“Wal, the other two braves what wuz there stood still for a moment wonderin’ just what the hell they wuz to do? I couldn’t believe they wouldn’t be angry as wasps when they come to their senses, so I shot them both in the legs before they had a chance to think about it. Shootin’ ’em in the legs was a charitable thing to do but it left ’em alive to tell the rest of them Flatheads what happened, an’ as you kin expect, the entire nation like to lift my hair right about now, and in that neck o’ the woods a man’s left to just count the days ‘fore that happens.
“So, now you know why La Mash left them mountains and come to Missouri and why I’m lookin’ west to start over again.” His face lit up when he made the pronouncement, “This time I’m going to hunt buffalo—the Boss!”
25 Here I am. —Ed.
XII
BY STAGECOACH INTO THE TERRITORIES
August 7, 1860
Big Muddy Station
Kansas Territory
I cannot say that I was unhappy leaving St. Jo, an altogether disgusting little town where the law is openly and boldly defied everywhere. Further reason was provided by La Mash who took a room at the Dipesto Hotel until he could secure passage west, a move which redoubled Mrs. Dipesto’s dyspeptic temperament and brought about still worse service and food. This strained and ever degenerating situation did not seem to bother Lord Kill B’ar in the slightest but was surely having a dramatic effect on everyone else. Mrs. Dana refused to dine at the same table as La Mash, and two other boarders bought a tent and elected to camp out with the pioneers rather than listen to any more of his stories. Mr. Dipesto ran away from wife and home leaving hundreds of little things undone and no one but us for his wife to direct her bitchery.
So, it was with great relief when word reached me and the Danas that our coach was finally ready for the journey to Utah. Mr. Walter Withrow, the contracting agent, appeared in person at Chez Dipesto to make the announcement that fresh mule changes were at last in place at all stations along the trail.
He apologized to the three of us and even rested his small hand on Mrs. Dana’s arm to assure her that the journey would be a safe and comfortable one on the Utah Coach. He looked into her eyes and said, “The Withrow Ambulance Co. forbids drinking, profanity, gambling, and travel on Sundays, Mrs. Dana; I trust you will be comfortable with these regulations.”
The young woman smiled while nodding and then shot a daggers drawn look at La Mash who had just entered the room.
“Ahh, Mr. La Mash,” Withrow said, “just the man I was looking for, I have some good news. There has been a last minute cancellation and the fourth seat on the Utah Coach is now available. Would you still be interested?”
La Mash roared rhetorically, “Whoo-weee! Wal, does a fly land on shit, Withrow?” He turned to Mrs. Dana with widened eyes and asked loudly, “Does spit hit the ground?” He clasped her on the shoulder leaving a filthy handprint and said, “You bet your sister’s vent I’ll buy that ticket, yes siree Bob.”
A greatly satisfied La Mash looked around the room, nodded his head and screamed out. “This here St. Jo’s a great little town but it can’t hold the likes of me, no sir, you can believe that. No siree, I’m on my way west in high comfort now.”
I need not point out that Mrs. Dana was completely devastated by this development and seemed suddenly weak and very pale. In the rush of excitement to share his good news with someone, the hirsute La Mash unnecessarily brought his face within inches of Mrs. Dana’s and hollered, “Whoo-wee, Missus! Looks like we’re all headin’ out together! That’ll be just fine with me, I got no particulars ‘bout who I move around with just as long as they’re decent folk and don’t expect no kick-shaws.”
Mrs. Dana managed a weak cough and again placed her kerchief over her nose and mouth. Her husband intervened at this point and said, “That will be enough, sir.” To which a wild-eyed La Mash responded, “I’ll just get a little road stake together and meet everyone at the stables.”
Within a half hour we were all crowded aboard the Withrow Ambulance company’s Utah Coach and headed into “Bleeding Kansas.” We crossed the Missouri River by steam ferry and traversed five miles of bottomland until reaching the rolling prairie. On our way to the first resting station we passed depressing, lonely little shanties at places with names like Cold Spring, Kennekuk Station, and Grasshopper Creek, which are all populated by equally depressing little families trying to wrest a sedentary life from a land best suited to nomadism.
Big Muddy Station was, as its name implies, a swampy and mosquito-infested pigsty of an outpost set against a vista of flatness. Here a lonely proprietor keeps a few mules and hogs but precious other stores. We were only able to take on what is called “cold flour” which is nothing but parched maize pounded into the consistency of meal. This was supper after it was mixed with a little flour and gagged-down as a beverage.
August 11, 1860
O’Fallon’s Bluff
Nebraska Territory
Upper Kansas and across southern Nebraska presents mile after endless mile of scrub grassland or vacuous emptiness. We have been bumping along at the rate of three miles an hour through a vast, dry sea of still texture, burnt earthy smells, and measureless swarms of flies and other biting insects. Praise Allah for the relief of opium over such a stretch for neither Warburg Drops nor the holy weed nicotine could surmount such drudgery.
Reading and writing are out of the question while confined to the Concord coach, for the ride is rough enough to cause nasal hemorrhage, and annoying bladder and kidney hyperactivity which occasions many unscheduled stops along the way. This is of course for everyone but Lord Kill B’ar who manages to contort his person in such a way as to relieve himself through either window or door while on the fly.
Mrs. Dana pretends not to notice this and other stunts, but I can tell that her patience is wearing thin. Gaston La Mash is like a two-year-old child in some ways, forever scrambling in and out the windows, toying with and sometimes breaking whatever little gee-gaw he can lay hands on, and most lately bothering our driver or “ripper” who he plies with stories from his past. I overheard him telling the story of the Flathead squaw for the third time last afternoon.
I have long ago exhausted the company of La Mash and the Danas on this just the fourth day out. I try desperately to stay awake long into the night writing by firelight and when the wood burns out, contemplating the stars so sleep may come easy in the coach the next day. To this end I have taken to making nightly camps by myself some distance away from the rest station and the banality and outrages of my cabin mates. They all think I am queer and some have even whispered that I must be mixed with Indian blood to want such a nightly existence. Well, all the better I say.
It was earlier this very evening that I made my fire in a wooded area a good distance from the others at the so-called inn and experienced a most unusual event. While writing notes in the fading campfire light, I had the most peculiar sensation that someone was watching me. I turned quickly and saw nothing, but when I looked again no more than two seconds later I saw the face of an Indian illuminated by the flickering orange of my campfire.
I was quite a distance from my many guns so I concentrated instead on searching his taciturn face in hopes of ascertaining his intentions. And I must say I believe he was doing the same with me. This unblinking engagement lasted far longer than any other of my life. At last he stepped forward from the shadows and exposed himself fully to the light. He was extraordinarily tall and well-made, and his face was painted with two broad horizontal strokes of green and red from cheekbone to cheekbone. He wore a snakeskin band across his brow and had what appeared to be a fox or wolf tail tied to the back of his head. This giant was wearing an un-collared shirt with the tails cut off, a loin cloth, and was unaccountably carrying a pair of trousers.
The tall Indian slowly raised his hand open-palm towards me which is a universal sign of friendly greeting. I responded in kind and uttered the word “how,” which I have been told
means “good” in most Indian languages and is an appropriate and friendly greeting.
“How are you doing this fine evening?” he said gravely.
“You speak English.”
“Yes. Now I would like to know, how is a white man getting along on the ground and away from his bed and his roof? Other white people do not act this way. Are you an outcast?”
“No I am not. I prefer my own company over that which I have been forced to travel with.” He turned a corner of his mouth into a reserved but knowing smile and grunted by way of approval.
“Mmmm, I know what you mean. Other people—bad medicine.”
“Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Yes,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “I have had this tea before and it is good. I will sit with you.”
I placed another log on the fire and poured him a cup of hot tea. He looked into the cup for a bit before carefully probing the liquid with his finger. “I like to make sure there is not any tea at bottom,” he explained. “Makes the last drinks very bitter.” He turned the corners of his mouth down and nodded in affirmation. “I also prefer Earl Grey.”
“Yes, I understand.” Although in truth I did not understand the incongruity of the looks and language abilities at all.
He lifted his head from the cup with a somewhat puzzled look on his face. “You ride with the others but do not make camp with them. This is very strange. And you sleep on the ground when there is good shelter nearby. This is also very strange. Do your people think you are crazy?’
“Well quite frankly some believe I am crazy, others think I do it because they imagine I am part Indian.” He looked startled. “No Indian would do something like that, not even a Pawnee. Have the others turned you out because you want to sleep with men?”
“Well no actually. You see I much prefer women.”
“Mmmmm. Yes, women are much better to sleep with than men, softer, easier to move.” He looked into the fire for several minutes and then addressed me without taking his eyes from the flames. “The reason I have come to you is because my people have a custom. They take a young man from the tribe, make him feel unwelcome and drive him from the tent into the forest where he is forced to camp alone. They do this in the hope that the young man will meet a god who will take pity on him and give him power. With my people, this is how a boy turns into a man.”
His eyes left the fire and looked me up and down. “But this happens to only boys when they are young. You are too old for the power quest, I saw that right away. Then I thought maybe you were a god. There is a look about you that is different from the others.”
The big Indian let out a soft sigh. “But I know now that you are not a god, just a man like everyone else.” His eyes slowly returned to the fire and we sat in silence for the next several minutes.
When he spoke again he asked, “Tell me, man, what do they call you?”
“Richard Burton.”
“Mmmm, Richard Bur-ton.” He thought for a moment. “Then you are an Irish-man.”
“My, you not only know the white man’s language but you also seem to be able to recognize the different types of Europeans.”
“Yes, but it is a very difficult thing. Mostly they all look the same, especially the bearded ones. To my eye they appear like dogs running away with squirrels in their mouths. It is the sound of the white man’s second name that makes the difference. It does not take long to part the O’Boyles from the Beemsterbobers. But I always wonder, what is the meaning of these strange names? It is a cause of much talk around our fires.”
“What is your name?” I asked him.
The corners of his mouth turned down and he stared off in the distance. “Never ask an Indian what he is called. Misfortune falls on a man who tells this to a stranger. If there were another here to ask, then he could speak the name.”
“Very well then. I will wait for that time, if we should ever meet again.”
“Our paths will join again soon. We are travelers to the same place.”
“What do you mean? How do you know where I am going?”
“The white man’s wagons move along a single path from one horse station to the next. This is the only way they can survive on the land. None of them stop for very long until they reach the salty waters near the land of the Sioux.” At the naming of that tribe he frowned and made a slashing move across his throat with the palm and fingers of his open hand. “Bad people, the Lakota. Everyone just calls them Sioux because that is the Ojibwa word meaning enemy.”
I asked him if this was where he was going. Is he also traveling to the salty waters?
He stood and looked down at me. “I am going to my fire for the night.” My visitor surveyed the immediate area before taking a step and issuing a final statement. “Look out for Indians,” he said. “Next to white men, they are the most dangerous thing along the trail.”
I did not have any trouble staying awake for the remainder of this evening because I could not get the encounter with the big Indian out of my mind. His version of English was almost a parody of what I was told it would sound like, but who would dare point out such a thing to a specimen like that? What was he doing out roaming about at night, and whatever was the reason for carrying a pair of trousers over his arm? He had obviously spent a great deal of time around whites, but under what circumstances? Why was he wearing ceremonial paint on his face, and what is his business at the salty waters near the land of the Sioux? It was obvious that he was not a returning member of that tribe, and it was well known that Indians from one group were in more danger than white men when it came to crossing into foreign territory.
As the first hint of the new day appeared in the east, I was still sitting in front of the embers wondering about last evening’s curious visitor and his prediction that our paths would cross again.
XIII
FORT LARAMIE
August 15, 1860
Box Elder Creek Station
Wyoming Territory
The first evidence of buffalo appears, although merely in the form of what is called “chips” here on the prairie. These dung piles make convenient fuel in the land of precious few trees and are used just as argul is in the Tartary deserts. La Mash has been quite excited by these droppings and today insisted on bringing a disturbingly fresh load into the coach for further examination.
“Yes siree Bob,” he explained to Mrs. Dana while squeezing apart a pie. “If’n you expect to hunt the Boss you got to look at his bois de vache, there’s no gettin’ around that. This here will tell you what they et and how long it’s been since they wuz around.” He brought the steaming mess up close to her face and begged her to take a closer look. “Lookie here, Missus, see them little seeds in thar and them tiny bug carcasses? That means Boss has been down by a stream.” Just then the coach must have hit a deep hole or rolled over a large rock, because La Mash lurched forward and smeared Mrs. Dana with buffalo excrement from bosom to nostril.
She gasped with fingers spread wide apart on both hands and then began screaming her husband’s name. “George, George, do something, please. Oh, I never, uggh, George, Geooorge!”
Lt. Dana began fumbling around in her bag for something clean in order to attend to his wife, but before he could manage a penitent La Mash began to wipe at her chest with the sleeve of his greasy flannel shirt. This was the limit. Mrs. Dana began slapping him and throwing her hands about as if in an epileptic fit. Her screams became incomprehensible and it was all the Lieutenant and I could do to keep her from leaping from the coach.
The ruckus brought the ambulance to a halt and our ripper, Mr. Mahoney, jumped from his station and appeared wide-eyed at the window with a shotgun in hand. Mrs. Dana freed herself from our grasp, blew out the door past the astonished driver and ran crying on to the prairie.
The young artillery officer caught up with his wife, and in the distance I could see him trying desperately to comfort her with hand motions and offers to help clean away the mess. She fell to her knees, buri
ed her head in her hands and was apparently sobbing.
She eventually calmed down and was persuaded back into the coach but only after being assured that La Mash would ride on top with Mr. Mahoney and not speak with her the rest of the trip. Fortunately we were just six hours from Fort Laramie, where we thought it would be possible to bring her into surroundings not too unfamiliar for an army wife.
As things later turned out, the fort itself was not exactly appointed as one might expect a U.S. Army post to be. In fact, it may be said that Fort Laramie was the last insult to the memory of proper military discipline, order, or any kind of a defensive installation. To begin with, there were less than two hundred uniformed men posted to Fort Laramie, a number that was easily doubled by the variety of Indians and civilian desperadoes who freely mixed with the soldiers. I had imagined a timbered stockade with a proper gate and cannon the likes of what we had seen at Fort Kearney, but here was just a rough assortment of outbuildings and a large stable. Had these structures not been arranged around a flagpole there would not be the slightest hint that one was in a military garrison.
After approaching and freely entering the wall-less fort without challenge from sentry or day officer, Mr. Mahoney unhitched the team and immediately headed for the first tavern in sight. This was a small task for I counted no less than three such establishments scattered among the eight other log buildings on site. Lt. and Mrs. Dana made directly for the Commanding Officer’s residence, and La Mash and I wandered into the fort’s trading post.
Just inside the door we were approached by an eager Indian wearing a blanket and a felt Rocky Mountain hat with broad brim and tall, steeple crown. “How friends,” he said. “It is good to see you again. I have been waiting for you for five cycles. Now we can talk and exchange many presents. My wife is just outside. She has meat and some coffee. How was your trip?” I was certain that I had never seen this fellow before in my life and I asked La Mash if he had made the man’s acquaintance sometime in the past. He shrugged his shoulders.
Ruffian Dick Page 17
