Gabriella

by Earl Murray

  After we left, Garr went back and stood guard for some time. He wanted to be perfectly certain the wolves remained at a distance. I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t know they would be back and trying their best once he left. I’ve seen them lay down on their sides and scrape out under the cactus until it toppled over, then begin digging from above. But that happens most often when they can smell the corpse and know their efforts will reap rewards.

  He stood guard and they stayed away as long as he remained on the hill with his rifle, his beloved Whestley Richards pill-lock, the same weapon that Walter had used to shoot Avis. The wolves were privy to his aim, as he had shot one or two of them before. He didn’t come into camp until well after dark and I know that Bom doubled whatever it was he uses in his tea to help him sleep.

  There hasn’t been much discussion during travel. The carriage was taken apart and stored in two carts, along with Walter and Avis’s three trunks full of belongings. No one had any idea what to do with them, but burying them on the plains didn’t seem proper.

  Garr is trying to pretend that Miss Hall doesn’t exist. I’ve noticed that he says nothing to her and that they never eat together. Though Garr’s appetite seems intact, hers is suffering. Nothing I’ve said has made any difference, and though she thanks me for my concern, she has made it clear in no uncertain terms that she needs a lot of time to herself.

  Bom tells me the situation is very troubling, even for him. I thought upon our first meeting that nothing could bother him, but he’s likely not experienced these circumstances before. Certainly he’s been around affairs, but none that ended as quickly and tragically.

  He says that all Garr talks about is Oregon. He wants to reach Fort Vancouver as quickly as possible. It seems, obvious, as he spends most of his time in camp drilling his men. Bom says that Colville brought them down from Quebec in Canada to St. Louis. Most of them are discharged British soldiers who are not happy about the Oregon situation. I always knew they were a bunch of Hudson’s Bay renegades, but soldiers they’ll never be.

  I haven’t approached him regarding his remarks about finding a new guide, but I would suppose that’s still on his mind. I don’t believe he wants to spend any more time with me than he has to. It might be the best for all concerned.

  I’m eventually going to ask Miss Hall about her plans. I don’t know if she’s still interested in painting Indians or not. I don’t see her sketching much, just riding by herself or sitting alone during camp hours, taking care of Daisy. The calf even sleeps in her tent and the two have grown very attached. The few times I’ve offered to help her with the feeding, she’s been silent.

  Bom says she isn’t talking to anyone, so I won’t approach her again until he says he believes the time to be right. I can see that she’s still confused about whether she should be mourning her aunt or enraged with her. I know her uncle’s death, especially by his own hand, will haunt her to the grave.

  I believe she should do what I did in handling my father’s leaving: Accept that it’s over and done with—there’s nothing more to it than that. Bom has told me that such things are never over and done with, but I say that they are. I believe that she can be like me and put it all behind her and never look back.

  We’ll reach Bent’s Fort in another day. We’ve passed a number of caravans headed back to St. Louis and there will be even more to come. I’ve learned that war with Mexico is as good as begun and troops on both sides are preparing for battle.

  Since Bent’s Fort is on the north side of the river, there’ll be no fighting there. But American dragoons will certainly use it as a base of operations. I hope we can get in and out without involvement.

  I decided to keep us moving longer than usual today so that we might reach the fort well within daylight hours tomorrow. Though everyone is tired, no one complained about the extra travel. There is a sense of lost purpose here. The incident with the Dodges has taken the spirit out of us all.

  Lamar returned early from his scouting trip and announced that we were being followed by Arapaho. He said that while praying last evening, a vision showed him a warrior with a black bow and arrows. He didn’t tell me at the time, as Miss Hall had gone up on the hill with us, as she has been doing lately.

  Before leaving this morning, we discussed his vision. I asked him if the warrior he saw had black stripes on his face and forehead, and wore raven feathers in his hair.

  “I saw only the bow and arrows,” Lamar said, “but they were being held in the grasp of a very large black bird.”

  While with the Arapahoes, I knew a warrior named Kills It, whose medicine was the raven. His name translated into a phrase that meant “Whenever he feels like killing, he goes after it,” which was shortened by traders. He and I never got along.

  My troubles with Kills It began early in my life with the Arapaho and I haven’t told Lamar everything there is to know. It’s too complicated and he doesn’t care anyway. He and I are friends and whatever else mixes in from the past is irrelevant.

  I thought about Lamar’s dream as a large party of Arapaho warriors appeared on the south side of the river. Kills It rode in the lead, his lance covered with paint and feathers. They were all stripped to breechcloths and moccasins, typical dress for hunting or war. Some had trade rifles but most carried bows and a full quiver of arrows. Lamar and I both agreed that they were hunting and would war on enemies if given the chance.

  Though the Arapaho are generally friendly, Kills It always had his own followers who believed as he did: All whites needed killing—men, women, and children; a festering wound left over from childhood. His parents and a brother had died at the hands of a trapping party, who had thought they were Blackfeet. Ten years old at the time, Kills It had made the sign for Arapaho just in time to save his own life. He refused help from the trappers and walked back to the village on his own.

  I’ve always wondered why Kills It and his family were out wandering around by themselves. He would never tell me, but my guess was they had been part of a traveling band of Gros Ventres, an affiliated tribe who live to the north along the Missouri, long-lost relatives allied with the Blackfeet. Kills It and his family had been victims of circumstances and now he will always want to do more than even the score.

  But he wasn’t the main leader in the village and didn’t want to be banished from the band if he made a decision that cost everyone else. When I lived among them, there were strict rules about taking matters into one’s own hands, especially if others might be affected adversely. I knew in this case that Kills It was very angry that we had spoiled their hunt, but wouldn’t start trouble unless he believed he could kill us all without casualties to them.

  We stopped and I communicated across the river in sign language, inviting them over to eat fresh buffalo with us. Garr proceeded to denounce my intentions until I pointed out that we could either feed them or fight them.

  He left in a huff. Kills It signed back to me that he didn’t care to eat with dogs. He and some of his followers would come across and speak with me, but there would be no pipe ceremony and no sharing of food.

  Lamar and I met them as they rode out of the river. I gave my rifle and pistol to Lamar and Kills It handed his lance and shield to a warrior with him. I told Lamar to ride a distance away and wait for me. I didn’t want additional intertribal tension added to the problems at hand.

  There was no cordial greeting. Kills It looked very similar to the day I left the Arapaho village, tall and well proportioned, his hair long and groomed with clay and bear grease, and topped with two raven feathers. His eyes were as penetrating as ever and his mouth tight, the ever present lines of black trailing across his face and forehead.

  He had always been known as brave in battle and wore his marks with pride. I noticed two long knife wounds outlined in red paint, one along the outer thigh of his right leg and another on his left forearm. They were both relatively new and along with the old ones—also outlined in paint—his entire body looked like a cross-hatch of o
ld wounds.

  “I believed when you left us that I was rid of you for good,” he said. “I even said thanks to the Grandfathers. I guess I shouldn’t have thought that way.”

  My command of the Arapaho language hadn’t diminished during my time away. “We do not have to be friends,” I said, “but we don’t have to be enemies.”

  “Yes, we do. You come into our lands and disturb our hunts and drink our water. Your animals eat the grass and they also drink the water. No one invited you back.”

  I pointed into the far western distance. “We are passing through, to cross the mountains into other lands.”

  “You have come far enough,” he said. “You should turn around and return to the land of the whites. It is that or go under. I will see to that, for I have warriors who feel the same and have strong hearts for fighting.”

  “I have not lost the fighting heart,” I said. “And my men have heard from me about you. They are ready to see your blood, and the blood of anyone else who would cause trouble for no good reason. So if you wish to fight us, paint yourselves for war. I will do the same. Is that how it is?”

  Kills It stared hard at me. “You would die in a land that means nothing to you?”

  “This land holds good memories for me,” I said. “But not of you.”

  “You talk very bold for one who leads men who are more like women. They are Britishers and cannot fight us and win.”

  “Are you going to talk, or fight?” I said.

  Kills It pointed to the warrior with him. “I would fight you but promised Antelope I would bring his son home safely.”

  I was surprised to hear that my good friend among the Arapaho had a son so large. He had been but a small boy when I left.

  “His name is Water That Stands,” Kills It said. “You can see that he doesn’t like you any more than I do.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “He doesn’t have to know you. I’ve told him about you.”

  Water That Stands sat his horse and watched us. I detected no animosity toward me. Kills It was just hoping he could influence me against the young man and Antelope, in hopes I would agree to turn the caravan around and go back to St. Louis.

  “Believe me, the village won’t be happy to know that you’ve returned to these lands,” Kills It said.

  “I would like to hear that from Antelope himself,” I said. “Where is he?”

  “He has become the head chief of our band and is discussing the future of our people if the whites keep coming,” he said. “You might say that he would still call you friend, but many things have changed since you left.”

  Garr suddenly rode up on his black stallion, leading Miss Hall’s pinto behind. He had no business interrupting our talk and I told him so.

  “Tell him we’ll give them this horse if they’ll leave,” he said.

  “That’s not your horse to give,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter. Ella won’t need it any longer, since she’s going back to St. Louis.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask her yourself.”

  “Even if what you say is true,” I said, “we aren’t bargaining horses, or anything else. Ride back to camp.”

  “You keep talking about giving them gifts,” Garr said. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Why don’t you give them your stallion?” I suggested.

  “Don’t be preposterous.”

  Kills It spoke no English and neither did Water That Stands, but both knew the conversation wasn’t amicable.

  “You and the Britisher are not friends,” Kills It said. “Did he bring the pony for me?”

  “It’s not his pony,” I said.

  “The pinto looks to be a good horse, very good for hunting buffalo,” he said. “I will take the pinto and also the Britisher’s black stallion, and all your mules and horses, as payment for crossing these lands.”

  “What is he saying?” Garr asked.

  “Order your men into formation,” I said. “He wants to fight.”

  Garr hurried back and shouted commands. In less than a minute his men had formed a skirmish line and were loading their rifles.

  “He has a very short temper,” I told Kills It. “Decide now if you want to fight or not.”

  While I waited for Kills It’s answer, Miss Hall took her pinto back from Garr and rode over to me. She handed me two small rolls of linen.

  “Give them to the warriors,” she said. “Maybe they are suitable presents.”

  I unrolled them both and discovered that one was a watercolor of Kills It sitting his pony, with the river behind, and the other of Water That Stands. Kills It’s eyes widened. He showed the paintings to the young warrior, who quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

  “I have heard that special people can do this,” Kills It said. “Is she your wife?”

  “No, but she has a gift.”

  Kills It rolled the paintings up and stared at Miss Hall.

  “Is she a spirit?” he asked.

  “No, but the spirits act through her fingers,” I said. “Once she has seen you, she can create pictures of you old or young as well.”

  Kills It said nothing more, but turned his horse and rode back across the river, with Water That Stands right behind. They rode upriver a short distance, crossed, and became lost in the hills and evening shadows.

  Gabriella’s Journal

  27 APRIL 1846

  Through this difficult time I’ve come to realize that my work is my life. The incidents with Edward Garr and the tragedy of Uncle Walter and Aunt Avis muddied the waters, but everything is now very clear: I will proceed with my art and recede from Edward Garr.

  I told him the other evening, in a place along the river where we were alone, that I couldn’t imagine anyone being as deceitful as he. I told him that I had once loved and cared about him, but his eyes were blank. I wonder at times if he has any feeling whatsoever.

  All this could mean I will be returning to St. Louis and back home. I told him as much, but I didn’t mention that the Rivets and Barton are secretly planning to join a caravan going back. I don’t want to do that necessarily, but Edward has spread the word and everyone seems to think I’ve made my decision.

  I am discouraged at having traveled this distance without achieving my goal of sketching Indian chiefs and warriors. But the paintings Mr. Quincannon gave the two Arapaho seem to have kept us from battling them.

  The rendering I just finished of Mr. Quincannon talking to them has turned out nicely. I believe I will redo the sketch on linen and finish it in oil. That picture of them talking with the late afternoon colors behind them was all too striking. Had I known what they were discussing, I might have been less intent on sketching and more inclined to take cover.

  Thanks to Providence, we avoided a confrontation and I will live at least another day to look for suitable subjects for my work. Mr. Quincannon suggests that there will be opportunity to do many more sketches and paintings at Bent’s Fort. “All manner of trader and Indian passes through there,” he said. “You can pick and choose among a variety.”

  We had a nice discussion this evening on the riverbank. He asked me if I was planning a return to St. Louis and I hedged a bit. He seemed disappointed that I should even consider it.

  “You wouldn’t have me travel further with Edward, would you?” I said.

  “I’m going to check at the fort for anyone who wants to hire on with me,” he said. “We can get a caravan bound for Oregon and join up with others along the way.”

  He said that no matter how many decided to go with him, he was going ahead with his plans. He said he wanted to put Missouri behind him forever and settle in a new and promising land. Oregon had always been the solution.

  “I told you when we left St. Louis there would be sacrifices,” he said. “Hopefully the most difficult of them are passed.”

  “The warriors we saw today,” I said. “They could make trouble.”

  “It does ha
ve me concerned,” he said. “But I intend to go ahead.”

  “Do you realize,” I said, “that in many ways you are no different from Edward? You are just as driven.”

  “But for different reasons.”

  “No, for the same reasons. You both believe your cause to be right and neither of you will allow anything to stop you.”

  “My cause is right,” he said, “and his is wrong.”

  He got up and left me sitting there beside the river, listening to the evening sounds and peering into the scarlet twilight.

  BENT’S FORT

  Gabriella’s Journal

  28 APRIL 1846, 1ST ENTRY

  Bent’s Fort is constructed of adobe and stands one hundred and eighty feet square by eighteen feet high, with bastions on the northwest and southeast corners. The gateway rises six and a half feet and is seven feet across, made of heavy plank timber and covered with sheet iron bolted on for reinforcement. There is a sentry station with a belfry over the gate, complete with a bell for ringing at mealtime and a large telescope for watching anyone who approaches.

  We made our entrance yesterday and drew many curious stares. There are a lot of men coming and going, many of them with families, but none with tricorn hats and British Empire red. No one seemed to care much, though, as the Oregon problem is the last thing on their minds.

  The Spanish influence here is tremendous and there’s a good deal of cultural intermingling. Everyone happily adopts other foods and styles of life to bolster their own. I find it too bad that the governments can’t share the same interests as the common folk.

  Edward has said nothing to me since the deaths of Walter and Avis. I moved into the fort with Jessie and Bom and the Rivet brothers while he and his men camped along the river. They stayed but one day before leaving.

  Edward took all the carts and supplies. With him were his taxidermist, Norman Stiles, and Dr. Marking, as well as J. T. Landers, who didn’t seem eager to go. They were led by three mountain men hired as guides. Bom says Edward spoke of a buffalo herd that roamed to the north. Among them, the buckskinners said, was a white bull.