shotgun to shoot one of the poor things—which she first sketches and then expertly skins to keep as a specimen for her work.
The Captain, a sportsman himself, so enjoys watching Miss Flight’s prowess with the shotgun that he hardly objects to the delays caused by our frequent stops. Jimmy, my new muleskinner friend, is equally admiring of our accomplished gunner, and takes every opportunity to halt the wagon when birds are in range so that Miss Flight can display her considerable skills.
Thus she swings to the ground with masculine authority, all business, standing with her legs firmly planted, slightly apart, toes pointing out, to charge her muzzle loader. Even though the weather is warming daily, Miss Flight still wears her knickerbocker suit and particularly from the rear looks far more like a man than a woman. From a flask she carries in her jacket, she pours gunpowder into the barrel; this she rams home using wadded cotton from discarded petticoats. This is followed by a measure of very fine shot and then another wad made of card, which prevents the shot from rolling out the gun barrel. To her credit Miss Flight will only shoot the birds on the wing—believing it “unsporting” to do otherwise.
Not only does she collect her specimens in this manner, but she is filling our larder with all manner of game birds and waterfowl, which we surprise out of the plum thickets or spring potholes along the route. These include ducks, geese, grouse, snipe, and plover—which fare will undoubtedly provide a much welcome addition to our Army rations.
In only the first two days out from Fort Laramie, we have also seen deer, elk, antelope, and a small herd of bison grazing, and while the Captain will not permit the soldiers to hunt at too great a distance from the wagon train owing to the threat of Indians, we should have no want of fresh game en route.
Because of the spring floodwaters, we try to keep to the higher ground, though sometimes we are forced to drop down into the bottoms to ford the rivers and streams. It is hard going for the mules, who do not like to walk in thick mud, or even to get their feet wet. “There ain’t nothin’ an old mule hates worse,” Jimmy instructs me, “than to put their goddamn feet down in water. They ain’t like a horse that way. They’s just goddamn prissy about water is all. But in every other way, you can give me an old mule over a horse any day. Any day.” A strange, rough boy, Jimmy, but he seems to have a good heart.
Traversing these drainages is a wet, muddy experience for us all. Several times already today we have had to descend to lighten the mules’ load, hike our dresses up, and make our own way across the streams on foot, soaking our feet through to the bone.
And yet the river bottoms strike me as the loveliest country, for everything lives here, or passes by here or comes to water here from the long empty reaches of desert plains between.
At night we make camp as near to the water as possible while still being on dry ground. The mules are hobbled or picketed in the grass meadow, which is already lush with tender green shoots. It is very pretty. I think that one day I should like to live in such a place … perhaps one day I shall return home to reclaim my dear babies and we shall all come here together … to live in a little house on the banks of a creek, on the edge of a meadow, surrounded by a grove of cottonwood trees … ah, sweet dreams keep me alive …
Yes, indeed, and instead I shall soon be living in a tent! Think of it! Camped out like a nomad, a gypsy! What an astonishing adventure we have embarked upon!
To my great disappointment, Captain Bourke has hardly met my eye and barely spoken to me since we departed Fort Laramie. I sense that he is intentionally avoiding me. Perhaps because he is officially “on duty” now, his strict, military deportment appears to have completely supplanted his charming social demeanor. I confess to preferring the
The Captain, a sportsman himself, so enjoys watching Miss Flight’s prowess with the shotgun that he hardly objects to the delays caused by our frequent stops. Jimmy, my new muleskinner friend, is equally admiring of our accomplished gunner, and takes every opportunity to halt the wagon when birds are in range so that Miss Flight can display her considerable skills.
Thus she swings to the ground with masculine authority, all business, standing with her legs firmly planted, slightly apart, toes pointing out, to charge her muzzle loader. Even though the weather is warming daily, Miss Flight still wears her knickerbocker suit and particularly from the rear looks far more like a man than a woman. From a flask she carries in her jacket, she pours gunpowder into the barrel; this she rams home using wadded cotton from discarded petticoats. This is followed by a measure of very fine shot and then another wad made of card, which prevents the shot from rolling out the gun barrel. To her credit Miss Flight will only shoot the birds on the wing—believing it “unsporting” to do otherwise.
Not only does she collect her specimens in this manner, but she is filling our larder with all manner of game birds and waterfowl, which we surprise out of the plum thickets or spring potholes along the route. These include ducks, geese, grouse, snipe, and plover—which fare will undoubtedly provide a much welcome addition to our Army rations.
In only the first two days out from Fort Laramie, we have also seen deer, elk, antelope, and a small herd of bison grazing, and while the Captain will not permit the soldiers to hunt at too great a distance from the wagon train owing to the threat of Indians, we should have no want of fresh game en route.
Because of the spring floodwaters, we try to keep to the higher ground, though sometimes we are forced to drop down into the bottoms to ford the rivers and streams. It is hard going for the mules, who do not like to walk in thick mud, or even to get their feet wet. “There ain’t nothin’ an old mule hates worse,” Jimmy instructs me, “than to put their goddamn feet down in water. They ain’t like a horse that way. They’s just goddamn prissy about water is all. But in every other way, you can give me an old mule over a horse any day. Any day.” A strange, rough boy, Jimmy, but he seems to have a good heart.
Traversing these drainages is a wet, muddy experience for us all. Several times already today we have had to descend to lighten the mules’ load, hike our dresses up, and make our own way across the streams on foot, soaking our feet through to the bone.
And yet the river bottoms strike me as the loveliest country, for everything lives here, or passes by here or comes to water here from the long empty reaches of desert plains between.
At night we make camp as near to the water as possible while still being on dry ground. The mules are hobbled or picketed in the grass meadow, which is already lush with tender green shoots. It is very pretty. I think that one day I should like to live in such a place … perhaps one day I shall return home to reclaim my dear babies and we shall all come here together … to live in a little house on the banks of a creek, on the edge of a meadow, surrounded by a grove of cottonwood trees … ah, sweet dreams keep me alive …
Yes, indeed, and instead I shall soon be living in a tent! Think of it! Camped out like a nomad, a gypsy! What an astonishing adventure we have embarked upon!
To my great disappointment, Captain Bourke has hardly met my eye and barely spoken to me since we departed Fort Laramie. I sense that he is intentionally avoiding me. Perhaps because he is officially “on duty” now, his strict, military deportment appears to have completely supplanted his charming social demeanor. I confess to preferring the
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