The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana)

by Robert Lewis Taylor

  In a minute or two, a gray shape, and then another, flitted cross-ways over a hill I’d just left. Wolves. Now I was scared, and knew I’d better find that train soon else I’d put in a lively night. There still wasn’t any tree to climb, either. An hour or so passed, the sun sank, and I was about ready to lie down and call everything quits. I was all tired out and knotted up inside, which took the form of cussing myself for being such a jackass as to leave the train in the first place. Here I am, I said, causing everybody concern, not only one time but twice in a row, and laying myself out as dinner for some prairie wolves in the bargain. It was just what I deserved. But I hoped I gave them indigestion, all the same. I fired the pistol back once, daring them to come on, but there wasn’t anything in sight, so I only wasted the powder and ball, in addition to which I imagine they had a very good laugh.

  Dark came down like a curtain, and now I was stuck. Still, I could see a little by the early stars, so I plodded on, singing and talking to discourage the wolves. It must have been nearly midnight—I was getting giddy with tiredness—when I saw a glow of campfires up ahead. I gave a shout, remembered to say my prayers of thankfulness, and broke into a run, my knees buckling at every piece of uneven ground.

  Then I had a thought—all these people were probably frazzled out from searching beside the trail, and were likely down in the mouth. They’d dropped off to sleep with their worry gone for a while, and it wouldn’t do them any good to be wakened. I made up my mind to find my father’s tent and creep in without a sound. Then, in the morning, we’d have a reunion, with a hearty breakfast, and I wasn’t so apt to get a going over, either. But it was hard to sort things out in the dark. Our tent had one pole that was crooked and longer than the others, so I studied them all against the slightly less dark of the sky; it must have been upwards of half an hour before I found it. I crawled in through the flap, my head reeling, and curled up on a piece of buffalo robe. Somehow, in the fog of my played-out wits I remember thinking how powerful the tent was now, and concluded to suggest that we give it an airing. A tent can get pretty brisk on the trail, and a buffalo robe isn’t exactly perfumery to start off with. Then sleep closed in, and I didn’t any longer care.

  Chapter XVI

  In transit near

  Little Blue River

  July 8, 1849

  Dear Melissa:

  Again I have the painful task of reporting to you that a slight accident has befallen our Jaimie. Do not be too disturbed. He has not this time been swallowed up by Father Mississippi, nor seized by outlaw ruffians—he has simply disappeared into the prairie.

  I must acknowledge that my concern is tempered with irritation. All is now clear; you were right from the start, as indeed you have usually been in the case of our children. I did not do my duty by that boy! On occasions when you directed me, in the commanding style that I regrettably connected with your late father (whose lack of foresight in declining to finance my Convalescent Haven for Drunkards unquestionably hastened his death) to whale him for what seemed to me trivial indiscretions—smoking catalpa beans, burning down the woodshed, dosing Professor Burr’s cushion with oil of mustard, selling church hymnals to a peddler—I made only a hollow pretense. Confession, they say, is good for the soul, and I must admit to you, now, that after we performed the funeral march up the stairs, I only whacked his bed with a rolled copy of The Turf Register The Compleat Supplicant. A few licks judiciously place might have spared us all, and him, these present unhappy experiences. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis (The times are changed, and we are changed with them).

  Lest you think me unfeeling or harsh, it seems evident that our boy’s sortie into the brush was made voluntarily, as a lark, and was not the result of kidnapping, as in the case of young McBride, which outcome I described to you (with some elisions) last week.

  His hatchet is missing, likewise one of my pistols, with several rounds of shot, together with a plug of Kissel’s tobacco, and other articles that can only point to a selfish, whimsical frolic among the scented rushes. I hold this to be a plain dereliction of duty, and for once, as much as it plagued me, I was forced to agree with the odious Coulter, who said (and I beg you to indulge his untutored frontier idiom), “That sprig ought to have his ass-bone [sic] kicked up between his shoulder blades.”

  Coulter’s ire was provoked by my insistence on stopping the train for a search. For upwards of two hours we lay idle while the men deployed in the verdure. Increasing Coulter’s pique was the fact that no less than three of our number, in so doing, themselves became lost, and it was only through the happy circumstance of one woman’s having a conch shell, native to (I believe) the Caribbeans and employed by the natives there as a tocsin, or horn, that we could summon them back into the fold. Gunshots had only snarled matters, since everyone was firing both inside the prairie and out.

  But no Jaimie. He is off on a willful excursion, and we must pray for his safe return. Should that transpire, and Coulter in spite of himself assures us that it will, I have luckily secured a ladle, wrought in iron, that will be every whit as effective as any rolled-up edition (including the Christmas number) of The Turf Register The Completa Supplicant.

  If he does not turn up—but I refuse to consider that proposition at all. Indians are unpopulous in this region; and such as frequent here are often of mild and amiable temper. Wild beasts of the prairie are dangerous only in packs, or when goaded to rashness by famine. All will eventuate with success; do not doubt it for a second.

  So, having disposed of the worst, I can deal lightly with the bad. During our wait and search, there occurred, adding nothing to Coulter’s pleasure, a storm of such unbridled fury that we were like to be wiped out in toto. It was Coulter’s surly contention, based on zero, that had we been two hours “forwarder,” the tempest would have missed us altogether. My rejoinder was (and rather well taken, I thought) that had our position been indeed advanced, we might have taken the full brunt of the winds, and so perished. I topped this assertion with a ringing gibe from Horace, in the native Latin, of which he knows nothing, unless he has familiarized himself with the E Pluribus Unum on coins, and he left in disorderly retreat.

  As to the storm, it has shaken the nerves of even the sturdiest. There are those (not including the undersigned) who now feel that this arduous and terrible ride is not worth the dubious rewards at the end. For myself, I cling steadfastly to the knowledge that, in California, nearly all is gold that glitters, and I wish you to proceed with the McPheeters Public Clinic, although perhaps the actual business of ground-breaking should be deferred against my return, to be held with suitable ceremony—the golden spike (railroads), ribbon-slicing (statues), speech by the Mayor (unpreventable) and the like.

  On the morning of the storm the wind blew high, though it was nothing more in effect than a hot blast of temperature. About one o’clock, however, strange meteoric appearances began to present themselves to the north (the opposite point to that from which the wind blew), gradually becoming more widespread and livid; when suddenly a small black speck emerged from the horizon, and, with the quickness of thought, the wind ran round to that quarter, increasing to a perfect hurricane, scattering hats, laundry, and clothing, and detaching the odometer which trails from the wagon of a Mr. Meeker, to check our daily mileage. Several of the wagon covers were rent to shreds, one vehicle was turned clear over, and the unhitched stock, being badly scattered, went galloping about, snorting and puffing, and keeping us busily engaged for some while to look after them. The din and confusion, the mingled screams of the ladies, and the terrified cries from the cattle—were past describing. To add to our dismay, a kettle of coals in the overturned wagon ignited the underwood, and a lake of flame spread out, threatening to engulf one and all in its depths. By good fortune, the rain, which came in erratic torrents, soon extinguished this, and we managed to pick ourselves up and regroup.

  Only God knows where our Jaimie was crouched during this ordeal by nature. I have a strong fancy it skirted
him entirely, for it took place some hours after our discovery of his absence, and he may have been far into the prairie. Upon his return, as stated, I hope to apply the ladle to the improvement of his education; he wants it sorely.

  This morning I stripped myself of my flannel for a very good reason and put on a clean shirt. I have always been careful, but some of the company have sat on my buffalo robe. Thus far the women of our wagons—Jennie, Mrs. Kissel—have beaten out our washables in first one stream and then another; indeed, this “soap and knuckles” system of laundering is the standard for the train, but I should tell you that some of the wayfaring dandies among us, not excepting Coulter, have been guilty of the plagiary (if I can call it so), of mangling after the manner in which the Bedouin Arab cooks his steak—by placing it between his posterior and the saddle and setting his horse to full speed.

  Now I must finish by relating an anecdote concerning the above mentioned leader of our train, whose meteoric changes of mood, and, yes, surprising depths, will never cease to amaze me. We have held a meeting in which it was stated by several worried members that the diet of all could be greatly improved by the accession of fresh meat. And it was here, at this point, that our Mr. Kennedy, whom you will remember because of the wolf bites, spoke up firmly, as is his wont, to say, “Under the articles, Mr. Coulter, you were to provide game for the train, as one of your collateral duties.”

  At the sound of his words, others gave vent to their feelings, bitterly denouncing him for what was generally considered his defection.

  “The articles called for game to be hustled by me and McBride,” said Coulter, sitting quietly, the familiar sneer on his roughened countenance, atop an upturned barrel.

  “Surely you don’t hold us responsible for the boy’s death!” cried Kennedy.

  “Leading the children out of Egypt’s a full-time job. Who’s to look after your didies while I’m off stalking?”

  You may well believe, dear wife, that this swarthy fellow often seems one of the greatest charlatans alive, besides being uniquely offensive. The thought struck us at the same moment—Coulter was no more hunter than the callowest child among us, but had deceived us when hiring out as guide. This intelligence, while a shock, rendered us bold.

  “I don’t believe he can hunt,” said one of the younger men, a farmer as grand in stature as Coulter himself.

  You have probably noticed that the instant a formidable person, like a leader of an animal pack, shows weakness, the cry goes out for the kill. So it was now. Heretofore, Mr. Coulter had been approached with diffidence, even with fear, but now, as he made no reply to his accusers, the epithets flew fast and thick.

  And here was an odd thing. Perhaps the only person who did not leap into the fracas was Coe, the mincing Britisher who had ragged him so recklessly before. Instead, I saw Coe regarding Coulter with a suggestion of a smile, and it came over me that this latter had no need to defend himself. He was as comfortable as if he were receiving the plaudits of the multitude. The English can be an exasperating race, but they have (and have always had) a sharp awareness of courage. I must tell you, Melissa, that I feel indebted to Coe, because my translation of his look saved me a fair amount of money.

  “I can’t hunt—is that the general verdict?”

  “You’re a fraud and a cheat,” said the young farmer hotly, “and for two pins—”

  “You’ve got it all decided, don’t want to change your minds?”

  “A change of leadership would be more to our liking.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Coulter in his annoying way. “I’ll take on a few bets I can be back here before sundown with fresh venison, as bad a hunter as I am, and if none of you big talkers can’t put up, I suggest you shut up.”

  This was on a Sunday, and several hours of daylight were left. Even so, most of the men laughed aloud and pressed forward with sums from their meagre treasure. The lanky farmer laid down eight dollars; Mr. Kennedy stepped into the casino with five. The sole member who declined to make a risk was Coe, who continued to survey Coulter with amusement tempered by regard. For once in my life, I let discretion take the reins, and I, too, kept a firm hand on my purse.

  Well, when all the wagers were down, Coulter got up leisurely, still wearing his derisive smile, as if he had dismissed a class of idiot children, and walked over to his wagon. I could not help but admire his tread; physically he is unusually graceful for a man of his height and breadth of shoulder. He steps along as silent and wary as any Indian, but to offset what might appear to be a compliment, I’ll add that he has a disposition to match that of the surliest Indian alive.

  So we followed along at some distance, curious about his preparations. What was our surprise when he emerged from his wagon carrying his rifle, an ax, and a large piece of bright red flannel. He proceeded to cut a sharpened sapling six feet high; then, with a sardonic wave, he pushed forward up the trail.

  It was two days before we learned all the details of this abominable rogue’s “hunt.” For the outrageous truth is that Coulter came back at dusk dragging two sizable buck on a pair of poles interlaced with thongs—what the Indians of some parts call a “travois.” Yes, he had slain the animals and won upwards of a hundred dollars. And at collection time he declined to say how the job was done. But inevitably with a man of that stamp, he had to confide it afterward, amid triumphant guffaws, to one of the men, a drover with a pronounced “gallows complexion.”

  Employing an old plains trick, our rascally Coulter merely set up shop on a likely knoll two miles distant, thrust his sapling into the ground with the flannel tied to the free end, concealed himself in the bush, and awaited developments. They were not long forthcoming. Several deer that were attracted by the waving rags crept forward timorously to explore, and two of their number were dispatched for their pains.

  What on earth can you do with a fellow of that moral stature? Quite clearly he stooped to a low form of subterfuge, and you might have thought the least he could do would be to refuse the money won. But no, not Mr. Coulter. He pocketed every last farthing, and with the pithy observation that, “Lessons ain’t learned easy on the trail,” followed by the equally noxious statement, “Thrift is a virtuous quality, you gentlemen ought to cultivate it,” he retired to his meal and couch. There, in microcosm, you have the species of leader to whom our fortunes are committed.

  Notwithstanding, all is potentially well. These trivial distractions will soon be resolved; of that I am certain.

  Your devoted (if peripatetic) husband,

  SARDIUS MCPHEETERS (M.D., Univ. Edinburgh)

  Chapter XVII

  I lay with my eyes half open, staring at the top of the tent where the sky showed through in the smoky gray of first dawn. It was puzzling; I couldn’t figure it out. Then I thought, this isn’t Sunday—why aren’t we up and moving? It was still dark inside and I had an itch to spread the good news about how lucky everybody was to get me back. But that hole worried me; I didn’t know why. It was along about here that I became aware of a real lively stink, like a barn where a skunk had taken up residence and later moved by general request. It was fragrant but unsudden.

  I raised up, and the minute I did, a flap was thrown back and an Indian woman, not young, and not pretty, either—she looked like a dried persimmon—stuck her head in. Beyond her I could see other women getting a fire going. When she spied me she dropped the flap quick and grunted, and as soon as she did, I out with my knife and jumped across in the dark and ripped a four-foot slit down the tent wall. But it was no use. I felt hands like iron on my ankles; I was caught.

  They dragged me out in the open and looked me over. And at the same time, scared as I was, I had a look at them. Since that morning, I’ve read a lot of books about the noble red man, how keen his eye is in the woods, how silent he slinks along, how brave in the face of danger. Well, the specimens I had here looked mighty run-down and seedy. If there was anything noble about them, I didn’t notice it. Most of the men, when the
y crawled out, scratching, draped over with store blankets against the bitter cold, were potbellied—from not getting any exercise, I reckon; the women did all the work. What’s more, their presence was so powerful, from rubbing rancid fat on to stave off the bugs, that a person had to stay upwind if he wanted to be comfortable.

  The women weren’t much better. When the fellow that had grabbed me hauled me out, the women all rushed up and commenced to spit on me. To relieve the monotony, a few hit me with sticks, but they were kindling twigs for the fire and didn’t hurt. I disliked being spit on, though—the practice hadn’t been common in Louisville—and I spit back at one old squaw that had several teeth missing. It turned out to be the wrong thing to do. She dipped a calabash gourd into a kettle of boiling water and threw it on my leg. If I hadn’t been wearing a pair of stout denim trousers, I’d have been laid up with bad scalds.

  The next thing those spiteful old witches did was take off my clothes, which they passed around, grunting and cackling. This left me as naked as a jay, and I wasn’t at all easy. There were several girls of about my own age or a little older there, and they seemed to titter more than when I was covered. I was cold, too. The men had crow-black hair parted evenly in the center, with braids hanging down on either side and a gaudy single feather stuck up from the crown of a few. Red and blue grease paint badly smeared showed on a couple of faces, and some had strings of beads or other decorations. One, that seemed to be a chief, had a silver medallion of President Jefferson, maybe presented to his grandfather or somebody, and another wore a necklace of bear’s teeth and claws. I didn’t see any more animal decorations, though, and if you came right down to it, I imagine there were more bears walking around the woods wearing strings of Pawnee teeth than the other way around. These fellows might have been great hunters; if so, they disguised it by their looks.