Inside the establishment we approached the counter, but he followed us and wondered aloud again about our trip after leaving St. Jo. “Seen any Indians?” he asked. “The trail is very bumpy isn’t it? You must be happy to be here and rest. I’ll go and make sure that my wife will make the coffee to your liking.” There was much hand-shaking before he turned with a giggle and bounced out the door.
The man behind the counter shook his head. “That’s just Ben Acts-Like-He-Knows-You. Crazy little fellow does this to everyone in camp. Not just white folks or new arrivals either—other Indians, soldiers, Mormons. It don’t make no difference. He likes to strike off towards California with different groups after he meets them, sort of tags along after the wagon trains trying to do this or that and hoping people will take him in. Usually don’t make it past Greasewood Creek before he’s right back here an’ doing the same thing all over again.”
“What about his wife,” I asked. “Does she go along too?”
“Ben Acts-Like-He-Knows-You ain’t got no damn squaw. People around here can’t even tell what tribe of Indian he belongs to. The Irish soldiers treat him as kind of a mascot and look out for him. Don’t know how he’d get by any other way.”
We purchased a few items at the fort’s store and decided to join Mahoney in a cup of kindness. As we walked through the commons we passed Ben Acts-Like-He-Knows-You who acted like Ben He-Never-Saw-Us and entered the Fort Laramie Saloon. This establishment provided the first glimpse of military life as one is accustomed to seeing it—the enlisted men were all crowded around the bar while their officers were comfortably seated in a better section of the room near the fireplace. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at us as we entered the room.
At last one particularly haughty officer called out to us. By his accent I could tell he was of southern extraction, and from the cut of his uniform and neatly trimmed moustache and hair patch under his lip, it appeared the man fancied himself something of a cavalier. He assumed a fashionable pose and addressed his fellow officers.
“Ahh, by the look of things gentlemen I’d guess we are finally being visited by a well-bred traveler and,” he paused for a moment and flashed a look of disdain towards La Mash, “perhaps his bodyguard or meat hunter.
“Well, sir, join us for a drink of pure Cincinnati, and have your man wait over at the enlisted man’s bar. Ah believe they are serving Indian liquor at the moment, but they may even pour some mescal brandy before the afternoon is over.” His fellow officers chortled at the segregational allusions and pulled over an empty chair from a nearby table. La Mash took a hard look at the young officer and for a moment I thought there may be trouble; but instead he threw his head back, roared one of his unmistakable laughs, and elected to join the regular soldiers, which I believe would be his want in any case.
It did not take long for the officers to determine that I was English and a military man of rank myself. Once these two important distinctions were established, the men around the table felt free to speak to me as they would among themselves, and in this way I was able to be privy to many interesting anecdotes. Squaring with my initial impressions, I quickly had it confirmed that the officers considered themselves aristocrats, if not medieval knights within their limited circles. They were almost exclusively from the South and went out of their way to distance themselves from the mostly German and Scotch/Irish troopers whom they considered peasants.
They told a joke at the expense of a fellow officer who was conveniently absent. It seems he had recently been charged with conduct unbecoming a gentleman for beating his Scandinavian wife while drunk. But at this table additional charges were brought by his peers who accused him of conduct unbefitting an officer for marrying the woman in the first place.
And they did not like the Mormons, not one bit. They considered them murderous fanatics and pined for an opportunity to join with the forces stationed at Camp Floyd to drive the Saints into the Salt Lake. Part of this is due to the fact that all the men were wildly fond of Col. James Bridger—affectionately called “Old Gabe”—who shares with Christopher Carson of the Wind River the honour of being the best guide and interpreter in Indian country. The officers took personal offense when Rockwell and the rest of the Mormons decided to burn his fort and destroy his stores.
The Mormons claimed Bridger was the cause of their Indian troubles. No one in the Territory but the Mormons will have a minute of this—not even the Indians themselves. The men at Fort Laramie were also furious about the Mormons providing the local tribes with Albright Percussion Rifles, with which they did regular and deadly damage. And the Mormons’ refusal to supply provisions to passing travelers was seen as ungentlemanly.
By this time La Mash was well on his way with the enlisted men. He was regaling them with his trapping and bear hunting tales and, yes, I believe I overheard a retelling of the Flathead squaw story at least twice. Each time a great howl of laughter and obscenities came from the soldiers at the bar. An officer looked over at the men and commented that one could not expect all the cardinal virtues for thirteen dollars a month.
I took my drink over to the bar and attempted to bridge the payroll gap. La Mash was in mid-proclamation when I arrived—“I would just like to see a man try ‘n make me do what I don’t want to do. Why that’s all I live for. I’d burst any varmint that tried, yes sir, you can believe that. I’m the first cousin to Beelzebub, an’ that’s a fact.”
One of the soldiers raised a glass and in doubly-Dublin brogue shouted, “I’ll give a Kilkenney hurroo to that.”
La Mash offered to refill the man’s cup and asked what he was drinking.
“Missouri White Mule!”
“Tarantula Juice,” yelled another.
“Make mine a Leg Stretcher,” offered a third.
A soldier with an intelligent face approached me and said that some of his friends tend to become quarrelsome and dangerous when they get going like this. He warned me that the last step in the process happens when a drink called “Tangle Foot” is brought out. I was almost afraid to ask what sets “Tangle Foot” apart from the other poisons and I believe the young man anticipated this because he launched into a description straightaway.
“They call it that because a man can’t walk but ten yards before he begins to wobble ‘n falls down. The record is twenty yards. Sergeant Buck made it that far back in April. Man’s a legend for it, maybe more like a hero. Most people just have to stay put where they drink it, ‘lessn they want to fall down. Can’t really blame a man though once you consider what they put into it.”
“Alright, private, what do they put into Tangle Foot to make it so potent?”
“Well, sir, to the best of my knowledge it’s made-up of pure diluted alcohol, chili and regular pepper, tobacco, gunpowder and,” he swallowed hard, “nitric acid.”
“Lovely. Sounds like it could destroy the constitution of an ostrich. I’m surprised it doesn’t kill you after tangling your legs.”
The young private thought for a bit and said, ‘Well, sir, I believe it’s done that too.”
I walked out of the drinking establishment and a few of the other men followed after me claiming they did not want any part of what they were sure was about to happen. From the looks of him they were certain La Mash would call for the strongest drink in the house and they all were aware of the results. One of them ventured further on the subject of my companion. “Your friend Mr. La Mash surely has ol’ grit to him. He will fit very well in Wyoming Territory, I can tell you that. Both red and white men seem to be cut from a certain cloth in these parts. Very tough people, very rugged, men willing to roister about with trouble at a moment’s notice. You take that Indian right over there, but for God’s sake don’t be lookin’ at him. He owns a reputation for being the most feared man in the territory, cut a man to pieces in a knife and hatchet duel just last month, and nobody around here’s about to do anything on account of it neither. Oooh, he’s someone to be reckoned with alright, and everyone from St. Jo M
o to California knows it too.
“He’s a Delaware. Col. Parker swears that they’re sure as a Colt’s revolving pistol when it comes to trailing and tracking, and that one there’s about the best of his kind.” The soldier lowered his voice even more and said, “He’s killed everything there is, man and beast, and he’s second to none in a rough and tumble as well. Name’s Rifle Shot. They say he can shave the eyelashes off a wolf as far as a shootin’ iron can carry a ball and put an arrow through a keyhole a hundred yards away. Used to be a scout for Col. Parker but he up an’ quit one day. Nobody really knows why ‘cause he only speaks in pantomimic signals—you know, sign language—and even then he don’t say much. Some maintain he can’t speak nor hear a word.”
Just then the object of this conversation unaccountably turned and fixed us with a very severe look. The young private began to tremble and he immediately looked down at his boots in an obvious effort to show submission. On the other hand, I was not able to release my eyes from his stern gaze for I realized that the man called Rifle Shot was the big Indian who had visited my campfire five nights earlier.
The soldier began to shuffle away and for an instant I thought I saw a corner of the Indian’s mouth turn into something approaching a smile. He slowly raised his hand with open palm towards me and then moved on.
At this point a trooper staggered out from the Fort Laramie Saloon, wobbled forward a few steps and then collapsed into the dust. La Mash and the others were crowded at the doorway and watched him intently until the crash. Some money was exchanged and I overheard my companion bellow, “Why I’ll be in-tire exflumicated! Hee hee, you fellas were right all along, an’ it was worth the dollar to see it too. That ol’ Tangle Foot’s powerful as a mule’s capriole, you can believe that! I got to git some in me right away an’ fix a few more bottles for later on. Yeee-haw, com’on boys, we got a heap of drinkin’ to do.” They all disappeared back into the saloon leaving the poor soldier still on the ground; he was now pointing up into the sky and jibbering on about some place in Kansas and a girl named Clemmy.
Mrs. Dana was still in the Commanding Officer’s residence, and as I passed the window of that building I could see Col. Parker’s wife comforting her with a grave look of concern on her face and offering the shaken young woman another cup of hot tea. Could there be any doubt that Mrs. Parker was hearing first-hand the horrors of being confined to a coach with a man like Gaston La Mash? I do not know, but surely this was not the first poor feminine soul unnerved by territorial life who was in need of a woman’s soft touch and some kind words. I offered a silent salute to Mrs. Parker as I passed, knowing that this would not be her last refugee nor the extent of her extra duty on this rugged frontier.
A few paces past the Parker residence I ran into Mr. Mahoney who had stumbled out from one of the fort’s other pothouses. After taking a moment to recognize me he asked if I would be “sleepin’ Injun style” again this evening. My answer was that tonight I would be enjoying my solitude more than ever because of what was taking place at the Ft. Laramie Saloon.
“And just what would that be?” he asked.
I explained that La Mash was taking on a drink called Tangle Foot with some of the regular soldiers and that there was sure to be some sort of outrage as a consequence.
He considered this for a moment with a dazed look on his face, then smiled and staggered over to join them. I went to the coach, gathered my belongings and resolved to make tonight’s camp even farther away than usual.
For this purpose I secured a mount for the evening and slipped out the back of the stable in order to avoid Ben Acts-Like-He-Knows-You. He was obviously shopping the grounds for general affiliation and perhaps even someone to accompany on a move somewhere else. I headed off from the fort for over an hour until discovering a wooded area by a stream. Here I unloaded my kit and began preparing for the night.
This day’s sunset was magnificent in this delightful and secluded little spot. It is a pleasure to enjoy the splendid topography and fresh evergreen aroma of the Medicine Bow range after the relentless, horizontal tedium of the prairie lands and its smell of burnt grass and roasted buffalo chips.
Just after the last light slanted through the trees and faded into early darkness the temperature began to drop and I was having second thoughts about being this far from the warmth of the fort and a hot meal. I was gazing into the campfire, listening to its cracks and poppings when I thought I heard something else off in the darkness. I turned to the direction of the noise and gripped my pistol in anticipation of some trouble. Sitting motionless, I listened hard in complete silence for several moments until I was reasonably sure that the odd noise was just a random, natural sound and not associated with an unwanted intrusion. I relaxed after a few additional moments of anticipation then almost experienced heart ossification when I turned back to the fire and saw Rifle Shot sitting across from me.
“Wah, you look frightened Bur-ton. Did you think I would attack you?”
“No I did not, but I must say you gave me quite a start. Do you always sneak up on people like this, Mr. Rifle Shot?”
“Mmmm, you have learned my name from someone else. That is good.” He nodded in approval. I was still a bit upset and warned him that a man could be fired upon when he sneaks up on an armed camp and that there was a danger I might have killed him.
The big Indian looked at me matter-of-factly. “I do not think so.” He pointed off into the darkness, “You were looking in the wrong direction until after I joined the fire. That is no way to prepare to kill a man, looking where he is not.”
It was, I believe, out of consideration that he wished to change the subject. “Rifle Shot has thought of Bur-ton many times. It is fine that you do not wish to camp with the others. They smell like the hogs they keep and they drink the devil’s water. Make plenty noise,” he shook his head in disgust. “Bad medicine. But you are not fit to camp alone Bur-ton, you may be killed by Indians. They will take your boots. Wah, Bur-ton, you must spread your blanket with me and share Rifle Shot’s fire. We will have the women prepare food. Then we will take the big smoke. It will be good.”
I did not wish to disagree with the man, especially after learning of his reputation. I suspect there is no debating that I’d feel safer in his company, and this would be an unparalleled chance to see first-hand the workings of an Indian in a domestic situation. I do not count my slavery with the Tunica as anything but a fortnight of misery and impressed labour.
I was settled at Rifle Shot’s camp within a half hour. There was a conical bivouac similar in shape to the ones employed by Captain Rhodes’ regiment in the Punjab, a half-faced affair covered with gutta-percha cloth that seemed to be for more informal resting. Two squaws busied themselves about the camp; both had difficulty keeping their eyes from me and I confess that one of them had my almost full attention in return. She boasted that beaute du diable with faultless, dentist’s teeth, bovine brown eyes, and satin long black hair.
Rifle Shot immediately went to the fire and pulled a piece of roasted flesh from a small animal on a spit. He bit off a chunk of meat, began chewing very purposefully and motioned to the carcass with the portion still in his hand. I was to join him in a meal. I was made to feel right at home, alternately eating and accepting his pipe. It was in this relaxed atmosphere that I asked if I could quiz him on a number of issues that have been puzzling me since we first met. He kept eating but nodded in approval.
“Well, the first thing that comes to mind is this business of carrying your trousers. It seems so much easier to just wear them. After all, you do wear a button shirt, so western clothing cannot be the problem.”
He turned his head to face me and said, “No, there is no problem. I like the white man’s robes; fine colours, soft.” He closely examined the piece of food in his hand. “I prefer to carry the trousers because of the marking.”
“Marking?”
“Yes, you see, when I was a young man I once shot a rattlesnake that was crossing a riv
er; just one bullet. None of my people had ever seen such a thing before and for this fine shot I received the honor of having a serpent drawn on me.” He stood up and proudly opened his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a blue snake coiled around his waist. He then lifted his breechcloth and displayed the lower half of the body decoration which wound-down to the pelvic area and terminated with a depiction of the serpents head upon that part of the anatomy which the ladies especially will be able to guess.
The squaws interrupted their work and grinned broadly at the display. I wanted to pull my eyes from his private part so I made an inquiry about the prettier of the two young women. “They are both my wife.” He said indifferently. “Sisters. Keeps the tent quiet. They are less likely to fight. He looked over to see if they were listening and finding them occupied, continued his story in softer tones. “I had to make it that way after coming back from hunting one day at the end of the last snows. I had just one squaw then. When I come home one day she says, ‘Rifle Shot, I know you not off hunting, you off seeing another woman.’ I told her I was at Three Trees hunting for fox, no other women there.”
“She throw dinner on ground and cry for two days.” He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “No other women near Three Trees. All make up in head.
“Wah, Bur-ton, for Delaware people, when a man and a woman eat together too much, the man’s hunger begins to weaken while the woman’s hunger grows. Hungry woman think man is eating from another bowl, maybe not bringing enough food to her. Hungry woman go crazy, on war path with words. Make sure man’s life filled with many sorrows. This is the cause of much fighting.” The big Indian turned to me with palms lifted toward the sky and in an exasperated voice asked, “Tell me, Bur-ton, is this the way among white people?”
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