How A Mysterious Gold Prospector Deprogrammed Members Of The Manson Family
Inside the house at Barker Ranch, situated high in the Panamint Mountains above Death Valley some twenty miles from any sign of civilization, Paul Crockett sat at the little table near the kitchen, smoking a Pall Mall down to the nub. Next to him, Brooks Poston and Paul Watkins, his proteges, sat in their chairs, their eyes fixed on the front door, anxiously awaiting their fate.
The front door busted open and wild-eyed Charles Manson, all 5'2" of him, stood in the doorway, breathing heavy, intense, his glazed fixed on the old prospector. “So, you’re the man who’s been turning my people against me,” he said as he moved closer to Crockett, sticking his neck out in his direction as he spoke. “The thing I want to know is how you been doin’ that?”
Crockett looked up at him. “I haven’t turned anyone against you, Charlie.”
Charlie chuckled. “Really? Then what’s all this crap about them asking to be released from their agreements with me?”
Crockett dabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “If they asked for that, it wasn’t because I told them to.”
“They ain’t never said nothin’ about agreements before they met you,” Charlie continued. “They don’t do nothin’ without asking me first, dig? They know better than that.”
