The Berrybender Narratives

by Larry McMurtry

  “Oh no, we Germans don’t take such chances on our good boat Yellowstone,” the prince replied, in English that lacked nothing of correctness.

  “The liquor was kept in a special room, and only I had the key,” he went on. “Human nature is everywhere very bad, you know. It is best to remove temptation.”

  “Bad, yes, bad—human nature’s a rotten thing, and particularly rotten if you have to deal with Mediterraneans,” Lord B. said, glaring at Signor Claricia and SeñOr Yanez, whose excuse for their long absence—that they had gone off to relieve themselves out of sight of Milly and had become hopelessly lost—he knew to be an arrant lie.

  Pierre Boisdeffre, Tom Fitzpatrick, Kit, and Jim all walked around the six bearskins, saying little but filled with amazement nonetheless. They looked at the skins, looked at one another, and shrugged. None of them, in all their years on the prairie, had ever heard of one man killing six grizzly bears. And yet the man responsible, an ordinary-looking fellow with an iron gray beard, stood quietly at the counter, leaning on his rifle and drinking a little of Boisdeffre’s grog.

  “That fellow must be the best shot in the world— what do you think, Jimmy?” Kit asked.

  Jim Snow had been rather put out that the arrival of the prince had meant a delay in their departure, but, so far as shooting went, it was hard to disagree with Kit. It was obvious that the quiet fellow at the counter must possess unusual steadiness. Grizzlies had a habit of making even experienced hunters panic. He himself, having been much in bear country, had never killed one, though he had shot at several and had been chased twice for his pains. Once he had had to jump off a high riverbank, in order to escape a charge. A man who could down six grizzlies was no run-of-the-mill hunter.

  “Look at his eyes,” Kit whispered. “Icy blue. I bet that’s his secret, good eyesight.”

  Looking once more at the bearskins, Lord Berrybender could not entirely suppress his sharp annoyance—why had his hunter, Gorska, been so incompetent, while the prince’s hunter was a lavish success? His first thought had been to approach Herr Dreidoppel in private, perhaps attempt to hire the fellow—and yet there was a chilliness in the man’s eyes that gave him pause. Claret or no claret, Lord Berrybender’s vein was soon throbbing so violently that he could not suppress a complaint. “I say, Prince,” he began, “this hunter of yours has been helping himself rather freely when it comes to the bruins. I might have fancied killing one or two of these brawny fellows myself.”

  Prince Max remembered how coolly the old lord had greeted him, before the gift of the claret had caused him to change his tone. Now, it seemed, English ice was to be followed by English bullying. The one-legged old fool was trying to drive him out of the rich hunting grounds of the Yellowstone. Malice, cunning, brutality, chill: that was what one could always expect from the English.

  The prince of Wied contented himself with the smallest of bows.

  “We have counted thirty-two of these bears since leaving the Knife River,” he said. “Your Lordship will soon find that there are many left—perhaps too many. As you journey up the Yellowstone I’m sure you will find all the bears you want.

  “As for us,” he went on, “we work only for science. I am, as you know, a zoologist. Herr Dreidoppel is not only a fine hunter, he is also the state taxidermist of Wied. We will not be bringing home a live zoo, as your friend Drummond Stewart hopes to do. But we will examine everything we kill. In fact, now we must go and open the stomach of the bear Herr Dreidoppel killed today, so that I can analyze his diet. We expect to find fish, berries, prairie dogs, even mice—imagine such a giant feeding on something so small. Would you like to come and watch the examination?”

  “Oh hardly, Prince—don’t care what the brutes eat,” Lord B. said, signaling for Boisdeffre to uncork another bottle of the excellent claret.

  Then a dark thought struck him. What if the small prince with the excellent hunter planned on traveling to the south, the direction he meant to travel and would have been traveling already had it not been for the distraction of his rabbly entourage?

  “Not heading south, I hope, Prince,” he said—better to speak plainly to the fellow. “No room in the south. My good friend Drummond Stewart is, as you know, already there. Very active man, Drum—distinguished horseman and all that. Expect he’s already wiped out the game down that way—it’s crowding up a bit to the south, I can assure you.”

  The prince of Wied, well aware that he was being told where he couldn’t go by a man who had no more rights in the country than he did, refrained from smiling.

  “Oh, no, Your Lordship, we are proceeding west,” he replied. “Fort Mackenzie is our goal. No zoologist would neglect the region of the Marias River, where there are said to be enormous herds. Besides, my painter, Herr Bodmer, wants to paint the white cliffs, which lie in a westerly direction.

  “We have a fine keelboat to take us,” he added, lest the old fool suppose that a proper German expedition would go off ill-equipped.

  The notion that the dumpy little prince with the superlative hunter planned on traveling west, into the very heart of Blackfoot country, startled the three trappers a good deal. Six grizzly bears were one thing, but a challenge to the Blackfeet was bold indeed.

  “Mackenzie? Marias River—you really mean to go there, sir?” Tom Fitzpatrick asked. “It’s woolly doings in that country—Blackfoot country, you know. Woolly doings to the west.”

  “Yes, we hope to shoot the woollies, the big sheep of the mountains,” the prince said modestly, although he knew perfectly well what the old trapper meant.

  41

  Six bearskins was big medicine.

  WEEDY Boy and the other Minatarees were becoming impatient. The three of them had come to the trading post to see if Boisdeffre would give them tobacco, and the trader did give them a little—he rarely refused them tobacco. But when they saw the six bearskins on the floor, Weedy Boy and the others wished they had not bothered coming to the post that day. Six bearskins was big medicine. When Boisdeffre told them that one man, a hunter with icy blue eyes, had killed all six of the bears, the three became even more agitated—the young warrior named Climbs Up was particularly upset. It was Climbs Up’s opinion that whatever bears were near the fort would be wanting to do a lot of killing to revenge such a slaughter. The great bears would not be likely to discriminate, either. They would just kill whoever they met, which could as well be Minatarees rather than whites. Climbs Up, who was pessimistic at the best of times, thought that they ought at once to move their camp farther down the Missouri River. The presence of bears bent on revenge was never welcome.

  Weedy Boy was more or less in agreement with Climbs Up, for once, but he thought they ought to talk the whole matter over with Otter Woman before doing anything rash. The two wanted to hurry right back to their camp, but the woman who was with them, Squirrel, was looking at some beads and refused to be rushed, even though she could see the bearskins with her own eyes.

  “Let’s leave her—she’ll be here all day looking at those beads,” Climbs Up said.

  But Weedy Boy didn’t want to leave Squirrel. He was thinking of marrying Squirrel, even though she was rather moody. He told Climbs Up to wait a minute, which Climbs Up did reluctantly. Then, when Squirrel was finally ready to leave, who should show up but old Sharbo, who asked them if they would mind posing for a few minutes for a new likeness maker who had come on the big boat. This likeness maker was young—he wore a brown mustache, a brown cap, and smoked a pipe with a big bulge in it, like a pelican’s belly. Sharbo said they could have the beads Squirrel wanted if they would just indulge the likeness maker for a few minutes. Weedy Boy and Climbs Up were disinclined to comply, but before they could leave, a short man appeared and began to hand out such excellent presents that they soon forgot the bears. Squirrel got her beads and a blue blanket, and Weedy Boy and Climbs Up got excellent hatchets with fine sturdy handles, as well as a couple of pipes like the one the likeness maker smoked. Such largesse was unexpected and
did much to take their minds off the danger of bears. They went outside the stockade and arranged themselves as the likeness maker directed, with nothing behind them but blue sky and waving grass. Sharbo and the little present-giving man were in the likeness too, pretending to trade with the Minatarees, who of course had nothing to trade. Very quickly the likeness maker made a likeness of the group, which he freely showed them. Squirrel refused to look at the likeness—she thought such business could lead to bad things. In fact when the likeness maker approached with the likeness Squirrel took her presents and ran off, which was foolish, because the little present-giving man soon passed out some nice blue beads. The blue beads emerged from a magical pack that the little man wore over his shoulder. The new gift was really something special: Boisdeffre only had white beads and red beads; blue beads had not been seen by any of the Minatarees since they had left the camp of the Bad Eye in order to hunt upriver.

  Weedy Boy took a string of the blue beads to give to Squirrel—Climbs Up didn’t think she deserved them because of her impatient behavior, but then Climbs Up was not the one interested in marrying her.

  What interested Climbs Up even more than the blue beads was the dark marking stick the likeness maker used to do his likeness. The marking stick marked very dark.

  “It wouldn’t take long to put on war paint if we had that marking stick,” Climbs Up pointed out. “Maybe we could steal it.”

  Weedy Boy tried to pretend he didn’t even know Climbs Up—they had just been given some very fine presents, and now the greedy Climbs Up wanted to steal a marking stick. It was all too typical: Climbs Up had never been able to resist just grabbing anything that took his fancy. Now he wanted to insult the likeness maker by stealing his marking stick, which was nothing they really needed, since they rarely put on war paint, being too few and too weak to make war on any of the neighboring tribes. Much as Weedy Boy hated the arrogant Assiniboines he was not so foolish as to make war on them while his band only possessed two guns that would fire with any regularity.

  “But the likeness maker is rich,” Climbs Up pointed out. “He has many marking sticks. I only want to take one, to help with the war paint.”

  Weedy Boy pointed to the large boat the likeness maker had come in. It was anchored just below the place where the Yellowstone came into the Missouri.

  “See that boat?” he asked. “It is the biggest boat in the world.”

  “So what?” Climbs Up said. “I don’t want to steal the boat. A small canoe that doesn’t leak is good enough for me when it comes to boats.”

  Weedy Boy was disgusted. It had always been hard to carry on a conversation with Climbs Up—he could never keep to any subject. Who would think of stealing a boat so large that it would take all the warriors from many bands just to row it across the river?

  “I don’t want to steal the boat,” Weedy Boy protested. “I just want you to think of all the presents that could be on a boat that big. If we are patient and let the likeness maker do his work, and if we don’t do anything bad like stealing a marking stick, then the little man with the magic pack might give us many more presents. Maybe if we are polite to him he will even give us a few guns. If we had several guns we could even go after those sneaking Assiniboines.”

  Such a fine possibility had not occurred to Climbs Up. He had to admit that what Weedy Boy said made sense. He still longed to snatch one of the nice marking sticks from the likeness maker, but he restrained himself, in hopes of getting, pretty soon, a fine gun that would make a buffalo or an Assiniboine dead with one shot. Such a gun would be worth waiting for.

  42

  Day after day he had gone out in bitter weather…

  KARL Bodmer, the likeness maker, hurried to put the finishing touches on his hasty little charcoal sketch of his prince’s meeting with the three Minatarees, one of whom, the girl, was now in full flight. Winter in the Mandan encampments, during which, despite the terrible cold, he had done much sketching, convinced him that only the most vain of the Indian warriors and chieftains really wanted to have their likenesses captured—and even the vain ones fidgeted too much, which is why the young Swiss artist devoted himself whenever possible to landscapes—the somber, pallid, and yet powerful landscapes of the wintry plains. Day after day he had gone out in bitter weather, attempting to solve, in the medium of watercolors mostly, why such a featureless land should yet be so powerful.

  The two Minataree boys standing with his prince were clearly restless. Karl Bodmer focused on his sketch, looked at the group, drew; and then, to rest his eyes, glanced upward into the infinity of the great Western sky. The tones of the plains might be muted, a challenge to his sensitivity, but the skies were always wonderful—only this time, when he glanced up, instead of having his vision cleansed by the skies, he saw the very thing he most dreaded: a man with an easel strapped to his back, coming toward the group.

  Then the man disappeared into a dip in the prairie. For a moment Karl thought he might have imagined him. A great white cloud the size of a galleon sailed over and floated on. Thinking, perhaps, that he had been mistaken, Karl looked again. The grass was waving, the sunlight was shining strong, and there came the man, with an easel strapped to his back.

  Annoyed—indeed, furious—why would the fellow interfere when it was plain that he was not through sketching?—Karl Bodmer slapped his sketchbook shut. Teeth clenched on the stem of his fat pipe, he nodded once to his patient prince and strode off without a word toward the steamer Yellowstone, which was anchored not far away.

  “Whoa, now! What’s got into that fellow?” Charbonneau wondered. “Here comes George Catlin, he’s our painter—he’s got a big start on your man, Prince. George figures he’s done three hundred Indians, so far.”

  Prince Max, imperturbable, watched the skinny painter approach. He was annoyed that young Karl had behaved rudely, but then rudeness was apt to go with youth—even Swiss youth.

  “Of course, Mr. Catlin,” he said. “We heard much from Captain Clark about this eminent man. It will be my pleasure to greet him.”

  All winter, the prince reflected, young Karl had challenged the ice and cold that held them in the Mandan villages. Almost every day, in defiance of the bitter chill, he had gone into the bleak hills, or among the shivering villagers, seeking scenes to paint. But now, on a fine spring day, on a glorious plain, off he stalked, unwilling to meet a rival painter.

  “I suppose our Karl was hoping to be the first one to paint these wild peoples,” he said.

  “Oh no, George has got a good jump on him here,” Charbonneau replied. “On the other hand, you were lucky that the ice stopped you at the Mandans’—otherwise you’d have been chopped up, like George Aitken and the others we lost. And there’s plenty of Indians George ain’t painted. If you push on to the Marias River that young fellow will have the country all to himself—there’s plenty of these wild boys over that way. Don’t know if they’ll sit still for a painter, though.”

  “I rely on presents,” the prince admitted. “Good beads, good hatchets, maybe once in a while a musket to some great chief. If the presents are good they’ll let Karl paint.”

  George Catlin saw a young man with what looked like a sketchbook stalking off toward the steamer— young Bodmer, he supposed. He was too weary at the moment to care whether he met the young fellow or not. He had heard that a large herd of buffalo were crossing the Missouri six miles or so below the trading post and had hurriedly tramped down that way to watch the enormous procession. He was not disappointed. Thousands of buffalo in a continual stream surged across the muddy river while he sketched and sketched. One wobbly calf, evidently just born, was swept downstream by the current and seen no more. George had hurried off without grabbing any vittles— he had tramped at least twelve miles on an empty stomach and was, as a consequence, very hungry. Nonetheless he stopped and greeted the small prince courteously.

  “Why, hello—you’re the prince, I suspect,” he said. “Didn’t mean to run that young fellow off.”<
br />
  “How do you do, Mr. Catlin,” the prince said. “Our Karl is sometimes hasty.”

  “I’ve just been watching thousands of buffalo cross the river,” Catlin told him. “What I want now is a bite to eat.”

  “We’ll just stroll together, then,” the prince said. He bowed to the two Minataree boys, who, seeing that no more presents were likely to come out of the magical bag, hurried off to find Otter Woman and tell her about the bears.

  “Shall you go south with His Lordship, Mr. Catlin?” the prince asked. “Will you be the first to paint the beauties of the Yellowstone?”

  “Not me, Prince,” George said. “Much as I will miss some of the Berrybenders, I’ve a living to make, after all. I plan to go back downriver on that steamer, make a run at the Comanches perhaps, and then get along home.”

  “I see,” the small prince said, hoping that the news would be enough to cheer up Karl Bodmer. Another day or two and his rival would be gone.

  43

  “A low thing, addition,” Mary insisted.

  TASMIN was first astonished, then amused, when it developed that there was one member of the Berrybender family who had not the slightest difficulty in getting Jim Snow to do what she wanted him to do. The lucky person, with the style of command that was needed to domesticate the sulky frontiersman, turned out to be their sister Ten, aged barely four years, the little girl who had cheerfully lived for some weeks amid the cabbages, training her mouse.

  With Tasmin Jim was moody, with Lord Berry-bender angry, with Mary suspicious, and with little Monty tentative—only rarely would he consent to hold his child, fearing, it seemed, that he might damage him, although Monty was already proving himself to be a sturdy customer.