The symptoms aligned in a chilling way with all that I had experienced, and I could see through the Latin words well enough?—?septus, divided; bicornis and unicornis, like some mythical creature with either one or two horns. Such deformities of the womb appear in the illustrations as unsightly hearts, cleaved down the middle or gruesomely lopsided. Which exactly is my affliction? Dr Randall is fairly certain that I suffer a divided and misshapen womb, but its specific nature can only be identified through dissection.
“And does it make you happy, Mrs Forrester, to know all of this? Would it have been better if I told you my suspicions when I first examined you? Not one damned thing either of us can do about it, and now you have the rest of the pregnancy to sit around and agonize. You should have left that to me.”
It is true. I agonize. The bleeding has stopped, yet any pang in my side or cramp of my womb causes me to fear the worst.
I cannot imagine how I will endure these next months, kept to this small room with nothing but my own worries.
I have returned the book to Dr Randall.
Lieut. Col. Allen Forrester
April 16, 1885
The only good that came of it all is the last of the liquor is gone. I should have seen it coming. The sergeant was in rare form, rowdy, belligerent, no doubt downtrodden by the loss of the sled & provisions.
The Indian woman had killed a porcupine, brought it to us skinned & ready for the cook pot. We boiled it, ate the stringy dark meat with a small portion of flour added. After supper, Tillman pulled out his flask to offer swigs to us, which we refused. Then he took it to the Indians. Over these past weeks, he has become increasingly friendly with them, sits with them after supper to talk & joke. He says their tongue is similar to Apache & he makes progress in learning it.
I advised against giving the Indians any whiskey?—?I do not wish us to contribute to their ill. In retrospect it would have been better to dilute it among many mouths & have it be done. Instead, Tillman proceeded to drink it all himself.
?—?He managed to save his flask even if he lost all our food, Pruitt said.
?—?Tillman would have given his life to save that sled, I said. —?His flask was in his pocket, that is all.
Yet I would not have minded if the liquor had washed downstream.
As the evening wore on, Tillman approached the Indian woman, leaned close to her & in slurred speech praised her dark hair & eyes. Samuelson was quick to remind Tillman of her skills with a blade. He was not so drunk as to risk his life, so let her be. Still we were to have no peace. As the rest of us retreated to our sleeping bags, Tillman stepped around the campfire in a ridiculous jig he said he learned from his grandfather. As his gait became more impaired, he tripped over the sleeping dog. It jumped to its feet with a snarl. It seemed likely the dog would attack. Pruitt withdrew his carbine from his sleeping bag, preparing to shoot the animal, but I advised him to wait a moment longer.
Tillman growled, crouched, circled, lunged at the dog, then the two were wrestling in the snow like overgrown boys. It seemed all in play, yet the half-wild dog could cause real injury. I moved to break it up, but next came the pinnacle of the evening, perhaps of our entire journey?—?Tillman on hands & knees, he & the dog each with opposite ends of a tether in their mouths, both growling & yanking in a mad game of tug of war.
The Indians watched in humor. Boyd said he wished he had gotten a nip before Tillman downed it all. Pruitt urged me to put a stop to it. I waited to see if the beasts would tire themselves out. At last, with no apparent injury to either, man & dog collapsed in a heap. We fell asleep to Tillman’s mumbling?—?Good fellow. You’re a good old fellow, aren’t you?
This morning we woke to find the two curled up together by the cold campfire. The Indian woman stood over them. I’m not sure which most disgusted her?—?Tillman or the disloyal dog.
The sergeant is haggard from his dunk in the creek & long night, but still we will set out early this morning with hopes of reaching the canyon today.
Longest day’s march yet. Pruitt estimates 11 miles. Our feet are swollen & pain us. All of us, Indians, too, suffer from some inflammation of the eyes, perhaps from exposure to snow, rain, wind, sun. Despite ailments & fatigue, we are within sight of the mouth of the canyon. We stay tonight on the western shore. The bank here is steep & high, but the spruce forest still meets the river & allows us to gather firewood, set a comfortable camp. Upriver, the Wolverine cuts its way through slate walls several hundred feet high. Once we enter, there will be no more trees or soft ground, only rock and ice.
April 17
We have survived a disturbing night. Not long after supper, we stocked the campfire & went to our sleeping bags. Though it was after 8 o’clock, the northern sun had only dipped behind the mountains & still cast its glow. We sought a long rest in preparation for our journey through the canyon. As I neared sleep, Pruitt’s voice stirred me.
?—?Sir, what is that?
I sat up, followed his point. There at the top of the snowy gully above us was a dark figure. At first I took it for a black bear, standing on its hind legs. I did not think they would emerge from their dens this early.
It was no bear. That would have been preferable.