“This above all, to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.”
Memoirs of a Scout
Part One
Sometimes I think I’m just out here following; following something instead of nothing; following something because it was moving and I was not. Now, there’s lazy followin’ like on a hot day, watchin’ the heat rise; then there’s followin’ a trail cuz it’s already carved out of the forest and you’ve got a map. I follow the buffalo, and see that they have many ways of behaving, and I am still getting to know them. Many are already dead, but I am a man of the prairie and I share their soul, so I will know them as I will. They graze and they keep moving. They follow the sun and rarely turn their backs on it, that generous sun that among many other things, dictates when they will shed their generous fur.
This is one perfect Spring Day, which I would like to say with capital letters, in case it slips by you. Not that I am leaving it there, but I will remember this day for I see it clearly even as I am surrounded by it. When I awoke I could smell the season changing as sure as I can smell rain, and I couldn’t help but wonder how far away we were from the last snow, the we of the other two scouts and myself, even though at the time I thought I would never forget. It is a day of beauty, of intense color and quiet as if Mother Nature is taking a rest while she can. Like a beautiful song, like the woman I love, my sweet Ellie, that tall, classical, no-nonsense beauty who’s never afraid to look ya in the eye. All of these are met in this day that is so sure of itself, that it demands more than just the travelers’ observation. It says: “I am a prime, awesome day not to be confused with yesterday or tomorrow.” Now, if I can just keep this day in mind throughout the next winter, then I could hold on to the perfect picture that was momentarily real and was yet a dream upon this new land, for its pureness and innocence could not last. We were briefly suspended together, me and this day, for a few moments that were rescued from time where it would always stay green and fresh. Where the birds would continue chasing each other even though I know as sure as I know buffalo, that it won’t last and I will be restless when the cold comes on stronger than it does today.
But not now; for today the sun shines on my back and I continue into the horizon and upon this trail in front of me as the mist hangs in the folds of the earth here and there like curtains which are drawn aside at our approach. This golden trail runs through a rolling valley, one of the best we have seen, and I hold the eyepiece as much as I can and see even further. And I am well provided for, with all that I need. And not only that, my new boots are finally broken in and I have been able to forget them.
You can also tell its spring because the buffalo have turned a golden color like brown bears, shedding their winter coats. It is still morning and they are resting from their first graze. They are mounds unto themselves, they are the moving earth, and they simply come up out of the ground like a spring from the land. They claim it with their presence because they don’t have to know anything else about it. They do not know that danger is over the horizon - coming from the east. Their massive heads are like unto the bulls of Madrid, of which I have only seen pictures. They are majestic and yet peaceful, fighting the occasional spring battle, but only amongst themselves. They never cease to impress me - more than anything else; more than mountain lions or even bears. It is the buffalo that guards the earth giving these plains meaning and purpose; carving their trail like a great river, stirring the earth for other creatures like blackbirds and prairie dogs and who knows what else. I take a funny pride in them because they are so grand and I, a mere human, can only admire them. But I am stirred by their presence, is that pride? You know, even when they are lying down with their legs underneath them, their giant heads and chests keep the front half of their bodies erect while the rest declines at a sharp angle to the ground. This makes them look like they are sleeping mounds shaped more like small hillocks. Now the blackbirds perch on the backs of the buffalo’s spine and take a free ride until the buffalo has stirred up enough soil so there are fresh grass seeds turned over for the birds to enjoy. I assume the birds are repaying this service by eating the critters they may find on buf’s back. But I’m not getting close enough to finding out for sure, I’ll just keep assuming because it’s just me and them and no one else to tell right now but myself.
I must have been dreaming even though it seemed so real. I saw that silver studded saddle again on a horse with three white socks and a white star at its brow. Whoever would want a silver studded saddle in this untamed land, that is more liable to get stolen than not, must have a lot of money. That did not really concern me however as I had a good horse, in fact, an excellent horse, my chestnut, Dusty. And I had a comfortable saddle that had taken a long time to get just right. Dusty is bold and intelligent and could look me right in the eye, oh yes, and snort - the more subtle defiance! Still, he took to the saddle and we have been in command of one another ever since. The change of a horse is a change of emotion moving my blood faster just as my breath is quickened when I hear the call of the dawn. (“My horse, my horse, my kingdom for a horse.”) The buffalo begin to stir in some other valley and the grass is green and golden with the first tracks of the sun. I know I have felt alone before in this beauty and wonder but I do not feel alone now.
I have often heard much slander and depraved thinking about the Native Indians. It is true that they are not Christian. But they are blessed by God directly as they leave very little evidence of their existence behind them. I can only comment on what I have seen directly. The Bible and the works of William Shakespeare not only taught me how to read and write, but also how to think. But from what I can tell by way of the direction that the stick floats, they are more like what Jesus had in mind than the Christians that have more self-righteousness on their side than the Cheyenne or the Sioux. And I believe that this goes along with the quotation that “The river will open for the righteous.” but it doesn’t say anything about the self-righteous.
There are many things I never expected to see upon leaving Independence for the third time in 1847. I am only one of three with my brother scouts; I am the third in our unique trio, the full-blooded white one. Sometimes I could swear at the stupidity of my fellows but few have had the benefit of my experience. How can another man who does not know me know that one of the other scouts mothers, who was a full blooded Cheyenne, Standing Feather, raised me almost as much as she raised her own son, O’Riley, whose father was white. As I remember it, she just took over when my own mother ran away. I hardly remember the woman who gave birth to me even though I have often tried.
Standing Feather, Mahahedna in her language, (and I am spelling that as best as I can, even though it is much more lyrical than I can represent on paper) never let me go hungry and she made all of my clothes by her own hand. A trapper, gone most of the time, my father saw how she just took me in and started paying her by the time I was of ten summers. Mahahedna put all that money in a can and gave it to me when I turned sixteen. It was my first stake in this life. O’Riley got a stake too but I never found out how. I believe that she somehow provided that too. But I was too polite to ask her and she was a very private woman. I found out later that she was embarrassed about her broken English that I had always enjoyed. I recall trying to tell her that it didn’t matter to me how she spoke because I loved her just talking to me like I was her son. She told me when I left to find life on my own that I was indeed her son. That my own mother had given me to her and she had always been grateful. Perhaps we were closer than we knew. My father died before I had a chance to find out much regarding his personal life. And all I knew about the mother that bore me was that she named me Beauregard because she thought it was the same thing as Best Regards. She liked that her son’s name would have regard in it; that he would perhaps grow up to be a polite chap if only guided by his name. So she must have wanted me to be a gentleman. That and the fact that she left King James and The Bard behind for my education! I didn’t know much more than that about my father. It seemed like he was always away and I’m sorry that I didn’t know him. My mothers’ departure had silenced him and his journey always took him away from home. And home was halfway between the village of Mahahedna and what eventually grew up to be Independence, MO. The rest of that part of the story is just speculation on my part and remains to be pieced together. I trust more of it will come in time, but I’m not worried. Being a scout for a wagon train on this glorious and treacherous trail sufficiently occupies my present time without having to be concerned about the past. But isn’t it odd how a thing like that, not knowing, can stay with you? Haunting. That’s why I am so grateful to have brothers and good friends. We have to depend on one another or there is no survival.
The wagon leader Dutch and his wife Dutch Mary seem pleasant enough. In fact my instant ease with them would allow me to say that they are genuinely good souls. The west is so vast and so wide open and yet, already divided like most people into some of those small seaboard states, except that here they aren’t called states yet, they call them territories! And so I head out there once again, in the vanguard with two other men. One is a full-blooded Indian we call BJ and the other is Riley, short for O’Riley, who I grew up with. I wanted another adventure and I believe we all wanted to prove ourselves as the men we thought we were. Even BJ, who would never discuss much of anything in great detail, had pride in his ability to track. He hadn’t had to learn how as I had as it was already a part of who he was; it was in him through clear to his bones and his knowing was instinct. I watched him closely whenever I could and learned a survival that often appeared to be close to magical. BJ could smell water and where to find it. Riley could usually find it but it took him a lot longer and he needed to use two straightened twigs that looked like they were mating just as I did, but I was still the slowest. Still, our kinship did not come from coincidence. We trusted, respected and depended on each other and if that isn’t love, than I don’t know what. As the Bard said in a very tragic play called Hamlet, “…The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grappel them to your soul with hoops of steel.” So I did.
Spring goes quickly when winter is long and when the spring rains start to lighten up, it begins to feel like summer. The buffs have nearly shed their winter coats even though some of the nights are colder than others. The hides they reveal are dark and smooth so they look younger in the summertime!
BJ or Big Johnny is the tall scout. He told me his real name once but I couldn’t remember it and he would not say it again. He is a better teacher than O’Riley who is only half Cheyenne but then Riley’s other half made him more susceptible to my friendship and we have developed a sense of humor all its own around the people we are leading West but not always with them. O’Riley’s father taught him to read and write. His reading is far superior to his writing so he relies heavily on me when the need arises for him to correspond which is hardly ever. Funny thing is though, even though he doesn’t like to write, he can draw almost anything you put in from of him! Like a lot of Irish cowpokes, Riley was short and less likely to wear the horse out first from too much weight. His handlebar moustache was bushy but somehow it was the only thing he managed to keep clean. He may have worn the same pair of pants for three years, which is probably why they could stand up by themselves, but he bathed every Saturday and used gentleman cologne whenever he was invited over to dinner. He liked to wear chaps on the trail to protect his standup pants. He might have made a better trapper, a more isolated profession since he pushed the boundaries of what was acceptable in polite society-in fact, he was right on the fence heading out of town. And even with a good looking shirt, he still looked like a cowpoke. How would anyone ever guess he was one of the best scouts to lead many settlers out west on the Oregon Trail?
We’ve been sent out a long ways from camp; in fact, we have been sent away, more like. That Army captain wants me out of the way so that he can woo Elizabeth, the woman I mentioned earlier. She told me not to get angry and show him any defeat on my part so I thanked him for the opportunity to be away from him for so long. After all, he needs to know what to expect for the next hundred miles! Come back in a fortnight he said. What a horses’ patoot! A man sure can trip on his pride as sure as anything else.
So I went straight back to Ellie after this conversation and she said everything I needed to hear before I left. She wanted to assure me that I would be missed. I thanked her with more than my words that were much simpler than the depth of my feelings. She wanted to assure me that she was disappointed that I’d be missing the next Social. I assured her that it was not my intention but my duty. She also assured me that she would be feeling a whole lot better about this whole thing if I would only kiss her goodbye. I kissed her but I was never thinking about good-byes. I kissed her with the first kiss we had for each other. I wanted it to be special and it was. Her lips opened to mine until they fit together like a long lost puzzle finally coming together and I could tell that the moment of their meeting thrilled her as much as it did me. She backed away a little bit and smiled and I smiled back. I wanted to say something important to that moment but instead she pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve and for a moment I thought she was overcome with emotion, but not Ellie. I liked to call her Ellie in my mind although I would never dare to let her know I had already made her name into a term of endearment. That hankie was freshly laundered and had her scent on it. She said that she would feel much better if I had a token of our friendship with me. I assured her that I would keep it with me for safekeeping. She could discuss Shakespeare with anyone she liked and as much as she liked but she gave her kerchief to me. (“Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, To kiss and clip me till I run away.”)
Now that we’re out on the trail, I feel sorry for the captain, in a way. (“Therefore be patient, take no note of him.”) I’ll bet his superior, that colonel with the dusty braids will be furious when he realizes that Captain Hansen has sent out his three scouts and best sharpshooters to boot with the Pawnee so close at hand. For they are a tribe that is not afraid to be as aggressive as the cavalry can be. I do not relish being so far away from cover myself but we are far less of a threat than the whole train behind us. Still, I will be praying for the colonel’s safe return from wherever he went to sign a treaty that I doubt he has any intention of living up to.
Sometimes the heat of the plains makes it a trial to see across them even with a looking glass. When it’s hot and windy, even the mountains can get blurry and the plains themselves appear to rise up to greet them. I have to keep taking my hat off to wipe my forehead free of sweat and grime. I almost used her kerchief to clean my brow as I had been grabbing it all morning just to smell the scent of her perfume. It was floral but not too sweet because there was something spicy in there too. I don’t know what, guess it could have pepper for all I know, but it smelled just like her: not too sweet but as enduring as the plains themselves. In my daydreaming, I would see her pulling the hankie out from between the cleft of her bosom, right in front of me, on purpose. So even when I spit out my tobacco, I tried to be discreet so that she wouldn’t notice. I must have succeeded because she didn’t say anything but then she’s much too clever for that. But her nose twitched, tightened into a knot that made her mouth stiff as she took a deep breath. Whoa. I knew that when I returned, I would never have that tobacco in my mouth again because, when she smiled at me I wanted to be able to smile back without seeing any change in her expression.
That handkerchief didn’t really amount to much; just a square piece of cotton less than half the size of a bandana and trimmed with lace all around the edge. But the best part, outside of the scent, was her initials neatly embroidered with a dark blue thread, EM, Elizabeth MacKenzie otherwise known as Ellie. Of course I did not call her that, not yet. I still addressed her as Miss MacKenzie even after she said her friends called her Ellie and I certainly identified myself as one of her friends. I just sort of knew that I should continue addressing her properly because that is what a gentleman would do and that is certainly what the captain would do; “maintain order”, his favorite words (“Take no note of him”).
I put the kerchief back in my front pocket and grabbed my bandana and put a few drops of water on it. It wasn’t even noon yet but already the heat was rising on me as sure as it ever rose on the plains. The smell of my own scarf was not good. It had been too long since either me or my clothes had seen enough water. But I noticed that she was always fresh as a morning flower sitting undisturbed. Unlike myself who was unable to get her out of my thoughts for very long. (“Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!”)
This part of the journey wasn’t too difficult. The land was flat and not to rocky. On the other hand, it wasn’t very pleasant to anybody except Big Johnny who said the mountains were sacred to the Great Spirit. I suggested that perhaps the Great Spirit would like to see them better and could send some summer rain down upon them in order to do so! He just grunted, hungh, and rode away. Our plans were to meet up after midday behind the next mountain. These weren’t your regular mountains. These were the stubs of mountains, sticking up out of nowhere like chimneys when you’re up on a roof. As I rode towards the next stub, I could tell Riley was already there because I could see his horse before I could see its rider. As I got closer I could see why that was. There was a small pool at the base of the rock and he was already in it. He saw me coming and called out to me with the kind of shouts and hollers you hear at a roundup.
“Oh Beau - Oh! Come and get it!”
Big Johnny wasn’t around yet and it seemed safe enough so I stripped as quick as I could and felt the water spread over me like butter in a skillet. It was a deep pool and the water was cool and clean so it must have come from an underground spring. I got out momentarily to wash out my bandana and wished I had had my shaving gear and a mirror! At least I’d be cleaner and I know she would like that as she once commented that I smelled like a rabbit. Of course she did not say this to me directly. She was talking to Dutch Mary and Riley overheard her. I tried to remember what a rabbit smelled like and then it came to me. While they were alive, they smelled dusty like the earth they dug around in, musty too. But not all that bad as I assumed that she meant a live rabbit and not a dead one. I floated on my back for a while until I felt like I could go to sleep. I wanted to bring her here and that’s not all I wanted. But I would do right by her as best as I could.
As far as we could tell, there was no tribal activity at this end of the plains. We had passed by the greater buffalo herds as the land no longer supported them. It was rocky and the tall dark towers that rose before us scattered across the plain were not friendly unless there was water hidden like this pool Riley found behind one of the larger of the stubbed towers. It might be quiet for a while. Most of the troops had stayed behind at the last fort and I was relieved with their absence. The Indians didn’t attack the wagon trains very often, as they were passing through and comprised mostly of families. This crossing over the Overland Trail was fairly peaceful as these were the days before the Gold Rush, before all the broken treaties that brought greater war between the white man and the red. But soldiers were another matter altogether. They were the warriors and the tribes were more than wary of them. I was in a hurry to get back to Miss MacKenzie so I was grateful that we had found a clean source of water. That was always part of our mission on the trail as we never knew if the next water hole would be empty or full, whether the next fort or way station would be active or abandoned.
Riley said that BJ had gone ahead because he was not at ease with the way we were headed and decided to go out a little farther to look around. While I was refilling my canteens, a curious hare came out to see what was going on. He started to scamper away but Riley was on him, like a bee on a sunflower, because he loved rabbit and come to think of it, so did I. I waited for what seemed like too long for Riley to get that hare and just as I was about to go after him he came running back to his horse.
“Another scouting party – here to join us!” he said trying to catch his breath.
“Who?”
“Might be Sioux but whoever they are… they’re headin’ for this pool.”
“Damn.” I said as I was mounting my own horse. “What about the rabbit?”
“He’s probably Sioux as well, too tough.”
“So you couldn’t catch him.”
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that rabbit, worry ‘bout your scalp!”
He was right. I was too concerned about my scalp to worry too much about having fresh meat for dinner as that would make it a lot harder to cover our tracks anyway. Scouts or hunting parties weren’t usually too much of a threat, but we would be more than outnumbered. Even with our rifles and pistols we wouldn’t be able to shoot with both hands and stay on our horses at the same time. We rode away towards BJ hard and fast whipping through the dust from the afternoon breeze. (“The day is hot, the Capulets abroad, and if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;…”)
It is hard to imagine that in this wide, open country that you would ever have to consider the rules of war. The main rule being that you have to kill or be killed. But there was no reason for a wagon train party, which is just passin’ through, not to just keep on going. I have spoken, well, if you could call it that, with many Indians; leaving my rifle with my horse and having nothing but my knife with me. Most of the Indians I know are better at listening than they are at talking. Most Indians were usually just curious like that rabbit, not knowing what the future would hold any more than we did. You would think that Big Johnny would have been some help here but he was not. He never wanted to interfere. It was difficult for him to get beyond himself in a way; he just couldn’t think in that direction. I could say that all he knew about was tracking and scouting but he knew everything about them and more. Actually, to be in his company was to be blessed.
