by Earl Murray
The horse rose as if blasted off its feet, twisting in midair, then tumbling to the ground. With the initial thrust, Mr. Colville flew from the saddle and landed awkwardly in the dust. He tried to rise but fell back, while his horse screamed and stumbled in circles, its intestines dragging on the ground. The animal finally sank to its knees and rolled over, groaning out its final breaths of life.
“I certainly didn’t come for this,” I said.
“If your fiancé continues to conduct his hunts this way,” Mr. Quincannon said, “you’ll see a lot worse.”
The buffalo had left and there was no cause to believe they would return. Edward and his men were still out and shots could be heard in the distance. While Lamar rode to find Dr. Marking, I went with Mr. Quincannon to Robert Colville’s aid. He had risen to his hands and knees and was vomiting violently.
We helped him lie down and he didn’t seem to know who or where he was. And he kept touching his eyes.
“I can’t see,” he said.
He began to panic and Mr. Quincannon assured him that if he laid still and waited for the doctor, his sight would likely return. He gained some memory back and then began to worry what Edward would say to him.
Lamar appeared with Dr. Marking. They had brought a cart lined with blankets. As they loaded him, I noted with astonishment that Mr. Colville’s head had begun to swell terribly. Dr. Marking told us that his scalp and the skin around his temples had ballooned full of water, not uncommon for a serious head wound.
I rode out with Lamar and Mr. Quincannon on their way to dispatch wounded buffalo. In the near distance, the wolf pack was tearing at the hamstrings of a badly wounded bull, working to pull him down. He fought them by kicking and tossing his head, but his strength was waning.
Other buffalo were down and some of Mr. Quincannon’s men were already butchering a fallen cow. They turned the carcass up on its belly, splaying the legs out to the sides for support. They cut the hide from the back of the neck down to the tail and peeled the skin down, using it to stack choice cuts from the hump and along the back.
Soon Edward had the Rivet brothers touring the field with him, cutting tongues and sirloins from fallen buffalo. Bom rode beside him, holding out a flask of drink whenever Edward called for it.
They rode over to where I sat on Whistler.
“What did you think of the hunt, my dear?” Edward asked.
“I don’t see your taxidermist at work anywhere,” I said.
“There were no bulls suitable for my collection.” He called to Mr. Quincannon, who was helping with the butchering. “I thought you were a hunter,” he said. “You haven’t made one single kill.”
Mr. Quincannon smiled back at him. “You seem to have shot more than enough meat for everyone and most of the wolves for fifty miles around.”
“There are plenty of buffalo here for the taking.”
“How many do you need?”
“As many as I wish.”
“Are you going to have your men butcher them?” Mr. Quincannon asked.
“You know fully well that my men are not adept at such things,” Edward said.
Mr. Quincannon smiled. “They had better learn. If you’re getting rid of me, you’ll lose my men as well.”
Edward rode towards camp, not bothering to ask if I was coming or not. I have come to believe that he doesn’t care anymore, or is playing a coy game of some sort. Since his attempt to tell me that he loved me and, at the same time, wanted to take control of my inherited land, he’s made no overtures of any kind. Our “celebration” dinner upon having discovered the herd was the first time in well over a week that I had seen him in a festive mood.
At another location I noticed a group of Mr. Quincannon’s men had built a fire and were preparing for what he termed “a contest that you may not want to witness.” Of course his saying that made me all the more curious.
A strip of hide cut from one of the buffalo was placed on the ground. Two men seated themselves cross-legged next to the hide, opposite one another. Another man who held the position as judge of the contest drew a long length of small intestine from the coals and placed it upon the hide between the two men. At the judge’s command, the event began.
The two men began pushing lengths of intestine down their throats as fast as they could. Mr. Quincannon explained that the cooked entrails required no chewing and that it was common for a contestant to swallow several yards very quickly. He emphasized that it was all in fun, and I saw that the two men often yanked at each other’s coil, pulling it back out nearly as fast as it had gone in.
With no one declared the victor, the men settled in to eating. Along with the intestines, often referred to as “boudins,” they cut slices of liver and dipped them into skin bags of gall collected from the buffalo.
“Just appetizers,” Mr. Quincannon said. “I’ll join them for the main course of hump ribs.”
I rode back, deciding I had no appetite for dinner and would just have tea with Aunt Avis and Uncle Walter. As I entered camp, I could hear Edward shouting at Barton.
“For God’s sake, give it a go,” he was saying. “What’s the matter with you?”
“You promised you wouldn’t force me,” Barton said.
“What am I to tell your mother? Will she understand that you never once attempted to shoot a buffalo? And that I stood idly by and did nothing?”
“If I shoot at one, will you then leave me alone?” Barton asked.
“Certainly. Just come out with me and try it.”
Barton went into his tent to change clothes. In the meantime, I asked Edward why he nagged his nephew so.
“We’ve been over this before, Ella,” he said. “Allow Barton to become a man, will you?”
Barton had dressed himself in field clothes—corduroys and a broad-brimmed hat, and a hunting waistcoat similar to Edward’s, but black in color. He stepped over to a cart filled with rifles.
“Hurry, Barton,” Edward said. “It’s getting late.”
Barton reached into the wagon and grabbed a rifle by the barrel. As he pulled it toward him, it discharged. The blast burned his lower arm badly and the ball shattered the bone just above the elbow. He screamed and fell unconscious to the ground.
Bom and I rushed over and turned him onto his back. His arm lay at an awkward angle, with bone splinters poking through the flesh.
“This is bad,” Bom said, wrapping a piece of cloth tightly around the arm above the wound.
“Bom, have Noel see to him,” Edward said evenly. “I want you with me. We have buffalo to chase.”
“I will get the doctor first,” Bom said.
Edward leaned over the saddle and shouted, “I told you not to worry, Bom! Now mount up.”
A number of men had come running and everyone stared.
“I don’t want to miss a record bull,” Edward said.
He and Bom rode away as Dr. Marking hurried over with his bag. Barton had regained consciousness and lay moaning.
“I’ll have to remove the arm,” the doctor said. “We’ll need to move him next to a fire.”
Gabriella’s Journal
23 APRIL 1846, 2ND ENTRY
Barton fell unconscious again, thank God, and didn’t come back until the surgery had been completed. I agreed to help, as I’ve always been inclined towards nursing people in one way or another. I don’t know where it comes from, but I recall the night I assisted with Millie McConnell and her husband, Martin. I often wonder how his arrow wound healed, knowing full well that it looked incredibly bad the night they came into our camp.
Dr. Marking worked a miracle on Barton. The upper arm had been badly shattered, the entire bone above the elbow having split nearly to the ball of the shoulder. After giving Barton a strong dose of morphine, he worked well into the night removing splinters and searing blood vessels to shut off the blood flow before removing the arm with a heated knife.
At the conclusion of his work, he asked that a horseshoeing pliers and a large wagon bolt be delivered to h
im. As there was no way to suture the wound properly, he gripped the pliers and seared the stub of the arm with the bolt, glowing white-hot from having been in the fire.
Mr. Quincannon had arrived shortly after hearing the gun discharge, but stayed out of the way, as he could do nothing to help. After the operation we sat with Barton, and Mr. Quincannon told him stories of the frontier and how it takes a brave man to make it through a serious mishap. Barton was comforted by our presence but asked two or three times where his arm had gone. I explained what had happened and he nodded before dozing off.
I laid my head on Mr. Quincannon’s shoulder and wept. It seemed so unfair. We discussed the oddities of life and he ran his fingers through my hair and wiped tears from my cheeks. I felt comforted in his arms and raised my face to look into his eyes, when we heard a piteous bleat from nearby, a bawling that he said could have been made by only one thing.
A tiny buffalo calf appeared in the light of the fire, searching for its mother, who had been killed in the hunt. Mr. Quincannon lifted the little bundle, no bigger than a medium-size dog, to his breast and held it. I stroked its soft hair and it looked at me with large brown eyes.
“What in the world are we going to do?” I asked.
“It’s a good thing we have the milk cow,” he said.
Gabriella’s Journal
26 APRIL 1846
We called her Daisy and she’s doing very well on cow’s milk. June doesn’t seem to mind suckling her and Mr. Quincannon tells me that soon we will teach her to drink from a pail. He has already fashioned a little rawhide halter and she’s fast learning to lead. I walk beside the carriage with her. I miss riding Whistler but Mr. Quincannon tells me that Daisy will soon be strong enough to keep up with us easily.
She seems to have got over the loss of her mother. I appear to have taken her place. She jumps about and is generally a pest, following me everywhere and butting me so that I’ll lead her to the milk cow. I don’t know why she doesn’t consider June her new mother. It would seem only reasonable. But I’m learning quickly that “reasonable” is an elusive term out on this prairie.
Taking care of Daisy helps keep my mind off Barton’s condition, which I fear is deteriorating. Whenever I visit him, he talks about the past and never the future. He laments not having told his brother that he loved him and wonders what life would have been like with different parents, ones who had accepted him.
“You have your life ahead of you to answer those questions,” I told him.
He never speaks to that, but lies there as if alone. I’m trying to bring him out of his depression any way I can. I’ve brought Daisy to his bedside a number of times and she sucks on his fingers. This brings a smile, but a short-lived one. He’s forever wondering of what use a one-armed man is.
The Rivet brothers have brought him any number of delicious offerings. He thanks them but eats very little. Pierre told him that he should consider becoming a chef, a career I believe would be very suitable. That cheered him up considerably, and for the first time since the accident he came to believe life was worth living.
This evening Walter came to visit Barton and tell him that he would be happy to hire him as a chef, once he is trained by the Rivets. This allows Barton something to look forward to once he’s fully recovered. I said to both of them that I would personally see to it that Edward honored this decision.
“In fact,” I said, “I’ll go get Edward right now so that this matter is clear.”
Barton asked that I not go for fear of aggravating him. I said the time had passed when I cared whether or not I aggravated anyone.
At Edward’s tent, I was surprised to see that Bom was not standing outside in his usual position. I looked inside and discovered that the lamp resting on a table at the foot of the bed was very low. I stepped inside and Edward suddenly rose from under the sheets. Aunt Avis stuck her head up beside him.
I stepped back in surprise. Edward glared at me and said, “What are you doing here?”
“The better question is,” I said, “what on earth are you two doing?” I looked from Edward to Avis, awaiting an answer.
Avis turned away while Edward continued to demand why I was in his tent. His favorite rifle lay propped up against the table. His two pistols lay near the lantern. I lifted one and cocked it.
“What are you doing?” Edward yelled. “Put that down!”
I turned the lantern up and stepped towards him.
“How long has this been going on?”
“We’ll talk about this another time,” he said.
I turned to Avis. “You tell me, then.”
She began to cry.
“Is that why you bought me all those new clothes?” I asked. “Did it appease your guilt at all? Apparently not.”
She begged me to forgive her, insisting that it had happened just this one time.
“It will never happen again,” she said. “I swear to you.”
Edward pointed a finger at me, his face drawn in rage. “This is quite enough,” he said. “I demand that you leave immediately.”
I walked over and leveled the pistol on his forehead. “Your demands mean absolutely nothing to me. If I were you, I would say no more.”
Edward shrank back. “Please,” he begged, “put the pistol down.”
Avis leaned towards me, holding the sheet over her breasts. “Don’t do this, Ella. Please.”
“Tell me about after the duel,” I said to her. “You were supposedly shopping when I got back to the hotel. Edward insisted that he had important business to attend to and put me on a carriage with Barton. Did you two meet on the boat?”
“What does it matter?” Edward asked.
I turned the pistol back on him. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter at all anymore.”
Edward rose from the bed, covering himself with a sheet, and reached out his hand.
“Give me the pistol. Right now.”
“You had better be careful, Edward,” I warned.
“You wouldn’t shoot me.”
“You’re very wrong,” I said. “From here on, things are going to be very different.”
Suddenly, Uncle Walter stepped in behind me. He stared at the scene for a moment, then said, “I suppose I’ve suspected this all along. I just didn’t want it to be true.”
He picked up Edward’s rifle and, pushing me aside, cocked the hammer. Edward put his hand up, as if to block the shot, but when Walter fired, it was Avis who took the blast square in the face from nearly point-blank range. I couldn’t see for the smoke but could hear her gasping and thrashing in bed.
“Oh, God!” Edward yelled. “Walter, stop!”
Walter was looking for powder and ball to reload the rifle. I grabbed his arm and said, “Please, stop now.”
He paused and looked at me strangely, then grabbed the pistol from my hand. He hurried out of the tent and Edward called for him to stop, quickly sweeping the second pistol off the table.
I stood in front of Edward, but he pushed me aside, yelling, “He’s going to pay for this!”
As he spoke, a blast sounded from outside and I hurried out to see Walter’s body lying near the doorway, the back of his head blown away. He had placed the pistol’s muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
I stepped back inside the tent and found Edward back in bed with Avis.
Though I was sobbing, I said, “Are you quite satisfied now?”
He paid me no attention, but held Avis in his arms, rocking her as if she were asleep.
Quincannon’s Journal
26 APRIL 1846
Edward Garr is a man in turmoil. He’s lost the woman he truly loved and he’ll never have the woman he wanted to own. Miss Hall informed me about his desires to get her land and if that wasn’t enough, his involvement with Avis has made her sincerely hate him. I believe that he worries now that she will show up in his tent some night with a pistol. I find it interesting that she has borrowed one of mine and now takes target practice. She knows how to
load and fire, and she seems to be getting pretty accurate.
Bom tells me that Garr awakens at night screaming. He paces and sweats and calls for tea and special meals, so much so that the Rivets have bags under their eyes from lack of sleep. But their eyes don’t look nearly as bad as Edward Garr’s.
Bom takes the blame for everything, as he was off talking with Jessie when it all happened. I told him that Garr and Avis were likely having their affair long before St. Louis, but he still contends things would have been different had he been doing his job.
Both Barton and Robert Colville are improving remarkably. Barton seems resolved to healing himself as quickly as possible so that he can learn the culinary arts. He wants nothing to do with Garr and doesn’t want to dwell on the incident. He told me that as soon as he heard the shots, he knew something bad had happened. He had seen Avis leaving his uncle’s tent late one afternoon and had been too frightened to tell anyone.
“Maybe it would have ended the same, no matter what,” he said.
We buried Walter and Avis on a hill overlooking the river, but not side by side. Miss Hall wouldn’t hear of it. Standing near her uncle’s grave, she sobbed while J. T. Landers read Scripture.
Garr stood with the group for a while, but before the reading had ended walked off by himself and stared into space. He waited until we had all left the gravesites to return. He must have stood on that hill for an hour. He wouldn’t even let Bom be with him.
We buried them both a good six feet in the sand, then Lamar and I dug up cactus plants and planted them on and around the graves. Miss Hall came up while we worked and wondered if that was a common thing to do. “It keeps the wolves from digging,” I told her. J. T. Landers said later that as we traveled he had noticed a few sites where cactus had been growing unusually close together and stated that he now realized we had passed a number of gravesites along the way.
While we finished Avis’s grave, I considered the irony. She had worried all the time about wolves getting her, and in the end, they still might. If they’re able to dislodge the cactus, they can dig a long way down.