A Desert Legend
A Small Woman of Grit Beyond Measure. Could tell that when I came upon her bones propped into a sit'n position. Her bleached fingers clutch'n a leather bound journal and a Hawkin 30 calibur rifle, rust'n aside her. In her lap o' bones lay her rock knife.
She had crawled, from which direction be unclear, to rest against the small enclave of boulders at the bottom of the Kingston canyon. A canyon of little consequence. Just like most in the high desert of New Mexico.
I be She of Two Spirits. Wanderer of deserts and drinker of life. It be me who found Cassiopeia. This be her story from the pages of her journal.
April 1818:
Escaped the cruelty of the Hanson sister's orphanage. Got to the Father river. Continue West till I lose ground to the western sea. I be cold. Famish'd.
May 1818:
Made to a trad'n post run by a big man name Otis Two-Teeth. Gave me vittles and a bed for pump'n my quinny. I be run'n a fever, but warm and dry. Rains been com'n last six days. Morrow brings my sixteenth year.
Otis died a consump'n. Availed myself of supplies and buckskin from his stores. Scattered his horses. Save one and a pack mule. Left Otis's raft to drift down river. Head'n West.
July 1818:
Get'n good hid'n from the indians. Don't know what tribe. They look stoic and proud, tho. Some day I'll know 'em. Rode let'n my bare back get sun. Whip scars feel might fine. Made the base of the mountain. First I ever looked on. Scare me a bit. On the morrow I begin a climb to the tree line. Ain't know'n what be wait'n. Maybe find a cave to rest a mite.
November 1818:
Cave hold'n well. Eight cord a wood stored. Rock carns hold'n good water. Enuff pelts to keep warm. Bounty a smok'd meat. Dried berries, tubers and fungus stored. Feel Winter com'n. Saw indians yesterday. They seen me. Maybe trouble com'n. Dunno.
Many Pages Covered with Faded Black Blood...
June 1819:
Indians found me bath'n. Leader touched my back scars. I stink-eyed him good, even tho I be afraid. He cut a piece of my hair and took it. Maybe pale hair be special to him.
November 1819:
...stay'n the Winter. Children pull at me. Gave my last two needles to Jump'n Mouse. Young warrior got mad at me. My arm cut in the fight. I made him dead. Sing'n Tree made me new britches and coat. Made new moccosons from beaver that cover my knees. Do'n well learn'n the bow.
Spring 1820:
Trap'n beaver all Spring. Plews shine. During a blackbird storm I ran into a bossloper on the crooked river. Name was Jim Bridger. He had his bark on. Traded six plews for bull cheese, dumpl'n dust and a carrot of tobacco. We rode to Pilo Platte to meet Porkypine Potter. Friend of Bridger. Small gather'n to trade for possibles. Need black powder and galena. Head'n out on the morrow.
Summer 1820:
Quinny got me enuff to get powder and galena. Replaced the possibles I lost in a gully washer on the snake river. Good to be whole. Be head'n southwest late summer. Saw what be a man, but covered in fur. Be twice my hite. Held my shot. Don't know why.
Winter 1820:
...leg heal'n slow...crawled into the chapparal in front of the cave. Keep go'n to sleep...
Lots of Pages Damaged by Water...
Summer 1824:
Snake bit on my bad leg. Man name of Carson carried me to Santa Fe. Bite did me bad. Don't think the same. Strange feel'n. Worry I can't leave. Many people here. Ain't used to it. Women remind me of those at Hansen's orphanage. Leg ain't healed by Spring, I will crawl out if need be.
Summer 1825:
Crimpy day. Hurt in my leg. Met Sobana Jack. We rode to rondevoo at Henry's Fork on the green river. Fine trad'n and a medicine woman tended my leg. Got a small limp, but pack'n out with two new mules loaded with trade.
Fall 1825:
Winter'n at Taos. Made a brace for my leg. Hope it do, 'cause leav'n come Spring to see the western sea. Gots too many people here. They's looks at me queer. Traders call me Button cause I be small in stature. Wild Griz Carter likes to fun poke me. While he slept I poured honey in his whiskers. Him be mad as a hornet a court'n.
Fall 1826:
Spent summer on the shores of the Pacific sea. Loaded with shell froofraw to trade on the journey back. Head'n southwest come summer. Moist air tak'n toll on my leg. Bones hurt bad. Salt in the air burns my skin. Only gots nine teeth left.
1827:
Big cat got me bad. Can't stop wounds from fester'n. My soul hurts. Be made wolf meat I be guess'n. I be Cassiopeia. Orphan to the Great Spirit.
End of Her Journal
Gather'n her bones, chert knife and journal, I trekked to the top of the mesa. There I laid Cassiopeia's bones beneath a flat rock and sung of her courage unto the Creator and drew my blood to mourn her, for she had nobody to do so those long years ago.