The Adventures of Jimmy Farrell and the Magic Red Ring

Back When the Adventure Began

“Walk faster. It’s almost dark, and your father wants you home by sunset.” The tall American Indian said as he passed by the two skinny thirteen-year-old boys on the trail.

Jo-Pac reached back and patted the top of young Mike Farrell’s head. “Golden hair is too heavy. It makes you walk slow. You must eat good food to get strong. When you are strong like me, your hair will look like this.” He teased them as he shook his head so that the shoulder-length jet black hair whipped around. Mike stopped, took a deep breath and raised a hand to sweep the blond curls from his sweaty forehead. “Slow down, Jo,” he said to the Indian. “We’re almost there.”

Jo-Pac looked back and saw his boss’s son Mike, and Mike’s young friend Ron Phlegmats, throw their fishing rods and tackle into the brush. They folded their arms and sat down on the trail.

“Okay, we will take a small rest if you boys are tired.” He said as he walked back to where the boys were sitting.

Ron’s face turned cold with fear as he pointed to the direction of a rustling noise. “What’s that sound?”

“Look out!” Mike cried as a man appeared from out of the brush.

Jo-Pac turned around and was met with the butt of a rifle.

Bam! He went down to the ground. He was out cold. Seconds later he came to, scrambled to his feet, and called to the boys who had been left in his care. He was met with the tip of a rifle pointed right between his eyes.

“One move, Injun, just one move and I’ll blow your dang head clear off,” the sheriff said as he kicked Jo-Pac back to the ground. About a dozen rough-shaven, pot-bellied men came out of nowhere and surrounded Jo-Pac on the trail.

“Let him go,” Mike said.

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Little Ron added.

The men in the posse laughed, all showing nearly toothless smiles, as they took turns kicking at Jo-Pac.

“Hear that, Injun? These here youngsters think ya ain’t done nothin wrong. I reckon they don’t know Injuns,” one of the men said as he loosened up the wad of tobacco in his mouth and spat it at Jo-Pac. “There ain’t an Injun that ever done anything right. They ain’t nothing but thieves and murderers, boy, thieves and murderers.”

The posse dragged Jo-Pac out of the woods and into the road in front of Mike’s house. Mike and Ron followed helplessly. Two of the men went behind a patch of trees to drive out the trucks that were hidden there earlier. The others taunted Jo-Pac as if playing a game of name-calling.

Tears filled Mike’s eyes as he ran over to Jo-Pac and hugged him, putting himself between Jo-Pac and the abusers.

The largest of the men stepped up. “Cork” was his name, due to his unquenchable thirst for wine; he never drank anything stronger until after lunch. He pulled Mike away by the arm and flung him to the ground. “That’s enough, boy, this here Injun’s a killer. He’s lucky we don’t just string him up right now.”

A shot rang out, and the posse turned in the direction of the gunfire. Mike’s father, John Farrell, walked over from the farmhouse holding a rifle in his hand, ready to shoot again.

“What the heck is going on here?” he demanded as he pointed his rifle at the man who had thrown his son to the ground. “You want to try that on me, Cork?” he said to his grubby, soil-covered neighbor.

“You best mind your own business, Farrell, this here’s official police business. That filthy Injun just killed a man in cold blood, not two hours ago,” Cork said as he opened his chew packet and put a new wad in his mouth.

“That’s a lie, Dad,” Mike shouted. “Jo has been with us all day. We were fishing.”

“That’s right, Cork,” John Farrell said. “I watched them leave this morning, and if my son said he was with them all day, then he was.”

“What about you, John? Were you with them, too?” the sheriff asked, as he walked up pushing the tip of John’s rifle toward the ground. “Cause there’s a witness says this here Injun pulled the trigger.”

The sheriff snickered as he motioned his men to put Jo-Pac in the police car. “I guess we gonna let the judge decide if these here two boys is telling the truth, or that old widow who seen it happen.”

John Farrell and the two boys watched as the posse dragged their friend to the car and threw him in the back seat. Jo-Pac gazed out the window at his only friends in the white world as the car drove away.

CHAPTER 1

That was a long time ago. Mike Farrell was a grown man now. He and his father never forgot the injustice on that day more than thirty years ago. At the time the Farrells had known Jo-Pac for only a couple of weeks, but he quickly became a part of their family. When he was released from prison ten years ago, the Farrells made sure he had a job and a place to live. He was once again a good friend to the family, especially Mike’s son Jimmy who was now a young man of thirteen.

Jimmy was always looking for something exciting to do in that small town just east of the Delaware River. The whole area was full of caves and woods, a perfect place for an adventurous young man. When he wasn‘t getting into mischief, he was visiting with Jo-Pac.

Jo-Pac, always a quiet man, pretty much kept to himself now. Hardly any of the townspeople associated with him. Mike Farrell, Ron Phlegmats and their parents were the only ones who believed Jo was innocent of the crimes that sent him to prison.

Even though the two young boys swore that Jo-Pac was with them on that day all those years ago, the court didn’t believe them because of their ages. But that was all in the past. He was a hard-working member of the community now. But still, the townspeople pointed and whispered. If it wasn’t for Mike Farrell, Ron Phlegmats and their parents, Jo would have received no welcome home at all.

Jo-Pac had been a good friend of the two families since then and spent a lot of time with Mike’s son, Jimmy, as he was growing up. The two of them would sit on Jo-Pac’s porch, and Jimmy would listen to stories about the different Indian tribes that lived around the area.