Badlands Arc 5: Introduction to Michael Iron-Eyes, Great Cheif of the Ute Nation
Late December, 2060
White Pine County,
Central Ute Nation
Sheriff Michael Iron-Eyes of White Pine County surveyed the scene before him with a frustrated mania in his eyes. This was the third raid by the Shredders in as many weeks. The Shredders (Named by the Ely Tribal Press, a local newspaper) were a highly mobile gang of desert raiders that seemed to be better equipped than the Sheriff and always a step ahead of him. They also seemed to ape the tactics and abilities of the Comanche, a fact he was loath to admit or even recognize. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t track them beyond a few miles from their targets. It was like they simply vanished in to the desert.
The location this week was a mining camp on the slopes of Currant Mountain, some thirty six miles south by south east of Ely, in what had once been Nevada. Over all it was a desolate place, with very few redeeming qualities. Ely existed only as a small truck stop with maybe a thousand people scratching out a living on sustenance farming and logistical services to the truckers.
The big news had been here on Current Mountain, a silver-strike with talk of possible gold and rare magical radicals. The sort of thing that could change a regions fortunes forever. It had been overblown, in the way of rumor, or so Michael had thought. This raid was giving him pause, making him rethink that assumption. It had been well executed, and a large amount of something had been carted away in trucks.
Walking the site, he paced the tracks on the ground. Twelve motorcycles had come this way, surrounding what looked to be three, maybe four heavy duty ATVs or light trucks. Hard to tell sometimes, with the modifications you would encounter on the trucks. They came from the south, using one of the old blacktops that you could find in the desert. Ancient roads that were no longer in use and hadn’t been in use for decades, but because of the dry, weatherless desert and their lack of use, remained mostly intact. It made tracking the group back to where they came impossible. No tracks on blacktop.
He walked along, shotgun cradled in his arms, his hat drawn low over his brow to shield his eyes, following the tracks through the camp. Here, a pair of motorcycles had peeled off and dismounted. He saw the knee prints where the riders had dismounted and used the bikes for cover… the shell casings where they had provided suppressive fire to their fellow gang members.
He bent down to the parched dirt, one hand unsheathing a bone handled knife. With that, he played at the dirt for a moment before uncovering a brass shell casing. He picked it up, examining it up close. No makers mark on the strike plate, but that’s not so uncommon for a round that fits the AK-97. Every tin pot dictator in Asia, Russia and Africa churns them out to keep their armies fed and not all of them pay attention to North American laws regarding the proper markings (And thus traceability) of ammunition.
Still, the round told him something. The Shredders were getting supplies from not only out of the nation, but off the continent. He grunted as he pocketed the shell. It was information, but not very helpful. The Ute Nation, with its porous borders was a favorite for T-bird Jammers on their way to Denver, out of the California or wherever. A lot of cargo crossed the nation.
He moved further along the tracks, seeing where a grenade had detonated. He eyeballed the small blast crater, then tracked a line to the wooden wall of a camp shack, counting off the paces. Sure enough, about halfway up the wall was a shard of the grenades shell, a fragmentation grenade designed to kill and maim. He peered down at the body of one of the Miners. It had done its job well.
“What do you think, Sheriff?” Asked Deputy Paul Twoskins. “Shredders?”
“Yeah. It fits their M-O…” He said, slinging the shotgun for the moment it took him to light a cigarette. “Fast attack, solid tactics, good equipment. Less like a fraggen desert gang and more like a fraggen military unit.”
“Yeah.. My dad was saying they sound a lot like the Comanche, raiden parties and hard to track and the hit and runs.” Said Paul, momentarily forgetting that Michael was himself, a full-blood Comanche.
Iron Eyes spun on Paul, fixing him with a hard stare that could put nails through a board. “No. This is just Anglo Anarchist trash. We Comanche wouldn’t even be tracked as far as this.” He said, and then spat to the side. “Don’t ever insult the Comanche.”
Paul swallowed, then nodded swiftly. “Sorry Sheriff. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
Michael nodded again, drawing on the cigarette for a moment. “I know. Just… don’t say that shit. Comanche got enough of a problem with old grudges as it is.”
It was true; the Comanche had long been a disenfranchised tribe, despite working and dying just as hard in the NAN wars as any other tribe, sometimes harder. Once the fighting was done, the NAN went right back to the old tribal divisions, with the Sioux sectioning off their own nation first, followed by the Pueblo.
The Ute followed suite, but in it all, none would give the Comanche a true homeland. The Pueblo didn’t want them. Too warlike, too unpredictable they said. The Sioux didn’t want them, because of the old rivalries. The Ute took them in, but relegated them to almost second class citizens in a far corner of Utah. May as well have stayed on the Rez, for the quality of land and opportunities.
In the schools in Provo, dominated by the Ute, Pawnee and the few eastern tribes who settled the high desert, teachers always said any child could grow up to be the Great Chief. They never said that in Comanche schools. A Comanche was considered a success if he could get a paying job and stay out of jail. There weren’t many Comanche successes.
Michael Iron-Eyes, as Sheriff of White Pine County, was an anomaly. He was a Comanche in Law Enforcement, and a successful enough one for it. Still, he knew he was stuck here. No amount of merit was going to let him progress any higher, the Ute in charge would see to it. No, they liked the lock on higher-level power they enjoyed.
“Alright Paul. Tracks come from the south, then go north across the rock. Can’t track em forward across the rock, can’t track em back across the black top. Ain’t shit we can do here. Bag and tag the dead, and lets go home.” The words tasted oddly like defeat on Michaels tongue.
-----
Alcoholism was a vice that was rife in the Native American population, one that claimed most of the people around Michael as he grew up, so his home in Ely had not even a drop of the damned stuff. That was an additional source of frustration for Michael that night as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Insomnia claimed him night after night, leaving him wandering the halls of his house or driving around aimlessly.
“Let us have a chat, Mr. Iron-Eyes.”
The voice came unexpectedly, unbidden in the Sheriffs bedroom, prompting a sudden stiffening and then a lunge for the gun he kept in the bedside table. His hand closed around the Glock heavy pistol. He tracked the room with the pistol held out, orienting on a dark shape seated in a chair in the corner of the room. The glowing red cherry of a cigarette stood out against the darkness. Michael hadn’t even heard him enter, much less sit down.
“Don’t bother, Mr. Iron-Eyes… I’m many things, but foolish enough to approach you without unloading the pistol in the nightstand… the shot gun under the bed and the pistol in your vegetable crisper… is not one of them. But, I will admit to a curiosity. The vegetable crisper? Do you often have firefights while preparing dinner?” The voice was amused, smug perhaps, but decidedly unthreatened by the Sheriff.
“More often than I have the need to beat a man to death in my bedroom.” Answered Michael, his eyes adjusting to the darkness and picking out the form of a man in the shadows. “What do you want?” He asked, surmising if the man wanted to harm him, he’d be harmed already.
“Oh, Mr. Iron-Eyes… that’s not the right question. Well, to be concise… it is the correct question, but it’s directed improperly.”
“What do you mean?” Asked Michael as he tried to chamber a round on the gun, to find that as promised, it was unloaded.
“I will never lie to you, Mr. Iron Eyes. I said it was unloaded, and it is. As to your question… Well. As much as I enjoy witty conversation involving serious bodily injury to myself, I’m not here for the company. I’m here with a purpose. I’ve been following your case, the one with the… what did the Ely Tribal Press call them… Oh yes. The shredders.” The unnamed visitor puffed the cigarette then, giving his angular features a diabolic red cast, light glinting off his eyes in the obfuscation of smoke and shadow. “How is that case going?”
“I get the impression you know more about it than I do.” Said Michael, accusation lacing his tone.
“So hostile, Michael! I’m here to help you. Now, understand… I represent a group of people who can help you. I’m a mouthpiece, a spokesman if you will, for this concern. And this concern has some information that may be of assistance to you.” The spokesman let the cigarette dangle from between his fingertips now, the hand moved down to rest on his knee, turned up and over his other leg. “Anarchy is so… problematic.”
“No drek.” Said Michael, moving now to sit up more fully. “What’s the catch? What’s it going to cost?”
“You are so close to the proper question. The proper question, Michael, would be… is the cost justified? Is it a good value for you? Can what we provide out weigh any favors we may ask? I think you will find that we are… quite reasonable.”
“The Shredders. You know where they are based?”
“Among other things, but really, telling you that would be… counter-effective at this juncture.”
“What the frag does that mean? I need to take them down, and for that, I gotta know where they are, asshole.”
“That’s true.” Said the spokesman. “But perhaps, in this case, the Journey is the greater part than the destination.” He paused then, sitting forward to bring his features in to the single shaft of light that came in through the window. “White Pine County has an election for the Tribal Council coming up, does it not?” His features were Native, but not a Ute or other tribe. Something more meso-american, but Michael couldn’t place it.
“Yeah. Roger Martin’s running unopposed for reelection. He owns this county.” Said Michael. It was true that Roger ran the entire area. That was how Michael got the job of Sheriff, by agreeing to play ball with Rogers occasional request to look the other way when asked. It wasn’t a bad arrangement, but it was a fairly one sided, rather dead-end arrangement.
“What if… and this may seem somewhat fantastic to you, but just bear with me. What if… you ran for the Tribal Council. The first Comanche in the history of the Ute Nation to hold that high of a position. That would be an amazing thing, would it not?” Asked the Spokesman, blowing out a stream of bluish-grey smoke.
“How the frag am I supposed to do that? I don’t have the money or standing to run against Martin, even if I wanted to commit career suicide by opposing him. And the Ute, vote for a Comanche?”
“Oh… Michael.” Said the spokesman with a grin tracing across his features. “Leave that to me.”
-----
The next few months were an interesting time. The Shredders continued to operate, striking with near impunity, while Michael Iron-Eyes doggedly tracked them down. The Scream-sheets suddenly seemed to take notice, interview requests started to come in and people started following the exploits of Michael Iron-Eyes.
Where before, when the press had taken notice it was to castigate Michael for failing to bring the Shredders to Justice, now they spun the story of one man against the tide of Anarchy.
The reality show ‘Iron Horses’ came soon after, chronicling the chase between Michael and the Shredders, documenting every step. Including the step that showed that the Shredders, a band of Renegade Anglos, were answering to Roger Martin. The outcry was swift and deadly, with the victims of the Shredders attacks almost lynching the long time representative of White Pine County on live Trideo. Repeated showings of the clip, along with counterpoint footage of Michael leading his team in the desert against the Shredders boosted Micheal's profile to a national level.
Swiftly thereafter, promoted to Ute Marshall, and after swearing in a large posse, Michael lead an attack on the desert stronghold of the Shredders. The pitched battle was recorded, edited and played back on the NAN Broadcasting Network. Epic in its scope, the firefight ranged all across the old Nellis Airforce Range, culminating in a brawl in the shadow of Las Vegas. The season finale of 'Iron Horses' still holds the record for largest share for a single episode in the Ute and Sioux Nations.
The election of 2062 was a record setting landslide, with ninety eight percent of White Pine County voting for Michael Iron-Eyes. He joined the Tribal Council as the first Comanche to hold such high office in the Ute Nation, and quickly set about making a name for himself with bold, decisive propositions. It was only six months later, that he parlayed his popularity and the support of the Spokesman in to a bill that finally accorded the Comanche equal respect in the Unity Council and thus, the Ute Government as a whole.
The Comanche sent two senators to the Unity Council, naming as senior Unity Councilor, Michael Iron Eyes. His position on the Tribal Council was swiftly filled by Paul Twoskins, who today heads up the Ministry of Self Determination.