well as anybody,” Molloy says, merrily. “But she did know a man who will know a man . . .”
“Goddammit, sir, will you tell me what she told you or not?” Kohn says, stopping as they reach the bend in the river in sight of the loafer camp.
Molloy smiles. “Now now Daniel, there is no need to be vexed. You are sad I’ve taken a sup and well you should be. But I am not sad, by fuck. I am happy and I mean to continue this evening. In the morning, dear heart, we will go see the ‘man who makes pictures.’ You have seen his work already I believe.”
“Yes, but what does he have to do with anything? I already—”
“He was there, good Daniel. The night when the blades flashed and blood spilled and all was lost for the Secretary of the Treasury’s brother-in-law and his wife and the other poor bastard who happened to be present. The photographer was there. By God he might as well have photographed the murders, according to my good friend Miss Two Doves. So let us celebrate, Danny boy. There are few enough things in this life worth celebrating.”
“Yessir,” Kohn says, walking on ahead of Molloy, almost beyond caring whether or not he follows.
III
CITY OF LOGS
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.
—NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,
THE SCARLET LETTER
29
A BAD SPOT FOR A FORT
—December 20, 1866—WELL IN MID JULY WE DID AT LAST haul up & end our march in this Valley but Mr. Bridger & a few of the others (the old hand scouts & Indian fighters in buckskin & the like) well they did not like at all this spot Carrington finally chose to build his fort.
At the time we did think this objection queer but we are just lowly Bills & not much are we in the way of strategising or tactical thinking. We are paid from the neck down is the saying & there is truth to it. But to look at this place in summer it does appear a grand fine spot for building. It is as pretty as a painted picture on the banks of a creek or river called the Little Piney which is a small branch of the Powder River that gives this Valley its name. There are miles of buffalo grass meadows about it which rise up to hills that become the mighty Big Horns which are said to be 15 odd miles away. As well there is ample forests of timber nearby for constructing this grand stockade we now call Ft. Phil Kearny & from where it sits there is a fair view some miles each way of the Bozeman Trail to be defended.
I am told this is the A–No. 1 reason for us being here. It is to build an outpost of civilisation in the wilderness so that we may protect them headed up the Bozeman for the gold fields of Montana. This is a strange thing of course because our arrival here in the Valley has spurred the Sioux & Cheyanne to take a sterner line altogether with the pilgrims. Where before it is said that they would leave the pilgrims pass through & even aid them betimes on their journeys or trade goods & game with them well now they harry & molest & collect pilgrim scalps. No man or beast on that trail is safe from Chief Red Cloud’s predations.
But we did not know or much fear the Indian then at all & our commander Col. Henry Carrington chose to build his Ft. in the very heart of the Sioux’s home in this Valley surrounded by its grassy sloping hills so that Mr. Lo may peer down upon our every action.
I tell you Sir the savage does know everything about us. He knows when we leave the Ft. & when we return to it. He knows how far we must travel for timber & how many men we need for to guard the wagons to carry it. This is the reason why this spot is no good at all for a Ft. It is only 5 miles to the timber we need for building & though we ran a road over the hills out to the stand of trees we call the Piney Island