Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  I told him that unfortunately the Delaware were not the only ones with these problems. “It is the same story wherever I have traveled, my friend. There is no escape and no known cure.”

  “No, no cure,” he said. “But marry two squaw and get sisters, big help.”

  I asked if this solution would not eventually result in them joining forces against him.

  “That is one thing Delaware do have cure for.” He grabbed a nearby rock the size of an orange and brought it to eye level for our examination. “Squaw-husher,” he said with a malevolent grin. “Work good!”

  “Quite so, old fellow,” I said nervously. “But now may I ask you about some other things that have been puzzling me?”

  He tossed the rock aside and resumed eating. “You have many questions, Bur-ton, but I do not mind. A man must speak straight with another when they sit around the same fire.”

  “Very well then, you told me that we were traveling to the same place—the city by the salty waters? That is where the so-called Saints live. I wonder if I might ask what business you have with them.”

  “I am going to use-up the Big Mormon.”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand. You mean you wish to kill Mr. Brigham Young?”

  Rifle Shot looked hard into the fire and said, “Rub him from the earth.”

  It seems the Delaware had long expected wergild compensation to the kindred of a slain person. Apparently, someone of great value to Rifle Shot had been murdered by a Mormon, and now payment was due in the blood of a man of equal value and Rifle Shot had elected to go for the very top.

  “I will use him up for Yellow Bear. They are no saints and he is no god,” he said bitterly. “Yellow Bear had no scars on his back before meeting Mormons. Then he was shot from behind like a coward who was running away. This is not right. Yellow Bear did not run from any man.”

  “And this is why you quit being a scout for Col. Parker?”

  Rifle Shot’s mouth was a straight line across his face. “Mmmmm.”

  “Look, Rifle Shot, this assassination business may not be as easy as you think. Have you ever heard of Orrin Porter Rockwell? He is Brigham Young’s bodyguard and is said to be a man second to none with a pistol and rifle. They call him the avenging angel.” Rifle Shot cast great doubt on this pronouncement and was perhaps a bit offended. He gave me a look that I hope never to see again in my life and after a long pause said, “Wah, I do not think so. This Rockwell is the one who tried to rub-out the Great Father in Missouri, the governor Boggs. Shot him from behind like Yellow Bear. He is a coward and I will use him up too on my way to the Big Mormon.” He once again cast that look of ultimate severity and commitment. “A hard rain is going to fall Bur-ton. They will both die.” Then there was some hushed chanting.

  Thank God the women appeared at this time with additional food. Rifle Shot seemed to be entering a state that I did not think healthy. It was as if he were reliving the death of his friend in his mind’s eye and steeling himself for the upcoming battle.

  He caught me exchanging purposeful glances with the prettier of the two sisters and asked if I knew any sign language. I said I did not. “Just cross hands over your chest in front of the one you prefer. Every squaw know what that means.”

  “Oh, I am sorry, I hope you are not offended that I showed interest.”

  “There is nothing wrong with showing interest in a woman. Which do you prefer?”

  “Prefer? Why, I do not wish to pretend to either of your wives, sir.”

  “Why not? Does it hurt you to look at them? You must pick one for companionship this evening, it is our custom.”

  “Oh, I see,” was my response while ogling the one possessed of the splendid smile and superior limb development. “If that is the custom.”

  The warmth of the squaw and the buffalo robe made for a most delightful evening. I had dreams of Shihab in Zanzibar, and later Marie Laveau appeared riding a stallion alongside the Sultana. I was deep within the realm of mighty Morpheus and cannot recall a more rewarding evening as I woke several times in answer to the squaw and then drifted back to sleep with her in my arms. Her hair smelled like wood smoke and honey.

  I awoke with the first light of dawn and was alone under my kit blanket. Except for my bag and horse, everything from the night before was gone. There was not even a trace of the campfire. I do not know how it was possible for the three of them to break down such a camp and disappear without my knowledge, but this is exactly what happened sometime on that most memorable night in the Medicine Bow.

  Burton’s letter to Mockton Milnes, Lord Houghton, August 19th, 1860

  My Dear Milnes:

  I write from the land of many rough knocks where hemlock and wild onions is the antidote to scurvy and where your scalp may be danced over the return of an unsatisfactory squaw. Just last evening I witnessed a regular trooper who had been “pole-axed” after a drink of something called Tangle Foot.

  If you think the continental French are bad, you would positively stare at what they have become just a generation removed over here in America. One of my companions, a Monsieur La Mash, claims to be the son of a soldier in Le Grande Armee; however, I doubt even the rattiest of Napoleon’s little folk could have sired such a creature, even if mated with a grizzly bear. The man has found the most ingenious ways of torturing the poor soul of a soldier’s wife who is trapped with him in our carriage. He has already managed to pass wind close to her face, urinate out her window, and befoul her bosom with buffalo feces. The hilarious details are best provided in person and shall be upon my return. I have been refrigerated by rain and nearly bled to death by an atrocity of mosquitoes, which are twice the size of anything like them in Africa. Food along the trail west is nothing short of a disaster of fat and sinew. Wolf mutton made from coyote is bad, but old bull buffalo meat is a match for elk when it comes to being dry and gamy.

  The coffee is weak and vile, and the dented tin cups in which it is served are positively slippery with grease. Mawkish green and poisonous fritters are served along with doughnuts at every stop. The truth is they are only fit for the herd animals that are penned next to these foul doggeries of restaurants and should never be offered for human consumption. Nomadic Arabs eat better in the desert and maintain better sanitation on their left hand. I shall not even go into what happens here with firearms and associated violence save to ask if you have heard of an outlaw named Orrin Porter Rockwell. Probably not. He is the talk of the frontier west of the Missouri and is called the Mormon Avenging Angel for the number of his celebrated assassinations. I anticipate there is soon to be a confrontation between Rockwell and a tall Indian of my acquaintance who also enjoys something of a reputation in these parts. It shows all signs of being a very bloody affair and there is a chance yours truly will be on hand to witness and report. I shall keep you posted. Speaking of that, could you have a word with Palmerston on my behalf? He is likely beside himself with anger at not hearing from me.

  Adieu por le moment and my lonely salaam’s to Mrs. Houghton.

  I have the honour, Sir,

  Your obedient servant,

  Richd F. Burton, Capt.

  Bombay Army

  A Second Letter to F.F. Arbuthnot

  Caro Bummy,26

  It was so good to see you again while on furlough in London. Could it really have been five years since India? And speaking of that place, what of Lumsden, I forgot to ask.

  Your fascination with Balzac interests me but not as much as our discussion regarding a translation and publication of the Ananga Ranga. The Methodists have done to Oriental writing what Bowdler has to Shakespeare, and what better rejoinder than to shiver those tender and sententious prigs with an un-castrated English version of an East Indian marriage manual with all its frank recipes for love philters, aphrodisiacs, and orgasm?

  We will talk more later on this and with Ashbee—should make for a few nights’ entertainment. As for now, I am at camp in Wyoming Territory, which is filled with personages that
would satisfy your Maupassantian love for low-lives and the acts which give them form. This is the case across the land as a general rule, but I have noticed that the human character declines considerably as one pushes west from the Mississippi. Here truly is La Comedie Humaine where one may meet virtually everyone who either could not or would not fit in the conventional society of Europe or the American east. These are the whites who have pressed themselves hard up upon the unsuspecting American aborigine, and may I point out that these same Euro-American ambassadors easily surpass the red man in every category of barbarism and raw savagery.

  This is not to say that our red brothers, especially those peripatetic Plains Indians, are without human failings. While I think their intertribal warfare is laced with more horror than that which is directed against the whites, it is a certainty that the careless pioneer can easily lose both scalp and cod over a variety of misunderstandings. Most of these have to do with possessions. The Indians are daring and expert kleptomaniacs who for some reason see the liberation of whatever is not bolted down and heavily guarded perfectly justified against the loss of their own possessions—namely their game, their self-respect, and their traditional homelands.

  Along with Southern slavery, the uprooting and movement of the American Indian is a national disgrace. Nevertheless, there have been no shortage of hostile Indian changes to the tribal map over the past thousand years, and one of the worst turns administered to me so far was being “done up,” as they say in these parts, by a black slave who attempted to pass down his misfortune to one who had caused him no harm.

  Remember, Bummy, the disease lies in the species; it is not particular to time nor skin colour. It might be argued that whites are better at these treacheries than shaded people, but I have seen too much around the world to award the title just yet.

  The prairie ambulance is a paroxysm of ennui, the food along the route is unfit for a wild dog, and the deportment of my fellow travelers has, on a nightly basis, sent me to the society I most desire—my own. I have seen the American de lunatico over a sporting event, an election, a home cure of simple dirt, a hoodoo curse, and a drink. This is a large, diverse and very strange country. My reason for being here has to do with a prophesy made by a laibon in Zanzibar. It is a complicated story, but for the moment suffice it to say that I am here changing cycles, hunting for the meaning of Man, and trying to fulfill my fate.

  We first met between my pilgrimages to Meccah and Harrar, and this letter finds me a pilgrim once again now headed to the Mormon City of the Saints where a man is said to be able to enjoy the delights of multiple wives. Please do not worry about me, Bummy. I have brought along a copy of the Stage of the Bodiless One, our guide to preventing sexual satiety in a relationship and the book which instructs the husband to vary the enjoyment with his wife so he may live with her as with thirty-two women. With this in hand and five able Mormon maidens, I expect 160 carnal episodes in my scheduled five-day visit. Oh well, Bummy, militat omnis amans27 and it appears as if I am going to war once again.

  On the hunt of Man

  I am

  RFB

  26 This letter was almost certainly written to Foster Fitzgerald Arbuthnot, a close friend of Burton and a collaborator on the translation of the Anaga Ranga and other erotic Oriental texts. —Ed.

  27 Every lover is a soldier. —Ed.

  XIV

  THE PONY EXPRESS AND THE TRAVELLERS’ TRAVAILS

  August 21, 1860

  Simpson’s Hollow

  Wyoming Territory

  We endure wasted mile after endless mile of wild sage in between pools of alkaline waters which are dangerous to both cattle and man. The last station was run by a hopeless family of Canadians who could provide little more than second-rate blacksmith services. We dined on a supper of cold and glutinous peas, and later, instead of salt, we sprinkled a little gunpowder on tough, overcooked mule stakes. These are mauvaises terres and may be likened to Tartarus in Virgil’s Aeneid. Dead cattle lie in different states of decomposition beside the trail along with the hastily prepared graves of would-be settlers who found premature and unhappy ends to their search for an earthly paradise. We are among dead men.

  As predicted, this way west is now also littered with much of the superfluous trumpery which I saw being purchased in St. Jo. Things that seemed so needful in relatively settled Missouri are now merely roadside decorations here in Wyoming after being discarded to lighten overbearing loads. They have become nothing more than ominously out-of-place carcasses that have been picked apart by Indians. The red man must do this work at night and has managed to salvage every useable part down to the very last screw.

  A notable break in the monotony came at midday when we were overtaken by a single rider who passed us at full gallop then unaccountably stopped just ahead and waited for us to catch up. Mahoney, who I suspect was still drunk from the night before, pulled our ambulance to the side of the trail and began fumbling under the seat for his “scatter gun.”

  When we approached, we could see that the rider was a very young man, covered in road dust and in appearance did in no way seem threatening to us. He wore a boyish grin on his face and kept moving his hand up and down before his mouth. Mahoney was beside himself. He apparently couldn’t locate his shotgun and was now tugging on the handle of his side arm trying to free it from its holster. Now both hands were on the pistol grip, and with one last frantic heave he managed to pull himself completely off the buckboard and down headfirst into the rocky ground. His gun discharged immediately upon impact and blew the heel off his right boot.

  The young man dismounted and rushed to Mahoney’s side. “Holy Saviour, mister, you damn near blowed your own foot off. I wuz just trying to ask for a drink of water, that’s all.” He began laughing and addressed the passengers in the coach. “Did ya see that everybody? The damn fool almost blowed his own foot off.”

  Mahoney made some growling and groaning noises and began trying to untangle himself and get up from the ground.

  “You smell like you dun took a bath in rye whiskey, mister. Yup, yezzsir, that’s what that smell is alright, rye whiskey.”

  Lt. Dana stepped from the coach and offered the young man a drink from his canteen. He commented what an unusual thing it was to see a horseman riding so hard and alone in this forsaken part of the country. The young man took two swallows of water and spit out a third. “Well, that’s my job. Don’t tell me you ain’t never heard of the Pony Express? Poster on the stable over in St. Jo said they’s lookin’ for wiry young fellows not over eighteen who’s willin’ to risk death—an’ that they prefer orphans—an’ I say, well hell, that’s me! Father died of fever three years ago, an’ I took care of momma ‘till she passed last month. Nobody left now, so I took that job because they offered it to me.” He looked about at the rest of us and gave a genial nod. “And I took the twenty-five dollars a week too.” He took another swig on Lt. Dana’s canteen and thanked him very politely. As he walked back to his horse he patted the dazed Mahoney on the shoulder. “You take care old man, an’ don’t be drinkin’ so damn much. There’s wimmin a-ridin’ behind you that needs carrin’ for.”

  He remounted, flashed a carefree smile and tugged his horse around. He waved his hat over his head and shouted out, “Missouri to California in ten days or less. U.S. Mail on the move!”

  I noticed that the Danas were holding each other’s hand as they watched him ride off. It were as if they were looking together into the future and imagining a boy of their own who they had successfully brought to the brink of manhood, a good boy with a cheery grin and a whole world to look forward to. La Mash began hacking and spit something awful into the dirt. “Ten days to Californie? Naw, I can’t see it. Too much that can go wrong, you can believe that. Why, I knew a fella once that tried bringin’ a packet of letters from Denver City to Durango all by hisself. Said he wuz a Messican Var-quero or some damn such and that he could ride like the wind. Wal, he didn’t make it, got an arrow stuck right in the middle o
f his fid and froze to death while he was tryin’ to crawl away.”

  Using himself as a model, La Mash rumbled over before Mrs. Dana and took the time to point to the exact place the arrow entered the man’s body. “Right here, squar on the fid, can ya believe that, Missy? What a shot that Injun must have been. They only found him by trackin’ the frozen blood in the snow. I’ll be in-tire rumfluxed if I know why they think some runny nose kid can git to Californie all by hisself, just don’t make no sense.”

  He thought for a moment, threw his head back and roared a wild laugh. “If he would’ve lived one sure fire thing he wouldn’t have to worry about is gettin’ hit in that same spot with an arrow. Nope, that there was one shot in a million, you can believe that.” La Mash finished off the sentence by reaching deep into the front of his trousers and unabashedly scratching himself.

  Mrs. Dana lost control. “Oh for John’s sake, Mr. La Mash, can’t you find a good word about anything? Every time you open your mouth all that comes out is some vile story about death or filth or suffering … or spit.” She brought her hand to her mouth and quickly turned back for the coach.

  La Mash seemed positively astounded at her behaviour. “Now what do you suppose got into her?” he asked to no one in particular. “Damn wimmin’s as unpredictable as a dust storm. One minute they’s just fine, an’ another they’s at your throat.” He clapped Lt. Dana on the back. “Suspect you know all about that, the way they’ll turn on you with no warning. You can believe that can’t you, general?”

  Lt. Dana glanced over at his wife and back at La Mash with a defeated and sick look on his face. This in turn prompted Lord Kill Ba’r into still more dialogue. “Man’s got a right to express hisself in this country ain’t that right, Capt. Burton? We ain’t got no king around here what says what a man can and can’t do, an’ that’s a fact.” La Mash looked out at the horizon and said, “Why I just live for the time a man’s gunna try an’ tell me to do somethin’ I don’t want to do.”