But in that summer of ’50 the tribes were still just at the fretting stage, wondering if they might not have to do something serious about this invasion eventually; when they hammered a caravan occasionally, it was more for fun than policy. As I’ve said, they were friendly enough to our party, and the last day before we reached Laramie a party of Sioux even invited us to share the feast they were making after a successful buffalo hunt; we’d passed them in the morning as they were skinning the carcases and lighting their fires, and Carson, who stopped off to talk with them, came up presently and says with his quiet smile:
“Injun back there claims to recognise you. Says you shared a hump with him last summer over to Council Grove, and he’d like to repay the hospitality. Spotted Tail – know him?”
I remembered that evil-looking trio who had made themselves free of our meat the day I’d shot my first buffalo with Wootton. With Carson on hand I didn’t mind renewing the acquaintance, and sure enough it was the same six-foot handsome spectre with the coonskin headgear, bloody to the elbows among the slaughtered game but grinning all over his wicked hawk face; he shook my hand and growled greetings, and presently we sat round, our half-dozen among twenty Brulé warriors, gorging ourselves on the freshly-roasted meat. I sat by Spotted Tail, exchanging civilities in my newly-acquired Siouxan – Wootton had never named me to him evidently, and I was ill-advised enough to tell him my Apache handle of Wind Breaker, which he said solemnly was a brave and creditable one. I expressed my appreciation of the grub in Sioux and English, and since it was a new phrase to him he took pains to repeat it several times, croaking with laughter: “Joll-ee good! Joll-ee good!”
He had his nephew with him on the hunt, a pale, bright-eyed skinny little shaver who couldn’t have been above five or six years old, and was unique among all the Indians I ever saw, for his hair was almost fair. He sat very quiet among the feasters, and looked askance whenever anyone caught his eye. I found him watching me once and winked at him; he started like a rabbit, but a minute later our eyes met and he tried to wink back, shyly, but couldn’t close one eye without shutting the other, and when I laughed and winked again he giggled and covered his face. Spotted Tail growled at him to be still and mind what he was about, and the child whispered something which made his neighbours roar with laughter, at which Spotted Tail snapped at him threateningly. I asked what the boy had said, and Spotted Tail told me, glowering at the infant:
“Forgive the impudence of my sister’s graceless son. He asks if the big white man is sick, that he cannot keep one eye open.”
“Tell him that winking is a great medicine,” says I, “which will be useful to him when he grows older and meets girls, and if he can learn how to do it I’ll give him a ride on my pony.”
They all guffawed again at this, and some of the Brulé braves called out to the boy, making fun of him – but when we came to take our leave, bursting with buffalo meat, there the little devil was, standing at my pony’s head, with one eye clamped desperately shut and the other one watering with his effort to keep it open. Spotted Tail would have cuffed him, for while they are uncommonly indulgent of children, they have a fine sense of courtesy to guests, but I picked him up and planted him on my saddle, and the little tyke sat there like a pea on a drum, scared stiff but determined not to show it. I led him about a little, and he clung tight, squeaking with excitement to go faster, so I swung up behind and gave him a canter; I can still hear his shrill laughter, and see his fair hair blowing as we swept along. When he was all out of breath I passed him down to Spotted Tail and asked his name; Spotted Tail tossed him in the air and caught him, squealing.
“Little Curly White Hair,” says he, slapping the infant’s rump.
“Well, he’ll be a great horseman and warrior some day,” says I, and as we took our leave the imp perched on his uncle’s shoulder and waved after us, his little voice piping in the wind.
“You made a friend there,” says Carson.
“Who, the kid?”
“No, Spotted Tail. He values that boy – the father’s a big medicine man among the Oglala. Come to that, Spotted Tail’s a pretty big man among the Brulé, in all the Sioux councils. Handy friend to have, if ever you chance back this way.”
Since I had no intention of ever setting foot in that awful wilderness again, I didn’t pay much mind – but of course he was right, as usual. If I hadn’t pleased Spotted Tail that day, by playing with the kid … who knows? I might have been spared a heap of trouble – or I might be dead by now. You can never tell where small boys are concerned; they may grow up to be your best friend – and your worst enemy.
We came to Fort Laramie next day, through a sea of prairie schooners and immigrant tents and Army horse lines and Indian lodges, all clustered for a couple of miles round the great adobe stockade by the Platte;49 there were caravans coming in and caravans leaving, traders white and Indian hawking their wares, dragoons drilling beneath the walls, and such a Babel as I hadn’t seen since Santa Fe or Independence. When word spread that Carson had arrived there was such a press of folk to see the great man that it was only with difficulty that we got our mules to the corral, and while Goodwin began the bargaining with teamsters from the trains, Kit and I went off to the post kitchen, ostensibly to see about grub, but in fact so that Carson could get out of the public eye – he hated to be stared at, especially because, as he told me in a rare burst of confidence, people were so disappointed because he wasn’t twenty feet tall.
We had an amusing illustration of that as we sat outside the kitchen, drinking coffee and talking to one or two of Carson’s mountain acquaintances; there was a great press of folk about, and through them comes this big, grizzled Arkansas hayseed, bawling:
“I hear Kit Carson’s hereabouts! Lemme see him – I want to shake his hand! I do that! What’s he at, then?”
I heard Carson sigh, as someone pointed him out, and then the hayseed comes stumping across, frowning, and stands in front of him, scratching his head in bewilderment.
“Mister,” says he, doubtfully. “You Kit Carson?”
Carson looked up at him with his customary mild expression and nodded. The hayseed stared dumbfounded.
“The Kit Carson? The … the scout, an’ all?”
Kit just looked at him, embarrassed, almost apologetic in fact, and the hayseed shook his head.
“I don’t believe it! You … you ain’t tellin’ me yore him! No, mister – you ain’t Kit Carson for me!”
Kit sighed again, and then glanced at me. Now, while he was in his usual old buckshkins, I was in the full prairie fig that Maxwell had given me, fringed beaded jacket and breeches and wideawake hat, with a Colt on my rump and a Bowie in my boot, and as you know I’m six feet odd and stalwart with it; you never saw such an image of a prairie hero in your life. Carson smiled, looked at the Arkansas boy, and gave an almost imperceptible nod in my direction. The hayseed swung round to me, and a huge beam of joy broke over his ruddy countenance as he looked me up and down.
“Now, that’s more like it!” cries he, and I found my hand crushed in his huge grip. “Say, have I bin waitin’ to see you, Kit! My, wait till I tell the folks ’bout this – why, sir, it’s an honner! ’Deed it is! Kit Carson! So, now – thank’ee kindly, an’ God bless you!”
There were absolute tears in the great clown’s eyes as he turned away, glanced at Carson, growls: “Kit Carson? Huh!”, tipped his hat to me with another broad grin, and strode off. The mountain boys held on to each other laughing, and I wasn’t any too pleased, but Carson gave me his slantendicular smile and shrugged. “You look a heap more like me than I do, Harry,” says he. He was right of course; I did.
I’d no cause to complain, though, of the pains he took to secure me a safe passage to the coast: Goodwin was travelling up to the Yellowstone before heading west, but knowing I wanted to lose no time, Carson put it about that a friend of his wanted to work his way to the coast as a hunter – and such was the magic of his name that the wagon-captains whose
trains were resting at Laramie fairly fought for my services. Fifty dollars a month, I was offered, and all found, which was no small thing since the cash I’d raised on Cleonie had vanished mysteriously among the Apaches, and I hadn’t a bean towards my sea-passage. Carson chose a big, well-found train of sixty schooners, and put in a special word for me.
“Harry Flashman’s a good man on the trail,” says he. “Been down among the ’Pash, and in the British Army. Good shot.” The wagon-captain damned near pumped my hand off, and I heard him bragging to his mates that he’d got “one o’ Kit Carson’s boys.”
Now, when I added this to all the favours Carson had done me, I found it middling odd. Granted he was a generous, open-handed ass who’d rather do anyone a good turn than not; still, I guessed for all his kindness that he’d never cottoned to me, let alone liked me, so why was he being so deuced considerate?
I’m always leery of favours which I don’t deserve, so when Carson left Laramie a day or so before my caravan was due to start, I rode out a few miles with him on his way, and fished for an explanation at parting. I thanked him again for saving my life, entertaining me at Rayado, convoying me north, and recommending me, and hinted that on the last score at least he’d been saying more than he really knew.
“No,” says he, after some reflection. “I saw you shoot pretty good on the way north. You ride like a Cumanche, too.”
“Even so,” says I, “you’ve been more than generous – to a complete stranger.”
He went into another of his pensive broods, his eyes on the trail ahead where his arrieros were riding down to the woods; we were alone on the little ridge. At last he says:
“You’re going back to your wife in England. That lady in Santa Fe – she wouldn’t be your wife?”
I nearly fell out of my saddle. How the hell had he heard about Susie? I gaped at him, and regained my wits. “Good lord, no! That’s a … a woman I met in the East – we were companions, don’t you know … er … who … told you about her?”
“Dick Wootton,” says he, perfectly mild. “I saw him in Santa Fe after we picked you up – while you were sick, at Vegas. He chanced to mention how he’d come west with an English fellow named Comber, last summer; from Dick’s description, this fellow sounded pretty like you. So I was astonished when I saw you at Vegas and you told me you were called Flashman. Different name, you see.”
“Ah … well, you see … it’s a long story—”
“I’m not asking,” says he gently, still looking down the trail. “Just telling. Dick told me this Comber fellow ran away from his wife – that was what Dick called her – in Santa Fe. But I didn’t mention you to Dick. Not my business.”
“Well, by jove, Kit, I’m most obliged to you – but honestly, I can explain—”
“Don’t have to.” He frowned at the distance, and sighed. “Dick said he figured – I’m telling you just what he said – that this fellow Comber might be on the run; Dick had a feeling there was a price on his head back east, maybe. Wasn’t sure, of course … just a feeling, you understand.”
My blood was suddenly frozen, and my laugh must have sounded like a death-knell. “Good God!” cries I. “What an extraordinary notion, to be sure! Why should he think … I mean … whoever this chap was … well, there are other Englishmen …” It was no use: I tailed off lamely as the mild eyes turned to consider me, and his voice was quiet as ever.
“Dick told me this Comber was a good wagon-captain … kind of green, in some ways, but he got the train through. Spoke with a straight tongue to the sick Cheyenne, too. Did pretty well at Bent’s when the Big Lodge blew up.” He paused. “Dick said, whatever this Comber was, or had done … he liked him.” Another long pause. “I value Dick’s opinion.”
I’ve had some strange testimonials in my time, including the Victoria Cross, a pardon from Abraham Lincoln, Sale’s ludicrous report from Jallalabad, Wellington’s handshake, the thanks of Parliament, a pat on the back from Rajah Brooke, and ecstatic sobs from all sorts of women – but I’m rather partial to the memory of Kit Carson telling me what a white man I was. God, he was gullible – no, he wasn’t either, for he’d figured me for a scoundrel, right enough; his only mistake was in accepting the simpleton Wootton’s estimate that I was a brave scoundrel. That was enough for little Kit; it didn’t matter what else I’d done … running out on women, using assumed names, committing God knew what crimes back East. I’d got the train through.
It’s a remarkable thing (and I’ve traded on it all my life) that a single redeeming quality in a black sheep wins greater esteem than all the virtues in honest men – especially if the quality is courage. I’m lucky, because while I don’t have it, I look as though I do, and worthy souls like Carson and Wootton never suspect that I’m running around with my bowels squirting, ready to decamp, squeal, or betray as occasion demands. And in their kindly ignorance, they give me a helping hand, as Carson had done – he’d also given me a damned nasty start for a moment; my nerves were still tingling.
“Ah, well,” says I, trying to sound hearty. “He’s a good chap, is Uncle Dick.”
“Wah!” says he, and had another consider to himself. “Safe home, then.” A final pause. “If you chance back thisaway, give me a hollo.”
“I shan’t be coming back,” says I, and by George, I meant it.
He nodded, lifted a hand slightly, and turned his pony down the trail. I watched him out of sight, the small buckskin figure fading into the trees, and while I felt nothing but relief at the time (for the Kit Carsons of this world and I don’t ride easy together) what sticks in my mind now is how easy and natural it was to part and go your ways on the old frontier, without ceremony or farewell. It was almost a superstition, I suppose: no one ever said good-bye.
Two days later our caravan started west for the South Pass, and I rode out that morning in a great contentment, as though I were coming to the end of a long trek – which was odd, with more than a thousand miles of prairie and salt desert and Rocky Mountain to cross to the coast, and long sea-leagues beyond that to England. But you know how it is – sometimes you know that a chapter is closing, as surely as though you were shutting a door behind you. As I swung aboard the little Arab, and heard the cry of “All set!” echoing down the wagon line, and heard the whips crack and the teamsters yell and the wheels groan forward – I knew I was nearing the end of that frightful journey which had begun when John Charity Spring strode into my hotel room at Poole and started raving in Latin; a journey that had carried me to the wilds of Dahomey and skirmishes with great black-titted females, through chases and sea-battles to New Orleans and desperate flights and escapes on the Mississippi, from brothels to plantations to slave-marts to that homely front-hall where I’d quaked and bled while an ugly, gangling young lawyer stuck his chin out and braved my ruffianly pursuers; and since then I’d rogered my way out of the law’s clutches, across the prairies to the terrors of Bent’s Fort and the Del Norte and the Dead Man’s Journey … but it was all past and done with, and soon I would be taking ship for home. And Elspeth and soft beds and green fields and strolls down the Haymarket and white whores for a change and cricket and rides in the Park and hunting and decent cigars and conversation and everything that makes life worth living. By gum, I’d earned it.
And as for their damned redskins and prairie wagons and buckskins and bear’s grease and painted faces and buffalo grass and sweat-baths and plug-a-plew and war-whoops and Mountain Men – well, they could keep ’em all for me.
They did.
* * *
e See Flashman’s Lady.
THE SEVENTY-SIXER
Chapter 15
It’s only when you’ve grown old that you begin to see that life doesn’t run in a straight line; that you can never be sure a chapter is finished, and that half a century may lie between cause and final effect. Why, I met Lola Montez and Bismarck in ’42, bedding one and belittling t’other, and thought that was that – and five years later they popped up to give me the sca
re of my life. And I thought I’d seen the last of Tiger Jack Moran after Rorke’s Drift – but, damme, he came back to haunt my old age and almost had me indicted for murder. No, you never can tell when the past is going to catch up, especially a past as dirty as mine.
So it was with the old West. I left it on a summer’s day in ’50, vowing never to return, and twenty-five years later, when the old memories had faded, back it came with a vengeance – and that word is well-chosen, as you’ll see.
I blame Elspeth entirely. Having the brain of a backward hen, it had taken her until middle age to discover the delights of luxurious globe-trotting, and since by then old Morrison’s ill-gotten pile had swollen prodigiously, she was able to indulge her wanderlust to the full. As often as not I went along, for after thirty years of travelling rough I didn’t mind being wafted about in style, from steamer stateroom to hotel Pullman, and stopping at the best pubs on the way; another reason was that I didn’t trust the little trollop an inch, for Elspeth at fifty was every bit as beddable as she’d been at sixteen, and had lost none of her ardour. The Bond Street salons and swarms of effete Frog hairdressers kept that corn-gold hair as lustrous as ever, her milky-pink complexion bloomed like a country girl’s, and if she’d added a stone to her figure it was all to the good and well-placed. In fact, she continued to draw men like flies to a jam-pot, and while in thirty years I’d never absolutely caught her in flagrante, there were a dozen at least I suspected her of slapping the mattress with, including that pop-eyed lecher Cardigan and H. R. H. Bertie the Bounder. So I wasn’t having her panting with Alpine guides and sweaty gondoliers while I idled at home on half-pay; I preferred to keep her in trim myself and discourage foreign attentions. I loved her, you see.
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