DESERT SEA SERPENT

            Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or this one about a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake.

                                                   DESERT SEA SERPENT

                                                                        by

                                                       Michael A. McKeever

            Beware of the giant serpent warned the Paiute Indians. Their people had seen it uncounted times over uncounted years. It was, they said, so huge it could easily swallow a man whole. And it was silent as it swam the lake, giving no warning as it approached and then just as silently vanishing beneath the waves. Do not go out on the lake, they said ominously, but stay safely on its shores.

            The lake is called Pyramid Lake after its barren islands that water and wind carved into pyramids. Once it was part of a vast primeval inland sea covering much of the western Nevada desert. Today at 188 square miles it is still an impressive lake, the sky above it alive with flocks of birds. It is surrounded by the Northern Paiute Reservation.

            The Paiutes were not the only ones to see the giant serpent. Early white settlers reported seeing it as well. With each sighting both the tale and the monster seemed to grow in length. Finally in late 1869 a mining engineer named Spence arrived at Pyramid Lake. But he didn't come looking for monster snakes. He was looking for borax, a dry salt used to make everything from soap to glass.

            Spence, a methodical man, set to work taking water samples and searching the shoreline for certain white crystals. Finding them, he mixed the crystals with chemicals and lit the mixture with a match. A flickering green flame meant it was borax.

            Spence had heard stories of the giant snake but he dismissed them as nothing more than wild tales spun over campfires. After all he was an engineer, a man of science and mathematics, not given to nonsense.

            Planning to search the lake’s far shore, he set out with two assistants in a rowboat. The assistants, having also heard stories of a monster swimming snake, were nervous. But Spence urged them on. Rowing steadily, the men pulled out into the middle of the lake. It was a calm day and the surface was as flat as a sheet of blue glass. The only ripples came from the boat and its oars.

            Suddenly one of the assistants gasped and pointed with a shaking finger. There, basking in the sun, was the sea serpent! Hundreds of feet long, its serpentine body was covered with scales that shimmered in the desert heat. Making no move toward the men, it bobbed gently in the water.

            The ever-cool Spence encouraged his frightened men to row closer. Then he noticed something odd about the scales. With each ripple of the water some of them seemed to float away. A slight breeze came up and more of the scales fell off into the water.

            The three men sighed in relief. They knew they were safe. The sea serpent was in reality nothing more than a huge floating conglomeration of fresh-water worms. Clinging together they had been molded by the water into a long floating tube. But whenever a strong wave or a puff of wind came up the worms untangled. Seen from a distance it did indeed look as if a giant snake had slipped beneath the surface.

            Spence mentioned the phenomenon in his report and like the “giant snake” itself in a brisk wind, the legend of the desert sea serpent unraveled. Yet some were still not convinced and the sightings continued.

            In 1883 a group of women saw the “serpent” shimmering in the sun. It was, they breathlessly reported, as big as a balloon and had a mouth as wide as a road. Six years later some fishermen described the creature as having an alligator’s body but with a seal’s flippers and a frog’s mouth. It also, they insisted, swallowed entire schools of trout. A 1925 description added that the monster’s head had “hideous horns.”

            Of course today everyone knows perfectly well that there is no desert sea serpent, that mining engineer Spence was right. It’s only a hodgepodge of worms clinging together, pushed this way and that by wind and waves.

            But, just in case, in 1959 the Nevada State Assembly officially placed the creature under the protection of the state. Henceforth and forever, by Nevada State Law, the “Pyramid Lake Monster” may not be “molested, hunted or captured.” Just in case.

DO THEM NO HARM

Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake.

            Or this one about a long ago council fire. Strange people had come to the land of the Nez Perce Indians.  Some Nez Perce were suspicious; others envious, especially of the strangers’ many guns. Kill them, one warrior demanded, and take their guns. Then even the ferocious Blackfeet would fear the Nez Perce. But an old woman rose. And what she said changed the course of American history.    

                                                     DO THEM NO HARM                                                                      

                                                                        by

                                                        Michael A. McKeever

            Nemesio Salcedo, Commandant General of the Internal Provinces of New Spain was deeply concerned by the spy’s note. It was 1805 and like many in the Spanish southwest he was concerned about the ambitious new country called the United States. It was only a matter of time he felt before they began moving into Spanish territory. And now here was proof provided by the Spanish spy in Washington D.C. code named “Agent 13.”

The Americans had launched a western military expedition led by two officers named Lewis and Clark. Already they were part way across the continent on the northern edge of land claimed by Spain. Ironically Spain’s Washington spy wasn’t even Spanish; he was an American. His name was James Wilkinson and he was the commanding general of the United States Army!

Four Spanish patrols were dispatched to look for the upstart Yankees. Had they been able to find and stop Lewis and Clark American history might have been very different. Maybe even a war between the U.S. and Spain. But we’ll never know. Despite the Spanish soldiers best efforts the frontier was simply too vast. In fact Lewis and Clark had no idea the Spanish were looking for them.

      

            The Nez Perce Indians were no less startled to find Lewis and Clark crossing their tribal lands. The faces of the warriors and chiefs were grim in the flickering light of the council fire. True, the white men were tired from their long journey and small in number. Nonetheless there were more of them than the Nez Perce had ever seen before.

             And they were wealthy in trade goods, these travelers from a faraway place. They had fine metal kettles and soft cloth and sharp-bladed hatchets. And guns. They had many guns.

            Kill the strangers, a warrior argued, and take their guns. Some agreed with him, with so many guns the Nez Perce could better protect themselves from the fierce Blackfeet to the east. After all, the Blackfeet had many guns, the Nez Perce only two or three. And those were battered and old, almost useless, even for hunting.

            Kill the strangers and take their guns and the Nez Perce would become the most powerful tribe in the Pacific Northwest. Even the Blackfeet would fear them.

            But others shook their heads no. The white men had asked only to pass through in peace. To kill them would be wrong. The argument continued while the council fire burned late into the night.

            Finally an old woman spoke. She had seen much in her long life and now she had something important to say. In a quavering voice she reminded the Nez Perce that years earlier she had been kidnapped in a Blackfoot raid. She became a slave, passed from tribe to tribe until a white trader bought her for his own. At first she had been afraid of the pale-skinned people. However they treated her with kindness and her fear faded.

            Still, she missed her people and eventually, somehow, found her way home. There she was given a new name, Watkuweis, which in the Nez Perce tongue means “Returned from a Far Place.”

            “These are like the white people who were good to me and helped me,” she said. “Do them no harm.”

            So it was that instead of killing the travelers the Nez Perce helped them on their way. And so the white men continued on their epic trek from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean. And again Lewis and Clark never knew how close their journey had come to an end.

            A woman traveled with them, an Indian, Sacagawea of the Shoshoni. She contributed greatly to the expedition and is well remembered. Her image has appeared on stamps and coins and there are numerous statues of her.

            Of Watkuweis, who saved many lives and helped set the course of American history, there are no statues. But her words at that long-ago council still echo in the memories of her people, the Nez Perce. That is her monument. 

NAVY FOR RENT

            Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake.

            Often western stories take place on endless prairies or to the crack of blazing six shooters in a gunfight on a dusty town street. But not this one. You’ll find no cattle drives or proud fierce Indian nations here. No, this one happened on the high seas. 

                                                           NAVY FOR RENT 

                                                                       by 

                                                       Michael A. McKeever 

            When people think of Texas among the first things to come to mind are the Alamo and cowboys and vast arid plains. But it has a long coastline as well facing the Gulf of Mexico. And when a country has a coast it needs a navy to protect it.

            True the Texas Navy was a small navy but when its cannons thundered on the high seas it was mighty enough. Seven ships in all, it was the pride of the Republic of Texas. Unfortunately it was also expensive and in 1839 Texas was virtually bankrupt. Without more money pretty soon there wouldn’t be a navy. Maybe not even a Republic of Texas.

            But Commodore of the Fleet Edwin Moore had an idea. Far to the south the Mexican coastal province of Yucatan was in open rebellion. The rebels there had some money but no navy. Texas had a navy but no money.

            What if, proposed Moore, Texas was to rent her navy to Yucatan for, say, $8,000 a month?

            It was an audacious scheme but with Texas President Mirabeau Lamar’s consent, the Lone Star Republic’s lethal little fleet set sail for Yucatan. For months it prowled the coast there, a thorn in Mexico’s side, raiding and taking rich prizes.

            In 1841 Sam Houston replaced Lamar as President of Texas and the last thing he wanted to do was fight another war with Mexico. He promptly ordered the fleet back to its base at Galveston on the Texas coast. Two years later government budget cuts had done what the Mexican Navy could not, they had decimated the Texas Navy. The fleet was down to just two ships and Houston intended to abolish the navy altogether.

            Meanwhile during those same two years the Mexican Navy had grown into a powerful fighting force. Two of its ships, the European-built MONTEZUMA and GUADALOUPE were among the most advanced warships in the world. Each was armored and unlike most ships of the time boasted both sails and steam engines.

            The last two Texan men-of-war were in New Orleans, Louisiana when orders arrived for them to return at once to Galveston. There both ships, the AUSTIN and the WHARTON, would be decommissioned and the Texas Navy would cease to exist.

            But it would not go quietly. Instead, cannons roaring, the Texas Navy would fight one last battle against the Mexican fleet. Against Houston’s orders, Commodore Moore set a course for Yucatan.

            On the coast of Yucatan the rebellious port city of Campeche was blockaded by Mexican warships. On the morning of April 30, 1843 Mexican naval officers were astounded to see two men-of-war on the horizon with their cannon run out and the flag of Texas snapping in the wind.

            Seven Mexican ships moved toward them. MONTEZUMA and GUADALOUPE took the lead, each twice the size of their Texan counterparts and better armed. Five of the Mexican warships held back as the two big steamers went in to finish off the arrogant Texans.

            The sky rumbled with cannon fire as the four ships battled it out. Finally at dusk the bruised Mexican ships steamed out of range to safety. To the cheers of the Yucatan rebels the AUSTIN and WHARTON sailed into the harbor of Campeche.

            Two weeks passed while the Mexican fleet was reinforced with three more ships. Then, carefully, the Mexican fleet approached with the MONTEZUMA and GUADALOUPE again in the forefront. In response the two Texan warships sailed out spoiling for a fight.

            A shot fired by the AUSTIN sent the GUADALOUPE’s mainmast crashing to her deck. The rest of the Mexican fleet again fell behind the two big warships. The AUSTIN sailed directly between the MONTEZUMA and GUADALOUPE, her port and starboard guns slamming broadsides into the Mexican hulls.

            The badly-damaged Mexican steamers broke off the fight and retreated. After giving chase for awhile the Texans returned to Campeche. There Moore received orders from an infuriated President Houston to return to Texas immediately.

            Not long afterward the Yucatan rebellion was put down by the Mexican government. In Galveston the AUSTIN and WHARTON lowered their battle flags for the last time and the scrappy little Texas Navy sailed on only in history.

                                                             --The End--            

THE SQUEAKY-VOICED BANDIT

Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake.

Or this one about a certain stagecoach robber who, squeaky voice or not, knew how to handle a six-gun. Though not a big man, nonetheless the bandit was remembered by one lawman as “a tiger cat” quite willing to kill in cold blood. 

                                                                                              Michael McKeever 

                              THE SQUEAKY-VOICED BANDIT

The horses’ hooves thudded in the dust as the stagecoach rounded the bend. Two men waited ahead on horseback. One was large, the other smaller and slender, probably hardly more than a boy. The big man leveled a 45-caliber pistol at the stage driver and barked, “Throw up your hands!”

The second bandit may have been smaller but the six-shooter he held in his hand was big enough. The stage driver, resigned to being robbed, pulled on the reins and shoved his booted foot hard against the brake. The stagecoach ground to a halt, its team rearing in their harnesses.

Ordinarily there was nothing special about the 65-mile stage run between Globe and Florence, Arizona. But this trip, interrupted by a holdup, was about to become very special.

It was May 30, 1899 and with the twentieth century only months away stagecoaches were rapidly fading from the west. The driver and his passengers had just become the unwilling participants in the last stagecoach robbery in American history. And then there was something about the smaller bandit. As he ordered the passengers out of the coach his voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky with excitement.

He, as it turned out, was a she. One of the last two stagecoach robbers in history was in fact a woman, married and the mother of two. Her name was Pearl Hart.

Pearl’s husband was a drifter who wandered in and out of her life like tumbleweed. Pearl, tired of his wandering ways, sent her children off to live with her mother and set out on her own. It wasn’t long before she fell in with a hard-luck miner named Joe Boot. When Boot’s mining claim didn’t pan out he suggested they rob the stage.   

 

The holdup netted the two bandits $428.20, a tidy sum for the time. They rode for three days through hard-scrabble country putting miles between them and the robbery. But it was to no avail, a posse led by Pima County Sheriff Bill Truman tracked them down.

The story of her capture depended on who told it. Sheriff Truman said both bandits were sound asleep and easily disarmed. Pearl insisted they jumped to their feet with drawn pistols but “found we were looking straight into the mouths of gaping Winchesters.”

Whatever the facts, Sheriff Truman was clearly impressed by the feisty female bandit. Pearl was, he said, “a tiger cat for nerve and endurance and would have killed me if she could.” He also remembered that she was furious with the woebegone Joe Boot for not resisting.

Clapped into jail she promptly escaped and fled east, riding hard into New Mexico. There she was recognized, arrested and returned to Arizona, undoubtedly to New Mexico’s relief. Pearl Hart was, recalled one New Mexico lawman, “the most foul-mouthed” person he had ever come across.

Back in Arizona she was sentenced to five years in the Territorial Prison. After her release she lived for many more years, one account places her on a Globe street as late as 1957.  Dainty and innocent-looking with snow-white hair, the one-time Arizona wildcat had become an elderly lady with a sweet smile.

                                               --The End--

THE WONDROUS EZEKIEL AIRSHIP

            Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake. Or, this one about the world’s first airplane flight. The Wright Brothers did it in 1903, right? Or maybe not. Just maybe a proud Texan beat them to it.

          

THE WONDROUS EZEKIEL AIRSHIP

                                                     

by

                                              

Michael A. McKeever

            No one in Texas had ever seen anything like it. As a matter of fact no one anywhere had ever seen anything like it. The men peered at the scale model on the table in front of them. It looked sort of like a wheat threshing machine with its big wheels and gears. But not quite. What on earth was it?

            It was, explained Burrell Cannon, a flying machine. He called it the “Ezekiel  Airship” after the Bible’s Book of Ezekiel where it is written “When the creatures rose from the ground.”

            A machine that would actually fly wherever the person steering it wanted to go? True it was the year 1901 and the start of a new century and already there were all sorts of new-fangled inventions. Like horseless carriages called “automobiles” and “electric lights” that glowed brighter than any oil lamp. But a flying machine? No one had ever heard of such a thing.

            Nonetheless, said Cannon, there would be such a thing because he was going to build it. That is, if he could raise the money needed for materials and to pay workmen.

            The businessmen of Pittsburg, Texas looked at the model and talked it over. Cannon was a man of his word, an ordained Baptist minister no less. He also operated a sawmill so he knew a lot about machinery. It just might work! The Ezekiel Airship Manufacturing Company was born.

            Construction soon began on the airship and by late 1902 it was ready for a test flight. Unfortunately here the records run out and we have only local stories as to what happened next. Accounts differ but several people claim to have seen the airship actually fly. How far or fast is disputed but witnesses insisted that yes, it indeed flew. If so, it was the world’s first heavier-than-air flying machine.

            In any case more money was needed for work to continue. The machine was loaded onto a railroad flatcar to be shipped to St. Louis, Missouri. A grand international exposition was to be held there with visitors from all over the world. Surely some would be interested in investing in the Ezekiel Airship Manufacturing Company.

            But the flying machine never got there. As the train crossed eastern Texas a violent wind whipped across the plains and blew the airship right off the car. It was found broken and scattered, never to fly again.

            A few months later in 1903 Wilber and Orville Wright’s airplane wobbled into the air over the sands of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. History tells us that their aircraft was the world’s first heavier-than-air flying machine.

            Maybe. Maybe not. Some folks still insist the real first flight happened in Texas nearly a year before the Wright Brother’s flight. The Texas Legislature has officially proclaimed the Ezekiel “the state’s first successful self-powered aircraft.” A Texas Historical Commission monument even marks the site of the Ezekiel Airship’s first flight.

            But we’ll never know for sure. The proof was lost long ago, blown like a tumble weed across the arid plains in the hot Texas wind.    

--The End--

THE CRASH OF GONGS

True Western Tales:

            Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake. Or this one about blood spilled in defense of a lost Imperial dynasty.

 

                                                  THE CRASH OF GONGS

              

                                                                      By

                                                     Michael A. McKeever    

Hi Long Chang, warlord of the Canton Tong, glared across the field at the men in red.

            At his command over six hundred Cantonese warriors formed their battle line. They brandished the fearsome weapons of medieval China: three-pronged spears and fifteen-foot-long pikes. Black tassels fluttered from sword hilts and spear tips. A flag emblazoned with the dragon of Imperial China swirled above them in the warm summer breeze.

            The red-turbaned men watched carefully from the far side of the field. Their leader raised his kwan doo, the long sword favored by the god of war Kwan Kung. Around him the Yangwas of Hong Kong, even though outnumbered two to one, roared their defiance.

Insults were flung back and forth like stones. Horns blared, drums thundered, brass gongs crashed. Suddenly, shouting their war cries, both sides charged. Swords clanged off shields and pikes stabbed viciously. In China such battles are recorded in the faded ink of ancient chronicles.

But this was not medieval China. Instead this battle was fought on a patch of weedy ground called Five-Cent Gulch outside Weaverville, California. To the gold miners and townspeople who gathered to watch in July, 1854, it was rip-roaring entertainment. To the Chinese who fought it was a sad reminder that hate can leap even the broadest ocean.

The men of both tongs had much in common. Most came from Kwangtung Province and virtually all were contract laborers in the gold fields. They lived in the same part of Weaverville, ate the same meals of rice and fish and tea, missed the same faraway homeland.

But the conflict was inevitable for the seeds had been planted centuries before. In China an emperor of the northern Manchu sat upon the Dragon Throne. It had been so since the Ming Dynasty had ended in 1644. However the anti-Manchu Red-Turbans still plotted ceaselessly to overthrow the northerners and restore the Ming emperors.

Even as they worked the mines and streams outside Weaverville the Hong Kong Yangwas continued to honor the Ming. Meanwhile the black-turbaned Cantonese remained steadfastly loyal to the Manchu. The non-Chinese citizens of Weaverville found all this mysterious and even a little amusing. The Chinese on the other hand were deadly serious.

Historians debate what actually led to the battle. But the Chinese decided that a battle there would be. A time and place were agreed upon. It was also agreed that they would fight with the traditional weapons of old China. There would be no guns, ironic since gunpowder itself was a creation of Chinese ingenuity. .

Weaverville Sheriff Sam Lowe, fearing a bloodbath, tried to prevent the approaching battle but to no avail. Others in the town gleefully anticipated it, making bets on which side would win. Blacksmith John Carr’s forge glowed far into the night as he hammered out the weapons on his anvil.                   

On the appointed day, July 14, 1854, everyone assembled at Five-Cent Gulch. At first there was no battle, much to the frustration of the onlookers. Instead, to the wailing of flutes and the crack of firecrackers, the two factions marched to and fro yelling insults at each other. Then abruptly the battle was on.

The outnumbered Yangwas charged through the center of the Cantonese, splitting them in half. Then the Hong Kong warriors turned back and attacked the rear of the now-divided black turbans. Out-flanked, the men of Canton surrendered the field to the red-turbaned Yangwas.

The battle was a short brutal affair of only a few minutes. Ten Chinese lay dead. They were buried with proper ceremonies, their courage honored. The men of Canton and Hong Kong returned to work in the gold fields, sometimes side-by-side.

Their anger had been spent and a hatred born in the ashes of a lost dynasty in a far-off land, faded at last in the California Gold Rush.     

                                                   --The End—

    

THE ROUGHEST, TOUGHEST TOWN THAT WASN’T

Every story of the old west in this series is true. While many western stories have the ring of campfire tall tales you will find none here. Every story is based on fact whether about a mighty warrior humbled by flickering lights or a sea serpent said to live in a desert lake. Or this one about the roughest, toughest town that never was…

                           THE ROUGHEST, TOUGHEST TOWN THAT WASN’T           

                                                                       by 

                                                       Michael A. McKeever 

            Tension hung in the air thick as gun smoke as the train pulled into the station. “Palisade!” called the conductor. “This is Palisade, Nevada.” He told the passengers that they could get off and stretch their legs while the locomotive took on water. “But,” he added ominously, “be very careful.”

            The streets were crowded with gunfighters, he warned, each one meaner than a whiskey glass full of rattlesnake venom. And not only that, he shuddered, but Indians were on the warpath just outside of town. In the far west of the 1870s no other town was as wild and wooly as Palisade.

            The locomotive hissed steam as it took on water from a big tank. Passengers peered nervously through the train’s windows. A brave few got out for a breath of fresh air. Looking fearfully around they saw the streets were indeed full of tough-looking hombres who glared at each other. Some passengers got right back on the train and the rest stayed close.

            Suddenly the air was shattered by the roar of gunfire. Pistols blazed as men whirled and fell into the dust. And as if that wasn’t enough, Indians attacked, riding down the street yelling blood-curdling war cries. Terrified passengers scrambled back onboard the train.

            The locomotive whistle shrieked as the train pulled out of town. The passengers sagged in their seats, grateful to have escaped with their lives. It was a miracle that none of them had been killed.

            But if they looked back at Palisade they saw something even more astonishing. The “dead bodies” sprawled in the street were coming back to life. In fact they were getting up! Indians and townsfolk stood by the train tracks laughing together. Nobody had been killed. Both the “gunfighters’” bullets and the Indians’ arrows had been shot harmlessly into the air.    

            It had all been a grand joke played on the passengers by the people of Palisade. Nearby Shoshone Indians had joined the fun. And of course the train crew was in on the joke as well.

            Palisade, Nevada was actually such a peaceful town that it didn’t even have a sheriff. It was a hard-working railroad town of three hundred souls. As well as a transfer point for Central Pacific trains Palisade was also the destination for the narrow-gauge ore-carrying Eureka & Palisade mine train. But on their off time there wasn’t much for the workers to do other than fish for trout in the nearby Humboldt River.

In other words living in such a quiet place could get a trifle boring. So, to liven things up, the townspeople and their Shoshone neighbors got together from time to time and put on a show. Many of the passengers on the trains were eastern “tenderfeet” who had heard all about the “Wild West.” And that’s just what citizens of Palisade gave them.

            To keep things fresh the cast (which included just about everyone in town) would sometimes vary the “show.” In the morning one train-load of passengers might find themselves caught between feuding cowboys in a fierce gunfight. In the afternoon another train might pull in just as the bank was being robbed.

            Nobody ever counted how many times the bank was robbed. But for three riotous  years the citizens of Palisade performed their shoot-‘em-up melodramas over a thousand times. The reputation of the little town was so ferocious that once the President in far off  Washington D.C. ordered the army to investigate. The investigators found that in those same three years not been a single actual crime had been committed in Palisade.

            In time the townspeople grew weary of the joke. The town was already beginning to fade away. The mines gave out and the Eureka & Palisade RR stopped running. The Central Pacific built larger more modern facilities elsewhere. The final blow came when the U.S. Postal Service closed down Palisade’s post office in 1962.

            Today only crumbling ruins among the sagebrush mark the town. Jackrabbits scamper where once desperados shot it out. But time has silenced their gunfire, today only the soothing sound of the Humboldt River flowing past can be heard. On the river’s eastern bank sleek Amtrak expresses hurtle past on gleaming steel rails.  But the trains don’t stop at Palisade anymore.      

                                                           -The End-