Boone's Lick

by Larry McMurtry

  The minute it was over the young Sioux warriors came crowding around the wagon, just as the Pawnees had done. Uncle Seth gave them a lot of tobacco and plenty of coffee too—Ma didn’t complain. Uncle Seth even gave the two leaders hunting knives, like the ones G.T. and I had.

  “Why do they call them Bad Faces?” Neva wanted to know, when the Sioux left. They were in sight for a long time, riding north.

  “I’d like to know that too,” Ma said. “They were the best-looking Indians I’ve seen—except for Charlie.”

  I expect she just said that to be polite, since Charlie just looked like an ordinary man.

  “It’s just a name for Red Cloud’s bunch,” Father Villy said.

  “That doesn’t explain a thing,” Ma said.

  In fact, though Uncle Seth and Father Villy had made a show of being cordial, neither of them looked very happy once the Sioux had gone.

  “I hope Dick Cecil’s at Fort Laramie,” Uncle Seth said. “That would be the lucky thing.”

  “Why?” Ma asked.

  “It’s those forts the army’s putting up along the Bozeman Trail,” Father Villy said. “It’s foolish—foolish.”

  “If it’s so foolish why are they putting them up?” Ma asked.

  “If you knew anything about the army, Mary Margaret, you’d know that they do foolish things every day,” Uncle Seth said. “I doubt myself that the army ever does anything that isn’t foolish—and I was a soldier in that same army for four years.”

  “There’s another point,” Father Villy said, “which is that the farther west they go, the less brains the army uses. There’s been a gold strike in Montana, which means miners will be hurrying up the Bozeman Trail—only it ain’t their trail! You’ve heard of the Holy Land, I expect, haven’t you, ma’am?”

  “I have,” Neva said. “It’s where Cain slew Abel.”

  “Well, we think of it for other things besides murder,” Father Villy said. “But you’re right—it’s where Cain slew Abel.”

  “I don’t see the application,” Ma said.

  “It’s that the army’s built these new forts in the Sioux Holy Land,” Father Villy said. “That’s what Red Cloud was telling us in that long speech he made. What he said was that the Sioux won’t stand for it—or the Cheyenne either.”

  “They’re going to go for the new forts—ain’t that what you think, Charlie?” Uncle Seth said.

  Charlie Seven Days just nodded.

  “A white man in a fever to get to the diggings will always try to go by the quickest way, even when the quickest way means going right through the Sioux,” Uncle Seth said.

  “Yes, even if quick travel means his scalp,” Father Villy said.

  “I guess I finally understand you,” Ma said. “If Dick happens to be hauling to one of these new forts, then he’s in plenty of danger—is that correct?”

  “Plenty of danger, ma’am,” Father Villy said.

  9

  AFTER our meeting with the Bad Faces, Ma let all of us know that she was not going to tolerate any lollygagging or needless delays in our trip to find Pa. The Bad Faces had impressed her, but they didn’t fool her. They could have killed us easy—it was just our luck that all Red Cloud wanted to do was make a speech.

  It was Ma’s frustration that the country we were moving through just wasn’t made for hurry. The harder we tried to pour on the speed, the more the country seemed to work against us. One night four of our mules slipped their hobbles—it took Charlie half a day to track them and bring them back.

  Then it rained for three straight days. All the way we had hugged the Platte River, to be sure of water, but lack of water ceased to be our problem: too much water was our problem. Every little trickle of a creek became a river; ground that had been hard as flint became mud. If we had not had four strong mules we would never have got the wagon out of some of the mud holes it sank into. At least there were trees here and there again, so we could enjoy a good wood fire at night.

  When we first saw the mountains way up ahead, after such a stretch of time on the plains, we didn’t really know what we were seeing. The minute the first mountains appeared G.T. wanted to run on and climb one—he had to be persuaded that they were still forty miles away.

  Ma was often vexed by the rain and the mud, but she never wavered; she drove the wagon all day, refusing to let anyone spell her—at least, she did until we finally came to Laramie Fork—with the fort at last in sight—and faced a regular flood of water, moving too fast for even a strong mule team to try and struggle through.

  “Damn the luck,” Uncle Seth said. “We could all sleep warm and dry in Fort Laramie tonight if this little creek wasn’t up.

  “Most of the time a man can jump this creek—but now look!” he added.

  “I see a washtub,” G.T. said, pointing into the froth of the water. “Here comes the washboard, too.”

  “Well, grab it, somebody,” Ma said. “We can always use an extra washtub.”

  The fact was, the little river seemed to be floating lots of goods right past us.

  “It’s a regular store,” Ma said. “Grab that rolling pin.”

  “That wagon train probably tried to cross upstream,” Father Villy said. “Somebody’s wagon turned over.”

  At Ma’s urging, me and G.T. partly stripped off and got in the water, which was so cold it turned us numb in a minute. I did manage to grab the washtub, though, and G.T. caught the washboard. Charlie reached in and snagged a pitchfork without even getting wet. When G.T. and I finally got out of the water our teeth were chattering like bones.

  “So what do we do now, Seth?” Ma asked.

  “We do the thing you hate most: wait,” Uncle Seth said. “We’ll wait for the water to go down.”

  “When do you expect it to fall?” Ma asked.

  “I can’t predict,” he said. “Maybe this afternoon, maybe tomorrow. What do you think, Charlie?”

  “Tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Unless it rains more.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” Ma said. “We’ve been traveling all this time to get to Fort Laramie, and there it is. This is not deep water. I believe I can get through it if I push hard.”

  We could all see that Uncle Seth was nearly to the point of losing his temper with Ma. The big vein on his nose was wiggling like a worm.

  “It ain’t how deep it is, it’s how fast it’s flowing, Mary Margaret,” he said. “It might push this wagon right over, and then you and the baby and everything else we own will just float away.”

  It was clear that Ma didn’t believe him. She still had the reins in her hand, and it seemed that any minute she might defy his advice and take the plunge.

  Uncle Seth was so vexed by her stubbornness that it looked for a minute like he meant to jump up on the wagon seat and grab the reins from her before she could pop the mules. Ma had something in her—something terrible—that just wouldn’t be stopped—not by Pa or Uncle Seth or argument or a raging river or anything else; but this time, before it came to a crisis between the two of them, there was a commotion upstream.

  “Look, Arapaho,” Father Villy said.

  While we had been dragging washtubs out of the creek what seemed like a whole Indian village had arrived upstream. It was the howling of all their dogs that we finally heard, over the sound of the water. The roaring creek that had stopped us made no impression on the Arapaho: the water was just boiling with them. The women had long poles attached to their horses, with baskets of some kind hung between them.

  “I want to see this,” Ma said, turning the wagon.

  We all went up to watch—a stretch of the river was just full of dogs and horses and Indians. Some of the dogs even had skinny little poles attached to them, with smaller baskets between their poles. The large baskets, the ones the horses were pulling, had babies in them, and puppies, and here and there an old man or an old woman, sitting as high in the baskets and bundles as they could get, but not high enough to keep them out of the water. Soon babies were screechi
ng and spluttering at the shock of the icy water. Puppies were whining, dogs howling, horses whinnying; but the Indian women were mainly quiet. Once I saw a baby pop out of its basket but its mother just reached back and plucked it out of the water. She settled it back in its basket as if it had been a puppy.

  The dogs were having the hardest time making the crossing, especially those with the drag poles attached to them. The current carried some of the dogs down abreast of us, but the dogs kept struggling and all of them finally reached shore.

  “It’s only women—where are the men?” Ma asked.

  “Oh, the men are most likely already at Fort Laramie, loafing,” Uncle Seth said. “If not, they might be hunting, or making a little war, somewhere. They wouldn’t concern themselves with a little thing like getting their wives and babies through a flood.”

  So far as I could tell the Indians didn’t lose a baby, or an old person, or even a dog, in crossing the raging stream. This fact was not lost on Ma.

  “Well, if their menfolk ain’t concerned I don’t guess you need to be either, Seth,” Ma said, and she immediately put our wagon in the water right behind the last of the Indian women. Just before she hit the river Uncle Seth jumped on Sally and grabbed Marcy out of the wagon—he didn’t want to risk having her pop out like the Indian baby had.

  “Let’s go, boys—there’s no stopping her!” he said.

  Ma had hitched two mules to the wagon, which left G.T. and I each a mule. Neva was up on the wagon seat, beside Ma—Father Villy and Charlie Seven Days just had to wade it. Ma had crossed quite a few creeks by this time, and knew how to urge on the mules. Soon she was in midstream and doing fine. The only trouble came when one of the last of the Indian dogs took a dislike to Little Nicky and came swimming back to snarl and nip at him. Little Nicky didn’t appreciate this attention—he tried to paw the dog, which, for a moment, threatened to tip the wagon. Uncle Seth was too far back to help. What saved the situation was an Indian woman, who saw Ma’s predicament and turned back to help her. She grabbed the snarly dog by its scruff and pulled him off. It looked for a minute or two that the mules might balk anyway, but Ma yelled at them and popped them hard with the reins, which convinced them that the better move would be to get out of the chilly water. The helpful Arapaho woman stayed right in front of them and guided them across. The dog soon escaped her, but he didn’t bother Nicky again—he had enough to do just getting on across the creek.

  Ma’s only real trouble came when she had already reached the other bank—the right rear wheel seemed to drop into a hole between two rocks, just at the edge of the stream. We all ended up having to wade in and lift and push—it was as if that wheel had taken root in its hole. We had to hitch up the other two mules before that wheel popped free.

  “It’s a lucky thing those nice Indians came along,” Ma said to Uncle Seth. “Otherwise, you and me would still be arguing.”

  “No, otherwise you would have drowned yourself, the baby, and most of the mules,” he said.

  10

  I THOUGHT forts were for soldiers—all I see is Indians,” Ma said, when we were a hundred yards or so from the gates of Fort Laramie.

  “The soldiers are inside, drunk,” Uncle Seth said. “The Indians are outside, drunk. It might be different in Missouri, but that’s how forts work in Wyoming.”

  Once we finally got out of the creek and were trying to get dry, it started to snow. By the time we got on dry clothes and started on for the fort it was nearly dusk. Several bunches of Indians were camped outside the fort, on the plain in front of it. The smoke from many campfires rose as the snow fell, so that the lower sky all seemed to melt together, smoke and snow and dusk, making it hard to get a clear look at anything. Indian dogs were everywhere, nipping and snarling at one another. Two or three of the campfires belonged to trappers, with hide wagons sitting beside them—a few of the trappers were as hairy as Father Villy. Some nodded over their campfires—a few threw dice on a deerskin.

  I had never expected to see such a wild sight in my life—neither had Neva, or G.T. I kept a good hold on my mule—I didn’t want the nipping dogs to spook him. When we were nearly to the gates we passed the very Arapahos who had led us across the stream—most of them already had their lodges up. We even saw the very mongrel who had tried to bite Nicky—he was quarreling with another dog over a scrap of hide. The woman who pulled him off Nicky and then led us across had just whacked a fat puppy in the head and was getting it ready for the pot.

  “Hey!” Neva said, outraged at the thought that someone would eat a pup. She had tried to rear several puppies, only to lose them to the coyotes—there were so many varmints around Boone’s Lick that pets didn’t have much of a chance. We all knew that Indians ate dogs, but this was the first chance we had to witness how short life could be for a puppy in an Indian camp.

  “Have you eaten puppies?” Neva asked Father Villy—she had come to regard him as her special friend.

  “Yes, miss—they’re tender,” the priest said.

  Before Neva could question him further we passed through the big gates into the broad quadrangle of the fort; suddenly we were inside some place, for the first time in weeks. It was a large stockade, with room for hundreds of men and plenty of animals, but we had had nothing but the broad plains around us for weeks on end. Being inside the fort felt a little close.

  A burly soldier carrying a carbine came walking over to challenge us—he wobbled a little, when he walked. Ma pulled up and waited.

  “Hello, Ned—have you come to arrest us?” Uncle Seth asked.

  Hearing his name called out seemed to startle the big soldier. Then he noticed Ma on the wagon seat—it was snowing heavily enough that he had missed that detail—and he quickly stopped and took his cap off. He opened his mouth to speak but only came out with a big rumbling belch.

  “Seth, is that you? It’s dim light,” the soldier said. He had a glassy-eyed look. When he tipped his cap to Ma he lost control of it—the cap floated down into the mud, which seemed to embarrass the man greatly.

  “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said. “I believe I’ve gone and et too much.”

  When he reached down to pick up his cap he fell flat on his face in the mud—he didn’t move. Ma had to turn the mules just to get around him.

  “Dead drunk, I fear,” Father Villy said. “It’s a frequent failing of our soldiers in these lonely outposts.”

  “Lonely—I wouldn’t say it’s lonely,” Ma remarked. “There’s more people camped around here than live in Boone’s Lick, Missouri, I’d say.”

  She was right about that. As many folks were camped inside the fort as outside—soldiers, trappers, a few people with wagons, Indian women, dogs. Some sturdy cabins lined two sides of the big stockade, but most of the people seemed to be living outdoors.

  “Who runs this fort, Seth?” Ma asked. “I want to find him quick and inquire about my husband.”

  “General Slade runs it—Sam Slade,” Uncle Seth said. “At least, he did the last time I was here—I suppose he might have been replaced. But I don’t know that we can just barge in and get an audience with General Slade, if he’s here—we don’t need to anyway,” he said. “Any of these fellows who’s sober enough to stand up will know if Dick’s around.”

  “Then find someone sober and ask them,” Ma said. “And if there’s a room empty anywhere, ask them if we can use it for the night. I’m tired of sleeping with snow in my hair.”

  “Why, here’s Johnny Molesworth—I expect he can help us,” Father Villy said. “I see he’s been made a captain.”

  A slim soldier stepped out of the gloom of smoke and snow and evening light and grabbed Father Villy by the hand.

  “Villy, what a pleasure,” he said. “I see your beard’s matured.”

  Then the young captain noticed Ma and Neva, took off his cap, and made them a little bow.

  “Hello, ladies—welcome to our muddy old fort,” he said. “I’m surprised you got across Laramie Fork—we’ve had a regul
ar stream of people who nearly drowned out.”

  “Some Indians helped us,” Ma said. “I’m Mary Margaret Cecil—I guess you know Seth.”

  “He should know me—he put me in jail the last time we met,” Uncle Seth said, in a chilly tone.

  Captain Molesworth ignored the chilly tone and grabbed Uncle Seth’s hand.

  “Now, Seth, it was just for your own protection,” the captain said. “I was afraid one of those thieving Canadian skunks might shoot you.”

  “Forgiven. Where’s Dick?” Uncle Seth asked. “Mary Margaret is his wife and she’s come a far piece to talk to him. We expected to find him here.”

  Captain Molesworth seemed a little startled by that information—he looked at Ma in surprise.

  “No, Dick’s not here,” he said. “He’s wood hauling up at Fort Phil Kearny—it’s one of our fine new forts, just finished,” he said. “Dick went up with Colonel Carrington—they’re predicting a hard winter and Colonel Carrington was eager to lay in lots of wood.”

  “Drat the man—how far is that?” Ma asked.

  “Oh, it isn’t far—the distance wouldn’t be the problem,” the captain said.

  Ma just looked at him and waited.

  “The Sioux would be the problem,” he went on. “They’re testy with us over these forts.”

  “That’s right,” Father Villy said. “We ran into Red Cloud and he told us as much himself.”

  “The Cheyenne are fractious too—it’s a dilemma,” the young soldier said.

  “For you, maybe—not for me,” Ma said. “I didn’t build the forts. Is there a room we can bunk in for the night? I expect we’ll press on tomorrow.”

  “We do have a cabin, recently vacated,” the captain said. “Let me get someone to see to your livestock—we’re lucky to have plenty of good fodder.”

  “Now listen, Mary Margaret,” Uncle Seth began, as soon as Captain Molesworth walked off to find someone to tend our stock.