Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  XI

  PREPARATIONS FOR THE RED INDIAN WEST

  July 22, 1860

  St. Joseph, Missouri

  Eccomi qua25 across the mighty river and at the frontier of the great and wild American West. I am alone now and this is probably the condition that best suits me, but considering dear John, the alcohol and the problems that surpassed its pleasures overtook him—the embarrassments, the wasted days, and so forth. Curiously, he always advised me when entering the realm of Bacchus that it is all about “control, control, control.” I cannot suffer many men who would turn their back on one of the world’s best remedies—and why did the learned Arabs of old ever abandon the pleasures that would have continued their advancement?—but America is a different world, where “control” is hard to come by and a land where certain kinds of attractive freedoms constantly dare to challenge the sensibilities of what drink has to offer. There is the newness here and a certain exhilaration that seems to fuel excesses of all sorts. Ah, well. My best to him, but now a different stage of the hunt begins.

  At first sight, the dry land port of St. Jo appears to be under siege, for hundreds of white tents surround the city and the crackling of gunfire can be heard any time of the day or night. This later condition may be explained by the scores of bivouacked would-be pioneers and their preposterous preparations for the journey West—to wit, every dirt farmer and shopkeeper inhabitant of this tent city has recently armed themselves against all perceived trail hazards and are becoming acquainted with their unfamiliar possessions by shooting apart every stray dog, tree stump, and glass bottle in sight. One finds it nearly impossible to enter the city proper without running a gauntlet of “tenderfeet” playing with their new toys.

  Once past this dangerous free-fire zone, the traveler may gain some understanding of how this situation came about. A sign posted on the first frame building in town warns:

  BEWARE OF CONFIDENCE MEN AND BAD ADVICE, DO NOT LEND YOUR MONEY TO STRANGERS, and finally, WELCOME TO ST. JOSEPH, GATEWAY TO CALIFORNIA.

  The so-called pioneers swarm here at St. Jo and then leave like columns of ants heading West in lines of wagons. These are no real pioneers, of course, because all available literature demonstrates that the land had already been nicely pioneered and was well-known to those Indians who came long before them. It may be allowed that it was not populated or exploited enough to suit European tastes, but herein rests the core of the problem—half of the “wildness” of “The Wild West” is based on the resistance to the wagons, their passengers, their designs, and the suffocating feeling that they were never going to stop coming. The other half may be measured by the personalities of the new-comers and the fact that many of them were headed West because they were sacked by the society they came from. Here is fertile ground for the opportunist, for those who have committed capital crimes elsewhere, for hunters such as Speke, and for the takers and the re-makers who want to bring their ways to a new land and have others conform to it. Among the wagon people there are surely passive farmers, the unfairly oppressed and the benignly hopeful, but from what I have seen so far they are outnumbered five to one by a more destructive breed.

  Aggressive local merchants have convinced the newcomers that the trail is so dangerously thick with murderous Indians, “rattlers” and “b’ars” that they must arm themselves to the teeth, and it is said that some have paid more for their guns and ammunition than they have for their wagons and food stocks.

  The noisy streets are lined with shops catering to the thousands of immigrants wishing for new luck in the promised lands; however, it is difficult to see how the trumpery being sold to them can assist in their quest. At the first “provision” store I happened upon several men who were struggling to hoist a piano aboard a prairie wagon which was already loaded with trunks of women’s clothing, a heavy cast iron stove and what appeared to be part of an ornate staircase. The proprietor was assuring his client of the value and appropriateness of her purchase while biting down on a Partagas and counting her money. I fully expect to see these unnecessary items littering the side of the road by the time we reach Turkey Creek.

  There is a pandemonium of excitement on the streets as people rush about in the heady atmosphere of confused hope and anticipation. This is an America quite different from any I had previously encountered, for here tempo and tumult approach the Arabesque. St. Jo may be likened to a great wooden bazaar with the intrigues and clamor of the Orient configured in a bold and raw new way.

  Arrangements are made on every street corner. There are holy pilgrims with blond hair, buckskin sheiks, assassins wearing cowboy hats, harems of dancehall girls unaccountably singing “Oh California, that is the land for me,” and black-skinned Nubians who pride themselves as being “pure sang.” Everyone is off to somewhere and no one passes through these parts without being touched somehow by the Grand Vizier, Joseph “Joe” Robidoux, who is the father of this city—and no less than sixty-seven children sired with various women both red and white.

  Robidoux’s St. Jo here in the Blacksnake Hills marks the beginning of the wild America one imagines back home and is the turning-back point for the genteel, careful women, and the faint of heart. This is a town of hard swearing, stiff drinking and relentless, unmerciful spitting. The aforementioned gun mania that is being promoted to the immigrants is enhanced by a healthy population of weapon-toting regular citizens who bring their imperative tools with them into the town’s many saloons, gambling establishments, and bordellos. In this America, no man can separate another from his “shootin’ iron” without a fight, and it is of course with guns that most of the fighting gets done.

  As one might imagine, this is also a town where physicians skilled in the treatment of gunshot wounds prosper as quickly as undertakers and regulators. All these professionals, like everyone else in St. Jo, double their rates as soon as the sun goes down.

  Not to be undone by my new surroundings, I purchased a Bowie knife, a LeMat nine-shooter I picked up in New Orleans, a .70-caliber Hawkins, a double-barrel 12-gauge, two Colt dragoon revolvers, and an air rifle to astonish the Indians. A bit overdone perhaps, but I now feel at home and in league with everyone else in this town. My laibon would surely understand that the pen is surely not enough in this land.

  In order to thwart scalp hunters both red and white, I have shaved my head. This act, as foolish as it may appear, might actually save me some trouble in the upcoming journey, for the town is still a-buzz over Major Ormsby’s loss of forty militia men to Washos, Pah Utes, and Bannacks at Honey Lake. In addition, the Comanches, Kiowa, and Cheyenne are said to be “out” in Nebraska. The good news from trail scouts is that the Potawatomies are busy trying to kill off the Fox and Crow, and one need not worry too much about the Sioux for they are currently occupied in their efforts to “rub out” the Pawnee. It is to their credit that they have neither overpopulated this land nor exploited its resources, but like everyone else on Earth they are at each other’s throats and now can redouble the excitement by adding the wagon people to the mix.

  I have taken up residence at the Dipesto Hotel, which is a frowzy dog-hole of a boarding establishment for those with just enough money to forgo the rigors of tent life. This place is owned and operated by a husband and wife team in their mid fifties who are no Darby and Joan. Forever at odds with one another, they nevertheless combine to make a living from pilgrims waiting for convoy or ambulance west. He does everything but cook, and she complains and collects the money.

  The drinking establishments in St. Jo are interesting but dangerous, especially after dark, so it was the dining table and sitting room of Chez Dipesto where I made most of my introductions and gathered information regarding the upcoming trip. Mrs. Dipesto looked askance at my brandy and cigar sessions in her parlor, but the love of money reduced her complaints to sharp looks and the noisy handling of kitchen equipment whenever I was within earshot. I’m afraid it was her poor husband who mostly felt the point and edge of her wrath, because she harped afte
r him as he went about his many chores, stomping her foot for attention and punctuation and leaning in close to him for the deliverance of shrieking admonitions. A near perfect example of why I maintain that there is nothing on this earth more fiend-like than a menopausal woman.

  On the second evening I dined with a U.S. artillery officer named Lt. Dana. He and his wife were on their way to the newly established Camp Floyd, which was situated within easy striking distance of the Mormon capital at the Great Salt Lake. It seems the United States has come to fear and distrust the Mormons and have sent 2500 men to Utah to keep an eye on them—and perhaps more—should the Nauvoo Legion become restless. Little wonder Palmerston keeps pushing me there.

  Lt. Dana recounted some very nasty business that happened a few years back at a place called Mountain Meadows, when a Mormon gang disguised themselves as Indians and attacked a wagon train of settlers. “Nearly everyone was killed,” Dana said as a matter of fact. But he did lean away from his wife and softened his voice to inform me further that, “Some of the corpses had been insulted.”

  He raised his eyebrows at my reaction and continued on secure in the knowledge he had captured my full attention. “They also set fire to Fort Bridger. You knew that didn’t you?”

  “Why no, Lieutenant, no I didn’t. Please feel free to provide the details.”

  “Burned it to the ground and plundered its stores. I cannot say much beyond what I learned before leaving garrison in Ohio, but the story goes something like this. Mr. Joseph Smith of New York, who by all accounts was a wilder kind of blinking idiot, fancied himself a prophet of God and gathered a following. It all has something to do with golden tablets and multiple wives. At any rate, the number of converts began to grow and as it did the congregation was chased from every place they attempt to settle. People don’t like the Mormons. Smith is eventually killed in Illinois and his successor, a fellow named Brigham Young, moves the “Saints”—that’s what they call themselves—lock, stock, and barrel to Utah Territory and starts his own nation.”

  “This is all very fascinating, Lieutenant. Please continue.”

  The somewhat dapper and clean-cut Dana seemed gratified to deliver this synopsis and eagerly resumed his narrative. “Well, the nation is called the Imperial State of Deseret and is occupied by a large group of followers that is doubling every day. The worst part of the story, and the reason why I am on my way to Camp Floyd, is that the Mormons have become aggressive.

  “They are suspicious of outsiders and their leaders fear assassination. Now here is where matters start becoming dangerous. They have assembled a wild bunch of triggermen who call themselves the Danite Band. They are the guardians of Brigham Young and the destroying angel of those who they think pose a threat to the nation. These are the same ones who killed those poor settlers in Mountain Meadows, and the same gang that burned down Ft. Bridger. They are desperadoes and bigamists, Captain Burton, and the United States Army must stand ready to uphold the moral and civil laws of this great country.

  “We have targeted three of these criminals in particular, for they are the leaders of the Danites and some of the most ruthless men in the territories. Ephe Hanks is one, and the lawyer turned killer Bill Hickman is another. Though by far and away the worst and most dangerous of them all is Orrin Porter Rockwell. He is the one who shot Governor Liliburn Boggs in the back of the head, shot and killed Lt. Frank Worrell of the Carthage Greys, hunted down Moses Clark, and ended the lives of Joachim Johnson, John Gheen, and the bullwhaker Martin Oats. And that’s just to name the most famous of his victims. This Rockwell is a villain of the first water and devilishly accurate with either pistol or rifle. There’s not a living soul west of the Mississippi, white or red, who doesn’t know and fear his name. Some call him The Son of Thunder.”

  At this point the door to the Dipesto Hotel burst open and a thick man, clad in buckskins and furs, boldly walked in and placed his hands on his hips. Like everyone else in St. Jo he was well armed, although this particular gent had set himself apart from the others by sporting a great number of glass trade beads about his person, as well as a very conspicuous bear claw necklace, an enormous fur purse, and two large bird feathers which had been affixed to his hair and the side of his very bushy black beard. The smell of old campfires and danger filled the room.

  He surveyed the parlour with blazing eyes and a maniacal grin on his face. Finally his booming voice called out and echoed off the walls. “Did I hear mentioned the name of O. P. Rockwell?” He looked about for a moment and growled, “Wal, speak up whoever it was.”

  The young artillery officer got to his feet and courageously replied, “I am the one sir. Lt. Dana of the United States Army, Mr. Rockwell, but I am unarmed at the moment and ask that you take this into consideration before you… .” Mrs. Dana interrupted at this point with a plaintive howl, “George, George, I am too young to be widowed and on the frontier.” She dropped to her knees, clutched at the leg of her husband’s trousers and turned to the imposing desperado. “Please, I beg you Mr. Rockwell,” she sobbed, “we are just beginning our lives, my husband is a good man, I beg you.”

  This menacing man rested a meaty paw on one of his pistols, then picked a piece of gristle from his teeth and spat it on the floor. He finally grinned down at her, then threw his head back and let out a laugh from deep in his throat. “Why you Gord domned fools! I ain’t Rockwell. The name’s La Mash, Gaston La Mash, but everyone east of the Rockies knows me as Lord Kill B’ar. Rockwell? Oh that’s a good laugh. I know how to fix a rifle alright but I ain’t never ended the life a white man, no, just rabbit, deer, b’ar, and such. Had some bad run-ins with Injuns—w’al, bad for them I reckon ‘cause I still got my hair.” He lifted his cap to reveal a greasy black mane. “No, I just asked to see if ol’ O. P. might be in these parts. That would mean some serious damn fireworks if he crossed back into Missouri, yes sir. He had to git up an’ git after what he did to Governor Boggs. Wouldn’t want to be on the streets around here if he was back ‘cause old Port would be takin’ a few men with him if the shootin’ started. Yes sir, he’s one of the best shots in the territory, I’ll tell you that. Don’t care if he’s one o’ them Morans or what, he kin shoot to kill and does a-plenty!”

  Lord Kill B’ar La Mash flopped down on one of Mrs. Dipesto’s parlour seats and began another protracted monologue. “Why don’t you git yourself up off the floor, Missus.” He pointed to Lt. Dana and said, “An’ you better grab your seat again, sonny. Ain’t no sense you both actin’ like that in front of an ol’ mountain man the likes of me. I ain’t goin’ to hurt ya.”

  He reached into his fur purse and produced some “fixin’s” in preparation for a smoke. Mrs. Dipesto looked on in horror as he swung his muddy boots up on the coffee table then rolled and ignited a crudely made cigar. He casually tossed the spent match over his shoulder and onto the floor behind him.

  “Anybody want some of this here kinnekinnick? It’ll blast hell out of yer lungs an’ give yer head a spin until you settle in with it. How ‘bout you young lady, feel like fixin’ yourself up some Injun smoke after the start I gave you?” He blew a thick blue cloud into the air and quizzically looked around at the three of us. “I’m just fresh in town and looking to move west, maybe Californie. Hear tell man has room to move around in those parts, not shut-in by weather or what you might call socially confined.”

  As if to punctuate his last statement he leaned far to one side, lifted a haunch off the seat and let go with an awful fart that whistled and growled in the direction of Mrs. Dana. She screwed her face into a look of outrage and immediately brought her kerchief to her nose and mouth. The officer’s wife knitted her eyebrows and grumbled from behind her mask. “Mr. La Mash, pleeease. If you are ill, I recommend you see a physician at once!”

  “Oh don’t you go worryin’ ‘bout me, Missus. I feel just fine, haven’t been sick since I got fed that Gord domned Shoshone stew. I’ll be teetotally rumflumuxed if them savages weren’t tryin’ to poison me.” H
e began to tilt to one side again and gave a wink at Mrs. Dana. Her eyes widened as she realized it was probably too late for an escape.

  Brraaap!

  “I fixed them Shoshone up real good later on. Yes sir, you can believe that. Besides, La Mash has a strong meat bag.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve eaten near everything the world’s got to offer, both cooked and raw. Why just this afternoon I ate me some cow brains and hoof soup an’ washed it on down with last week’s goat milk. Didn’t bother me one bit, ‘cept for a little gas. Nah, an ol’ ba’r hunter like me’s got to have a strong meat bag, wouldn’t last long in the territories without one, you’ll see.”

  He readjusted himself on the couch. “I used to be a trapper up in Colorado Territory ‘till the beaver give out—then it was griz. Huntin’ ba’r ain’t all that easy neither. Them mountains are damn cold, yes sir, you can believe that. Oh, I suppose the cold weren’t the only thing. You see I got into some trouble with the Flatheads over a squaw. She was a pretty little thing but wasn’t worth a good Gord domn beyond that, couldn’t even pull jirk if you kin believe it. That ain’t like an Indian gal but it’s true, so I took her on back to the chief and told him so, told him I wanted my trade rifle back too.

  “Wal, the old chief wasn’t too keen on returnin’ my rifle, an’ he also seemed reluctant to take the squaw back, bein’ probably happy to git rid of her in the first place. Things were startin’ to git pretty heated so I figured I best prepare for some trouble. Just then the squaw’s brother comes whoopin’ towards me with a big knife in his hand an’ lookin’ angry as a train wreck. I reckon he didn’t want to see her come back neither.

  “There was nothin’ left for me to do but pull my revolver and let go a ball at the young brave. Problem was that my aim was off in all the excitement ‘cause the ball only caught him in the hip, ricocheted off the bone and came bustin’ out the side of his waist. I’ll be dumfouzled if that same ball didn’t go on to hit the old chief over his left eye and killed him dead right on the spot.