“But why must you be the minister of death. Why should you be the one to decide who is to live and die?”
Rifle Shot issued a rare smile. “Because I am the needy hunter, the wolf wanting the deer. It is the way it must be. The way it has always been.”
There was no point in discussing this any further, nor was there an opportunity to do so, for Rifle Shot’s squaw appeared at this juncture and unleashed a flurry of agitated comments. I could not understand a word of it and petitioned him for a translation after she left.
The big Indian filled his cheeks with air and exhaled in an upward direction. “She say I have no love in my heart, touch rifle more than her.” He stood for emphasis. “Now there is not enough of this!” He rapidly thrust his hips back and forth simulating the criso et ceueo.35 “Last moon, too much.” He reseated himself and tried to regain his composure, but only succeeded in throwing his hands in the air. “Now she want me to move in tent with you, tells me she would rather live with her sister.”
No sooner did he end this sentence than she re-approached us and directed some angry words at me. Her eyes were menacing and she wagged her finger dangerously close to my face. This latest attack prompted Rifle Shot to search the ground for the nearest “squaw husher,” and he threatened to brain her with it until she retired into the shadows. A few last invectives came from the darkness and the big Indian finally pitched the rock in the direction of the angry words and added some of his own to follow.
“Wah, Bur-ton, she accuse you of sleeping with Mormon woman instead of her sister. Saw you coming from house of woman who look like dog.”
“Yes,” I said despondently. “Sister Erb. The ironic part is that I was actually running away from her.”
Rifle Shot looked puzzled. “Ironic?”
“Yes, irony, my friend. It is a term that means things observed or said are sometimes an outcome of events contrary to what was or might have been expected, and maybe just the opposite. Like with Sister Erb. I was leaving her house because I did not want to be with her, not because I had just finished making love with her.”
The big Indian furrowed his brow and nodded. “Mmmm. I will have to think on this. But what does that have to do with how squaw sees things?” He shook his head. “I do not think they see this ironic. I think sometimes squaws see only what will make them angry.” Rifle Shot began saying the word over and over as if practicing it, “Ironic, ironic. Is this just a man’s word?”
“No, where I come from, women know this word and use it all the time.”
“So.” He held a finger before him and moved it between two imaginary spots. “They make this ironic invisible when they wish to fight?”
“I think that may have been used as a tactic once or twice.”
“Mmmmm, ironic. I will have to remember that word. Maybe the next time I go, or do not go, to Three Trees, or when I want to give her the snake, or do not feel like it, I will tell her it is ironic. Maybe she will not get mad.”
I told my friend that I did not think it was going to be that easy, and he complacently agreed. “No, Bur-ton. Not that easy. It is going to be the way I told you earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“Yess, it is going to be the way it must be—the way it has always been.”
September 19, 1860
Camp Floyd
Utah Territory
I ended that evening sharing a tent with Rifle Shot, a man whose reputation for snoring should be counted an equal match with his abilities for marksmanship and combat. Of course the sisters lodged together and talked throughout the night. I do not think I managed more than a half hour of fitful sleep.
At dawn I joined my friend as he squatted in front of the fire and excited last night’s embers into this morning’s flames. We did not speak for an unusually long period of time, and at length I had to ask if something were amiss. Rifle Shot took a brief look at me and then returned his attention to the fire. He poked at the ashes matter-of-factly and murmured, “Nothing to say. Day has yet to begin. Yesterday’s words are over.”
I suppose this was a fair enough answer, although over the years one does get used to a friendly greeting even after so short of a time as an evening’s rest. At the risk of provoking an additional comment of that sort, I asked if he knew the way to a place called American Fork.
“Mmmm.”
“Splendid. Then do you suppose you could show me the trail? I have some business there that I would like to attend to.”
The big Indian narrowed his eye. “You are going to see Rockwell, the Mormon. That is where he stays.” And after a long pause he announced that he would go along with me.
“Whatever for?” I said nervously.
“Business,” he said with a malevolent grin.
Within the hour we were mounted and moving slowly along a trail that would, I was sure, lead to a rendezvous with bloody murder. He had painted his face once again and rode with his breechloader balanced across his lap and his pair of trousers carefully folded over his arm. Sometime just before midday, Rifle Shot stopped his horse and motioned for me to look behind us.
Through the ground heat distortion I could see a column of rising dust in the distance. It stained the air a yellowish brown and was quite noticeable against the brilliant blues and whites of the normal Utah sky.
Rifle Shot studied the cloud and announced that seven riders were approaching, maybe eight. He could not be sure. In either case he said they would catch up with us within the hour.
“Indians?” I asked.
“Worse. Only whites would make such a mess.”
I queried him about what we should do, but he apparently did not think this question worthy of a response. He nudged his horse and continued on as before, seeming unfettered by his own discovery. After an hour of silence, and as if according to some mysterious schedule, Rifle Shot dismounted and spread his blanket on the side of the trail. There he sat and waited with his breechloader upright to the ground in one hand and the other resting in his lap. He was careful to position his trousers next to him so they would not be soiled, and also concealed under his blanket a very impressive scalping knife of considerable size and heft.
The tension was becoming unbearable as the dust cloud came closer. Naturally, the unflappable Indian displayed absolutely no sign of discomfort or anticipation even though we could now hear the horses as they approached around the bend.
The first sight of the strangers was that of Tree Jimboy and then a string of rider-less ponies tied in a line behind him. Of course, there were eight animals all told, just as the Indian had calculated from that distance more than an hour ago. The fleshy Jimboy was all but asleep on the lead horse, and when he caught sight of Rifle Shot on the side of the trail I worried that the fright of discovery might be enough to ossify his poor, overworked heart.
After the initial start and some jiggling in his saddle, Jimboy addressed the big Indian. His first words sounded something like, “Whelp, didn’t think I’d be runnin’ inta anybody ‘long this route, not even an Injun. Don’t you mine me, I means no harm, no sir.”
When Rifle Shot did not respond, he carefully raised his voice a few octaves and said, “You speak American, mister? I say American, ‘merican? Ahh, well then, HOW, mister! I say HOW. That’s Injun talk, ain’t it? Every Injun knows what how means, don’t he?”
I thought it best for me to enter the picture at this point and I called Mr. Jimboy’s name from the other side of the trail.
He nearly fell off his horse when he turned to answer. “Why, Mr. Burton! I wuz sort of wunderin’ what become of you. You just sort of up an’ disappeared back there at the Salt Lake City. I wuz suppose to lead you on to Camp Floyd and now here you come right on the trail. Foreign fella like yerself on this ol’ trail. If that don’t beat all.”
Tree Jimboy struggled to dismount and was unable to completely do so without crashing to the ground. He picked himself up and addressed me in a serious tone and a lowered voice. “Ya know, Mr. Burto
n, I don’t think I didn’t proper recognized that Injun right off, but now I do. Don’t looks now but I believe that there’s ol’ Rifle Shot, the meanest most dangerous man in the Territories. Should have guessed it when I seen he don’t speak none. They say he never speaked nor heared a word in his life. But you better watch out you don’t cross this Injun, no sir.
“I should have knowed it when I seen them pants of his.” Jimboy began to giggle, tried hard to suppress it, and then shot a glance over at Rifle Shot to see if he was paying attention. “Hee, hee, that crazy Injun’s always carryin’ his pants around instead of wearin’ ‘em. Ain’t nobody can figure out why that is, but ain’t nobody ‘bout to ask neither.”
I told Mr. Jimboy that we were on our way to American Fork, and he exclaimed, “With him?” He instantly covered his mouth with his hand in realization that he had perhaps spoken too loud. I told him that we were travelling together and asked why he was concerned about being overheard by a man who he believed was deaf.
“Oh, right, right,” he whispered. “But, damn, I don’t know if I’d even chance that with the man who kilt Lank Blacktower. Lank Blacktower was one tough son-of-a-bitch miner, way he worked an’ drank an’ fought an’ all. Nobody thought he’d ever get done-up. No Sioux could ever do it, no sir, no white man neither. An’ plenty of ’em tried. See, Lank didn’t like most people; hated Injuns, soldiers, Mormons, other miners, you name it. Jus’ the ornerest cus you’d ever see. One day he up an’ kilt a Delaware named Little Moon, just up an’ kilt him one day after he wuz drinkin’. No good reason, just cuz he wuz feelin’ extra bad that day or somethin’.
“Well, seems ol’ Rifle Shot over there took exception to that. Guess ‘cause he’s a Delaware too. He rode all the way up from Fort Laramie to do somethin’ ‘bout it and found Lank in the middle of one of his drinkin’ fests; worst time anyone’d want to meet up with him. Rifle Shot wuz the biggest Injun any of us ever see’d ‘round here, an’ he walked right up to Lank, lifted up his breech cloth an’ pee’d right on him. Didn’t say a word, just pee’d all over him, an’ turned an’ walked away calm as he could be. Well, we all thought Lank would kill himself just tryin’ to get up an’ set out after him, but before he could git up straight, that big Injun whirled ‘round, flung his knife, an’ hit Lank square in the chest.
“Lank looked down to see what had happened to him, and when he did, he naturally commenced to collapse back into his seat. But before that man could sit back down, the big Injun had his rifle up an’ shot-out both his eyes before you could say Jack Robinson. Two shots, two eyes gone quick as lightnin’. Just like that, perfect holes where them eyes should have been.” Jimboy bit his lower lip and screwed his face into an awful visage, “Back of his head sure was a mess though.”
Tree Jimboy mopped his brow. “I’ll tell ya, there’s plenty of folks what don’t believe that story, but you go ahead and ask Doc Davenport or ol’ Ned Woodside. They’ll tell ya, they’ll tell ya what become of Lank Blacktower.” This story notwithstanding and despite Mr. Jimboy’s fears, the three of us rode off to American Fork together; although I must say that the young man kept his distance from Rifle Shot and continued to lower his voice whenever he spoke of matters that may offend.
We were on the trail most of that day until in the distance I spied a small settlement consisting of a few modest but sturdily built structures and a horse stable. I turned and remarked to Rifle Shot that our destination was in sight, but when I did so the big Indian was nowhere to be seen. I asked Jimboy if he knew Rifle Shot’s whereabouts, only to learn that he hadn’t a clue.
“Why ask me?” he said. “I know better than to even look in his general direction and haven’t even come close to doin’ so since early this mornin’. He could’ve left three hours ago an’ I wouldn’t have knowed it.”
So it was just the two of us and a string of ponies that pulled into American Fork Station that late afternoon. My purpose was to meet up with the notorious Orrin Porter Rockwell, the most celebrated Mormon triggerite and already one of the legendary figures west of the Mississippi River.
Immediately upon arrival, Tree Jimboy embarked on an urgent, almost desperate search for food. One would think he had not eaten in days when in fact that was all he did while en route from the Salt Lake. How one can, without stop, alternately eat salted rock candy, spoonfuls of marmalade and corn dodgers is a conundrum of the American frontier, but this is what Mr. Jimboy did until his stores of each were depleted. Now he was around back of the station making sweet words with a preparation chief in front of a mound of potatoes. His intentions were painfully transparent.
I entered the main station house which was occupied by a young lady engaged in a floor sweeping exercise and, I supposed, the shopkeeper himself who with back turned to me was stocking cans on a shelf. Neither of them acknowledged my presence, and so I reopened the door and shut it again in the hope that a more forceful closure would bring forth the desired results.
The young girl looked up from her broom and said, “James, there’s a man here.” The fellow at the shelf did not turn around at this announcement but rather took a side step in order to place himself in front of a mirror, and with this aid he looked at my reflection and delivered his salutation.
“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in these parts before, stranger. How can I help you?” It was an odd thing to be engaged with a man whose back was to you, and especially to converse through the medium of a reflecting mirror, but these combined were not as odd as the high falsetto voice that issued from this grown man, nor the remarkably long blond hair which was plaited and pinned-up on both sides of his head.
I told him I was just arrived from Salt Lake City and was in need of rest and a few supplies.
“Moccasins are one American dollar and so’s a lariat. A weight pound of tobacco is dollar and a half. Gallon of whiskey cost you thirty-two dollars. You can stay in the stable and feed your horse for fifty cents, and if you want to eat, you got to see the cook.” I noticed his eyes narrow in the mirror. “And if you don’t mind me asking, mister, what business did you have in Salt Lake City? You’re not a miner or a soldier, and you carry no wares. You have the sound of a British pilgrim, but I not so sure about that. There’s not the look of an English Saint about you.”
“You are correct, sir, I am not of the Mormon faith, but I am acquainted with Mr. Brigham Young and have travelled here to be familiar with the State of Deseret and its people.”
“Familiar is it?” The man turned from the mirror at that point and the first things I noticed were his striking pale grey eyes and that both of his trouser pockets were heavy with a revolver in each. Then I was even more taken aback at how badly matched his high voice was with the man now before me. This was no shopkeeper as sure as I am no Saint.
“Now stranger, tell me true—just how familiar are you with our President and Prophet Mr. Young?”
I described the man and my audience in detail—and Allah forgive me—even detailed my brief association with Sister Erb. Then, in my most polite voice, I apologized for failing to properly introduce myself. “I’m terribly sorry, sir: Captain Richard Burton, on leave from the Bombay Army. I am a student of anthropology and religion and have a great interest in the Saints.”
The man considered this for a moment and announced that he was James B. Brown and asked, “What the hell does the study of ants have to do with religion?”
In the most delicate terms imaginable I informed him that anthropology has nothing to do with insects; it is the study of man, and because all men have religion, it was natural for me to inquire about the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints.
“Well, there’s quite a bit to be said about that, mister. Suppose the first question I might ask myself is what the Saints think about assassins. I’ll just go ahead and answer that one for you right away so we can get things straight from the git-go. There’s been a history of people who come to the Mormons for no other reason than to bring trouble and death.
I might inform you that our first Prophet, Mr. Joseph Smith, was assassinated in the state of Illinois. A mob of Carthage Grey’s who done it, and you’d do well to know that a coward by the name of Frank Worrell and a few others paid with their lives for that act. Mormons have to naturally look upon strangers with suspicion.” James B. Brown gave me a very staid look and said, “You wouldn’t be one of them assassins now would you, mister?”
He came from behind the counter and approached me directly. “Appears to me you aren’t really a student.” He placed his hand on the left side of my face and ran his finger along the scar on my cheek. “This looks like somebody ran a spear right into your face. That doesn’t happen in a schoolhouse. That’s a memento from some wicked rough and tumble.”
I told him the mark was left by the javelin of a Somali tribesman.
“Somali?”
“Yes. While on duty in Africa, Berbera actually. It was a very nasty affair. A good friend of mine was killed and mutilated, the rest of us horribly wounded and left to die.”
“Africa, you say?”
“Yes, East Africa.”
“Well, there you go, The Curse of Ham. Israel’s in Africa, ain’t it? That’s where all the world’s troubles began, so there’s no surprise about you having problems there.”
Mr. Brown assumed a slightly different attitude. He asked what I thought of Mr. Brigham Young and answered for me an instant later. “He is a great man. Oh, he is not Mr. Joseph Smith, but then that man was one of a kind. We had been friends for years, years before them heathens took his life. I’ll tell you another heathen; that’s that damnable Boggs of Missouri. You ever heard of him in your travels? Not if you’re interested in religion, I’d suspect.”
Brown was now heated to a full roll, and he was puffing around the room like a steam tug. “Goddamn son of a bitch don’t deserve to live, Liliburn Boggs. Going to meet with a bad end if I got anything to say about it. I’m a Mormon in good standing myself, mister, except I can’t seem to help myself from cussing and strong drink. That’s two things that’s just a part of me I can’t do anything about—strong drink and cussing. Sometimes I think it’s just plain good for the soul.”
Ruffian Dick Page 26