Bill was only thirteen years old when he first joined a freight trail. Already though, he was hardly a child, having killed his first man – an Indian – earlier that summer, a murder which had lent the boy a certain amount of notoriety which he was known to have both enjoyed and encouraged. It’s hardly surprising that he became the showman that he did in later years, considering his earlier inclinations towards publicity and attention. Even faced with a murdered man bleeding at his feet he could see only newspaper headlines and dollar signs.
A freight trail consisted of twenty-five wagons, each of which steered about seven thousand pounds of oxen across the frontiers. Bill was the lowest of the low on these trails, a hired hand, a teamster, but he wore his official title – that of ‘bullwhacker’ – with pride. There was no private time and precious little sleep but the bullwhackers cared little for such indolent pleasures, content instead to value the freedom of the open plains and the constant potential for danger. They were a youthful bunch and it was not unusual to have a hardworking and eager child among their number.
Bill’s first experience of the problems which the freight trails could encounter, however, took place in the summer of 1859, when he joined the crew of a wagon trail destined for the plains near Salt Lake City, where the armies of General Albert Johnston were preparing for an offensive against the Mormons. The practice of polygamy was one which the government of the new United States was firmly opposed to and as the nation spread further west, expanding the reaches of its executive branch into new territories, it became vital that her people followed one law of a unified land. The Mormons had already been driven from both Missouri and Illinois but had finally established a home and settlement in Salt Lake City. Despite the aggressive tendencies of the government, this time they were not going to give up their homes or way of life without a fight.
Bill was stationed at Fort Leavenworth and had made, two friends in Albert Rogers and David Yountam, boys slightly older than he was but who envied him the brief celebrity which he had enjoyed after killing the Indian. Their duties at the fort were varied and ill-defined; for themselves, they were simply happy to be part of a society of men who could be called upon at any time to undertake an exercise of danger. They had been at the fort longer than Bill and upon his arrival had been torn between their liking for him and their natural inclination to bully a younger boy; almost despite themselves a friendship had formed. Rogers was a Missourian who had not seen his home since the age of seven; now, at fourteen, he was preparing to sign up as a bullwhacker once the next trail was announced. Yountam was a year older again but had lost his left arm when he was thirteen after an unsuccessful argument with a buffalo which had seen the limb ripped off at the elbow. To prevent a potentially fatal spread of disease around his body, the local doctor had simply carved off the ravaged appendage at the shoulder, eventually sealing the hole with fire, an action which had left a misshapen memory at the boy’s side, devoid of nerve endings, insouciant to pain. It was Yountam who first broached the idea of their joining the trail towards the camp of General Johnston.
‘When does it start?’ asked Bill as they lay in their bunks in a small, white-sheeted tent just inside the limits of the fort, where non-commissioned lads such as they made their home while waiting for chance or opportunity to come their way.
‘Not soon enough for me,’ replied Yountam, scrambling up in bed to look at his two friends; any glimmer of escape from the monotonous, dreary lifestyle of Leavenworth was enough to fill him with excitement, so bored was he with his daily tasks of shining officers’ boots and cleaning up after the horses. ‘They say that General Johnston is planning an attack on the Mormons late this summer but that supplies have to be brought in so that when they are routed, the army will be able to settle the land. Otherwise the Mormons will just wait for them to leave and go back again.’
‘I don’t know why they’re bothering,’ muttered Albert Rogers, a louche lad who questioned all authority just as much as he desired to be a part of it. He had a reputation for insubordination but could think of no life outside the army which would suit him as well. ‘What harm have these Mormons done anyway that’s so wrong, can you tell me that?’ He didn’t look at the two boys as he asked his question, merely lay back in his cot, one arm slung across his eyes, blocking out the light from the candle which Bill had lit earlier.
‘They’re Mormons!’ replied Yountam immediately. ‘Ain’t that enough?’
‘Enough for what? Just ’cause you give them a name, that’s enough to say they should be driven away from wherever they choose to live? That’s a reason, is it?’
Bill sat back and looked from one boy to the other cautiously. Ethical debates were frequent between these two, who had known each other for three years before Bill’s own arrival into their lives. He was often torn between feelings of frustration with them – for they argued constantly and over the most ridiculous things – and a sense of hero worship which he found difficult to contain. They had assumed the roles of older brothers to the thirteen-year-old boy and as none of them had any family nearby, their relationships were close. Bill was still new to this centre of military activity; he was a child capable of losing himself in his desire to be part of this dream world. And yet for him, the friendship between Rogers and Yountam seemed not one based on actual affection, but rather on their familiarity. Yountam searched continually for adventure, never questioned anything he was told to do, and wanted nothing more than to be given a direction in which to travel and a hot meal when he got there. Rogers, for all his commitment to remaining part of the daily life of Leavenworth, appeared to see it as little more than a place to eat and sleep. His belief system questioned everything and on more than one occasion, Bill feared that the conversations between his two friends would end in a fight, even bloodshed.
‘Mormons go against our way of life,’ proposed Yountam, a comment which made Rogers merely snort.
‘Way of life,’ he muttered disparagingly, spitting out the words like rotten food. ‘What’s that then, Davy? Sleeping on a cot in the middle of a field with a quarter loaf of bread inside us, that’s a way of life is it? One to be defended and preserved at all costs? God save us if it is.’
‘You know what they do,’ insisted Yountam. ‘All them wives they have. Ain’t natural for a man to have so many.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rogers after a pause, sitting up now and looking at his two companions with a dry smile on his face. ‘I wouldn’t object to a bunch of women running around after me, ready to satisfy my every need and desire. How about you, Billy? Would you say no to a little bit of pampering?’ He looked across at his friend and gave him a large, conspiratorial wink. Bill, thinking of his own growing interest in some of the officers’ daughters who passed him by every day without so much as a smile or a nod, sat back nervously and looked away, pleased that the candlelight spared him revealing his blushes. ‘Of course, maybe that’s not what you’re after though, Davy,’ he added sarcastically, spoiling for a fight. ‘Maybe that’s not the kind of thing you go for at all.’
‘Don’t matter what you think, Albert,’ continued Yountam, unwilling to allow his friend’s cynicism to alter his plans and ignoring the digs that were coming his way. ‘I don’t hear them generals coming over here to ask your advice on who we should and shouldn’t be fighting. That’s what they say is going to happen and that’s what we ought to be a part of. You don’t want to stay in this tent rotting away for the rest of the year, do you?’
‘No!’ cried Bill loudly, wrapped up in his friend’s enthusiasm, his exclamation coming out so loud and suddenly and with an unexpected falsetto crack in his voice that the other two could not help but laugh.
‘There you are then,’ said Rogers, lying back again, his hand reaching down with neither self-consciousness nor embarrassment to stroke himself beneath the ragged sheet which lay above him, unwashed for three years now. ‘You’ve got a convert there, Davy. Another one on the trail against those diabolical Mormons, may they burn in hell. What a friend he has in Jesus. So when do you start off on the crusades?’ he added sarcastically.
‘We have to get permission to be part of it,’ said Yountam. ‘It’s not going to be easy to get in. One of us is going to have to petition Lew Simpson. He’s got to approve it.’ Simpson had been appointed the commander of the trail and was one of the oldest hands at cross-country bullwhacking, not to mention a fearless, celebrated character in his own right. We have to make our case to him and make it convincing too. They’re not looking for many boys of our age and there’s a fair number wanting to be a part of it.’ He looked across at Bill, who stared back at him blankly. ‘What do you say, Billy Boy?’ he asked. ‘Are you up for it?’
‘Me?’ cried Bill in alarm. ‘Why do I have to ask him? Why can’t you? It’s your idea.’ Secretly, he was afraid of Simpson, a figure of true authority in the fort who inspired fear in all those boys who had yet to encounter real adventure. His legend made him the stuff of both envy and nightmares, while his enormous girth intimidated all.
‘Take a look at me,’ said Yountam quietly. ‘A one-armed boy isn’t going to be the best advertisement for our cause, now is he? And if he takes against me, then he’s likely to take against both of you as well.’
What makes you think I want to go anyway?’ asked Albert Rogers, pausing in his activities for a moment to look across the tent.
‘Well you do, don’t you?’ replied Yountam. ‘You don’t want to be left behind here on your own, am I right?’ Rogers snorted and said nothing. Of course he wanted to go; it was simply his sense of calculated deliberation which refused to allow him to show any enthusiasm.
‘You can do whatever the hell you like,’ was all he said in a casual voice; neither Bill nor Yountam took his derision seriously. They knew he would never agree to being left behind.
‘Here’s the thing, Bill,’ continued Yountam, looking again at the youngest member of their trio. ‘You’ve got that Indian story to tell, right?’
‘I suppose,’ said Bill nervously. ‘Ain’t that good a story though,’ he added, playing it down in order to get out of this task, something he had never done before.
‘You just go to Simpson, tell him about it, make it sound real good, convince him that you’re about the most fearless fellow at Fort Leavenworth and that the trail would be crazy to leave without you and when he agrees you tell him that you’ve got two friends who are every bit as brave and strong as you are and we come as a team and before you know it we’ll all be on our way to the general’s camp. What do you say, Bill? Will you do it?’
My great-grandfather closed his eyes for a moment and thought about it. It was true that he was beginning to grow restless at Leavenworth. He looked at the cramped tent in which they sat, could feel the grumblings in his stomach from the lack of rations they were given, and knew that the time had come to move on. He didn’t really have any choice in the matter.
‘All right then,’ he said, resisting a sigh and forcing himself to sound decisive. ‘I’ll do it.’
Yountam sat back and smiled, satisfied with his persuasive abilities. In the corner, Rogers merely snorted and – spent from his activities – turned over and drifted off to sleep.
Isaac wanted to know whether I told people about my great-grandfather and the life that he had led. I wasn’t sure what to say; after all, I didn’t particularly want to hurt his feelings but the time never seemed right for me to tell my friends the stories that he told me.
‘Well no,’ I admitted. ‘Not often anyway. It doesn’t really come up.’
‘It doesn’t?’ he asked in amazement, looking at me as if it was vaguely crossing his mind to question whether I was actually his son or not. ‘Well why ever not, William? When I was your age I told all my friends. They thought it was the greatest thing ever. A man like that in the family? Doesn’t seem right just to—’
I shook my head, interrupting him. I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I just … I can never seem to find the right way to tell people about it. About him, I mean.’ This was a lie. I’d been hearing stories about my namesake and supposed ancestor Buffalo Bill Cody for as long as I could remember and as a very young child I felt exactly like Isaac’s friends had felt half a century earlier. I thought it was exciting and unusual and I felt proud that I knew tales of my heritage that other boys of my age could never equal. The adventures which my great-grandfather had undertaken, and at an age not so much older than I was then, fascinated me and made me wish that I could travel the world too, making a name for myself to rival his. And so I had in fact told several people about Bill, but these stories, this revelation, had not received the kind of impressed reaction which Isaac would have expected. Which he would have demanded.
I was seven years old when a group of friends began to form around me, the ones who would stay with me throughout my youth and early adulthood. We became close soon after we met, and before long we were inseparable, our friendship stemming from the simple fact that we sat together in the back row of our classroom. Of the three of us – Adam, Justin and I – Adam, the oldest, was the closest thing we had to a leader, someone we all looked up to and who determined one way or another how we spent our days. Justin was quieter and often seemed happy simply to have us as his friends; he was very open hearted and we knew we could rely on him for anything, while I was perhaps more lively and troublesome than either. We all, however, managed to find ourselves in the requisite number of scrapes and mischief that young boys should.
Their family lives were very different to mine. They each had a mother and father and between them a fair number of siblings, while my house consisted solely of Isaac and me. Also, the fact that Isaac was a good deal older than any of their parents made my domestic arrangements curious to them and as children they were, I think, slightly afraid to come to my house. With good reason, as things turned out.
Isaac was never the easiest man to cultivate as a friend. He rarely showed affection and his abrupt manner could be downright terrifying to strangers. Ever since my mother had left, he had grown to live his life increasingly and vicariously through me. He knew my homework and my schooldays better than I knew them myself. He made me account for every moment of my day and grew offended if he felt that I was keeping secrets from him. And, like any child who for the first time manages to cultivate a group of friends his own age, there were many secrets to keep, many small confidences which I had no desire to share with him. There were things that we did together – childish things, mischievous things – which Isaac had no place in, where he could have held no interest, but which nonetheless he felt excluded from and blamed me for.
He manifested the pain of such exclusion through long silences with me and general rudeness to my friends. When they came to our house, which was not often, he would stare at them suspiciously and hover outside whatever room we were in, always finding some excuse eventually to enter it, driving us to another place, a different part of the house, or one of theirs. He would lean over them and they would flinch if it was evening time as the rush of whisky breath could be quite overpowering.
The only thing which my friends liked about my house was the Smith & Wesson gun on the living-room wall. They stared at it with rapt attention whenever they were visiting, but Isaac saw to it that they were almost never left alone in the room with the gun, for as little as he trusted me with his prized possession, he trusted them less. Unlike his attitude to me, however, Isaac refused to tell them his stories, feeling that they were his to hand down to me and mine to deliver to the world, and yet he grew angry at my refusal to do so. He saw it as my betrayal of my heritage and of him.
It was in school that I finally decided to risk telling my classmates what Isaac had been telling me for years, I was about eight at the time and our teacher was asking each student in turn to tell a story about their grandparents. Most of the stories were normal enough, each depicting some pleasant, uncontroversial old person whose life seemed dominated by rocking chairs and allotments, rather than bullwhacking and settling huge areas of North America. When it came to my turn to speak, I decided to take a chance.
‘William,’ said my teacher, Miss Grace. ‘Your turn. Would you like to tell us about your grandparents?’
‘They’re dead, miss,’ I said with a shrug.
‘What, all of them?’ she asked irritably, as if they had died simply to provoke her.
‘All of them,’ I agreed. A few of my classmates turned to stare at me, squinting their eyes in despair. It was as if they thought I was just being deliberately awkward.
‘Well are there any stories you know about them anyway?’ continued Miss Grace. ‘Anything at all you’d like to tell us?’
I thought about it. ‘I know some stories about my great-grandfather,’ I said. ‘I could tell you one of those if you like.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Miss Grace, clapping her hands together in delight. No one had gone back an extra generation yet and she seemed to feel that this was an unexpected treat. She explained to the class just what a ‘great-grandfather’ was, pointing out that it was not just an extra special one, and the room stayed relatively quiet as they waited to hear what I had to say about him.
‘Well,’ I began nervously, licking my lips as I wondered about the reception this would get. ‘It goes back quite a bit because my father’s pretty old anyway. My great-grandfather was born in 1846,’ I said, unsure whether I should go for the potted biography or move straight into some tale of daring that Isaac had ingrained on me.
‘1846!’ exclaimed Miss Grace in excitement. ‘Imagine that!’
‘And he wasn’t born in England either. He was an American.’
‘Oh,’ she exclaimed in disappointment, as if a particularly bad taste had just come into her mouth. She stared at me as if I had just uttered a profanity and was encouraging others to do likewise. ‘An American,’ she repeated. ‘Are you sure of that, William?’
‘Very sure,’ I said. ‘Isaac told me.’
‘Your father told you,’ she corrected me, for she disliked the fact that unlike the other children in the class I almost always referred to my father by his given name. Indeed, I was also under the impression that she disapproved of the fact that ours was a one-parent family and, given the slightest provocation, would have reported Isaac to social services for no other reason than the fact that his wife had run off with another man.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My father and his father were born in England, but my great-grandfather was an American.’
‘All right then,’ she conceded with a sigh, agreeing to allow him to be of foreign birth if I insisted it was so. ‘An American. Do you know where in America he was from?’ Her question struck me as one which was determined to expose my lie so I took some pleasure in taking it in my stride.
‘Iowa,’ I said and her smile froze. The fact that I, an eight-year-old, knew of a place called Iowa suggested that I might in fact be telling the truth. She just nodded and, opening the palms of her hands towards me, urged me to continue, suggesting that now there would be no more interruptions on her part.
‘He was a cowboy,’ I said after a suitable pause and the entire room exploded in mirth; even my friends, with the exception of Adam, were laughing. A few people made the sounds of guns being shot and lassoes being waved in the air. Others still pushed their hands forward and away from their mouths quickly as they yodelled, giving a fair imitation of a Hollywood-style Indian. Adam merely looked at me and raised an eyebrow, probably assuming that I was setting the teacher up with some elaborate lie.
Miss Grace quietened the room and looked at me with irritation. ‘What do you mean, he was a cowboy, William?’ she asked. ‘What sort of a cowboy?’
‘Well he started out as a bullwhacker, and then he—’
‘A what?’
‘A bullwhacker, miss. He rode in wagon trails across the country, bringing supplies to armies and helping to settle states.’ She looked at me open mouthed, amazed that I was saying this in such a matter-of-fact way, as if people like this existed all over the world and were far from unusual. I continued. ‘Then he spent some time as part of the Gold Rush before joining the Pony Express.’
‘The Pony Express!’ she said incredulously.
‘Yes. After that … I think that was when he joined the railroads, hunting buffalo to feed the crews. That was where he got his nickname.’
‘What nickname?’ asked Miss Grace and I could see her face grow ever more exasperated as the scale of my story grew. I paused before answering but eventually sat up straight, looked her in the eye, and said the two words which Isaac had said to me on countless occasions.
‘Buffalo Bill, miss.’
At that the room collapsed in laughter, children literally banging their tables in mirth, and I looked around in dismay and confusion before – almost as suddenly as they had begun – they stopped and rather than laughing, they were staring at me wide eyed and nervous. I was in a daze and wondered why my ear was ringing and my eyes felt stung. Miss Grace had marched down to my seat and slapped me hard across the face, hard enough that I had almost fallen off my seat, and had it not been directed so that I fell towards the shoulder of Adam, as opposed to the empty space on my left, I would have doubtless landed on the floor. I looked up at Miss Grace in confusion and she was wringing her hands now in anger, her thin, bony fingers growing white as she pressed them tightly against each other, as if she had hurt herself as much as she had hurt me. I felt a slight dampness about my ear and reached to touch it – it was momentarily numb – and when I looked at my hand there was a thin line of blood, for a ring on Miss Grace’s finger had nicked my ear and cut it slightly at the tip.
‘That’s enough, William Cody,’ she said to me, a little taken aback herself by the injury she had inflicted. Her voice was full of fear now at her actions; there was a tremor there we had all heard on too many occasions. ‘I won’t have you making a mockery of me in my own classroom, do you hear me?’
‘But I wasn’t,’ I protested, sufficiently recovered from my shock now to be able to feel the first sting of tears behind my eyes and the words break slightly in my throat. ‘It’s true. My great-grandfather was—’
‘Just because you have the same name as some old mythical cowboy does not mean—’
‘But he wasn’t mythical!’ I pointed out over her shouting. ‘He was a real man.’
‘That’s as may be. But he was not your great-grandfather,’ she insisted. I was confused. In my short life, he had always been my great-grandfather. He had always been the person who connected Isaac and me to our shared past, not to mention the only thing which seemed to connect us to each other. I had never known anyone protest so vehemently against his existence and couldn’t understand why she would do so. Did she know something that I didn’t? ‘He had nothing to do with you,’ she continued. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘But why couldn’t he be?’ I asked her. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘For one thing, he died hundreds of years ago.’
‘He died in 1917,’ I informed the ill-educated old harpy and for a moment I thought she was going to return to my desk and let rip on the other ear.
‘You’re to stop this, William Cody,’ she said in a firm voice, pointing at me with little stabbing motions. ‘You’re to stop this right now. We’re having a perfectly pleasant discussion here and you must ruin it with a bunch of silly lies. I won’t hear another word from you for the rest of the afternoon, do you hear?’
‘But I—’
‘Enough!’ she shouted. I could tell that she was a little shaken by her sudden and inexplicable burst of rage but I had seen her inflict damage on children before in the classroom and it almost always came out of the blue and was immediately followed by nervous dismay on her part. She wanted no more of me now, wanted my ear to stop bleeding and for me to change my name and maybe emigrate and only then could she move on. I sat back in my desk and said no more, unsure why the telling of these stories should cause such anger on her part. I barely listened as another student nervously began a simple story about his jumper-knitting, hospital-visiting, cake-baking old grandmother and lost myself in thought and eventually anger – not against my teacher, but directed towards Isaac, on whose shoulders I firmly laid the blame. It was his fault I was in trouble, I reasoned. Him and his stupid stories.
An hour later, as we poured out of the room to begin our lunch break, I felt a finger pointed into the narrow gap between my shoulder blades and turned my head around slightly to see Justin standing behind me. He leaned forward to my good ear and whispered, with a slight giggle, his hot breath causing me to shiver a little inside: ‘Stick ’em up.’
Lew Simpson was one of the earliest frontiersmen and it was said that he was the first person to coin the phrase ‘bullwhacking’. At the time of the trail towards General Johnston’s camp, he had been at Fort Leavenworth for several months, recovering from an attack which had taken place in the Rockies earlier in the year when a wagon trail he was commanding was set upon by a group of Indians. While unsuccessful in their attempts to destroy their trail, the attackers had caused some serious injuries among some of the forty-niners who were part of it. Simpson had been close to death when he was brought to Leavenworth but, to the surprise of all, he had recovered and had almost returned to his previous fearsome best, although not only had the experience cost him some of his remarkable girth, but his beard had also visibly whitened during his convalescence. He held court in the saloon of the fort most days as he waited for fresh orders – which could often be weeks in arriving – and it was indeed true, as David Yountam had announced, that he had been instructed to lead a trail to General Johnston’s armies in order to bring them fresh supplies. The trail was to consist of ten wagons and the pay was high – $40 per month per man – for it was known that this was not going to be a simple expedition and that there were many dangers which could lie along the way. These could come not only from anticipatory Mormons, but also from the Indians of the plains who had seen enough to know that the appearance of more wagons could mean the arrival of yet more settlers and the inevitable wars which would see them driven off their land.
Bill couldn’t sleep on the night before he was due to approach Simpson to request a place in his trail. Although his life had not been entirely free of excitement or adventure, he believed there was a difference between the fear of combat and death and the terror which he felt, inside when he thought about approaching a man so fearsome and famous as Lew Simpson. Although he believed Yountam was right when he said that Bill was the best of the three boys to speak on their behalf, it was a commission he dreaded, and rightly so, for Simpson was known to give short shrift to children and mere adventurers.
Nevertheless, he had committed himself to the task and the following afternoon, spurred on by a plain-speaking speech of encouragement from Yountam, and a less enthusiastic but still clearly desirous one from Rogers, he approached the saloon and, pausing only for a deep breath on the outside, pushed open the door and stepped inside.
It was a small, dusty room, no more than one hundred square feet in total, with a short bar stretched against its left-hand wall and a filthy mirror behind it. There were about twenty men gathered inside, all with small shot-glasses of murky whisky in front of them, some talking, some smoking, some playing cards. Barely anyone glanced at the boy as he walked through the gaps between the tables, looking from face to face to find his prey. He discovered him holding forth at a table at the rear end of the room, an ancient, grizzled warrior with long white hair and a beard of such snow-white hue that it contrasted visibly with the bulbous scarlet of the bullwhacker’s nose. Above the sprouting hairs of the beard, a series of red lines tracked their own trail towards the man’s eyes, the broken veins which testified to a lifetime of drinking and adventuring settling across his face. His voice carried deeply around the table and the three younger men who sat with him listened in admiration as he recounted the story of some long-vanished glory. Bill stood by his side nervously, his hands shaking so much that he was forced to put them in his pockets and wait until he was noticed by Simpson’s three-man audience before daring to give a slight cough, causing the monologue to end and the huge head of his potential employer to spin around and stare at him in surprise.
‘What is it, boy?’ he asked after taking a moment to look the lad up and down suspiciously. ‘What do you want? Come to buy me a drink, have you? Well I’ll drink your health with it if you have.’
The three men roared with laughter and Bill stared at them before giving a brief smile and wondering why he had not prepared his speech before coming into the saloon in the first place. In his mind he could picture Yountam and Rogers sitting outside on a cross-fence, waiting to hear the result of this conversation, pleased that it was he and not they who had to endure it.
‘It’s about the trail,’ he said eventually in a quiet voice which, to his relief, nevertheless held steady and firm. ‘I wanted to ask about the trail.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Simpson quickly, his eyes squinting for a better look. ‘Speak up, boy. Got a mouth on you, ain’t you? What trail are you talking about then?’
‘The trail to supply General Johnston, sir,’ said Bill. ‘I heard such a trail was due to begin soon. To take over Salt Lake City. The … the Mormons, sir.’
‘Ha!’ roared Simpson, his hand belting down on the table ferociously, causing Bill to jump in sudden shock, although he maintained his position, his toes curling within his shoes as he planted his feet so firmly into the wooden floor beneath him that he feared he might push through at any moment and fall on to the ground below the boards. Where have you heard of this trail then, boy? Been listening at doors, have you?’
‘No sir,’ said Bill quickly. ‘Not at all. It’s all around the fort, that’s all. I heard some others speak of it.’ He had no idea whether it was indeed all around the camp or not but it seemed to appease the older man who looked satisfied that people were speaking of him and this potential exploit already.
‘Well what of it?’ he asked eventually. ‘What do you need to know of it?’
‘I wondered whether I could join it, sir,’ said Bill. ‘That is, there’s three of us, me and David Yountam and Albert Rogers. We’ve been working here for months now and wanted to hope that maybe we could be of some use to you in this trail.’
Simpson stared at the boy and his face broke into a slow smile. He must have been in a good mood that day for at another time he might have swatted the boy about the ear and thrown him head first through the saloon doors and out into the dusty path beyond. ‘And what use would a lad like you be to me?’ he asked. ‘How old are you anyway? Eleven? Twelve?’
‘Thirteen sir,’ said Bill, immediately regretting that he had not exaggerated his age although his still slight frame and height might have given any such lie away. ‘And Yountam and Rogers are fourteen and fifteen apiece.’
‘I know that Yountam boy,’ said one of the men at the table then, a thin-lipped man in his early thirties, already bald of head but compensating for this with a bushy black beard and moustache that had long since seen a scissors. ‘Ain’t he the one-armed boy who got into the argument with the buffalo? About which one of their mothers was the ugliest, I reckon.’
Bill opened his mouth and thought about it. A lie would be pointless; the truth would out sooner or later. He nodded. ‘That’s him,’ he said quietly and then, in a braver voice, ‘and while the buffalo might have won the fight, Yountam won the argument. The buffalo’s mother was the ugliest you ever saw.’ Simpson let out an enormous laugh and my great-grandfather took this as an encouragement to continue. ‘The thing about Yountam,’ he said, ‘is that he’s indispensable because a braver, more fearless lad never—’
‘Ha, you’re mad, boy!’ roared Simpson. ‘What need have I of a one-armed lad in a trail like this?’ Bill stared at him crestfallen and the man spoke again, more kindly this time. ‘I’ve no doubt he’s a brave lad,’ he admitted. ‘There’s many a one would run from a fight like that and many a one who pays a price for standing his ground, but this is a dangerous ambition ahead of us. I need men who can take care of themselves and not have to rely on others. What about you though? What have you done of any note?’
‘I killed an Indian,’ said Bill in a quiet voice, answering the question but feeling his mind dominated by a further question, the one of loyalty, the one concerning whether he should pursue his ambitions towards this trail on his own or return outside to his unwanted friend.
‘An Indian, is it?’ laughed Simpson, settling back into his chair and folding his arms across his chest, delighted that there might be a tale to be told here at last. ‘Well go on then, lad. We’ll ’ave that one. How did it come about then?’
Bill sighed and told the story. How, on a journey past the South Platte River, resting overnight, he had looked up in his sleep towards the moon drifting slowly past overhead and had been surprised to make out the unmistakable figure of an errant Indian crouching stealthily through their camp. With neither fear nor a second thought he had grabbed hold of the Smith & Wesson gun which his father had given him and for the first time aimed the pistol at another human being and pulled the trigger as much in excitement as in terror. His first shot, a lucky one, had hit the man directly in the forehead, killing him instantly and although he perhaps had posed no threat to my great-grandfather’s party, the incident became the basis of an early episode of heroism for which the boy was duly celebrated. In telling the story to Simpson now, he grew more and more animated, exaggerating details, all memories of Yountam and Rogers out of his mind, until he reached the climax, the shooting of the gun, the fall of the brave, by which point the entire room was listening and holding their breaths. And there the story ended in a respectful silence.
‘And you killed him?’ asked Simpson eventually, his gravelly voice cutting through the atmosphere which Bill had created through his showmanship. He had a gift for holding an audience.
‘Stone dead.’
‘And your fellows were saved? Every one?’
He blinked and hesitated for a moment; after all, he could never have been sure whether they were in actual danger or not. ‘Every last one,’ he asserted.
Simpson nodded and turned away from the boy and looked at the table, running his fingers along the top of it carefully, his eyes flitting back and forth as he thought about it. ‘All right then,’ he said eventually. ‘All right. Maybe I can take a chance on you after all. You’re young but you’re brave enough, by God. A man who can see to it that his partners don’t get scalped in their sleep is still a man, it seems to me, even if he is only half the size and ain’t shaved the beard from his cheeks yet. You want in, you’re in. What’s your name anyway?’
‘Cody, sir,’ replied my great-grandfather. ‘Bill Cody.’
‘Knew a Cody once in New York, tried for state assembly. Liked to keep company with donkeys and horses, if you know what I mean. You’re nothing to him are you?’ Bill shook his head quickly and Simpson nodded and gave him the job. ‘Well good luck to you then, Bill Cody. Welcome aboard.’ Some of the room cheered but Bill knew not which way to go. He considered his options, remembered who had persuaded him to enter this room in the first place and almost against his better judgement shook his head.
‘My partners,’ he said. ‘Yountam and Rogers. They’re braver than I, sir. We stick together, you see. And they’re—’
‘No one-armed—’ shouted Simpson again but this time Bill had the fortitude to interrupt him.
‘Surely his bravery in standing down the buffalo and surviving to tell the tale is equal to my killing an Indian in the dark,’ he said. ‘Please, sir, take them too. You won’t regret it. They work hard around here.’ He paused before adding: ‘And none of us takes up too much space either ’cos we’re all short, every one of us. And skinny on it too.’ Simpson roared with laughter and shook his head before reaching out and punching Bill in the ear, a gesture intended as a friendly note of acceptance but one which sent the boy reeling and one which made his ear sting for a day afterwards nonetheless.
‘All right then,’ he cried eventually. ‘Get on out of here anyway and gather your band of roughnecks together. Bullwhackers all, if that’s the only way you’ll have it. This trail starts in the morning. Early!’
Bill’s face lit up and he held himself back from reaching up to stroke the already swelling ear. He made to move away, wanting to run outside to tell his friends the news, when Simpson called him back suddenly.
‘Come here,’ he said and the room went silent. Bill stepped closer, and closer again, until Simpson stopped urging him on. ‘Take your hands out of your pockets.’ He looked down to where he had put them before the interview began, so nervous had he been about their shaking. ‘Show me your hands,’ he said quietly.
‘My hands …?’ he replied, surprised by the request. ‘What do you—’
‘Show them to me!’ shouted Simpson and Bill lifted them quickly out of his pockets before holding them, flat, at eye level. He looked at them himself now, ready to observe how they shook in terror and bit his lip in embarrassment, wishing he could control his childish nervousness. And then his eyes opened wider at what he saw. To his surprise, his hands held steady and they weren’t shaking even slightly. He looked up from them in surprise and his gaze met that of Lew Simpson who nodded appreciatively.
‘Steady as a rock,’ he said in a cheerful voice, winking at his new charge with a smile. ‘You’ll do.’
It was only the first of two punches to happen that week, but I wasn’t on the receiving end of the second one. My claims to having been descended from Buffalo Bill Cody, while given no credence whatsoever by my teacher Miss Grace, were virtually ignored by my classmates who, having never even heard of my great-grandfather, were in no position to call me a liar. Still, for the time being I drew a veil over the story and said no more about it. Miss Grace pretended that her outburst had never taken place and naturally I did not mention it to her again. When Isaac saw my swollen ear he assumed that I had been in a schoolyard fight and thought little more of it, stopping only to ask whether I had won or lost.
‘Lost,’ I said, knowing that this would hurt his pride a little, something I felt keen to do right then. For the first time in my life I began to wonder whether his stories were actually true or simply a figment of his imagination. I had never had cause to question them before but Miss Grace’s actions had made me unsure. Either way, I had felt humiliated in the classroom and blamed Isaac for this. When he came to my room over subsequent nights to tell me his ritual stories I feigned over-tiredness for a while, but he ignored that and continued to talk of scouts and prairies and wagon trails being captured and burned by bands of Indians until I had no longer any choice but to listen, which was when I began to do so in sullen silence, a long way from the enthusiastic adventure stories I had once enjoyed. Isaac told them well, but he was starting to lose his audience.
My two friends made no further mention of the incident either. We had all been involved in scrapes of one sort or another with the diabolical Miss Grace and it would have been strange if I had not found myself the victim of her insane fury at one time or another. It was Justin, however, the quietest and most insecure of my friends, who would be the next victim of a random act of violence, only on this occasion it would come a little closer to home. Once again, however, it would be Isaac who I would blame for it, only now with a little more justification.
It was rare that we were left in the house on our own. Isaac’s painting and decorating business did not take up too much of his time and he almost never worked past three o’clock in the afternoon. On this particular day, however, only a few afternoons after the incident in the classroom, he was late home and I was surprised to find the three of us – Adam, Justin and I – left on our own without my father making his presence felt in the next room. And I felt free.
‘Where’s your dad?’ asked Justin nervously, no doubt expecting him to appear out of the shadows at any point, so suspicious were they all of my ancient father and his mysterious ways. ‘Is he hiding somewhere?’
‘Why would he be hiding?’ I asked, a little exasperated by the question. ‘What sense would that make?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s usually here somewhere, isn’t he?’
I shrugged and grunted a quiet acknowledgement. ‘He’s out,’ I said after a moment, without even having to leave the room to verify this. The house felt different when he was not in it. Somehow I managed to feel more relaxed and at the same time quite tense, for the only reason I could suspect for his absence was an early drinking session, and I didn’t like it when he came home drunk. I looked at my friends and could see them grow more at ease as well, their shoulders drooping a little as they became limber and less concerned about their manners. We wandered around for a while, had something to eat, played a little football in the garden until eventually, returning back indoors, we dropped into the armchairs in the living room, racking our brains for something to do.
‘Who owns the gun?’ asked Justin, looking up at the Smith & Wesson on the wall, Isaac’s prized possession.
‘Isaac,’ I said, barely looking up at it. ‘Me. Some day.’
‘Can I take it down?’ he asked but I shook my head.
‘No. I’m not allowed.’
‘I didn’t ask whether you could take it down or not. I asked could I.’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘No,’ I insisted, knowing how firm Isaac was about being the only one to handle the gun. I no longer believed what he had told me when I was younger about it exploding in the hands of anyone other than him, but I still felt it was sacrosanct and was predisposed to be afraid of it. My two friends frowned, as having identified it as an object of some interest they naturally wanted to play with it. My refusal only made it all the more attractive.
‘Did it belong to that guy?’ asked Adam, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the name.
‘What guy?’ I asked innocently.
‘That guy. The guy you said in class was your grandfather.’
‘Great-grandfather,’ I corrected him.
‘That’s it. Was it his?’
I shrugged. ‘So I’m told,’ I conceded. ‘It has his father’s name on it anyway. Isaac Cody.’
‘That’s your father’s name,’ said Adam.
‘He was named for his great-grandfather,’ I explained. ‘I was named for mine. He was a “William” too. Apparently it’s some kind of tradition.’
‘What was it you called him?’ asked Justin, trying to recall what I had said in class earlier in the week. ‘That nickname you said.’
I threw my eyes to heaven, not really wanting to get into it. ‘Buffalo Bill,’ I said finally. ‘He was some old cowboy.’ I could see they were only mildly impressed. They still didn’t have a clue who Buffalo Bill was supposed to be, but cowboys and guns are still interesting to nine-year-old boys and that in itself was worthy of note.
‘Take it down,’ said Justin again, desperate to get his hands on it. ‘Let’s have a shifty.’
‘I told you no,’ I repeated. ‘I’m not allowed. It’s only a stupid gun anyway. Who cares.’ I slumped off the armchair in protest and drifted back to the kitchen for a glass of water. When I returned the gun was off the wall and being passed from one pair of grubby hands to the other. ‘What are you doing?’ I said, exasperated. ‘I told you to leave it alone.’
‘We were just looking at it,’ said Adam with a sigh and he passed it back to Justin who, having finally got a hold of his prize, was proving unwilling to surrender it. He held it aloft and pointed it at each of us, one at a time.
‘Stick ’em up,’ he repeated, an echo of what he had said to me as we had left the classroom a few days earlier. Adam, for some reason, put his arms in the air. I simply frowned and walked towards him, demanding that he return it to me. The way that he was waving it gave me pause however and, even though I knew that it wasn’t loaded and probably wouldn’t work anyway, I grew nervous, unhappy about the careless way that he was handling the gun. His small fingers closed in towards the trigger and slowly, so slowly that even from this distance I could see its action move, it pressed down and the lever at the top of the gun stepped outwards. I held my breath, expecting death at any moment, and closed my eyes but all I heard were two clicks, the sound of Justin’s finger pressing on the trigger and the empty chamber rotating, and the sound of the door opening behind my friend.
He spun around immediately and it only took Isaac a moment to see what was happening. Justin was still holding the gun aloft, but now he was aiming it at Isaac and in his nervousness, in the strange energy of the moment, he pressed the trigger again and this time the sound of the gun’s release echoed around the room and made us all jump. Isaac blinked in shock and jumped back and at that moment Justin dropped the Smith & Wesson, that most sacred of objects, on the floor where it banged against the floorboards noisily. Isaac looked at it and his face grew red, his lip snarling, and without giving it a second thought he reached back, curled his right hand into a fist and punched Justin directly in the face, sending him flying back across the room, landing in the corner with a start. Adam and I stared at our fallen comrade open mouthed; I looked at Isaac and bit my lip, willing myself not to cry. No one said a word; the whole scene had lasted only a couple of seconds. Isaac looked at the three of us without a trace of remorse.
‘It doesn’t belong to you,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.’
I walked towards him and stared up at him defiantly. The smell of whisky was unmistakable. I could hear Justin slowly picking himself up off the floor behind me and the two of them gathering their coats, wondering how they could make their exit with the minimum amount of fuss. I heard whispers behind me that suggested that Justin’s nose was bleeding profusely. I stared up at Isaac’s face and paused before saying the only thing I could think of which could hurt him as much as he had hurt my friend.
‘You’re only making it all up anyway,’ I said. ‘None of it’s real. None of it. You’re delusional. Full of sad fantasies. You’re a joke.’
He stared back at me and for a moment I thought that he might hit me too but instead he just brushed past me with a smile, deliberately hitting my shoulder as he went, as if he was a child himself. He reached down and picked up the gun before setting it back on its rightful perch on the wall. He turned to look at us and shook his head.
‘You’re lucky you’re all still alive,’ he said angrily, before turning and walking out of the room and I didn’t know whether the luck he spoke of was because the gun wasn’t loaded or because all he had done was to punch Justin in the nose. Later that night, while trying to sleep, I heard a commotion at the front door and ran to the top of the stairs to hear what was happening. It was Justin’s father, here to complain that, according to his son, I had punched Justin in the face and had broken his nose. For some reason, possibly through fear of Isaac but a need for revenge nonetheless, he had blamed it all on me. What was Isaac going to do about it, Justin’s father wanted to know. There was talk of the police. The phrase ‘juvenile delinquent’ drifted up to me.
‘Leave him to me,’ said Isaac eventually, calming down the enraged father. ‘Believe me, I’ll punish him all right, fighting like an animal in a zoo. He’ll be sorry, don’t worry. Your lad’s got nothing to worry about in the future, I promise you that.’
I didn’t mind Justin blaming me; I understood his reasons. I was, however, a little surprised at how easily Isaac absolved himself and took this new version of events as a replacement for what had actually taken place. I frowned and returned to my bed and tried to sleep.
Russell, Majors and Waddell were the company that the government had entrusted with the supplies for General Johnston and they set off early in the morning, ten wagons filled with meat, lard, ammunition and gunpowder and every conceivable supply which might be needed for an extended siege on Salt Lake. Bill, Yountam and Rogers were separated in the wagons, with each of the boys assigned to a different one, and Bill himself was bringing up the rear in the wagon second from the end. They travelled for three or four days and eventually, as they got closer to Green River, decided to hold camp for a day in order to work out the best way to approach Salt Lake. Simpson called all the wagons to a halt and after they ate spoke to them about his plans.
‘This is where things can get difficult,’ he informed them, watching each face for any sign of panic. ‘There are bands of Indians gathered in these parts and depending on their feelings on the day, they may let us pass through unharmed or they may choose to look for a scalp or two. Either way, we have to be on our guard. Now I’m going to take a couple of men and scout ahead a few miles to see the lie of the land and we’ll plan our route from there.’ He looked around the camp at the various men gathered before him and noted how some were looking back at him anxiously, hoping to be picked to ride out with him, while others were slinking back, preferring the idea of a rest and a respite from any potential dangers which such a scouting expedition might entail. Simpson ignored both sets of men and centred instead on those who looked impassive, those who displayed neither fear nor excessive bravery.
‘George Woods,’ he called, pointing at his regular second-in-command who was standing by the side of a wagon smoking a pipe, his eyes pressed firmly closed as if he was asleep in his stance. ‘You’ll come with me for the ride, won’t you?’
‘Got nothing else to do,’ drolled Woods, waving a hand casually in the air as if he neither cared whether he went, stayed or was shot in the head by a gang of marauding Indians even as he stood there. His easygoing nature was what made him a certain man for such adventures.
‘And one more,’ called Simpson, scanning the crowd with a certain look of disdain before his eye landed heavily on the white-cheeked face of my great-grandfather and his smile returned as his pointed finger cut through the men and singled him out. ‘And you, Bill Cody. The famous Indian killer. Braver than the braves, or so you tell me. We’ll take you too. What do you say, are you game?’
‘Yes!’ roared Bill eagerly, jumping forward, the spur in his boot unfortunately connecting with the side of the wagon as he jumped, causing him to topple head forwards into the group standing in front of him, his entire body disappearing from view as he rolled on the ground, the tumultuous laughter of the men causing him no end of embarrassment as he searched for his hat before standing up again and walking sheepishly forward, dusting himself down.
‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ shouted Simpson, ignoring Bill’s stumble as Simpson and his two choices made their way towards their horses. ‘Leave the lad alone. We’ll be back in a couple of hours and I expect to see all these horses fed and watered by then, do you hear me?’
They rode slowly through the mountains, making their way towards the peaks where they might get a view of the land that lay before them and the distance they would have to travel before reaching their destination. They spoke little at first and Bill took his lead from the two older men; if neither of them were going to begin a conversation then it was hardly his place to do so. Woods looked as bored as ever but Bill knew, even from the couple of days they had already spent together, that he was alert to the slightest movements around him and the boy did not mistake his lack of society for indolence. Simpson and Woods rode together, with Bill a few paces behind, but after an hour or so, Simpson muttered something to his partner, who picked up his pace a little while the other man held back and joined my great-grandfather.
Again, there was total silence for some time as Bill and Simpson rode side by side and my great-grandfather could feel himself growing more and more intimidated by the older man’s presence as they travelled along. He sat up straight in his saddle, pulled the peak of his hat a little further down over his forehead to block out the rising sun and carefully watched the country below him and the road ahead as he waited for some sign that his presence was an asset to their scouting party.
‘Don’t say much, do you?’ said Simpson eventually, looking directly ahead and with only a trace of a smile whispering along his lips. ‘Lads your age usually chatter on forever. That’s why I can’t stand most of ’em, truth to tell. You on the other hand. You never open your mouth.’
‘I thought we were too busy paving attention to start talking,’ said Bill.
‘You saying I should shut up?’
‘No, no,’ Bill stuttered quickly. ‘No that’s not what I meant at all, sir. I just meant—’
‘Oh relax, Bill,’ said Simpson, reaching across and affectionately patting the horse rather than its rider. ‘I’m just joking with you. Don’t take it all so seriously.’
‘No sir.’
‘And you can stop calling me “sir” too. That’s beginning to get to me. Mr Simpson will do fine for now.’ Bill nodded. There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask Simpson and none of them related to their present task. He wanted to know more about the adventures that he had had over the course of his life, the very things which he himself was planning for his future. For now, however, he said nothing, sensing that it was his place to listen and answer questions at that time and not ask any.
‘Where’s your family, Bill?’ asked Simpson eventually. ‘They know you’re out here or did you run away?’
‘They know I’m somewhere,’ he replied. ‘They’re back in Iowa, or were last time I laid eyes on them. I ran away. Not from them as I couldn’t do something like that.’
‘So what did you run away from then?’
‘I was in a fight in school. Near killed a boy.’
‘Damn, but you’re a bloodthirsty little brute,’ laughed Simpson, shaking his head. ‘First an Indian, and now some snot-nosed kid.’
‘I didn’t actually kill him. Just beat on him pretty badly. You see, he—’
‘Whatever, it don’t matter,’ said Simpson dismissively. ‘All I’m asking is if you’re planning a return to there at some point in the future.’
Bill shook his head. ‘No time soon,’ he said. ‘All that’s there for me is a farm and marching around all day ploughing fields. And that’s not for me. I want more than that.’
‘A country needs farmers,’ said Simpson quietly. ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss such work. That what your father does?’ Bill nodded. ‘Well, I suppose it’s natural for a boy to want to branch out on his own but all the same … this life isn’t for everyone, you know.’
‘I know it.’
‘Can be mighty lonely out here. Can be dangerous too. You know how many people I seen killed over my time on the trails?’ Bill looked at him and raised an eyebrow, awaiting the number. ‘Damned if I know,’ said Simpson with a touch of sadness in his voice. ‘All as I know is that if I had two cents for every one of them I’d have made myself King of Mexico by now.’ Bill laughed and Simpson turned and frowned at him. ‘What are you laughing at, boy? You think it’s funny? People getting killed?’
‘No,’ said Bill quickly, flushing slightly. ‘Of course not. I only meant that—’
‘It’s not funny,’ said Simpson looking forward again, knowing that he had meant no disrespect. ‘It’s not funny at all. I only hope you’re ready for whatever does come ahead of you ’cause I seen boys not much older than you—’ He broke off suddenly as Woods turned his head and nodded at the road ahead. Riding towards them was a group of ten men, each carrying firearms, and as they approached they slowed down, lifting their guns and aiming them squarely at the heads of the three horsemen. Simpson came to the front again with Woods, and Bill took a central position behind them.
‘What’s this then?’ asked Simpson cautiously, his voice attempting to sound light-hearted. What are you men about today then?’
‘I think you should know that, Lew Simpson,’ replied one of the men. ‘On account of the fact that you’re riding on here, a bunch of no-good bullwhackers, looking to kill some of us. Who sent you then?’
Simpson narrowed his eyes and looked at his opponent in confusion. ‘I’m sent to kill no man,’ he said. ‘So you can lower your arms, friend, as I mean none of you any harm.’
‘That so?’ asked the man in mock amusement. ‘And there I was thinking that you were sent with supplies for General Johnston so that he might route us out of our homes. I seen you before, Simpson. I know what you do for a living.’
All three were lost for words now and Simpson, an intelligent man, merely shrugged and agreed to it. ‘Well then, you have us now, sir,’ he said. ‘The only thing left to settle is what you mean to do with us. If you mean to kill us, then have at it and let’s not waste our time talking about it. What do you say?’
Bill looked from Simpson to their opponent nervously, gripping the reins of his horse firmly between his hands. He knew the ways of men enough to know that they would shoot all three of them without remorse if they felt like it and he was sure that this would be too early an exit from this world for himself.
‘I don’t mean to kill you,’ replied the man, identifying himself as one John Smith from Salt Lake City. ‘But I do mean to show you something which might make you think again about what you’re doing. Let’s ride on a little ways.’
Simpson, Woods and Bill were escorted, front, rear and sides, by the ten horsemen as they made their way back across the Rockies, but now to another peak in the distance, a point which lent a view over the area where they had left their wagon trail a couple of hours earlier.
‘Your army dares to send reinforcements and supplies to take us from our home,’ said Smith, the apparent leader of this gang of dedicated Mormons. ‘From our home!’ he repeated, shouting now. ‘Just as they did in Illinois and Missouri.’ He pronounced the last ‘s’ of Illinois as if it was not silent, eliding it into the ‘and’ as if the two states were part of a greater package. ‘What right have they of that, can you tell me?’ His tone was non-confrontational, almost friendly now, as he and Simpson took the lead, their horses taking the trail across the land slowly and carefully, for the distances beneath them were vast and the canyons no friendly area.
‘There was no place for you there,’ said Simpson, loyal to the union. ‘Or in Salt Lake City, matter of fact. Your practices are against all that’s right and proper in the world, sir. That’s why we have at you.’
‘Ha!’ roared Smith. ‘Rather our practices than yours of debasing yourself in every rat-infested whorehouse from northern Alaska to southern Florida, carrying your syphilitic bodies across the nation and infecting all you come across without a care for anyone but your own pleasures. Rather that than your drunkenness and your meanness and your sloth. To think you condemn us when you’re what you are.’
‘I do condemn you, sir,’ said Simpson. ‘And not because of who you are or what you do but because I am a representative of the United States government which has given this country a code of honour, a law, a constitution that you and your like flaunt and debase every time you take another wife or centre your godless communities around your illicit behaviour.’
Smith smiled and hesitated before answering. ‘And you think your General Johnston will be able to change all that, do you?’ he asked.
‘Or die trying,’ came the reply. ‘And if I can play some part in helping him then by God I will have done my duty by this land.’
Smith merely nodded and called his horse to rest, reaching out to take the reins of Simpson’s horse too in order to bring him to a halt. They were reaching the edge of the plateau. ‘Then look down there, my friend,’ he said courteously, pointing at the ground far below where the ten wagons had been stationed earlier on. His tone was smug, as if he had already won any future arguments. Take a look down there and see what you can do to beat us now.’
Simpson, Woods and Bill climbed off their horses and stepped to the edge, peering below and covering the roof of their eyes with their hands to prevent the sun from blinding them to the scene which was taking place down below. The wagons were still there but their occupants were all huddled in one place now, some distance from their goods, surrounded by a group of Mormons who aimed their guns at the men, ready to fire at anyone who made a foolish bid for heroics. Around the wagons themselves, more men were circling and setting fire to the cloth coverings which surrounded the bent metal of each one, until all below them was a steadying fire, all their possessions succumbing to the flames. Eventually the arsonists drew back from the heat and all were forced to watch as the flames grew, licking into the food and gunpowder within the wagons which inevitably began to explode in all directions now, destroying everything. Simpson’s face fell, as did my great-grandfather’s, for they knew they had failed now and they would either die or return home beaten, unsure of which fate was worse.
‘And what will you do with us now?’ asked Simpson eventually. ‘Kill us, I suppose?’
‘Unlike you, I have no interest in killing,’ explained Smith. ‘Indeed, you’re all free to go. On foot, of course.’ Some of his partners took a hold of their horses and down below, the men who had been under fire were beginning to walk away, unsure where they should be going as their persecutors rode off with their own horses in tow.
The three men eventually caught up with those they had left behind and they began their long trek to the nearest station, this time Fort Bridger, defeated, having failed in their efforts. It was not a feeling that my great-grandfather wanted to experience again.