Graham nodded in agreement. Although his theory about the animal track made sense, there was no guarantee a grizzly bear wasn’t lurking in the dense forest right now. The men walked briskly back to the cove where the Annie was beached.
“I can take a turn at the oars if you’re tired,” Stevenson offered as they walked up to the boat.
“That’s okay. Let me see what it will take to row against this light wind. If I need a break later, we can switch places,” Graham said, eager to prove his work ethic and dependability to the survey manager.
The tiny boat would be moving north into the wind. The Annie did not have a keel, which made it nearly impossible to tack without the wind causing significant drift. The aspirant sailors decided to rely solely on mechanical energy and removed the crude blanket sail from its frame. Graham oriented the boat toward the shoreline and settled into slow, rhythmic strokes as he alternately pulled and pushed on the handles of the oars. His target was the center of the distant bluff, where the white wall tents and flies dotted the campsite like balls of ripe cotton on a green carpet.
Graham looked over his shoulder ninety minutes later when someone hailed the Annie as she moved closer to shore.
“Hey there!” Alec shouted. “That be a fine-lookin’ boat!”
“She’s a good one!” Stevenson yelled in return. Five minutes later, Alec lifted the bow of the canvas-clad boat and pulled it onto shore.
“Let’s put ’er up on the bluff,” the survey manager ordered.
After the boat was set down, Stevenson turned to Graham and said, “Thanks, young man. Good work today. I need you here tomorrow morning to give Elliott a quick lesson on handling the Annie. He’s going to be using this boat a lot over the next few weeks. Elliott is an artist who is great at sketching landscapes, and his first assignment is to chart the island - after we do a little exploring.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, our experience on the island reminds me. Do you have a weapon?”
“Nope. Lost it in the river,” Graham responded.
“Well, go see Captain Tyler tomorrow and get what you need. Tell him I sent you. Everyone on the expedition needs to have a firearm, even the cooks. It can be a pistol, a rifle, or just a shotgun. We have a military escort, but you never know when you may need to defend yourself.”
As Graham walked through camp looking for Aurelio’s fly, he massaged the tops of his shoulders, which were already sore from extended rowing. He studied the palms of his hands. Several large blisters had formed at the base of the ring finger and middle finger on both hands. He had felt the oars rubbing against his palms on the return trip but swallowed his pride and said nothing to Stevenson. My shoulders and hands will heal, he told himself. A little discomfort was a small price to pay to prove his worth as a new expedition member. Indeed, he counted on James Stevenson to provide a favorable report on their successful visit to the island when he spoke with Dr. Hayden this evening.
Graham scanned the campsite, shielding his eyes from the sun hanging over the mountains to the west. He spotted a vertical log structure covered with tree branches at the edge of a pine forest. This was obviously the shelter for the Crow Indian guides Aurelio had told him about last evening.
The time traveler made a startling observation. He surveyed the surroundings, looking first toward the lake, then toward the hill. There was no doubt. While all the tents and flies were erected toward the east and closer to the lake, the Indian shelter was sitting in the exact location as his room behind the future Yellowstone Lake Hotel! This was not coincidence. He was convinced the inhabitants were part of his vision quest—and his destiny.
Graham located Aurelio’s campsite and ambled toward the shelter he shared with the Italian immigrant. Tomorrow he would help launch the Annie a second time and secure a firearm. He was also determined to meet Redfield’s people for the first time.
Chapter 12
July 29, 1871
Yellowstone Lake was calm at nine o’clock when James Stevenson arrived at the boat-launch site. The survey manager was wearing a white shirt with a narrow banded collar, a vest, a light overcoat, and a broad-brimmed felt hat. He had a canteen and a canvas haversack slung over his shoulder and carried a rifle.
Graham had risen early and walked down to the lake. He was eager to assist with today’s boat trip and had been waiting almost thirty minutes.
“Looks like a fine day for exploring by boat,” Stevenson said cheerily to his protégé. “Elliott will be here shortly. He had to collect his sketching materials.”
Henry Wood Elliott was born near Cleveland. He went to work for the Smithsonian Institution when he was only sixteen to study natural history and hone his sketching and painting talents. Elliott spent time in Alaska before being assigned to the United States Geological Survey. Ferdinand Hayden had used Elliott in two previous surveys, and the twenty-five-year-old was recruited to serve as the official artist for the most recent expedition.
Within a few minutes, the clean-shaven landscape artist appeared wearing a short woolen jacket over a white pullover shirt, cotton neckerchief, and small round hat with a narrow, curled-up brim. Elliott was at least eight inches shorter than Graham. He had a small pistol tucked under his belt, a canteen, and a leather pouch for his pencils and sketch pad.
“Elliott, this is Graham Davidson. He joined our group yesterday but has been traveling in this area since early summer.”
After the two young men shook hands, Stevenson explained, “Davidson and I used the Annie to visit the eastern side of the island yesterday. He has experience around the lake and handling our boat. Since you and I will circumnavigate the island today, I thought it would be helpful if Davidson provided some words of advice.”
Graham cleared his throat before speaking. “Well, the Annie is a nice little boat. But it doesn’t have a keel, so it’s really difficult to tack. You’ll have to rely on the oars when moving into the wind. The blades on the oars have a nice shape, and they seem balanced. I recommend wearing gloves or using a cloth to protect your hands if you will be rowing all day.” The stinging, fluid-filled blisters on his palms compelled him to warn the next rower of a similar affliction.
“I’ve paddled a canoe for hundreds of miles in western Canada. I don’t need gloves,” Elliott replied confidently. “But I appreciate knowing about the sailing limitations.”
Graham didn’t question the young artist’s judgment on hand protection. Instead, he added, “The lake tends to be choppy in the late afternoon, when the winds pick up from the south. I’ve seen three-foot waves at times. If you see a storm forming in the south or west, I advise waiting on the island until it passes.” He vividly recalled the day (a hundred years in the future!) when large swells battered the Lake Queen in advance of a storm. A small two-person craft like the Annie would almost certainly capsize in similar lake conditions.
“Our meteorologist, John Beaman, says we should have fair skies all day,” Stevenson responded.
The scenicruise operator did not challenge this assertion. On the other hand, Graham knew from experience calm waters in the morning could rapidly evolve into tempestuous waves in the afternoon. Yellowstone Lake was as unpredictable as it was beautiful.
“You’re going to see Captain Tyler about getting a firearm today, right?” Stevenson stated as a reminder more than a question. “I don’t have any other assignments for you. What else are you planning?”
“After I see the captain, I’m going to introduce myself to the Crow Indian guides and get to know them. I saw their tepee set up at the edge of camp,” Graham responded.
“That’s not a tepee. It’s a wickiup - a temporary shelter used by warriors and hunters. A large tepee is constructed using up to twenty long poles and is covered with over a dozen buffalo hides. The Crows can’t pack all these tepee materials as we trek through the wilderness because in many places there are no trails. We had to leave our wagons at Bottler’s Ranch for the same reason. Our guides will abandon their make
shift pole lodge and build a new wickiup when we set up the next camp.”
“Oh, thanks for pointing out the difference,” Graham replied gratefully.
“Okay, I think we’re all set. Will you shove us off?” Stevenson asked as he climbed into the bow.
Elliott stepped in and placed the leather pouch and canteen at his feet. He positioned the oars into the oarlocks and nodded his head to signal they were ready. Graham lifted the stern and pushed the Annie onto the water.
Graham watched as Elliott pointed the bow toward their destination and started stroking the oars. The petite watercraft with the makeshift sail shifted slightly left and right with each stroke. Graham could see the oarsman was struggling to keep the Annie aligned as he got a feel for the boat. But soon she was advancing with pulsating movements in a straight vector toward the island. He waved to the two men and ambled back to his campsite.
* * *
The cavalry escort had set up camp adjacent to the tents of the expedition members. Most of the soldiers were talking and tending to their fires in front of their shelters. A few guards were standing at the perimeter of the camp, and a couple of men were trying their hand at fishing in the lake, but for the most part these soldiers were idle. The primary responsibility of this cavalry company was to provide security for Hayden’s group. It was unlikely hostile Indians would directly attack a large encampment of well-armed men in broad daylight. These soldiers’ security concerns were much more elevated at nightfall or when the pack train was on the move.
Graham found Capt. Tyler sitting on a folding camp chair in front of his wall tent drinking a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Mornin’ to you.”
“James Stevenson instructed me to seek your help. As you know, I lost almost all my personal belongings when my horse drowned in the river. That included my shotgun. Mr. Stevenson insists everyone on the survey team has a firearm for personal protection. Do you have a spare rifle I might borrow? I’ll return it when we return to Fort Ellis.”
The cavalry officer stroked his beard. “The army is charged with supplying and protecting Hayden’s group. I guess we can fix you up with something. Let’s go find Lieutenant Grugan.”
The captain rose and donned his slouch hat. Graham followed him as he made his way to the edge of camp, where a group of equines was picketed. Grugan was examining the hoof of a horse.
“Lieutenant Frank Grugan, this is Graham . . .” Tyler’s voice trailed off as he turned back to the newest survey-team member. “What’s your last name again, son?”
“Davidson.”
“This is Graham Davidson. He just joined the team and finds himself in need of a firearm. See what you can do.”
“Yes, sir,” Grugan responded as he saluted.
Tyler turned and trudged back toward his campsite.
Grugan was in his mid-thirties. He had broad shoulders and sported black mutton chops on a diamond-shaped face. His dark, curly hair covered the tops of his protruding ears. “Let’s go see what we have,” he said as he donned his hat and walked to a nearby wall tent.
The lieutenant opened the front flaps of the tent to reveal sundry supplies, blankets, cookware, fabric panniers, leather saddlebags, and pack saddles. He sorted through several boxes and extracted a short rifle, a small bag of ammunition, and a cartridge box.
After stepping outside the tent, he asked, “Have you ever fired a rifle?”
“No, sir. Only a shotgun.” This was untrue. But he thought it prudent to claim ignorance on handling any rifle—especially one used in the Civil War era.
“Let’s go up on the hillside, and I’ll give you a quick lesson,” the lieutenant offered. “By the way, you can call me Frank.”
The two men ascended the small hill behind the camp, walking through sagebrush and juniper, until they reached some boulders in a clearing. Grugan set the cartridge box down and gave a brief description of the firearm.
“This is a Spencer repeating carbine. It’s standard issue for cavalry. It suits our needs well because the barrel is eight inches shorter than the Spencer rifle, and we do a lot of close-in fighting. It has a seven-round magazine in the stock. Let me show you how to load it.”
Grugan turned a metal latching mechanism on the butt of the stock ninety degrees and extracted a magazine tube. He inserted seven .56-50 metallic, rimfire cartridges into the butt stock, pushed the compressed spring tube back into place, and locked it.
“Now it’s ready to fire. Cock the weapon first. Lower the trigger guard and raise it again to push a cartridge into the firing chamber.” The lieutenant completed each step as he spoke.
Grugan aimed at a thick tree branch about forty yards away and fired. The report from the carbine echoed against the hillside as the limb splintered. Graham was relieved to see there wasn’t a lot of recoil from the short-barreled weapon.
“Watch while I load and fire another round.” Grugan demonstrated the process while speaking. “Cock the weapon. When you lower the trigger guard, a rotating block opens the breech and extracts the spent cartridge shell. When you pull the lever up, the spring-loaded magazine pushes a new cartridge into the breech. It’s ready to be fired again.”
Grugan aimed and squeezed the trigger. Another round zipped into the tree. He handed the weapon to Graham.
“Give it a try.”
Graham cocked the carbine. He cycled the trigger guard down and back into place. With these movements, a spent cartridge was ejected and a new one loaded. He aimed at a tree limb, pulled the trigger . . . and missed.
“Too low. Try again,” Grugan said encouragingly.
Graham adjusted his aim. This time when he pulled the trigger, a loud crack was immediately followed by a satisfying thwack as bark fragments sprayed from the tree.
The lieutenant nodded and ordered, “Empty the magazine.”
Graham repeated the sequence of cocking, levering, aiming, and firing. He was on target three out of four times.
“Let’s load ’er back up,” the cavalry officer directed. “Start by extracting the magazine tube from the carbine like I showed you.”
Grugan held out a leather-covered, hexagonal wood box with ten tin cartridge tubes. “This is a Blakeslee box. Each tube has seven cartridges. Pull a loaded tube from the box and pour the cartridges into the butt stock. Lock it, and you’re ready to go.”
Graham followed the instructions and emptied seven cartridges from the tube into the magazine.
“You won’t need any more cartridges than what you currently have in the magazine. Our cavalry unit is escorting the survey team. We’ll handle any heavy fighting or shooting. This carbine is for your personal protection in case we run into any hostiles—man or animal,” Grugan advised.
Graham tried to process everything he had learned in the past thirty minutes. He wanted to make sure he didn’t miss any information critical to safely and effectively firing the weapon. “I have a question, Frank.”
“Sure. What is it?”
“How far away is this carbine effective?”
The lieutenant chuckled. “Well, they say it’s good for a couple of hundred yards. Truth is, you ain’t likely to hit something over about one fifty. Don’t get me wrong, this weapon packs a punch. It will take down a horse at close range. But for somebody like you, my advice: get as close as you can before pullin’ the trigger.”
Graham cringed inwardly. If an amateur rifleman such as himself wanted to be sure to hit a target, he needed to be close to the threat—so close he would also have a high probability of being shot or mauled.
“You’re gonna need a scabbard,” Grugan added. “Let’s go back to the supply tent and see what we have.”
The lieutenant rummaged through the boxes in the tent, finally emerging with a satisfied look. “Aha! This is what I was lookin’ for.”
He handed a leather scabbard to Graham. It was six inches wide at the mouth and three inches wide at the open toe with two adjustable buckled body strap
s and a strap for mounting on a saddle.
“Just wrap the upper scabbard strap around the saddle’s pommel and attach the lower strap to the rear cinch ring. You can mount it on either side of the horse. I prefer the left side. Okay. Any other questions?”
Graham wondered whether a rifle scabbard had ever been attached to Lindy’s saddle. He guessed the mule would be indifferent and see it as one more thing to carry.
“I really appreciate your time and the personal training,” Graham said earnestly.
“Glad I could help.”
As Graham strolled back to his tent cradling the carbine and clutching the scabbard, he noted a coincidence with his current and past instructors. Frank Grugan had demonstrated how to shoot a carbine. Graham’s late brother Frank previously taught him how to shoot a rifle. What were the chances both his firearms trainers would share the same first name?
Graham looked at his watch. He decided after getting something to eat he would seek out the Crow Indian guides.
* * *
The conical timber lodge employed a lodgepole pine tree as the main support column for the temporary shelter. The lowest living branches were twenty-five feet from the ground, but there were several dead branch stubs about eight feet from the base. Two deadfall logs eight inches in diameter and twelve feet long had been tied together at their small ends using slender willow branches. The butt ends of the logs were spread apart, and the narrow ends leaned against the branch stubs. A companion pair of willow-twined logs had been placed on the opposite side of the tree at the same height, resulting in a structure with four foundation legs.
A collection of twenty or more smaller deadfall poles ten to twelve feet long had been laid against either the foundation poles or the tree to create a conical structure ten feet in diameter at the base and eight feet high at the apex. The builders had created an opening on the east side away from the prevailing winds by leaving a four-foot gap at the base. Live tree branches and strips of bark were laid on the outside of the lodge to cover any gaps between the vertically stacked poles.
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