“But even then,” Marsh said, “I remember that if we found a fossil, I was obliged to ponder it for days to deduce its meaning, whereas Professor Cope would simply glance at it, snap his fingers, and give it a name. An impressive display of erudition—despite the occasional error.”
“I recall no errors,” Cope said, “though in the years since then, you have been kind enough to hunt down all my errors and point them out to me.”
“Science is an exacting mistress, demanding truth above all.”
“For myself, I’ve always felt that truth is a by-product of a man’s character. An honest man will reveal the truth with every breath he takes, while a dishonest man will distort in the same way. More whiskey?”
“I believe I’ll have water,” Marsh said. Navy Joe Benedict, sitting by his side, nudged him. “On second thought, whiskey sounds good.”
“You don’t want water?”
“The water in the badlands doesn’t always agree with me.”
“That’s why we draw ours from a spring. Anyway, you were saying, Professor Marsh, about honesty?”
“No, I believe honesty was your subject, Professor Cope.”
Johnson later recorded:
Our fascination at seeing these legendary giants of paleontological science meet head-to-head eventually faded as the evening grew older. It was of interest to note how long they had known each other, and how similar were their backgrounds. Both men had lost their mothers in infancy and had been raised by strict fathers. Both men had evinced a fascination with fossils from early childhood—a fascination that their fathers had opposed. Both men were difficult, lonely personalities—Marsh because he had grown up on a rural farm, Cope because he had been a childhood prodigy who made anatomical notes at the age of six. Both men had followed parallel careers, such that they met in Europe, where they were both abroad studying the fossils of the Continent. At that time, they had been good friends, and now were implacable enemies.
As the hours passed, interest in their banter faded. We were tired from the exertions of the day, and ready for sleep. On Marsh’s side, his roughneck companions looked equally fatigued. And still Cope and Marsh talked on into the night, sniping, bickering, trading insults as pleasantries.
Finally, Toad fell asleep, beside the fire. His loud snores were inescapable proof that these two had lost their audience, and having lost the audience to witness their jibes, they seemed to lose interest in each other.
The evening had dragged to a seemingly undramatic conclusion—no hollering, no gunfire—and too much had been drunk on all sides. Marsh and Cope shook hands, but I noticed that the handshake was extended; one man was holding the other’s hand tightly, not releasing it, as the two men stared hatefully into each other’s eyes, the light from the fire flickering over both their faces. I could not tell which man was the aggressor in this instant, but I could plainly see each man silently swearing his undying enmity toward the other. Then the handshake broke off almost violently and Marsh and his men rode off into the night.
“Sleep with Your Guns Tonight, Boys”
No sooner were they gone over the nearest ridge than Cope was wide awake, alert and energized.
“Break out your guns!” he said. “Sleep with your guns tonight, boys.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“We’ll have visitors tonight, mark my words.” Cope bunched his fists in his pugilistic way. “That vertebrate vulgarity will be back, crawling in on his belly like a snake for a closer look at my pig skull.”
“You don’t mean to shoot at them?” Isaac said, horrified.
“I do,” Cope said. “They have opposed us and impeded us, they have got the army after us, they have poisoned our water and insulted our persons, and now they are going to steal our finds. Yes, I mean to shoot at them.”
This seemed to them extreme, but Cope was angry and would not be talked out of it.
An hour passed. Most of the camp fell asleep. Johnson was lying next to Cope, and his twisting and turning kept him awake.
Thus he was awake when the first dark figure crept over the ridge.
Cope gave a soft sigh.
A second figure, then a third. The third was heavyset, lumbering.
Cope sighed again, and swung his rifle around.
The figures crept toward the camp, and made for the fossil head.
Cope raised his rifle to shoot. He was a crack shot, and for a horrified moment Johnson thought he really intended to kill his rival.
“Now, Professor—”
“Johnson,” he said quietly, “I have him in my sights. It is within my power to kill a trespassing sneak and thief. Remember this night.”
And Cope raised his rifle higher into the air, and fired twice at the sky, and shouted, “Indians! Indians!”
The cry brought the camp to its feet. Soon rifles were discharged from all sides; the night air was clouded with gun smoke, and acrid with the smell of powder.
Across the camp, they heard the intruders scrambling up the ridge. There was an occasional shout of “Damn you! Damn your eyes!”
Finally, a deep, distinctive voice cried, “Just your way, Cope! It’s a damnable fake! Just your way! A fake!”
And the three men were gone.
The firing stopped.
“I believe we have seen the last of Othy Marsh,” Cope said. Smiling, he rolled over to sleep.
Moving Camp
In early August, they were visited by a party of soldiers passing through the badlands on their way to the Missouri River. Steamboats came as far upriver as Cow Island, where the army maintained a small camp. The soldiers were on their way to reinforce the garrison there.
They were young Irish and German boys, no older than the students, and they seemed amazed to find white men alive in the region. “I surely would pull out of here,” one said.
They brought news of the war, and it was not good: Custer’s defeat was still unavenged; General Crook had fought an inconclusive battle at the Powder River in Wyoming but had seen no Indians since; General Terry had not engaged any large parties of Sioux at all. The war, which the Eastern newspapers had confidently predicted would be over in a matter of weeks, appeared now to be dragging on indefinitely. Some generals were predicting that it would not be resolved for at least a year, and perhaps not even by the end of the decade.
“Trouble with Indians,” one soldier explained, “is when they want to find you they find you—and when they don’t want you to find them, you’d never know they were there.” He paused. “It is their country, after all, but I didn’t say it.”
Another soldier looked at their stacked crates. “You mining here?”
“No,” Johnson said. “These’re bones. We’re digging fossil bones.”
“Sure you are,” the soldier said, grinning broadly. He offered Johnson a drink from his canteen, which was filled with bourbon. Johnson gasped; the soldier laughed. “Makes the miles shorter, I can tell you,” he explained.
The soldiers grazed their horses for an hour with Cope’s party and then went on.
“I surely wouldn’t dawdle here much longer,” their Captain Lawson said. “Best we know, Sitting Bull, Crazy Horse, and his Sioux’ll make for Canada before winter, which means they’ll be here any day now. They find you here, they’ll kill you for sure.”