In addition to the colonel, I was introduced to captains Hindeman, Keane and Dugan, and half a dozen lieutenants. The latter let their superiors do most of the talking, and I cannot recall any of their names except for one, a Lieutenant Pickforth, who struck me as an exceedingly opinionated and obtuse individual. To his credit, he has been where I have not, across the nigh limitless prairie to the distant Rockies, and returned alive to tell the tale. At Colonel Templeton’s bidding, Pickforth related his various escapades. Perhaps it was the colonel’s way of acquainting me with the dangers ahead without having to resort to a lecture. I admire his tact.
Pickforth had many interesting experiences. That herds of buffalo can be a million strong is now common knowledge, but to talk to someone who has seen such a herd and to hear his firsthand account brings the reality that much nearer. And, too, his patrol’s clash with a band of hostile Piegans had to be harrowing in the extreme, and was, I suspect, the point Colonel Templeton was trying to make through his proxy.
It irritates me to be considered stupid. Does everyone honestly think I am going into this with my eyes closed? I am fully cognizant that scores, nay, hundreds of people have been slain by Indians, but I am also cognizant that hundreds more have gone into the domain of the red man and come back out again with nary a scratch.
The key is to avoid regions roamed by hostiles and travel only through country where friendly tribes reign. The Shoshones, to name just one example, are widely viewed as perhaps the friendliest tribe of all. Whites in their territory are always welcome and not treated as intruders. The Crows are almost as noteworthy, and, from what I am told, the handsomest of all the red race. One officer was of the opinion they are prone to petty thievery, but others said that was mere myth.
When I inquired if more tribes are friendly than are hostile, I was assured the opposite is the case. The Sioux, or Dakotas as some call them, universally resent white inroads. The implacable hatred of the Blackfoot Confederacy is well established. The Arikaras, the Cheyenne and others have risen against whites from time to time.
From what the officers told me, I am glad I intend to focus my naturalistic forays on the central Rockies. To the north are the aforementioned Blackfeet, to the south the dreaded Comanches and highly feared Apaches.
To be candid, I find the whole conflict insipid. The press paints the red man as the bane of white existence, yet I cannot help but think that they were here before us. And, too, when one white country is encroached on by another white country, bloodshed inevitably results; how is that any different from the situation on the frontier?
Hatred and war hold no interest for me. Nor, I must again be honest, do the politics of what has recently been called our presumed “Manifest Destiny.” I do not hate others because their skin is different from mine. I do not believe that my being white, which is, after all, a random chance of birth, entitles me to live where I will and as I will and displace or exterminate anyone who stands in the way of my doing so.
Why can’t everyone simply get along? I know, I know. I am being simplistic, and not a little naïve. It is not the nature of the human brute to extend the hand of friendship unless it serves the brute’s self-interest. Intellectually that is shallow; morally that is bankrupt.
I would have truck with none of it.
Give me life in all its varied guises. Give me the means to paint it and record it. Give me the opportunity to expand the borders of our knowledge and to open new vistas. Is that too much to ask?
I apologize. I digress. I try to be objective in my journal, but as you can see I do not always succeed.
In any event, the whole conflict is moot as far as I am concerned. A week from now I will be well out on the prairie. I will be doing that which I love best to do. All the rest of it, the bigotry and pretensions and, yes, the silliness, will become as insubstantial as the air.
I can’t wait.
Somewhere on the Great American Desert, May 19
I do not know where I am. It is glorious.
I should know. But the crate containing our sextant is at the bottom of the Mississippi River, and I refused to spend a week or more camped on the west bank while one of my men went back to try and procure another. Ignorance as to our exact longitude and latitude hinders us only slightly. So long as we can ascertain the four points of the compass—and of those we brought several—we can get by with more than tolerable efficiency.
I should be thankful. The mishap that sent the crate containing some of our equipment into the river might well have sent my paints and brushes and easel. That would be a calamity of the first order. I can get by without knowing where in heaven’s name I am, but it would be pointless to continue without the means to capture on canvas that which I come across.
And there is so much to see! To say the animal life is abundant is to say the ocean is deep or the sky is high. Our scout and chief hunter, Augustus Trevor, says this will change, that game becomes so scarce we will be fortunate if we do not starve. He has crossed the prairie several times so I trust his judgment. When he advised me to lay up a store of dried meat, that is exactly what we did.
I must make a decision. My supply of paint and canvas is limited. Do I paint every animal and new plant we encounter here on the plains, or do I contain my enthusiasm so that I have plenty of canvas and paper left when I reach the mountains? The answer is obvious.
Still, I can’t not paint.
A pair of white-tailed rabbits are too adorable to ignore. They are as fluffy and soft as pillows, with appealing yellow eyes and long ears tipped with black triangles. How can I not paint them, when they are not found east of the Mississippi?
The same with a coyote Trevor shot. Yes, we have coyotes galore in the States, but this one was three times the size of any coyote I ever beheld or heard of, almost a wolf in stature and worth the expenditure of precious paint.
Then there are the birds. My God, the birds!
Of all the creatures in creation, I confess I am partial to our avian friends. I don’t know whether it is that I have always envied their power of flight, or that their delightfully diverse plumage presents such a formidable challenge and such lasting satisfaction if my brush does them justice.
You might think, given how generally flat the prairie is and the relative absence of trees, that birds would have nowhere to roost and thus be rare, but I can confirm that their abundance is second only to their variety.
You who are reading this journal are probably familiar with the common bluebird, but how about a bird with a vivid blue head and blue wings, gray throat and orange body? Or a bird with a yellow crown and yellow throat and yellow rings around the wings and the tail, and a melodious warble that is a joy to the ears? Or an oriole that is similar to the Baltimore variety but has splashes of orange on both sides of its head and above its eyes?
Vicinity of the Platte River, June 2
We have had an incident.
The previous night we camped on the bank of the Platte, as we have been doing for some days now while we follow it generally westward. I cannot help but think that calling the Platte a river is a slur on rivers everywhere. That a waterway so shallow and sluggish and narrow should be designated as such amazes and amuses me. But it is water, and after nearly perishing from thirst before we reached it, I should be grateful and not carp.
But to the incident.
We had a fire going and our sixteen horses tethered in a string under guard. Our sleep was undisturbed until about an hour before dawn. Then the sentry, who happened to be young Billingsley, and who by his own admission was so tired he could scarcely keep his eyes open, heard a sound that brought his head up. Not a loud sound, by any means, but the suggestion of a stealthy tread. Since deer and other animals sometimes pass close by in the night, Billingsley did not think much of it and lowered his chin to his chest.