Finally, a man who was sitting backwards on a chair and resting his chin on the side brace addressed us. His tone was as cutting as a barber’s razor. “Any special thing you ass-sucking faggots want around here?” He pulled his lips back tight against his teeth as he looked down and cleaned his greasy fingernails with a large knife. Then lifting his head up with a threatening look on his face said, “Some little thing we can do for you before you git on your way an’ clear the hell out of here in the next five seconds?”
Mahoney said that he had hoped to feed and water his animals and perhaps find some food for his passengers as well. “Besides,” he said, “this here’s a rest station and we plan on doin’ a little of that too.’
The men in the room looked at each other as if to affirm among themselves that Mahoney’s last comment should be considered a challenge. One young man, about nineteen years old and menacing beyond his years, stepped forward and said, “Just what the hell you mean by that, stagecoach driver?”
A deferential Mahoney in a failing voice said, “Well I don’t mean to make much of it. Just here on a routine stopover, and, well, just lookin’ for a little common help.” Mahoney sensed the tension and strained to break the present course. “Say, you boys thirsty? If you got a bottle and some glasses I’ll buy us all a drink.”
A protracted silence, and then, “We don’t drink with no damn Mormons.”
“Well then, that’s not goin’ to be a problem boys ’cause we ain’t Mormons.”
Lt. Dana and his wife entered the room at this point, and the intense young man loudly announced, “And we don’t drink with no candy-ass East Coast soldiers neither.” And after eyeing Mrs. Dana he said, “But we could make some room for a whorey slut, right boys?”
Another man rose from his seat. He approached Mrs. Dana and began touching the edge of her blouse then salaciously slipped his fingers inside between the buttons. Lt. Dana was frozen in terror, and there descended on the room a hazardous silence with all parties sizing each other up in anticipation of some trouble.
La Mash spoke for the first time and commented that it seemed like the gentlemen in the room didn’t want to drink with anyone. An older, pock-marked desperado threw a toothpick from his mouth and sneered, “That’s right, you sloppy fat man. We especially don’t want to do no drinking with your greasy ass.”
La Mash turned to the man and an instant later pulled a Bowie knife from his waist band and whipped it under the man’s chin. “Wal, that’s too bad, son. Cause I been in a foul mood all day long an’ sometimes when I git like that, I want to do some harm ‘less I have a drink or two to calm myself down.”
The man’s eyes strained down in their sockets to see the knife at his throat and he began sweating profusely. La Mash kept the knife in the same position and began laughing. “You know, boys, I once ran into a old coureurs des bois who didn’t have no time for his fellow man, as cantankerous and contrary a man as you could ever imagine. And, wal, there came a time when he crossed the wrong trapper, a feller who wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’ but a kind word and a friendly drink after he buried a friend earlier that day. That trapper had a bad mean streak in him too, you can believe that. He could turn a man inside out with a knife if he came across someone that was just out lookin’ to bring trouble his way.” La Mash lowered the knife and began slowly cutting the buttons off the man’s shirt. “They found that old coureurs des bois with his cold heart cut all the way out of his chest. It was just layin’ there on the floor wishin’ it was back where it belonged.”
One of the other men in the room began to reach for his gun and La Mash turned the blade of the knife against his captive’s chest and drew more than a little blood. As the front of the terrified man’s shirt quickly reddened, his eyes flashed over to his friend.
“Don’t do nothin’, Stewart. He’ll kill me for certain sure.”
La Mash ordered the others to put their guns on the floor and instructed them to prepare some feed and water for the mules. He told them he and his friends would be resting inside until the animals were fit to continue.
As they passed by him on their way out the door, one of the men stopped and snarled at La Mash. “We’ll be lookin’ out for you, Frenchy.” He jabbed his finger in the trapper’s face. “And when the time comes, we’re going to pull down on you and finish things.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, La Mash lashed out and severed half of the man’s right index finger with a savage swipe of his knife. Lord Kill Ba’r threw his head back and roared a wild laugh. “You’re going to have trouble pulling the trigger now my friend, you can believe that. Look there, your finger’s lying on the floor.” La Mash continued to stare at the man until he ran out the door clutching his bad hand with his good one.
Mrs. Dana stifled a gag reaction.
We spent almost an hour inside the station at Ham’s Fork. La Mash retrieved Mahoney’s scatter gun from the coach and supervised the care of the mules from a chair on the front porch. Needless to say, we were all relieved to continue on, but our driver did complain for the first ten miles saying that he could never pass that way again. He was drinking hard from his flask and grumbling as he drove the team faster and faster.
“Crawford brothers humiliated like that … guns taken away from ’em, an’ George Oaks’ finger twitchin’ on the ground. I don’t know, I don’t know. I might require federal protection. Damn Kill Ba’r don’t care. He don’t have to drive this route again.”
Mrs. Dana appeared to be a different woman at the end of this long day. Her usual nervous temperament had disappeared, and she sat stone motionless with something that could be described as a cold smile on her face. At first, I thought she may have been stunned into a state of shock by the double dose of horror inflicted on her by the murder of the Pony Express rider and the confrontation at Ham’s Fork. But that was not a satisfactory explanation for what I saw in her. I then thought she may have stopped being bothered by La Mash, whose recent actions could have been considered heroic. But even that could not account for the demeanor of the new woman sitting across from me.
I later learned that any hint of temerity in her had been evaporated by the American West. She looked older and wiser in a way, and determined. Nothing could stop her now—no murder, no buffalo chip, no horror of a severed body part. And there was no longer any thought of turning back. She had melded into this great national mania for Western movement that needed to press towards the Pacific like a massive and relentless insect storm. She was now going to be a problem for the Indians and the Crawford brothers, George Oaks and La Mash, and anyone or anything else that got in her way. She had become a real American.
Later in the day we entered Ft. Bridger just as the sun was going down. It is comprised of two double log houses about forty feet long with a horse stable between them. Not far off to the east we could see the remains of the old fort which had been attacked and burned by the Mormons a few years past. Like Ft. Laramie there were Indian lodges set up so close to the stockade that it would be impossible to distinguish one encampment from the other. White and Indian children played together and raised a cloud of dust as they raced about the premises using sticks as imaginary guns and engaged in a mock combat that was too close to reality to be considered charming.
La Mash headed straight for the fort’s only saloon while Lt. and Mrs. Dana began to inquire about safe shelter for the night. Mahoney put up the animals and vowed to sleep with a gun for fear the Crawford brothers and George Oaks might catch up with him in his sleep. There was some wisdom in Mahoney’s fear, and I took special precautions to make my camp this night in a place far from the others, and one which might easily be defended should there be an attack.
I located my spot in a wooded area about twenty minutes from the fort. The first order of business, as always, was to make a fire and assemble a lean-to of some sort for protection against the elements.
It is fortunate that these precautions were taken for as the sky darkened, the stars and
moon became periodically hidden by fast moving black clouds. There was some wind-blown rain and loose bits of vegetation began to skip across the ground in front of me. I gripped my Colt Dragoon and pointed it in the direction of a noise. I cocked the hammer back and then whirled around and pointed it in the direction of another disturbance. Nothing, but I prayed this was still another preamble to an appearance by my formidable Indian friend. As I was about to return the gun to my side, an enraged George Oaks burst from the shadows with a bloody bandana wrapped around one hand and a pistol blazing crazily in the other. Stewart Crawford was directly behind him.
Coincidental with a shot from my pistol came a larger caliber rifle discharge, and a fraction of a second later an arrow pierced Oaks’ neck. Blood gushed out of his mouth as he staggered forward clutching his throat. He fell into the edge of my campfire and newly-spilled blood hissed as it rushed across the hot rocks and embers. His eyes rolled back into his head and his hair began to singe. The sight and smell turned my stomach.
The next thing I saw was Rifle Shot. He was wearing a wooden helmet and cradling a still-smoking breechloader in the crook of his arm. His expressionless face looked past me and I made a half-turn to see Stewart Crawford sprawled on the ground with a hole matching the size of a one-ounce Yager ball through the middle of his forehead.
There was a moment of confusion when I thought of Oaks and the arrow through his neck. That is when my squaw appeared with a long bow in her hand. She was grinning broadly at the sight of what she had just accomplished.
What can be said about the beauty of those smiling, perfectly matched white teeth, set against the alarm of knowing their owner had just dispatched another human being in such a violent and bloody fashion? There was further consternation as she rushed next to him and began extinguishing his burning hair in preparation for lifting it from his skull.
Rifle Shot removed his wooden helmet and walked over to Stewart Crawford and nudged him several times with the barrel of his breechloader. He seemed pleased there was no reaction, although for the life of me I do not see how anyone with the back of his head missing could have been expected to move a muscle.
The squaw finished with her ghastly work and hopped up and down while yelling a staccato chant and holding Oak’s bloody hair and scalp in her hand. She was wild with excitement and began running back and forth between Rifle Shot and myself displaying her trophy.
The wind blew a rain squall to us and the tall Indian suggested we repair to his fire for the evening. He gave not a minute’s thought to the two dead men on the ground preferring instead to worry about how his fire was doing in the rain. To Rifle Shot and the squaw it was simply another day in the American West with its accompanying little episodes of joys and sorrows.
To: Norton Shaw
Royal Geographic Society
14 St. James Sq.
London
My Dear Shaw:29
You would be astonished at America. That the Roy. Geog. Soc. has yet to promote a formal expedition to this raw place is a cheat to those members whose tastes run to the savage and most foreign parts of our globe. Do not think for a moment that Father Civilization has completely spread his seed over this land, for the sword and shield horrors of our own darkened past are played out here on a regular schedule, often after drunken disputes and sometimes for simple sport. And nowhere in the world may a traveller witness so many guns, let alone an armed grease-drinking contest!
One has the feeling that the newness and freedom of the place has caused the white man to go berserk in his efforts to spoil it, and the Negroes, as Thomas Jefferson warned, are just waiting their turn.
The only thing that is somewhat settled is the society of the redman, although it is being torn asunder at an alarming rate, and bringing forth the very worst elements in their character. In my humble opinion, the only chance for salvation would be a mass conversion to pacifistic Buddhism, but this would be as likely as wild and naked John Speke performing the saber dance in a Turkish whorehouse.
As for what has happened east of the Great River, I was a month before sighting any Indians, and once I did have the honour, was held as a slave to them, by a slave of Shem and Japheth, in the land of slavery. A most undignified experience, I assure you.
The American West surpasses Africa and the Orient in its collision of competing human agendas. Here, Canadian trappers clash with local tribes and European immigrants do battle with the sons of earlier arrivals from the same place. The Southern whites are in action against the Negro, and in the North, the English and French have combined to nearly clear the land of every aboriginal soul. The Indians are at constant war against each other, and have been for years, and now have the whites to deal with as well.
Homesteading farmers have hard feelings for the open range hunters; ranchers have an aversion to the miners; the Mexicans dislike the Americans; the North detests the South; the Blacks despise the Whites; the soldiers deplore the Indians; the Indians resent them all; and everyone seems to hate the Mormons. America—it will probably bloom into one of the most cohesive and powerful nations in world history, with the Mormons leading the way.
Has Speke been killed yet? And what of poor Grant? I do not wish to think what will become of him after JHS’s first experience with the Kowouli. Entre nous, I’ll wager Speke will spare them both the moment and keep him hidden in Ujiji.
I am sick to death of bad food and semi-civility. I would prefer starvation and pure barbarism any day.
I subscribe myself. etc., etc.
Yrs. very truly
R. F. Burton
August 24, 1860
Utah Territory
Back at Rifle Shot’s wikeap we parted company with my squaw who rushed to her sister with George Oak’s scalp in hand. There were screams of delight over the trophy and some excited conversation as the engagement was relived in words. Rifle Shot was busy with his big smoke but did take time to motion in their direction and comment how such a small thing can bring so much pleasure to the girls.
Now once again in control of my senses I had to ask how he found me earlier that evening. I mentioned that his timing was positively amazing.
“Wah, Bur-ton, your camp was so noisy that every animal within one day’s ride could hear you like thunder, and every nose below the wind could smell you like a skunk. Do you think the Delaware have no ears or nose?”
“Yes. I mean no, but I cannot believe you arrived when you did. And considering the distance since the last time we met—how, I mean how?’
The squaws interrupted their celebration and giggled at my repeating of the word “how.”
Rifle Shot endured my query with great patience and then calmly explained the situation in review. “You missed both men with your pistol. Bad shooting, and you were about to die. So we helped. That is all. I did not like them from before, so it was an easy thing. Back at the place you call Fort Laramie, we spoke then of the salty waters and my journey to the Mormon camp. Like I told you, we were on our way there and stopped to see you. The squaw wanted this.”
I nodded.
Rifle Shot continued. “Wah, this is the path I am on now, to the Mormons for Yellow Bear.”
“Yes, but your arrival just in time to dispatch those two assassins and save my life—it’s remarkable!”
Rifle Shot seemed perplexed. He shook his head at me as if there were some communication problem. “So the men from what they call the Ham’s Fork were used-up at your camp. It was a natural thing, and so long in coming. I will use-up the Big Mormon the same way. It is not a big thing. We are on the same path and you are a friend of Rifle Shot. You camp alone, away from the other white men. It is good.” He paused and looked over at the two women. “Besides, squaw wishes for more bundling under the robes.”
Bundling? Good god, I thought. Does the man think we were practicing Fanny Wrightism30 the last time we were together? Given his reputation, I was not sure if I wanted to confess that there was no hand fasting on that particular night.
>
I proceeded cautiously. “Well, yes, of course, if that our next time together meets with your approval.”
“Yess, Bur-ton, but we must speak.” He said something to his wives in dialect and they both stood and left the tent. Rifle Shot stared into the fire and spoke softly but very gravely. “We must speak as men, Bur-ton. Wah, it is about you and my wife. I must ask you plainly about your time with her.”
I was very nervous for I did not know how to, or even if I should dare, discuss the intimate details of my last night with the squaw. After all, he said it was alright to sleep with her, and what does he expect a man to do under the circumstances? I didn’t think Indians even knew what bundling was.
“Bur-ton. My number two wife like you, I know that. And now she has killed a man who was about to do you harm. This makes big difference.”
“What sort of difference?”
“It mean that, well, you owe her a life, or maybe some big thing. So maybe you can keep her so that man and woman who like each other can be in tent together, and woman can cook your food, and so you not camp in dangerous land alone.”
Then the big Indian disgustedly threw a small stick into the fire. His tone of voice changed to one of frankness and confession. “Wah, Bur-ton, I must not shoot a crooked arrow, I must tell you true. It is my first wife; she has new problem now. She doesn’t want her sister in the tent anymore, doesn’t want to share time. Jealous. Now she tell me to go to Three Trees and hunt so I will stay away from her sister.”
He turned to me with a look of absolute exasperation. “Hunting at Three Trees is what cause sister to come in the first place.”
Poor chap. He was in a bad way over this thing and wanted me to help out. I reckoned it may be considered extremely poor form to say no, and the woman was very attractive; however, getting married to a Delaware Indian squaw was not exactly on my dance card at the moment. I had to think fast.
Ruffian Dick Page 21
