In 1871, Lord Kelvin, the most eminent physicist of his day, posed a serious objection to Darwin’s theory. It had not been answered by Darwin, or anyone else, in subsequent years.
Whatever else one might think of evolutionary theory, it obviously implied a substantial period of time—at least several hundred thousand years—to carry out its effects on earth. At the time of Darwin’s publication, the oldest estimates of the age of the earth were around ten thousand years. Darwin himself believed the earth would have to be at least three hundred thousand years old to allow enough time for evolution. The earthly evidence, from the new study of geology, was confusing and contradictory, but it seemed at least conceivable that the earth might be several hundred thousand years old.
Lord Kelvin took a different approach to the question. He asked how long the sun had been burning. At this time, the mass of the sun was well established; it was obviously burning with the same processes of combustion as were found on earth; therefore one could estimate the time it would take to consume the mass of the sun in a great fire. Kelvin’s answer was that the sun would burn up entirely within twenty thousand years.
The fact that Lord Kelvin was a devoutly religious man and therefore opposed to evolution could not be thought to have biased his thinking. He had investigated the problem from the impersonal vantage point of mathematics and physics. And he had concluded, irrefutably, that there was simply not enough time for evolutionary processes to take place.
Corroborating evidence derived from the warmth of the earth. From mine shafts and other drilling, it was known that the earth’s temperature increased one degree for every thousand feet of depth. This implied that the core of the earth was still quite hot. But if the earth had really formed hundreds of thousands of years ago, it would have long since become cool. That was a clear implication of the second law of thermodynamics, and there was no disputing it.
There was only one escape from these physical dilemmas, and Cope echoed Darwin in suggesting it. “Perhaps,” he said, “we do not know everything about the energy sources of the sun and the earth.”
“You mean there may be a new form of energy, as yet unknown to science?” Morton asked. “The physicists say that it is impossible, that the rules governing the universe are fully understood by them.”
“Perhaps the physicists are wrong,” Cope said.
“Certainly someone is wrong.”
“That is true,” Cope said evenly.
If he was open-minded when listening to Morton’s beliefs, he was equally so with Little Wind, the Snake scout.
Early in the bone digging, Little Wind became agitated and objected to their excavations. He said they would all be killed.
“Who will kill us?” Sternberg inquired.
“The Great Spirit, with lightning.”
“Why?” Sternberg asked.
“Because we disturb the burial ground.”
Little Wind explained that these were the bones of giant snakes that had inhabited the earth in ages past, before the Great Spirit had hunted them down and killed them all with bolts of lightning so that man could live on the plains.
The Great Spirit would not want the serpent bones disturbed, and would not look kindly on their adventures.
Sternberg, who did not like Little Wind anyway, duly reported it to Cope.
“He may be right,” Cope said.
“It’s nothing but savage superstition,” Sternberg snorted.
“Superstition? Which part do you mean?”
“All of it,” Sternberg said. “The very idea.”
Cope said, “The Indians think these fossils are the bones of serpents, which is to say reptiles. We think they were reptiles, too. They think these creatures were gigantic. So do we. They think these gigantic reptiles lived in the distant past. So do we. They think the Great Spirit killed them. We say we don’t know why they disappeared—but since we offer no explanation of our own, how can we be sure theirs is superstition?”
Sternberg walked away, shaking his head.
Bad Water
Cope chose his campsites for convenience to fossils, and no other reason. One difficulty with their first site was lack of water. Nearby Bear Creek was so badly polluted they did not draw water from there after the first night, when they all experienced dysentery and cramps. And the water elsewhere in the badlands was, in Sternberg’s words, “like a dense solution of Epsom salts.”
So they drew all their water from springs. Little Wind knew several, the nearest a two-mile ride from camp. Since Johnson was fussiest about the water, which he used for his photographic processes, it became his job to ride to and from the spring each day, and fetch the water.
Someone always accompanied him on these excursions. They had seen no trouble with the Crows, and the Sioux were still presumed to be far south, but these were Indian hunting grounds, and they never knew when they might meet small parties of hostile Indians. Solitary riders were always at risk.
Nevertheless, for Johnson it was the most exhilarating part of the day. To ride out under the great dome of blue sky, with the plains stretching in all directions around him, was an experience that approached the mystical.
Usually, Little Wind rode with him. Little Wind liked to get out of camp, too, but for different reasons. As the days passed and more bones were unearthed, he became increasingly fearful of the retribution of the Great Spirit, or, as he sometimes called it, the Everywhere Spirit—the spirit that existed in all things in the world, and was found everywhere.
They would usually arrive at the spring, located in flat prairie, around three in the afternoon, as the sun was cooling and the light turning yellow. They filled their water bags and slung them onto the horses, and paused to drink directly from the stream, and then rode back.
One day as they reached the spring, Little Wind gestured for Johnson to stay some distance away while he dismounted and inspected the ground around the spring closely.
“What is it?” Johnson said.
Little Wind was moving quickly all around the spring, his nose inches from the ground. Occasionally he picked up a clod of prairie sod, smelled it, and dropped it again.
This behavior always filled Johnson with a mixture of amazement and irritation—amazement that an Indian could read the land as he read a book, and irritation because he could not learn to do it himself, and he suspected that Little Wind, knowing this, added a theatrical touch to his procedures.
“What is it?” Johnson asked again, annoyed.
“Horses,” Little Wind said. “Two horses, two men. This morning.”
“Indians?” The word came out more nervously than he had intended.
Little Wind shook his head. “Horses have shoes. Men have boots.”
They had seen no white men for nearly a month, except their own party. There was little reason for white men to be here.
Johnson frowned. “Trappers?”
“What trappers?” Little Wind gestured to the flat expanse of the plains in all directions. “Nothing to trap.”