I told him that I was in full agreement about the strong drink part, and that was all that seemed necessary for him to call out to the floor sweep, “Mary, would you please go up to the house and fetch the Valley Tan?”
Until she returned with a whiskey bottle, I was not exactly sure what was going to happen. It seems every home product in Utah Territory is called Valley Tan because a tannery was the first technological process in the region. As a result, everything from the anti-Mormon newsletter to Sister Erb’s needlepoint has the same sobriquet.
Mr. Brown’s failing for strong drink was no boast. When the bottle arrived he filled two large glasses near to the top and insisted on “squars,” i.e., no water or mix of any kind. As we lifted our first glasses in mutual salute he roared, “WHEAT,” which I instantly recalled was the singular and favourite phrase of Orrin Porter Rockwell.
After two more rounds of the same “Mr. Brown” and I settled in and became somewhat better acquainted. We spoke easily and freely of Mormonism and various other topics of mutual interest. He had the look of a perfect ruffian, but I do not necessarily mean this in the pejorative sense. Rather, his ways were marked by a certain rawness that comes from years of hard and dangerous living; from men who have been close to perilous and fantastic events. I have seen the look in those eyes before—although surely not in the same hue—on the faces of veteran soldiers in the Crimea, Arab bodyguards in Zanzibar, Sikh sergeant-majors in the Punjab—they all have it: eyes that are owned by those who have seen wildness and death, and sometimes murder administered by their own hand.
But “Mr. Brown” had a twinkle in those eyes as well, and I soon learned that he was not as homicidal as advertised or as straight-laced as some of his brethren back at Salt Lake City. The first indication of this was when he gritted his teeth and said, “So, you’ve met Sister Erb, have you?” There was a cruel smile and then, “President Young took you over there for religious training and maybe a little matchmaking while he was at it?” He slammed his drink on the table. “Woof! That would take some doing. The only thing Sister Erb could make stand-up would be a cat’s back, and that’s only because she’d worry that old Tom near to death.” He wiped his forehead as if to chase a worried sweat.
“It’s a grisly thought, Captain. You better have another drink. Don’t be shy when a man offers you drinking whiskey in these parts. I got another bottle just up at the house, and we can tuck right into that soon as this one runs dry. “Burrr,” he said as if he were freezing, “Sister Erb, that’s a shiver right there.”
After a few more “squars” Brown confessed his true identity. “I won’t be calling myself James B. Brown anymore. The name is Rockwell, Orrin Porter Rockwell, lot of my friends call me Port. Have to do something about my name when I meet up with strangers. Son of a bitch Lilliburn Boggs like to have me shot up for what happened back in Missouri, and just about anyone could be an assassin. So I have to be careful.”
Although I knew some sketchy details of what had happened between the two of them back in Missouri, I felt obliged to allow him to tell his story, for it was obvious he was very keen on doing so.
“What? You never heard about that? Well, let me tell you something, Captain, that son of a bitch needed a good goddamn lesson taught him, and I’ve never been one to shy away from doing right when right needs doing. Especially when you’re right. No man has cause to bring trouble to a peace-loving people like the Saints, and I don’t give a good goddamn if he was the governor, or the president of the United States for that matter, no sir. That don’t matter none to me. I might not be able to read or write a single word, but I know a home truth when I see it. And the truth was that Boggs had to go.
“When a decent man takes all he can take, then something has to be done. Well, that time came, and I set upon Boggs and was sure I ended his life right there with a single shot. But my hand must’ve been cold as a witch’s teat, because it didn’t happen. That son of a bitch lives to hunt me down to this day. That’s why I got to be careful with strangers.”
Rockwell pressed his lips together, shook his head, and then tossed back another squar. “Rickety shit! I believe that’s the first time I ever missed my mark from that range, first goddamn time in my whole life. Well, Captain, bad as I feel about that, reckon I can say that one miss in a lifetime’s not such a bad thing. Probably ain’t a man in creation can say he ain’t missed once.”
I thought to myself that there is indeed such a man, and that he was somewhere outside at this very moment and just waiting for the right opportunity to blow Rockwell’s head off. Rifle Shot meant harm to Rockwell just to clear the path for his primary mission. The very thought of the two of them engaged in a bloody altercation made my hands begin to sweat. This would be the pointless end for one or both of them and possibly extinguish the lives of two of the most extraordinary characters of the American west. Something needed to be done, but what? There was no chance of Rifle Shot entertaining any discussion on the matter, and if Rockwell ever found out that it was the murder of Brigham Young that was on the big Indian’s mind, then it would be he who would be the aggressor.
Port Rockwell drained his glass and wondered aloud where the girl Mary had gone. The bottle was empty and he wanted her to bring another. “Ah, it’s no matter, Captain. We can take a little walk to the house and finish up our drinking there. As a man of health I know a bit of Utah air is good for a man in between bottles.”
All I could think of was Tree Jimboy’s story about the besmirching and summary execution of Lank Blacktower and how that episode may be repeated as soon as we left the room. And there was no stopping Rockwell, who insisted that we repair to the house and start in on the other bottle.
Even considering my premonition, it was a horrific shock to see Rifle Shot standing on the path between the station and Rockwell’s cabin. His breechloader was cradled in his arms and his expression was one of somber malevolence the likes of which I never hope to see again.
Rockwell stopped in his tracks as soon as he spied the big Indian, and I saw Rifle Shot’s eyes widen and his gun shift position.
The next event was as strange as anyone could imagine. Rockwell hauled both pistols from his trouser pockets and rested them on either side of his feet, while Rifle Shot simultaneously bent and gently laid his breechloader on the ground before him. The two men then closed the distance between them and finally clasped each other’s forearms in what must be some form of frontier handshake.
Rockwell turned back to me nodding, with a large grin on his face.
“Haven’t seen this big critter in a dog’s age. I’d come to think we’d never cross paths again, even thought that maybe he was one of them apparitions or some kind of angel.”
The three of us walked together on the path to Rockwell’s cabin and sat together outside on a blanket provided by our host. The Valley Tan was passed around, but the big Indian would have none of it. We did however all smoke from Rifle Shot’s pipe which was filled with sumac leaf mixed with the peal of red willow.
For my benefit, Rockwell launched into the story of his initial and only previous meeting with Rifle Shot, which he reckoned to have taken place on a full-moon night some five or six years past. In his high-pitched voice, Mr. Rockwell admitted that he “was up to no good that evening and was where he shouldn’t have been.” As the story progressed, I learned that dressed as an Indian, he was in ambuscade awaiting a column of soldiers from Fort Laramie. He indicated that some of them “needed to be set right” for earlier transgressions against a group of Mormon settlers.
As Rockwell watched the cavalrymen approach in the distance, two Pawnee braves happened by, saw him crouching with his back to them, and by his disguise mistook him for a certain member of the Sioux tribe with whom they had a long-standing grudge. The two Pawnee set upon the costumed Mormon an instant later, and then began a furious struggle which Rockwell was hard pressed to sustain. He managed to dispatch one of his attackers, though in the process he was felled by a ha
rd knock to the head which left him dazed and vulnerable on the ground. The remaining Pawnee scrambled to regain his war club, and after doing so, stood over Rockwell grinning and chanting some death song as he raised his cudgel and prepared to administer the coup de grace.
As fate would have it, Rifle Shot was the advance scout for the advancing cavalry column on that particular evening, and in that capacity he came upon the scene described above at precisely the right moment—at least as far as the helpless Rockwell was concerned. In the moonlight, Rifle Shot instantly recognized the trappings of a Pawnee warrior, and because that tribe is hated by the Delaware, he counted the man on the ground as his enemy’s enemy and therefore a friend. Consequently, and without hesitation, he raised his rifle and discharged a single shot which passed between the Pawnee’s arms (which by now were on the downswing) and crashed into his skull at the bridge of his nose.
“Such a shot I’d never seen,” said Rockwell. “My savior must have been three hundred paces away from where I was laying and he hit that son-of-a-bitch spot-on with only the moonlight to aim with. The Pawnee fell square on top of me and took the air right out of my lungs. I was already dizzy as a hen before that happened, so when the shootist came and hauled that dead Pawnee off of me, well, I didn’t know if I was looking up at some Lamanite guardian angel or if I had passed beyond and was looking at my own killer. As it turned out, I didn’t have much time for these thoughts, because by now the army column had caught up to where all this was taking place and the sound of gunfire had brought a U.S. Calvary soldier charging up that hill.
“I guess all the soldier saw in the moonlight was a bunch of Indians, because he was now at a gallop with his saber bared and waiving up over his head. He was fixing to cut down the only man standing, and that of course was the gentleman who is sitting next to us right now. Damn fool didn’t even recognize his own scout, just crazed with the idea of killing an Indian I guess.
“I still had my pistol in my hand when I was laying there on the ground and I saw in a minute that there was no chance for my friend to reload or in any other way repel the charge. Dizzy as I was, I picked up and fired a ball that knocked that cavalryman clear off his horse. Don’t mind saying that was the second best shot of the night, and it damn near rivaled the first considering my fuzzy condition.
“So, in the space of maybe three minutes we had saved each other’s lives. We both knew it and exchanged gifts. He gave me this here snakeskin band that I wear around my wrist, and for me, I went over to where I hid my ordinary clothes and gave him my trousers. Oh, I knew right away they wouldn’t come close to fitting him, but I reckoned it’d be the first pair he ever had, and I knew how much Injuns like that sort of thing. We never said a word between us that night, never learned each other’s name, and never saw each other until this day.”
Rifle Shot sat taciturn through the telling of this story. What emotion he may have had was lost in the scrutiny of his pipe.
Rockwell tossed his head towards Rifle Shot. “Reckon this big fella has no English. Well, I can see he’s a Delaware, that’s for sure, and I think I still know how to speak a little of that language.” The famous Mormon took a deep breath, postured, and in a stilted voice leaned over and began talking to Rifle Shot. He spoke very slowly and at an exaggerated volume.”
Rifle Shot bent foreword to receive the words, and save for a weak grimace, made no response.
Rockwell again ventured into the linguistic wilderness and fired-off another volley of his badly crippled Delaware.
After looking deep into Rockwell’s eyes, Rifle Shot turned to me and said softly, “He just asked if my sister’s breast is too large for the canoe, and if yesterday’s frog is barking.”
Rockwell’s eyes lit-up. He slapped his knee and threw back his head in a hearty laugh. “Well, Wheat. Turn me upside down. He knew the English words I was saying all along! My word. And all this time I thought he didn’t understand.” Rockwell flushed a bit, rubbed his chin, and chuckled. “Guess my Delaware ain’t exactly what it used to be. Reken I need a bit of brushin’ up.”
September 21, 1860
Camp Floyd
Utah Territory
After a crazy night of drinking with Rockwell, I awoke the next morning with the unmistakable feeling that I was still drunk. Symptoms included a certain recklessness of disposition, a curious state of happy agitation, and an urgent want to lay carnal hands on any one of old Port’s wives. I have only foggy recollections of the particulars of last evening, but I can recall the exchange of many stories and the opportunity for many lies. The big Indian’s participation was limited to sober observation until, I think, Rockwell and I had finished off the third bottle of Valley Tan and it was around that time Rifle Shot disappeared into the shadows.
He reappeared some hours later, and we asked if he had changed his mind and was back to join us for a drink. He said that he was back to let us know that the evening was over and that the sun would be up in a few moments. He addressed us as one would a child. “You can never have last night’s rest again, forever. You have made the bottles empty and filled them again with some of your sleep life. This is the death of sleep. Part of you has died.” That was just before dawn.
I must have been shamed to sleep then for it was almost 10 a.m. when I awoke with the symptoms described above. Rockwell was already awake, or maybe he never went to sleep. He was loud and animated and was chatting up Rifle Shot in that high pitched voice using “wheat” as both adjective and adverb throughout every sentence. The big Indian listened attentively and seemed to be enjoying the stories.
I joined them at a table where we all sat and drank coffee. A short time after this an ashen Tree Jimboy entered the room cradling his ample belly. He complained of feeling queasy after what was described as a night filled with “a whole lot of raw potatoes smeared with lard.” As an afterthought he also admitted consuming more than a dozen Bath Olivers.36
As the coffee began to clear my mind and overtake the residual drunkenness, I felt Rifle Shot was correct, part of me had died. I felt I was now rushing headlong into being a dead man, a dead man done in by the poisonous Valley Tan.
At this juncture, Mr. Jimboy announced that he was going to be sick, and sick-up he did without managing more than a step or two away from the coffee table. This enraged Rockwell who laid boot to Jimboy’s arse and told him to pick himself up and clear the premises. This did me little good and was anyways too late, for acts such as Jimboy’s are powerfully infectious, and especially so to someone in my delicate state.
Suddenly, I was overtaken by a panicky death rattle and an urgent need for immediate action. Unlike Jimboy, I was able to rush out the door and over to a patch of shrubbery where I collapsed in retching, gut-cramping horror as the poisons reached capacity in my cleansing organs and my stomach began to empty. An initial wave was followed by a second and then a third which left me so weak that I could do no more than sprawl exhausted in the shrubs and allowed myself to bake unmercifully in the midday heat. It was at that point I realized the shrubbery was in fact poison ivy and that I was breaking out into fiercely itching giant hives.
This was the nadir of my journey. Trying to match “squars” of Valley Tan with O. P. Rockwell was my undoing. I must have been out of my bloody mind.
Camp Floyd
Utah Territory
It is now two days since the American Forks episode and I am beginning to enjoy a measure of recovery. Tree Jimboy and I left Rockwell’s station as soon as we were fit to travel and reached Camp Floyd’s garrison just after sunset. I departed American Forks believing that Rockwell and Rifle Shot would work out some sort of agreement regarding the Indian’s planned assassination of Brigham Young. At least that was my hope, and I do not see how I could have been of any more help in the matter.
I arrived to find that life at Camp Floyd had taken a bizarre turn which was coincidental with the arrival of the Danas. It all began that first evening, when Lt. and Mrs. Dana were invited to tea by
the Commanding Officer’s Wife, Mrs. Abbie Goodwin, as decent a Christian woman that exists in this world and a person devoted to the idea of bringing civility and decorum to Camp Floyd. I was asked to join the group at seven o’clock.
Although her husband and I arrived at the designated hour, Mrs. Dana’s entrance was delayed because she had spent the better part of the day “liquorin’-up” at the post’s most degenerate saloon in the company of an aging vaquero by the name of Mexican Jake.
Lt. Dana, who had been fidgeting in his best dress blues for the past hour, was in another room with the Commandant and had just about run out of excuses for his wife’s absence when she finally burst through the front door. Not only was she near drop-dead drunk, but she had also dragged along Mexican Jake, who she insisted accompany her as escort for the evening.
The Commanding Officer’s Wife clutched at her bosom as Mrs. Dana pushed past her, stumbled over to a tray of biscuits, and began eating with two hands. Abbie Goodwin stood aghast until she was obliged to jerk her head around in response to a lurid overture.
It was Mexican Jake, who had come up dangerously close to her and hissed: “Buenas noche, Senora, you are even more beautiful up close.” He spied a golden cross on a thin chain around her neck. “Ah, are you a Catholic by chance, Senora? You know, I was going to be a priest. Yes, that’s right, Senora, a man of God. Does that make you feel good, Senora? Does that make you feel like… .”
Mexican Jake lost his train of thought. His mouth hung open, and he somehow managed to open one eye much wider than the other. There was a long pause as he struggled to focus and regain his composure. “Please, Senora, you are too beautiful.” The gray-stubbled vaquero attempted a courtly bow from the waist and reached for her hand with his protruding lips wrinkled and puckered into the kissing position, but he wavered forward at this point and had his sombrero knocked-off his head as its ample brim brushed down the front of Abbie Goodwin’s blouse and skirt.
Ruffian Dick Page 27