskey, then split it with a still-spluttering George. “It’s a bad thing to think they can get away with crossing the Redmen.” He offered by way of giving George a chance to vent. George had a soft spot for the Redmen especially the locals.

After downing a quick swig of cheap fire, George focused on him and sighed. “It’s not the red ones that worry me, Robertson. You, more than anyone, know how the feelings of folk around here run. This whole town is just a bunch of tinder doing its best to keep yellow flames from starting anything. It worries me how this all could end up.”

Sam shrugged, his mind working, “I believe there is a way to keep the blaze isolated to the fields. What were the names of those tow red fellows yer always going on about?”

“What?  Who?”

“The two who always get elected to negotiate. Last you told me, ya said, that they could talk a man ta believe that a squirrel pelt was a mountain lion. Ye always seemed so impressed with them.”

“Those men are friends, Samuel.  I’ll not be havin you get them into any yer planning.”

“They’ll be safe, I promise.” He raised his hand high. He had no problem with locals who knew their place.  There just wasn’t room for more. He had friends; he just needed a few names of unwitting compatriots to give what he had planned the final air of legitimacy. 

“Tell me what you have planned first; for now, just let’s call them Curley and Indian Johnny.”

Sam kept his hand raised.  “Fair nough, it’ll play out like this- and I’ll claim full responsibility every step of the way.”

***

A dozen men had shown up that night at Wold’s home, interrupting supper. 

“I hear you, Samuel.  I hear every one of you clearer than the words from your slick mouth. While they are here, they are our men; my brother and I will protect them. We are not in the slightest bit impressed with the loud-ass blustering your men are bringing us at this late hour.” Ingebright’s words were controlled, but his empty belly was giving a growl to his words that was astonishing. 

“I’m actually a little impressed,” Lars commented around a mouthful of heavily gravied bread. His brother had never even raised his voice, but he sounded like he was channeling a tiger.

Ingebright whipped his head back to Lars, who was looking at him wide-eyed. Ingebright flushed and quickly turned around, walking past Samuel and his crew to hold the door open.

Sam looking unsteady for the first time since he had been talking everyone up and convincing them to come up here, spoke. “Fine, Ingy, fine, we’ll go back home for now but don’t imagine that anything has been settled about who’s in charge of things here.”

Ingebright watching the baker’s dozen or more men leave, finally let some irritation he felt escape his lips. “Go home with your gang and cut this crap, or else it’s my foot, and lead everyone will be pulling out of their backsides for threatening my guests.”

“Workers Ingy, yellow workers, not guests,” Sam called back.

“They’re my guests as long as they work for me. You best remember that!” He called a last word before slamming the door to the back end of them.

Wind blew down out of the mountain, hurrying the gang on their way.

“You heard Ingy up there, men. He plans to use guns to keep us from working what’s ours to work and keep those Chinamen as guests!” Sam spoke over his shoulder to his men as they walked purposefully slowing so they all could hear him. It had gone exactly how he had wanted it to, now they had their excuse.

His cronies and carefully selected workers rumbled choice words about how they felt.

“I guess we go home and find what armaments we have to counter his lead and feet!” He had stirred them up good before they’d come here. He had been building them up over the last couple of days. This was his home, and he’d be dammed if he let any foreigners move him off of it. Never mind, he had no interest in working the hops fields. In any case there was simply no room for more.

Mean-spirited comments and guffaws sent into the winds of the night. One lone granite tiger heard. The great fellow would give these men a chance, and if they chose to do what the aged giant suspected they would, the will exuded from the hills would keep prosperity largely out of the area for the next seventy-five years or so.

What the little white bipedal fluffy mice understood compared to what they could never comprehend was immense, as large, definite, and immobile as a mountain granite tiger’s shoulders.

***

Before dawn broke, they hopped the fence. After slamming down the guard meant to protect the workers, Samuel and his crew began firing riffles and guns into the worker’s tents. The guard had sent the alarm before being slammed into the ground, but it didn’t matter. The workers were starting to stir and were now screaming. The two redmen his gang had dragged along fled as soon as the first shots were fired.

With them gone, it would be easier to keep his word to old George. No blame would fall onto the men, and their presence at the start would make it look like a mutual racial feeling had driven everyone to it.

The rally of thunder and lead could be heard echoing up an down the peaks surrounding the Squak inlet. Under the blast of riffle fire for those that listened could be heard a low growl that carried the sounds of fire long after they stopped less than an hour later. Rage built and Sam and his men turned and fled unable to explain what emotion drove them to quit so soon. 

Later during the trials, he was disappointed to learn that they’d only gotten rid of three and injured a half dozen. The second jury to hear their case held the group blameless. This event stirred a fire of similar attacks throughout the northwest. Sam was proud of his role in that unaware that the pact of guest and host had been horribly violated and the inanimate would hold a much harsher trial for the area of the violence.

***

It is not part of the school curriculum to mention the 1885 attack on Squak Valley Chinese hops-picking laborers. The incident was as buried under concrete buildings and new homes as was much of the original valley. 

The old Tiger kept true to his sentiment until by the 80s, the Squak, now Issaquah Valley, was allowed to prosper. Aged felines have patience, and ancient stone has memories. The old Tiger would hold those memories while it measured its will against coming events.