THE OREGON TRAIL
by Francis Parkman, Jr.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER III — FORT LEAVENWORTH
CHAPTER VI — THE PLATTE AND THE DESERTCHAPTER VIII — TAKING FRENCH LEAVE
CHAPTER IX — SCENES AT FORT LARAMIE
CHAPTER XI — SCENES AT THE CAMP
CHAPTER XIII — HUNTING INDIANS
CHAPTER XIV — THE OGALLALLA VILLAGECHAPTER XVII — THE BLACK HILLS
CHAPTER XVIII — A MOUNTAIN HUNTCHAPTER XIX — PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER XX — THE LONELY JOURNEY
CHAPTER XXI — THE PUEBLO AND BENT’S FORT
CHAPTER XXII — TETE ROUGE, THE VOLUNTEERCHAPTER XXV — THE BUFFALO CAMP
CHAPTER I
THE FRONTIER
Last spring, 1846, was a busy season in the City of St. Louis. Not only
were emigrants from every part of the country preparing for the journey to
Oregon and California, but an unusual number of traders were making ready
their wagons and outfits for Santa Fe. Many of the emigrants, especially
of those bound for California, were persons of wealth and standing. The
hotels were crowded, and the gunsmiths and saddlers were kept constantly
at work in providing arms and equipments for the different parties of
travelers. Almost every day steamboats were leaving the levee and passing
up the Missouri, crowded with passengers on their way to the frontier.
In one of these, the Radnor, since snagged and lost, my friend and
relative, Quincy A. Shaw, and myself, left St. Louis on the 28th of April,
on a tour of curiosity and amusement to the Rocky Mountains. The boat was
loaded until the water broke alternately over her guards. Her upper deck
was covered with large weapons of a peculiar form, for the Santa Fe trade,
and her hold was crammed with goods for the same destination. There were
also the equipments and provisions of a party of Oregon emigrants, a band
of mules and horses, piles of saddles and harness, and a multitude of
nondescript articles, indispensable on the prairies. Almost hidden in this
medley one might have seen a small French cart, of the sort very
appropriately called a “mule-killer” beyond the frontiers, and not far
distant a tent, together with a miscellaneous assortment of boxes and
barrels. The whole equipage was far from prepossessing in its appearance;
yet, such as it was, it was destined to a long and arduous journey, on
which the persevering reader will accompany it.
The passengers on board the Radnor corresponded with her freight. In her
cabin were Santa Fe traders, gamblers, speculators, and adventurers of
various descriptions, and her steerage was crowded with Oregon emigrants,
“mountain men,” negroes, and a party of Kansas Indians, who had been on a
visit to St. Louis.
Thus laden, the boat struggled upward for seven or eight days against the
rapid current of the Missouri, grating upon snags, and hanging for two or
three hours at a time upon sand-bars. We entered the mouth of the Missouri
in a drizzling rain, but the weather soon became clear, and showed
distinctly the broad and turbid river, with its eddies, its sand-bars, its
ragged islands, and forest-covered shores. The Missouri is constantly
changing its course; wearing away its banks on one side, while it forms
new ones on the other. Its channel is shifting continually. Islands are
formed, and then washed away; and while the old forests on one side are
undermined and swept off, a young growth springs up from the new soil upon
the other. With all these changes, the water is so charged with mud and
sand that it is perfectly opaque, and in a few minutes deposits a sediment
an inch thick in the bottom of a tumbler. The river was now high; but when
we descended in the autumn it was fallen very low, and all the secrets of
its treacherous shallows were exposed to view. It was frightful to see the
dead and broken trees, thick-set as a military abatis, firmly imbedded in
the sand, and all pointing down stream, ready to impale any unhappy
steamboat that at high water should pass over that dangerous ground.
In five or six days we began to see signs of the great western movement
that was then taking place. Parties of emigrants, with their tents and
wagons, would be encamped on open spots near the bank, on their way to the
common rendezvous at Independence. On a rainy day, near sunset, we reached
the landing of this place, which is situated some miles from the river, on
the extreme frontier of Missouri. The scene was characteristic, for here
were represented at one view the most remarkable features of this wild and
enterprising region. On the muddy shore stood some thirty or forty dark
slavish-looking Spaniards, gazing stupidly out from beneath their broad
hats. They were attached to one of the Santa Fe companies, whose wagons
were crowded together on the banks above. In the midst of these, crouching
over a smoldering fire, was a group of Indians, belonging to a remote
Mexican tribe. One or two French hunters from the mountains with their
long hair and buckskin dresses, were looking at the boat; and seated on a
log close at hand were three men, with rifles lying across their knees.
The foremost of these, a tall, strong figure, with a clear blue eye and an
open, intelligent face, might very well represent that race of restless
and intrepid pioneers whose axes and rifles have opened a path from the
Alleghenies to the western prairies. He was on his way to Oregon, probably
a more congenial field to him than any that now remained on this side the
great plains.
Early on the next morning we reached Kansas, about five hundred miles from
the mouth of the Missouri. Here we landed and leaving our equipments in
charge of my good friend Colonel Chick, whose log-house was the substitute
for a tavern, we set out in a wagon for Westport, where we hoped to
procure mules and horses for the journey.
It was a remarkably fresh and beautiful May morning. The rich and
luxuriant woods through which the miserable road conducted us were lighted
by the bright sunshine and enlivened by a multitude of birds. We overtook
on the way our late fellow-travelers, the Kansas Indians, who, adorned
with all their finery, were proceeding homeward at a round pace; and
whatever they might have seemed on board the boat, they made a very
striking and picturesque feature in the forest landscape.
Westport was full of Indians, whose little shaggy ponies were tied by
dozens along the houses and fences. Sacs and Foxes, with shaved heads and
painted faces, Shawanoes and Delawares, fluttering in calico frocks, and
turbans, Wyandottes dressed like white men, and a few wretched Kansas
wrapped in old blankets, were strolling about the streets, or lounging in
and out of the shops and houses.
As I stood at the door of the tavern, I saw a remarkable looking person
coming up the street. He had a ruddy face, garnished with the stumps of a
bristly red beard and mustache; on one side of his head was a round cap
with a knob at the top, such as Scottish laborers sometimes wear; his coat
was of a nondescript form, and made of a gray Scotch plaid, with the
fringes hanging all about it; he wore pantaloons of coarse homespun, and
hob-nailed shoes; and to complete his equipment, a little black pipe was
stuck in one corner of his mouth. In this curious attire, I recognized
Captain C. of the British army, who, with his brother, and Mr. R., an
English gentleman, was bound on a hunting expedition across the continent.
I had seen the captain and his companions at St. Louis. They had now been
for some time at Westport, making preparations for their departure, and
waiting for a re-enforcement, since they were too few in number to attempt
it alone. They might, it is true, have joined some of the parties of
emigrants who were on the point of setting out for Oregon and California;
but they professed great disinclination to have any connection with the
“Kentucky fellows.”
The captain now urged it upon us, that we should join forces and proceed
to the mountains in company. Feeling no greater partiality for the society
of the emigrants than they did, we thought the arrangement an advantageous
one, and consented to it. Our future fellow-travelers had installed
themselves in a little log-house, where we found them all surrounded by
saddles, harness, guns, pistols, telescopes, knives, and in short their
complete appointments for the prairie. R., who professed a taste for
natural history, sat at a table stuffing a woodpecker; the brother of the
captain, who was an Irishman, was splicing a trail-rope on the floor, as
he had been an amateur sailor. The captain pointed out, with much
complacency, the different articles of their outfit. “You see,” said he,
“that we are all old travelers. I am convinced that no party ever went
upon the prairie better provided.” The hunter whom they had employed, a
surly looking Canadian, named Sorel, and their muleteer, an American from
St. Louis, were lounging about the building. In a little log stable close
at hand were their horses and mules, selected by the captain, who was an
excellent judge.
The alliance entered into, we left them to complete their arrangements,
while we pushed our own to all convenient speed. The emigrants for whom
our friends professed such contempt were encamped on the prairie about
eight or ten miles distant, to the number of a thousand or more, and new
parties were constantly passing out from Independence to join them. They
were in great confusion, holding meetings, passing resolutions, and
drawing up regulations, but unable to unite in the choice of leaders to
conduct them across the prairie. Being at leisure one day, I rode over to
Independence. The town was crowded. A multitude of shops had sprung up to
furnish the emigrants and Santa Fe traders with necessaries for their
journey; and there was an incessant hammering and banging from a dozen
blacksmiths’ sheds, where the heavy wagons were being repaired, and the
horses and oxen shod. The streets were thronged with men, horses, and
mules. While I was in the town, a train of emigrant wagons from Illinois
passed through, to join the camp on the prairie, and stopped in the
principal street. A multitude of healthy children’s faces were peeping out
from under the covers of the wagons. Here and there a buxom damsel was
seated on horseback, holding over her sunburnt face an old umbrella or a
parasol, once gaudy enough but now miserably faded. The men, very
sober-looking countrymen, stood about their oxen; and as I passed I
noticed three old fellows, who, with their long whips in their hands, were
zealously discussing the doctrine of regeneration. The emigrants, however,
are not all of this stamp. Among them are some of the vilest outcasts in
the country. I have often perplexed myself to divine the various motives
that give impulse to this strange migration; but whatever they may be,
whether an insane hope of a better condition in life, or a desire of
shaking off restraints of law and society, or mere restlessness, certain
it is that multitudes bitterly repent the journey, and after they have
reached the land of promise are happy enough to escape from it.
In the course of seven or eight days we had brought our preparations near
to a close. Meanwhile our friends had completed theirs, and becoming tired
of Westport, they told us that they would set out in advance and wait at
the crossing of the Kansas till we should come up. Accordingly R. and the
muleteers went forward with the wagon and tent, while the captain and his
brother, together with Sorel, and a trapper named Boisverd, who had joined
them, followed with the band of horses. The commencement of the journey
was ominous, for the captain was scarcely a mile from Westport, riding
along in state at the head of his party, leading his intended buffalo
horse by a rope, when a tremendous thunderstorm came on, and drenched them
all to the skin. They hurried on to reach the place, about seven miles
off, where R. was to have had the camp in readiness to receive them. But
this prudent person, when he saw the storm approaching, had selected a
sheltered glade in the woods, where he pitched his tent, and was sipping a
comfortable cup of coffee, while the captain galloped for miles beyond
through the rain to look for him. At length the storm cleared away, and
the sharp-eyed trapper succeeded in discovering his tent: R. had by this
time finished his coffee, and was seated on a buffalo robe smoking his
pipe. The captain was one of the most easy-tempered men in existence, so
he bore his ill-luck with great composure, shared the dregs of the coffee
with his brother, and lay down to sleep in his wet clothes.
We ourselves had our share of the deluge. We were leading a pair of mules
to Kansas when the storm broke. Such sharp and incessant flashes of
lightning, such stunning and continuous thunder, I have never known
before. The woods were completely obscured by the diagonal sheets of rain
that fell with a heavy roar, and rose in spray from the ground; and the
streams rose so rapidly that we could hardly ford them. At length, looming
through the rain, we saw the log-house of Colonel Chick, who received us
with his usual bland hospitality; while his wife, who, though a little
soured and stiffened by too frequent attendance on camp-meetings, was not
behind him in hospitable feeling, supplied us with the means of repairing
our drenched and bedraggled condition. The storm, clearing away at about
sunset, opened a noble prospect from the porch of the colonel’s house,
which stands upon a high hill. The sun streamed from the breaking clouds
upon the swift and angry Missouri, and on the immense expanse of luxuriant
forest that stretched from its banks back to the distant bluffs.
Returning on the next day to Westport, we received a message from the
captain, who had ridden back to deliver it in person, but finding that we
were in Kansas, had intrusted it with an acquaintance of his named Vogel,
who kept a small grocery and liquor shop. Whisky by the way circulates
more freely in Westport than is altogether safe in a place where every man
carries a loaded pistol in his pocket. As we passed this establishment, we
saw Vogel’s broad German face and knavish-looking eyes thrust from his
door. He said he had something to tell us, and invited us to take a dram.
Neither his liquor nor his message was very palatable. The captain had
returned to give us notice that R., who assumed the direction of his
party, had determined upon another route from that agreed upon between us;
and instead of taking the course of the traders, to pass northward by Fort
Leavenworth, and follow the path marked out by the dragoons in their
expedition of last summer. To adopt such a plan without consulting us, we
looked upon as a very high-handed proceeding; but suppressing our
dissatisfaction as well as we could, we made up our minds to join them at
Fort Leavenworth, where they were to wait for us.
Accordingly, our preparation being now complete, we attempted one fine
morning to commence our journey. The first step was an unfortunate one. No
sooner were our animals put in harness, than the shaft mule reared and
plunged, burst ropes and straps, and nearly flung the cart into the
Missouri. Finding her wholly uncontrollable, we exchanged her for another,
with which we were furnished by our friend Mr. Boone of Westport, a
grandson of Daniel Boone, the pioneer. This foretaste of prairie
experience was very soon followed by another. Westport was scarcely out of
sight, when we encountered a deep muddy gully, of a species that afterward
became but too familiar to us; and here for the space of an hour or more
the car stuck fast.
CHAPTER II
BREAKING THE ICE
Both Shaw and myself were tolerably inured to the vicissitudes of
traveling. We had experienced them under various forms, and a birch canoe
was as familiar to us as a steamboat. The restlessness, the love of wilds
and hatred of cities, natural perhaps in early years to every unperverted
son of Adam, was not our only motive for undertaking the present journey.
My companion hoped to shake off the effects of a disorder that had
impaired a constitution originally hardy and robust; and I was anxious to
pursue some inquiries relative to the character and usages of the remote
Indian nations, being already familiar with many of the border tribes.
Emerging from the mud-hole where we last took leave of the reader, we
pursued our way for some time along the narrow track, in the checkered
sunshine and shadow of the woods, till at length, issuing forth into the
broad light, we left behind us the farthest outskirts of that great
forest, that once spread unbroken from the western plains to the shore of
the Atlantic. Looking over an intervening belt of shrubbery, we saw the
green, oceanlike expanse of prairie, stretching swell over swell to the
horizon.
It was a mild, calm spring day; a day when one is more disposed to musing
and reverie than to action, and the softest part of his nature is apt to
gain the ascendency. I rode in advance of the party, as we passed through
the shrubbery, and as a nook of green grass offered a strong temptation, I
dismounted and lay down there. All the trees and saplings were in flower,
or budding into fresh leaf; the red clusters of the maple-blossoms and the
rich flowers of the Indian apple were there in profusion; and I was half
inclined to regret leaving behind the land of gardens for the rude and
stern scenes of the prairie and the mountains.
Meanwhile the party came in sight from out of the bushes. Foremost rode
Henry Chatillon, our guide and hunter, a fine athletic figure, mounted on
a hardy gray Wyandotte pony. He wore a white blanket-coat, a broad hat of
felt, moccasins, and pantaloons of deerskin, ornamented along the seams
with rows of long fringes. His knife was stuck in his belt; his
bullet-pouch and powder-horn hung at his side, and his rifle lay before
him, resting against the high pommel of his saddle, which, like all his
equipments, had seen hard service, and was much the worse for wear. Shaw
followed close, mounted on a little sorrel horse, and leading a larger
animal by a rope. His outfit, which resembled mine, had been provided with
a view to use rather than ornament. It consisted of a plain, black Spanish
saddle, with holsters of heavy pistols, a blanket rolled up behind it, and
the trail-rope attached to his horse’s neck hanging coiled in front. He
carried a double-barreled smooth-bore, while I boasted a rifle of some
fifteen pounds’ weight. At that time our attire, though far from elegant,
bore some marks of civilization, and offered a very favorable contrast to
the inimitable shabbiness of our appearance on the return journey. A red
flannel shirt, belted around the waist like a frock, then constituted our
upper garment; moccasins had supplanted our failing boots; and the
remaining essential portion of our attire consisted of an extraordinary
article, manufactured by a squaw out of smoked buckskin. Our muleteer,
Delorier, brought up the rear with his cart, waddling ankle-deep in the
mud, alternately puffing at his pipe, and ejaculating in his prairie
patois: “Sacre enfant de garce!” as one of the mules would seem to recoil
before some abyss of unusual profundity. The cart was of the kind that one
may see by scores around the market-place in Montreal, and had a white
covering to protect the articles within. These were our provisions and a
tent, with ammunition, blankets, and presents for the Indians.
We were in all four men with eight animals; for besides the spare horses
led by Shaw and myself, an additional mule was driven along with us as a
reserve in case of accident.
After this summing up of our forces, it may not be amiss to glance at the
characters of the two men who accompanied us.
Delorier was a Canadian, with all the characteristics of the true Jean
Baptiste. Neither fatigue, exposure, nor hard labor could ever impair his
cheerfulness and gayety, or his obsequious politeness to his bourgeois;
and when night came he would sit down by the fire, smoke his pipe, and
tell stories with the utmost contentment. In fact, the prairie was his
congenial element. Henry Chatillon was of a different stamp. When we were
at St. Louis, several gentlemen of the Fur Company had kindly offered to
procure for us a hunter and guide suited for our purposes, and on coming
one afternoon to the office, we found there a tall and exceedingly
well-dressed man with a face so open and frank that it attracted our
notice at once. We were surprised at being told that it was he who wished
to guide us to the mountains. He was born in a little French town near St.
Louis, and from the age of fifteen years had been constantly in the
neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains, employed for the most part by the
Company to supply their forts with buffalo meat. As a hunter he had but
one rival in the whole region, a man named Cimoneau, with whom, to the
honor of both of them, he was on terms of the closest friendship. He had
arrived at St. Louis the day before, from the mountains, where he had
remained for four years; and he now only asked to go and spend a day with
his mother before setting out on another expedition. His age was about
thirty; he was six feet high, and very powerfully and gracefully molded.
The prairies had been his school; he could neither read nor write, but he
had a natural refinement and delicacy of mind such as is rarely found,
even in women. His manly face was a perfect mirror of uprightness,
simplicity, and kindness of heart; he had, moreover, a keen perception of
character and a tact that would preserve him from flagrant error in any
society. Henry had not the restless energy of an Anglo-American. He was
content to take things as he found them; and his chief fault arose from an
excess of easy generosity, impelling him to give away too profusely ever
to thrive in the world. Yet it was commonly remarked of him, that whatever
he might choose to do with what belonged to himself, the property of
others was always safe in his hands. His bravery was as much celebrated in
the mountains as his skill in hunting; but it is characteristic of him
that in a country where the rifle is the chief arbiter between man and
man, Henry was very seldom involved in quarrels. Once or twice, indeed,
his quiet good-nature had been mistaken and presumed upon, but the
consequences of the error were so formidable that no one was ever known to
repeat it. No better evidence of the intrepidity of his temper could be
wished than the common report that he had killed more than thirty grizzly
bears. He was a proof of what unaided nature will sometimes do. I have
never, in the city or in the wilderness, met a better man than my noble
and true-hearted friend, Henry Chatillon.
We were soon free of the woods and bushes, and fairly upon the broad
prairie. Now and then a Shawanoe passed us, riding his little shaggy pony
at a “lope”; his calico shirt, his gaudy sash, and the gay handkerchief
bound around his snaky hair fluttering in the wind. At noon we stopped to
rest not far from a little creek replete with frogs and young turtles.
There had been an Indian encampment at the place, and the framework of
their lodges still remained, enabling us very easily to gain a shelter
from the sun, by merely spreading one or two blankets over them. Thus
shaded, we sat upon our saddles, and Shaw for the first time lighted his
favorite Indian pipe; while Delorier was squatted over a hot bed of coals,
shading his eyes with one hand, and holding a little stick in the other,
with which he regulated the hissing contents of the frying-pan. The horses
were turned to feed among the scattered bushes of a low oozy meadow. A
drowzy springlike sultriness pervaded the air, and the voices of ten
thousand young frogs and insects, just awakened into life, rose in varied
chorus from the creek and the meadows.
Scarcely were we seated when a visitor approached. This was an old Kansas
Indian; a man of distinction, if one might judge from his dress. His head
was shaved and painted red, and from the tuft of hair remaining on the
crown dangled several eagles’ feathers, and the tails of two or three
rattlesnakes. His cheeks, too, were daubed with vermilion; his ears were
adorned with green glass pendants; a collar of grizzly bears’ claws
surrounded his neck, and several large necklaces of wampum hung on his
breast. Having shaken us by the hand with a cordial grunt of salutation,
the old man, dropping his red blanket from his shoulders, sat down
cross-legged on the ground. In the absence of liquor we offered him a cup
of sweetened water, at which he ejaculated “Good!” and was beginning to
tell us how great a man he was, and how many Pawnees he had killed, when
suddenly a motley concourse appeared wading across the creek toward us.
They filed past in rapid succession, men, women, and children; some were
on horseback, some on foot, but all were alike squalid and wretched. Old
squaws, mounted astride of shaggy, meager little ponies, with perhaps one
or two snake-eyed children seated behind them, clinging to their tattered
blankets; tall lank young men on foot, with bows and arrows in their
hands; and girls whose native ugliness not all the charms of glass beads
and scarlet cloth could disguise, made up the procession; although here
and there was a man who, like our visitor, seemed to hold some rank in
this respectable community. They were the dregs of the Kansas nation, who,
while their betters were gone to hunt buffalo, had left the village on a
begging expedition to Westport.
When this ragamuffin horde had passed, we caught our horses, saddled,
harnessed, and resumed our journey. Fording the creek, the low roofs of a
number of rude buildings appeared, rising from a cluster of groves and
woods on the left; and riding up through a long lane, amid a profusion of
wild roses and early spring flowers, we found the log-church and
school-houses belonging to the Methodist Shawanoe Mission. The Indians
were on the point of gathering to a religious meeting. Some scores of
them, tall men in half-civilized dress, were seated on wooden benches
under the trees; while their horses were tied to the sheds and fences.
Their chief, Parks, a remarkably large and athletic man, was just arrived
from Westport, where he owns a trading establishment. Beside this, he has
a fine farm and a considerable number of slaves. Indeed the Shawanoes have
made greater progress in agriculture than any other tribe on the Missouri
frontier; and both in appearance and in character form a marked contrast
to our late acquaintance, the Kansas.
A few hours’ ride brought us to the banks of the river Kansas. Traversing
the woods that lined it, and plowing through the deep sand, we encamped
not far from the bank, at the Lower Delaware crossing. Our tent was
erected for the first time on a meadow close to the woods, and the camp
preparations being complete we began to think of supper. An old Delaware
woman, of some three hundred pounds’ weight, sat in the porch of a little
log-house close to the water, and a very pretty half-breed girl was
engaged, under her superintendence, in feeding a large flock of turkeys
that were fluttering and gobbling about the door. But no offers of money,
or even of tobacco, could induce her to part with one of her favorites; so
I took my rifle, to see if the woods or the river could furnish us
anything. A multitude of quails were plaintively whistling in the woods
and meadows; but nothing appropriate to the rifle was to be seen, except
three buzzards, seated on the spectral limbs of an old dead sycamore, that
thrust itself out over the river from the dense sunny wall of fresh
foliage. Their ugly heads were drawn down between their shoulders, and
they seemed to luxuriate in the soft sunshine that was pouring from the
west. As they offered no epicurean temptations, I refrained from
disturbing their enjoyment; but contented myself with admiring the calm
beauty of the sunset, for the river, eddying swiftly in deep purple
shadows between the impending woods, formed a wild but tranquillizing
scene.
When I returned to the camp I found Shaw and an old Indian seated on the
ground in close conference, passing the pipe between them. The old man was
explaining that he loved the whites, and had an especial partiality for
tobacco. Delorier was arranging upon the ground our service of tin cups
and plates; and as other viands were not to be had, he set before us a
repast of biscuit and bacon, and a large pot of coffee. Unsheathing our
knives, we attacked it, disposed of the greater part, and tossed the
residue to the Indian. Meanwhile our horses, now hobbled for the first
time, stood among the trees, with their fore-legs tied together, in great
disgust and astonishment. They seemed by no means to relish this foretaste
of what was before them. Mine, in particular, had conceived a moral
aversion to the prairie life. One of them, christened Hendrick, an animal
whose strength and hardihood were his only merits, and who yielded to
nothing but the cogent arguments of the whip, looked toward us with an
indignant countenance, as if he meditated avenging his wrongs with a kick.
The other, Pontiac, a good horse, though of plebeian lineage, stood with
his head drooping and his mane hanging about his eyes, with the grieved
and sulky air of a lubberly boy sent off to school. Poor Pontiac! his
forebodings were but too just; for when I last heard from him, he was
under the lash of an Ogallalla brave, on a war party against the Crows.
As it grew dark, and the voices of the whip-poor-wills succeeded the
whistle of the quails, we removed our saddles to the tent, to serve as
pillows, spread our blankets upon the ground, and prepared to bivouac for
the first time that season. Each man selected the place in the tent which
he was to occupy for the journey. To Delorier, however, was assigned the
cart, into which he could creep in wet weather, and find a much better
shelter than his bourgeois enjoyed in the tent.
The river Kansas at this point forms the boundary line between the country
of the Shawanoes and that of the Delawares. We crossed it on the following
day, rafting over our horses and equipage with much difficulty, and
unloading our cart in order to make our way up the steep ascent on the
farther bank. It was a Sunday morning; warm, tranquil and bright; and a
perfect stillness reigned over the rough inclosures and neglected fields
of the Delawares, except the ceaseless hum and chirruping of myriads of
insects. Now and then, an Indian rode past on his way to the
meeting-house, or through the dilapidated entrance of some shattered
log-house an old woman might be discerned, enjoying all the luxury of
idleness. There was no village bell, for the Delawares have none; and yet
upon that forlorn and rude settlement was the same spirit of Sabbath
repose and tranquillity as in some little New England village among the
mountains of New Hampshire or the Vermont woods.
Having at present no leisure for such reflections, we pursued our journey.
A military road led from this point to Fort Leavenworth, and for many
miles the farms and cabins of the Delawares were scattered at short
intervals on either hand. The little rude structures of logs, erected
usually on the borders of a tract of woods, made a picturesque feature in
the landscape. But the scenery needed no foreign aid. Nature had done
enough for it; and the alteration of rich green prairies and groves that
stood in clusters or lined the banks of the numerous little streams, had
all the softened and polished beauty of a region that has been for
centuries under the hand of man. At that early season, too, it was in the
height of its freshness and luxuriance. The woods were flushed with the
red buds of the maple; there were frequent flowering shrubs unknown in the
east; and the green swells of the prairies were thickly studded with
blossoms.
Encamping near a spring by the side of a hill, we resumed our journey in
the morning, and early in the afternoon had arrived within a few miles of
Fort Leavenworth. The road crossed a stream densely bordered with trees,
and running in the bottom of a deep woody hollow. We were about to descend
into it, when a wild and confused procession appeared, passing through the
water below, and coming up the steep ascent toward us. We stopped to let
them pass. They were Delawares, just returned from a hunting expedition.
All, both men and women, were mounted on horseback, and drove along with
them a considerable number of pack mules, laden with the furs they had
taken, together with the buffalo robes, kettles, and other articles of
their traveling equipment, which as well as their clothing and their
weapons, had a worn and dingy aspect, as if they had seen hard service of
late. At the rear of the party was an old man, who, as he came up, stopped
his horse to speak to us. He rode a little tough shaggy pony, with mane
and tail well knotted with burrs, and a rusty Spanish bit in its mouth, to
which, by way of reins, was attached a string of raw hide. His saddle,
robbed probably from a Mexican, had no covering, being merely a tree of
the Spanish form, with a piece of grizzly bear’s skin laid over it, a pair
of rude wooden stirrups attached, and in the absence of girth, a thong of
hide passing around the horse’s belly. The rider’s dark features and keen
snaky eyes were unequivocally Indian. He wore a buckskin frock, which,
like his fringed leggings, was well polished and blackened by grease and
long service; and an old handkerchief was tied around his head. Resting on
the saddle before him lay his rifle; a weapon in the use of which the
Delawares are skillful; though from its weight, the distant prairie
Indians are too lazy to carry it.
“Who’s your chief?” he immediately inquired.
Henry Chatillon pointed to us. The old Delaware fixed his eyes intently
upon us for a moment, and then sententiously remarked:
“No good! Too young!” With this flattering comment he left us, and rode
after his people.
This tribe, the Delawares, once the peaceful allies of William Penn, the
tributaries of the conquering Iroquois, are now the most adventurous and
dreaded warriors upon the prairies. They make war upon remote tribes the
very names of which were unknown to their fathers in their ancient seats
in Pennsylvania; and they push these new quarrels with true Indian rancor,
sending out their little war parties as far as the Rocky Mountains, and
into the Mexican territories. Their neighbors and former confederates, the
Shawanoes, who are tolerable farmers, are in a prosperous condition; but
the Delawares dwindle every year, from the number of men lost in their
warlike expeditions.
Soon after leaving this party, we saw, stretching on the right, the
forests that follow the course of the Missouri, and the deep woody channel
through which at this point it runs. At a distance in front were the white
barracks of Fort Leavenworth, just visible through the trees upon an
eminence above a bend of the river. A wide green meadow, as level as a
lake, lay between us and the Missouri, and upon this, close to a line of
trees that bordered a little brook, stood the tent of the captain and his
companions, with their horses feeding around it, but they themselves were
invisible. Wright, their muleteer, was there, seated on the tongue of the
wagon, repairing his harness. Boisverd stood cleaning his rifle at the
door of the tent, and Sorel lounged idly about. On closer examination,
however, we discovered the captain’s brother, Jack, sitting in the tent,
at his old occupation of splicing trail-ropes. He welcomed us in his broad
Irish brogue, and said that his brother was fishing in the river, and R.
gone to the garrison. They returned before sunset. Meanwhile we erected
our own tent not far off, and after supper a council was held, in which it
was resolved to remain one day at Fort Leavenworth, and on the next to bid
a final adieu to the frontier: or in the phraseology of the region, to
“jump off.” Our deliberations were conducted by the ruddy light from a
distant swell of the prairie, where the long dry grass of last summer was
on fire.
CHAPTER III
FORT LEAVENWORTH
On the next morning we rode to Fort Leavenworth. Colonel, now General,
Kearny, to whom I had had the honor of an introduction when at St. Louis,
was just arrived, and received us at his headquarters with the high-bred
courtesy habitual to him. Fort Leavenworth is in fact no fort, being
without defensive works, except two block-houses. No rumors of war had as
yet disturbed its tranquillity. In the square grassy area, surrounded by
barracks and the quarters of the officers, the men were passing and
repassing, or lounging among the trees; although not many weeks afterward
it presented a different scene; for here the very off-scourings of the
frontier were congregated, to be marshaled for the expedition against
Santa Fe.
Passing through the garrison, we rode toward the Kickapoo village, five or
six miles beyond. The path, a rather dubious and uncertain one, led us
along the ridge of high bluffs that bordered the Missouri; and by looking
to the right or to the left, we could enjoy a strange contrast of opposite
scenery. On the left stretched the prairie, rising into swells and
undulations, thickly sprinkled with groves, or gracefully expanding into
wide grassy basins of miles in extent; while its curvatures, swelling
against the horizon, were often surmounted by lines of sunny woods; a
scene to which the freshness of the season and the peculiar mellowness of
the atmosphere gave additional softness. Below us, on the right, was a
tract of ragged and broken woods. We could look down on the summits of the
trees, some living and some dead; some erect, others leaning at every
angle, and others still piled in masses together by the passage of a
hurricane. Beyond their extreme verge, the turbid waters of the Missouri
were discernible through the boughs, rolling powerfully along at the foot
of the woody declivities of its farther bank.
The path soon after led inland; and as we crossed an open meadow we saw a
cluster of buildings on a rising ground before us, with a crowd of people
surrounding them. They were the storehouse, cottage, and stables of the
Kickapoo trader’s establishment. Just at that moment, as it chanced, he
was beset with half the Indians of the settlement. They had tied their
wretched, neglected little ponies by dozens along the fences and
outhouses, and were either lounging about the place, or crowding into the
trading house. Here were faces of various colors; red, green, white, and
black, curiously intermingled and disposed over the visage in a variety of
patterns. Calico shirts, red and blue blankets, brass ear-rings, wampum
necklaces, appeared in profusion. The trader was a blue-eyed open-faced
man who neither in his manners nor his appearance betrayed any of the
roughness of the frontier; though just at present he was obliged to keep a
lynx eye on his suspicious customers, who, men and women, were climbing on
his counter and seating themselves among his boxes and bales.
The village itself was not far off, and sufficiently illustrated the
condition of its unfortunate and self-abandoned occupants. Fancy to
yourself a little swift stream, working its devious way down a woody
valley; sometimes wholly hidden under logs and fallen trees, sometimes
issuing forth and spreading into a broad, clear pool; and on its banks in
little nooks cleared away among the trees, miniature log-houses in utter
ruin and neglect. A labyrinth of narrow, obstructed paths connected these
habitations one with another. Sometimes we met a stray calf, a pig or a
pony, belonging to some of the villagers, who usually lay in the sun in
front of their dwellings, and looked on us with cold, suspicious eyes as
we approached. Farther on, in place of the log-huts of the Kickapoos, we
found the pukwi lodges of their neighbors, the Pottawattamies, whose
condition seemed no better than theirs.
Growing tired at last, and exhausted by the excessive heat and sultriness
of the day, we returned to our friend, the trader. By this time the crowd
around him had dispersed, and left him at leisure. He invited us to his
cottage, a little white-and-green building, in the style of the old French
settlements; and ushered us into a neat, well-furnished room. The blinds
were closed, and the heat and glare of the sun excluded; the room was as
cool as a cavern. It was neatly carpeted too and furnished in a manner
that we hardly expected on the frontier. The sofas, chairs, tables, and a
well-filled bookcase would not have disgraced an Eastern city; though
there were one or two little tokens that indicated the rather questionable
civilization of the region. A pistol, loaded and capped, lay on the
mantelpiece; and through the glass of the bookcase, peeping above the
works of John Milton glittered the handle of a very mischievous-looking
knife.
Our host went out, and returned with iced water, glasses, and a bottle of
excellent claret; a refreshment most welcome in the extreme heat of the
day; and soon after appeared a merry, laughing woman, who must have been,
a year of two before, a very rich and luxuriant specimen of Creole beauty.
She came to say that lunch was ready in the next room. Our hostess
evidently lived on the sunny side of life, and troubled herself with none
of its cares. She sat down and entertained us while we were at table with
anecdotes of fishing parties, frolics, and the officers at the fort.
Taking leave at length of the hospitable trader and his friend, we rode
back to the garrison.
Shaw passed on to the camp, while I remained to call upon Colonel Kearny.
I found him still at table. There sat our friend the captain, in the same
remarkable habiliments in which we saw him at Westport; the black pipe,
however, being for the present laid aside. He dangled his little cap in
his hand and talked of steeple-chases, touching occasionally upon his
anticipated exploits in buffalo-hunting. There, too, was R., somewhat more
elegantly attired. For the last time we tasted the luxuries of
civilization, and drank adieus to it in wine good enough to make us almost
regret the leave-taking. Then, mounting, we rode together to the camp,
where everything was in readiness for departure on the morrow.
CHAPTER IV
“JUMPING OFF”
The reader need not be told that John Bull never leaves home without
encumbering himself with the greatest possible load of luggage. Our
companions were no exception to the rule. They had a wagon drawn by six
mules and crammed with provisions for six months, besides ammunition
enough for a regiment; spare rifles and fowling-pieces, ropes and harness;
personal baggage, and a miscellaneous assortment of articles, which
produced infinite embarrassment on the journey. They had also decorated
their persons with telescopes and portable compasses, and carried English
double-barreled rifles of sixteen to the pound caliber, slung to their
saddles in dragoon fashion.
By sunrise on the 23d of May we had breakfasted; the tents were leveled,
the animals saddled and harnessed, and all was prepared. “Avance donc! get
up!” cried Delorier from his seat in front of the cart. Wright, our
friend’s muleteer, after some swearing and lashing, got his insubordinate
train in motion, and then the whole party filed from the ground. Thus we
bade a long adieu to bed and board, and the principles of Blackstone’s
Commentaries. The day was a most auspicious one; and yet Shaw and I felt
certain misgivings, which in the sequel proved but too well founded. We
had just learned that though R. had taken it upon him to adopt this course
without consulting us, not a single man in the party was acquainted with
it; and the absurdity of our friend’s high-handed measure very soon became
manifest. His plan was to strike the trail of several companies of
dragoons, who last summer had made an expedition under Colonel Kearny to
Fort Laramie, and by this means to reach the grand trail of the Oregon
emigrants up the Platte.
We rode for an hour or two when a familiar cluster of buildings appeared
on a little hill. “Hallo!” shouted the Kickapoo trader from over his
fence. “Where are you going?” A few rather emphatic exclamations might
have been heard among us, when we found that we had gone miles out of our
way, and were not advanced an inch toward the Rocky Mountains. So we
turned in the direction the trader indicated, and with the sun for a
guide, began to trace a “bee line” across the prairies. We struggled
through copses and lines of wood; we waded brooks and pools of water; we
traversed prairies as green as an emerald, expanding before us for mile
after mile; wider and more wild than the wastes Mazeppa rode over:
Riding in advance, we passed over one of these great plains; we looked
back and saw the line of scattered horsemen stretching for a mile or more;
and far in the rear against the horizon, the white wagons creeping slowly
along. “Here we are at last!” shouted the captain. And in truth we had
struck upon the traces of a large body of horse. We turned joyfully and
followed this new course, with tempers somewhat improved; and toward
sunset encamped on a high swell of the prairie, at the foot of which a
lazy stream soaked along through clumps of rank grass. It was getting
dark. We turned the horses loose to feed. “Drive down the tent-pickets
hard,” said Henry Chatillon, “it is going to blow.” We did so, and secured
the tent as well as we could; for the sky had changed totally, and a fresh
damp smell in the wind warned us that a stormy night was likely to succeed
the hot clear day. The prairie also wore a new aspect, and its vast swells
had grown black and somber under the shadow of the clouds. The thunder
soon began to growl at a distance. Picketing and hobbling the horses among
the rich grass at the foot of the slope, where we encamped, we gained a
shelter just as the rain began to fall; and sat at the opening of the
tent, watching the proceedings of the captain. In defiance of the rain he
was stalking among the horses, wrapped in an old Scotch plaid. An extreme
solicitude tormented him, lest some of his favorites should escape, or
some accident should befall them; and he cast an anxious eye toward three
wolves who were sneaking along over the dreary surface of the plain, as if
he dreaded some hostile demonstration on their part.
On the next morning we had gone but a mile or two, when we came to an
extensive belt of woods, through the midst of which ran a stream, wide,
deep, and of an appearance particularly muddy and treacherous. Delorier
was in advance with his cart; he jerked his pipe from his mouth, lashed
his mules, and poured forth a volley of Canadian ejaculations. In plunged
the cart, but midway it stuck fast. Delorier leaped out knee-deep in
water, and by dint of sacres and a vigorous application of the whip, he
urged the mules out of the slough. Then approached the long team and heavy
wagon of our friends; but it paused on the brink.
“Now my advice is—” began the captain, who had been anxiously
contemplating the muddy gulf.
“Drive on!” cried R.
But Wright, the muleteer, apparently had not as yet decided the point in
his own mind; and he sat still in his seat on one of the shaft-mules,
whistling in a low contemplative strain to himself.
“My advice is,” resumed the captain, “that we unload; for I’ll bet any man
five pounds that if we try to go through, we shall stick fast.”
“By the powers, we shall stick fast!” echoed Jack, the captain’s brother,
shaking his large head with an air of firm conviction.
“Drive on! drive on!” cried R. petulantly.
“Well,” observed the captain, turning to us as we sat looking on, much
edified by this by-play among our confederates, “I can only give my advice
and if people won’t be reasonable, why, they won’t; that’s all!”
Meanwhile Wright had apparently made up his mind; for he suddenly began to
shout forth a volley of oaths and curses, that, compared with the French
imprecations of Delorier, sounded like the roaring of heavy cannon after
the popping and sputtering of a bunch of Chinese crackers. At the same
time he discharged a shower of blows upon his mules, who hastily dived
into the mud and drew the wagon lumbering after them. For a moment the
issue was dubious. Wright writhed about in his saddle, and swore and
lashed like a madman; but who can count on a team of half-broken mules? At
the most critical point, when all should have been harmony and combined
effort, the perverse brutes fell into lamentable disorder, and huddled
together in confusion on the farther bank. There was the wagon up to the
hub in mud, and visibly settling every instant. There was nothing for it
but to unload; then to dig away the mud from before the wheels with a
spade, and lay a causeway of bushes and branches. This agreeable labor
accomplished, the wagon at last emerged; but if I mention that some
interruption of this sort occurred at least four or five times a day for a
fortnight, the reader will understand that our progress toward the Platte
was not without its obstacles.
We traveled six or seven miles farther, and “nooned” near a brook. On the
point of resuming our journey, when the horses were all driven down to
water, my homesick charger, Pontiac, made a sudden leap across, and set
off at a round trot for the settlements. I mounted my remaining horse, and
started in pursuit. Making a circuit, I headed the runaway, hoping to
drive him back to camp; but he instantly broke into a gallop, made a wide
tour on the prairie, and got past me again. I tried this plan repeatedly,
with the same result; Pontiac was evidently disgusted with the prairie; so
I abandoned it, and tried another, trotting along gently behind him, in
hopes that I might quietly get near enough to seize the trail-rope which
was fastened to his neck, and dragged about a dozen feet behind him. The
chase grew interesting. For mile after mile I followed the rascal, with
the utmost care not to alarm him, and gradually got nearer, until at
length old Hendrick’s nose was fairly brushed by the whisking tail of the
unsuspecting Pontiac. Without drawing rein, I slid softly to the ground;
but my long heavy rifle encumbered me, and the low sound it made in
striking the horn of the saddle startled him; he pricked up his ears, and
sprang off at a run. “My friend,” thought I, remounting, “do that again,
and I will shoot you!”
Fort Leavenworth was about forty miles distant, and thither I determined
to follow him. I made up my mind to spend a solitary and supperless night,
and then set out again in the morning. One hope, however, remained. The
creek where the wagon had stuck was just before us; Pontiac might be
thirsty with his run, and stop there to drink. I kept as near to him as
possible, taking every precaution not to alarm him again; and the result
proved as I had hoped: for he walked deliberately among the trees, and
stooped down to the water. I alighted, dragged old Hendrick through the
mud, and with a feeling of infinite satisfaction picked up the slimy
trail-rope and twisted it three times round my hand. “Now let me see you
get away again!” I thought, as I remounted. But Pontiac was exceedingly
reluctant to turn back; Hendrick, too, who had evidently flattered himself
with vain hopes, showed the utmost repugnance, and grumbled in a manner
peculiar to himself at being compelled to face about. A smart cut of the
whip restored his cheerfulness; and dragging the recovered truant behind,
I set out in search of the camp. An hour or two elapsed, when, near
sunset, I saw the tents, standing on a rich swell of the prairie, beyond a
line of woods, while the bands of horses were feeding in a low meadow
close at hand. There sat Jack C., cross-legged, in the sun, splicing a
trail-rope, and the rest were lying on the grass, smoking and telling
stories. That night we enjoyed a serenade from the wolves, more lively
than any with which they had yet favored us; and in the morning one of the
musicians appeared, not many rods from the tents, quietly seated among the
horses, looking at us with a pair of large gray eyes; but perceiving a
rifle leveled at him, he leaped up and made off in hot haste.
I pass by the following day or two of our journey, for nothing occurred
worthy of record. Should any one of my readers ever be impelled to visit
the prairies, and should he choose the route of the Platte (the best,
perhaps, that can be adopted), I can assure him that he need not think to
enter at once upon the paradise of his imagination. A dreary preliminary,
protracted crossing of the threshold awaits him before he finds himself
fairly upon the verge of the “great American desert,” those barren wastes,
the haunts of the buffalo and the Indian, where the very shadow of
civilization lies a hundred leagues behind him. The intervening country,
the wide and fertile belt that extends for several hundred miles beyond
the extreme frontier, will probably answer tolerably well to his
preconceived ideas of the prairie; for this it is from which picturesque
tourists, painters, poets, and novelists, who have seldom penetrated
farther, have derived their conceptions of the whole region. If he has a
painter’s eye, he may find his period of probation not wholly void of
interest. The scenery, though tame, is graceful and pleasing. Here are
level plains, too wide for the eye to measure green undulations, like
motionless swells of the ocean; abundance of streams, followed through all
their windings by lines of woods and scattered groves. But let him be as
enthusiastic as he may, he will find enough to damp his ardor. His wagons
will stick in the mud; his horses will break loose; harness will give way,
and axle-trees prove unsound. His bed will be a soft one, consisting often
of black mud, of the richest consistency. As for food, he must content
himself with biscuit and salt provisions; for strange as it may seem, this
tract of country produces very little game. As he advances, indeed, he
will see, moldering in the grass by his path, the vast antlers of the elk,
and farther on, the whitened skulls of the buffalo, once swarming over
this now deserted region. Perhaps, like us, he may journey for a
fortnight, and see not so much as the hoof-print of a deer; in the spring,
not even a prairie hen is to be had.
Yet, to compensate him for this unlooked-for deficiency of game, he will
find himself beset with “varmints” innumerable. The wolves will entertain
him with a concerto at night, and skulk around him by day, just beyond
rifle shot; his horse will step into badger-holes; from every marsh and
mud puddle will arise the bellowing, croaking, and trilling of legions of
frogs, infinitely various in color, shape and dimensions. A profusion of
snakes will glide away from under his horse’s feet, or quietly visit him
in his tent at night; while the pertinacious humming of unnumbered
mosquitoes will banish sleep from his eyelids. When thirsty with a long
ride in the scorching sun over some boundless reach of prairie, he comes
at length to a pool of water, and alights to drink, he discovers a troop
of young tadpoles sporting in the bottom of his cup. Add to this, that all
the morning the hot sun beats upon him with sultry, penetrating heat, and
that, with provoking regularity, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, a
thunderstorm rises and drenches him to the skin. Such being the charms of
this favored region, the reader will easily conceive the extent of our
gratification at learning that for a week we had been journeying on the
wrong track! How this agreeable discovery was made I will presently
explain.
One day, after a protracted morning’s ride, we stopped to rest at noon
upon the open prairie. No trees were in sight; but close at hand, a little
dribbling brook was twisting from side to side through a hollow; now
forming holes of stagnant water, and now gliding over the mud in a
scarcely perceptible current, among a growth of sickly bushes, and great
clumps of tall rank grass. The day was excessively hot and oppressive. The
horses and mules were rolling on the prairie to refresh themselves, or
feeding among the bushes in the hollow. We had dined; and Delorier,
puffing at his pipe, knelt on the grass, scrubbing our service of tin
plate. Shaw lay in the shade, under the cart, to rest for a while, before
the word should be given to “catch up.” Henry Chatillon, before lying
down, was looking about for signs of snakes, the only living things that
he feared, and uttering various ejaculations of disgust, at finding
several suspicious-looking holes close to the cart. I sat leaning against
the wheel in a scanty strip of shade, making a pair of hobbles to replace
those which my contumacious steed Pontiac had broken the night before. The
camp of our friends, a rod or two distant, presented the same scene of
lazy tranquillity.
“Hallo!” cried Henry, looking up from his inspection of the snake-holes,
“here comes the old captain!”
The captain approached, and stood for a moment contemplating us in
silence.
“I say, Parkman,” he began, “look at Shaw there, asleep under the cart,
with the tar dripping off the hub of the wheel on his shoulder!”
At this Shaw got up, with his eyes half opened, and feeling the part
indicated, he found his hand glued fast to his red flannel shirt.
“He’ll look well when he gets among the squaws, won’t he?” observed the
captain, with a grin.
He then crawled under the cart, and began to tell stories of which his
stock was inexhaustible. Yet every moment he would glance nervously at the
horses. At last he jumped up in great excitement. “See that horse! There—that
fellow just walking over the hill! By Jove; he’s off. It’s your big horse,
Shaw; no it isn’t, it’s Jack’s! Jack! Jack! hallo, Jack!” Jack thus
invoked, jumped up and stared vacantly at us.
“Go and catch your horse, if you don’t want to lose him!” roared the
captain.
Jack instantly set off at a run through the grass, his broad pantaloons
flapping about his feet. The captain gazed anxiously till he saw that the
horse was caught; then he sat down, with a countenance of thoughtfulness
and care.
“I tell you what it is,” he said, “this will never do at all. We shall
lose every horse in the band someday or other, and then a pretty plight we
should be in! Now I am convinced that the only way for us is to have every
man in the camp stand horse-guard in rotation whenever we stop. Supposing
a hundred Pawnees should jump up out of that ravine, all yelling and
flapping their buffalo robes, in the way they do? Why, in two minutes not
a hoof would be in sight.” We reminded the captain that a hundred Pawnees
would probably demolish the horse-guard, if he were to resist their
depredations.
“At any rate,” pursued the captain, evading the point, “our whole system
is wrong; I’m convinced of it; it is totally unmilitary. Why, the way we
travel, strung out over the prairie for a mile, an enemy might attack the
foremost men, and cut them off before the rest could come up.”
“We are not in an enemy’s country, yet,” said Shaw; “when we are, we’ll
travel together.”
“Then,” said the captain, “we might be attacked in camp. We’ve no
sentinels; we camp in disorder; no precautions at all to guard against
surprise. My own convictions are that we ought to camp in a hollow square,
with the fires in the center; and have sentinels, and a regular password
appointed for every night. Besides, there should be vedettes, riding in
advance, to find a place for the camp and give warning of an enemy. These
are my convictions. I don’t want to dictate to any man. I give advice to
the best of my judgment, that’s all; and then let people do as they
please.”
We intimated that perhaps it would be as well to postpone such burdensome
precautions until there should be some actual need of them; but he shook
his head dubiously. The captain’s sense of military propriety had been
severely shocked by what he considered the irregular proceedings of the
party; and this was not the first time he had expressed himself upon the
subject. But his convictions seldom produced any practical results. In the
present case, he contented himself, as usual, with enlarging on the
importance of his suggestions, and wondering that they were not adopted.
But his plan of sending out vedettes seemed particularly dear to him; and
as no one else was disposed to second his views on this point, he took it
into his head to ride forward that afternoon, himself.
“Come, Parkman,” said he, “will you go with me?”
We set out together, and rode a mile or two in advance. The captain, in
the course of twenty years’ service in the British army, had seen
something of life; one extensive side of it, at least, he had enjoyed the
best opportunities for studying; and being naturally a pleasant fellow, he
was a very entertaining companion. He cracked jokes and told stories for
an hour or two; until, looking back, we saw the prairie behind us
stretching away to the horizon, without a horseman or a wagon in sight.
“Now,” said the captain, “I think the vedettes had better stop till the
main body comes up.”
I was of the same opinion. There was a thick growth of woods just before
us, with a stream running through them. Having crossed this, we found on
the other side a fine level meadow, half encircled by the trees; and
fastening our horses to some bushes, we sat down on the grass; while, with
an old stump of a tree for a target, I began to display the superiority of
the renowned rifle of the back woods over the foreign innovation borne by
the captain. At length voices could be heard in the distance behind the
trees.
“There they come!” said the captain: “let’s go and see how they get
through the creek.”
We mounted and rode to the bank of the stream, where the trail crossed it.
It ran in a deep hollow, full of trees; as we looked down, we saw a
confused crowd of horsemen riding through the water; and among the dingy
habiliment of our party glittered the uniforms of four dragoons.
Shaw came whipping his horse up the back, in advance of the rest, with a
somewhat indignant countenance. The first word he spoke was a blessing
fervently invoked on the head of R., who was riding, with a crest-fallen
air, in the rear. Thanks to the ingenious devices of the gentleman, we had
missed the track entirely, and wandered, not toward the Platte, but to the
village of the Iowa Indians. This we learned from the dragoons, who had
lately deserted from Fort Leavenworth. They told us that our best plan now
was to keep to the northward until we should strike the trail formed by
several parties of Oregon emigrants, who had that season set out from St.
Joseph’s in Missouri.
In extremely bad temper, we encamped on this ill-starred spot; while the
deserters, whose case admitted of no delay rode rapidly forward. On the
day following, striking the St. Joseph’s trail, we turned our horses’
heads toward Fort Laramie, then about seven hundred miles to the westward.
CHAPTER V
“THE BIG BLUE”
The great medley of Oregon and California emigrants, at their camps around
Independence, had heard reports that several additional parties were on
the point of setting out from St. Joseph’s farther to the northward. The
prevailing impression was that these were Mormons, twenty-three hundred in
number; and a great alarm was excited in consequence. The people of
Illinois and Missouri, who composed by far the greater part of the
emigrants, have never been on the best terms with the “Latter Day Saints”;
and it is notorious throughout the country how much blood has been spilt
in their feuds, even far within the limits of the settlements. No one
could predict what would be the result, when large armed bodies of these
fanatics should encounter the most impetuous and reckless of their old
enemies on the broad prairie, far beyond the reach of law or military
force. The women and children at Independence raised a great outcry; the
men themselves were seriously alarmed; and, as I learned, they sent to
Colonel Kearny, requesting an escort of dragoons as far as the Platte.
This was refused; and as the sequel proved, there was no occasion for it.
The St. Joseph’s emigrants were as good Christians and as zealous
Mormon-haters as the rest; and the very few families of the “Saints” who
passed out this season by the route of the Platte remained behind until
the great tide of emigration had gone by; standing in quite as much awe of
the “gentiles” as the latter did of them.
We were now, as I before mentioned, upon this St. Joseph’s trail. It was
evident, by the traces, that large parties were a few days in advance of
us; and as we too supposed them to be Mormons, we had some apprehension of
interruption.
The journey was somewhat monotonous. One day we rode on for hours, without
seeing a tree or a bush; before, behind, and on either side, stretched the
vast expanse, rolling in a succession of graceful swells, covered with the
unbroken carpet of fresh green grass. Here and there a crow, or a raven,
or a turkey-buzzard, relieved the uniformity.
“What shall we do to-night for wood and water?” we began to ask of each
other; for the sun was within an hour of setting. At length a dark green
speck appeared, far off on the right; it was the top of a tree, peering
over a swell of the prairie; and leaving the trail, we made all haste
toward it. It proved to be the vanguard of a cluster of bushes and low
trees, that surrounded some pools of water in an extensive hollow; so we
encamped on the rising ground near it.
Shaw and I were sitting in the tent, when Delorier thrust his brown face
and old felt hat into the opening, and dilating his eyes to their utmost
extent, announced supper. There were the tin cups and the iron spoons,
arranged in military order on the grass, and the coffee-pot predominant in
the midst. The meal was soon dispatched; but Henry Chatillon still sat
cross-legged, dallying with the remnant of his coffee, the beverage in
universal use upon the prairie, and an especial favorite with him. He
preferred it in its virgin flavor, unimpaired by sugar or cream; and on
the present occasion it met his entire approval, being exceedingly strong,
or, as he expressed it, “right black.”
It was a rich and gorgeous sunset—an American sunset; and the ruddy
glow of the sky was reflected from some extensive pools of water among the
shadowy copses in the meadow below.
“I must have a bath to-night,” said Shaw. “How is it, Delorier? Any chance
for a swim down here?”
“Ah! I cannot tell; just as you please, monsieur,” replied Delorier,
shrugging his shoulders, perplexed by his ignorance of English, and
extremely anxious to conform in all respects to the opinion and wishes of
his bourgeois.
“Look at his moccasion,” said I. “It has evidently been lately immersed in
a profound abyss of black mud.”
“Come,” said Shaw; “at any rate we can see for ourselves.”
We set out together; and as we approached the bushes, which were at some
distance, we found the ground becoming rather treacherous. We could only
get along by stepping upon large clumps of tall rank grass, with
fathomless gulfs between, like innumerable little quaking islands in an
ocean of mud, where a false step would have involved our boots in a
catastrophe like that which had befallen Delorier’s moccasins. The thing
looked desperate; we separated, so as to search in different directions,
Shaw going off to the right, while I kept straight forward. At last I came
to the edge of the bushes: they were young waterwillows, covered with
their caterpillar-like blossoms, but intervening between them and the last
grass clump was a black and deep slough, over which, by a vigorous
exertion, I contrived to jump. Then I shouldered my way through the
willows, tramping them down by main force, till I came to a wide stream of
water, three inches deep, languidly creeping along over a bottom of sleek
mud. My arrival produced a great commotion. A huge green bull-frog uttered
an indignant croak, and jumped off the bank with a loud splash: his webbed
feet twinkled above the surface, as he jerked them energetically upward,
and I could see him ensconcing himself in the unresisting slime at the
bottom, whence several large air bubbles struggled lazily to the top. Some
little spotted frogs instantly followed the patriarch’s example; and then
three turtles, not larger than a dollar, tumbled themselves off a broad
“lily pad,” where they had been reposing. At the same time a snake, gayly
striped with black and yellow, glided out from the bank, and writhed
across to the other side; and a small stagnant pool into which my foot had
inadvertently pushed a stone was instantly alive with a congregation of
black tadpoles.
“Any chance for a bath, where you are?” called out Shaw, from a distance.
The answer was not encouraging. I retreated through the willows, and
rejoining my companion, we proceeded to push our researches in company.
Not far on the right, a rising ground, covered with trees and bushes,
seemed to sink down abruptly to the water, and give hope of better
success; so toward this we directed our steps. When we reached the place
we found it no easy matter to get along between the hill and the water,
impeded as we were by a growth of stiff, obstinate young birch-trees,
laced together by grapevines. In the twilight, we now and then, to support
ourselves, snatched at the touch-me-not stem of some ancient sweet-brier.
Shaw, who was in advance, suddenly uttered a somewhat emphatic
monosyllable; and looking up I saw him with one hand grasping a sapling,
and one foot immersed in the water, from which he had forgotten to
withdraw it, his whole attention being engaged in contemplating the
movements of a water-snake, about five feet long, curiously checkered with
black and green, who was deliberately swimming across the pool. There
being no stick or stone at hand to pelt him with, we looked at him for a
time in silent disgust; and then pushed forward. Our perseverence was at
last rewarded; for several rods farther on, we emerged upon a little level
grassy nook among the brushwood, and by an extraordinary dispensation of
fortune, the weeds and floating sticks, which elsewhere covered the pool,
seemed to have drawn apart, and left a few yards of clear water just in
front of this favored spot. We sounded it with a stick; it was four feet
deep; we lifted a specimen in our cupped hands; it seemed reasonably
transparent, so we decided that the time for action was arrived. But our
ablutions were suddenly interrupted by ten thousand punctures, like
poisoned needles, and the humming of myriads of over-grown mosquitoes,
rising in all directions from their native mud and slime and swarming to
the feast. We were fain to beat a retreat with all possible speed.
We made toward the tents, much refreshed by the bath which the heat of the
weather, joined to our prejudices, had rendered very desirable.
“What’s the matter with the captain? look at him!” said Shaw. The captain
stood alone on the prairie, swinging his hat violently around his head,
and lifting first one foot and then the other, without moving from the
spot. First he looked down to the ground with an air of supreme
abhorrence; then he gazed upward with a perplexed and indignant
countenance, as if trying to trace the flight of an unseen enemy. We
called to know what was the matter; but he replied only by execrations
directed against some unknown object. We approached, when our ears were
saluted by a droning sound, as if twenty bee-hives had been overturned at
once. The air above was full of large black insects, in a state of great
commotion, and multitudes were flying about just above the tops of the
grass blades.
“Don’t be afraid,” called the captain, observing us recoil. “The brutes
won’t sting.”
At this I knocked one down with my hat, and discovered him to be no other
than a “dorbug”; and looking closer, we found the ground thickly
perforated with their holes.
We took a hasty leave of this flourishing colony, and walking up the
rising ground to the tents, found Delorier’s fire still glowing brightly.
We sat down around it, and Shaw began to expatiate on the admirable
facilities for bathing that we had discovered, and recommended the captain
by all means to go down there before breakfast in the morning. The captain
was in the act of remarking that he couldn’t have believed it possible,
when he suddenly interrupted himself, and clapped his hand to his cheek,
exclaiming that “those infernal humbugs were at him again.” In fact, we
began to hear sounds as if bullets were humming over our heads. In a
moment something rapped me sharply on the forehead, then upon the neck,
and immediately I felt an indefinite number of sharp wiry claws in active
motion, as if their owner were bent on pushing his explorations farther. I
seized him, and dropped him into the fire. Our party speedily broke up,
and we adjourned to our respective tents, where, closing the opening fast,
we hoped to be exempt from invasion. But all precaution was fruitless. The
dorbugs hummed through the tent, and marched over our faces until
day-light; when, opening our blankets, we found several dozen clinging
there with the utmost tenacity. The first object that met our eyes in the
morning was Delorier, who seemed to be apostrophizing his frying-pan,
which he held by the handle at arm’s length. It appeared that he had left
it at night by the fire; and the bottom was now covered with dorbugs,
firmly imbedded. Multitudes beside, curiously parched and shriveled, lay
scattered among the ashes.
The horses and mules were turned loose to feed. We had just taken our
seats at breakfast, or rather reclined in the classic mode, when an
exclamation from Henry Chatillon, and a shout of alarm from the captain,
gave warning of some casualty, and looking up, we saw the whole band of
animals, twenty-three in number, filing off for the settlements, the
incorrigible Pontiac at their head, jumping along with hobbled feet, at a
gait much more rapid than graceful. Three or four of us ran to cut them
off, dashing as best we might through the tall grass, which was glittering
with myriads of dewdrops. After a race of a mile or more, Shaw caught a
horse. Tying the trail-rope by way of bridle round the animal’s jaw, and
leaping upon his back, he got in advance of the remaining fugitives, while
we, soon bringing them together, drove them in a crowd up to the tents,
where each man caught and saddled his own. Then we heard lamentations and
curses; for half the horses had broke their hobbles, and many were
seriously galled by attempting to run in fetters.
It was late that morning before we were on the march; and early in the
afternoon we were compelled to encamp, for a thunder-gust came up and
suddenly enveloped us in whirling sheets of rain. With much ado, we
pitched our tents amid the tempest, and all night long the thunder
bellowed and growled over our heads. In the morning, light peaceful
showers succeeded the cataracts of rain, that had been drenching us
through the canvas of our tents. About noon, when there were some
treacherous indications of fair weather, we got in motion again.
Not a breath of air stirred over the free and open prairie; the clouds
were like light piles of cotton; and where the blue sky was visible, it
wore a hazy and languid aspect. The sun beat down upon us with a sultry
penetrating heat almost insupportable, and as our party crept slowly along
over the interminable level, the horses hung their heads as they waded
fetlock deep through the mud, and the men slouched into the easiest
position upon the saddle. At last, toward evening, the old familiar black
heads of thunderclouds rose fast above the horizon, and the same deep
muttering of distant thunder that had become the ordinary accompaniment of
our afternoon’s journey began to roll hoarsely over the prairie. Only a
few minutes elapsed before the whole sky was densely shrouded, and the
prairie and some clusters of woods in front assumed a purple hue beneath
the inky shadows. Suddenly from the densest fold of the cloud the flash
leaped out, quivering again and again down to the edge of the prairie; and
at the same instant came the sharp burst and the long rolling peal of the
thunder. A cool wind, filled with the smell of rain, just then overtook
us, leveling the tall grass by the side of the path.
“Come on; we must ride for it!” shouted Shaw, rushing past at full speed,
his led horse snorting at his side. The whole party broke into full
gallop, and made for the trees in front. Passing these, we found beyond
them a meadow which they half inclosed. We rode pell-mell upon the ground,
leaped from horseback, tore off our saddles; and in a moment each man was
kneeling at his horse’s feet. The hobbles were adjusted, and the animals
turned loose; then, as the wagons came wheeling rapidly to the spot, we
seized upon the tent-poles, and just as the storm broke, we were prepared
to receive it. It came upon us almost with the darkness of night; the
trees, which were close at hand, were completely shrouded by the roaring
torrents of rain.
We were sitting in the tent, when Delorier, with his broad felt hat
hanging about his ears, and his shoulders glistening with rain, thrust in
his head.
“Voulez-vous du souper, tout de suite? I can make a fire, sous la charette—I
b’lieve so—I try.”
“Never mind supper, man; come in out of the rain.”
Delorier accordingly crouched in the entrance, for modesty would not
permit him to intrude farther.
Our tent was none of the best defense against such a cataract. The rain
could not enter bodily, but it beat through the canvas in a fine drizzle,
that wetted us just as effectively. We sat upon our saddles with faces of
the utmost surliness, while the water dropped from the vizors of our caps,
and trickled down our cheeks. My india-rubber cloak conducted twenty
little rapid streamlets to the ground; and Shaw’s blanket-coat was
saturated like a sponge. But what most concerned us was the sight of
several puddles of water rapidly accumulating; one in particular, that was
gathering around the tent-pole, threatened to overspread the whole area
within the tent, holding forth but an indifferent promise of a comfortable
night’s rest. Toward sunset, however, the storm ceased as suddenly as it
began. A bright streak of clear red sky appeared above the western verge
of the prairie, the horizontal rays of the sinking sun streamed through it
and glittered in a thousand prismatic colors upon the dripping groves and
the prostrate grass. The pools in the tent dwindled and sunk into the
saturated soil.
But all our hopes were delusive. Scarcely had night set in, when the
tumult broke forth anew. The thunder here is not like the tame thunder of
the Atlantic coast. Bursting with a terrific crash directly above our
heads, it roared over the boundless waste of prairie, seeming to roll
around the whole circle of the firmament with a peculiar and awful
reverberation. The lightning flashed all night, playing with its livid
glare upon the neighboring trees, revealing the vast expanse of the plain,
and then leaving us shut in as by a palpable wall of darkness.
It did not disturb us much. Now and then a peal awakened us, and made us
conscious of the electric battle that was raging, and of the floods that
dashed upon the stanch canvas over our heads. We lay upon india-rubber
cloths, placed between our blankets and the soil. For a while they
excluded the water to admiration; but when at length it accumulated and
began to run over the edges, they served equally well to retain it, so
that toward the end of the night we were unconsciously reposing in small
pools of rain.
On finally awaking in the morning the prospect was not a cheerful one. The
rain no longer poured in torrents; but it pattered with a quiet
pertinacity upon the strained and saturated canvas. We disengaged
ourselves from our blankets, every fiber of which glistened with little
beadlike drops of water, and looked out in vain hope of discovering some
token of fair weather. The clouds, in lead-colored volumes, rested upon
the dismal verge of the prairie, or hung sluggishly overhead, while the
earth wore an aspect no more attractive than the heavens, exhibiting
nothing but pools of water, grass beaten down, and mud well trampled by
our mules and horses. Our companions’ tent, with an air of forlorn and
passive misery, and their wagons in like manner, drenched and woe-begone,
stood not far off. The captain was just returning from his morning’s
inspection of the horses. He stalked through the mist and rain, with his
plaid around his shoulders; his little pipe, dingy as an antiquarian
relic, projecting from beneath his mustache, and his brother Jack at his
heels.
“Good-morning, captain.”
“Good-morning to your honors,” said the captain, affecting the Hibernian
accent; but at that instant, as he stooped to enter the tent, he tripped
upon the cords at the entrance, and pitched forward against the guns which
were strapped around the pole in the center.
“You are nice men, you are!” said he, after an ejaculation not necessary
to be recorded, “to set a man-trap before your door every morning to catch
your visitors.”
Then he sat down upon Henry Chatillon’s saddle. We tossed a piece of
buffalo robe to Jack, who was looking about in some embarrassment. He
spread it on the ground, and took his seat, with a stolid countenance, at
his brother’s side.
“Exhilarating weather, captain!”
“Oh, delightful, delightful!” replied the captain. “I knew it would be so;
so much for starting yesterday at noon! I knew how it would turn out; and
I said so at the time.”
“You said just the contrary to us. We were in no hurry, and only moved
because you insisted on it.”
“Gentlemen,” said the captain, taking his pipe from his mouth with an air
of extreme gravity, “it was no plan of mine. There is a man among us who
is determined to have everything his own way. You may express your
opinion; but don’t expect him to listen. You may be as reasonable as you
like: oh, it all goes for nothing! That man is resolved to rule the roost
and he’ll set his face against any plan that he didn’t think of himself.”
The captain puffed for a while at his pipe, as if meditating upon his
grievances; then he began again:
“For twenty years I have been in the British army; and in all that time I
never had half so much dissension, and quarreling, and nonsense, as since
I have been on this cursed prairie. He’s the most uncomfortable man I ever
met.”
“Yes,” said Jack; “and don’t you know, Bill, how he drank up all the
coffee last night, and put the rest by for himself till the morning!”
“He pretends to know everything,” resumed the captain; “nobody must give
orders but he! It’s, oh! we must do this; and, oh! we must do that; and
the tent must be pitched here, and the horses must be picketed there; for
nobody knows as well as he does.”
We were a little surprised at this disclosure of domestic dissensions
among our allies, for though we knew of their existence, we were not aware
of their extent. The persecuted captain seeming wholly at a loss as to the
course of conduct that he should pursue, we recommended him to adopt
prompt and energetic measures; but all his military experience had failed
to teach him the indispensable lesson to be “hard,” when the emergency
requires it.
“For twenty years,” he repeated, “I have been in the British army, and in
that time I have been intimately acquainted with some two hundred
officers, young and old, and I never yet quarreled with any man. Oh,
‘anything for a quiet life!’ that’s my maxim.”
We intimated that the prairie was hardly the place to enjoy a quiet life,
but that, in the present circumstances, the best thing he could do toward
securing his wished-for tranquillity, was immediately to put a period to
the nuisance that disturbed it. But again the captain’s easy good-nature
recoiled from the task. The somewhat vigorous measures necessary to gain
the desired result were utterly repugnant to him; he preferred to pocket
his grievances, still retaining the privilege of grumbling about them.
“Oh, anything for a quiet life!” he said again, circling back to his
favorite maxim.
But to glance at the previous history of our transatlantic confederates.
The captain had sold his commission, and was living in bachelor ease and
dignity in his paternal halls, near Dublin. He hunted, fished, rode
steeple-chases, ran races, and talked of his former exploits. He was
surrounded with the trophies of his rod and gun; the walls were
plentifully garnished, he told us, with moose-horns and deer-horns,
bear-skins, and fox-tails; for the captain’s double-barreled rifle had
seen service in Canada and Jamaica; he had killed salmon in Nova Scotia,
and trout, by his own account, in all the streams of the three kingdoms.
But in an evil hour a seductive stranger came from London; no less a
person than R., who, among other multitudinous wanderings, had once been
upon the western prairies, and naturally enough was anxious to visit them
again. The captain’s imagination was inflamed by the pictures of a
hunter’s paradise that his guest held forth; he conceived an ambition to
add to his other trophies the horns of a buffalo, and the claws of a
grizzly bear; so he and R. struck a league to travel in company. Jack
followed his brother, as a matter of course. Two weeks on board the
Atlantic steamer brought them to Boston; in two weeks more of hard
traveling they reached St. Louis, from which a ride of six days carried
them to the frontier; and here we found them, in full tide of preparation
for their journey.
We had been throughout on terms of intimacy with the captain, but R., the
motive power of our companions’ branch of the expedition, was scarcely
known to us. His voice, indeed, might be heard incessantly; but at camp he
remained chiefly within the tent, and on the road he either rode by
himself, or else remained in close conversation with his friend Wright,
the muleteer. As the captain left the tent that morning, I observed R.
standing by the fire, and having nothing else to do, I determined to
ascertain, if possible, what manner of man he was. He had a book under his
arm, but just at present he was engrossed in actively superintending the
operations of Sorel, the hunter, who was cooking some corn-bread over the
coals for breakfast. R. was a well-formed and rather good-looking man,
some thirty years old; considerably younger than the captain. He wore a
beard and mustache of the oakum complexion, and his attire was altogether
more elegant than one ordinarily sees on the prairie. He wore his cap on
one side of his head; his checked shirt, open in front, was in very neat
order, considering the circumstances, and his blue pantaloons, of the John
Bull cut, might once have figured in Bond Street.
“Turn over that cake, man! turn it over, quick! Don’t you see it burning?”
“It ain’t half done,” growled Sorel, in the amiable tone of a whipped
bull-dog.
“It is. Turn it over, I tell you!”
Sorel, a strong, sullen-looking Canadian, who from having spent his life
among the wildest and most remote of the Indian tribes, had imbibed much
of their dark, vindictive spirit, looked ferociously up, as if he longed
to leap upon his bourgeois and throttle him; but he obeyed the order,
coming from so experienced an artist.
“It was a good idea of yours,” said I, seating myself on the tongue of a
wagon, “to bring Indian meal with you.”
“Yes, yes” said R. “It’s good bread for the prairie—good bread for
the prairie. I tell you that’s burning again.”
Here he stooped down, and unsheathing the silver-mounted hunting-knife in
his belt, began to perform the part of cook himself; at the same time
requesting me to hold for a moment the book under his arm, which
interfered with the exercise of these important functions. I opened it; it
was “Macaulay’s Lays”; and I made some remark, expressing my admiration of
the work.
“Yes, yes; a pretty good thing. Macaulay can do better than that though. I
know him very well. I have traveled with him. Where was it we first met—at
Damascus? No, no; it was in Italy.”
“So,” said I, “you have been over the same ground with your countryman,
the author of ‘Eothen’? There has been some discussion in America as to
who he is. I have heard Milne’s name mentioned.”
“Milne’s? Oh, no, no, no; not at all. It was Kinglake; Kinglake’s the man.
I know him very well; that is, I have seen him.”
Here Jack C., who stood by, interposed a remark (a thing not common with
him), observing that he thought the weather would become fair before
twelve o’clock.
“It’s going to rain all day,” said R., “and clear up in the middle of the
night.”
Just then the clouds began to dissipate in a very unequivocal manner; but
Jack, not caring to defend his point against so authoritative a
declaration, walked away whistling, and we resumed our conversation.
“Borrow, the author of ‘The Bible in Spain,’ I presume you know him too?”
“Oh, certainly; I know all those men. By the way, they told me that one of
your American writers, Judge Story, had died lately. I edited some of his
works in London; not without faults, though.”
Here followed an erudite commentary on certain points of law, in which he
particularly animadverted on the errors into which he considered that the
judge had been betrayed. At length, having touched successively on an
infinite variety of topics, I found that I had the happiness of
discovering a man equally competent to enlighten me upon them all, equally
an authority on matters of science or literature, philosophy or fashion.
The part I bore in the conversation was by no means a prominent one; it
was only necessary to set him going, and when he had run long enough upon
one topic, to divert him to another and lead him on to pour out his heaps
of treasure in succession.
“What has that fellow been saying to you?” said Shaw, as I returned to the
tent. “I have heard nothing but his talking for the last half-hour.”
R. had none of the peculiar traits of the ordinary “British snob”; his
absurdities were all his own, belonging to no particular nation or clime.
He was possessed with an active devil that had driven him over land and
sea, to no great purpose, as it seemed; for although he had the usual
complement of eyes and ears, the avenues between these organs and his
brain appeared remarkably narrow and untrodden. His energy was much more
conspicuous than his wisdom; but his predominant characteristic was a
magnanimous ambition to exercise on all occasions an awful rule and
supremacy, and this propensity equally displayed itself, as the reader
will have observed, whether the matter in question was the baking of a
hoe-cake or a point of international law. When such diverse elements as he
and the easy-tempered captain came in contact, no wonder some commotion
ensued; R. rode roughshod, from morning till night, over his military
ally.
At noon the sky was clear and we set out, trailing through mud and slime
six inches deep. That night we were spared the customary infliction of the
shower bath.
On the next afternoon we were moving slowly along, not far from a patch of
woods which lay on the right. Jack C. rode a little in advance;
The livelong day he had not spoke;
when suddenly he faced about, pointed to the woods, and roared out to his
brother:
“O Bill! here’s a cow!”
The captain instantly galloped forward, and he and Jack made a vain
attempt to capture the prize; but the cow, with a well-grounded distrust
of their intentions, took refuge among the trees. R. joined them, and they
soon drove her out. We watched their evolutions as they galloped around
here, trying in vain to noose her with their trail-ropes, which they had
converted into lariettes for the occasion. At length they resorted to
milder measures, and the cow was driven along with the party. Soon after
the usual thunderstorm came up, the wind blowing with such fury that the
streams of rain flew almost horizontally along the prairie, roaring like a
cataract. The horses turned tail to the storm, and stood hanging their
heads, bearing the infliction with an air of meekness and resignation;
while we drew our heads between our shoulders, and crouched forward, so as
to make our backs serve as a pent-house for the rest of our persons.
Meanwhile the cow, taking advantage of the tumult, ran off, to the great
discomfiture of the captain, who seemed to consider her as his own
especial prize, since she had been discovered by Jack. In defiance of the
storm, he pulled his cap tight over his brows, jerked a huge buffalo
pistol from his holster, and set out at full speed after her. This was the
last we saw of them for some time, the mist and rain making an
impenetrable veil; but at length we heard the captain’s shout, and saw him
looming through the tempest, the picture of a Hibernian cavalier, with his
cocked pistol held aloft for safety’s sake, and a countenance of anxiety
and excitement. The cow trotted before him, but exhibited evident signs of
an intention to run off again, and the captain was roaring to us to head
her. But the rain had got in behind our coat collars, and was traveling
over our necks in numerous little streamlets, and being afraid to move our
heads, for fear of admitting more, we sat stiff and immovable, looking at
the captain askance, and laughing at his frantic movements. At last the
cow made a sudden plunge and ran off; the captain grasped his pistol
firmly, spurred his horse, and galloped after, with evident designs of
mischief. In a moment we heard the faint report, deadened by the rain, and
then the conqueror and his victim reappeared, the latter shot through the
body, and quite helpless. Not long after the storm moderated and we
advanced again. The cow walked painfully along under the charge of Jack,
to whom the captain had committed her, while he himself rode forward in
his old capacity of vedette. We were approaching a long line of trees,
that followed a stream stretching across our path, far in front, when we
beheld the vedette galloping toward us, apparently much excited, but with
a broad grin on his face.
“Let that cow drop behind!” he shouted to us; “here’s her owners!” And in
fact, as we approached the line of trees, a large white object, like a
tent, was visible behind them. On approaching, however, we found, instead
of the expected Mormon camp, nothing but the lonely prairie, and a large
white rock standing by the path. The cow therefore resumed her place in
our procession. She walked on until we encamped, when R. firmly
approaching with his enormous English double-barreled rifle, calmly and
deliberately took aim at her heart, and discharged into it first one
bullet and then the other. She was then butchered on the most approved
principles of woodcraft, and furnished a very welcome item to our somewhat
limited bill of fare.
In a day or two more we reached the river called the “Big Blue.” By titles
equally elegant, almost all the streams of this region are designated. We
had struggled through ditches and little brooks all that morning; but on
traversing the dense woods that lined the banks of the Blue, we found more
formidable difficulties awaited us, for the stream, swollen by the rains,
was wide, deep, and rapid.
No sooner were we on the spot than R. had flung off his clothes, and was
swimming across, or splashing through the shallows, with the end of a rope
between his teeth. We all looked on in admiration, wondering what might be
the design of this energetic preparation; but soon we heard him shouting:
“Give that rope a turn round that stump! You, Sorel: do you hear? Look
sharp now, Boisverd! Come over to this side, some of you, and help me!”
The men to whom these orders were directed paid not the least attention to
them, though they were poured out without pause or intermission. Henry
Chatillon directed the work, and it proceeded quietly and rapidly. R.‘s
sharp brattling voice might have been heard incessantly; and he was
leaping about with the utmost activity, multiplying himself, after the
manner of great commanders, as if his universal presence and supervision
were of the last necessity. His commands were rather amusingly
inconsistent; for when he saw that the men would not do as he told them,
he wisely accommodated himself to circumstances, and with the utmost
vehemence ordered them to do precisely that which they were at the time
engaged upon, no doubt recollecting the story of Mahomet and the
refractory mountain. Shaw smiled significantly; R. observed it, and,
approaching with a countenance of lofty indignation, began to vapor a
little, but was instantly reduced to silence.
The raft was at length complete. We piled our goods upon it, with the
exception of our guns, which each man chose to retain in his own keeping.
Sorel, Boisverd, Wright and Delorier took their stations at the four
corners, to hold it together, and swim across with it; and in a moment
more, all our earthly possessions were floating on the turbid waters of
the Big Blue. We sat on the bank, anxiously watching the result, until we
saw the raft safe landed in a little cove far down on the opposite bank.
The empty wagons were easily passed across; and then each man mounting a
horse, we rode through the stream, the stray animals following of their
own accord.
CHAPTER VI
THE PLATTE AND THE DESERT
We were now arrived at the close of our solitary journeyings along the St.
Joseph’s trail. On the evening of the 23d of May we encamped near its
junction with the old legitimate trail of the Oregon emigrants. We had
ridden long that afternoon, trying in vain to find wood and water, until
at length we saw the sunset sky reflected from a pool encircled by bushes
and a rock or two. The water lay in the bottom of a hollow, the smooth
prairie gracefully rising in oceanlike swells on every side. We pitched
our tents by it; not however before the keen eye of Henry Chatillon had
discerned some unusual object upon the faintly-defined outline of the
distant swell. But in the moist, hazy atmosphere of the evening, nothing
could be clearly distinguished. As we lay around the fire after supper, a
low and distant sound, strange enough amid the loneliness of the prairie,
reached our ears—peals of laughter, and the faint voices of men and
women. For eight days we had not encountered a human being, and this
singular warning of their vicinity had an effect extremely wild and
impressive.
About dark a sallow-faced fellow descended the hill on horseback, and
splashing through the pool rode up to the tents. He was enveloped in a
huge cloak, and his broad felt hat was weeping about his ears with the
drizzling moisture of the evening. Another followed, a stout,
square-built, intelligent-looking man, who announced himself as leader of
an emigrant party encamped a mile in advance of us. About twenty wagons,
he said, were with him; the rest of his party were on the other side of
the Big Blue, waiting for a woman who was in the pains of child-birth, and
quarreling meanwhile among themselves.
These were the first emigrants that we had overtaken, although we had
found abundant and melancholy traces of their progress throughout the
whole course of the journey. Sometimes we passed the grave of one who had
sickened and died on the way. The earth was usually torn up, and covered
thickly with wolf-tracks. Some had escaped this violation. One morning a
piece of plank, standing upright on the summit of a grassy hill, attracted
our notice, and riding up to it we found the following words very roughly
traced upon it, apparently by a red-hot piece of iron:
MARY ELLIS DIED MAY 7TH, 1845.
Aged two months.
Such tokens were of common occurrence, nothing could speak more for the
hardihood, or rather infatuation, of the adventurers, or the sufferings
that await them upon the journey.
We were late in breaking up our camp on the following morning, and
scarcely had we ridden a mile when we saw, far in advance of us, drawn
against the horizon, a line of objects stretching at regular intervals
along the level edge of the prairie. An intervening swell soon hid them
from sight, until, ascending it a quarter of an hour after, we saw close
before us the emigrant caravan, with its heavy white wagons creeping on in
their slow procession, and a large drove of cattle following behind. Half
a dozen yellow-visaged Missourians, mounted on horseback, were cursing and
shouting among them; their lank angular proportions enveloped in brown
homespun, evidently cut and adjusted by the hands of a domestic female
tailor. As we approached, they greeted us with the polished salutation:
“How are ye, boys? Are ye for Oregon or California?”
As we pushed rapidly past the wagons, children’s faces were thrust out
from the white coverings to look at us; while the care-worn, thin-featured
matron, or the buxom girl, seated in front, suspended the knitting on
which most of them were engaged to stare at us with wondering curiosity.
By the side of each wagon stalked the proprietor, urging on his patient
oxen, who shouldered heavily along, inch by inch, on their interminable
journey. It was easy to see that fear and dissension prevailed among them;
some of the men—but these, with one exception, were bachelors—looked
wistfully upon us as we rode lightly and swiftly past, and then
impatiently at their own lumbering wagons and heavy-gaited oxen. Others
were unwilling to advance at all until the party they had left behind
should have rejoined them. Many were murmuring against the leader they had
chosen, and wished to depose him; and this discontent was fermented by
some ambitious spirits, who had hopes of succeeding in his place. The
women were divided between regrets for the homes they had left and
apprehension of the deserts and the savages before them.
We soon left them far behind, and fondly hoped that we had taken a final
leave; but unluckily our companions’ wagon stuck so long in a deep muddy
ditch that, before it was extricated, the van of the emigrant caravan
appeared again, descending a ridge close at hand. Wagon after wagon
plunged through the mud; and as it was nearly noon, and the place promised
shade and water, we saw with much gratification that they were resolved to
encamp. Soon the wagons were wheeled into a circle; the cattle were
grazing over the meadow, and the men with sour, sullen faces, were looking
about for wood and water. They seemed to meet with but indifferent
success. As we left the ground, I saw a tall slouching fellow with the
nasal accent of “down east,” contemplating the contents of his tin cup,
which he had just filled with water.
“Look here, you,” he said; “it’s chock full of animals!”
The cup, as he held it out, exhibited in fact an extraordinary variety and
profusion of animal and vegetable life.
Riding up the little hill and looking back on the meadow, we could easily
see that all was not right in the camp of the emigrants. The men were
crowded together, and an angry discussion seemed to be going forward. R.
was missing from his wonted place in the line, and the captain told us
that he had remained behind to get his horse shod by a blacksmith who was
attached to the emigrant party. Something whispered in our ears that
mischief was on foot; we kept on, however, and coming soon to a stream of
tolerable water, we stopped to rest and dine. Still the absentee lingered
behind. At last, at the distance of a mile, he and his horse suddenly
appeared, sharply defined against the sky on the summit of a hill; and
close behind, a huge white object rose slowly into view.
“What is that blockhead bringing with him now?”
A moment dispelled the mystery. Slowly and solemnly one behind the other,
four long trains of oxen and four emigrant wagons rolled over the crest of
the declivity and gravely descended, while R. rode in state in the van. It
seems that, during the process of shoeing the horse, the smothered
dissensions among the emigrants suddenly broke into open rupture. Some
insisted on pushing forward, some on remaining where they were, and some
on going back. Kearsley, their captain, threw up his command in disgust.
“And now, boys,” said he, “if any of you are for going ahead, just you
come along with me.”
Four wagons, with ten men, one woman, and one small child, made up the
force of the “go-ahead” faction, and R., with his usual proclivity toward
mischief, invited them to join our party. Fear of the Indians—for I
can conceive of no other motive—must have induced him to court so
burdensome an alliance. As may well be conceived, these repeated instances
of high-handed dealing sufficiently exasperated us. In this case, indeed,
the men who joined us were all that could be desired; rude indeed in
manner, but frank, manly, and intelligent. To tell them we could not
travel with them was of course out of the question. I merely reminded
Kearsley that if his oxen could not keep up with our mules he must expect
to be left behind, as we could not consent to be further delayed on the
journey; but he immediately replied, that his oxen “SHOULD keep up; and if
they couldn’t, why he allowed that he’d find out how to make ‘em!” Having
availed myself of what satisfaction could be derived from giving R. to
understand my opinion of his conduct, I returned to our side of the camp.
On the next day, as it chanced, our English companions broke the axle-tree
of their wagon, and down came the whole cumbrous machine lumbering into
the bed of a brook! Here was a day’s work cut out for us. Meanwhile, our
emigrant associates kept on their way, and so vigorously did they urge
forward their powerful oxen that, with the broken axle-tree and other
calamities, it was full a week before we overtook them; when at length we
discovered them, one afternoon, crawling quietly along the sandy brink of
the Platte. But meanwhile various incidents occurred to ourselves.
It was probable that at this stage of our journey the Pawnees would
attempt to rob us. We began therefore to stand guard in turn, dividing the
night into three watches, and appointing two men for each. Delorier and I
held guard together. We did not march with military precision to and fro
before the tents; our discipline was by no means so stringent and rigid.
We wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and sat down by the fire; and
Delorier, combining his culinary functions with his duties as sentinel,
employed himself in boiling the head of an antelope for our morning’s
repast. Yet we were models of vigilance in comparison with some of the
party; for the ordinary practice of the guard was to establish himself in
the most comfortable posture he could; lay his rifle on the ground, and
enveloping his nose in the blanket, meditate on his mistress, or whatever
subject best pleased him. This is all well enough when among Indians who
do not habitually proceed further in their hostility than robbing
travelers of their horses and mules, though, indeed, a Pawnee’s
forebearance is not always to be trusted; but in certain regions farther
to the west, the guard must beware how he exposes his person to the light
of the fire, lest perchance some keen-eyed skulking marksman should let
fly a bullet or an arrow from amid the darkness.
Among various tales that circulated around our camp fire was a rather
curious one, told by Boisverd, and not inappropriate here. Boisverd was
trapping with several companions on the skirts of the Blackfoot country.
The man on guard, well knowing that it behooved him to put forth his
utmost precaution, kept aloof from the firelight, and sat watching
intently on all sides. At length he was aware of a dark, crouching figure,
stealing noiselessly into the circle of the light. He hastily cocked his
rifle, but the sharp click of the lock caught the ear of Blackfoot, whose
senses were all on the alert. Raising his arrow, already fitted to the
string, he shot in the direction of the sound. So sure was his aim that he
drove it through the throat of the unfortunate guard, and then, with a
loud yell, bounded from the camp.
As I looked at the partner of my watch, puffing and blowing over his fire,
it occurred to me that he might not prove the most efficient auxiliary in
time of trouble.
“Delorier,” said I, “would you run away if the Pawnees should fire at us?”
“Ah! oui, oui, monsieur!” he replied very decisively.
I did not doubt the fact, but was a little surprised at the frankness of
the confession.
At this instant a most whimsical variety of voices—barks, howls,
yelps, and whines—all mingled as it were together, sounded from the
prairie, not far off, as if a whole conclave of wolves of every age and
sex were assembled there. Delorier looked up from his work with a laugh,
and began to imitate this curious medley of sounds with a most ludicrous
accuracy. At this they were repeated with redoubled emphasis, the musician
being apparently indignant at the successful efforts of a rival. They all
proceeded from the throat of one little wolf, not larger than a spaniel,
seated by himself at some distance. He was of the species called the
prairie wolf; a grim-visaged, but harmless little brute, whose worst
propensity is creeping among horses and gnawing the ropes of raw hide by
which they are picketed around the camp. But other beasts roam the
prairies, far more formidable in aspect and in character. These are the
large white and gray wolves, whose deep howl we heard at intervals from
far and near.
At last I fell into a doze, and, awakening from it, found Delorier fast
asleep. Scandalized by this breach of discipline, I was about to stimulate
his vigilance by stirring him with the stock of my rifle; but compassion
prevailing, I determined to let him sleep awhile, and then to arouse him,
and administer a suitable reproof for such a forgetfulness of duty. Now
and then I walked the rounds among the silent horses, to see that all was
right. The night was chill, damp, and dark, the dank grass bending under
the icy dewdrops. At the distance of a rod or two the tents were
invisible, and nothing could be seen but the obscure figures of the
horses, deeply breathing, and restlessly starting as they slept, or still
slowly champing the grass. Far off, beyond the black outline of the
prairie, there was a ruddy light, gradually increasing, like the glow of a
conflagration; until at length the broad disk of the moon, blood-red, and
vastly magnified by the vapors, rose slowly upon the darkness, flecked by
one or two little clouds, and as the light poured over the gloomy plain, a
fierce and stern howl, close at hand, seemed to greet it as an unwelcome
intruder. There was something impressive and awful in the place and the
hour; for I and the beasts were all that had consciousness for many a
league around.
Some days elapsed, and brought us near the Platte. Two men on horseback
approached us one morning, and we watched them with the curiosity and
interest that, upon the solitude of the plains, such an encounter always
excites. They were evidently whites, from their mode of riding, though,
contrary to the usage of that region, neither of them carried a rifle.
“Fools!” remarked Henry Chatillon, “to ride that way on the prairie;
Pawnee find them—then they catch it!”
Pawnee HAD found them, and they had come very near “catching it”; indeed,
nothing saved them from trouble but the approach of our party. Shaw and I
knew one of them; a man named Turner, whom we had seen at Westport. He and
his companion belonged to an emigrant party encamped a few miles in
advance, and had returned to look for some stray oxen, leaving their
rifles, with characteristic rashness or ignorance behind them. Their
neglect had nearly cost them dear; for just before we came up, half a
dozen Indians approached, and seeing them apparently defenseless, one of
the rascals seized the bridle of Turner’s fine horse, and ordered him to
dismount. Turner was wholly unarmed; but the other jerked a little
revolving pistol out of his pocket, at which the Pawnee recoiled; and just
then some of our men appearing in the distance, the whole party whipped
their rugged little horses, and made off. In no way daunted, Turner
foolishly persisted in going forward.
Long after leaving him, and late this afternoon, in the midst of a gloomy
and barren prairie, we came suddenly upon the great Pawnee trail, leading
from their villages on the Platte to their war and hunting grounds to the
southward. Here every summer pass the motley concourse; thousands of
savages, men, women, and children, horses and mules, laden with their
weapons and implements, and an innumerable multitude of unruly wolfish
dogs, who have not acquired the civilized accomplishment of barking, but
howl like their wild cousins of the prairie.
The permanent winter villages of the Pawnees stand on the lower Platte,
but throughout the summer the greater part of the inhabitants are
wandering over the plains, a treacherous cowardly banditti, who by a
thousand acts of pillage and murder have deserved summary chastisement at
the hands of government. Last year a Dakota warrior performed a signal
exploit at one of these villages. He approached it alone in the middle of
a dark night, and clambering up the outside of one of the lodges which are
in the form of a half-sphere, he looked in at the round hole made at the
top for the escape of smoke. The dusky light from the smoldering embers
showed him the forms of the sleeping inmates; and dropping lightly through
the opening, he unsheathed his knife, and stirring the fire coolly
selected his victims. One by one he stabbed and scalped them, when a child
suddenly awoke and screamed. He rushed from the lodge, yelled a Sioux
war-cry, shouted his name in triumph and defiance, and in a moment had
darted out upon the dark prairie, leaving the whole village behind him in
a tumult, with the howling and baying of dogs, the screams of women and
the yells of the enraged warriors.
Our friend Kearsley, as we learned on rejoining him, signalized himself by
a less bloody achievement. He and his men were good woodsmen, and well
skilled in the use of the rifle, but found themselves wholly out of their
element on the prairie. None of them had ever seen a buffalo and they had
very vague conceptions of his nature and appearance. On the day after they
reached the Platte, looking toward a distant swell, they beheld a
multitude of little black specks in motion upon its surface.
“Take your rifles, boys,” said Kearslcy, “and we’ll have fresh meat for
supper.” This inducement was quite sufficient. The ten men left their
wagons and set out in hot haste, some on horseback and some on foot, in
pursuit of the supposed buffalo. Meanwhile a high grassy ridge shut the
game from view; but mounting it after half an hour’s running and riding,
they found themselves suddenly confronted by about thirty mounted Pawnees!
The amazement and consternation were mutual. Having nothing but their bows
and arrows, the Indians thought their hour was come, and the fate that
they were no doubt conscious of richly deserving about to overtake them.
So they began, one and all, to shout forth the most cordial salutations of
friendship, running up with extreme earnestness to shake hands with the
Missourians, who were as much rejoiced as they were to escape the expected
conflict.
A low undulating line of sand-hills bounded the horizon before us. That
day we rode ten consecutive hours, and it was dusk before we entered the
hollows and gorges of these gloomy little hills. At length we gained the
summit, and the long expected valley of the Platte lay before us. We all
drew rein, and, gathering in a knot on the crest of the hill, sat joyfully
looking down upon the prospect. It was right welcome; strange too, and
striking to the imagination, and yet it had not one picturesque or
beautiful feature; nor had it any of the features of grandeur, other than
its vast extent, its solitude, and its wilderness. For league after league
a plain as level as a frozen lake was outspread beneath us; here and there
the Platte, divided into a dozen threadlike sluices, was traversing it,
and an occasional clump of wood, rising in the midst like a shadowy
island, relieved the monotony of the waste. No living thing was moving
throughout the vast landscape, except the lizards that darted over the
sand and through the rank grass and prickly-pear just at our feet. And yet
stern and wild associations gave a singular interest to the view; for here
each man lives by the strength of his arm and the valor of his heart. Here
society is reduced to its original elements, the whole fabric of art and
conventionality is struck rudely to pieces, and men find themselves
suddenly brought back to the wants and resources of their original
natures.
We had passed the more toilsome and monotonous part of the journey; but
four hundred miles still intervened between us and Fort Laramie; and to
reach that point cost us the travel of three additional weeks. During the
whole of this time we were passing up the center of a long narrow sandy
plain, reaching like an outstretched belt nearly to the Rocky Mountains.
Two lines of sand-hills, broken often into the wildest and most fantastic
forms, flanked the valley at the distance of a mile or two on the right
and left; while beyond them lay a barren, trackless waste—The Great
American Desert—extending for hundreds of miles to the Arkansas on
the one side, and the Missouri on the other. Before us and behind us, the
level monotony of the plain was unbroken as far as the eye could reach.
Sometimes it glared in the sun, an expanse of hot, bare sand; sometimes it
was veiled by long coarse grass. Huge skulls and whitening bones of
buffalo were scattered everywhere; the ground was tracked by myriads of
them, and often covered with the circular indentations where the bulls had
wallowed in the hot weather. From every gorge and ravine, opening from the
hills, descended deep, well-worn paths, where the buffalo issue twice a
day in regular procession down to drink in the Platte. The river itself
runs through the midst, a thin sheet of rapid, turbid water, half a mile
wide, and scarce two feet deep. Its low banks for the most part without a
bush or a tree, are of loose sand, with which the stream is so charged
that it grates on the teeth in drinking. The naked landscape is, of
itself, dreary and monotonous enough, and yet the wild beasts and wild men
that frequent the valley of the Platte make it a scene of interest and
excitement to the traveler. Of those who have journeyed there, scarce one,
perhaps, fails to look back with fond regret to his horse and his rifle.
Early in the morning after we reached the Platte, a long procession of
squalid savages approached our camp. Each was on foot, leading his horse
by a rope of bull-hide. His attire consisted merely of a scanty cincture
and an old buffalo robe, tattered and begrimed by use, which hung over his
shoulders. His head was close shaven, except a ridge of hair reaching over
the crown from the center of the forehead, very much like the long
bristles on the back of a hyena, and he carried his bow and arrows in his
hand, while his meager little horse was laden with dried buffalo meat, the
produce of his hunting. Such were the first specimens that we met—and
very indifferent ones they were—of the genuine savages of the
prairie.
They were the Pawnees whom Kearsley had encountered the day before, and
belonged to a large hunting party known to be ranging the prairie in the
vicinity. They strode rapidly past, within a furlong of our tents, not
pausing or looking toward us, after the manner of Indians when meditating
mischief or conscious of ill-desert. I went out and met them; and had an
amicable conference with the chief, presenting him with half a pound of
tobacco, at which unmerited bounty he expressed much gratification. These
fellows, or some of their companions had committed a dastardly outrage
upon an emigrant party in advance of us. Two men, out on horseback at a
distance, were seized by them, but lashing their horses, they broke loose
and fled. At this the Pawnees raised the yell and shot at them,
transfixing the hindermost through the back with several arrows, while his
companion galloped away and brought in the news to his party. The
panic-stricken emigrants remained for several days in camp, not daring
even to send out in quest of the dead body.
The reader will recollect Turner, the man whose narrow escape was
mentioned not long since. We heard that the men, whom the entreaties of
his wife induced to go in search of him, found him leisurely driving along
his recovered oxen, and whistling in utter contempt of the Pawnee nation.
His party was encamped within two miles of us; but we passed them that
morning, while the men were driving in the oxen, and the women packing
their domestic utensils and their numerous offspring in the spacious
patriarchal wagons. As we looked back we saw their caravan dragging its
slow length along the plain; wearily toiling on its way, to found new
empires in the West.
Our New England climate is mild and equable compared with that of the
Platte. This very morning, for instance, was close and sultry, the sun
rising with a faint oppressive heat; when suddenly darkness gathered in
the west, and a furious blast of sleet and hail drove full in our faces,
icy cold, and urged with such demoniac vehemence that it felt like a storm
of needles. It was curious to see the horses; they faced about in extreme
displeasure, holding their tails like whipped dogs, and shivering as the
angry gusts, howling louder than a concert of wolves, swept over us.
Wright’s long train of mules came sweeping round before the storm like a
flight of brown snowbirds driven by a winter tempest. Thus we all remained
stationary for some minutes, crouching close to our horses’ necks, much
too surly to speak, though once the captain looked up from between the
collars of his coat, his face blood-red, and the muscles of his mouth
contracted by the cold into a most ludicrous grin of agony. He grumbled
something that sounded like a curse, directed as we believed, against the
unhappy hour when he had first thought of leaving home. The thing was too
good to last long; and the instant the puffs of wind subsided we erected
our tents, and remained in camp for the rest of a gloomy and lowering day.
The emigrants also encamped near at hand. We, being first on the ground,
had appropriated all the wood within reach; so that our fire alone blazed
cheerfully. Around it soon gathered a group of uncouth figures, shivering
in the drizzling rain. Conspicuous among them were two or three of the
half-savage men who spend their reckless lives in trapping among the Rocky
Mountains, or in trading for the Fur Company in the Indian villages. They
were all of Canadian extraction; their hard, weather-beaten faces and
bushy mustaches looked out from beneath the hoods of their white capotes
with a bad and brutish expression, as if their owner might be the willing
agent of any villainy. And such in fact is the character of many of these
men.
On the day following we overtook Kearsley’s wagons, and thenceforward, for
a week or two, we were fellow-travelers. One good effect, at least,
resulted from the alliance; it materially diminished the serious fatigue
of standing guard; for the party being now more numerous, there were
longer intervals between each man’s turns of duty.
CHAPTER VII
THE BUFFALO
Four days on the Platte, and yet no buffalo! Last year’s signs of them
were provokingly abundant; and wood being extremely scarce, we found an
admirable substitute in bois de vache, which burns exactly like peat,
producing no unpleasant effects. The wagons one morning had left the camp;
Shaw and I were already on horseback, but Henry Chatillon still sat
cross-legged by the dead embers of the fire, playing pensively with the
lock of his rifle, while his sturdy Wyandotte pony stood quietly behind
him, looking over his head. At last he got up, patted the neck of the pony
(whom, from an exaggerated appreciation of his merits, he had christened
“Five Hundred Dollar”), and then mounted with a melancholy air.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Ah, I feel lonesome; I never been here before; but I see away yonder over
the buttes, and down there on the prairie, black—all black with
buffalo!”
In the afternoon he and I left the party in search of an antelope; until
at the distance of a mile or two on the right, the tall white wagons and
the little black specks of horsemen were just visible, so slowly advancing
that they seemed motionless; and far on the left rose the broken line of
scorched, desolate sand-hills. The vast plain waved with tall rank grass
that swept our horses’ bellies; it swayed to and fro in billows with the
light breeze, and far and near antelope and wolves were moving through it,
the hairy backs of the latter alternately appearing and disappearing as
they bounded awkwardly along; while the antelope, with the simple
curiosity peculiar to them, would often approach as closely, their little
horns and white throats just visible above the grass tops, as they gazed
eagerly at us with their round black eyes.
I dismounted, and amused myself with firing at the wolves. Henry
attentively scrutinized the surrounding landscape; at length he gave a
shout, and called on me to mount again, pointing in the direction of the
sand-hills. A mile and a half from us, two minute black specks slowly
traversed the face of one of the bare glaring declivities, and disappeared
behind the summit. “Let us go!” cried Henry, belaboring the sides of Five
Hundred Dollar; and I following in his wake, we galloped rapidly through
the rank grass toward the base of the hills.
From one of their openings descended a deep ravine, widening as it issued
on the prairie. We entered it, and galloping up, in a moment were
surrounded by the bleak sand-hills. Half of their steep sides were bare;
the rest were scantily clothed with clumps of grass, and various uncouth
plants, conspicuous among which appeared the reptile-like prickly-pear.
They were gashed with numberless ravines; and as the sky had suddenly
darkened, and a cold gusty wind arisen, the strange shrubs and the dreary
hills looked doubly wild and desolate. But Henry’s face was all eagerness.
He tore off a little hair from the piece of buffalo robe under his saddle,
and threw it up, to show the course of the wind. It blew directly before
us. The game were therefore to windward, and it was necessary to make our
best speed to get around them.
We scrambled from this ravine, and galloping away through the hollows,
soon found another, winding like a snake among the hills, and so deep that
it completely concealed us. We rode up the bottom of it, glancing through
the shrubbery at its edge, till Henry abruptly jerked his rein, and slid
out of his saddle. Full a quarter of a mile distant, on the outline of the
farthest hill, a long procession of buffalo were walking, in Indian file,
with the utmost gravity and deliberation; then more appeared, clambering
from a hollow not far off, and ascending, one behind the other, the grassy
slope of another hill; then a shaggy head and a pair of short broken horns
appeared issuing out of a ravine close at hand, and with a slow, stately
step, one by one, the enormous brutes came into view, taking their way
across the valley, wholly unconscious of an enemy. In a moment Henry was
worming his way, lying flat on the ground, through grass and
prickly-pears, toward his unsuspecting victims. He had with him both my
rifle and his own. He was soon out of sight, and still the buffalo kept
issuing into the valley. For a long time all was silent. I sat holding his
horse, and wondering what he was about, when suddenly, in rapid
succession, came the sharp reports of the two rifles, and the whole line
of buffalo, quickening their pace into a clumsy trot, gradually
disappeared over the ridge of the hill. Henry rose to his feet, and stood
looking after them.
“You have missed them,” said I.
“Yes,” said Henry; “let us go.” He descended into the ravine, loaded the
rifles, and mounted his horse.
We rode up the hill after the buffalo. The herd was out of sight when we
reached the top, but lying on the grass not far off, was one quite
lifeless, and another violently struggling in the death agony.
“You see I miss him!” remarked Henry. He had fired from a distance of more
than a hundred and fifty yards, and both balls had passed through the
lungs—the true mark in shooting buffalo.
The darkness increased, and a driving storm came on. Tying our horses to
the horns of the victims, Henry began the bloody work of dissection,
slashing away with the science of a connoisseur, while I vainly endeavored
to imitate him. Old Hendrick recoiled with horror and indignation when I
endeavored to tie the meat to the strings of raw hide, always carried for
this purpose, dangling at the back of the saddle. After some difficulty we
overcame his scruples; and heavily burdened with the more eligible
portions of the buffalo, we set out on our return. Scarcely had we emerged
from the labyrinth of gorges and ravines, and issued upon the open
prairie, when the pricking sleet came driving, gust upon gust, directly in
our faces. It was strangely dark, though wanting still an hour of sunset.
The freezing storm soon penetrated to the skin, but the uneasy trot of our
heavy-gaited horses kept us warm enough, as we forced them unwillingly in
the teeth of the sleet and rain, by the powerful suasion of our Indian
whips. The prairie in this place was hard and level. A flourishing colony
of prairie dogs had burrowed into it in every direction, and the little
mounds of fresh earth around their holes were about as numerous as the
hills in a cornfield; but not a yelp was to be heard; not the nose of a
single citizen was visible; all had retired to the depths of their
burrows, and we envied them their dry and comfortable habitations. An
hour’s hard riding showed us our tent dimly looming through the storm, one
side puffed out by the force of the wind, and the other collapsed in
proportion, while the disconsolate horses stood shivering close around,
and the wind kept up a dismal whistling in the boughs of three old
half-dead trees above. Shaw, like a patriarch, sat on his saddle in the
entrance, with a pipe in his mouth, and his arms folded, contemplating,
with cool satisfaction, the piles of meat that we flung on the ground
before him. A dark and dreary night succeeded; but the sun rose with heat
so sultry and languid that the captain excused himself on that account
from waylaying an old buffalo bull, who with stupid gravity was walking
over the prairie to drink at the river. So much for the climate of the
Platte!
But it was not the weather alone that had produced this sudden abatement
of the sportsmanlike zeal which the captain had always professed. He had
been out on the afternoon before, together with several members of his
party; but their hunting was attended with no other result than the loss
of one of their best horses, severely injured by Sorel, in vainly chasing
a wounded bull. The captain, whose ideas of hard riding were all derived
from transatlantic sources, expressed the utmost amazement at the feats of
Sorel, who went leaping ravines, and dashing at full speed up and down the
sides of precipitous hills, lashing his horse with the recklessness of a
Rocky Mountain rider. Unfortunately for the poor animal he was the
property of R., against whom Sorel entertained an unbounded aversion. The
captain himself, it seemed, had also attempted to “run” a buffalo, but
though a good and practiced horseman, he had soon given over the attempt,
being astonished and utterly disgusted at the nature of the ground he was
required to ride over.
Nothing unusual occurred on that day; but on the following morning Henry
Chatillon, looking over the oceanlike expanse, saw near the foot of the
distant hills something that looked like a band of buffalo. He was not
sure, he said, but at all events, if they were buffalo, there was a fine
chance for a race. Shaw and I at once determined to try the speed of our
horses.
“Come, captain; we’ll see which can ride hardest, a Yankee or an
Irishman.”
But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance. He mounted his
led horse, however, though very slowly; and we set out at a trot. The game
appeared about three miles distant. As we proceeded the captain made
various remarks of doubt and indecision; and at length declared he would
have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that he had
ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew what riding
was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo day before yesterday.
“I am convinced,” said the captain, “that, ‘running’ is out of the
question.* Take my advice now and don’t attempt it. It’s dangerous, and of
no use at all.”
“Then why did you come out with us? What do you mean to do?”
“I shall ‘approach,’” replied the captain.
“You don’t mean to ‘approach’ with your pistols, do you? We have all of us
left our rifles in the wagons.”
The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion. In his characteristic
indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, “running” and “approaching”
were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain. He trotted on in
silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind and slowly
walked his horse back to rejoin the party. Shaw and I kept on; when lo! as
we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into certain clumps of
tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable distance. At this
ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed the example of our late
ally, and turned back toward the party. We were skirting the brink of a
deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the broad-chested pony coming toward us
at a gallop.
“Here’s old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!” shouted Henry,
long before he came up. We had for some days expected this encounter.
Papin was the bourgeois of Fort Laramie. He had come down the river with
the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter’s
trading. I had among our baggage a letter which I wished to commit to
their hands; so requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until my
return, I set out after the wagons. They were about four miles in advance.
In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back upon the
trail, and looking carefully, as I rode, saw a patch of broken,
storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like
men and horses. Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly. The
boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to the
shore, to escape being borne down by the swift current. The rowers,
swarthy ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look, as I
reached the bank. Papin sat in the middle of one of the boats upon the
canvas covering that protected the robes. He was a stout, robust fellow,
with a little gray eye, that had a peculiarly sly twinkle. “Frederic” also
stretched his tall rawboned proportions close by the bourgeois, and
“mountain-men” completed the group; some lounging in the boats, some
strolling on shore; some attired in gayly painted buffalo robes, like
Indian dandies; some with hair saturated with red paint, and beplastered
with glue to their temples; and one bedaubed with vermilion upon his
forehead and each cheek. They were a mongrel race; yet the French blood
seemed to predominate; in a few, indeed, might be seen the black snaky eye
of the Indian half-breed, and one and all, they seemed to aim at
assimilating themselves to their savage associates.
I shook hands with the bourgeois, and delivered the letter; then the boats
swung round into the stream and floated away. They had reason for haste,
for already the voyage from Fort Laramie had occupied a full month, and
the river was growing daily more shallow. Fifty times a day the boats had
been aground, indeed; those who navigate the Platte invariably spend half
their time upon sand-bars. Two of these boats, the property of private
traders, afterward separating from the rest, got hopelessly involved in
the shallows, not very far from the Pawnee villages, and were soon
surrounded by a swarm of the inhabitants. They carried off everything that
they considered valuable, including most of the robes; and amused
themselves by tying up the men left on guard and soundly whipping them
with sticks.
We encamped that night upon the bank of the river. Among the emigrants
there was an overgrown boy, some eighteen years old, with a head as round
and about as large as a pumpkin, and fever-and-ague fits had dyed his face
of a corresponding color. He wore an old white hat, tied under his chin
with a handkerchief; his body was short and stout, but his legs of
disproportioned and appalling length. I observed him at sunset, breasting
the hill with gigantic strides, and standing against the sky on the
summit, like a colossal pair of tongs. In a moment after we heard him
screaming frantically behind the ridge, and nothing doubting that he was
in the clutches of Indians or grizzly bears, some of the party caught up
their rifles and ran to the rescue. His outcries, however, proved but an
ebullition of joyous excitement; he had chased two little wolf pups to
their burrow, and he was on his knees, grubbing away like a dog at the
mouth of the hole, to get at them.
Before morning he caused more serious disquiet in the camp. It was his
turn to hold the middle guard; but no sooner was he called up, than he
coolly arranged a pair of saddle-bags under a wagon, laid his head upon
them, closed his eyes, opened his mouth and fell asleep. The guard on our
side of the camp, thinking it no part of his duty to look after the cattle
of the emigrants, contented himself with watching our own horses and
mules; the wolves, he said, were unusually noisy; but still no mischief
was anticipated until the sun rose, and not a hoof or horn was in sight!
The cattle were gone! While Tom was quietly slumbering, the wolves had
driven them away.
Then we reaped the fruits of R.‘s precious plan of traveling in company
with emigrants. To leave them in their distress was not to be thought of,
and we felt bound to wait until the cattle could be searched for, and, if
possible, recovered. But the reader may be curious to know what punishment
awaited the faithless Tom. By the wholesome law of the prairie, he who
falls asleep on guard is condemned to walk all day leading his horse by
the bridle, and we found much fault with our companions for not enforcing
such a sentence on the offender. Nevertheless had he been of our party, I
have no doubt he would in like manner have escaped scot-free. But the
emigrants went farther than mere forebearance; they decreed that since Tom
couldn’t stand guard without falling asleep, he shouldn’t stand guard at
all, and henceforward his slumbers were unbroken. Establishing such a
premium on drowsiness could have no very beneficial effect upon the
vigilance of our sentinels; for it is far from agreeable, after riding
from sunrise to sunset, to feel your slumbers interrupted by the butt of a
rifle nudging your side, and a sleepy voice growling in your ear that you
must get up, to shiver and freeze for three weary hours at midnight.
“Buffalo! buffalo!” It was but a grim old bull, roaming the prairie by
himself in misanthropic seclusion; but there might be more behind the
hills. Dreading the monotony and languor of the camp, Shaw and I saddled
our horses, buckled our holsters in their places, and set out with Henry
Chatillon in search of the game. Henry, not intending to take part in the
chase, but merely conducting us, carried his rifle with him, while we left
ours behind as incumbrances. We rode for some five or six miles, and saw
no living thing but wolves, snakes, and prairie dogs.
“This won’t do at all,” said Shaw.
“What won’t do?”
“There’s no wood about here to make a litter for the wounded man; I have
an idea that one of us will need something of the sort before the day is
over.”
There was some foundation for such an apprehension, for the ground was
none of the best for a race, and grew worse continually as we proceeded;
indeed it soon became desperately bad, consisting of abrupt hills and deep
hollows, cut by frequent ravines not easy to pass. At length, a mile in
advance, we saw a band of bulls. Some were scattered grazing over a green
declivity, while the rest were crowded more densely together in the wide
hollow below. Making a circuit to keep out of sight, we rode toward them
until we ascended a hill within a furlong of them, beyond which nothing
intervened that could possibly screen us from their view. We dismounted
behind the ridge just out of sight, drew our saddle-girths, examined our
pistols, and mounting again rode over the hill, and descended at a canter
toward them, bending close to our horses’ necks. Instantly they took the
alarm; those on the hill descended; those below gathered into a mass, and
the whole got in motion, shouldering each other along at a clumsy gallop.
We followed, spurring our horses to full speed; and as the herd rushed,
crowding and trampling in terror through an opening in the hills, we were
close at their heels, half suffocated by the clouds of dust. But as we
drew near, their alarm and speed increased; our horses showed signs of the
utmost fear, bounding violently aside as we approached, and refusing to
enter among the herd. The buffalo now broke into several small bodies,
scampering over the hills in different directions, and I lost sight of
Shaw; neither of us knew where the other had gone. Old Pontiac ran like a
frantic elephant up hill and down hill, his ponderous hoofs striking the
prairie like sledge-hammers. He showed a curious mixture of eagerness and
terror, straining to overtake the panic-stricken herd, but constantly
recoiling in dismay as we drew near. The fugitives, indeed, offered no
very attractive spectacle, with their enormous size and weight, their
shaggy manes and the tattered remnants of their last winter’s hair
covering their backs in irregular shreds and patches, and flying off in
the wind as they ran. At length I urged my horse close behind a bull, and
after trying in vain, by blows and spurring, to bring him alongside, I
shot a bullet into the buffalo from this disadvantageous position. At the
report, Pontiac swerved so much that I was again thrown a little behind
the game. The bullet, entering too much in the rear, failed to disable the
bull, for a buffalo requires to be shot at particular points, or he will
certainly escape. The herd ran up a hill, and I followed in pursuit. As
Pontiac rushed headlong down on the other side, I saw Shaw and Henry
descending the hollow on the right, at a leisurely gallop; and in front,
the buffalo were just disappearing behind the crest of the next hill,
their short tails erect, and their hoofs twinkling through a cloud of
dust.
At that moment, I heard Shaw and Henry shouting to me; but the muscles of
a stronger arm than mine could not have checked at once the furious course
of Pontiac, whose mouth was as insensible as leather. Added to this, I
rode him that morning with a common snaffle, having the day before, for
the benefit of my other horse, unbuckled from my bridle the curb which I
ordinarily used. A stronger and hardier brute never trod the prairie; but
the novel sight of the buffalo filled him with terror, and when at full
speed he was almost incontrollable. Gaining the top of the ridge, I saw
nothing of the buffalo; they had all vanished amid the intricacies of the
hills and hollows. Reloading my pistols, in the best way I could, I
galloped on until I saw them again scuttling along at the base of the
hill, their panic somewhat abated. Down went old Pontiac among them,
scattering them to the right and left, and then we had another long chase.
About a dozen bulls were before us, scouring over the hills, rushing down
the declivities with tremendous weight and impetuosity, and then laboring
with a weary gallop upward. Still Pontiac, in spite of spurring and
beating, would not close with them. One bull at length fell a little
behind the rest, and by dint of much effort I urged my horse within six or
eight yards of his side. His back was darkened with sweat; he was panting
heavily, while his tongue lolled out a foot from his jaws. Gradually I
came up abreast of him, urging Pontiac with leg and rein nearer to his
side, then suddenly he did what buffalo in such circumstances will always
do; he slackened his gallop, and turning toward us, with an aspect of
mingled rage and distress, lowered his huge shaggy head for a charge.
Pontiac with a snort, leaped aside in terror, nearly throwing me to the
ground, as I was wholly unprepared for such an evolution. I raised my
pistol in a passion to strike him on the head, but thinking better of it
fired the bullet after the bull, who had resumed his flight, then drew
rein and determined to rejoin my companions. It was high time. The breath
blew hard from Pontiac’s nostrils, and the sweat rolled in big drops down
his sides; I myself felt as if drenched in warm water. Pledging myself
(and I redeemed the pledge) to take my revenge at a future opportunity, I
looked round for some indications to show me where I was, and what course
I ought to pursue; I might as well have looked for landmarks in the midst
of the ocean. How many miles I had run or in what direction, I had no
idea; and around me the prairie was rolling in steep swells and pitches,
without a single distinctive feature to guide me. I had a little compass
hung at my neck; and ignorant that the Platte at this point diverged
considerably from its easterly course, I thought that by keeping to the
northward I should certainly reach it. So I turned and rode about two
hours in that direction. The prairie changed as I advanced, softening away
into easier undulations, but nothing like the Platte appeared, nor any
sign of a human being; the same wild endless expanse lay around me still;
and to all appearance I was as far from my object as ever. I began now to
consider myself in danger of being lost; and therefore, reining in my
horse, summoned the scanty share of woodcraft that I possessed (if that
term he applicable upon the prairie) to extricate me. Looking round, it
occurred to me that the buffalo might prove my best guides. I soon found
one of the paths made by them in their passage to the river; it ran nearly
at right angles to my course; but turning my horse’s head in the direction
it indicated, his freer gait and erected ears assured me that I was right.
But in the meantime my ride had been by no means a solitary one. The whole
face of the country was dotted far and wide with countless hundreds of
buffalo. They trooped along in files and columns, bulls cows, and calves,
on the green faces of the declivities in front. They scrambled away over
the hills to the right and left; and far off, the pale blue swells in the
extreme distance were dotted with innumerable specks. Sometimes I
surprised shaggy old bulls grazing alone, or sleeping behind the ridges I
ascended. They would leap up at my approach, stare stupidly at me through
their tangled manes, and then gallop heavily away. The antelope were very
numerous; and as they are always bold when in the neighborhood of buffalo,
they would approach quite near to look at me, gazing intently with their
great round eyes, then suddenly leap aside, and stretch lightly away over
the prairie, as swiftly as a racehorse. Squalid, ruffianlike wolves
sneaked through the hollows and sandy ravines. Several times I passed
through villages of prairie dogs, who sat, each at the mouth of his
burrow, holding his paws before him in a supplicating attitude, and
yelping away most vehemently, energetically whisking his little tail with
every squeaking cry he uttered. Prairie dogs are not fastidious in their
choice of companions; various long, checkered snakes were sunning
themselves in the midst of the village, and demure little gray owls, with
a large white ring around each eye, were perched side by side with the
rightful inhabitants. The prairie teemed with life. Again and again I
looked toward the crowded hillsides, and was sure I saw horsemen; and
riding near, with a mixture of hope and dread, for Indians were abroad, I
found them transformed into a group of buffalo. There was nothing in human
shape amid all this vast congregation of brute forms.
When I turned down the buffalo path, the prairie seemed changed; only a
wolf or two glided past at intervals, like conscious felons, never looking
to the right or left. Being now free from anxiety, I was at leisure to
observe minutely the objects around me; and here, for the first time, I
noticed insects wholly different from any of the varieties found farther
to the eastward. Gaudy butterflies fluttered about my horse’s head;
strangely formed beetles, glittering with metallic luster, were crawling
upon plants that I had never seen before; multitudes of lizards, too, were
darting like lightning over the sand.
I had run to a great distance from the river. It cost me a long ride on
the buffalo path before I saw from the ridge of a sand-hill the pale
surface of the Platte glistening in the midst of its desert valleys, and
the faint outline of the hills beyond waving along the sky. From where I
stood, not a tree nor a bush nor a living thing was visible throughout the
whole extent of the sun-scorched landscape. In half an hour I came upon
the trail, not far from the river; and seeing that the party had not yet
passed, I turned eastward to meet them, old Pontiac’s long swinging trot
again assuring me that I was right in doing so. Having been slightly ill
on leaving camp in the morning six or seven hours of rough riding had
fatigued me extremely. I soon stopped, therefore; flung my saddle on the
ground, and with my head resting on it, and my horse’s trail-rope tied
loosely to my arm, lay waiting the arrival of the party, speculating
meanwhile on the extent of the injuries Pontiac had received. At length
the white wagon coverings rose from the verge of the plain. By a singular
coincidence, almost at the same moment two horsemen appeared coming down
from the hills. They were Shaw and Henry, who had searched for me a while
in the morning, but well knowing the futility of the attempt in such a
broken country, had placed themselves on the top of the highest hill they
could find, and picketing their horses near them, as a signal to me, had
laid down and fallen asleep. The stray cattle had been recovered, as the
emigrants told us, about noon. Before sunset, we pushed forward eight
miles farther.
JUNE 7, 1846.—Four men are missing; R., Sorel and two emigrants.
They set out this morning after buffalo, and have not yet made their
appearance; whether killed or lost, we cannot tell.
I find the above in my notebook, and well remember the council held on the
occasion. Our fire was the scene of it; or the palpable superiority of
Henry Chatillon’s experience and skill made him the resort of the whole
camp upon every question of difficulty. He was molding bullets at the
fire, when the captain drew near, with a perturbed and care-worn
expression of countenance, faithfully reflected on the heavy features of
Jack, who followed close behind. Then emigrants came straggling from their
wagons toward the common center; various suggestions were made to account
for the absence of the four men, and one or two of the emigrants declared
that when out after the cattle they had seen Indians dogging them, and
crawling like wolves along the ridges of the hills. At this time the
captain slowly shook his head with double gravity, and solemnly remarked:
“It’s a serious thing to be traveling through this cursed wilderness”; an
opinion in which Jack immediately expressed a thorough coincidence. Henry
would not commit himself by declaring any positive opinion.
“Maybe he only follow the buffalo too far; maybe Indian kill him; maybe he
got lost; I cannot tell!”
With this the auditors were obliged to rest content; the emigrants, not in
the least alarmed, though curious to know what had become of their
comrades, walked back to their wagons and the captain betook himself
pensively to his tent. Shaw and I followed his example.
“It will be a bad thing for our plans,” said he as we entered, “if these
fellows don’t get back safe. The captain is as helpless on the prairie as
a child. We shall have to take him and his brother in tow; they will hang
on us like lead.”
“The prairie is a strange place,” said I. “A month ago I should have
thought it rather a startling affair to have an acquaintance ride out in
the morning and lose his scalp before night, but here it seems the most
natural thing in the world; not that I believe that R. has lost his yet.”
If a man is constitutionally liable to nervous apprehensions, a tour on
the distant prairies would prove the best prescription; for though when in
the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains he may at times find himself
placed in circumstances of some danger, I believe that few ever breathe
that reckless atmosphere without becoming almost indifferent to any evil
chance that may befall themselves or their friends.
Shaw had a propensity for luxurious indulgence. He spread his blanket with
the utmost accuracy on the ground, picked up the sticks and stones that he
thought might interfere with his comfort, adjusted his saddle to serve as
a pillow, and composed himself for his night’s rest. I had the first guard
that evening; so, taking my rifle, I went out of the tent. It was
perfectly dark. A brisk wind blew down from the hills, and the sparks from
the fire were streaming over the prairie. One of the emigrants, named
Morton, was my companion; and laying our rifles on the grass, we sat down
together by the fire. Morton was a Kentuckian, an athletic fellow, with a
fine intelligent face, and in his manners and conversation he showed the
essential characteristics of a gentleman. Our conversation turned on the
pioneers of his gallant native State. The three hours of our watch dragged
away at last, and we went to call up the relief.
R.‘s guard succeeded mine. He was absent; but the captain, anxious lest
the camp should be left defenseless, had volunteered to stand in his
place; so I went to wake him up. There was no occasion for it, for the
captain had been awake since nightfall. A fire was blazing outside of the
tent, and by the light which struck through the canvas, I saw him and Jack
lying on their backs, with their eyes wide open. The captain responded
instantly to my call; he jumped up, seized the double-barreled rifle, and
came out of the tent with an air of solemn determination, as if about to
devote himself to the safety of the party. I went and lay down, not
doubting that for the next three hours our slumbers would be guarded with
sufficient vigilance.
CHAPTER VIII
TAKING FRENCH LEAVE
On the 8th of June, at eleven o’clock, we reached the South Fork of the
Platte, at the usual fording place. For league upon league the desert
uniformity of the prospect was almost unbroken; the hills were dotted with
little tufts of shriveled grass, but betwixt these the white sand was
glaring in the sun; and the channel of the river, almost on a level with
the plain, was but one great sand-bed, about half a mile wide. It was
covered with water, but so scantily that the bottom was scarcely hidden;
for, wide as it is, the average depth of the Platte does not at this point
exceed a foot and a half. Stopping near its bank, we gathered bois de
vache, and made a meal of buffalo meat. Far off, on the other side, was a
green meadow, where we could see the white tents and wagons of an emigrant
camp; and just opposite to us we could discern a group of men and animals
at the water’s edge. Four or five horsemen soon entered the river, and in
ten minutes had waded across and clambered up the loose sand-bank. They
were ill-looking fellows, thin and swarthy, with care-worn, anxious faces
and lips rigidly compressed. They had good cause for anxiety; it was three
days since they first encamped here, and on the night of their arrival
they had lost 123 of their best cattle, driven off by the wolves, through
the neglect of the man on guard. This discouraging and alarming calamity
was not the first that had overtaken them. Since leaving the settlements,
they had met with nothing but misfortune. Some of their party had died;
one man had been killed by the Pawnees; and about a week before, they had
been plundered by the Dakotas of all their best horses, the wretched
animals on which our visitors were mounted being the only ones that were
left. They had encamped, they told us, near sunset, by the side of the
Platte, and their oxen were scattered over the meadow, while the band of
horses were feeding a little farther off. Suddenly the ridges of the hills
were alive with a swarm of mounted Indians, at least six hundred in
number, who, with a tremendous yell, came pouring down toward the camp,
rushing up within a few rods, to the great terror of the emigrants; but
suddenly wheeling, they swept around the band of horses, and in five
minutes had disappeared with their prey through the openings of the hills.
As these emigrants were telling their story, we saw four other men
approaching. They proved to be R. and his companions, who had encountered
no mischance of any kind, but had only wandered too far in pursuit of the
game. They said they had seen no Indians, but only “millions of buffalo”;
and both R. and Sorel had meat dangling behind their saddles.
The emigrants re-crossed the river, and we prepared to follow. First the
heavy ox-wagons plunged down the bank, and dragged slowly over the
sand-beds; sometimes the hoofs of the oxen were scarcely wetted by the
thin sheet of water; and the next moment the river would be boiling
against their sides, and eddying fiercely around the wheels. Inch by inch
they receded from the shore, dwindling every moment, until at length they
seemed to be floating far in the very middle of the river. A more critical
experiment awaited us; for our little mule-cart was but ill-fitted for the
passage of so swift a stream. We watched it with anxiety till it seemed to
be a little motionless white speck in the midst of the waters; and it WAS
motionless, for it had stuck fast in a quicksand. The little mules were
losing their footing, the wheels were sinking deeper and deeper, and the
water began to rise through the bottom and drench the goods within. All of
us who had remained on the hither bank galloped to the rescue; the men
jumped into the water, adding their strength to that of the mules, until
by much effort the cart was extricated, and conveyed in safety across.
As we gained the other bank, a rough group of men surrounded us. They were
not robust, nor large of frame, yet they had an aspect of hardy endurance.
Finding at home no scope for their fiery energies, they had betaken
themselves to the prairie; and in them seemed to be revived, with
redoubled force, that fierce spirit which impelled their ancestors, scarce
more lawless than themselves, from the German forests, to inundate Europe
and break to pieces the Roman empire. A fortnight afterward this
unfortunate party passed Fort Laramie, while we were there. Not one of
their missing oxen had been recovered, though they had remained encamped a
week in search of them; and they had been compelled to abandon a great
part of their baggage and provisions, and yoke cows and heifers to their
wagons to carry them forward upon their journey, the most toilsome and
hazardous part of which lay still before them.
It is worth noticing that on the Platte one may sometimes see the
shattered wrecks of ancient claw-footed tables, well waxed and rubbed, or
massive bureaus of carved oak. These, many of them no doubt the relics of
ancestral prosperity in the colonial time, must have encountered strange
vicissitudes. Imported, perhaps, originally from England; then, with the
declining fortunes of their owners, borne across the Alleghenies to the
remote wilderness of Ohio or Kentucky; then to Illinois or Missouri; and
now at last fondly stowed away in the family wagon for the interminable
journey to Oregon. But the stern privations of the way are little
anticipated. The cherished relic is soon flung out to scorch and crack
upon the hot prairie.
We resumed our journey; but we had gone scarcely a mile, when R. called
out from the rear:
“We’ll camp here.”
“Why do you want to camp? Look at the sun. It is not three o’clock yet.”
“We’ll camp here!”
This was the only reply vouchsafed. Delorier was in advance with his cart.
Seeing the mule-wagon wheeling from the track, he began to turn his own
team in the same direction.
“Go on, Delorier,” and the little cart advanced again. As we rode on, we
soon heard the wagon of our confederates creaking and jolting on behind
us, and the driver, Wright, discharging a furious volley of oaths against
his mules; no doubt venting upon them the wrath which he dared not direct
against a more appropriate object.
Something of this sort had frequently occurred. Our English friend was by
no means partial to us, and we thought we discovered in his conduct a
deliberate intention to thwart and annoy us, especially by retarding the
movements of the party, which he knew that we, being Yankees, were anxious
to quicken. Therefore, he would insist on encamping at all unseasonable
hours, saying that fifteen miles was a sufficient day’s journey. Finding
our wishes systematically disregarded, we took the direction of affairs
into our own hands. Keeping always in advance, to the inexpressible
indignation of R., we encamped at what time and place we thought proper,
not much caring whether the rest chose to follow or not. They always did
so, however, pitching their tents near ours, with sullen and wrathful
countenances.
Traveling together on these agreeable terms did not suit our tastes; for
some time we had meditated a separation. The connection with this party
had cost us various delays and inconveniences; and the glaring want of
courtesy and good sense displayed by their virtual leader did not dispose
us to bear these annoyances with much patience. We resolved to leave camp
early in the morning, and push forward as rapidly as possible for Fort
Laramie, which we hoped to reach, by hard traveling, in four or five days.
The captain soon trotted up between us, and we explained our intentions.
“A very extraordinary proceeding, upon my word!” he remarked. Then he
began to enlarge upon the enormity of the design. The most prominent
impression in his mind evidently was that we were acting a base and
treacherous part in deserting his party, in what he considered a very
dangerous stage of the journey. To palliate the atrocity of our conduct,
we ventured to suggest that we were only four in number while his party
still included sixteen men; and as, moreover, we were to go forward and
they were to follow, at least a full proportion of the perils he
apprehended would fall upon us. But the austerity of the captain’s
features would not relax. “A very extraordinary proceeding, gentlemen!”
and repeating this, he rode off to confer with his principal.
By good luck, we found a meadow of fresh grass, and a large pool of
rain-water in the midst of it. We encamped here at sunset. Plenty of
buffalo skulls were lying around, bleaching in the sun; and sprinkled
thickly among the grass was a great variety of strange flowers. I had
nothing else to do, and so gathering a handful, I sat down on a buffalo
skull to study them. Although the offspring of a wilderness, their texture
was frail and delicate, and their colors extremely rich; pure white, dark
blue, and a transparent crimson. One traveling in this country seldom has
leisure to think of anything but the stern features of the scenery and its
accompaniments, or the practical details of each day’s journey. Like them,
he and his thoughts grow hard and rough. But now these flowers suddenly
awakened a train of associations as alien to the rude scene around me as
they were themselves; and for the moment my thoughts went back to New
England. A throng of fair and well-remembered faces rose, vividly as life,
before me. “There are good things,” thought I, “in the savage life, but
what can it offer to replace those powerful and ennobling influences that
can reach unimpaired over more than three thousand miles of mountains,
forests and deserts?”
Before sunrise on the next morning our tent was down; we harnessed our
best horses to the cart and left the camp. But first we shook hands with
our friends the emigrants, who sincerely wished us a safe journey, though
some others of the party might easily have been consoled had we
encountered an Indian war party on the way. The captain and his brother
were standing on the top of a hill, wrapped in their plaids, like spirits
of the mist, keeping an anxious eye on the band of horses below. We waved
adieu to them as we rode off the ground. The captain replied with a
salutation of the utmost dignity, which Jack tried to imitate; but being
little practiced in the gestures of polite society, his effort was not a
very successful one.
In five minutes we had gained the foot of the hills, but here we came to a
stop. Old Hendrick was in the shafts, and being the very incarnation of
perverse and brutish obstinacy, he utterly refused to move. Delorier
lashed and swore till he was tired, but Hendrick stood like a rock,
grumbling to himself and looking askance at his enemy, until he saw a
favorable opportunity to take his revenge, when he struck out under the
shaft with such cool malignity of intention that Delorier only escaped the
blow by a sudden skip into the air, such as no one but a Frenchman could
achieve. Shaw and he then joined forces, and lashed on both sides at once.
The brute stood still for a while till he could bear it no longer, when
all at once he began to kick and plunge till he threatened the utter
demolition of the cart and harness. We glanced back at the camp, which was
in full sight. Our companions, inspired by emulation, were leveling their
tents and driving in their cattle and horses.
“Take the horse out,” said I.
I took the saddle from Pontiac and put it upon Hendrick; the former was
harnessed to the cart in an instant. “Avance donc!” cried Delorier.
Pontiac strode up the hill, twitching the little cart after him as if it
were a feather’s weight; and though, as we gained the top, we saw the
wagons of our deserted comrades just getting into motion, we had little
fear that they could overtake us. Leaving the trail, we struck directly
across the country, and took the shortest cut to reach the main stream of
the Platte. A deep ravine suddenly intercepted us. We skirted its sides
until we found them less abrupt, and then plunged through the best way we
could. Passing behind the sandy ravines called “Ash Hollow,” we stopped
for a short nooning at the side of a pool of rain-water; but soon resumed
our journey, and some hours before sunset were descending the ravines and
gorges opening downward upon the Platte to the west of Ash Hollow. Our
horses waded to the fetlock in sand; the sun scorched like fire, and the
air swarmed with sand-flies and mosquitoes.
At last we gained the Platte. Following it for about five miles, we saw,
just as the sun was sinking, a great meadow, dotted with hundreds of
cattle, and beyond them an emigrant encampment. A party of about a dozen
came out to meet us, looking upon us at first with cold and suspicious
faces. Seeing four men, different in appearance and equipment from
themselves, emerging from the hills, they had taken us for the van of the
much-dreaded Mormons, whom they were very apprehensive of encountering. We
made known our true character, and then they greeted us cordially. They
expressed much surprise that so small a party should venture to traverse
that region, though in fact such attempts are not unfrequently made by
trappers and Indian traders. We rode with them to their camp. The wagons,
some fifty in number, with here and there a tent intervening, were
arranged as usual in a circle; in the area within the best horses were
picketed, and the whole circumference was glowing with the dusky light of
the fires, displaying the forms of the women and children who were crowded
around them. This patriarchal scene was curious and striking enough; but
we made our escape from the place with all possible dispatch, being
tormented by the intrusive curiosity of the men who crowded around us.
Yankee curiosity was nothing to theirs. They demanded our names, where we
came from, where we were going, and what was our business. The last query
was particularly embarrassing; since traveling in that country, or indeed
anywhere, from any other motive than gain, was an idea of which they took
no cognizance. Yet they were fine-looking fellows, with an air of
frankness, generosity, and even courtesy, having come from one of the
least barbarous of the frontier counties.
We passed about a mile beyond them, and encamped. Being too few in number
to stand guard without excessive fatigue, we extinguished our fire, lest
it should attract the notice of wandering Indians; and picketing our
horses close around us, slept undisturbed till morning. For three days we
traveled without interruption, and on the evening of the third encamped by
the well-known spring on Scott’s Bluff.
Henry Chatillon and I rode out in the morning, and descending the western
side of the Bluff, were crossing the plain beyond. Something that seemed
to me a file of buffalo came into view, descending the hills several miles
before us. But Henry reined in his horse, and keenly peering across the
prairie with a better and more practiced eye, soon discovered its real
nature. “Indians!” he said. “Old Smoke’s lodges, I b’lieve. Come! let us
go! Wah! get up, now, Five Hundred Dollar!” And laying on the lash with
good will, he galloped forward, and I rode by his side. Not long after, a
black speck became visible on the prairie, full two miles off. It grew
larger and larger; it assumed the form of a man and horse; and soon we
could discern a naked Indian, careering at full gallop toward us. When
within a furlong he wheeled his horse in a wide circle, and made him
describe various mystic figures upon the prairie; and Henry immediately
compelled Five Hundred Dollar to execute similar evolutions. “It IS Old
Smoke’s village,” said he, interpreting these signals; “didn’t I say so?”
As the Indian approached we stopped to wait for him, when suddenly he
vanished, sinking, as it were, into the earth. He had come upon one of the
deep ravines that everywhere intersect these prairies. In an instant the
rough head of his horse stretched upward from the edge and the rider and
steed came scrambling out, and bounded up to us; a sudden jerk of the rein
brought the wild panting horse to a full stop. Then followed the needful
formality of shaking hands. I forget our visitor’s name. He was a young
fellow, of no note in his nation; yet in his person and equipments he was
a good specimen of a Dakota warrior in his ordinary traveling dress. Like
most of his people, he was nearly six feet high; lithely and gracefully,
yet strongly proportioned; and with a skin singularly clear and delicate.
He wore no paint; his head was bare; and his long hair was gathered in a
clump behind, to the top of which was attached transversely, both by way
of ornament and of talisman, the mystic whistle, made of the wingbone of
the war eagle, and endowed with various magic virtues. From the back of
his head descended a line of glittering brass plates, tapering from the
size of a doubloon to that of a half-dime, a cumbrous ornament, in high
vogue among the Dakotas, and for which they pay the traders a most
extravagant price; his chest and arms were naked, the buffalo robe, worn
over them when at rest, had fallen about his waist, and was confined there
by a belt. This, with the gay moccasins on his feet, completed his attire.
For arms he carried a quiver of dogskin at his back, and a rude but
powerful bow in his hand. His horse had no bridle; a cord of hair, lashed
around his jaw, served in place of one. The saddle was of most singular
construction; it was made of wood covered with raw hide, and both pommel
and cantle rose perpendicularly full eighteen inches, so that the warrior
was wedged firmly in his seat, whence nothing could dislodge him but the
bursting of the girths.
Advancing with our new companion, we found more of his people seated in a
circle on the top of a hill; while a rude procession came straggling down
the neighboring hollow, men, women, and children, with horses dragging the
lodge-poles behind them. All that morning, as we moved forward, tall
savages were stalking silently about us. At noon we reached Horse Creek;
and as we waded through the shallow water, we saw a wild and striking
scene. The main body of the Indians had arrived before us. On the farther
bank stood a large and strong man, nearly naked, holding a white horse by
a long cord, and eyeing us as we approached. This was the chief, whom
Henry called “Old Smoke.” Just behind him his youngest and favorite squaw
sat astride of a fine mule; it was covered with caparisons of whitened
skins, garnished with blue and white beads, and fringed with little
ornaments of metal that tinkled with every movement of the animal. The
girl had a light clear complexion, enlivened by a spot of vermilion on
each cheek; she smiled, not to say grinned, upon us, showing two gleaming
rows of white teeth. In her hand, she carried the tall lance of her
unchivalrous lord, fluttering with feathers; his round white shield hung
at the side of her mule; and his pipe was slung at her back. Her dress was
a tunic of deerskin, made beautifully white by means of a species of clay
found on the prairie, and ornamented with beads, arrayed in figures more
gay than tasteful, and with long fringes at all the seams. Not far from
the chief stood a group of stately figures, their white buffalo robes
thrown over their shoulders, gazing coldly upon us; and in the rear, for
several acres, the ground was covered with a temporary encampment; men,
women, and children swarmed like bees; hundreds of dogs, of all sizes and
colors, ran restlessly about; and, close at hand, the wide shallow stream
was alive with boys, girls, and young squaws, splashing, screaming, and
laughing in the water. At the same time a long train of emigrant wagons
were crossing the creek, and dragging on in their slow, heavy procession,
passed the encampment of the people whom they and their descendants, in
the space of a century, are to sweep from the face of the earth.
The encampment itself was merely a temporary one during the heat of the
day. None of the lodges were erected; but their heavy leather coverings,
and the long poles used to support them, were scattered everywhere around,
among weapons, domestic utensils, and the rude harness of mules and
horses. The squaws of each lazy warrior had made him a shelter from the
sun, by stretching a few buffalo robes, or the corner of a lodge-covering
upon poles; and here he sat in the shade, with a favorite young squaw,
perhaps, at his side, glittering with all imaginable trinkets. Before him
stood the insignia of his rank as a warrior, his white shield of
bull-hide, his medicine bag, his bow and quiver, his lance and his pipe,
raised aloft on a tripod of three poles. Except the dogs, the most active
and noisy tenants of the camp were the old women, ugly as Macbeth’s
witches, with their hair streaming loose in the wind, and nothing but the
tattered fragment of an old buffalo robe to hide their shriveled wiry
limbs. The day of their favoritism passed two generations ago; now the
heaviest labors of the camp devolved upon them; they were to harness the
horses, pitch the lodges, dress the buffalo robes, and bring in meat for
the hunters. With the cracked voices of these hags, the clamor of dogs,
the shouting and laughing of children and girls, and the listless
tranquillity of the warriors, the whole scene had an effect too lively and
picturesque ever to be forgotten.
We stopped not far from the Indian camp, and having invited some of the
chiefs and warriors to dinner, placed before them a sumptuous repast of
biscuit and coffee. Squatted in a half circle on the ground, they soon
disposed of it. As we rode forward on the afternoon journey, several of
our late guests accompanied us. Among the rest was a huge bloated savage
of more than three hundred pounds’ weight, christened La Cochon, in
consideration of his preposterous dimensions and certain corresponding
traits of his character. “The Hog” bestrode a little white pony, scarce
able to bear up under the enormous burden, though, by way of keeping up
the necessary stimulus, the rider kept both feet in constant motion,
playing alternately against his ribs. The old man was not a chief; he
never had ambition enough to become one; he was not a warrior nor a
hunter, for he was too fat and lazy: but he was the richest man in the
whole village. Riches among the Dakotas consist in horses, and of these
The Hog had accumulated more than thirty. He had already ten times as many
as he wanted, yet still his appetite for horses was insatiable. Trotting
up to me he shook me by the hand, and gave me to understand that he was a
very devoted friend; and then he began a series of most earnest signs and
gesticulations, his oily countenance radiant with smiles, and his little
eyes peeping out with a cunning twinkle from between the masses of flesh
that almost obscured them. Knowing nothing at that time of the sign
language of the Indians, I could only guess at his meaning. So I called on
Henry to explain it.
The Hog, it seems, was anxious to conclude a matrimonial bargain. He said
he had a very pretty daughter in his lodge, whom he would give me, if I
would give him my horse. These flattering overtures I chose to reject; at
which The Hog, still laughing with undiminished good humor, gathered his
robe about his shoulders, and rode away.
Where we encamped that night, an arm of the Platte ran between high
bluffs; it was turbid and swift as heretofore, but trees were growing on
its crumbling banks, and there was a nook of grass between the water and
the hill. Just before entering this place, we saw the emigrants encamping
at two or three miles’ distance on the right; while the whole Indian
rabble were pouring down the neighboring hill in hope of the same sort of
entertainment which they had experienced from us. In the savage landscape
before our camp, nothing but the rushing of the Platte broke the silence.
Through the ragged boughs of the trees, dilapidated and half dead, we saw
the sun setting in crimson behind the peaks of the Black Hills; the
restless bosom of the river was suffused with red; our white tent was
tinged with it, and the sterile bluffs, up to the rocks that crowned them,
partook of the same fiery hue. It soon passed away; no light remained, but
that from our fire, blazing high among the dusky trees and bushes. We lay
around it wrapped in our blankets, smoking and conversing until a late
hour, and then withdrew to our tent.
We crossed a sun-scorched plain on the next morning; the line of old
cotton-wood trees that fringed the bank of the Platte forming its extreme
verge. Nestled apparently close beneath them, we could discern in the
distance something like a building. As we came nearer, it assumed form and
dimensions, and proved to be a rough structure of logs. It was a little
trading fort, belonging to two private traders; and originally intended,
like all the forts of the country, to form a hollow square, with rooms for
lodging and storage opening upon the area within. Only two sides of it had
been completed; the place was now as ill-fitted for the purposes of
defense as any of those little log-houses, which upon our constantly
shifting frontier have been so often successfully maintained against
overwhelming odds of Indians. Two lodges were pitched close to the fort;
the sun beat scorching upon the logs; no living thing was stirring except
one old squaw, who thrust her round head from the opening of the nearest
lodge, and three or four stout young pups, who were peeping with looks of
eager inquiry from under the covering. In a moment a door opened, and a
little, swarthy black-eyed Frenchman came out. His dress was rather
singular; his black curling hair was parted in the middle of his head, and
fell below his shoulders; he wore a tight frock of smoked deerskin, very
gayly ornamented with figures worked in dyed porcupine quills. His
moccasins and leggings were also gaudily adorned in the same manner; and
the latter had in addition a line of long fringes, reaching down the
seams. The small frame of Richard, for by this name Henry made him known
to us, was in the highest degree athletic and vigorous. There was no
superfluity, and indeed there seldom is among the active white men of this
country, but every limb was compact and hard; every sinew had its full
tone and elasticity, and the whole man wore an air of mingled hardihood
and buoyancy.
Richard committed our horses to a Navahoe slave, a mean looking fellow
taken prisoner on the Mexican frontier; and, relieving us of our rifles
with ready politeness, led the way into the principal apartment of his
establishment. This was a room ten feet square. The walls and floor were
of black mud, and the roof of rough timber; there was a huge fireplace
made of four flat rocks, picked up on the prairie. An Indian bow and
otter-skin quiver, several gaudy articles of Rocky Mountain finery, an
Indian medicine bag, and a pipe and tobacco pouch, garnished the walls,
and rifles rested in a corner. There was no furniture except a sort of
rough settle covered with buffalo robes, upon which lolled a tall
half-breed, with his hair glued in masses upon each temple, and saturated
with vermilion. Two or three more “mountain men” sat cross-legged on the
floor. Their attire was not unlike that of Richard himself; but the most
striking figure of the group was a naked Indian boy of sixteen, with a
handsome face, and light, active proportions, who sat in an easy posture
in the corner near the door. Not one of his limbs moved the breadth of a
hair; his eye was fixed immovably, not on any person present, but, as it
appeared, on the projecting corner of the fireplace opposite to him.
On these prairies the custom of smoking with friends is seldom omitted,
whether among Indians or whites. The pipe, therefore, was taken from the
wall, and its great red bowl crammed with the tobacco and shongsasha,
mixed in suitable proportions. Then it passed round the circle, each man
inhaling a few whiffs and handing it to his neighbor. Having spent half an
hour here, we took our leave; first inviting our new friends to drink a
cup of coffee with us at our camp, a mile farther up the river. By this
time, as the reader may conceive, we had grown rather shabby; our clothes
had burst into rags and tatters; and what was worse, we had very little
means of renovation. Fort Laramie was but seven miles before us. Being
totally averse to appearing in such plight among any society that could
boast an approximation to the civilized, we soon stopped by the river to
make our toilet in the best way we could. We hung up small looking-glasses
against the trees and shaved, an operation neglected for six weeks; we
performed our ablutions in the Platte, though the utility of such a
proceeding was questionable, the water looking exactly like a cup of
chocolate, and the banks consisting of the softest and richest yellow mud,
so that we were obliged, as a preliminary, to build a cause-way of stout
branches and twigs. Having also put on radiant moccasins, procured from a
squaw of Richard’s establishment, and made what other improvements our
narrow circumstances allowed, we took our seats on the grass with a
feeling of greatly increased respectability, to wait the arrival of our
guests. They came; the banquet was concluded, and the pipe smoked. Bidding
them adieu, we turned our horses’ heads toward the fort.
An hour elapsed. The barren hills closed across our front, and we could
see no farther; until having surmounted them, a rapid stream appeared at
the foot of the descent, running into the Platte; beyond was a green
meadow, dotted with bushes, and in the midst of these, at the point where
the two rivers joined, were the low clay walls of a fort. This was not
Fort Laramie, but another post of less recent date, which having sunk
before its successful competitor was now deserted and ruinous. A moment
after the hills, seeming to draw apart as we advanced, disclosed Fort
Laramie itself, its high bastions and perpendicular walls of clay crowning
an eminence on the left beyond the stream, while behind stretched a line
of arid and desolate ridges, and behind these again, towering aloft seven
thousand feet, arose the grim Black Hills.
We tried to ford Laramie Creek at a point nearly opposite the fort, but
the stream, swollen with the rains in the mountains, was too rapid. We
passed up along its bank to find a better crossing place. Men gathered on
the wall to look at us. “There’s Bordeaux!” called Henry, his face
brightening as he recognized his acquaintance; “him there with the
spyglass; and there’s old Vaskiss, and Tucker, and May; and, by George!
there’s Cimoneau!” This Cimoneau was Henry’s fast friend, and the only man
in the country who could rival him in hunting.
We soon found a ford. Henry led the way, the pony approaching the bank
with a countenance of cool indifference, bracing his feet and sliding into
the stream with the most unmoved composure.
We followed; the water boiled against our saddles, but our horses bore us
easily through. The unfortunate little mules came near going down with the
current, cart and all; and we watched them with some solicitude scrambling
over the loose round stones at the bottom, and bracing stoutly against the
stream. All landed safely at last; we crossed a little plain, descended a
hollow, and riding up a steep bank found ourselves before the gateway of
Fort Laramie, under the impending blockhouse erected above it to defend
the entrance.
CHAPTER IX
SCENES AT FORT LARAMIE
Looking back, after the expiration of a year, upon Fort Laramie and its
inmates, they seem less like a reality than like some fanciful picture of
the olden time; so different was the scene from any which this tamer side
of the world can present. Tall Indians, enveloped in their white buffalo
robes, were striding across the area or reclining at full length on the
low roofs of the buildings which inclosed it. Numerous squaws, gayly
bedizened, sat grouped in front of the apartments they occupied; their
mongrel offspring, restless and vociferous, rambled in every direction
through the fort; and the trappers, traders, and ENGAGES of the
establishment were busy at their labor or their amusements.
We were met at the gate, but by no means cordially welcomed. Indeed, we
seemed objects of some distrust and suspicion until Henry Chatillon
explained that we were not traders, and we, in confirmation, handed to the
bourgeois a letter of introduction from his principals. He took it, turned
it upside down, and tried hard to read it; but his literary attainments
not being adequate to the task, he applied for relief to the clerk, a
sleek, smiling Frenchman, named Montalon. The letter read, Bordeaux (the
bourgeois) seemed gradually to awaken to a sense of what was expected of
him. Though not deficient in hospitable intentions, he was wholly
unaccustomed to act as master of ceremonies. Discarding all formalities of
reception, he did not honor us with a single word, but walked swiftly
across the area, while we followed in some admiration to a railing and a
flight of steps opposite the entrance. He signed to us that we had better
fasten our horses to the railing; then he walked up the steps, tramped
along a rude balcony, and kicking open a door displayed a large room,
rather more elaborately finished than a barn. For furniture it had a rough
bedstead, but no bed; two chairs, a chest of drawers, a tin pail to hold
water, and a board to cut tobacco upon. A brass crucifix hung on the wall,
and close at hand a recent scalp, with hair full a yard long, was
suspended from a nail. I shall again have occasion to mention this dismal
trophy, its history being connected with that of our subsequent
proceedings.
This apartment, the best in Fort Laramie, was that usually occupied by the
legitimate bourgeois, Papin; in whose absence the command devolved upon
Bordeaux. The latter, a stout, bluff little fellow, much inflated by a
sense of his new authority, began to roar for buffalo robes. These being
brought and spread upon the floor formed our beds; much better ones than
we had of late been accustomed to. Our arrangements made, we stepped out
to the balcony to take a more leisurely survey of the long looked-for
haven at which we had arrived at last. Beneath us was the square area
surrounded by little rooms, or rather cells, which opened upon it. These
were devoted to various purposes, but served chiefly for the accommodation
of the men employed at the fort, or of the equally numerous squaws, whom
they were allowed to maintain in it. Opposite to us rose the blockhouse
above the gateway; it was adorned with a figure which even now haunts my
memory; a horse at full speed, daubed upon the boards with red paint, and
exhibiting a degree of skill which might rival that displayed by the
Indians in executing similar designs upon their robes and lodges. A busy
scene was enacting in the area. The wagons of Vaskiss, an old trader, were
about to set out for a remote post in the mountains, and the Canadians
were going through their preparations with all possible bustle, while here
and there an Indian stood looking on with imperturbable gravity.
Fort Laramie is one of the posts established by the American Fur Company,
who well-nigh monopolize the Indian trade of this whole region. Here their
officials rule with an absolute sway; the arm of the United States has
little force; for when we were there, the extreme outposts of her troops
were about seven hundred miles to the eastward. The little fort is built
of bricks dried in the sun, and externally is of an oblong form, with
bastions of clay, in the form of ordinary blockhouses, at two of the
corners. The walls are about fifteen feet high, and surmounted by a
slender palisade. The roofs of the apartments within, which are built
close against the walls, serve the purpose of a banquette. Within, the
fort is divided by a partition; on one side is the square area surrounded
by the storerooms, offices, and apartments of the inmates; on the other is
the corral, a narrow place, encompassed by the high clay walls, where at
night, or in presence of dangerous Indians, the horses and mules of the
fort are crowded for safe-keeping. The main entrance has two gates, with
an arched passage intervening. A little square window, quite high above
the ground, opens laterally from an adjoining chamber into this passage;
so that when the inner gate is closed and barred, a person without may
still hold communication with those within through this narrow aperture.
This obviates the necessity of admitting suspicious Indians, for purposes
of trading, into the body of the fort; for when danger is apprehended, the
inner gate is shut fast, and all traffic is carried on by means of the
little window. This precaution, though highly necessary at some of the
company’s posts, is now seldom resorted to at Fort Laramie; where, though
men are frequently killed in its neighborhood, no apprehensions are now
entertained of any general designs of hostility from the Indians.
We did not long enjoy our new quarters undisturbed. The door was silently
pushed open, and two eyeballs and a visage as black as night looked in
upon us; then a red arm and shoulder intruded themselves, and a tall
Indian, gliding in, shook us by the hand, grunted his salutation, and sat
down on the floor. Others followed, with faces of the natural hue; and
letting fall their heavy robes from their shoulders, they took their
seats, quite at ease, in a semicircle before us. The pipe was now to be
lighted and passed round from one to another; and this was the only
entertainment that at present they expected from us. These visitors were
fathers, brothers, or other relatives of the squaws in the fort, where
they were permitted to remain, loitering about in perfect idleness. All
those who smoked with us were men of standing and repute. Two or three
others dropped in also; young fellows who neither by their years nor their
exploits were entitled to rank with the old men and warriors, and who,
abashed in the presence of their superiors, stood aloof, never withdrawing
their eyes from us. Their cheeks were adorned with vermilion, their ears
with pendants of shell, and their necks with beads. Never yet having
signalized themselves as hunters, or performed the honorable exploit of
killing a man, they were held in slight esteem, and were diffident and
bashful in proportion. Certain formidable inconveniences attended this
influx of visitors. They were bent on inspecting everything in the room;
our equipments and our dress alike underwent their scrutiny; for though
the contrary has been carelessly asserted, few beings have more curiosity
than Indians in regard to subjects within their ordinary range of thought.
As to other matters, indeed, they seemed utterly indifferent. They will
not trouble themselves to inquire into what they cannot comprehend, but
are quite contented to place their hands over their mouths in token of
wonder, and exclaim that it is “great medicine.” With this comprehensive
solution, an Indian never is at a loss. He never launches forth into
speculation and conjecture; his reason moves in its beaten track. His soul
is dormant; and no exertions of the missionaries, Jesuit or Puritan, of
the Old World or of the New, have as yet availed to rouse it.
As we were looking, at sunset, from the wall, upon the wild and desolate
plains that surround the fort, we observed a cluster of strange objects
like scaffolds rising in the distance against the red western sky. They
bore aloft some singular looking burdens; and at their foot glimmered
something white like bones. This was the place of sepulture of some Dakota
chiefs, whose remains their people are fond of placing in the vicinity of
the fort, in the hope that they may thus be protected from violation at
the hands of their enemies. Yet it has happened more than once, and quite
recently, that war parties of the Crow Indians, ranging through the
country, have thrown the bodies from the scaffolds, and broken them to
pieces amid the yells of the Dakotas, who remained pent up in the fort,
too few to defend the honored relics from insult. The white objects upon
the ground were buffalo skulls, arranged in the mystic circle commonly
seen at Indian places of sepulture upon the prairie.
We soon discovered, in the twilight, a band of fifty or sixty horses
approaching the fort. These were the animals belonging to the
establishment; who having been sent out to feed, under the care of armed
guards, in the meadows below, were now being driven into the corral for
the night. A little gate opened into this inclosure; by the side of it
stood one of the guards, an old Canadian, with gray bushy eyebrows, and a
dragoon pistol stuck into his belt; while his comrade, mounted on
horseback, his rifle laid across the saddle in front of him, and his long
hair blowing before his swarthy face, rode at the rear of the disorderly
troop, urging them up the ascent. In a moment the narrow corral was
thronged with the half-wild horses, kicking, biting, and crowding
restlessly together.
The discordant jingling of a bell, rung by a Canadian in the area,
summoned us to supper. This sumptuous repast was served on a rough table
in one of the lower apartments of the fort, and consisted of cakes of
bread and dried buffalo meat—an excellent thing for strengthening
the teeth. At this meal were seated the bourgeois and superior dignitaries
of the establishment, among whom Henry Chatillon was worthily included. No
sooner was it finished, than the table was spread a second time (the
luxury of bread being now, however, omitted), for the benefit of certain
hunters and trappers of an inferior standing; while the ordinary Canadian
ENGAGES were regaled on dried meat in one of their lodging rooms. By way
of illustrating the domestic economy of Fort Laramie, it may not be amiss
to introduce in this place a story current among the men when we were
there.
There was an old man named Pierre, whose duty it was to bring the meat
from the storeroom for the men. Old Pierre, in the kindness of his heart,
used to select the fattest and the best pieces for his companions. This
did not long escape the keen-eyed bourgeois, who was greatly disturbed at
such improvidence, and cast about for some means to stop it. At last he
hit on a plan that exactly suited him. At the side of the meat-room, and
separated from it by a clay partition, was another compartment, used for
the storage of furs. It had no other communication with the fort, except
through a square hole in the partition; and of course it was perfectly
dark. One evening the bourgeois, watching for a moment when no one
observed him, dodged into the meat-room, clambered through the hole, and
ensconced himself among the furs and buffalo robes. Soon after, old Pierre
came in with his lantern; and, muttering to himself, began to pull over
the bales of meat, and select the best pieces, as usual. But suddenly a
hollow and sepulchral voice proceeded from the inner apartment: “Pierre!
Pierre! Let that fat meat alone! Take nothing but lean!” Pierre dropped
his lantern, and bolted out into the fort, screaming, in an agony of
terror, that the devil was in the storeroom; but tripping on the
threshold, he pitched over upon the gravel, and lay senseless, stunned by
the fall. The Canadians ran out to the rescue. Some lifted the unlucky
Pierre; and others, making an extempore crucifix out of two sticks, were
proceeding to attack the devil in his stronghold, when the bourgeois, with
a crest-fallen countenance, appeared at the door. To add to the bourgeois’
mortification, he was obliged to explain the whole stratagem to Pierre, in
order to bring the latter to his senses.
We were sitting, on the following morning, in the passage-way between the
gates, conversing with the traders Vaskiss and May. These two men,
together with our sleek friend, the clerk Montalon, were, I believe, the
only persons then in the fort who could read and write. May was telling a
curious story about the traveler Catlin, when an ugly, diminutive Indian,
wretchedly mounted, came up at a gallop, and rode past us into the fort.
On being questioned, he said that Smoke’s village was close at hand.
Accordingly only a few minutes elapsed before the hills beyond the river
were covered with a disorderly swarm of savages, on horseback and on foot.
May finished his story; and by that time the whole array had descended to
Laramie Creek, and commenced crossing it in a mass. I walked down to the
bank. The stream is wide, and was then between three and four feet deep,
with a very swift current. For several rods the water was alive with dogs,
horses, and Indians. The long poles used in erecting the lodges are
carried by the horses, being fastened by the heavier end, two or three on
each side, to a rude sort of pack saddle, while the other end drags on the
ground. About a foot behind the horse, a kind of large basket or pannier
is suspended between the poles, and firmly lashed in its place on the back
of the horse are piled various articles of luggage; the basket also is
well filled with domestic utensils, or, quite as often, with a litter of
puppies, a brood of small children, or a superannuated old man. Numbers of
these curious vehicles, called, in the bastard language of the country
travaux were now splashing together through the stream. Among them swam
countless dogs, often burdened with miniature travaux; and dashing forward
on horseback through the throng came the superbly formed warriors, the
slender figure of some lynx-eyed boy, clinging fast behind them. The women
sat perched on the pack saddles, adding not a little to the load of the
already overburdened horses. The confusion was prodigious. The dogs yelled
and howled in chorus; the puppies in the travaux set up a dismal whine as
the water invaded their comfortable retreat; the little black-eyed
children, from one year of age upward, clung fast with both hands to the
edge of their basket, and looked over in alarm at the water rushing so
near them, sputtering and making wry mouths as it splashed against their
faces. Some of the dogs, encumbered by their loads, were carried down by
the current, yelping piteously; and the old squaws would rush into the
water, seize their favorites by the neck, and drag them out. As each horse
gained the bank, he scrambled up as he could. Stray horses and colts came
among the rest, often breaking away at full speed through the crowd,
followed by the old hags, screaming after their fashion on all occasions
of excitement. Buxom young squaws, blooming in all the charms of
vermilion, stood here and there on the bank, holding aloft their master’s
lance, as a signal to collect the scattered portions of his household. In
a few moments the crowd melted away; each family, with its horses and
equipage, filing off to the plain at the rear of the fort; and here, in
the space of half an hour, arose sixty or seventy of their tapering
lodges. Their horses were feeding by hundreds over the surrounding
prairie, and their dogs were roaming everywhere. The fort was full of men,
and the children were whooping and yelling incessantly under the walls.
These newcomers were scarcely arrived, when Bordeaux was running across
the fort, shouting to his squaw to bring him his spyglass. The obedient
Marie, the very model of a squaw, produced the instrument, and Bordeaux
hurried with it up to the wall. Pointing it to the eastward, he exclaimed,
with an oath, that the families were coming. But a few moments elapsed
before the heavy caravan of the emigrant wagons could be seen, steadily
advancing from the hills. They gained the river, and without turning or
pausing plunged in; they passed through, and slowly ascending the opposing
bank, kept directly on their way past the fort and the Indian village,
until, gaining a spot a quarter of a mile distant, they wheeled into a
circle. For some time our tranquillity was undisturbed. The emigrants were
preparing their encampment; but no sooner was this accomplished than Fort
Laramie was fairly taken by storm. A crowd of broad-brimmed hats, thin
visages, and staring eyes appeared suddenly at the gate. Tall awkward men,
in brown homespun; women with cadaverous faces and long lank figures came
thronging in together, and, as if inspired by the very demon of curiosity,
ransacked every nook and corner of the fort. Dismayed at this invasion, we
withdrew in all speed to our chamber, vainly hoping that it might prove an
inviolable sanctuary. The emigrants prosecuted their investigations with
untiring vigor. They penetrated the rooms or rather dens, inhabited by the
astonished squaws. They explored the apartments of the men, and even that
of Marie and the bourgeois. At last a numerous deputation appeared at our
door, but were immediately expelled. Being totally devoid of any sense of
delicacy or propriety, they seemed resolved to search every mystery to the
bottom.
Having at length satisfied their curiosity, they next proceeded to
business. The men occupied themselves in procuring supplies for their
onward journey; either buying them with money or giving in exchange
superfluous articles of their own.
The emigrants felt a violent prejudice against the French Indians, as they
called the trappers and traders. They thought, and with some justice, that
these men bore them no good will. Many of them were firmly persuaded that
the French were instigating the Indians to attack and cut them off. On
visiting the encampment we were at once struck with the extraordinary
perplexity and indecision that prevailed among the emigrants. They seemed
like men totally out of their elements; bewildered and amazed, like a
troop of school-boys lost in the woods. It was impossible to be long among
them without being conscious of the high and bold spirit with which most
of them were animated. But the FOREST is the home of the backwoodsman. On
the remote prairie he is totally at a loss. He differs much from the
genuine “mountain man,” the wild prairie hunter, as a Canadian voyageur,
paddling his canoe on the rapids of the Ottawa, differs from an American
sailor among the storms of Cape Horn. Still my companion and I were
somewhat at a loss to account for this perturbed state of mind. It could
not be cowardice; these men were of the same stock with the volunteers of
Monterey and Buena Vista. Yet, for the most part, they were the rudest and
most ignorant of the frontier population; they knew absolutely nothing of
the country and its inhabitants; they had already experienced much
misfortune, and apprehended more; they had seen nothing of mankind, and
had never put their own resources to the test.
A full proportion of suspicion fell upon us. Being strangers we were
looked upon as enemies. Having occasion for a supply of lead and a few
other necessary articles, we used to go over to the emigrant camps to
obtain them. After some hesitation, some dubious glances, and fumbling of
the hands in the pockets, the terms would be agreed upon, the price
tendered, and the emigrant would go off to bring the article in question.
After waiting until our patience gave out, we would go in search of him,
and find him seated on the tongue of his wagon.
“Well, stranger,” he would observe, as he saw us approach, “I reckon I
won’t trade!”
Some friend of his followed him from the scene of the bargain and
suggested in his ear, that clearly we meant to cheat him, and he had
better have nothing to do with us.
This timorous mood of the emigrants was doubly unfortunate, as it exposed
them to real danger. Assume, in the presence of Indians a bold bearing,
self-confident yet vigilant, and you will find them tolerably safe
neighbors. But your safety depends on the respect and fear you are able to
inspire. If you betray timidity or indecision, you convert them from that
moment into insidious and dangerous enemies. The Dakotas saw clearly
enough the perturbation of the emigrants and instantly availed themselves
of it. They became extremely insolent and exacting in their demands. It
has become an established custom with them to go to the camp of every
party, as it arrives in succession at the fort, and demand a feast.
Smoke’s village had come with the express design, having made several
days’ journey with no other object than that of enjoying a cup of coffee
and two or three biscuits. So the “feast” was demanded, and the emigrants
dared not refuse it.
One evening, about sunset, the village was deserted. We met old men,
warriors, squaws, and children in gay attire, trooping off to the
encampment, with faces of anticipation; and, arriving here, they seated
themselves in a semicircle. Smoke occupied the center, with his warriors
on either hand; the young men and boys next succeeded, and the squaws and
children formed the horns of the crescent. The biscuit and coffee were
most promptly dispatched, the emigrants staring open-mouthed at their
savage guests. With each new emigrant party that arrived at Fort Laramie
this scene was renewed; and every day the Indians grew more rapacious and
presumptuous. One evening they broke to pieces, out of mere wantonness,
the cups from which they had been feasted; and this so exasperated the
emigrants that many of them seized their rifles and could scarcely be
restrained from firing on the insolent mob of Indians. Before we left the
country this dangerous spirit on the part of the Dakota had mounted to a
yet higher pitch. They began openly to threaten the emigrants with
destruction, and actually fired upon one or two parties of whites. A
military force and military law are urgently called for in that perilous
region; and unless troops are speedily stationed at Fort Laramie, or
elsewhere in the neighborhood, both the emigrants and other travelers will
be exposed to most imminent risks.
The Ogallalla, the Brules, and other western bands of the Dakota, are
thorough savages, unchanged by any contact with civilization. Not one of
them can speak a European tongue, or has ever visited an American
settlement. Until within a year or two, when the emigrants began to pass
through their country on the way to Oregon, they had seen no whites except
the handful employed about the Fur Company’s posts. They esteemed them a
wise people, inferior only to themselves, living in leather lodges, like
their own, and subsisting on buffalo. But when the swarm of MENEASKA, with
their oxen and wagons, began to invade them, their astonishment was
unbounded. They could scarcely believe that the earth contained such a
multitude of white men. Their wonder is now giving way to indignation; and
the result, unless vigilantly guarded against, may be lamentable in the
extreme.
But to glance at the interior of a lodge. Shaw and I used often to visit
them. Indeed, we spent most of our evenings in the Indian village; Shaw’s
assumption of the medical character giving us a fair pretext. As a sample
of the rest I will describe one of these visits. The sun had just set, and
the horses were driven into the corral. The Prairie Cock, a noted beau,
came in at the gate with a bevy of young girls, with whom he began to
dance in the area, leading them round and round in a circle, while he
jerked up from his chest a succession of monotonous sounds, to which they
kept time in a rueful chant. Outside the gate boys and young men were idly
frolicking; and close by, looking grimly upon them, stood a warrior in his
robe, with his face painted jet-black, in token that he had lately taken a
Pawnee scalp. Passing these, the tall dark lodges rose between us and the
red western sky. We repaired at once to the lodge of Old Smoke himself. It
was by no means better than the others; indeed, it was rather shabby; for
in this democratic community, the chief never assumes superior state.
Smoke sat cross-legged on a buffalo robe, and his grunt of salutation as
we entered was unusually cordial, out of respect no doubt to Shaw’s
medical character. Seated around the lodge were several squaws, and an
abundance of children. The complaint of Shaw’s patients was, for the most
part, a severe inflammation of the eyes, occasioned by exposure to the
sun, a species of disorder which he treated with some success. He had
brought with him a homeopathic medicine chest, and was, I presume, the
first who introduced that harmless system of treatment among the
Ogallalla. No sooner had a robe been spread at the head of the lodge for
our accommodation, and we had seated ourselves upon it, than a patient
made her appearance; the chief’s daughter herself, who, to do her justice,
was the best-looking girl in the village. Being on excellent terms with
the physician, she placed herself readily under his hands, and submitted
with a good grace to his applications, laughing in his face during the
whole process, for a squaw hardly knows how to smile. This case
dispatched, another of a different kind succeeded. A hideous, emaciated
old woman sat in the darkest corner of the lodge rocking to and fro with
pain and hiding her eyes from the light by pressing the palms of both
hands against her face. At Smoke’s command, she came forward, very
unwillingly, and exhibited a pair of eyes that had nearly disappeared from
excess of inflammation. No sooner had the doctor fastened his grips upon
her than she set up a dismal moaning, and writhed so in his grasp that he
lost all patience, but being resolved to carry his point, he succeeded at
last in applying his favorite remedies.
“It is strange,” he said, when the operation was finished, “that I forgot
to bring any Spanish flies with me; we must have something here to answer
for a counter-irritant!”
So, in the absence of better, he seized upon a red-hot brand from the
fire, and clapped it against the temple of the old squaw, who set up an
unearthly howl, at which the rest of the family broke out into a laugh.
During these medical operations Smoke’s eldest squaw entered the lodge,
with a sort of stone mallet in her hand. I had observed some time before a
litter of well-grown black puppies, comfortably nestled among some buffalo
robes at one side; but this newcomer speedily disturbed their enjoyment;
for seizing one of them by the hind paw, she dragged him out, and carrying
him to the entrance of the lodge, hammered him on the head till she killed
him. Being quite conscious to what this preparation tended, I looked
through a hole in the back of the lodge to see the next steps of the
process. The squaw, holding the puppy by the legs, was swinging him to and
fro through the blaze of a fire, until the hair was singed off. This done,
she unsheathed her knife and cut him into small pieces, which she dropped
into a kettle to boil. In a few moments a large wooden dish was set before
us, filled with this delicate preparation. We felt conscious of the honor.
A dog-feast is the greatest compliment a Dakota can offer to his guest;
and knowing that to refuse eating would be an affront, we attacked the
little dog and devoured him before the eyes of his unconscious parent.
Smoke in the meantime was preparing his great pipe. It was lighted when we
had finished our repast, and we passed it from one to another till the
bowl was empty. This done, we took our leave without further ceremony,
knocked at the gate of the fort, and after making ourselves known were
admitted.
One morning, about a week after reaching Fort Laramie, we were holding our
customary Indian levee, when a bustle in the area below announced a new
arrival; and looking down from our balcony, I saw a familiar red beard and
mustache in the gateway. They belonged to the captain, who with his party
had just crossed the stream. We met him on the stairs as he came up, and
congratulated him on the safe arrival of himself and his devoted
companions. But he remembered our treachery, and was grave and dignified
accordingly; a tendency which increased as he observed on our part a
disposition to laugh at him. After remaining an hour or two at the fort he
rode away with his friends, and we have heard nothing of him since. As for
R., he kept carefully aloof. It was but too evident that we had the
unhappiness to have forfeited the kind regards of our London
fellow-traveler.
CHAPTER X
THE WAR PARTIES
The summer of 1846 was a season of much warlike excitement among all the
western bands of the Dakota. In 1845 they encountered great reverses. Many
war parties had been sent out; some of them had been totally cut off, and
others had returned broken and disheartened, so that the whole nation was
in mourning. Among the rest, ten warriors had gone to the Snake country,
led by the son of a prominent Ogallalla chief, called The Whirlwind. In
passing over Laramie Plains they encountered a superior number of their
enemies, were surrounded, and killed to a man. Having performed this
exploit the Snakes became alarmed, dreading the resentment of the Dakota,
and they hastened therefore to signify their wish for peace by sending the
scalp of the slain partisan, together with a small parcel of tobacco
attached, to his tribesmen and relations. They had employed old Vaskiss,
the trader, as their messenger, and the scalp was the same that hung in
our room at the fort. But The Whirlwind proved inexorable. Though his
character hardly corresponds with his name, he is nevertheless an Indian,
and hates the Snakes with his whole soul. Long before the scalp arrived he
had made his preparations for revenge. He sent messengers with presents
and tobacco to all the Dakota within three hundred miles, proposing a
grand combination to chastise the Snakes, and naming a place and time of
rendezvous. The plan was readily adopted and at this moment many villages,
probably embracing in the whole five or six thousand souls, were slowly
creeping over the prairies and tending towards the common center at La
Bonte’s Camp, on the Platte. Here their war-like rites were to be
celebrated with more than ordinary solemnity, and a thousand warriors, as
it was said, were to set out for the enemy country. The characteristic
result of this preparation will appear in the sequel.
I was greatly rejoiced to hear of it. I had come into the country almost
exclusively with a view of observing the Indian character. Having from
childhood felt a curiosity on this subject, and having failed completely
to gratify it by reading, I resolved to have recourse to observation. I
wished to satisfy myself with regard to the position of the Indians among
the races of men; the vices and the virtues that have sprung from their
innate character and from their modes of life, their government, their
superstitions, and their domestic situation. To accomplish my purpose it
was necessary to live in the midst of them, and become, as it were, one of
them. I proposed to join a village and make myself an inmate of one of
their lodges; and henceforward this narrative, so far as I am concerned,
will be chiefly a record of the progress of this design apparently so easy
of accomplishment, and the unexpected impediments that opposed it.
We resolved on no account to miss the rendezvous at La Bonte’s Camp. Our
plan was to leave Delorier at the fort, in charge of our equipage and the
better part of our horses, while we took with us nothing but our weapons
and the worst animals we had. In all probability jealousies and quarrels
would arise among so many hordes of fierce impulsive savages, congregated
together under no common head, and many of them strangers, from remote
prairies and mountains. We were bound in common prudence to be cautious
how we excited any feeling of cupidity. This was our plan, but unhappily
we were not destined to visit La Bonte’s Camp in this manner; for one
morning a young Indian came to the fort and brought us evil tidings. The
newcomer was a dandy of the first water. His ugly face was painted with
vermilion; on his head fluttered the tail of a prairie cock (a large
species of pheasant, not found, as I have heard, eastward of the Rocky
Mountains); in his ears were hung pendants of shell, and a flaming red
blanket was wrapped around him. He carried a dragoon sword in his hand,
solely for display, since the knife, the arrow, and the rifle are the
arbiters of every prairie fight; but no one in this country goes abroad
unarmed, the dandy carried a bow and arrows in an otter-skin quiver at his
back. In this guise, and bestriding his yellow horse with an air of
extreme dignity, The Horse, for that was his name, rode in at the gate,
turning neither to the right nor the left, but casting glances askance at
the groups of squaws who, with their mongrel progeny, were sitting in the
sun before their doors. The evil tidings brought by The Horse were of the
following import: The squaw of Henry Chatillon, a woman with whom he had
been connected for years by the strongest ties which in that country exist
between the sexes, was dangerously ill. She and her children were in the
village of The Whirlwind, at the distance of a few days’ journey. Henry
was anxious to see the woman before she died, and provide for the safety
and support of his children, of whom he was extremely fond. To have
refused him this would have been gross inhumanity. We abandoned our plan
of joining Smoke’s village, and of proceeding with it to the rendezvous,
and determined to meet The Whirlwind, and go in his company.
I had been slightly ill for several weeks, but on the third night after
reaching Fort Laramie a violent pain awoke me, and I found myself attacked
by the same disorder that occasioned such heavy losses to the army on the
Rio Grande. In a day and a half I was reduced to extreme weakness, so that
I could not walk without pain and effort. Having within that time taken
six grains of opium, without the least beneficial effect, and having no
medical adviser, nor any choice of diet, I resolved to throw myself upon
Providence for recovery, using, without regard to the disorder, any
portion of strength that might remain to me. So on the 20th of June we set
out from Fort Laramie to meet The Whirlwind’s village. Though aided by the
high-bowed “mountain saddle,” I could scarcely keep my seat on horseback.
Before we left the fort we hired another man, a long-haired Canadian, with
a face like an owl’s, contrasting oddly enough with Delorier’s mercurial
countenance. This was not the only re-enforcement to our party. A vagrant
Indian trader, named Reynal, joined us, together with his squaw Margot,
and her two nephews, our dandy friend, The Horse, and his younger brother,
The Hail Storm. Thus accompanied, we betook ourselves to the prairie,
leaving the beaten trail, and passing over the desolate hills that flank
the bottoms of Laramie Creek. In all, Indians and whites, we counted eight
men and one woman.
Reynal, the trader, the image of sleek and selfish complacency, carried
The Horse’s dragoon sword in his hand, delighting apparently in this
useless parade; for, from spending half his life among Indians, he had
caught not only their habits but their ideas. Margot, a female animal of
more than two hundred pounds’ weight, was couched in the basket of a
travail, such as I have before described; besides her ponderous bulk,
various domestic utensils were attached to the vehicle, and she was
leading by a trail-rope a packhorse, who carried the covering of Reynal’s
lodge. Delorier walked briskly by the side of the cart, and Raymond came
behind, swearing at the spare horses, which it was his business to drive.
The restless young Indians, their quivers at their backs, and their bows
in their hand, galloped over the hills, often starting a wolf or an
antelope from the thick growth of wild-sage bushes. Shaw and I were in
keeping with the rest of the rude cavalcade, having in the absence of
other clothing adopted the buckskin attire of the trappers. Henry
Chatillon rode in advance of the whole. Thus we passed hill after hill and
hollow after hollow, a country arid, broken and so parched by the sun that
none of the plants familiar to our more favored soil would flourish upon
it, though there were multitudes of strange medicinal herbs, more
especially the absanth, which covered every declivity, and cacti were
hanging like reptiles at the edges of every ravine. At length we ascended
a high hill, our horses treading upon pebbles of flint, agate, and rough
jasper, until, gaining the top, we looked down on the wild bottoms of
Laramie Creek, which far below us wound like a writhing snake from side to
side of the narrow interval, amid a growth of shattered cotton-wood and
ash trees. Lines of tall cliffs, white as chalk, shut in this green strip
of woods and meadow land, into which we descended and encamped for the
night. In the morning we passed a wide grassy plain by the river; there
was a grove in front, and beneath its shadows the ruins of an old trading
fort of logs. The grove bloomed with myriads of wild roses, with their
sweet perfume fraught with recollections of home. As we emerged from the
trees, a rattlesnake, as large as a man’s arm, and more than four feet
long, lay coiled on a rock, fiercely rattling and hissing at us; a gray
hare, double the size of those in New England, leaped up from the tall
ferns; curlew were screaming over our heads, and a whole host of little
prairie dogs sat yelping at us at the mouths of their burrows on the dry
plain beyond. Suddenly an antelope leaped up from the wild-sage bushes,
gazed eagerly at us, and then, erecting his white tail, stretched away
like a greyhound. The two Indian boys found a white wolf, as large as a
calf in a hollow, and giving a sharp yell, they galloped after him; but
the wolf leaped into the stream and swam across. Then came the crack of a
rifle, the bullet whistling harmlessly over his head, as he scrambled up
the steep declivity, rattling down stones and earth into the water below.
Advancing a little, we beheld on the farther bank of the stream, a
spectacle not common even in that region; for, emerging from among the
trees, a herd of some two hundred elk came out upon the meadow, their
antlers clattering as they walked forward in dense throng. Seeing us, they
broke into a run, rushing across the opening and disappearing among the
trees and scattered groves. On our left was a barren prairie, stretching
to the horizon; on our right, a deep gulf, with Laramie Creek at the
bottom. We found ourselves at length at the edge of a steep descent; a
narrow valley, with long rank grass and scattered trees stretching before
us for a mile or more along the course of the stream. Reaching the farther
end, we stopped and encamped. An old huge cotton-wood tree spread its
branches horizontally over our tent. Laramie Creek, circling before our
camp, half inclosed us; it swept along the bottom of a line of tall white
cliffs that looked down on us from the farther bank. There were dense
copses on our right; the cliffs, too, were half hidden by shrubbery,
though behind us a few cotton-wood trees, dotting the green prairie, alone
impeded the view, and friend or enemy could be discerned in that direction
at a mile’s distance. Here we resolved to remain and await the arrival of
The Whirlwind, who would certainly pass this way in his progress toward La
Bonte’s Camp. To go in search of him was not expedient, both on account of
the broken and impracticable nature of the country and the uncertainty of
his position and movements; besides, our horses were almost worn out, and
I was in no condition to travel. We had good grass, good water, tolerable
fish from the stream, and plenty of smaller game, such as antelope and
deer, though no buffalo. There was one little drawback to our satisfaction—a
certain extensive tract of bushes and dried grass, just behind us, which
it was by no means advisable to enter, since it sheltered a numerous brood
of rattlesnakes. Henry Chatillon again dispatched The Horse to the
village, with a message to his squaw that she and her relatives should
leave the rest and push on as rapidly as possible to our camp.
Our daily routine soon became as regular as that of a well-ordered
household. The weather-beaten old tree was in the center; our rifles
generally rested against its vast trunk, and our saddles were flung on the
ground around it; its distorted roots were so twisted as to form one or
two convenient arm-chairs, where we could sit in the shade and read or
smoke; but meal-times became, on the whole, the most interesting hours of
the day, and a bountiful provision was made for them. An antelope or a
deer usually swung from a stout bough, and haunches were suspended against
the trunk. That camp is daguerreotyped on my memory; the old tree, the
white tent, with Shaw sleeping in the shadow of it, and Reynal’s miserable
lodge close by the bank of the stream. It was a wretched oven-shaped
structure, made of begrimed and tattered buffalo hides stretched over a
frame of poles; one side was open, and at the side of the opening hung the
powder horn and bullet pouch of the owner, together with his long red
pipe, and a rich quiver of otterskin, with a bow and arrows; for Reynal,
an Indian in most things but color, chose to hunt buffalo with these
primitive weapons. In the darkness of this cavern-like habitation, might
be discerned Madame Margot, her overgrown bulk stowed away among her
domestic implements, furs, robes, blankets, and painted cases of PAR’
FLECHE, in which dried meat is kept. Here she sat from sunrise to sunset,
a bloated impersonation of gluttony and laziness, while her affectionate
proprietor was smoking, or begging petty gifts from us, or telling lies
concerning his own achievements, or perchance engaged in the more
profitable occupation of cooking some preparation of prairie delicacies.
Reynal was an adept at this work; he and Delorier have joined forces and
are hard at work together over the fire, while Raymond spreads, by way of
tablecloth, a buffalo hide, carefully whitened with pipeclay, on the grass
before the tent. Here, with ostentatious display, he arranges the teacups
and plates; and then, creeping on all fours like a dog, he thrusts his
head in at the opening of the tent. For a moment we see his round owlish
eyes rolling wildly, as if the idea he came to communicate had suddenly
escaped him; then collecting his scattered thoughts, as if by an effort,
he informs us that supper is ready, and instantly withdraws.
When sunset came, and at that hour the wild and desolate scene would
assume a new aspect, the horses were driven in. They had been grazing all
day in the neighboring meadow, but now they were picketed close about the
camp. As the prairie darkened we sat and conversed around the fire, until
becoming drowsy we spread our saddles on the ground, wrapped our blankets
around us and lay down. We never placed a guard, having by this time
become too indolent; but Henry Chatillon folded his loaded rifle in the
same blanket with himself, observing that he always took it to bed with
him when he camped in that place. Henry was too bold a man to use such a
precaution without good cause. We had a hint now and then that our
situation was none of the safest; several Crow war parties were known to
be in the vicinity, and one of them, that passed here some time before,
had peeled the bark from a neighboring tree, and engraved upon the white
wood certain hieroglyphics, to signify that they had invaded the
territories of their enemies, the Dakota, and set them at defiance. One
morning a thick mist covered the whole country. Shaw and Henry went out to
ride, and soon came back with a startling piece of intelligence; they had
found within rifle-shot of our camp the recent trail of about thirty
horsemen. They could not be whites, and they could not be Dakota, since we
knew no such parties to be in the neighborhood; therefore they must be
Crows. Thanks to that friendly mist, we had escaped a hard battle; they
would inevitably have attacked us and our Indian companions had they seen
our camp. Whatever doubts we might have entertained, were quite removed a
day or two after, by two or three Dakota, who came to us with an account
of having hidden in a ravine on that very morning, from whence they saw
and counted the Crows; they said that they followed them, carefully
keeping out of sight, as they passed up Chugwater; that here the Crows
discovered five dead bodies of Dakota, placed according to the national
custom in trees, and flinging them to the ground, they held their guns
against them and blew them to atoms.
If our camp were not altogether safe, still it was comfortable enough; at
least it was so to Shaw, for I was tormented with illness and vexed by the
delay in the accomplishment of my designs. When a respite in my disorder
gave me some returning strength, I rode out well-armed upon the prairie,
or bathed with Shaw in the stream, or waged a petty warfare with the
inhabitants of a neighborhood prairie-dog village. Around our fire at
night we employed ourselves in inveighing against the fickleness and
inconstancy of Indians, and execrating The Whirlwind and all his village.
At last the thing grew insufferable.
“To-morrow morning,” said I, “I will start for the fort, and see if I can
hear any news there.” Late that evening, when the fire had sunk low, and
all the camp were asleep, a loud cry sounded from the darkness. Henry
started up, recognized the voice, replied to it, and our dandy friend, The
Horse, rode in among us, just returned from his mission to the village. He
coolly picketed his mare, without saying a word, sat down by the fire and
began to eat, but his imperturbable philosophy was too much for our
patience. Where was the village? about fifty miles south of us; it was
moving slowly and would not arrive in less than a week; and where was
Henry’s squaw? coming as fast as she could with Mahto-Tatonka, and the
rest of her brothers, but she would never reach us, for she was dying, and
asking every moment for Henry. Henry’s manly face became clouded and
downcast; he said that if we were willing he would go in the morning to
find her, at which Shaw offered to accompany him.
We saddled our horses at sunrise. Reynal protested vehemently against
being left alone, with nobody but the two Canadians and the young Indians,
when enemies were in the neighborhood. Disregarding his complaints, we
left him, and coming to the mouth of Chugwater, separated, Shaw and Henry
turning to the right, up the bank of the stream, while I made for the
fort.
Taking leave for a while of my friend and the unfortunate squaw, I will
relate by way of episode what I saw and did at Fort Laramie. It was not
more than eighteen miles distant, and I reached it in three hours; a
shriveled little figure, wrapped from head to foot in a dingy white
Canadian capote, stood in the gateway, holding by a cord of bull’s hide a
shaggy wild horse, which he had lately caught. His sharp prominent
features, and his little keen snakelike eyes, looked out from beneath the
shadowy hood of the capote, which was drawn over his head exactly like the
cowl of a Capuchin friar. His face was extremely thin and like an old
piece of leather, and his mouth spread from ear to ear. Extending his long
wiry hand, he welcomed me with something more cordial than the ordinary
cold salute of an Indian, for we were excellent friends. He had made an
exchange of horses to our mutual advantage; and Paul, thinking himself
well-treated, had declared everywhere that the white man had a good heart.
He was a Dakota from the Missouri, a reputed son of the half-breed
interpreter, Pierre Dorion, so often mentioned in Irving’s “Astoria.” He
said that he was going to Richard’s trading house to sell his horse to
some emigrants who were encamped there, and asked me to go with him. We
forded the stream together, Paul dragging his wild charge behind him. As
we passed over the sandy plains beyond, he grew quite communicative. Paul
was a cosmopolitan in his way; he had been to the settlements of the
whites, and visited in peace and war most of the tribes within the range
of a thousand miles. He spoke a jargon of French and another of English,
yet nevertheless he was a thorough Indian; and as he told of the bloody
deeds of his own people against their enemies, his little eye would
glitter with a fierce luster. He told how the Dakota exterminated a
village of the Hohays on the Upper Missouri, slaughtering men, women, and
children; and how an overwhelming force of them cut off sixteen of the
brave Delawares, who fought like wolves to the last, amid the throng of
their enemies. He told me also another story, which I did not believe
until I had it confirmed from so many independent sources that no room was
left for doubt. I am tempted to introduce it here.
Six years ago a fellow named Jim Beckwith, a mongrel of French, American,
and negro blood, was trading for the Fur Company, in a very large village
of the Crows. Jim Beckwith was last summer at St. Louis. He is a ruffian
of the first stamp; bloody and treacherous, without honor or honesty; such
at least is the character he bears upon the prairie. Yet in his case all
the standard rules of character fail, for though he will stab a man in his
sleep, he will also perform most desperate acts of daring; such, for
instance, as the following: While he was in the Crow village, a Blackfoot
war party, between thirty and forty in number came stealing through the
country, killing stragglers and carrying off horses. The Crow warriors got
upon their trail and pressed them so closely that they could not escape,
at which the Blackfeet, throwing up a semicircular breastwork of logs at
the foot of a precipice, coolly awaited their approach. The logs and
sticks, piled four or five high, protected them in front. The Crows might
have swept over the breastwork and exterminated their enemies; but though
out-numbering them tenfold, they did not dream of storming the little
fortification. Such a proceeding would be altogether repugnant to their
notions of warfare. Whooping and yelling, and jumping from side to side
like devils incarnate, they showered bullets and arrows upon the logs; not
a Blackfoot was hurt, but several Crows, in spite of their leaping and
dodging, were shot down. In this childish manner the fight went on for an
hour or two. Now and then a Crow warrior in an ecstasy of valor and
vainglory would scream forth his war song, boasting himself the bravest
and greatest of mankind, and grasping his hatchet, would rush up and
strike it upon the breastwork, and then as he retreated to his companions,
fall dead under a shower of arrows; yet no combined attack seemed to be
dreamed of. The Blackfeet remained secure in their intrenchment. At last
Jim Beckwith lost patience.
“You are all fools and old women,” he said to the Crows; “come with me, if
any of you are brave enough, and I will show you how to fight.”
He threw off his trapper’s frock of buckskin and stripped himself naked
like the Indians themselves. He left his rifle on the ground, and taking
in his hand a small light hatchet, he ran over the prairie to the right,
concealed by a hollow from the eyes of the Blackfeet. Then climbing up the
rocks, he gained the top of the precipice behind them. Forty or fifty
young Crow warriors followed him. By the cries and whoops that rose from
below he knew that the Blackfeet were just beneath him; and running
forward, he leaped down the rock into the midst of them. As he fell he
caught one by the long loose hair and dragging him down tomahawked him;
then grasping another by the belt at his waist, he struck him also a
stunning blow, and gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry. He swung
his hatchet so fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet bore back
and gave him room. He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the
breastwork and escaped; but this was not necessary, for with devilish
yells the Crow warriors came dropping in quick succession over the rock
among their enemies. The main body of the Crows, too, answered the cry
from the front and rushed up simultaneously. The convulsive struggle
within the breastwork was frightful; for an instant the Blackfeet fought
and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the butchery was soon complete, and
the mangled bodies lay piled up together under the precipice. Not a
Blackfoot made his escape.
As Paul finished his story we came in sight of Richard’s Fort. It stood in
the middle of the plain; a disorderly crowd of men around it, and an
emigrant camp a little in front.
“Now, Paul,” said I, “where are your Winnicongew lodges?”
“Not come yet,” said Paul, “maybe come to-morrow.”
Two large villages of a band of Dakota had come three hundred miles from
the Missouri, to join in the war, and they were expected to reach
Richard’s that morning. There was as yet no sign of their approach; so
pushing through a noisy, drunken crowd, I entered an apartment of logs and
mud, the largest in the fort; it was full of men of various races and
complexions, all more or less drunk. A company of California emigrants, it
seemed, had made the discovery at this late day that they had encumbered
themselves with too many supplies for their journey. A part, therefore,
they had thrown away or sold at great loss to the traders, but had
determined to get rid of their copious stock of Missouri whisky, by
drinking it on the spot. Here were maudlin squaws stretched on piles of
buffalo robes; squalid Mexicans, armed with bows and arrows; Indians
sedately drunk; long-haired Canadians and trappers, and American
backwoodsmen in brown homespun, the well-beloved pistol and bowie knife
displayed openly at their sides. In the middle of the room a tall, lank
man, with a dingy broadcloth coat, was haranguing the company in the style
of the stump orator. With one hand he sawed the air, and with the other
clutched firmly a brown jug of whisky, which he applied every moment to
his lips, forgetting that he had drained the contents long ago. Richard
formally introduced me to this personage, who was no less a man than
Colonel R., once the leader of the party. Instantly the colonel seizing
me, in the absence of buttons by the leather fringes of my frock, began to
define his position. His men, he said, had mutinied and deposed him; but
still he exercised over them the influence of a superior mind; in all but
the name he was yet their chief. As the colonel spoke, I looked round on
the wild assemblage, and could not help thinking that he was but ill
qualified to conduct such men across the desert to California. Conspicuous
among the rest stood three tail young men, grandsons of Daniel Boone. They
had clearly inherited the adventurous character of that prince of
pioneers; but I saw no signs of the quiet and tranquil spirit that so
remarkably distinguished him.
Fearful was the fate that months after overtook some of the members of
that party. General Kearny, on his late return from California, brought in
the account how they were interrupted by the deep snows among the
mountains, and maddened by cold and hunger fed upon each other’s flesh.
I got tired of the confusion. “Come, Paul,” said I, “we will be off.” Paul
sat in the sun, under the wall of the fort. He jumped up, mounted, and we
rode toward Fort Laramie. When we reached it, a man came out of the gate
with a pack at his back and a rifle on his shoulder; others were gathering
about him, shaking him by the hand, as if taking leave. I thought it a
strange thing that a man should set out alone and on foot for the prairie.
I soon got an explanation. Perrault—this, if I recollect right was
the Canadian’s name—had quarreled with the bourgeois, and the fort
was too hot to hold him. Bordeaux, inflated with his transient authority,
had abused him, and received a blow in return. The men then sprang at each
other, and grappled in the middle of the fort. Bordeaux was down in an
instant, at the mercy of the incensed Canadian; had not an old Indian, the
brother of his squaw, seized hold of his antagonist, he would have fared
ill. Perrault broke loose from the old Indian, and both the white men ran
to their rooms for their guns; but when Bordeaux, looking from his door,
saw the Canadian, gun in hand, standing in the area and calling on him to
come out and fight, his heart failed him; he chose to remain where he was.
In vain the old Indian, scandalized by his brother-in-law’s cowardice,
called upon him to go upon the prairie and fight it out in the white man’s
manner; and Bordeaux’s own squaw, equally incensed, screamed to her lord
and master that he was a dog and an old woman. It all availed nothing.
Bordeaux’s prudence got the better of his valor, and he would not stir.
Perrault stood showering approbrious epithets at the recent bourgeois.
Growing tired of this, he made up a pack of dried meat, and slinging it at
his back, set out alone for Fort Pierre on the Missouri, a distance of
three hundred miles, over a desert country full of hostile Indians.
I remained in the fort that night. In the morning, as I was coming out
from breakfast, conversing with a trader named McCluskey, I saw a strange
Indian leaning against the side of the gate. He was a tall, strong man,
with heavy features.
“Who is he?” I asked. “That’s The Whirlwind,” said McCluskey. “He is the
fellow that made all this stir about the war. It’s always the way with the
Sioux; they never stop cutting each other’s throats; it’s all they are fit
for; instead of sitting in their lodges, and getting robes to trade with
us in the winter. If this war goes on, we’ll make a poor trade of it next
season, I reckon.”
And this was the opinion of all the traders, who were vehemently opposed
to the war, from the serious injury that it must occasion to their
interests. The Whirlwind left his village the day before to make a visit
to the fort. His warlike ardor had abated not a little since he first
conceived the design of avenging his son’s death. The long and complicated
preparations for the expedition were too much for his fickle, inconstant
disposition. That morning Bordeaux fastened upon him, made him presents
and told him that if he went to war he would destroy his horses and kill
no buffalo to trade with the white men; in short, that he was a fool to
think of such a thing, and had better make up his mind to sit quietly in
his lodge and smoke his pipe, like a wise man. The Whirlwind’s purpose was
evidently shaken; he had become tired, like a child, of his favorite plan.
Bordeaux exultingly predicted that he would not go to war. My philanthropy
at that time was no match for my curiosity, and I was vexed at the
possibility that after all I might lose the rare opportunity of seeing the
formidable ceremonies of war. The Whirlwind, however, had merely thrown
the firebrand; the conflagration was become general. All the western bands
of the Dakota were bent on war; and as I heard from McCluskey, six large
villages already gathered on a little stream, forty miles distant, were
daily calling to the Great Spirit to aid them in their enterprise.
McCluskey had just left and represented them as on their way to La Bonte’s
Camp, which they would reach in a week, UNLESS THEY SHOULD LEARN THAT
THERE WERE NO BUFFALO THERE. I did not like this condition, for buffalo
this season were rare in the neighborhood. There were also the two
Minnicongew villages that I mentioned before; but about noon, an Indian
came from Richard’s Fort with the news that they were quarreling, breaking
up, and dispersing. So much for the whisky of the emigrants! Finding
themselves unable to drink the whole, they had sold the residue to these
Indians, and it needed no prophet to foretell the results; a spark dropped
into a powder magazine would not have produced a quicker effect. Instantly
the old jealousies and rivalries and smothered feuds that exist in an
Indian village broke out into furious quarrels. They forgot the warlike
enterprise that had already brought them three hundred miles. They seemed
like ungoverned children inflamed with the fiercest passions of men.
Several of them were stabbed in the drunken tumult; and in the morning
they scattered and moved back toward the Missouri in small parties. I
feared that, after all, the long-projected meeting and the ceremonies that
were to attend it might never take place, and I should lose so admirable
an opportunity of seeing the Indian under his most fearful and
characteristic aspect; however, in foregoing this, I should avoid a very
fair probability of being plundered and stripped, and, it might be,
stabbed or shot into the bargain. Consoling myself with this reflection, I
prepared to carry the news, such as it was, to the camp.
I caught my horse, and to my vexation found he had lost a shoe and broken
his tender white hoof against the rocks. Horses are shod at Fort Laramie
at the moderate rate of three dollars a foot; so I tied Hendrick to a beam
in the corral, and summoned Roubidou, the blacksmith. Roubidou, with the
hoof between his knees, was at work with hammer and file, and I was
inspecting the process, when a strange voice addressed me.
“Two more gone under! Well, there is more of us left yet. Here’s Jean Gars
and me off to the mountains to-morrow. Our turn will come next, I suppose.
It’s a hard life, anyhow!”
I looked up and saw a little man, not much more than five feet high, but
of very square and strong proportions. In appearance he was particularly
dingy; for his old buckskin frock was black and polished with time and
grease, and his belt, knife, pouch, and powder-horn appeared to have seen
the roughest service. The first joint of each foot was entirely gone,
having been frozen off several winters before, and his moccasins were
curtailed in proportion. His whole appearance and equipment bespoke the
“free trapper.” He had a round ruddy face, animated with a spirit of
carelessness and gayety not at all in accordance with the words he had
just spoken.
“Two more gone,” said I; “what do you mean by that?”
“Oh,” said he, “the Arapahoes have just killed two of us in the mountains.
Old Bull-Tail has come to tell us. They stabbed one behind his back, and
shot the other with his own rifle. That’s the way we live here! I mean to
give up trapping after this year. My squaw says she wants a pacing horse
and some red ribbons; I’ll make enough beaver to get them for her, and
then I’m done! I’ll go below and live on a farm.”
“Your bones will dry on the prairie, Rouleau!” said another trapper, who
was standing by; a strong, brutal-looking fellow, with a face as surly as
a bull-dog’s.
Rouleau only laughed, and began to hum a tune and shuffle a dance on his
stumps of feet.
“You’ll see us, before long, passing up our way,” said the other man.
“Well,” said I, “stop and take a cup of coffee with us”; and as it was
quite late in the afternoon, I prepared to leave the fort at once.
As I rode out, a train of emigrant wagons was passing across the stream.
“Whar are ye goin’ stranger?” Thus I was saluted by two or three voices at
once.
“About eighteen miles up the creek.”
“It’s mighty late to be going that far! Make haste, ye’d better, and keep
a bright lookout for Indians!”
I thought the advice too good to be neglected. Fording the stream, I
passed at a round trot over the plains beyond. But “the more haste, the
worse speed.” I proved the truth in the proverb by the time I reached the
hills three miles from the fort. The trail was faintly marked, and riding
forward with more rapidity than caution, I lost sight of it. I kept on in
a direct line, guided by Laramie Creek, which I could see at intervals
darkly glistening in the evening sun, at the bottom of the woody gulf on
my right. Half an hour before sunset I came upon its banks. There was
something exciting in the wild solitude of the place. An antelope sprang
suddenly from the sagebushes before me. As he leaped gracefully not thirty
yards before my horse, I fired, and instantly he spun round and fell.
Quite sure of him, I walked my horse toward him, leisurely reloading my
rifle, when to my surprise he sprang up and trotted rapidly away on three
legs into the dark recesses of the hills, whither I had no time to follow.
Ten minutes after, I was passing along the bottom of a deep valley, and
chancing to look behind me, I saw in the dim light that something was
following. Supposing it to be wolf, I slid from my seat and sat down
behind my horse to shoot it; but as it came up, I saw by its motions that
it was another antelope. It approached within a hundred yards, arched its
graceful neck, and gazed intently. I leveled at the white spot on its
chest, and was about to fire when it started off, ran first to one side
and then to the other, like a vessel tacking against a wind, and at last
stretched away at full speed. Then it stopped again, looked curiously
behind it, and trotted up as before; but not so boldly, for it soon paused
and stood gazing at me. I fired; it leaped upward and fell upon its
tracks. Measuring the distance, I found it 204 paces. When I stood by his
side, the antelope turned his expiring eye upward. It was like a beautiful
woman’s, dark and rich. “Fortunate that I am in a hurry,” thought I; “I
might be troubled with remorse, if I had time for it.”
Cutting the animal up, not in the most skilled manner, I hung the meat at
the back of my saddle, and rode on again. The hills (I could not remember
one of them) closed around me. “It is too late,” thought I, “to go
forward. I will stay here to-night, and look for the path in the morning.”
As a last effort, however, I ascended a high hill, from which, to my great
satisfaction, I could see Laramie Creek stretching before me, twisting
from side to side amid ragged patches of timber; and far off, close
beneath the shadows of the trees, the ruins of the old trading fort were
visible. I reached them at twilight. It was far from pleasant, in that
uncertain light, to be pushing through the dense trees and shrubbery of
the grove beyond. I listened anxiously for the footfall of man or beast.
Nothing was stirring but one harmless brown bird, chirping among the
branches. I was glad when I gained the open prairie once more, where I
could see if anything approached. When I came to the mouth of Chugwater,
it was totally dark. Slackening the reins, I let my horse take his own
course. He trotted on with unerring instinct, and by nine o’clock was
scrambling down the steep ascent into the meadows where we were encamped.
While I was looking in vain for the light of the fire, Hendrick, with
keener perceptions, gave a loud neigh, which was immediately answered in a
shrill note from the distance. In a moment I was hailed from the darkness
by the voice of Reynal, who had come out, rifle in hand, to see who was
approaching.
He, with his squaw, the two Canadians and the Indian boys, were the sole
inmates of the camp, Shaw and Henry Chatillon being still absent. At noon
of the following day they came back, their horses looking none the better
for the journey. Henry seemed dejected. The woman was dead, and his
children must henceforward be exposed, without a protector, to the
hardships and vicissitudes of Indian life. Even in the midst of his grief
he had not forgotten his attachment to his bourgeois, for he had procured
among his Indian relatives two beautifully ornamented buffalo robes, which
he spread on the ground as a present to us.
Shaw lighted his pipe, and told me in a few words the history of his
journey. When I went to the fort they left me, as I mentioned, at the
mouth of Chugwater. They followed the course of the little stream all day,
traversing a desolate and barren country. Several times they came upon the
fresh traces of a large war party—the same, no doubt, from whom we
had so narrowly escaped an attack. At an hour before sunset, without
encountering a human being by the way, they came upon the lodges of the
squaw and her brothers, who, in compliance with Henry’s message, had left
the Indian village in order to join us at our camp. The lodges were
already pitched, five in number, by the side of the stream. The woman lay
in one of them, reduced to a mere skeleton. For some time she had been
unable to move or speak. Indeed, nothing had kept her alive but the hope
of seeing Henry, to whom she was strongly and faithfully attached. No
sooner did he enter the lodge than she revived, and conversed with him the
greater part of the night. Early in the morning she was lifted into a
travail, and the whole party set out toward our camp. There were but five
warriors; the rest were women and children. The whole were in great alarm
at the proximity of the Crow war party, who would certainly have destroyed
them without mercy had they met. They had advanced only a mile or two,
when they discerned a horseman, far off, on the edge of the horizon. They
all stopped, gathering together in the greatest anxiety, from which they
did not recover until long after the horseman disappeared; then they set
out again. Henry was riding with Shaw a few rods in advance of the
Indians, when Mahto-Tatonka, a younger brother of the woman, hastily
called after them. Turning back, they found all the Indians crowded around
the travail in which the woman was lying. They reached her just in time to
hear the death-rattle in her throat. In a moment she lay dead in the
basket of the vehicle. A complete stillness succeeded; then the Indians
raised in concert their cries of lamentation over the corpse, and among
them Shaw clearly distinguished those strange sounds resembling the word
“Halleluyah,” which together with some other accidental coincidences has
given rise to the absurd theory that the Indians are descended from the
ten lost tribes of Israel.
The Indian usage required that Henry, as well as the other relatives of
the woman, should make valuable presents, to be placed by the side of the
body at its last resting place. Leaving the Indians, he and Shaw set out
for the camp and reached it, as we have seen, by hard pushing, at about
noon. Having obtained the necessary articles, they immediately returned.
It was very late and quite dark when they again reached the lodges. They
were all placed in a deep hollow among the dreary hills. Four of them were
just visible through the gloom, but the fifth and largest was illuminated
by the ruddy blaze of a fire within, glowing through the half-transparent
covering of raw hides. There was a perfect stillness as they approached.
The lodges seemed without a tenant. Not a living thing was stirring—there
was something awful in the scene. They rode up to the entrance of the
lodge, and there was no sound but the tramp of their horses. A squaw came
out and took charge of the animals, without speaking a word. Entering,
they found the lodge crowded with Indians; a fire was burning in the
midst, and the mourners encircled it in a triple row. Room was made for
the newcomers at the head of the lodge, a robe spread for them to sit
upon, and a pipe lighted and handed to them in perfect silence. Thus they
passed the greater part of the night. At times the fire would subside into
a heap of embers, until the dark figures seated around it were scarcely
visible; then a squaw would drop upon it a piece of buffalo-fat, and a
bright flame, instantly springing up, would reveal of a sudden the crowd
of wild faces, motionless as bronze. The silence continued unbroken. It
was a relief to Shaw when daylight returned and he could escape from this
house of mourning. He and Henry prepared to return homeward; first,
however, they placed the presents they had brought near the body of the
squaw, which, most gaudily attired, remained in a sitting posture in one
of the lodges. A fine horse was picketed not far off, destined to be
killed that morning for the service of her spirit, for the woman was lame,
and could not travel on foot over the dismal prairies to the villages of
the dead. Food, too, was provided, and household implements, for her use
upon this last journey.
Henry left her to the care of her relatives, and came immediately with
Shaw to the camp. It was some time before he entirely recovered from his
dejection.
CHAPTER XI
SCENES AT THE CAMP
Reynal heard guns fired one day, at the distance of a mile or two from the
camp. He grew nervous instantly. Visions of Crow war parties began to
haunt his imagination; and when we returned (for we were all absent), he
renewed his complaints about being left alone with the Canadians and the
squaw. The day after, the cause of the alarm appeared. Four trappers, one
called Moran, another Saraphin, and the others nicknamed “Rouleau” and
“Jean Gras,” came to our camp and joined us. They it was who fired the
guns and disturbed the dreams of our confederate Reynal. They soon
encamped by our side. Their rifles, dingy and battered with hard service,
rested with ours against the old tree; their strong rude saddles, their
buffalo robes, their traps, and the few rough and simple articles of their
traveling equipment, were piled near our tent. Their mountain horses were
turned to graze in the meadow among our own; and the men themselves, no
less rough and hardy, used to lie half the day in the shade of our tree
lolling on the grass, lazily smoking, and telling stories of their
adventures; and I defy the annals of chivalry to furnish the record of a
life more wild and perilous than that of a Rocky Mountain trapper.
With this efficient re-enforcement the agitation of Reynal’s nerves
subsided. He began to conceive a sort of attachment to our old camping
ground; yet it was time to change our quarters, since remaining too long
on one spot must lead to certain unpleasant results not to be borne with
unless in a case of dire necessity. The grass no longer presented a smooth
surface of turf; it was trampled into mud and clay. So we removed to
another old tree, larger yet, that grew by the river side at a furlong’s
distance. Its trunk was full six feet in diameter; on one side it was
marked by a party of Indians with various inexplicable hieroglyphics,
commemorating some warlike enterprise, and aloft among the branches were
the remains of a scaffolding, where dead bodies had once been deposited,
after the Indian manner.
“There comes Bull-Bear,” said Henry Chatillon, as we sat on the grass at
dinner. Looking up, we saw several horsemen coming over the neighboring
hill, and in a moment four stately young men rode up and dismounted. One
of them was Bull-Bear, or Mahto-Tatonka, a compound name which he
inherited from his father, the most powerful chief in the Ogallalla band.
One of his brothers and two other young men accompanied him. We shook
hands with the visitors, and when we had finished our meal—for this
is the orthodox manner of entertaining Indians, even the best of them—we
handed to each a tin cup of coffee and a biscuit, at which they ejaculated
from the bottom of their throats, “How! how!” a monosyllable by which an
Indian contrives to express half the emotions that he is susceptible of.
Then we lighted the pipe, and passed it to them as they squatted on the
ground.
“Where is the village?”
“There,” said Mahto-Tatonka, pointing southward; “it will come in two
days.”
“Will they go to the war?”
“Yes.”
No man is a philanthropist on the prairie. We welcomed this news most
cordially, and congratulated ourselves that Bordeaux’s interested efforts
to divert The Whirlwind from his congenial vocation of bloodshed had
failed of success, and that no additional obstacles would interpose
between us and our plan of repairing to the rendezvous at La Bonte’s Camp.
For that and several succeeding days, Mahto-Tatonka and his friends
remained our guests. They devoured the relics of our meals; they filled
the pipe for us and also helped us to smoke it. Sometimes they stretched
themselves side by side in the shade, indulging in raillery and practical
jokes ill becoming the dignity of brave and aspiring warriors, such as two
of them in reality were.
Two days dragged away, and on the morning of the third we hoped
confidently to see the Indian village. It did not come; so we rode out to
look for it. In place of the eight hundred Indians we expected, we met one
solitary savage riding toward us over the prairie, who told us that the
Indians had changed their plans, and would not come within three days;
still he persisted that they were going to the war. Taking along with us
this messenger of evil tidings, we retraced our footsteps to the camp,
amusing ourselves by the way with execrating Indian inconstancy. When we
came in sight of our little white tent under the big tree, we saw that it
no longer stood alone. A huge old lodge was erected close by its side,
discolored by rain and storms, rotted with age, with the uncouth figures
of horses and men, and outstretched hands that were painted upon it,
well-nigh obliterated. The long poles which supported this squalid
habitation thrust themselves rakishly out from its pointed top, and over
its entrance were suspended a “medicine-pipe” and various other implements
of the magic art. While we were yet at a distance, we observed a greatly
increased population of various colors and dimensions, swarming around our
quiet encampment. Moran, the trapper, having been absent for a day or two,
had returned, it seemed, bringing all his family with him. He had taken to
himself a wife for whom he had paid the established price of one horse.
This looks cheap at first sight, but in truth the purchase of a squaw is a
transaction which no man should enter into without mature deliberation,
since it involves not only the payment of the first price, but the
formidable burden of feeding and supporting a rapacious horde of the
bride’s relatives, who hold themselves entitled to feed upon the
indiscreet white man. They gather round like leeches, and drain him of all
he has.
Moran, like Reynal, had not allied himself to an aristocratic circle. His
relatives occupied but a contemptible position in Ogallalla society; for
among those wild democrats of the prairie, as among us, there are virtual
distinctions of rank and place; though this great advantage they have over
us, that wealth has no part in determining such distinctions. Moran’s
partner was not the most beautiful of her sex, and he had the exceedingly
bad taste to array her in an old calico gown bought from an emigrant
woman, instead of the neat and graceful tunic of whitened deerskin worn
ordinarily by the squaws. The moving spirit of the establishment, in more
senses than one, was a hideous old hag of eighty. Human imagination never
conceived hobgoblin or witch more ugly than she. You could count all her
ribs through the wrinkles of the leathery skin that covered them. Her
withered face more resembled an old skull than the countenance of a living
being, even to the hollow, darkened sockets, at the bottom of which
glittered her little black eyes. Her arms had dwindled away into nothing
but whipcord and wire. Her hair, half black, half gray, hung in total
neglect nearly to the ground, and her sole garment consisted of the
remnant of a discarded buffalo robe tied round her waist with a string of
hide. Yet the old squaw’s meager anatomy was wonderfully strong. She
pitched the lodge, packed the horses, and did the hardest labor of the
camp. From morning till night she bustled about the lodge, screaming like
a screech-owl when anything displeased her. Then there was her brother, a
“medicine-man,” or magician, equally gaunt and sinewy with herself. His
mouth spread from ear to ear, and his appetite, as we had full occasion to
learn, was ravenous in proportion. The other inmates of the lodge were a
young bride and bridegroom; the latter one of those idle, good-for nothing
fellows who infest an Indian village as well as more civilized
communities. He was fit neither for hunting nor for war; and one might
infer as much from the stolid unmeaning expression of his face. The happy
pair had just entered upon the honeymoon. They would stretch a buffalo
robe upon poles, so as to protect them from the fierce rays of the sun,
and spreading beneath this rough canopy a luxuriant couch of furs, would
sit affectionately side by side for half the day, though I could not
discover that much conversation passed between them. Probably they had
nothing to say; for an Indian’s supply of topics for conversation is far
from being copious. There were half a dozen children, too, playing and
whooping about the camp, shooting birds with little bows and arrows, or
making miniature lodges of sticks, as children of a different complexion
build houses of blocks.
A day passed, and Indians began rapidly to come in. Parties of two or
three or more would ride up and silently seat themselves on the grass. The
fourth day came at last, when about noon horsemen suddenly appeared into
view on the summit of the neighboring ridge. They descended, and behind
them followed a wild procession, hurrying in haste and disorder down the
hill and over the plain below; horses, mules, and dogs, heavily burdened
travaux, mounted warriors, squaws walking amid the throng, and a host of
children. For a full half-hour they continued to pour down; and keeping
directly to the bend of the stream, within a furlong of us, they soon
assembled there, a dark and confused throng, until, as if by magic, 150
tall lodges sprung up. On a sudden the lonely plain was transformed into
the site of a miniature city. Countless horses were soon grazing over the
meadows around us, and the whole prairie was animated by restless figures
careening on horseback, or sedately stalking in their long white robes.
The Whirlwind was come at last! One question yet remained to be answered:
“Will he go to the war, in order that we, with so respectable an escort,
may pass over to the somewhat perilous rendezvous at La Bonte’s Camp?”
Still this remained in doubt. Characteristic indecision perplexed their
councils. Indians cannot act in large bodies. Though their object be of
the highest importance, they cannot combine to attain it by a series of
connected efforts. King Philip, Pontiac, and Tecumseh all felt this to
their cost. The Ogallalla once had a war chief who could control them; but
he was dead, and now they were left to the sway of their own unsteady
impulses.
This Indian village and its inhabitants will hold a prominent place in the
rest of the narrative, and perhaps it may not be amiss to glance for an
instant at the savage people of which they form a part. The Dakota (I
prefer this national designation to the unmeaning French name, Sioux)
range over a vast territory, from the river St. Peter’s to the Rocky
Mountains themselves. They are divided into several independent bands,
united under no central government, and acknowledge no common head. The
same language, usages, and superstitions form the sole bond between them.
They do not unite even in their wars. The bands of the east fight the
Ojibwas on the Upper Lakes; those of the west make incessant war upon the
Snake Indians in the Rocky Mountains. As the whole people is divided into
bands, so each band is divided into villages. Each village has a chief,
who is honored and obeyed only so far as his personal qualities may
command respect and fear. Sometimes he is a mere nominal chief; sometimes
his authority is little short of absolute, and his fame and influence
reach even beyond his own village; so that the whole band to which he
belongs is ready to acknowledge him as their head. This was, a few years
since, the case with the Ogallalla. Courage, address, and enterprise may
raise any warrior to the highest honor, especially if he be the son of a
former chief, or a member of a numerous family, to support him and avenge
his quarrels; but when he has reached the dignity of chief, and the old
men and warriors, by a peculiar ceremony, have formally installed him, let
it not be imagined that he assumes any of the outward semblances of rank
and honor. He knows too well on how frail a tenure he holds his station.
He must conciliate his uncertain subjects. Many a man in the village lives
better, owns more squaws and more horses, and goes better clad than he.
Like the Teutonic chiefs of old, he ingratiates himself with his young men
by making them presents, thereby often impoverishing himself. Does he fail
in gaining their favor, they will set his authority at naught, and may
desert him at any moment; for the usages of his people have provided no
sanctions by which he may enforce his authority. Very seldom does it
happen, at least among these western bands, that a chief attains to much
power, unless he is the head of a numerous family. Frequently the village
is principally made up of his relatives and descendants, and the wandering
community assumes much of the patriarchal character. A people so loosely
united, torn, too, with ranking feuds and jealousies, can have little
power or efficiency.
The western Dakota have no fixed habitations. Hunting and fighting, they
wander incessantly through summer and winter. Some are following the herds
of buffalo over the waste of prairie; others are traversing the Black
Hills, thronging on horseback and on foot through the dark gulfs and
somber gorges beneath the vast splintering precipices, and emerging at
last upon the “Parks,” those beautiful but most perilous hunting grounds.
The buffalo supplies them with almost all the necessaries of life; with
habitations, food, clothing, and fuel; with strings for their bows, with
thread, cordage, and trail-ropes for their horses, with coverings for
their saddles, with vessels to hold water, with boats to cross streams,
with glue, and with the means of purchasing all that they desire from the
traders. When the buffalo are extinct, they too must dwindle away.
War is the breath of their nostrils. Against most of the neighboring
tribes they cherish a deadly, rancorous hatred, transmitted from father to
son, and inflamed by constant aggression and retaliation. Many times a
year, in every village, the Great Spirit is called upon, fasts are made,
the war parade is celebrated, and the warriors go out by handfuls at a
time against the enemy. This fierce and evil spirit awakens their most
eager aspirations, and calls forth their greatest energies. It is chiefly
this that saves them from lethargy and utter abasement. Without its
powerful stimulus they would be like the unwarlike tribes beyond the
mountains, who are scattered among the caves and rocks like beasts, living
on roots and reptiles. These latter have little of humanity except the
form; but the proud and ambitious Dakota warrior can sometimes boast of
heroic virtues. It is very seldom that distinction and influence are
attained among them by any other course than that of arms. Their
superstition, however, sometimes gives great power, to those among them
who pretend to the character of magicians. Their wild hearts, too, can
feel the power of oratory, and yield deference to the masters of it.
But to return. Look into our tent, or enter, if you can bear the stifling
smoke and the close atmosphere. There, wedged close together, you will see
a circle of stout warriors, passing the pipe around, joking, telling
stories, and making themselves merry, after their fashion. We were also
infested by little copper-colored naked boys and snake-eyed girls. They
would come up to us, muttering certain words, which being interpreted
conveyed the concise invitation, “Come and eat.” Then we would rise,
cursing the pertinacity of Dakota hospitality, which allowed scarcely an
hour of rest between sun and sun, and to which we were bound to do honor,
unless we would offend our entertainers. This necessity was particularly
burdensome to me, as I was scarcely able to walk, from the effects of
illness, and was of course poorly qualified to dispose of twenty meals a
day. Of these sumptuous banquets I gave a specimen in a former chapter,
where the tragical fate of the little dog was chronicled. So bounteous an
entertainment looks like an outgushing of good will; but doubtless
one-half at least of our kind hosts, had they met us alone and unarmed on
the prairie, would have robbed us of our horses, and perchance have
bestowed an arrow upon us beside. Trust not an Indian. Let your rifle be
ever in your hand. Wear next your heart the old chivalric motto SEMPER
PARATUS.
One morning we were summoned to the lodge of an old man, in good truth the
Nestor of his tribe. We found him half sitting, half reclining on a pile
of buffalo robes; his long hair, jet-black even now, though he had seen
some eighty winters, hung on either side of his thin features. Those most
conversant with Indians in their homes will scarcely believe me when I
affirm that there was dignity in his countenance and mien. His gaunt but
symmetrical frame, did not more clearly exhibit the wreck of bygone
strength, than did his dark, wasted features, still prominent and
commanding, bear the stamp of mental energies. I recalled, as I saw him,
the eloquent metaphor of the Iroquois sachem: “I am an aged hemlock; the
winds of a hundred winters have whistled through my branches, and I am
dead at the top!” Opposite the patriarch was his nephew, the young
aspirant Mahto-Tatonka; and besides these, there were one or two women in
the lodge.
The old man’s story is peculiar, and singularly illustrative of a
superstitious custom that prevails in full force among many of the Indian
tribes. He was one of a powerful family, renowned for their warlike
exploits. When a very young man, he submitted to the singular rite to
which most of the tribe subject themselves before entering upon life. He
painted his face black; then seeking out a cavern in a sequestered part of
the Black Hills, he lay for several days, fasting and praying to the Great
Spirit. In the dreams and visions produced by his weakened and excited
state, he fancied like all Indians, that he saw supernatural revelations.
Again and again the form of an antelope appeared before him. The antelope
is the graceful peace spirit of the Ogallalla; but seldom is it that such
a gentle visitor presents itself during the initiatory fasts of their
young men. The terrible grizzly bear, the divinity of war, usually appears
to fire them with martial ardor and thirst for renown. At length the
antelope spoke. He told the young dreamer that he was not to follow the
path of war; that a life of peace and tranquillity was marked out for him;
that henceforward he was to guide the people by his counsels and protect
them from the evils of their own feuds and dissensions. Others were to
gain renown by fighting the enemy; but greatness of a different kind was
in store for him.
The visions beheld during the period of this fast usually determine the
whole course of the dreamer’s life, for an Indian is bound by iron
superstitions. From that time, Le Borgne, which was the only name by which
we knew him, abandoned all thoughts of war and devoted himself to the
labors of peace. He told his vision to the people. They honored his
commission and respected him in his novel capacity.
A far different man was his brother, Mahto-Tatonka, who had transmitted
his names, his features, and many of his characteristic qualities to his
son. He was the father of Henry Chatillon’s squaw, a circumstance which
proved of some advantage to us, as securing for us the friendship of a
family perhaps the most distinguished and powerful in the whole Ogallalla
band. Mahto-Tatonka, in his rude way, was a hero. No chief could vie with
him in warlike renown, or in power over his people. He had a fearless
spirit, and a most impetuous and inflexible resolution. His will was law.
He was politic and sagacious, and with true Indian craft he always
befriended the whites, well knowing that he might thus reap great
advantages for himself and his adherents. When he had resolved on any
course of conduct, he would pay to the warriors the empty compliment of
calling them together to deliberate upon it, and when their debates were
over, he would quietly state his own opinion, which no one ever disputed.
The consequences of thwarting his imperious will were too formidable to be
encountered. Woe to those who incurred his displeasure! He would strike
them or stab them on the spot; and this act, which, if attempted by any
other chief, would instantly have cost him his life, the awe inspired by
his name enabled him to repeat again and again with impunity. In a
community where, from immemorial time, no man has acknowledged any law but
his own will, Mahto-Tatonka, by the force of his dauntless resolution,
raised himself to power little short of despotic. His haughty career came
at last to an end. He had a host of enemies only waiting for their
opportunity of revenge, and our old friend Smoke, in particular, together
with all his kinsmen, hated him most cordially. Smoke sat one day in his
lodge in the midst of his own village, when Mahto-Tatonka entered it
alone, and approaching the dwelling of his enemy, called on him in a loud
voice to come out, if he were a man, and fight. Smoke would not move. At
this, Mahto-Tatonka proclaimed him a coward and an old woman, and striding
close to the entrance of the lodge, stabbed the chief’s best horse, which
was picketed there. Smoke was daunted, and even this insult failed to call
him forth. Mahto-Tatonka moved haughtily away; all made way for him, but
his hour of reckoning was near.
One hot day, five or six years ago, numerous lodges of Smoke’s kinsmen
were gathered around some of the Fur Company’s men, who were trading in
various articles with them, whisky among the rest. Mahto-Tatonka was also
there with a few of his people. As he lay in his own lodge, a fray arose
between his adherents and the kinsmen of his enemy. The war-whoop was
raised, bullets and arrows began to fly, and the camp was in confusion.
The chief sprang up, and rushing in a fury from the lodge shouted to the
combatants on both sides to cease. Instantly—for the attack was
preconcerted—came the reports of two or three guns, and the twanging
of a dozen bows, and the savage hero, mortally wounded, pitched forward
headlong to the ground. Rouleau was present, and told me the particulars.
The tumult became general, and was not quelled until several had fallen on
both sides. When we were in the country the feud between the two families
was still rankling, and not likely soon to cease.
Thus died Mahto-Tatonka, but he left behind him a goodly army of
descendants, to perpetuate his renown and avenge his fate. Besides
daughters he had thirty sons, a number which need not stagger the
credulity of those who are best acquainted with Indian usages and
practices. We saw many of them, all marked by the same dark complexion and
the same peculiar cast of features. Of these our visitor, young
Mahto-Tatonka, was the eldest, and some reported him as likely to succeed
to his father’s honors. Though he appeared not more than twenty-one years
old, he had oftener struck the enemy, and stolen more horses and more
squaws than any young man in the village. We of the civilized world are
not apt to attach much credit to the latter species of exploits; but
horse-stealing is well known as an avenue to distinction on the prairies,
and the other kind of depredation is esteemed equally meritorious. Not
that the act can confer fame from its own intrinsic merits. Any one can
steal a squaw, and if he chooses afterward to make an adequate present to
her rightful proprietor, the easy husband for the most part rests content,
his vengeance falls asleep, and all danger from that quarter is averted.
Yet this is esteemed but a pitiful and mean-spirited transaction. The
danger is averted, but the glory of the achievement also is lost.
Mahto-Tatonka proceeded after a more gallant and dashing fashion. Out of
several dozen squaws whom he had stolen, he could boast that he had never
paid for one, but snapping his fingers in the face of the injured husband,
had defied the extremity of his indignation, and no one yet had dared to
lay the finger of violence upon him. He was following close in the
footsteps of his father. The young men and the young squaws, each in their
way, admired him. The one would always follow him to war, and he was
esteemed to have unrivaled charm in the eyes of the other. Perhaps his
impunity may excite some wonder. An arrow shot from a ravine, a stab given
in the dark, require no great valor, and are especially suited to the
Indian genius; but Mahto-Tatonka had a strong protection. It was not alone
his courage and audacious will that enabled him to career so dashingly
among his compeers. His enemies did not forget that he was one of thirty
warlike brethren, all growing up to manhood. Should they wreak their anger
upon him, many keen eyes would be ever upon them, many fierce hearts would
thirst for their blood. The avenger would dog their footsteps everywhere.
To kill Mahto-Tatonka would be no better than an act of suicide.
Though he found such favor in the eyes of the fair, he was no dandy. As
among us those of highest worth and breeding are most simple in manner and
attire, so our aspiring young friend was indifferent to the gaudy
trappings and ornaments of his companions. He was content to rest his
chances of success upon his own warlike merits. He never arrayed himself
in gaudy blanket and glittering necklaces, but left his statue-like form,
limbed like an Apollo of bronze, to win its way to favor. His voice was
singularly deep and strong. It sounded from his chest like the deep notes
of an organ. Yet after all, he was but an Indian. See him as he lies there
in the sun before our tent, kicking his heels in the air and cracking
jokes with his brother. Does he look like a hero? See him now in the hour
of his glory, when at sunset the whole village empties itself to behold
him, for to-morrow their favorite young partisan goes out against the
enemy. His superb headdress is adorned with a crest of the war eagle’s
feathers, rising in a waving ridge above his brow, and sweeping far behind
him. His round white shield hangs at his breast, with feathers radiating
from the center like a star. His quiver is at his back; his tall lance in
his hand, the iron point flashing against the declining sun, while the
long scalp-locks of his enemies flutter from the shaft. Thus, gorgeous as
a champion in his panoply, he rides round and round within the great
circle of lodges, balancing with a graceful buoyancy to the free movements
of his war horse, while with a sedate brow he sings his song to the Great
Spirit. Young rival warriors look askance at him; vermilion-cheeked girls
gaze in admiration, boys whoop and scream in a thrill of delight, and old
women yell forth his name and proclaim his praises from lodge to lodge.
Mahto-Tatonka, to come back to him, was the best of all our Indian
friends. Hour after hour and day after day, when swarms of savages of
every age, sex, and degree beset our camp, he would lie in our tent, his
lynx eye ever open to guard our property from pillage.
The Whirlwind invited us one day to his lodge. The feast was finished, and
the pipe began to circulate. It was a remarkably large and fine one, and I
expressed my admiration of its form and dimensions.
“If the Meneaska likes the pipe,” asked The Whirlwind, “why does he not
keep it?”
Such a pipe among the Ogallalla is valued at the price of a horse. A
princely gift, thinks the reader, and worthy of a chieftain and a warrior.
The Whirlwind’s generosity rose to no such pitch. He gave me the pipe,
confidently expecting that I in return should make him a present of equal
or superior value. This is the implied condition of every gift among the
Indians as among the Orientals, and should it not be complied with the
present is usually reclaimed by the giver. So I arranged upon a gaudy
calico handkerchief, an assortment of vermilion, tobacco, knives, and
gunpowder, and summoning the chief to camp, assured him of my friendship
and begged his acceptance of a slight token of it. Ejaculating HOW! HOW!
he folded up the offerings and withdrew to his lodge.
Several days passed and we and the Indians remained encamped side by side.
They could not decide whether or not to go to war. Toward evening, scores
of them would surround our tent, a picturesque group. Late one afternoon a
party of them mounted on horseback came suddenly in sight from behind some
clumps of bushes that lined the bank of the stream, leading with them a
mule, on whose back was a wretched negro, only sustained in his seat by
the high pommel and cantle of the Indian saddle. His cheeks were withered
and shrunken in the hollow of his jaws; his eyes were unnaturally dilated,
and his lips seemed shriveled and drawn back from his teeth like those of
a corpse. When they brought him up before our tent, and lifted him from
the saddle, he could not walk or stand, but he crawled a short distance,
and with a look of utter misery sat down on the grass. All the children
and women came pouring out of the lodges round us, and with screams and
cries made a close circle about him, while he sat supporting himself with
his hands, and looking from side to side with a vacant stare. The wretch
was starving to death! For thirty-three days he had wandered alone on the
prairie, without weapon of any kind; without shoes, moccasins, or any
other clothing than an old jacket and pantaloons; without intelligence and
skill to guide his course, or any knowledge of the productions of the
prairie. All this time he had subsisted on crickets and lizards, wild
onions, and three eggs which he found in the nest of a prairie dove. He
had not seen a human being. Utterly bewildered in the boundless, hopeless
desert that stretched around him, offering to his inexperienced eye no
mark by which to direct his course, he had walked on in despair till he
could walk no longer, and then crawled on his knees until the bone was
laid bare. He chose the night for his traveling, lying down by day to
sleep in the glaring sun, always dreaming, as he said, of the broth and
corn cake he used to eat under his old master’s shed in Missouri. Every
man in the camp, both white and red, was astonished at his wonderful
escape not only from starvation but from the grizzly bears which abound in
that neighborhood, and the wolves which howled around him every night.
Reynal recognized him the moment the Indians brought him in. He had run
away from his master about a year before and joined the party of M.
Richard, who was then leaving the frontier for the mountains. He had lived
with Richard ever since, until in the end of May he with Reynal and
several other men went out in search of some stray horses, when he got
separated from the rest in a storm, and had never been heard of up to this
time. Knowing his inexperience and helplessness, no one dreamed that he
could still be living. The Indians had found him lying exhausted on the
ground.
As he sat there with the Indians gazing silently on him, his haggard face
and glazed eye were disgusting to look upon. Delorier made him a bowl of
gruel, but he suffered it to remain untasted before him. At length he
languidly raised the spoon to his lips; again he did so, and again; and
then his appetite seemed suddenly inflamed into madness, for he seized the
bowl, swallowed all its contents in a few seconds, and eagerly demanded
meat. This we refused, telling him to wait until morning, but he begged so
eagerly that we gave him a small piece, which he devoured, tearing it like
a dog. He said he must have more. We told him that his life was in danger
if he ate so immoderately at first. He assented, and said he knew he was a
fool to do so, but he must have meat. This we absolutely refused, to the
great indignation of the senseless squaws, who, when we were not watching
him, would slyly bring dried meat and POMMES BLANCHES, and place them on
the ground by his side. Still this was not enough for him. When it grew
dark he contrived to creep away between the legs of the horses and crawl
over to the Indian village, about a furlong down the stream. Here he fed
to his heart’s content, and was brought back again in the morning, when
Jean Gras, the trapper, put him on horseback and carried him to the fort.
He managed to survive the effects of his insane greediness, and though
slightly deranged when we left this part of the country, he was otherwise
in tolerable health, and expressed his firm conviction that nothing could
ever kill him.
When the sun was yet an hour high, it was a gay scene in the village. The
warriors stalked sedately among the lodges, or along the margin of the
streams, or walked out to visit the bands of horses that were feeding over
the prairie. Half the village population deserted the close and heated
lodges and betook themselves to the water; and here you might see boys and
girls and young squaws splashing, swimming, and diving beneath the
afternoon sun, with merry laughter and screaming. But when the sun was
just resting above the broken peaks, and the purple mountains threw their
prolonged shadows for miles over the prairie; when our grim old tree,
lighted by the horizontal rays, assumed an aspect of peaceful repose, such
as one loves after scenes of tumult and excitement; and when the whole
landscape of swelling plains and scattered groves was softened into a
tranquil beauty, then our encampment presented a striking spectacle. Could
Salvator Rosa have transferred it to his canvas, it would have added new
renown to his pencil. Savage figures surrounded our tent, with quivers at
their backs, and guns, lances, or tomahawks in their hands. Some sat on
horseback, motionless as equestrian statues, their arms crossed on their
breasts, their eyes fixed in a steady unwavering gaze upon us. Some stood
erect, wrapped from head to foot in their long white robes of buffalo
hide. Some sat together on the grass, holding their shaggy horses by a
rope, with their broad dark busts exposed to view as they suffered their
robes to fall from their shoulders. Others again stood carelessly among
the throng, with nothing to conceal the matchless symmetry of their forms;
and I do not exaggerate when I say that only on the prairie and in the
Vatican have I seen such faultless models of the human figure. See that
warrior standing by the tree, towering six feet and a half in stature.
Your eyes may trace the whole of his graceful and majestic height, and
discover no defect or blemish. With his free and noble attitude, with the
bow in his hand, and the quiver at his back, he might seem, but for his
face, the Pythian Apollo himself. Such a figure rose before the
imagination of West, when on first seeing the Belvidere in the Vatican, he
exclaimed, “By God, a Mohawk!”
When the sky darkened and the stars began to appear; when the prairie was
involved in gloom and the horses were driven in and secured around the
camp, the crowd began to melt away. Fires gleamed around, duskily
revealing the rough trappers and the graceful Indians. One of the families
near us would always be gathered about a bright blaze, that displayed the
shadowy dimensions of their lodge, and sent its lights far up among the
masses of foliage above, gilding the dead and ragged branches. Withered
witchlike hags flitted around the blaze, and here for hour after hour sat
a circle of children and young girls, laughing and talking, their round
merry faces glowing in the ruddy light. We could hear the monotonous notes
of the drum from the Indian village, with the chant of the war song,
deadened in the distance, and the long chorus of quavering yells, where
the war dance was going on in the largest lodge. For several nights, too,
we could hear wild and mournful cries, rising and dying away like the
melancholy voice of a wolf. They came from the sisters and female
relatives of Mahto-Tatonka, who were gashing their limbs with knives, and
bewailing the death of Henry Chatillon’s squaw. The hour would grow late
before all retired to rest in the camp. Then the embers of the fires would
be glowing dimly, the men would be stretched in their blankets on the
ground, and nothing could be heard but the restless motions of the crowded
horses.
I recall these scenes with a mixed feeling of pleasure and pain. At this
time I was so reduced by illness that I could seldom walk without reeling
like a drunken man, and when I rose from my seat upon the ground the
landscape suddenly grew dim before my eyes, the trees and lodges seemed to
sway to and fro, and the prairie to rise and fall like the swells of the
ocean. Such a state of things is by no means enviable anywhere. In a
country where a man’s life may at any moment depend on the strength of his
arm, or it may be on the activity of his legs, it is more particularly
inconvenient. Medical assistance of course there was none; neither had I
the means of pursuing a system of diet; and sleeping on a damp ground,
with an occasional drenching from a shower, would hardly be recommended as
beneficial. I sometimes suffered the extremity of languor and exhaustion,
and though at the time I felt no apprehensions of the final result, I have
since learned that my situation was a critical one.
Besides other formidable inconveniences I owe it in a great measure to the
remote effects of that unlucky disorder that from deficient eyesight I am
compelled to employ the pen of another in taking down this narrative from
my lips; and I have learned very effectually that a violent attack of
dysentery on the prairie is a thing too serious for a joke. I tried repose
and a very sparing diet. For a long time, with exemplary patience, I
lounged about the camp, or at the utmost staggered over to the Indian
village, and walked faint and dizzy among the lodges. It would not do, and
I bethought me of starvation. During five days I sustained life on one
small biscuit a day. At the end of that time I was weaker than before, but
the disorder seemed shaken in its stronghold and very gradually I began to
resume a less rigid diet. No sooner had I done so than the same detested
symptoms revisited me; my old enemy resumed his pertinacious assaults, yet
not with his former violence or constancy, and though before I regained
any fair portion of my ordinary strength weeks had elapsed, and months
passed before the disorder left me, yet thanks to old habits of activity,
and a merciful Providence, I was able to sustain myself against it.
I used to lie languid and dreamy before our tent and muse on the past and
the future, and when most overcome with lassitude, my eyes turned always
toward the distant Black Hills. There is a spirit of energy and vigor in
mountains, and they impart it to all who approach their presence. At that
time I did not know how many dark superstitions and gloomy legends are
associated with those mountains in the minds of the Indians, but I felt an
eager desire to penetrate their hidden recesses, to explore the awful
chasms and precipices, the black torrents, the silent forests, that I
fancied were concealed there.
CHAPTER XII
ILL LUCK
A Canadian came from Fort Laramie, and brought a curious piece of
intelligence. A trapper, fresh from the mountains, had become enamored of
a Missouri damsel belonging to a family who with other emigrants had been
for some days encamped in the neighborhood of the fort. If bravery be the
most potent charm to win the favor of the fair, then no wooer could be
more irresistible than a Rocky Mountain trapper. In the present instance,
the suit was not urged in vain. The lovers concerted a scheme, which they
proceeded to carry into effect with all possible dispatch. The emigrant
party left the fort, and on the next succeeding night but one encamped as
usual, and placed a guard. A little after midnight the enamored trapper
drew near, mounted on a strong horse and leading another by the bridle.
Fastening both animals to a tree, he stealthily moved toward the wagons,
as if he were approaching a band of buffalo. Eluding the vigilance of the
guard, who was probably half asleep, he met his mistress by appointment at
the outskirts of the camp, mounted her on his spare horse, and made off
with her through the darkness. The sequel of the adventure did not reach
our ears, and we never learned how the imprudent fair one liked an Indian
lodge for a dwelling, and a reckless trapper for a bridegroom.
At length The Whirlwind and his warriors determined to move. They had
resolved after all their preparations not to go to the rendezvous at La
Bonte’s Camp, but to pass through the Black Hills and spend a few weeks in
hunting the buffalo on the other side, until they had killed enough to
furnish them with a stock of provisions and with hides to make their
lodges for the next season. This done, they were to send out a small
independent war party against the enemy. Their final determination left us
in some embarrassment. Should we go to La Bonte’s Camp, it was not
impossible that the other villages would prove as vacillating and
indecisive as The Whirlwinds, and that no assembly whatever would take
place. Our old companion Reynal had conceived a liking for us, or rather
for our biscuit and coffee, and for the occasional small presents which we
made him. He was very anxious that we should go with the village which he
himself intended to accompany. He declared he was certain that no Indians
would meet at the rendezvous, and said moreover that it would be easy to
convey our cart and baggage through the Black Hills. In saying this, he
told as usual an egregious falsehood. Neither he nor any white man with us
had ever seen the difficult and obscure defiles through which the Indians
intended to make their way. I passed them afterward, and had much ado to
force my distressed horse along the narrow ravines, and through chasms
where daylight could scarcely penetrate. Our cart might as easily have
been conveyed over the summit of Pike’s Peak. Anticipating the
difficulties and uncertainties of an attempt to visit the rendezvous, we
recalled the old proverb about “A bird in the hand,” and decided to follow
the village.
Both camps, the Indians’ and our own, broke up on the morning of the 1st
of July. I was so weak that the aid of a potent auxiliary, a spoonful of
whisky swallowed at short intervals, alone enabled me to sit on my hardy
little mare Pauline through the short journey of that day. For half a mile
before us and half a mile behind, the prairie was covered far and wide
with the moving throng of savages. The barren, broken plain stretched away
to the right and left, and far in front rose the gloomy precipitous ridge
of the Black Hills. We pushed forward to the head of the scattered column,
passing the burdened travaux, the heavily laden pack horses, the gaunt old
women on foot, the gay young squaws on horseback, the restless children
running among the crowd, old men striding along in their white buffalo
robes, and groups of young warriors mounted on their best horses. Henry
Chatillon, looking backward over the distant prairie, exclaimed suddenly
that a horseman was approaching, and in truth we could just discern a
small black speck slowly moving over the face of a distant swell, like a
fly creeping on a wall. It rapidly grew larger as it approached.
“White man, I b’lieve,” said Henry; “look how he ride! Indian never ride
that way. Yes; he got rifle on the saddle before him.”
The horseman disappeared in a hollow of the prairie, but we soon saw him
again, and as he came riding at a gallop toward us through the crowd of
Indians, his long hair streaming in the wind behind him, we recognized the
ruddy face and old buckskin frock of Jean Gras the trapper. He was just
arrived from Fort Laramie, where he had been on a visit, and said he had a
message for us. A trader named Bisonette, one of Henry’s friends, was
lately come from the settlements, and intended to go with a party of men
to La Bonte’s Camp, where, as Jean Gras assured us, ten or twelve villages
of Indians would certainly assemble. Bisonette desired that we would cross
over and meet him there, and promised that his men should protect our
horses and baggage while we went among the Indians. Shaw and I stopped our
horses and held a council, and in an evil hour resolved to go.
For the rest of that day’s journey our course and that of the Indians was
the same. In less than an hour we came to where the high barren prairie
terminated, sinking down abruptly in steep descent; and standing on these
heights, we saw below us a great level meadow. Laramie Creek bounded it on
the left, sweeping along in the shadow of the declivities, and passing
with its shallow and rapid current just below us. We sat on horseback,
waiting and looking on, while the whole savage array went pouring past us,
hurrying down the descent and spreading themselves over the meadow below.
In a few moments the plain was swarming with the moving multitude, some
just visible, like specks in the distance, others still passing on,
pressing down, and fording the stream with bustle and confusion. On the
edge of the heights sat half a dozen of the elder warriors, gravely
smoking and looking down with unmoved faces on the wild and striking
spectacle.
Up went the lodges in a circle on the margin of the stream. For the sake
of quiet we pitched our tent among some trees at half a mile’s distance.
In the afternoon we were in the village. The day was a glorious one, and
the whole camp seemed lively and animated in sympathy. Groups of children
and young girls were laughing gayly on the outside of the lodges. The
shields, the lances, and the bows were removed from the tall tripods on
which they usually hung before the dwellings of their owners. The warriors
were mounting their horses, and one by one riding away over the prairie
toward the neighboring hills.
Shaw and I sat on the grass near the lodge of Reynal. An old woman, with
true Indian hospitality, brought a bowl of boiled venison and placed it
before us. We amused ourselves with watching half a dozen young squaws who
were playing together and chasing each other in and out of one of the
lodges. Suddenly the wild yell of the war-whoop came pealing from the
hills. A crowd of horsemen appeared, rushing down their sides and riding
at full speed toward the village, each warrior’s long hair flying behind
him in the wind like a ship’s streamer. As they approached, the confused
throng assumed a regular order, and entering two by two, they circled
round the area at full gallop, each warrior singing his war song as he
rode. Some of their dresses were splendid. They wore superb crests of
feathers and close tunics of antelope skins, fringed with the scalp-locks
of their enemies; their shields too were often fluttering with the war
eagle’s feathers. All had bows and arrows at their back; some carried long
lances, and a few were armed with guns. The White Shield, their partisan,
rode in gorgeous attire at their head, mounted on a black-and-white horse.
Mahto-Tatonka and his brothers took no part in this parade, for they were
in mourning for their sister, and were all sitting in their lodges, their
bodies bedaubed from head to foot with white clay, and a lock of hair cut
from each of their foreheads.
The warriors circled three times round the village; and as each
distinguished champion passed, the old women would scream out his name in
honor of his bravery, and to incite the emulation of the younger warriors.
Little urchins, not two years old, followed the warlike pageant with
glittering eyes, and looked with eager wonder and admiration at those
whose honors were proclaimed by the public voice of the village. Thus
early is the lesson of war instilled into the mind of an Indian, and such
are the stimulants which incite his thirst for martial renown.
The procession rode out of the village as it had entered it, and in half
an hour all the warriors had returned again, dropping quietly in, singly
or in parties of two or three.
As the sun rose next morning we looked across the meadow, and could see
the lodges leveled and the Indians gathering together in preparation to
leave the camp. Their course lay to the westward. We turned toward the
north with our men, the four trappers following us, with the Indian family
of Moran. We traveled until night. I suffered not a little from pain and
weakness. We encamped among some trees by the side of a little brook, and
here during the whole of the next day we lay waiting for Bisonette, but no
Bisonette appeared. Here also two of our trapper friends left us, and set
out for the Rocky Mountains. On the second morning, despairing of
Bisonette’s arrival we resumed our journey, traversing a forlorn and
dreary monotony of sun-scorched plains, where no living thing appeared
save here and there an antelope flying before us like the wind. When noon
came we saw an unwonted and most welcome sight; a rich and luxuriant
growth of trees, marking the course of a little stream called Horseshoe
Creek. We turned gladly toward it. There were lofty and spreading trees,
standing widely asunder, and supporting a thick canopy of leaves, above a
surface of rich, tall grass. The stream ran swiftly, as clear as crystal,
through the bosom of the wood, sparkling over its bed of white sand and
darkening again as it entered a deep cavern of leaves and boughs. I was
thoroughly exhausted, and flung myself on the ground, scarcely able to
move. All that afternoon I lay in the shade by the side of the stream, and
those bright woods and sparkling waters are associated in my mind with
recollections of lassitude and utter prostration. When night came I sat
down by the fire, longing, with an intensity of which at this moment I can
hardly conceive, for some powerful stimulant.
In the morning as glorious a sun rose upon us as ever animated that
desolate wilderness. We advanced and soon were surrounded by tall bare
hills, overspread from top to bottom with prickly-pears and other cacti,
that seemed like clinging reptiles. A plain, flat and hard, and with
scarcely the vestige of grass, lay before us, and a line of tall misshapen
trees bounded the onward view. There was no sight or sound of man or
beast, or any living thing, although behind those trees was the
long-looked-for place of rendezvous, where we fondly hoped to have found
the Indians congregated by thousands. We looked and listened anxiously. We
pushed forward with our best speed, and forced our horses through the
trees. There were copses of some extent beyond, with a scanty stream
creeping through their midst; and as we pressed through the yielding
branches, deer sprang up to the right and left. At length we caught a
glimpse of the prairie beyond. Soon we emerged upon it, and saw, not a
plain covered with encampments and swarming with life, but a vast unbroken
desert stretching away before us league upon league, without a bush or a
tree or anything that had life. We drew rein and gave to the winds our
sentiments concerning the whole aboriginal race of America. Our journey
was in vain and much worse than in vain. For myself, I was vexed and
disappointed beyond measure; as I well knew that a slight aggravation of
my disorder would render this false step irrevocable, and make it quite
impossible to accomplish effectively the design which had led me an
arduous journey of between three and four thousand miles. To fortify
myself as well as I could against such a contingency, I resolved that I
would not under any circumstances attempt to leave the country until my
object was completely gained.
And where were the Indians? They were assembled in great numbers at a spot
about twenty miles distant, and there at that very moment they were
engaged in their warlike ceremonies. The scarcity of buffalo in the
vicinity of La Bonte’s Camp, which would render their supply of provisions
scanty and precarious, had probably prevented them from assembling there;
but of all this we knew nothing until some weeks after.
Shaw lashed his horse and galloped forward, I, though much more vexed than
he, was not strong enough to adopt this convenient vent to my feelings; so
I followed at a quiet pace, but in no quiet mood. We rode up to a solitary
old tree, which seemed the only place fit for encampment. Half its
branches were dead, and the rest were so scantily furnished with leaves
that they cast but a meager and wretched shade, and the old twisted trunk
alone furnished sufficient protection from the sun. We threw down our
saddles in the strip of shadow that it cast, and sat down upon them. In
silent indignation we remained smoking for an hour or more, shifting our
saddles with the shifting shadow, for the sun was intolerably hot.
CHAPTER XIII
HUNTING INDIANS
At last we had reached La Bonte’s Camp, toward which our eyes had turned
so long. Of all weary hours, those that passed between noon and sunset of
the day when we arrived there may bear away the palm of exquisite
discomfort. I lay under the tree reflecting on what course to pursue,
watching the shadows which seemed never to move, and the sun which
remained fixed in the sky, and hoping every moment to see the men and
horses of Bisonette emerging from the woods. Shaw and Henry had ridden out
on a scouting expedition, and did not return until the sun was setting.
There was nothing very cheering in their faces nor in the news they
brought.
“We have been ten miles from here,” said Shaw. “We climbed the highest
butte we could find, and could not see a buffalo or Indian; nothing but
prairie for twenty miles around us.”
Henry’s horse was quite disabled by clambering up and down the sides of
ravines, and Shaw’s was severely fatigued.
After supper that evening, as we sat around the fire, I proposed to Shaw
to wait one day longer in hopes of Bisonette’s arrival, and if he should
not come to send Delorier with the cart and baggage back to Fort Laramie,
while we ourselves followed The Whirlwind’s village and attempted to
overtake it as it passed the mountains. Shaw, not having the same motive
for hunting Indians that I had, was averse to the plan; I therefore
resolved to go alone. This design I adopted very unwillingly, for I knew
that in the present state of my health the attempt would be extremely
unpleasant, and, as I considered, hazardous. I hoped that Bisonette would
appear in the course of the following day, and bring us some information
by which to direct our course, and enable me to accomplish my purpose by
means less objectionable.
The rifle of Henry Chatillon was necessary for the subsistence of the
party in my absence; so I called Raymond, and ordered him to prepare to
set out with me. Raymond rolled his eyes vacantly about, but at length,
having succeeded in grappling with the idea, he withdrew to his bed under
the cart. He was a heavy-molded fellow, with a broad face exactly like an
owl’s, expressing the most impenetrable stupidity and entire
self-confidence. As for his good qualities, he had a sort of stubborn
fidelity, an insensibility to danger, and a kind of instinct or sagacity,
which sometimes led him right, where better heads than his were at a loss.
Besides this, he knew very well how to handle a rifle and picket a horse.
Through the following day the sun glared down upon us with a pitiless,
penetrating heat. The distant blue prairie seemed quivering under it. The
lodge of our Indian associates was baking in the rays, and our rifles, as
they leaned against the tree, were too hot for the touch. There was a dead
silence through our camp and all around it, unbroken except by the hum of
gnats and mosquitoes. The men, resting their foreheads on their arms, were
sleeping under the cart. The Indians kept close within their lodge except
the newly married pair, who were seated together under an awning of
buffalo robes, and the old conjurer, who, with his hard, emaciated face
and gaunt ribs, was perched aloft like a turkey-buzzard among the dead
branches of an old tree, constantly on the lookout for enemies. He would
have made a capital shot. A rifle bullet, skillfully planted, would have
brought him tumbling to the ground. Surely, I thought, there could be no
more harm in shooting such a hideous old villain, to see how ugly he would
look when he was dead, than in shooting the detestable vulture which he
resembled. We dined, and then Shaw saddled his horse.
“I will ride back,” said he, “to Horseshoe Creek, and see if Bisonette is
there.”
“I would go with you,” I answered, “but I must reserve all the strength I
have.”
The afternoon dragged away at last. I occupied myself in cleaning my rifle
and pistols, and making other preparations for the journey. After supper,
Henry Chatillon and I lay by the fire, discussing the properties of that
admirable weapon, the rifle, in the use of which he could fairly outrival
Leatherstocking himself.
It was late before I wrapped myself in my blanket and lay down for the
night, with my head on my saddle. Shaw had not returned, but this gave no
uneasiness, for we presumed that he had fallen in with Bisonette, and was
spending the night with him. For a day or two past I had gained in
strength and health, but about midnight an attack of pain awoke me, and
for some hours I felt no inclination to sleep. The moon was quivering on
the broad breast of the Platte; nothing could be heard except those low
inexplicable sounds, like whisperings and footsteps, which no one who has
spent the night alone amid deserts and forests will be at a loss to
understand. As I was falling asleep, a familiar voice, shouting from the
distance, awoke me again. A rapid step approached the camp, and Shaw on
foot, with his gun in his hand, hastily entered.
“Where’s your horse?” said I, raising myself on my elbow.
“Lost!” said Shaw. “Where’s Delorier?”
“There,” I replied, pointing to a confused mass of blankets and buffalo
robes.
Shaw touched them with the butt of his gun, and up sprang our faithful
Canadian.
“Come, Delorier; stir up the fire, and get me something to eat.”
“Where’s Bisonette?” asked I.
“The Lord knows; there’s nobody at Horseshoe Creek.”
Shaw had gone back to the spot where we had encamped two days before, and
finding nothing there but the ashes of our fires, he had tied his horse to
the tree while he bathed in the stream. Something startled his horse, who
broke loose, and for two hours Shaw tried in vain to catch him. Sunset
approached, and it was twelve miles to camp. So he abandoned the attempt,
and set out on foot to join us. The greater part of his perilous and
solitary work was performed in darkness. His moccasins were worn to
tatters and his feet severely lacerated. He sat down to eat, however, with
the usual equanimity of his temper not at all disturbed by his misfortune,
and my last recollection before falling asleep was of Shaw, seated
cross-legged before the fire, smoking his pipe. The horse, I may as well
mention here, was found the next morning by Henry Chatillon.
When I awoke again there was a fresh damp smell in the air, a gray
twilight involved the prairie, and above its eastern verge was a streak of
cold red sky. I called to the men, and in a moment a fire was blazing
brightly in the dim morning light, and breakfast was getting ready. We sat
down together on the grass, to the last civilized meal which Raymond and I
were destined to enjoy for some time.
“Now, bring in the horses.”
My little mare Pauline was soon standing by the fire. She was a fleet,
hardy, and gentle animal, christened after Paul Dorion, from whom I had
procured her in exchange for Pontiac. She did not look as if equipped for
a morning pleasure ride. In front of the black, high-bowed mountain
saddle, holsters, with heavy pistols, were fastened. A pair of saddle
bags, a blanket tightly rolled, a small parcel of Indian presents tied up
in a buffalo skin, a leather bag of flour, and a smaller one of tea were
all secured behind, and a long trail-rope was wound round her neck.
Raymond had a strong black mule, equipped in a similar manner. We crammed
our powder-horns to the throat, and mounted.
“I will meet you at Fort Laramie on the 1st of August,” said I to Shaw.
“That is,” replied he, “if we don’t meet before that. I think I shall
follow after you in a day or two.”
This in fact he attempted, and he would have succeeded if he had not
encountered obstacles against which his resolute spirit was of no avail.
Two days after I left him he sent Delorier to the fort with the cart and
baggage, and set out for the mountains with Henry Chatillon; but a
tremendous thunderstorm had deluged the prairie, and nearly obliterated
not only our trail but that of the Indians themselves. They followed along
the base of the mountains, at a loss in which direction to go. They
encamped there, and in the morning Shaw found himself poisoned by ivy in
such a manner that it was impossible for him to travel. So they turned
back reluctantly toward Fort Laramie. Shaw’s limbs were swollen to double
their usual size, and he rode in great pain. They encamped again within
twenty miles of the fort, and reached it early on the following morning.
Shaw lay seriously ill for a week, and remained at the fort till I
rejoined him some time after.
To return to my own story. We shook hands with our friends, rode out upon
the prairie, and clambering the sandy hollows that were channeled in the
sides of the hills gained the high plains above. If a curse had been
pronounced upon the land it could not have worn an aspect of more dreary
and forlorn barrenness. There were abrupt broken hills, deep hollows, and
wide plains; but all alike glared with an insupportable whiteness under
the burning sun. The country, as if parched by the heat, had cracked into
innumerable fissures and ravines, that not a little impeded our progress.
Their steep sides were white and raw, and along the bottom we several
times discovered the broad tracks of the terrific grizzly bear, nowhere
more abundant than in this region. The ridges of the hills were hard as
rock, and strewn with pebbles of flint and coarse red jasper; looking from
them, there was nothing to relieve the desert uniformity of the prospect,
save here and there a pine-tree clinging at the edge of a ravine, and
stretching out its rough, shaggy arms. Under the scorching heat these
melancholy trees diffused their peculiar resinous odor through the sultry
air. There was something in it, as I approached them, that recalled old
associations; the pine-clad mountains of New England, traversed in days of
health and buoyancy, rose like a reality before my fancy. In passing that
arid waste I was goaded with a morbid thirst produced by my disorder, and
I thought with a longing desire on the crystal treasure poured in such
wasteful profusion from our thousand hills. Shutting my eyes, I more than
half believed that I heard the deep plunging and gurgling of waters in the
bowels of the shaded rocks. I could see their dark ice glittering far down
amid the crevices, and the cold drops trickling from the long green
mosses.
When noon came, we found a little stream, with a few trees and bushes; and
here we rested for an hour. Then we traveled on, guided by the sun, until,
just before sunset, we reached another stream, called Bitter Cotton-wood
Creek. A thick growth of bushes and old storm-beaten trees grew at
intervals along its bank. Near the foot of one of the trees we flung down
our saddles, and hobbling our horses turned them loose to feed. The little
stream was clear and swift, and ran musically on its white sands. Small
water birds were splashing in the shallows, and filling the air with their
cries and flutterings. The sun was just sinking among gold and crimson
clouds behind Mount Laramie. I well remember how I lay upon a log by the
margin of the water, and watched the restless motions of the little fish
in a deep still nook below. Strange to say, I seemed to have gained
strength since the morning, and almost felt a sense of returning health.
We built our fire. Night came, and the wolves began to howl. One deep
voice commenced, and it was answered in awful responses from the hills,
the plains, and the woods along the stream above and below us. Such sounds
need not and do not disturb one’s sleep upon the prairie. We picketed the
mare and the mule close at our feet, and did not wake until daylight. Then
we turned them loose, still hobbled, to feed for an hour before starting.
We were getting ready our morning’s meal, when Raymond saw an antelope at
half a mile’s distance, and said he would go and shoot it.
“Your business,” said. I, “is to look after the animals. I am too weak to
do much, if anything happens to them, and you must keep within sight of
the camp.”
Raymond promised, and set out with his rifle in his hand. The animals had
passed across the stream, and were feeding among the long grass on the
other side, much tormented by the attacks of the numerous large
green-headed flies. As I watched them, I saw them go down into a hollow,
and as several minutes elapsed without their reappearing, I waded through
the stream to look after them. To my vexation and alarm I discovered them
at a great distance, galloping away at full speed, Pauline in advance,
with her hobbles broken, and the mule, still fettered, following with
awkward leaps. I fired my rifle and shouted to recall Raymond. In a moment
he came running through the stream, with a red handkerchief bound round
his head. I pointed to the fugitives, and ordered him to pursue them.
Muttering a “Sacre!” between his teeth, he set out at full speed, still
swinging his rifle in his hand. I walked up to the top of a hill, and
looking away over the prairie, could just distinguish the runaways, still
at full gallop. Returning to the fire, I sat down at the foot of a tree.
Wearily and anxiously hour after hour passed away. The old loose bark
dangling from the trunk behind me flapped to and fro in the wind, and the
mosquitoes kept up their incessant drowsy humming; but other than this,
there was no sight nor sound of life throughout the burning landscape. The
sun rose higher and higher, until the shadows fell almost perpendicularly,
and I knew that it must be noon. It seemed scarcely possible that the
animals could be recovered. If they were not, my situation was one of
serious difficulty. Shaw, when I left him had decided to move that
morning, but whither he had not determined. To look for him would be a
vain attempt. Fort Laramie was forty miles distant, and I could not walk a
mile without great effort. Not then having learned the sound philosophy of
yielding to disproportionate obstacles, I resolved to continue in any
event the pursuit of the Indians. Only one plan occurred to me; this was
to send Raymond to the fort with an order for more horses, while I
remained on the spot, awaiting his return, which might take place within
three days. But the adoption of this resolution did not wholly allay my
anxiety, for it involved both uncertainty and danger. To remain stationary
and alone for three days, in a country full of dangerous Indians, was not
the most flattering of prospects; and protracted as my Indian hunt must be
by such delay, it was not easy to foretell its ultimate result. Revolving
these matters, I grew hungry; and as our stock of provisions, except four
or five pounds of flour, was by this time exhausted, I left the camp to
see what game I could find. Nothing could be seen except four or five
large curlew, which, with their loud screaming, were wheeling over my
head, and now and then alighting upon the prairie. I shot two of them, and
was about returning, when a startling sight caught my eye. A small, dark
object, like a human head, suddenly appeared, and vanished among the thick
hushes along the stream below. In that country every stranger is a
suspected enemy. Instinctively I threw forward the muzzle of my rifle. In
a moment the bushes were violently shaken, two heads, but not human heads,
protruded, and to my great joy I recognized the downcast, disconsolate
countenance of the black mule and the yellow visage of Pauline. Raymond
came upon the mule, pale and haggard, complaining of a fiery pain in his
chest. I took charge of the animals while he kneeled down by the side of
the stream to drink. He had kept the runaways in sight as far as the Side
Fork of Laramie Creek, a distance of more than ten miles; and here with
great difficulty he had succeeded in catching them. I saw that he was
unarmed, and asked him what he had done with his rifle. It had encumbered
him in his pursuit, and he had dropped it on the prairie, thinking that he
could find it on his return; but in this he had failed. The loss might
prove a very formidable one. I was too much rejoiced however at the
recovery of the animals to think much about it; and having made some tea
for Raymond in a tin vessel which we had brought with us, I told him that
I would give him two hours for resting before we set out again. He had
eaten nothing that day; but having no appetite, he lay down immediately to
sleep. I picketed the animals among the richest grass that I could find,
and made fires of green wood to protect them from the flies; then sitting
down again by the tree, I watched the slow movements of the sun,
begrudging every moment that passed.
The time I had mentioned expired, and I awoke Raymond. We saddled and set
out again, but first we went in search of the lost rifle, and in the
course of an hour Raymond was fortunate enough to find it. Then we turned
westward, and moved over the hills and hollows at a slow pace toward the
Black Hills. The heat no longer tormented us, for a cloud was before the
sun. Yet that day shall never be marked with white in my calendar. The air
began to grow fresh and cool, the distant mountains frowned more gloomily,
there was a low muttering of thunder, and dense black masses of cloud rose
heavily behind the broken peaks. At first they were gayly fringed with
silver by the afternoon sun, but soon the thick blackness overspread the
whole sky, and the desert around us was wrapped in deep gloom. I scarcely
heeded it at the time, but now I cannot but feel that there was an awful
sublimity in the hoarse murmuring of the thunder, in the somber shadows
that involved the mountains and the plain. The storm broke. It came upon
us with a zigzag blinding flash, with a terrific crash of thunder, and
with a hurricane that howled over the prairie, dashing floods of water
against us. Raymond looked round, and cursed the merciless elements. There
seemed no shelter near, but we discerned at length a deep ravine gashed in
the level prairie, and saw half way down its side an old pine tree, whose
rough horizontal boughs formed a sort of penthouse against the tempest. We
found a practicable passage, and hastily descending, fastened our animals
to some large loose stones at the bottom; then climbing up, we drew our
blankets over our heads, and seated ourselves close beneath the old tree.
Perhaps I was no competent judge of time, but it seemed to me that we were
sitting there a full hour, while around us poured a deluge of rain,
through which the rocks on the opposite side of the gulf were barely
visible. The first burst of the tempest soon subsided, but the rain poured
steadily. At length Raymond grew impatient, and scrambling out of the
ravine, he gained the level prairie above.
“What does the weather look like?” asked I, from my seat under the tree.
“It looks bad,” he answered; “dark all around,” and again he descended and
sat down by my side. Some ten minutes elapsed.
“Go up again,” said I, “and take another look;” and he clambered up the
precipice. “Well, how is it?”
“Just the same, only I see one little bright spot over the top of the
mountain.”
The rain by this time had begun to abate; and going down to the bottom of
the ravine, we loosened the animals, who were standing up to their knees
in water. Leading them up the rocky throat of the ravine, we reached the
plain above. “Am I,” I thought to myself, “the same man who a few months
since, was seated, a quiet student of BELLES-LETTRES, in a cushioned
arm-chair by a sea-coal fire?”
All around us was obscurity; but the bright spot above the mountaintops
grew wider and ruddier, until at length the clouds drew apart, and a flood
of sunbeams poured down from heaven, streaming along the precipices, and
involving them in a thin blue haze, as soft and lovely as that which wraps
the Apennines on an evening in spring. Rapidly the clouds were broken and
scattered, like routed legions of evil spirits. The plain lay basking in
sunbeams around us; a rainbow arched the desert from north to south, and
far in front a line of woods seemed inviting us to refreshment and repose.
When we reached them, they were glistening with prismatic dewdrops, and
enlivened by the song and flutterings of a hundred birds. Strange winged
insects, benumbed by the rain, were clinging to the leaves and the bark of
the trees.
Raymond kindled a fire with great difficulty. The animals turned eagerly
to feed on the soft rich grass, while I, wrapping myself in my blanket,
lay down and gazed on the evening landscape. The mountains, whose stern
features had lowered upon us with so gloomy and awful a frown, now seemed
lighted up with a serene, benignant smile, and the green waving
undulations of the plain were gladdened with the rich sunshine. Wet, ill,
and wearied as I was, my spirit grew lighter at the view, and I drew from
it an augury of good for my future prospects.
When morning came, Raymond awoke, coughing violently, though I had
apparently received no injury. We mounted, crossed the little stream,
pushed through the trees, and began our journey over the plain beyond. And
now, as we rode slowly along, we looked anxiously on every hand for traces
of the Indians, not doubting that the village had passed somewhere in that
vicinity; but the scanty shriveled grass was not more than three or four
inches high, and the ground was of such unyielding hardness that a host
might have marched over it and left scarcely a trace of its passage. Up
hill and down hill, and clambering through ravines, we continued our
journey. As we were skirting the foot of a hill I saw Raymond, who was
some rods in advance, suddenly jerking the reins of his mule. Sliding from
his seat, and running in a crouching posture up a hollow, he disappeared;
and then in an instant I heard the sharp quick crack of his rifle. A
wounded antelope came running on three legs over the hill. I lashed
Pauline and made after him. My fleet little mare soon brought me by his
side, and after leaping and bounding for a few moments in vain, he stood
still, as if despairing of escape. His glistening eyes turned up toward my
face with so piteous a look that it was with feelings of infinite
compunction that I shot him through the head with a pistol. Raymond
skinned and cut him up, and we hung the forequarters to our saddles, much
rejoiced that our exhausted stock of provisions was renewed in such good
time.
Gaining the top of a hill, we could see along the cloudy verge of the
prairie before us lines of trees and shadowy groves that marked the course
of Laramie Creek. Some time before noon we reached its banks and began
anxiously to search them for footprints of the Indians. We followed the
stream for several miles, now on the shore and now wading in the water,
scrutinizing every sand-bar and every muddy bank. So long was the search
that we began to fear that we had left the trail undiscovered behind us.
At length I heard Raymond shouting, and saw him jump from his mule to
examine some object under the shelving bank. I rode up to his side. It was
the clear and palpable impression of an Indian moccasin. Encouraged by
this we continued our search, and at last some appearances on a soft
surface of earth not far from the shore attracted my eye; and going to
examine them I found half a dozen tracks, some made by men and some by
children. Just then Raymond observed across the stream the mouth of a
small branch entering it from the south. He forded the water, rode in at
the opening, and in a moment I heard him shouting again, so I passed over
and joined him. The little branch had a broad sandy bed, along which the
water trickled in a scanty stream; and on either bank the bushes were so
close that the view was completely intercepted. I found Raymond stooping
over the footprints of three or four horses. Proceeding we found those of
a man, then those of a child, then those of more horses; and at last the
bushes on each bank were beaten down and broken, and the sand plowed up
with a multitude of footsteps, and scored across with the furrows made by
the lodge-poles that had been dragged through. It was now certain that we
had found the trail. I pushed through the bushes, and at a little distance
on the prairie beyond found the ashes of a hundred and fifty lodge fires,
with bones and pieces of buffalo robes scattered around them, and in some
instances the pickets to which horses had been secured still standing in
the ground. Elated by our success we selected a convenient tree, and
turning the animals loose, prepared to make a meal from the fat haunch of
our victim.
Hardship and exposure had thriven with me wonderfully. I had gained both
health and strength since leaving La Bonte’s Camp. Raymond and I made a
hearty meal together in high spirits, for we rashly presumed that having
found one end of the trail we should have little difficulty in reaching
the other. But when the animals were led in we found that our old ill luck
had not ceased to follow us close. As I was saddling Pauline I saw that
her eye was as dull as lead, and the hue of her yellow coat visibly
darkened. I placed my foot in the stirrup to mount, when instantly she
staggered and fell flat on her side. Gaining her feet with an effort she
stood by the fire with a drooping head. Whether she had been bitten by a
snake or poisoned by some noxious plant or attacked by a sudden disorder,
it was hard to say; but at all events her sickness was sufficiently
ill-timed and unfortunate. I succeeded in a second attempt to mount her,
and with a slow pace we moved forward on the trail of the Indians. It led
us up a hill and over a dreary plain; and here, to our great
mortification, the traces almost disappeared, for the ground was hard as
adamant; and if its flinty surface had ever retained the print of a hoof,
the marks had been washed away by the deluge of yesterday. An Indian
village, in its disorderly march, is scattered over the prairie, often to
the width of full half a mile; so that its trail is nowhere clearly
marked, and the task of following it is made doubly wearisome and
difficult. By good fortune plenty of large ant-hills, a yard or more in
diameter, were scattered over the plain, and these were frequently broken
by the footprints of men and horses, and marked by traces of the
lodge-poles. The succulent leaves of the prickly-pear, also bruised from
the same causes, helped a little to guide us; so inch by inch we moved
along. Often we lost the trail altogether, and then would recover it
again, but late in the afternoon we found ourselves totally at fault. We
stood alone without clew to guide us. The broken plain expanded for league
after league around us, and in front the long dark ridge of mountains was
stretching from north to south. Mount Laramie, a little on our right,
towered high above the rest and from a dark valley just beyond one of its
lower declivities, we discerned volumes of white smoke slowly rolling up
into the clear air.
“I think,” said Raymond, “some Indians must be there. Perhaps we had
better go.” But this plan was not rashly to be adopted, and we determined
still to continue our search after the lost trail. Our good stars prompted
us to this decision, for we afterward had reason to believe, from
information given us by the Indians, that the smoke was raised as a decoy
by a Crow war party.
Evening was coming on, and there was no wood or water nearer than the foot
of the mountains. So thither we turned, directing our course toward the
point where Laramie Creek issues forth upon the prairie. When we reached
it the bare tops of the mountains were still brightened with sunshine. The
little river was breaking with a vehement and angry current from its dark
prison. There was something in the near vicinity of the mountains, in the
loud surging of the rapids, wonderfully cheering and exhilarating; for
although once as familiar as home itself, they had been for months
strangers to my experience. There was a rich grass-plot by the river’s
bank, surrounded by low ridges, which would effectually screen ourselves
and our fire from the sight of wandering Indians. Here among the grass I
observed numerous circles of large stones, which, as Raymond said, were
traces of a Dakota winter encampment. We lay down and did not awake till
the sun was up. A large rock projected from the shore, and behind it the
deep water was slowly eddying round and round. The temptation was
irresistible. I threw off my clothes, leaped in, suffered myself to be
borne once round with the current, and then, seizing the strong root of a
water plant, drew myself to the shore. The effect was so invigorating and
refreshing that I mistook it for returning health. “Pauline,” thought I,
as I led the little mare up to be saddled, “only thrive as I do, and you
and I will have sport yet among the buffalo beyond these mountains.” But
scarcely were we mounted and on our way before the momentary glow passed.
Again I hung as usual in my seat, scarcely able to hold myself erect.
“Look yonder,” said Raymond; “you see that big hollow there; the Indians
must have gone that way, if they went anywhere about here.”
We reached the gap, which was like a deep notch cut into the mountain
ridge, and here we soon discerned an ant-hill furrowed with the mark of a
lodge-pole. This was quite enough; there could be no doubt now. As we rode
on, the opening growing narrower, the Indians had been compelled to march
in closer order, and the traces became numerous and distinct. The gap
terminated in a rocky gateway, leading into a rough passage upward,
between two precipitous mountains. Here grass and weeds were bruised to
fragments by the throng that had passed through. We moved slowly over the
rocks, up the passage; and in this toilsome manner we advanced for an hour
or two, bare precipices, hundreds of feet high, shooting up on either
hand. Raymond, with his hardy mule, was a few rods before me, when we came
to the foot of an ascent steeper than the rest, and which I trusted might
prove the highest point of the defile. Pauline strained upward for a few
yards, moaning and stumbling, and then came to a dead stop, unable to
proceed further. I dismounted, and attempted to lead her; but my own
exhausted strength soon gave out; so I loosened the trail-rope from her
neck, and tying it round my arm, crawled up on my hands and knees. I
gained the top, totally exhausted, the sweat drops trickling from my
forehead. Pauline stood like a statue by my side, her shadow falling upon
the scorching rock; and in this shade, for there was no other, I lay for
some time, scarcely able to move a limb. All around the black crags, sharp
as needles at the top, stood glowing in the sun, without a tree, or a
bush, or a blade of grass, to cover their precipitous sides. The whole
scene seemed parched with a pitiless, insufferable heat.
After a while I could mount again, and we moved on, descending the rocky
defile on its western side. Thinking of that morning’s journey, it has
sometimes seemed to me that there was something ridiculous in my position;
a man, armed to the teeth, but wholly unable to fight, and equally so to
run away, traversing a dangerous wilderness, on a sick horse. But these
thoughts were retrospective, for at the time I was in too grave a mood to
entertain a very lively sense of the ludicrous.
Raymond’s saddle-girth slipped; and while I proceeded he was stopping
behind to repair the mischief. I came to the top of a little declivity,
where a most welcome sight greeted my eye; a nook of fresh green grass
nestled among the cliffs, sunny clumps of bushes on one side, and shaggy
old pine trees leaning forward from the rocks on the other. A shrill,
familiar voice saluted me, and recalled me to days of boyhood; that of the
insect called the “locust” by New England schoolboys, which was fast
clinging among the heated boughs of the old pine trees. Then, too, as I
passed the bushes, the low sound of falling water reached my ear. Pauline
turned of her own accord, and pushing through the boughs we found a black
rock, over-arched by the cool green canopy. An icy stream was pouring from
its side into a wide basin of white sand, from whence it had no visible
outlet, but filtered through into the soil below. While I filled a tin cup
at the spring, Pauline was eagerly plunging her head deep in the pool.
Other visitors had been there before us. All around in the soft soil were
the footprints of elk, deer, and the Rocky Mountain sheep; and the grizzly
bear too had left the recent prints of his broad foot, with its frightful
array of claws. Among these mountains was his home.
Soon after leaving the spring we found a little grassy plain, encircled by
the mountains, and marked, to our great joy, with all the traces of an
Indian camp. Raymond’s practiced eye detected certain signs by which he
recognized the spot where Reynal’s lodge had been pitched and his horses
picketed. I approached, and stood looking at the place. Reynal and I had,
I believe, hardly a feeling in common. I disliked the fellow, and it
perplexed me a good deal to understand why I should look with so much
interest on the ashes of his fire, when between him and me there seemed no
other bond of sympathy than the slender and precarious one of a kindred
race.
In half an hour from this we were clear of the mountains. There was a
plain before us, totally barren and thickly peopled in many parts with the
little prairie dogs, who sat at the mouths of their burrows and yelped at
us as we passed. The plain, as we thought, was about six miles wide; but
it cost us two hours to cross it. Then another mountain range rose before
us, grander and more wild than the last had been. Far out of the dense
shrubbery that clothed the steeps for a thousand feet shot up black crags,
all leaning one way, and shattered by storms and thunder into grim and
threatening shapes. As we entered a narrow passage on the trail of the
Indians, they impended frightfully on one side, above our heads.
Our course was through dense woods, in the shade and twinkling sunlight of
overhanging boughs. I would I could recall to mind all the startling
combinations that presented themselves, as winding from side to side of
the passage, to avoid its obstructions, we could see, glancing at
intervals through the foliage, the awful forms of the gigantic cliffs,
that seemed at times to hem us in on the right and on the left, before us
and behind! Another scene in a few moments greeted us; a tract of gray and
sunny woods, broken into knolls and hollows, enlivened by birds and
interspersed with flowers. Among the rest I recognized the mellow whistle
of the robin, an old familiar friend whom I had scarce expected to meet in
such a place. Humble-bees too were buzzing heavily about the flowers; and
of these a species of larkspur caught my eye, more appropriate, it should
seem, to cultivated gardens than to a remote wilderness. Instantly it
recalled a multitude of dormant and delightful recollections.
Leaving behind us this spot and its associations, a sight soon presented
itself, characteristic of that warlike region. In an open space, fenced in
by high rocks, stood two Indian forts, of a square form, rudely built of
sticks and logs. They were somewhat ruinous, having probably been
constructed the year before. Each might have contained about twenty men.
Perhaps in this gloomy spot some party had been beset by their enemies,
and those scowling rocks and blasted trees might not long since have
looked down on a conflict unchronicled and unknown. Yet if any traces of
bloodshed remained they were completely hidden by the bushes and tall rank
weeds.
Gradually the mountains drew apart, and the passage expanded into a plain,
where again we found traces of an Indian encampment. There were trees and
bushes just before us, and we stopped here for an hour’s rest and
refreshment. When we had finished our meal Raymond struck fire, and
lighting his pipe, sat down at the foot of a tree to smoke. For some time
I observed him puffing away with a face of unusual solemnity. Then slowly
taking the pipe from his lips, he looked up and remarked that we had
better not go any farther.
“Why not?” asked I.
He said that the country was becoming very dangerous, that we were
entering the range of the Snakes, Arapahoes and Grosventre Blackfeet, and
that if any of their wandering parties should meet us, it would cost us
our lives; but he added, with a blunt fidelity that nearly reconciled me
to his stupidity, that he would go anywhere I wished. I told him to bring
up the animals, and mounting them we proceeded again. I confess that, as
we moved forward, the prospect seemed but a dreary and doubtful one. I
would have given the world for my ordinary elasticity of body and mind,
and for a horse of such strength and spirit as the journey required.
Closer and closer the rocks gathered round us, growing taller and steeper,
and pressing more and more upon our path. We entered at length a defile
which I never had seen rivaled. The mountain was cracked from top to
bottom, and we were creeping along the bottom of the fissure, in dampness
and gloom, with the clink of hoofs on the loose shingly rocks, and the
hoarse murmuring of a petulant brook which kept us company. Sometimes the
water, foaming among the stones, overspread the whole narrow passage;
sometimes, withdrawing to one side, it gave us room to pass dry-shod.
Looking up, we could see a narrow ribbon of bright blue sky between the
dark edges of the opposing cliffs. This did not last long. The passage
soon widened, and sunbeams found their way down, flashing upon the black
waters. The defile would spread out to many rods in width; bushes, trees,
and flowers would spring by the side of the brook; the cliffs would be
feathered with shrubbery, that clung in every crevice, and fringed with
trees, that grew along their sunny edges. Then we would be moving again in
the darkness. The passage seemed about four miles long, and before we
reached the end of it, the unshod hoofs of our animals were lamentably
broken, and their legs cut by the sharp stones. Issuing from the mountain
we found another plain. All around it stood a circle of lofty precipices,
that seemed the impersonation of silence and solitude. Here again the
Indians had encamped, as well they might, after passing with their women,
children and horses through the gulf behind us. In one day we had made a
journey which had cost them three to accomplish.
The only outlet to this amphitheater lay over a hill some two hundred feet
high, up which we moved with difficulty. Looking from the top, we saw that
at last we were free of the mountains. The prairie spread before us, but
so wild and broken that the view was everywhere obstructed. Far on our
left one tall hill swelled up against the sky, on the smooth, pale green
surface of which four slowly moving black specks were discernible. They
were evidently buffalo, and we hailed the sight as a good augury; for
where the buffalo were, there too the Indians would probably be found. We
hoped on that very night to reach the village. We were anxious to do so
for a double reason, wishing to bring our wearisome journey to an end, and
knowing, moreover, that though to enter the village in broad daylight
would be a perfectly safe experiment, yet to encamp in its vicinity would
be dangerous. But as we rode on, the sun was sinking, and soon was within
half an hour of the horizon. We ascended a hill and looked round us for a
spot for our encampment. The prairie was like a turbulent ocean, suddenly
congealed when its waves were at the highest, and it lay half in light and
half in shadow, as the rich sunshine, yellow as gold, was pouring over it.
The rough bushes of the wild sage were growing everywhere, its dull pale
green overspreading hill and hollow. Yet a little way before us, a bright
verdant line of grass was winding along the plain, and here and there
throughout its course water was glistening darkly. We went down to it,
kindled a fire, and turned our horses loose to feed. It was a little
trickling brook, that for some yards on either bank turned the barren
prairie into fertility, and here and there it spread into deep pools,
where the beaver had dammed it up.
We placed our last remaining piece of the antelope before a scanty fire,
mournfully reflecting on our exhausted stock of provisions. Just then an
enormous gray hare, peculiar to these prairies, came jumping along, and
seated himself within fifty yards to look at us. I thoughtlessly raised my
rifle to shoot him, but Raymond called out to me not to fire for fear the
report should reach the ears of the Indians. That night for the first time
we considered that the danger to which we were exposed was of a somewhat
serious character; and to those who are unacquainted with Indians, it may
seem strange that our chief apprehensions arose from the supposed
proximity of the people whom we intended to visit. Had any straggling
party of these faithful friends caught sight of us from the hill-top, they
would probably have returned in the night to plunder us of our horses and
perhaps of our scalps. But we were on the prairie, where the GENIUS LOCI
is at war with all nervous apprehensions; and I presume that neither
Raymond nor I thought twice of the matter that evening.
While he was looking after the animals, I sat by the fire engaged in the
novel task of baking bread. The utensils were of the most simple and
primitive kind, consisting of two sticks inclining over the bed of coals,
one end thrust into the ground while the dough was twisted in a spiral
form round the other. Under such circumstances all the epicurean in a
man’s nature is apt to awaken within him. I revisited in fancy the far
distant abodes of good fare, not indeed Frascati’s, or the Trois Freres
Provencaux, for that were too extreme a flight; but no other than the
homely table of my old friend and host, Tom Crawford, of the White
Mountains. By a singular revulsion, Tom himself, whom I well remember to
have looked upon as the impersonation of all that is wild and
backwoodsman-like, now appeared before me as the ministering angel of
comfort and good living. Being fatigued and drowsy I began to doze, and my
thoughts, following the same train of association, assumed another form.
Half-dreaming, I saw myself surrounded with the mountains of New England,
alive with water-falls, their black crags tinctured with milk-white mists.
For this reverie I paid a speedy penalty; for the bread was black on one
side and soft on the other.
For eight hours Raymond and I, pillowed on our saddles, lay insensible as
logs. Pauline’s yellow head was stretched over me when I awoke. I got up
and examined her. Her feet indeed were bruised and swollen by the
accidents of yesterday, but her eye was brighter, her motions livelier,
and her mysterious malady had visibly abated. We moved on, hoping within
an hour to come in sight of the Indian village; but again disappointment
awaited us. The trail disappeared, melting away upon a hard and stony
plain. Raymond and I separating, rode from side to side, scrutinizing
every yard of ground, until at length I discerned traces of the
lodge-poles passing by the side of a ridge of rocks. We began again to
follow them.
“What is that black spot out there on the prairie?”
“It looks like a dead buffalo,” answered Raymond.
We rode out to it, and found it to be the huge carcass of a bull killed by
the Indians as they had passed. Tangled hair and scraps of hide were
scattered all around, for the wolves had been making merry over it, and
had hollowed out the entire carcass. It was covered with myriads of large
black crickets, and from its appearance must certainly have lain there for
four or five days. The sight was a most disheartening one, and I observed
to Raymond that the Indians might still be fifty or sixty miles before us.
But he shook his head, and replied that they dared not go so far for fear
of their enemies, the Snakes.
Soon after this we lost the trail again, and ascended a neighboring ridge,
totally at a loss. Before us lay a plain perfectly flat, spreading on the
right and left, without apparent limit, and bounded in front by a long
broken line of hills, ten or twelve miles distant. All was open and
exposed to view, yet not a buffalo nor an Indian was visible.
“Do you see that?” said Raymond; “Now we had better turn round.”
But as Raymond’s bourgeois thought otherwise, we descended the hill and
began to cross the plain. We had come so far that I knew perfectly well
neither Pauline’s limbs nor my own could carry me back to Fort Laramie. I
considered that the lines of expediency and inclination tallied exactly,
and that the most prudent course was to keep forward. The ground
immediately around us was thickly strewn with the skulls and bones of
buffalo, for here a year or two before the Indians had made a “surround”;
yet no living game presented itself. At length, however, an antelope
sprang up and gazed at us. We fired together, and by a singular fatality
we both missed, although the animal stood, a fair mark, within eighty
yards. This ill success might perhaps be charged to our own eagerness, for
by this time we had no provision left except a little flour. We could
discern several small lakes, or rather extensive pools of water,
glistening in the distance. As we approached them, wolves and antelopes
bounded away through the tall grass that grew in their vicinity, and
flocks of large white plover flew screaming over their surface. Having
failed of the antelope, Raymond tried his hand at the birds with the same
ill success. The water also disappointed us. Its muddy margin was so
beaten up by the crowd of buffalo that our timorous animals were afraid to
approach. So we turned away and moved toward the hills. The rank grass,
where it was not trampled down by the buffalo, fairly swept our horses’
necks.
Again we found the same execrable barren prairie offering no clew by which
to guide our way. As we drew near the hills an opening appeared, through
which the Indians must have gone if they had passed that way at all.
Slowly we began to ascend it. I felt the most dreary forebodings of ill
success, when on looking round I could discover neither dent of hoof, nor
footprint, nor trace of lodge-pole, though the passage was encumbered by
the ghastly skulls of buffalo. We heard thunder muttering; a storm was
coming on.
As we gained the top of the gap, the prospect beyond began to disclose
itself. First, we saw a long dark line of ragged clouds upon the horizon,
while above them rose the peak of the Medicine-Bow, the vanguard of the
Rocky Mountains; then little by little the plain came into view, a vast
green uniformity, forlorn and tenantless, though Laramie Creek glistened
in a waving line over its surface, without a bush or a tree upon its
banks. As yet, the round projecting shoulder of a hill intercepted a part
of the view. I rode in advance, when suddenly I could distinguish a few
dark spots on the prairie, along the bank of the stream.
“Buffalo!” said I. Then a sudden hope flashed upon me, and eagerly and
anxiously I looked again.
“Horses!” exclaimed Raymond, with a tremendous oath, lashing his mule
forward as he spoke. More and more of the plain disclosed itself, and in
rapid succession more and more horses appeared, scattered along the river
bank, or feeding in bands over the prairie. Then, suddenly, standing in a
circle by the stream, swarming with their savage inhabitants, we saw
rising before us the tall lodges of the Ogallalla. Never did the heart of
wanderer more gladden at the sight of home than did mine at the sight of
those wild habitations!
CHAPTER XIV
THE OGALLALLA VILLAGE
Such a narrative as this is hardly the place for portraying the mental
features of the Indians. The same picture, slightly changed in shade and
coloring, would serve with very few exceptions for all the tribes that lie
north of the Mexican territories. But with this striking similarity in
their modes of thought, the tribes of the lake and ocean shores, of the
forests and of the plains, differ greatly in their manner of life. Having
been domesticated for several weeks among one of the wildest of the wild
hordes that roam over the remote prairies, I had extraordinary
opportunities of observing them, and I flatter myself that a faithful
picture of the scenes that passed daily before my eyes may not be devoid
of interest and value. These men were thorough savages. Neither their
manners nor their ideas were in the slightest degree modified by contact
with civilization. They knew nothing of the power and real character of
the white men, and their children would scream in terror at the sight of
me. Their religion, their superstitions, and their prejudices were the
same that had been handed down to them from immemorial time. They fought
with the same weapons that their fathers fought with and wore the same
rude garments of skins.
Great changes are at hand in that region. With the stream of emigration to
Oregon and California, the buffalo will dwindle away, and the large
wandering communities who depend on them for support must be broken and
scattered. The Indians will soon be corrupted by the example of the
whites, abased by whisky, and overawed by military posts; so that within a
few years the traveler may pass in tolerable security through their
country. Its danger and its charm will have disappeared together.
As soon as Raymond and I discovered the village from the gap in the hills,
we were seen in our turn; keen eyes were constantly on the watch. As we
rode down upon the plain the side of the village nearest us was darkened
with a crowd of naked figures gathering around the lodges. Several men
came forward to meet us. I could distinguish among them the green blanket
of the Frenchman Reynal. When we came up the ceremony of shaking hands had
to be gone through with in due form, and then all were eager to know what
had become of the rest of my party. I satisfied them on this point, and we
all moved forward together toward the village.
“You’ve missed it,” said Reynal; “if you’d been here day before yesterday,
you’d have found the whole prairie over yonder black with buffalo as far
as you could see. There were no cows, though; nothing but bulls. We made a
‘surround’ every day till yesterday. See the village there; don’t that
look like good living?”
In fact I could see, even at that distance, that long cords were stretched
from lodge to lodge, over which the meat, cut by the squaws into thin
sheets, was hanging to dry in the sun. I noticed too that the village was
somewhat smaller than when I had last seen it, and I asked Reynal the
cause. He said that the old Le Borgne had felt too weak to pass over the
mountains, and so had remained behind with all his relations, including
Mahto-Tatonka and his brothers. The Whirlwind too had been unwilling to
come so far, because, as Reynal said, he was afraid. Only half a dozen
lodges had adhered to him, the main body of the village setting their
chief’s authority at naught, and taking the course most agreeable to their
inclinations.
“What chiefs are there in the village now?” said I.
“Well,” said Reynal, “there’s old Red-Water, and the Eagle-Feather, and
the Big Crow, and the Mad Wolf and the Panther, and the White Shield, and—what’s
his name?—the half-breed Cheyenne.”
By this time we were close to the village, and I observed that while the
greater part of the lodges were very large and neat in their appearance,
there was at one side a cluster of squalid, miserable huts. I looked
toward them, and made some remark about their wretched appearance. But I
was touching upon delicate ground.
“My squaw’s relations live in those lodges,” said Reynal very warmly, “and
there isn’t a better set in the whole village.”
“Are there any chiefs among them?” asked I.
“Chiefs?” said Reynal; “yes, plenty!”
“What are their names?” I inquired.
“Their names? Why, there’s the Arrow-Head. If he isn’t a chief he ought to
be one. And there’s the Hail-Storm. He’s nothing but a boy, to be sure;
but he’s bound to be a chief one of these days!”
Just then we passed between two of the lodges, and entered the great area
of the village. Superb naked figures stood silently gazing on us.
“Where’s the Bad Wound’s lodge?” said I to Reynal.
“There, you’ve missed it again! The Bad Wound is away with The Whirlwind.
If you could have found him here, and gone to live in his lodge, he would
have treated you better than any man in the village. But there’s the Big
Crow’s lodge yonder, next to old Red-Water’s. He’s a good Indian for the
whites, and I advise you to go and live with him.”
“Are there many squaws and children in his lodge?” said I.
“No; only one squaw and two or three children. He keeps the rest in a
separate lodge by themselves.”
So, still followed by a crowd of Indians, Raymond and I rode up to the
entrance of the Big Crow’s lodge. A squaw came out immediately and took
our horses. I put aside the leather nap that covered the low opening, and
stooping, entered the Big Crow’s dwelling. There I could see the chief in
the dim light, seated at one side, on a pile of buffalo robes. He greeted
me with a guttural “How, cola!” I requested Reynal to tell him that
Raymond and I were come to live with him. The Big Crow gave another low
exclamation. If the reader thinks that we were intruding somewhat
cavalierly, I beg him to observe that every Indian in the village would
have deemed himself honored that white men should give such preference to
his hospitality.
The squaw spread a buffalo robe for us in the guest’s place at the head of
the lodge. Our saddles were brought in, and scarcely were we seated upon
them before the place was thronged with Indians, who came crowding in to
see us. The Big Crow produced his pipe and filled it with the mixture of
tobacco and shongsasha, or red willow bark. Round and round it passed, and
a lively conversation went forward. Meanwhile a squaw placed before the
two guests a wooden bowl of boiled buffalo meat, but unhappily this was
not the only banquet destined to be inflicted on us. Rapidly, one after
another, boys and young squaws thrust their heads in at the opening, to
invite us to various feasts in different parts of the village. For half an
hour or more we were actively engaged in passing from lodge to lodge,
tasting in each of the bowl of meat set before us, and inhaling a whiff or
two from our entertainer’s pipe. A thunderstorm that had been threatening
for some time now began in good earnest. We crossed over to Reynal’s
lodge, though it hardly deserved this name, for it consisted only of a few
old buffalo robes, supported on poles, and was quite open on one side.
Here we sat down, and the Indians gathered round us.
“What is it,” said I, “that makes the thunder?”
“It’s my belief,” said Reynal, “that it is a big stone rolling over the
sky.”
“Very likely,” I replied; “but I want to know what the Indians think about
it.”
So he interpreted my question, which seemed to produce some doubt and
debate. There was evidently a difference of opinion. At last old
Mene-Seela, or Red-Water, who sat by himself at one side, looked up with
his withered face, and said he had always known what the thunder was. It
was a great black bird; and once he had seen it, in a dream, swooping down
from the Black Hills, with its loud roaring wings; and when it flapped
them over a lake, they struck lightning from the water.
“The thunder is bad,” said another old man, who sat muffled in his buffalo
robe; “he killed my brother last summer.”
Reynal, at my request, asked for an explanation; but the old man remained
doggedly silent, and would not look up. Some time after I learned how the
accident occurred. The man who was killed belonged to an association
which, among other mystic functions, claimed the exclusive power and
privilege of fighting the thunder. Whenever a storm which they wished to
avert was threatening, the thunder-fighters would take their bows and
arrows, their guns, their magic drum, and a sort of whistle, made out of
the wingbone of the war eagle. Thus equipped, they would run out and fire
at the rising cloud, whooping, yelling, whistling, and beating their drum,
to frighten it down again. One afternoon a heavy black cloud was coming
up, and they repaired to the top of a hill, where they brought all their
magic artillery into play against it. But the undaunted thunder, refusing
to be terrified, kept moving straight onward, and darted out a bright
flash which struck one of the party dead, as he was in the very act of
shaking his long iron-pointed lance against it. The rest scattered and ran
yelling in an ecstasy of superstitious terror back to their lodges.
The lodge of my host Kongra-Tonga, or the Big Crow, presented a
picturesque spectacle that evening. A score or more of Indians were seated
around in a circle, their dark naked forms just visible by the dull light
of the smoldering fire in the center, the pipe glowing brightly in the
gloom as it passed from hand to hand round the lodge. Then a squaw would
drop a piece of buffalo-fat on the dull embers. Instantly a bright
glancing flame would leap up, darting its clear light to the very apex of
the tall conical structure, where the tops of the slender poles that
supported its covering of leather were gathered together. It gilded the
features of the Indians, as with animated gestures they sat around it,
telling their endless stories of war and hunting. It displayed rude
garments of skins that hung around the lodge; the bow, quiver, and lance
suspended over the resting-place of the chief, and the rifles and
powder-horns of the two white guests. For a moment all would be bright as
day; then the flames would die away, and fitful flashes from the embers
would illumine the lodge, and then leave it in darkness. Then all the
light would wholly fade, and the lodge and all within it be involved again
in obscurity.
As I left the lodge next morning, I was saluted by howling and yelling
from all around the village, and half its canine population rushed forth
to the attack. Being as cowardly as they were clamorous, they kept jumping
around me at the distance of a few yards, only one little cur, about ten
inches long, having spirit enough to make a direct assault. He dashed
valiantly at the leather tassel which in the Dakota fashion was trailing
behind the heel of my moccasin, and kept his hold, growling and snarling
all the while, though every step I made almost jerked him over on his
back. As I knew that the eyes of the whole village were on the watch to
see if I showed any sign of apprehension, I walked forward without looking
to the right or left, surrounded wherever I went by this magic circle of
dogs. When I came to Reynal’s lodge I sat down by it, on which the dogs
dispersed growling to their respective quarters. Only one large white one
remained, who kept running about before me and showing his teeth. I called
him, but he only growled the more. I looked at him well. He was fat and
sleek; just such a dog as I wanted. “My friend,” thought I, “you shall pay
for this! I will have you eaten this very morning!”
I intended that day to give the Indians a feast, by way of conveying a
favorable impression of my character and dignity; and a white dog is the
dish which the customs of the Dakota prescribe for all occasions of
formality and importance. I consulted Reynal; he soon discovered that an
old woman in the next lodge was owner of the white dog. I took a gaudy
cotton handkerchief, and laying it on the ground, arranged some vermilion,
beads, and other trinkets upon it. Then the old squaw was summoned. I
pointed to the dog and to the handkerchief. She gave a scream of delight,
snatched up the prize, and vanished with it into her lodge. For a few more
trifles I engaged the services of two other squaws, each of whom took the
white dog by one of his paws, and led him away behind the lodges, while he
kept looking up at them with a face of innocent surprise. Having killed
him they threw him into a fire to singe; then chopped him up and put him
into two large kettles to boil. Meanwhile I told Raymond to fry in
buffalo-fat what little flour we had left, and also to make a kettle of
tea as an additional item of the repast.
The Big Crow’s squaw was set briskly at work sweeping out the lodge for
the approaching festivity. I confided to my host himself the task of
inviting the guests, thinking that I might thereby shift from my own
shoulders the odium of fancied neglect and oversight.
When feasting is in question, one hour of the day serves an Indian as well
as another. My entertainment came off about eleven o’clock. At that hour,
Reynal and Raymond walked across the area of the village, to the
admiration of the inhabitants, carrying the two kettles of dog-meat slung
on a pole between them. These they placed in the center of the lodge, and
then went back for the bread and the tea. Meanwhile I had put on a pair of
brilliant moccasins, and substituted for my old buckskin frock a coat
which I had brought with me in view of such public occasions. I also made
careful use of the razor, an operation which no man will neglect who
desires to gain the good opinion of Indians. Thus attired, I seated myself
between Reynal and Raymond at the head of the lodge. Only a few minutes
elapsed before all the guests had come in and were seated on the ground,
wedged together in a close circle around the lodge. Each brought with him
a wooden bowl to hold his share of the repast. When all were assembled,
two of the officials called “soldiers” by the white men, came forward with
ladles made of the horn of the Rocky Mountain sheep, and began to
distribute the feast, always assigning a double share to the old men and
chiefs. The dog vanished with astonishing celerity, and each guest turned
his dish bottom upward to show that all was gone. Then the bread was
distributed in its turn, and finally the tea. As the soldiers poured it
out into the same wooden bowls that had served for the substantial part of
the meal, I thought it had a particularly curious and uninviting color.
“Oh!” said Reynal, “there was not tea enough, so I stirred some soot in
the kettle, to make it look strong.”
Fortunately an Indian’s palate is not very discriminating. The tea was
well sweetened, and that was all they cared for.
Now the former part of the entertainment being concluded, the time for
speech-making was come. The Big Crow produced a flat piece of wood on
which he cut up tobacco and shongsasha, and mixed them in due proportions.
The pipes were filled and passed from hand to hand around the company.
Then I began my speech, each sentence being interpreted by Reynal as I
went on, and echoed by the whole audience with the usual exclamations of
assent and approval. As nearly as I can recollect, it was as follows:
I had come, I told them, from a country so far distant, that at the rate
they travel, they could not reach it in a year.
“Howo how!”
“There the Meneaska were more numerous than the blades of grass on the
prairie. The squaws were far more beautiful than any they had ever seen,
and all the men were brave warriors.”
“How! how! how!”
Here I was assailed by sharp twinges of conscience, for I fancied I could
perceive a fragrance of perfumery in the air, and a vision rose before me
of white kid gloves and silken mustaches with the mild and gentle
countenances of numerous fair-haired young men. But I recovered myself and
began again.
“While I was living in the Meneaska lodges, I had heard of the Ogallalla,
how great and brave a nation they were, how they loved the whites, and how
well they could hunt the buffalo and strike their enemies. I resolved to
come and see if all that I heard was true.”
“How! how! how! how!”
“As I had come on horseback through the mountains, I had been able to
bring them only a very few presents.”
“How!”
“But I had enough tobacco to give them all a small piece. They might smoke
it, and see how much better it was than the tobacco which they got from
the traders.”
“How! how! how!”
“I had plenty of powder, lead, knives, and tobacco at Fort Laramie. These
I was anxious to give them, and if any of them should come to the fort
before I went away, I would make them handsome presents.”
“How! howo how! how!”
Raymond then cut up and distributed among them two or three pounds of
tobacco, and old Mene-Seela began to make a reply. It was quite long, but
the following was the pith of it:
“He had always loved the whites. They were the wisest people on earth. He
believed they could do everything, and he was always glad when any of them
came to live in the Ogallalla lodges. It was true I had not made them many
presents, but the reason of it was plain. It was clear that I liked them,
or I never should have come so far to find their village.”
Several other speeches of similar import followed, and then this more
serious matter being disposed of, there was an interval of smoking,
laughing, and conversation; but old Mene-Seela suddenly interrupted it
with a loud voice:
“Now is a good time,” he said, “when all the old men and chiefs are here
together, to decide what the people shall do. We came over the mountain to
make our lodges for next year. Our old ones are good for nothing; they are
rotten and worn out. But we have been disappointed. We have killed buffalo
bulls enough, but we have found no herds of cows, and the skins of bulls
are too thick and heavy for our squaws to make lodges of. There must be
plenty of cows about the Medicine-Bow Mountain. We ought to go there. To
be sure it is farther westward than we have ever been before, and perhaps
the Snakes will attack us, for those hunting-grounds belong to them. But
we must have new lodges at any rate; our old ones will not serve for
another year. We ought not to be afraid of the Snakes. Our warriors are
brave, and they are all ready for war. Besides, we have three white men
with their rifles to help us.”
I could not help thinking that the old man relied a little too much on the
aid of allies, one of whom was a coward, another a blockhead, and the
third an invalid. This speech produced a good deal of debate. As Reynal
did not interpret what was said, I could only judge of the meaning by the
features and gestures of the speakers. At the end of it, however, the
greater number seemed to have fallen in with Mene-Seela’s opinion. A short
silence followed, and then the old man struck up a discordant chant, which
I was told was a song of thanks for the entertainment I had given them.
“Now,” said he, “let us go and give the white men a chance to breathe.”
So the company all dispersed into the open air, and for some time the old
chief was walking round the village, singing his song in praise of the
feast, after the usual custom of the nation.
At last the day drew to a close, and as the sun went down the horses came
trooping from the surrounding plains to be picketed before the dwellings
of their respective masters. Soon within the great circle of lodges
appeared another concentric circle of restless horses; and here and there
fires were glowing and flickering amid the gloom of the dusky figures
around them. I went over and sat by the lodge of Reynal. The
Eagle-Feather, who was a son of Mene-Seela, and brother of my host the Big
Crow, was seated there already, and I asked him if the village would move
in the morning. He shook his head, and said that nobody could tell, for
since old Mahto-Tatonka had died, the people had been like children that
did not know their own minds. They were no better than a body without a
head. So I, as well as the Indians themselves, fell asleep that night
without knowing whether we should set out in the morning toward the
country of the Snakes.
At daybreak, however, as I was coming up from the river after my morning’s
ablutions, I saw that a movement was contemplated. Some of the lodges were
reduced to nothing but bare skeletons of poles; the leather covering of
others was flapping in the wind as the squaws were pulling it off. One or
two chiefs of note had resolved, it seemed, on moving; and so having set
their squaws at work, the example was tacitly followed by the rest of the
village. One by one the lodges were sinking down in rapid succession, and
where the great circle of the village had been only a moment before,
nothing now remained but a ring of horses and Indians, crowded in
confusion together. The ruins of the lodges were spread over the ground,
together with kettles, stone mallets, great ladles of horn, buffalo robes,
and cases of painted hide, filled with dried meat. Squaws bustled about in
their busy preparations, the old hags screaming to one another at the
stretch of their leathern lungs. The shaggy horses were patiently standing
while the lodge-poles were lashed to their sides, and the baggage piled
upon their backs. The dogs, with their tongues lolling out, lay lazily
panting, and waiting for the time of departure. Each warrior sat on the
ground by the decaying embers of his fire, unmoved amid all the confusion,
while he held in his hand the long trail-rope of his horse.
As their preparations were completed, each family moved off the ground.
The crowd was rapidly melting away. I could see them crossing the river,
and passing in quick succession along the profile of the hill on the
farther bank. When all were gone, I mounted and set out after them,
followed by Raymond, and as we gained the summit, the whole village came
in view at once, straggling away for a mile or more over the barren plains
before us. Everywhere the iron points of lances were glittering. The sun
never shone upon a more strange array. Here were the heavy-laden pack
horses, some wretched old women leading them, and two or three children
clinging to their backs. Here were mules or ponies covered from head to
tail with gaudy trappings, and mounted by some gay young squaw, grinning
bashfulness and pleasure as the Meneaska looked at her. Boys with
miniature bows and arrows were wandering over the plains, little naked
children were running along on foot, and numberless dogs were scampering
among the feet of the horses. The young braves, gaudy with paint and
feathers, were riding in groups among the crowd, and often galloping, two
or three at once along the line, to try the speed of their horses. Here
and there you might see a rank of sturdy pedestrians stalking along in
their white buffalo robes. These were the dignitaries of the village, the
old men and warriors, to whose age and experience that wandering democracy
yielded a silent deference. With the rough prairie and the broken hills
for its background, the restless scene was striking and picturesque beyond
description. Days and weeks made me familiar with it, but never impaired
its effect upon my fancy.
As we moved on the broken column grew yet more scattered and disorderly,
until, as we approached the foot of a hill, I saw the old men before
mentioned seating themselves in a line upon the ground, in advance of the
whole. They lighted a pipe and sat smoking, laughing, and telling stories,
while the people, stopping as they successively came up, were soon
gathered in a crowd behind them. Then the old men rose, drew their buffalo
robes over their shoulders, and strode on as before. Gaining the top of
the hill, we found a very steep declivity before us. There was not a
minute’s pause. The whole descended in a mass, amid dust and confusion.
The horses braced their feet as they slid down, women and children were
screaming, dogs yelping as they were trodden upon, while stones and earth
went rolling to the bottom. In a few moments I could see the village from
the summit, spreading again far and wide over the plain below.
At our encampment that afternoon I was attacked anew by my old disorder.
In half an hour the strength that I had been gaining for a week past had
vanished again, and I became like a man in a dream. But at sunset I lay
down in the Big Crow’s lodge and slept, totally unconscious till the
morning. The first thing that awakened me was a hoarse flapping over my
head, and a sudden light that poured in upon me. The camp was breaking up,
and the squaws were moving the covering from the lodge. I arose and shook
off my blanket with the feeling of perfect health; but scarcely had I
gained my feet when a sense of my helpless condition was once more forced
upon me, and I found myself scarcely able to stand. Raymond had brought up
Pauline and the mule, and I stooped to raise my saddle from the ground. My
strength was quite inadequate to the task. “You must saddle her,” said I
to Raymond, as I sat down again on a pile of buffalo robes:
“Et hoec etiam fortasse meminisse juvabit.”
I thought, while with a painful effort I raised myself into the saddle.
Half an hour after, even the expectation that Virgil’s line expressed
seemed destined to disappointment. As we were passing over a great plain,
surrounded by long broken ridges, I rode slowly in advance of the Indians,
with thoughts that wandered far from the time and from the place. Suddenly
the sky darkened, and thunder began to mutter. Clouds were rising over the
hills, as dreary and dull as the first forebodings of an approaching
calamity; and in a moment all around was wrapped in shadow. I looked
behind. The Indians had stopped to prepare for the approaching storm, and
the dark, dense mass of savages stretched far to the right and left. Since
the first attack of my disorder the effects of rain upon me had usually
been injurious in the extreme. I had no strength to spare, having at that
moment scarcely enough to keep my seat on horseback. Then, for the first
time, it pressed upon me as a strong probability that I might never leave
those deserts. “Well,” thought I to myself, “a prairie makes quick and
sharp work. Better to die here, in the saddle to the last, than to stifle
in the hot air of a sick chamber, and a thousand times better than to drag
out life, as many have done, in the helpless inaction of lingering
disease.” So, drawing the buffalo robe on which I sat over my head, I
waited till the storm should come. It broke at last with a sudden burst of
fury, and passing away as rapidly as it came, left the sky clear again. My
reflections served me no other purpose than to look back upon as a piece
of curious experience; for the rain did not produce the ill effects that I
had expected. We encamped within an hour. Having no change of clothes, I
contrived to borrow a curious kind of substitute from Reynal: and this
done, I went home, that is, to the Big Crow’s lodge to make the entire
transfer that was necessary. Half a dozen squaws were in the lodge, and
one of them taking my arm held it against her own, while a general laugh
and scream of admiration were raised at the contrast in the color of the
skin.
Our encampment that afternoon was not far distant from a spur of the Black
Hills, whose ridges, bristling with fir trees, rose from the plains a mile
or two on our right. That they might move more rapidly toward their
proposed hunting-grounds, the Indians determined to leave at this place
their stock of dried meat and other superfluous articles. Some left even
their lodges, and contented themselves with carrying a few hides to make a
shelter from the sun and rain. Half the inhabitants set out in the
afternoon, with loaded pack horses, toward the mountains. Here they
suspended the dried meat upon trees, where the wolves and grizzly bears
could not get at it. All returned at evening. Some of the young men
declared that they had heard the reports of guns among the mountains to
the eastward, and many surmises were thrown out as to the origin of these
sounds. For my part, I was in hopes that Shaw and Henry Chatillon were
coming to join us. I would have welcomed them cordially, for I had no
other companions than two brutish white men and five hundred savages. I
little suspected that at that very moment my unlucky comrade was lying on
a buffalo robe at Fort Laramie, fevered with ivy poison, and solacing his
woes with tobacco and Shakespeare.
As we moved over the plains on the next morning, several young men were
riding about the country as scouts; and at length we began to see them
occasionally on the tops of the hills, shaking their robes as a signal
that they saw buffalo. Soon after, some bulls came in sight. Horsemen
darted away in pursuit, and we could see from the distance that one or two
of the buffalo were killed. Raymond suddenly became inspired. I looked at
him as he rode by my side; his face had actually grown intelligent!
“This is the country for me!” he said; “if I could only carry the buffalo
that are killed here every month down to St. Louis I’d make my fortune in
one winter. I’d grow as rich as old Papin, or Mackenzie either. I call
this the poor man’s market. When I’m hungry I have only got to take my
rifle and go out and get better meat than the rich folks down below can
get with all their money. You won’t catch me living in St. Louis another
winter.”
“No,” said Reynal, “you had better say that after you and your Spanish
woman almost starved to death there. What a fool you were ever to take her
to the settlements.”
“Your Spanish woman?” said I; “I never heard of her before. Are you
married to her?”
“No,” answered Raymond, again looking intelligent; “the priests don’t
marry their women, and why should I marry mine?”
This honorable mention of the Mexican clergy introduced the subject of
religion, and I found that my two associates, in common with other white
men in the country, were as indifferent to their future welfare as men
whose lives are in constant peril are apt to be. Raymond had never heard
of the Pope. A certain bishop, who lived at Taos or at Santa Fe, embodied
his loftiest idea of an ecclesiastical dignitary. Reynal observed that a
priest had been at Fort Laramie two years ago, on his way to the Nez Perce
mission, and that he had confessed all the men there and given them
absolution. “I got a good clearing out myself that time,” said Reynal,
“and I reckon that will do for me till I go down to the settlements
again.”
Here he interrupted himself with an oath and exclaimed: “Look! look! The
Panther is running an antelope!”
The Panther, on his black and white horse, one of the best in the village,
came at full speed over the hill in hot pursuit of an antelope that darted
away like lightning before him. The attempt was made in mere sport and
bravado, for very few are the horses that can for a moment compete in
swiftness with this little animal. The antelope ran down the hill toward
the main body of the Indians who were moving over the plain below. Sharp
yells were given and horsemen galloped out to intercept his flight. At
this he turned sharply to the left and scoured away with such incredible
speed that he distanced all his pursuers and even the vaunted horse of the
Panther himself. A few moments after we witnessed a more serious sport. A
shaggy buffalo bull bounded out from a neighboring hollow, and close
behind him came a slender Indian boy, riding without stirrups or saddle
and lashing his eager little horse to full speed. Yard after yard he drew
closer to his gigantic victim, though the bull, with his short tail erect
and his tongue lolling out a foot from his foaming jaws, was straining his
unwieldy strength to the utmost. A moment more and the boy was close
alongside of him. It was our friend the Hail-Storm. He dropped the rein on
his horse’s neck and jerked an arrow like lightning from the quiver at his
shoulder.
“I tell you,” said Reynal, “that in a year’s time that boy will match the
best hunter in the village. There he has given it to him! and there goes
another! You feel well, now, old bull, don’t you, with two arrows stuck in
your lights? There, he has given him another! Hear how the Hail-Storm
yells when he shoots! Yes, jump at him; try it again, old fellow! You may
jump all day before you get your horns into that pony!”
The bull sprang again and again at his assailant, but the horse kept
dodging with wonderful celerity. At length the bull followed up his attack
with a furious rush, and the Hail-Storm was put to flight, the shaggy
monster following close behind. The boy clung in his seat like a leech,
and secure in the speed of his little pony, looked round toward us and
laughed. In a moment he was again alongside of the bull, who was now
driven to complete desperation. His eyeballs glared through his tangled
mane, and the blood flew from his mouth and nostrils. Thus, still battling
with each other, the two enemies disappeared over the hill.
Many of the Indians rode at full gallop toward the spot. We followed at a
more moderate pace, and soon saw the bull lying dead on the side of the
hill. The Indians were gathered around him, and several knives were
already at work. These little instruments were plied with such wonderful
address that the twisted sinews were cut apart, the ponderous bones fell
asunder as if by magic, and in a moment the vast carcass was reduced to a
heap of bloody ruins. The surrounding group of savages offered no very
attractive spectacle to a civilized eye. Some were cracking the huge
thigh-bones and devouring the marrow within; others were cutting away
pieces of the liver and other approved morsels, and swallowing them on the
spot with the appetite of wolves. The faces of most of them, besmeared
with blood from ear to ear, looked grim and horrible enough. My friend the
White Shield proffered me a marrowbone, so skillfully laid open that all
the rich substance within was exposed to view at once. Another Indian held
out a large piece of the delicate lining of the paunch; but these
courteous offerings I begged leave to decline. I noticed one little boy
who was very busy with his knife about the jaws and throat of the buffalo,
from which he extracted some morsel of peculiar delicacy. It is but fair
to say that only certain parts of the animal are considered eligible in
these extempore banquets. The Indians would look with abhorrence on anyone
who should partake indiscriminately of the newly killed carcass.
We encamped that night, and marched westward through the greater part of
the following day. On the next morning we again resumed our journey. It
was the 17th of July, unless my notebook misleads me. At noon we stopped
by some pools of rain-water, and in the afternoon again set forward. This
double movement was contrary to the usual practice of the Indians, but all
were very anxious to reach the hunting ground, kill the necessary number
of buffalo, and retreat as soon as possible from the dangerous
neighborhood. I pass by for the present some curious incidents that
occurred during these marches and encampments. Late in the afternoon of
the last-mentioned day we came upon the banks of a little sandy stream, of
which the Indians could not tell the name; for they were very ill
acquainted with that part of the country. So parched and arid were the
prairies around that they could not supply grass enough for the horses to
feed upon, and we were compelled to move farther and farther up the stream
in search of ground for encampment. The country was much wilder than
before. The plains were gashed with ravines and broken into hollows and
steep declivities, which flanked our course, as, in long-scattered array,
the Indians advanced up the side of the stream. Mene-Seela consulted an
extraordinary oracle to instruct him where the buffalo were to be found.
When he with the other chiefs sat down on the grass to smoke and converse,
as they often did during the march, the old man picked up one of those
enormous black-and-green crickets, which the Dakota call by a name that
signifies “They who point out the buffalo.” The Root-Diggers, a wretched
tribe beyond the mountains, turn them to good account by making them into
a sort of soup, pronounced by certain unscrupulous trappers to be
extremely rich. Holding the bloated insect respectfully between his
fingers and thumb, the old Indian looked attentively at him and inquired,
“Tell me, my father, where must we go to-morrow to find the buffalo?” The
cricket twisted about his long horns in evident embarrassment. At last he
pointed, or seemed to point, them westward. Mene-Seela, dropping him
gently on the grass, laughed with great glee, and said that if we went
that way in the morning we should be sure to kill plenty of game.
Toward evening we came upon a fresh green meadow, traversed by the stream,
and deep-set among tall sterile bluffs. The Indians descended its steep
bank; and as I was at the rear, I was one of the last to reach this point.
Lances were glittering, feathers fluttering, and the water below me was
crowded with men and horses passing through, while the meadow beyond was
swarming with the restless crowd of Indians. The sun was just setting, and
poured its softened light upon them through an opening in the hills.
I remarked to Reynal that at last we had found a good camping-ground.
“Oh, it is very good,” replied he ironically; “especially if there is a
Snake war party about, and they take it into their heads to shoot down at
us from the top of these hills. It is no plan of mine, camping in such a
hole as this!”
The Indians also seemed apprehensive. High up on the top of the tallest
bluff, conspicuous in the bright evening sunlight, sat a naked warrior on
horseback, looking around, as it seemed, over the neighboring country; and
Raymond told me that many of the young men had gone out in different
directions as scouts.
The shadows had reached to the very summit of the bluffs before the lodges
were erected and the village reduced again to quiet and order. A cry was
suddenly raised, and men, women, and children came running out with
animated faces, and looked eagerly through the opening on the hills by
which the stream entered from the westward. I could discern afar off some
dark, heavy masses, passing over the sides of a low hill. They
disappeared, and then others followed. These were bands of buffalo cows.
The hunting-ground was reached at last, and everything promised well for
the morrow’s sport. Being fatigued and exhausted, I went and lay down in
Kongra-Tonga’s lodge, when Raymond thrust in his head, and called upon me
to come and see some sport. A number of Indians were gathered, laughing,
along the line of lodges on the western side of the village, and at some
distance, I could plainly see in the twilight two huge black monsters
stalking, heavily and solemnly, directly toward us. They were buffalo
bulls. The wind blew from them to the village, and such was their
blindness and stupidity that they were advancing upon the enemy without
the least consciousness of his presence. Raymond told me that two men had
hidden themselves with guns in a ravine about twenty yards in front of us.
The two bulls walked slowly on, heavily swinging from side to side in
their peculiar gait of stupid dignity. They approached within four or five
rods of the ravine where the Indians lay in ambush. Here at last they
seemed conscious that something was wrong, for they both stopped and stood
perfectly still, without looking either to the right or to the left.
Nothing of them was to be seen but two huge black masses of shaggy mane,
with horns, eyes, and nose in the center, and a pair of hoofs visible at
the bottom. At last the more intelligent of them seemed to have concluded
that it was time to retire. Very slowly, and with an air of the gravest
and most majestic deliberation, he began to turn round, as if he were
revolving on a pivot. Little by little his ugly brown side was exposed to
view. A white smoke sprang out, as it were from the ground; a sharp report
came with it. The old bull gave a very undignified jump and galloped off.
At this his comrade wheeled about with considerable expedition. The other
Indian shot at him from the ravine, and then both the bulls were running
away at full speed, while half the juvenile population of the village
raised a yell and ran after them. The first bull was soon stopped, and
while the crowd stood looking at him at a respectable distance, he reeled
and rolled over on his side. The other, wounded in a less vital part,
galloped away to the hills and escaped.
In half an hour it was totally dark. I lay down to sleep, and ill as I
was, there was something very animating in the prospect of the general
hunt that was to take place on the morrow.
CHAPTER XV
THE HUNTING CAMP
Long before daybreak the Indians broke up their camp. The women of
Mene-Seela’s lodge were as usual among the first that were ready for
departure, and I found the old man himself sitting by the embers of the
decayed fire, over which he was warming his withered fingers, as the
morning was very chilly and damp. The preparations for moving were even
more confused and disorderly than usual. While some families were leaving
the ground the lodges of others were still standing untouched. At this old
Mene-Seela grew impatient, and walking out to the middle of the village
stood with his robe wrapped close around him, and harangued the people in
a loud, sharp voice. Now, he said, when they were on an enemy’s
hunting-grounds, was not the time to behave like children; they ought to
be more active and united than ever. His speech had some effect. The
delinquents took down their lodges and loaded their pack horses; and when
the sun rose, the last of the men, women, and children had left the
deserted camp.
This movement was made merely for the purpose of finding a better and
safer position. So we advanced only three or four miles up the little
stream, before each family assumed its relative place in the great ring of
the village, and all around the squaws were actively at work in preparing
the camp. But not a single warrior dismounted from his horse. All the men
that morning were mounted on inferior animals, leading their best horses
by a cord, or confiding them to the care of boys. In small parties they
began to leave the ground and ride rapidly away over the plains to the
westward. I had taken no food that morning, and not being at all ambitious
of further abstinence, I went into my host’s lodge, which his squaws had
erected with wonderful celerity, and sat down in the center, as a gentle
hint that I was hungry. A wooden bowl was soon set before me, filled with
the nutritious preparation of dried meat called pemmican by the northern
voyagers and wasna by the Dakota. Taking a handful to break my fast upon,
I left the lodge just in time to see the last band of hunters disappear
over the ridge of the neighboring hill. I mounted Pauline and galloped in
pursuit, riding rather by the balance than by any muscular strength that
remained to me. From the top of the hill I could overlook a wide extent of
desolate and unbroken prairie, over which, far and near, little parties of
naked horsemen were rapidly passing. I soon came up to the nearest, and we
had not ridden a mile before all were united into one large and compact
body. All was haste and eagerness. Each hunter was whipping on his horse,
as if anxious to be the first to reach the game. In such movements among
the Indians this is always more or less the case; but it was especially so
in the present instance, because the head chief of the village was absent,
and there were but few “soldiers,” a sort of Indian police, who among
their other functions usually assumed the direction of a buffalo hunt. No
man turned to the right hand or to the left. We rode at a swift canter
straight forward, uphill and downhill, and through the stiff, obstinate
growth of the endless wild-sage bushes. For an hour and a half the same
red shoulders, the same long black hair rose and fell with the motion of
the horses before me. Very little was said, though once I observed an old
man severely reproving Raymond for having left his rifle behind him, when
there was some probability of encountering an enemy before the day was
over. As we galloped across a plain thickly set with sagebushes, the
foremost riders vanished suddenly from sight, as if diving into the earth.
The arid soil was cracked into a deep ravine. Down we all went in
succession and galloped in a line along the bottom, until we found a point
where, one by one, the horses could scramble out. Soon after we came upon
a wide shallow stream, and as we rode swiftly over the hard sand-beds and
through the thin sheets of rippling water, many of the savage horsemen
threw themselves to the ground, knelt on the sand, snatched a hasty
draught, and leaping back again to their seats, galloped on again as
before.
Meanwhile scouts kept in advance of the party; and now we began to see
them on the ridge of the hills, waving their robes in token that buffalo
were visible. These however proved to be nothing more than old straggling
bulls, feeding upon the neighboring plains, who would stare for a moment
at the hostile array and then gallop clumsily off. At length we could
discern several of these scouts making their signals to us at once; no
longer waving their robes boldly from the top of the hill, but standing
lower down, so that they could not be seen from the plains beyond. Game
worth pursuing had evidently been discovered. The excited Indians now
urged forward their tired horses even more rapidly than before. Pauline,
who was still sick and jaded, began to groan heavily; and her yellow sides
were darkened with sweat. As we were crowding together over a lower
intervening hill, I heard Reynal and Raymond shouting to me from the left;
and looking in that direction, I saw them riding away behind a party of
about twenty mean-looking Indians. These were the relatives of Reynal’s
squaw Margot, who, not wishing to take part in the general hunt, were
riding toward a distant hollow, where they could discern a small band of
buffalo which they meant to appropriate to themselves. I answered to the
call by ordering Raymond to turn back and follow me. He reluctantly
obeyed, though Reynal, who had relied on his assistance in skinning,
cutting up, and carrying to camp the buffalo that he and his party should
kill, loudly protested and declared that we should see no sport if we went
with the rest of the Indians. Followed by Raymond I pursued the main body
of hunters, while Reynal in a great rage whipped his horse over the hill
after his ragamuffin relatives. The Indians, still about a hundred in
number, rode in a dense body at some distance in advance. They galloped
forward, and a cloud of dust was flying in the wind behind them. I could
not overtake them until they had stopped on the side of the hill where the
scouts were standing. Here, each hunter sprang in haste from the tired
animal which he had ridden, and leaped upon the fresh horse that he had
brought with him. There was not a saddle or a bridle in the whole party. A
piece of buffalo robe girthed over the horse’s back served in the place of
the one, and a cord of twisted hair lashed firmly round his lower jaw
answered for the other. Eagle feathers were dangling from every mane and
tail, as insignia of courage and speed. As for the rider, he wore no other
clothing than a light cincture at his waist, and a pair of moccasins. He
had a heavy whip, with a handle of solid elk-horn, and a lash of knotted
bull-hide, fastened to his wrist by an ornamental band. His bow was in his
hand, and his quiver of otter or panther skin hung at his shoulder. Thus
equipped, some thirty of the hunters galloped away toward the left, in
order to make a circuit under cover of the hills, that the buffalo might
be assailed on both sides at once. The rest impatiently waited until time
enough had elapsed for their companions to reach the required position.
Then riding upward in a body, we gained the ridge of the hill, and for the
first time came in sight of the buffalo on the plain beyond.
They were a band of cows, four or five hundred in number, who were crowded
together near the bank of a wide stream that was soaking across the
sand-beds of the valley. This was a large circular basin, sun-scorched and
broken, scantily covered with herbage and encompassed with high barren
hills, from an opening in which we could see our allies galloping out upon
the plain. The wind blew from that direction. The buffalo were aware of
their approach, and had begun to move, though very slowly and in a compact
mass. I have no further recollection of seeing the game until we were in
the midst of them, for as we descended the hill other objects engrossed my
attention. Numerous old bulls were scattered over the plain, and
ungallantly deserting their charge at our approach, began to wade and
plunge through the treacherous quick-sands or the stream, and gallop away
toward the hills. One old veteran was struggling behind all the rest with
one of his forelegs, which had been broken by some accident, dangling
about uselessly at his side. His appearance, as he went shambling along on
three legs, was so ludicrous that I could not help pausing for a moment to
look at him. As I came near, he would try to rush upon me, nearly throwing
himself down at every awkward attempt. Looking up, I saw the whole body of
Indians full a hundred yards in advance. I lashed Pauline in pursuit and
reached them just in time, for as we mingled among them, each hunter, as
if by a common impulse, violently struck his horse, each horse sprang
forward convulsively, and scattering in the charge in order to assail the
entire herd at once, we all rushed headlong upon the buffalo. We were
among them in an instant. Amid the trampling and the yells I could see
their dark figures running hither and thither through clouds of dust, and
the horsemen darting in pursuit. While we were charging on one side, our
companions had attacked the bewildered and panic-stricken herd on the
other. The uproar and confusion lasted but for a moment. The dust cleared
away, and the buffalo could be seen scattering as from a common center,
flying over the plain singly, or in long files and small compact bodies,
while behind each followed the Indians, lashing their horses to furious
speed, forcing them close upon their prey, and yelling as they launched
arrow after arrow into their sides. The large black carcasses were strewn
thickly over the ground. Here and there wounded buffalo were standing,
their bleeding sides feathered with arrows; and as I rode past them their
eyes would glare, they would bristle like gigantic cats, and feebly
attempt to rush up and gore my horse.
I left camp that morning with a philosophic resolution. Neither I nor my
horse were at that time fit for such sport, and I had determined to remain
a quiet spectator; but amid the rush of horses and buffalo, the uproar and
the dust, I found it impossible to sit still; and as four or five buffalo
ran past me in a line, I drove Pauline in pursuit. We went plunging close
at their heels through the water and the quick-sands, and clambering the
bank, chased them through the wild-sage bushes that covered the rising
ground beyond. But neither her native spirit nor the blows of the knotted
bull-hide could supply the place of poor Pauline’s exhausted strength. We
could not gain an inch upon the poor fugitives. At last, however, they
came full upon a ravine too wide to leap over; and as this compelled them
to turn abruptly to the left, I contrived to get within ten or twelve
yards of the hindmost. At this she faced about, bristled angrily, and made
a show of charging. I shot at her with a large holster pistol, and hit her
somewhere in the neck. Down she tumbled into the ravine, whither her
companions had descended before her. I saw their dark backs appearing and
disappearing as they galloped along the bottom; then, one by one, they
came scrambling out on the other side and ran off as before, the wounded
animal following with unabated speed.
Turning back, I saw Raymond coming on his black mule to meet me; and as we
rode over the field together, we counted dozens of carcasses lying on the
plain, in the ravines and on the sandy bed of the stream. Far away in the
distance, horses and buffalo were still scouring along, with little clouds
of dust rising behind them; and over the sides of the hills we could see
long files of the frightened animals rapidly ascending. The hunters began
to return. The boys, who had held the horses behind the hill, made their
appearance, and the work of flaying and cutting up began in earnest all
over the field. I noticed my host Kongra-Tonga beyond the stream, just
alighting by the side of a cow which he had killed. Riding up to him I
found him in the act of drawing out an arrow, which, with the exception of
the notch at the end, had entirely disappeared in the animal. I asked him
to give it to me, and I still retain it as a proof, though by no means the
most striking one that could be offered, of the force and dexterity with
which the Indians discharge their arrows.
The hides and meat were piled upon the horses, and the hunters began to
leave the ground. Raymond and I, too, getting tired of the scene, set out
for the village, riding straight across the intervening desert. There was
no path, and as far as I could see, no landmarks sufficient to guide us;
but Raymond seemed to have an instinctive perception of the point on the
horizon toward which we ought to direct our course. Antelope were bounding
on all sides, and as is always the case in the presence of buffalo, they
seemed to have lost their natural shyness and timidity. Bands of them
would run lightly up the rocky declivities, and stand gazing down upon us
from the summit. At length we could distinguish the tall white rocks and
the old pine trees that, as we well remembered, were just above the site
of the encampment. Still, we could see nothing of the village itself
until, ascending a grassy hill, we found the circle of lodges, dingy with
storms and smoke, standing on the plain at our very feet.
I entered the lodge of my host. His squaw instantly brought me food and
water, and spread a buffalo robe for me to lie upon; and being much
fatigued, I lay down and fell asleep. In about an hour the entrance of
Kongra-Tonga, with his arms smeared with blood to the elbows, awoke me. He
sat down in his usual seat on the left side of the lodge. His squaw gave
him a vessel of water for washing, set before him a bowl of boiled meat,
and as he was eating pulled off his bloody moccasins and placed fresh ones
on his feet; then outstretching his limbs, my host composed himself to
sleep.
And now the hunters, two or three at a time, began to come rapidly in, and
each, consigning his horses to the squaws, entered his lodge with the air
of a man whose day’s work was done. The squaws flung down the load from
the burdened horses, and vast piles of meat and hides were soon
accumulated before every lodge. By this time it was darkening fast, and
the whole village was illumined by the glare of fires blazing all around.
All the squaws and children were gathered about the piles of meat,
exploring them in search of the daintiest portions. Some of these they
roasted on sticks before the fires, but often they dispensed with this
superfluous operation. Late into the night the fires were still glowing
upon the groups of feasters engaged in this savage banquet around them.
Several hunters sat down by the fire in Kongra-Tonga’s lodge to talk over
the day’s exploits. Among the rest, Mene-Seela came in. Though he must
have seen full eighty winters, he had taken an active share in the day’s
sport. He boasted that he had killed two cows that morning, and would have
killed a third if the dust had not blinded him so that he had to drop his
bow and arrows and press both hands against his eyes to stop the pain. The
firelight fell upon his wrinkled face and shriveled figure as he sat
telling his story with such inimitable gesticulation that every man in the
lodge broke into a laugh.
Old Mene-Seela was one of the few Indians in the village with whom I would
have trusted myself alone without suspicion, and the only one from whom I
would have received a gift or a service without the certainty that it
proceeded from an interested motive. He was a great friend to the whites.
He liked to be in their society, and was very vain of the favors he had
received from them. He told me one afternoon, as we were sitting together
in his son’s lodge, that he considered the beaver and the whites the
wisest people on earth; indeed, he was convinced they were the same; and
an incident which had happened to him long before had assured him of this.
So he began the following story, and as the pipe passed in turn to him,
Reynal availed himself of these interruptions to translate what had
preceded. But the old man accompanied his words with such admirable
pantomime that translation was hardly necessary.
He said that when he was very young, and had never yet seen a white man,
he and three or four of his companions were out on a beaver hunt, and he
crawled into a large beaver lodge, to examine what was there. Sometimes he
was creeping on his hands and knees, sometimes he was obliged to swim, and
sometimes to lie flat on his face and drag himself along. In this way he
crawled a great distance underground. It was very dark, cold and close, so
that at last he was almost suffocated, and fell into a swoon. When he
began to recover, he could just distinguish the voices of his companions
outside, who had given him up for lost, and were singing his death song.
At first he could see nothing, but soon he discerned something white
before him, and at length plainly distinguished three people, entirely
white; one man and two women, sitting at the edge of a black pool of
water. He became alarmed and thought it high time to retreat. Having
succeeded, after great trouble, in reaching daylight again, he went
straight to the spot directly above the pool of water where he had seen
the three mysterious beings. Here he beat a hole with his war club in the
ground, and sat down to watch. In a moment the nose of an old male beaver
appeared at the opening. Mene-Seela instantly seized him and dragged him
up, when two other beavers, both females, thrust out their heads, and
these he served in the same way. “These,” continued the old man, “must
have been the three white people whom I saw sitting at the edge of the
water.”
Mene-Seela was the grand depository of the legends and traditions of the
village. I succeeded, however, in getting from him only a few fragments.
Like all Indians, he was excessively superstitious, and continually saw
some reason for withholding his stories. “It is a bad thing,” he would
say, “to tell the tales in summer. Stay with us till next winter, and I
will tell you everything I know; but now our war parties are going out,
and our young men will be killed if I sit down to tell stories before the
frost begins.”
But to leave this digression. We remained encamped on this spot five days,
during three of which the hunters were at work incessantly, and immense
quantities of meat and hides were brought in. Great alarm, however,
prevailed in the village. All were on the alert. The young men were
ranging through the country as scouts, and the old men paid careful
attention to omens and prodigies, and especially to their dreams. In order
to convey to the enemy (who, if they were in the neighborhood, must
inevitably have known of our presence) the impression that we were
constantly on the watch, piles of sticks and stones were erected on all
the surrounding hills, in such a manner as to appear at a distance like
sentinels. Often, even to this hour, that scene will rise before my mind
like a visible reality: the tall white rocks; the old pine trees on their
summits; the sandy stream that ran along their bases and half encircled
the village; and the wild-sage bushes, with their dull green hue and their
medicinal odor, that covered all the neighboring declivities. Hour after
hour the squaws would pass and repass with their vessels of water between
the stream and the lodges. For the most part no one was to be seen in the
camp but women and children, two or three super-annuated old men, and a
few lazy and worthless young ones. These, together with the dogs, now
grown fat and good-natured with the abundance in the camp, were its only
tenants. Still it presented a busy and bustling scene. In all quarters the
meat, hung on cords of hide, was drying in the sun, and around the lodges
the squaws, young and old, were laboring on the fresh hides that were
stretched upon the ground, scraping the hair from one side and the still
adhering flesh from the other, and rubbing into them the brains of the
buffalo, in order to render them soft and pliant.
In mercy to myself and my horse, I never went out with the hunters after
the first day. Of late, however, I had been gaining strength rapidly, as
was always the case upon every respite of my disorder. I was soon able to
walk with ease. Raymond and I would go out upon the neighboring prairies
to shoot antelope, or sometimes to assail straggling buffalo, on foot, an
attempt in which we met with rather indifferent success. To kill a bull
with a rifle-ball is a difficult art, in the secret of which I was as yet
very imperfectly initiated. As I came out of Kongra-Tonga’s lodge one
morning, Reynal called to me from the opposite side of the village, and
asked me over to breakfast. The breakfast was a substantial one. It
consisted of the rich, juicy hump-ribs of a fat cow; a repast absolutely
unrivaled. It was roasting before the fire, impaled upon a stout stick,
which Reynal took up and planted in the ground before his lodge; when he,
with Raymond and myself, taking our seats around it, unsheathed our knives
and assailed it with good will. It spite of all medical experience, this
solid fare, without bread or salt, seemed to agree with me admirably.
“We shall have strangers here before night,” said Reynal.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“I dreamed so. I am as good at dreaming as an Indian. There is the
Hail-Storm; he dreamed the same thing, and he and his crony, the Rabbit,
have gone out on discovery.”
I laughed at Reynal for his credulity, went over to my host’s lodge, took
down my rifle, walked out a mile or two on the prairie, saw an old bull
standing alone, crawled up a ravine, shot him and saw him escape. Then,
quite exhausted and rather ill-humored, I walked back to the village. By a
strange coincidence, Reynal’s prediction had been verified; for the first
persons whom I saw were the two trappers, Rouleau and Saraphin, coming to
meet me. These men, as the reader may possibly recollect, had left our
party about a fortnight before. They had been trapping for a while among
the Black Hills, and were now on their way to the Rocky Mountains,
intending in a day or two to set out for the neighboring Medicine Bow.
They were not the most elegant or refined of companions, yet they made a
very welcome addition to the limited society of the village. For the rest
of that day we lay smoking and talking in Reynal’s lodge. This indeed was
no better than a little hut, made of hides stretched on poles, and
entirely open in front. It was well carpeted with soft buffalo robes, and
here we remained, sheltered from the sun, surrounded by various domestic
utensils of Madame Margot’s household. All was quiet in the village.
Though the hunters had not gone out that day, they lay sleeping in their
lodges, and most of the women were silently engaged in their heavy tasks.
A few young men were playing a lazy game of ball in the center of the
village; and when they became tired, some girls supplied their place with
a more boisterous sport. At a little distance, among the lodges, some
children and half-grown squaws were playfully tossing up one of their
number in a buffalo robe, an exact counterpart of the ancient pastime from
which Sancho Panza suffered so much. Farther out on the prairie, a host of
little naked boys were roaming about, engaged in various rough games, or
pursuing birds and ground-squirrels with their bows and arrows; and woe to
the unhappy little animals that fell into their merciless, torture-loving
hands! A squaw from the next lodge, a notable active housewife named Weah
Washtay, or the Good Woman, brought us a large bowl of wasna, and went
into an ecstasy of delight when I presented her with a green glass ring,
such as I usually wore with a view to similar occasions.
The sun went down and half the sky was growing fiery red, reflected on the
little stream as it wound away among the sagebushes. Some young men left
the village, and soon returned, driving in before them all the horses,
hundreds in number, and of every size, age, and color. The hunters came
out, and each securing those that belonged to him, examined their
condition, and tied them fast by long cords to stakes driven in front of
his lodge. It was half an hour before the bustle subsided and tranquillity
was restored again. By this time it was nearly dark. Kettles were hung
over the blazing fires, around which the squaws were gathered with their
children, laughing and talking merrily. A circle of a different kind was
formed in the center of the village. This was composed of the old men and
warriors of repute, who with their white buffalo robes drawn close around
their shoulders, sat together, and as the pipe passed from hand to hand,
their conversation had not a particle of the gravity and reserve usually
ascribed to Indians. I sat down with them as usual. I had in my hand half
a dozen squibs and serpents, which I had made one day when encamped upon
Laramie Creek, out of gunpowder and charcoal, and the leaves of “Fremont’s
Expedition,” rolled round a stout lead pencil. I waited till I contrived
to get hold of the large piece of burning BOIS DE VACHE which the Indians
kept by them on the ground for lighting their pipes. With this I lighted
all the fireworks at once, and tossed them whizzing and sputtering into
the air, over the heads of the company. They all jumped up and ran off
with yelps of astonishment and consternation. After a moment or two, they
ventured to come back one by one, and some of the boldest, picking up the
cases of burnt paper that were scattered about, examined them with eager
curiosity to discover their mysterious secret. From that time forward I
enjoyed great repute as a “fire-medicine.”
The camp was filled with the low hum of cheerful voices. There were other
sounds, however, of a very different kind, for from a large lodge, lighted
up like a gigantic lantern by the blazing fire within, came a chorus of
dismal cries and wailings, long drawn out, like the howling of wolves, and
a woman, almost naked, was crouching close outside, crying violently, and
gashing her legs with a knife till they were covered with blood. Just a
year before, a young man belonging to this family had gone out with a war
party and had been slain by the enemy, and his relatives were thus
lamenting his loss. Still other sounds might be heard; loud earnest cries
often repeated from amid the gloom, at a distance beyond the village. They
proceeded from some young men who, being about to set out in a few days on
a warlike expedition, were standing at the top of a hill, calling on the
Great Spirit to aid them in their enterprise. While I was listening,
Rouleau, with a laugh on his careless face, called to me and directed my
attention to another quarter. In front of the lodge where Weah Washtay
lived another squaw was standing, angrily scolding an old yellow dog, who
lay on the ground with his nose resting between his paws, and his eyes
turned sleepily up to her face, as if he were pretending to give
respectful attention, but resolved to fall asleep as soon as it was all
over.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” said the old woman. “I have fed you
well, and taken care of you ever since you were small and blind, and could
only crawl about and squeal a little, instead of howling as you do now.
When you grew old, I said you were a good dog. You were strong and gentle
when the load was put on your back, and you never ran among the feet of
the horses when we were all traveling together over the prairie. But you
had a bad heart! Whenever a rabbit jumped out of the bushes, you were
always the first to run after him and lead away all the other dogs behind
you. You ought to have known that it was very dangerous to act so. When
you had got far out on the prairie, and no one was near to help you,
perhaps a wolf would jump out of the ravine; and then what could you do?
You would certainly have been killed, for no dog can fight well with a
load on his back. Only three days ago you ran off in that way, and turned
over the bag of wooden pins with which I used to fasten up the front of
the lodge. Look up there, and you will see that it is all flapping open.
And now to-night you have stolen a great piece of fat meat which was
roasting before the fire for my children. I tell you, you have a bad
heart, and you must die!”
So saying, the squaw went into the lodge, and coming out with a large
stone mallet, killed the unfortunate dog at one blow. This speech is
worthy of notice as illustrating a curious characteristic of the Indians:
the ascribing intelligence and a power of understanding speech to the
inferior animals, to whom, indeed, according to many of their traditions,
they are linked in close affinity, and they even claim the honor of a
lineal descent from bears, wolves, deer, or tortoises.
As it grew late, and the crowded population began to disappear, I too
walked across the village to the lodge of my host, Kongra-Tonga. As I
entered I saw him, by the flickering blaze of the fire in the center,
reclining half asleep in his usual place. His couch was by no means an
uncomfortable one. It consisted of soft buffalo robes laid together on the
ground, and a pillow made of whitened deerskin stuffed with feathers and
ornamented with beads. At his back was a light framework of poles and
slender reeds, against which he could lean with ease when in a sitting
posture; and at the top of it, just above his head, his bow and quiver
were hanging. His squaw, a laughing, broad-faced woman, apparently had not
yet completed her domestic arrangements, for she was bustling about the
lodge, pulling over the utensils and the bales of dried meats that were
ranged carefully round it. Unhappily, she and her partner were not the
only tenants of the dwelling, for half a dozen children were scattered
about, sleeping in every imaginable posture. My saddle was in its place at
the head of the lodge and a buffalo robe was spread on the ground before
it. Wrapping myself in my blanket I lay down, but had I not been extremely
fatigued the noise in the next lodge would have prevented my sleeping.
There was the monotonous thumping of the Indian drum, mixed with
occasional sharp yells, and a chorus chanted by twenty voices. A grand
scene of gambling was going forward with all the appropriate formalities.
The players were staking on the chance issue of the game their ornaments,
their horses, and as the excitement rose, their garments, and even their
weapons, for desperate gambling is not confined to the hells of Paris. The
men of the plains and the forests no less resort to it as a violent but
grateful relief to the tedious monotony of their lives, which alternate
between fierce excitement and listless inaction. I fell asleep with the
dull notes of the drum still sounding on my ear, but these furious orgies
lasted without intermission till daylight. I was soon awakened by one of
the children crawling over me, while another larger one was tugging at my
blanket and nestling himself in a very disagreeable proximity. I
immediately repelled these advances by punching the heads of these
miniature savages with a short stick which I always kept by me for the
purpose; and as sleeping half the day and eating much more than is good
for them makes them extremely restless, this operation usually had to be
repeated four or five times in the course of the night. My host himself
was the author of another most formidable annoyance. All these Indians,
and he among the rest, think themselves bound to the constant performance
of certain acts as the condition on which their success in life depends,
whether in war, love, hunting, or any other employment. These “medicines,”
as they are called in that country, which are usually communicated in
dreams, are often absurd enough. Some Indians will strike the butt of the
pipe against the ground every time they smoke; others will insist that
everything they say shall be interpreted by contraries; and Shaw once met
an old man who conceived that all would be lost unless he compelled every
white man he met to drink a bowl of cold water. My host was particularly
unfortunate in his allotment. The Great Spirit had told him in a dream
that he must sing a certain song in the middle of every night; and
regularly at about twelve o’clock his dismal monotonous chanting would
awaken me, and I would see him seated bolt upright on his couch, going
through his dolorous performances with a most business-like air. There
were other voices of the night still more inharmonious. Twice or thrice,
between sunset and dawn, all the dogs in the village, and there were
hundreds of them, would bay and yelp in chorus; a most horrible clamor,
resembling no sound that I have ever heard, except perhaps the frightful
howling of wolves that we used sometimes to hear long afterward when
descending the Arkansas on the trail of General Kearny’s army. The canine
uproar is, if possible, more discordant than that of the wolves. Heard at
a distance, slowly rising on the night, it has a strange unearthly effect,
and would fearfully haunt the dreams of a nervous man; but when you are
sleeping in the midst of it the din is outrageous. One long loud howl from
the next lodge perhaps begins it, and voice after voice takes up the sound
till it passes around the whole circumference of the village, and the air
is filled with confused and discordant cries, at once fierce and mournful.
It lasts but for a moment and then dies away into silence.
Morning came, and Kongra-Tonga, mounting his horse, rode out with the
hunters. It may not be amiss to glance at him for an instant in his
domestic character of husband and father. Both he and his squaw, like most
other Indians, were very fond of their children, whom they indulged to
excess, and never punished, except in extreme cases when they would throw
a bowl of cold water over them. Their offspring became sufficiently
undutiful and disobedient under this system of education, which tends not
a little to foster that wild idea of liberty and utter intolerance of
restraint which lie at the very foundation of the Indian character. It
would be hard to find a fonder father than Kongra-Tonga. There was one
urchin in particular, rather less than two feet high, to whom he was
exceedingly attached; and sometimes spreading a buffalo robe in the lodge,
he would seat himself upon it, place his small favorite upright before
him, and chant in a low tone some of the words used as an accompaniment to
the war dance. The little fellow, who could just manage to balance himself
by stretching out both arms, would lift his feet and turn slowly round and
round in time to his father’s music, while my host would laugh with
delight, and look smiling up into my face to see if I were admiring this
precocious performance of his offspring. In his capacity of husband he was
somewhat less exemplary. The squaw who lived in the lodge with him had
been his partner for many years. She took good care of his children and
his household concerns. He liked her well enough, and as far as I could
see they never quarreled; but all his warmer affections were reserved for
younger and more recent favorites. Of these he had at present only one,
who lived in a lodge apart from his own. One day while in his camp he
became displeased with her, pushed her out, threw after her her ornaments,
dresses, and everything she had, and told her to go home to her father.
Having consummated this summary divorce, for which he could show good
reasons, he came back, seated himself in his usual place, and began to
smoke with an air of utmost tranquillity and self-satisfaction.
I was sitting in the lodge with him on that very afternoon, when I felt
some curiosity to learn the history of the numerous scars that appeared on
his naked body. Of some of them, however, I did not venture to inquire,
for I already understood their origin. Each of his arms was marked as if
deeply gashed with a knife at regular intervals, and there were other
scars also, of a different character, on his back and on either breast.
They were the traces of those formidable tortures which these Indians, in
common with a few other tribes, inflict upon themselves at certain
seasons; in part, it may be, to gain the glory of courage and endurance,
but chiefly as an act of self-sacrifice to secure the favor of the Great
Spirit. The scars upon the breast and back were produced by running
through the flesh strong splints of wood, to which ponderous
buffalo-skulls are fastened by cords of hide, and the wretch runs forward
with all his strength, assisted by two companions, who take hold of each
arm, until the flesh tears apart and the heavy loads are left behind.
Others of Kongra-Tonga’s scars were the result of accidents; but he had
many which he received in war. He was one of the most noted warriors in
the village. In the course of his life he had slain as he boasted to me,
fourteen men, and though, like other Indians, he was a great braggart and
utterly regardless of truth, yet in this statement common report bore him
out. Being much flattered by my inquiries he told me tale after tale, true
or false, of his warlike exploits; and there was one among the rest
illustrating the worst features of the Indian character too well for me to
omit. Pointing out of the opening of the lodge toward the Medicine-Bow
Mountain, not many miles distant he said that he was there a few summers
ago with a war party of his young men. Here they found two Snake Indians,
hunting. They shot one of them with arrows and chased the other up the
side of the mountain till they surrounded him on a level place, and
Kongra-Tonga himself, jumping forward among the trees, seized him by the
arm. Two of his young men then ran up and held him fast while he scalped
him alive. Then they built a great fire, and cutting the tendons of their
captive’s wrists and feet, threw him in, and held him down with long poles
until he was burnt to death. He garnished his story with a great many
descriptive particulars much too revolting to mention. His features were
remarkably mild and open, without the fierceness of expression common
among these Indians; and as he detailed these devilish cruelties, he
looked up into my face with the same air of earnest simplicity which a
little child would wear in relating to its mother some anecdote of its
youthful experience.
Old Mene-Seela’s lodge could offer another illustration of the ferocity of
Indian warfare. A bright-eyed, active little boy was living there. He had
belonged to a village of the Gros-Ventre Blackfeet, a small but bloody and
treacherous band, in close alliance with the Arapahoes. About a year
before, Kongra-Tonga and a party of warriors had found about twenty lodges
of these Indians upon the plains a little to the eastward of our present
camp; and surrounding them in the night, they butchered men, women, and
children without mercy, preserving only this little boy alive. He was
adopted into the old man’s family, and was now fast becoming identified
with the Ogallalla children, among whom he mingled on equal terms. There
was also a Crow warrior in the village, a man of gigantic stature and most
symmetrical proportions. Having been taken prisoner many years before and
adopted by a squaw in place of a son whom she had lost, he had forgotten
his old national antipathies, and was now both in act and inclination an
Ogallalla.
It will be remembered that the scheme of the grand warlike combination
against the Snake and Crow Indians originated in this village; and though
this plan had fallen to the ground, the embers of the martial ardor
continued to glow brightly. Eleven young men had prepared themselves to go
out against the enemy. The fourth day of our stay in this camp was fixed
upon for their departure. At the head of this party was a well-built
active little Indian, called the White Shield, whom I had always noticed
for the great neatness of his dress and appearance. His lodge too, though
not a large one, was the best in the village, his squaw was one of the
prettiest girls, and altogether his dwelling presented a complete model of
an Ogallalla domestic establishment. I was often a visitor there, for the
White Shield being rather partial to white men, used to invite me to
continual feasts at all hours of the day. Once when the substantial part
of the entertainment was concluded, and he and I were seated cross-legged
on a buffalo robe smoking together very amicably, he took down his warlike
equipments, which were hanging around the lodge, and displayed them with
great pride and self-importance. Among the rest was a most superb
headdress of feathers. Taking this from its case, he put it on and stood
before me, as if conscious of the gallant air which it gave to his dark
face and his vigorous, graceful figure. He told me that upon it were the
feathers of three war-eagles, equal in value to the same number of good
horses. He took up also a shield gayly painted and hung with feathers. The
effect of these barbaric ornaments was admirable, for they were arranged
with no little skill and taste. His quiver was made of the spotted skin of
a small panther, such as are common among the Black Hills, from which the
tail and distended claws were still allowed to hang. The White Shield
concluded his entertainment in a manner characteristic of an Indian. He
begged of me a little powder and ball, for he had a gun as well as bow and
arrows; but this I was obliged to refuse, because I had scarcely enough
for my own use. Making him, however, a parting present of a paper of
vermilion, I left him apparently quite contented.
Unhappily on the next morning the White Shield took cold and was attacked
with a violent inflammation of the throat. Immediately he seemed to lose
all spirit, and though before no warrior in the village had borne himself
more proudly, he now moped about from lodge to lodge with a forlorn and
dejected air. At length he came and sat down, close wrapped in his robe,
before the lodge of Reynal, but when he found that neither he nor I knew
how to relieve him, he arose and stalked over to one of the medicine-men
of the village. This old imposter thumped him for some time with both
fists, howled and yelped over him, and beat a drum close to his ear to
expel the evil spirit that had taken possession of him. This vigorous
treatment failing of the desired effect, the White Shield withdrew to his
own lodge, where he lay disconsolate for some hours. Making his appearance
once more in the afternoon, he again took his seat on the ground before
Reynal’s lodge, holding his throat with his hand. For some time he sat
perfectly silent with his eyes fixed mournfully on the ground. At last he
began to speak in a low tone:
“I am a brave man,” he said; “all the young men think me a great warrior,
and ten of them are ready to go with me to the war. I will go and show
them the enemy. Last summer the Snakes killed my brother. I cannot live
unless I revenge his death. To-morrow we will set out and I will take
their scalps.”
The White Shield, as he expressed this resolution, seemed to have lost all
the accustomed fire and spirit of his look, and hung his head as if in a
fit of despondency.
As I was sitting that evening at one of the fires, I saw him arrayed in
his splendid war dress, his cheeks painted with vermilion, leading his
favorite war horse to the front of his lodge. He mounted and rode round
the village, singing his war song in a loud hoarse voice amid the shrill
acclamations of the women. Then dismounting, he remained for some minutes
prostrate upon the ground, as if in an act of supplication. On the
following morning I looked in vain for the departure of the warriors. All
was quiet in the village until late in the forenoon, when the White
Shield, issuing from his lodge, came and seated himself in his old place
before us. Reynal asked him why he had not gone out to find the enemy.
“I cannot go,” answered the White Shield in a dejected voice. “I have
given my war arrows to the Meneaska.”
“You have only given him two of your arrows,” said Reynal. “If you ask
him, he will give them back again.”
For some time the White Shield said nothing. At last he spoke in a gloomy
tone:
“One of my young men has had bad dreams. The spirits of the dead came and
threw stones at him in his sleep.”
If such a dream had actually taken place it might have broken up this or
any other war party, but both Reynal and I were convinced at the time that
it was a mere fabrication to excuse his remaining at home.
The White Shield was a warrior of noted prowess. Very probably, he would
have received a mortal wound without a show of pain, and endured without
flinching the worst tortures that an enemy could inflict upon him. The
whole power of an Indian’s nature would be summoned to encounter such a
trial; every influence of his education from childhood would have prepared
him for it; the cause of his suffering would have been visibly and
palpably before him, and his spirit would rise to set his enemy at
defiance, and gain the highest glory of a warrior by meeting death with
fortitude. But when he feels himself attacked by a mysterious evil, before
whose insidious assaults his manhood is wasted, and his strength drained
away, when he can see no enemy to resist and defy, the boldest warrior
falls prostrate at once. He believes that a bad spirit has taken
possession of him, or that he is the victim of some charm. When suffering
from a protracted disorder, an Indian will often abandon himself to his
supposed destiny, pine away and die, the victim of his own imagination.
The same effect will often follow from a series of calamities, or a long
run of ill success, and the sufferer has been known to ride into the midst
of an enemy’s camp, or attack a grizzly bear single-handed, to get rid of
a life which he supposed to lie under the doom of misfortune.
Thus after all his fasting, dreaming, and calling upon the Great Spirit,
the White Shield’s war party was pitifully broken up.
CHAPTER XVI
THE TRAPPERS
In speaking of the Indians, I have almost forgotten two bold adventurers
of another race, the trappers Rouleau and Saraphin. These men were bent on
a most hazardous enterprise. A day’s journey to the westward was the
country over which the Arapahoes are accustomed to range, and for which
the two trappers were on the point of setting out. These Arapahoes, of
whom Shaw and I afterward fell in with a large village, are ferocious
barbarians, of a most brutal and wolfish aspect, and of late they had
declared themselves enemies to the whites, and threatened death to the
first who should venture within their territory. The occasion of the
declaration was as follows:
In the previous spring, 1845, Colonel Kearny left Fort Leavenworth with
several companies of dragoons, and marching with extraordinary celerity
reached Fort Laramie, whence he passed along the foot of the mountains to
Bent’s Fort and then, turning eastward again, returned to the point from
whence he set out. While at Fort Larantie, he sent a part of his command
as far westward as Sweetwater, while he himself remained at the fort, and
dispatched messages to the surrounding Indians to meet him there in
council. Then for the first time the tribes of that vicinity saw the white
warriors, and, as might have been expected, they were lost in astonishment
at their regular order, their gay attire, the completeness of their
martial equipment, and the great size and power of their horses. Among the
rest, the Arapahoes came in considerable numbers to the fort. They had
lately committed numerous acts of outrage, and Colonel Kearny threatened
that if they killed any more white men he would turn loose his dragoons
upon them, and annihilate their whole nation. In the evening, to add
effect to his speech, he ordered a howitzer to be fired and a rocket to be
thrown up. Many of the Arapahoes fell prostrate on the ground, while
others ran screaming with amazement and terror. On the following day they
withdrew to their mountains, confounded with awe at the appearance of the
dragoons, at their big gun which went off twice at one shot, and the fiery
messenger which they had sent up to the Great Spirit. For many months they
remained quiet, and did no further mischief. At length, just before we
came into the country, one of them, by an act of the basest treachery,
killed two white men, Boot and May, who were trapping among the mountains.
For this act it was impossible to discover a motive. It seemed to spring
from one of those inexplicable impulses which often actuate Indians and
appear no better than the mere outbreaks of native ferocity. No sooner was
the murder committed than the whole tribe were in extreme consternation.
They expected every day that the avenging dragoons would arrive, little
thinking that a desert of nine hundred miles in extent lay between the
latter and their mountain fastnesses. A large deputation of them came to
Fort Laramie, bringing a valuable present of horses, in compensation for
the lives of the murdered men. These Bordeaux refused to accept. They then
asked him if he would be satisfied with their delivering up the murderer
himself; but he declined this offer also. The Arapahoes went back more
terrified than ever. Weeks passed away, and still no dragoons appeared. A
result followed which all those best acquainted with Indians had
predicted. They conceived that fear had prevented Bordeaux from accepting
their gifts, and that they had nothing to apprehend from the vengeance of
the whites. From terror they rose to the height of insolence and
presumption. They called the white men cowards and old women; and a
friendly Dakota came to Fort Laramie and reported that they were
determined to kill the first of the white dogs whom they could lay hands
on.
Had a military officer, intrusted with suitable powers, been stationed at
Fort Laramie, and having accepted the offer of the Arapahoes to deliver up
the murderer, had ordered him to be immediately led out and shot, in
presence of his tribe, they would have been awed into tranquillity, and
much danger and calamity averted; but now the neighborhood of the
Medicine-Bow Mountain and the region beyond it was a scene of extreme
peril. Old Mene-Seela, a true friend of the whites, and many other of the
Indians gathered about the two trappers, and vainly endeavored to turn
them from their purpose; but Rouleau and Saraphin only laughed at the
danger. On the morning preceding that on which they were to leave the
camp, we could all discern faint white columns of smoke rising against the
dark base of the Medicine-Bow. Scouts were out immediately, and reported
that these proceeded from an Arapahoe camp, abandoned only a few hours
before. Still the two trappers continued their preparations for departure.
Saraphin was a tall, powerful fellow, with a sullen and sinister
countenance. His rifle had very probably drawn other blood than that of
buffalo or even Indians. Rouleau had a broad ruddy face marked with as few
traces of thought or care as a child’s. His figure was remarkably square
and strong, but the first joints of both his feet were frozen off, and his
horse had lately thrown and trampled upon him, by which he had been
severely injured in the chest. But nothing could check his inveterate
propensity for laughter and gayety. He went all day rolling about the camp
on his stumps of feet, talking and singing and frolicking with the Indian
women, as they were engaged at their work. In fact Rouleau had an unlucky
partiality for squaws. He always had one whom he must needs bedizen with
beads, ribbons, and all the finery of an Indian wardrobe; and though he
was of course obliged to leave her behind him during his expeditions, yet
this hazardous necessity did not at all trouble him, for his disposition
was the very reverse of jealous. If at any time he had not lavished the
whole of the precarious profits of his vocation upon his dark favorite, he
always devoted the rest to feasting his comrades. If liquor was not to be
had—and this was usually the case—strong coffee was
substituted. As the men of that region are by no means remarkable for
providence or self-restraint, whatever was set before them on these
occasions, however extravagant in price, or enormous in quantity, was sure
to be disposed of at one sitting. Like other trappers, Rouleau’s life was
one of contrast and variety. It was only at certain seasons, and for a
limited time, that he was absent on his expeditions. For the rest of the
year he would be lounging about the fort, or encamped with his friends in
its vicinity, lazily hunting or enjoying all the luxury of inaction; but
when once in pursuit of beaver, he was involved in extreme privations and
desperate perils. When in the midst of his game and his enemies, hand and
foot, eye and ear, are incessantly active. Frequently he must content
himself with devouring his evening meal uncooked, lest the light of his
fire should attract the eyes of some wandering Indian; and sometimes
having made his rude repast, he must leave his fire still blazing, and
withdraw to a distance under cover of the darkness, that his disappointed
enemy, drawn thither by the light, may find his victim gone, and be unable
to trace his footsteps in the gloom. This is the life led by scores of men
in the Rocky Mountains and their vicinity. I once met a trapper whose
breast was marked with the scars of six bullets and arrows, one of his
arms broken by a shot and one of his knees shattered; yet still, with the
undaunted mettle of New England, from which part of the country he had
come, he continued to follow his perilous occupation. To some of the
children of cities it may seem strange that men with no object in view
should continue to follow a life of such hardship and desperate adventure;
yet there is a mysterious, restless charm in the basilisk eye of danger,
and few men perhaps remain long in that wild region without learning to
love peril for its own sake, and to laugh carelessly in the face of death.
On the last day of our stay in this camp, the trappers were ready for
departure. When in the Black Hills they had caught seven beaver, and they
now left their skins in charge of Reynal, to be kept until their return.
Their strong, gaunt horses were equipped with rusty Spanish bits and rude
Mexican saddles, to which wooden stirrups were attached, while a buffalo
robe was rolled up behind them, and a bundle of beaver traps slung at the
pommel. These, together with their rifles, their knives, their
powder-horns and bullet-pouches, flint and steel and a tincup, composed
their whole traveling equipment. They shook hands with us and rode away;
Saraphin with his grim countenance, like a surly bulldog’s, was in
advance; but Rouleau, clambering gayly into his seat, kicked his horse’s
sides, flourished his whip in the air, and trotted briskly over the
prairie, trolling forth a Canadian song at the top of his lungs. Reynal
looked after them with his face of brutal selfishness.
“Well,” he said, “if they are killed, I shall have the beaver. They’ll
fetch me fifty dollars at the fort, anyhow.”
This was the last I saw of them.
We had been for five days in the hunting camp, and the meat, which all
this time had hung drying in the sun, was now fit for transportation.
Buffalo hides also had been procured in sufficient quantities for making
the next season’s lodges; but it remained to provide the long slender
poles on which they were to be supported. These were only to be had among
the tall pine woods of the Black Hills, and in that direction therefore
our next move was to be made. It is worthy of notice that amid the general
abundance which during this time had prevailed in the camp there were no
instances of individual privation; for although the hide and the tongue of
the buffalo belong by exclusive right to the hunter who has killed it, yet
anyone else is equally entitled to help himself from the rest of the
carcass. Thus, the weak, the aged, and even the indolent come in for a
share of the spoils, and many a helpless old woman, who would otherwise
perish from starvation, is sustained in profuse abundance.
On the 25th of July, late in the afternoon, the camp broke up, with the
usual tumult and confusion, and we were all moving once more, on horseback
and on foot, over the plains. We advanced, however, but a few miles. The
old men, who during the whole march had been stoutly striding along on
foot in front of the people, now seated themselves in a circle on the
ground, while all the families, erecting their lodges in the prescribed
order around them, formed the usual great circle of the camp; meanwhile
these village patriarchs sat smoking and talking. I threw my bridle to
Raymond, and sat down as usual along with them. There was none of that
reserve and apparent dignity which an Indian always assumes when in
council, or in the presence of white men whom he distrusts. The party, on
the contrary, was an extremely merry one; and as in a social circle of a
quite different character, “if there was not much wit, there was at least
a great deal of laughter.”
When the first pipe was smoked out, I rose and withdrew to the lodge of my
host. Here I was stooping, in the act of taking off my powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, when suddenly, and close at hand, pealing loud and shrill,
and in right good earnest, came the terrific yell of the war-whoop.
Kongra-Tonga’s squaw snatched up her youngest child, and ran out of the
lodge. I followed, and found the whole village in confusion, resounding
with cries and yells. The circle of old men in the center had vanished.
The warriors with glittering eyes came darting, their weapons in their
hands, out of the low opening of the lodges, and running with wild yells
toward the farther end of the village. Advancing a few rods in that
direction, I saw a crowd in furious agitation, while others ran up on
every side to add to the confusion. Just then I distinguished the voices
of Raymond and Reynal, shouting to me from a distance, and looking back, I
saw the latter with his rifle in his hand, standing on the farther bank of
a little stream that ran along the outskirts of the camp. He was calling
to Raymond and myself to come over and join him, and Raymond, with his
usual deliberate gait and stolid countenance, was already moving in that
direction.
This was clearly the wisest course, unless we wished to involve ourselves
in the fray; so I turned to go, but just then a pair of eyes, gleaming
like a snake’s, and an aged familiar countenance was thrust from the
opening of a neighboring lodge, and out bolted old Mene-Seela, full of
fight, clutching his bow and arrows in one hand and his knife in the
other. At that instant he tripped and fell sprawling on his face, while
his weapons flew scattering away in every direction. The women with loud
screams were hurrying with their children in their arms to place them out
of danger, and I observed some hastening to prevent mischief, by carrying
away all the weapons they could lay hands on. On a rising ground close to
the camp stood a line of old women singing a medicine song to allay the
tumult. As I approached the side of the brook I heard gun-shots behind me,
and turning back, I saw that the crowd had separated into two lines of
naked warriors confronting each other at a respectful distance, and
yelling and jumping about to dodge the shot of their adversaries, while
they discharged bullets and arrows against each other. At the same time
certain sharp, humming sounds in the air over my head, like the flight of
beetles on a summer evening, warned me that the danger was not wholly
confined to the immediate scene of the fray. So wading through the brook,
I joined Reynal and Raymond, and we sat down on the grass, in the posture
of an armed neutrality, to watch the result.
Happily it may be for ourselves, though quite contrary to our expectation,
the disturbance was quelled almost as soon as it had commenced. When I
looked again, the combatants were once more mingled together in a mass.
Though yells sounded, occasionally from the throng, the firing had
entirely ceased, and I observed five or six persons moving busily about,
as if acting the part of peacemakers. One of the village heralds or criers
proclaimed in a loud voice something which my two companions were too much
engrossed in their own observations to translate for me. The crowd began
to disperse, though many a deep-set black eye still glittered with an
unnatural luster, as the warriors slowly withdrew to their lodges. This
fortunate suppression of the disturbance was owing to a few of the old
men, less pugnacious than Mene-Seela, who boldly ran in between the
combatants and aided by some of the “soldiers,” or Indian police,
succeeded in effecting their object.
It seemed very strange to me that although many arrows and bullets were
discharged, no one was mortally hurt, and I could only account for this by
the fact that both the marksman and the object of his aim were leaping
about incessantly during the whole time. By far the greater part of the
villagers had joined in the fray, for although there were not more than a
dozen guns in the whole camp, I heard at least eight or ten shots fired.
In a quarter of an hour all was comparatively quiet. A large circle of
warriors were again seated in the center of the village, but this time I
did not venture to join them, because I could see that the pipe, contrary
to the usual order, was passing from the left hand to the right around the
circle, a sure sign that a “medicine-smoke” of reconciliation was going
forward, and that a white man would be an unwelcome intruder. When I again
entered the still agitated camp it was nearly dark, and mournful cries,
howls and wailings resounded from many female voices. Whether these had
any connection with the late disturbance, or were merely lamentations for
relatives slain in some former war expeditions, I could not distinctly
ascertain.
To inquire too closely into the cause of the quarrel was by no means
prudent, and it was not until some time after that I discovered what had
given rise to it. Among the Dakota there are many associations, or
fraternities, connected with the purposes of their superstitions, their
warfare, or their social life. There was one called “The Arrow-Breakers,”
now in a great measure disbanded and dispersed. In the village there were,
however, four men belonging to it, distinguished by the peculiar
arrangement of their hair, which rose in a high bristling mass above their
foreheads, adding greatly to their apparent height, and giving them a most
ferocious appearance. The principal among them was the Mad Wolf, a warrior
of remarkable size and strength, great courage, and the fierceness of a
demon. I had always looked upon him as the most dangerous man in the
village; and though he often invited me to feasts, I never entered his
lodge unarmed. The Mad Wolf had taken a fancy to a fine horse belonging to
another Indian, who was called the Tall Bear; and anxious to get the
animal into his possession, he made the owner a present of another horse
nearly equal in value. According to the customs of the Dakota, the
acceptance of this gift involved a sort of obligation to make an equitable
return; and the Tall Bear well understood that the other had in view the
obtaining of his favorite buffalo horse. He however accepted the present
without a word of thanks, and having picketed the horse before his lodge,
he suffered day after day to pass without making the expected return. The
Mad Wolf grew impatient and angry; and at last, seeing that his bounty was
not likely to produce the desired return, he resolved to reclaim it. So
this evening, as soon as the village was encamped, he went to the lodge of
the Tall Bear, seized upon the horse that he had given him, and led him
away. At this the Tall Bear broke into one of those fits of sullen rage
not uncommon among the Indians. He ran up to the unfortunate horse, and
gave him three mortals stabs with his knife. Quick as lightning the Mad
Wolf drew his bow to its utmost tension, and held the arrow quivering
close to the breast of his adversary. The Tall Bear, as the Indians who
were near him said, stood with his bloody knife in his hand, facing the
assailant with the utmost calmness. Some of his friends and relatives,
seeing his danger, ran hastily to his assistance. The remaining three
Arrow-Breakers, on the other hand, came to the aid of their associate.
Many of their friends joined them, the war-cry was raised on a sudden, and
the tumult became general.
The “soldiers,” who lent their timely aid in putting it down, are by far
the most important executive functionaries in an Indian village. The
office is one of considerable honor, being confided only to men of courage
and repute. They derive their authority from the old men and chief
warriors of the village, who elect them in councils occasionally convened
for the purpose, and thus can exercise a degree of authority which no one
else in the village would dare to assume. While very few Ogallalla chiefs
could venture without instant jeopardy of their lives to strike or lay
hands upon the meanest of their people, the “soldiers” in the discharge of
their appropriate functions, have full license to make use of these and
similar acts of coercion.
CHAPTER XVII
THE BLACK HILLS
We traveled eastward for two days, and then the gloomy ridges of the Black
Hills rose up before us. The village passed along for some miles beneath
their declivities, trailing out to a great length over the arid prairie,
or winding at times among small detached hills or distorted shapes.
Turning sharply to the left, we entered a wide defile of the mountains,
down the bottom of which a brook came winding, lined with tall grass and
dense copses, amid which were hidden many beaver dams and lodges. We
passed along between two lines of high precipices and rocks, piled in
utter disorder one upon another, and with scarcely a tree, a bush, or a
clump of grass to veil their nakedness. The restless Indian boys were
wandering along their edges and clambering up and down their rugged sides,
and sometimes a group of them would stand on the verge of a cliff and look
down on the array as it passed in review beneath them. As we advanced, the
passage grew more narrow; then it suddenly expanded into a round grassy
meadow, completely encompassed by mountains; and here the families stopped
as they came up in turn, and the camp rose like magic.
The lodges were hardly erected when, with their usual precipitation, the
Indians set about accomplishing the object that had brought them there;
that is, the obtaining poles for supporting their new lodges. Half the
population, men, women and boys, mounted their horses and set out for the
interior of the mountains. As they rode at full gallop over the shingly
rocks and into the dark opening of the defile beyond, I thought I had
never read or dreamed of a more strange or picturesque cavalcade. We
passed between precipices more than a thousand feet high, sharp and
splintering at the tops, their sides beetling over the defile or
descending in abrupt declivities, bristling with black fir trees. On our
left they rose close to us like a wall, but on the right a winding brook
with a narrow strip of marshy soil intervened. The stream was clogged with
old beaver dams, and spread frequently into wide pools. There were thick
bushes and many dead and blasted trees along its course, though frequently
nothing remained but stumps cut close to the ground by the beaver, and
marked with the sharp chisel-like teeth of those indefatigable laborers.
Sometimes we were driving among trees, and then emerging upon open spots,
over which, Indian-like, all galloped at full speed. As Pauline bounded
over the rocks I felt her saddle-girth slipping, and alighted to draw it
tighter; when the whole array swept past me in a moment, the women with
their gaudy ornaments tinkling as they rode, the men whooping, and
laughing, and lashing forward their horses. Two black-tailed deer bounded
away among the rocks; Raymond shot at them from horseback; the sharp
report of his rifle was answered by another equally sharp from the
opposing cliffs, and then the echoes, leaping in rapid succession from
side to side, died away rattling far amid the mountains.
After having ridden in this manner for six or eight miles, the appearance
of the scene began to change, and all the declivities around us were
covered with forests of tall, slender pine trees. The Indians began to
fall off to the right and left, and dispersed with their hatchets and
knives among these woods, to cut the poles which they had come to seek.
Soon I was left almost alone; but in the deep stillness of those lonely
mountains, the stroke of hatchets and the sound of voices might be heard
from far and near.
Reynal, who imitated the Indians in their habits as well as the worst
features of their character, had killed buffalo enough to make a lodge for
himself and his squaw, and now he was eager to get the poles necessary to
complete it. He asked me to let Raymond go with him and assist in the
work. I assented, and the two men immediately entered the thickest part of
the wood. Having left my horse in Raymond’s keeping, I began to climb the
mountain. I was weak and weary and made slow progress, often pausing to
rest, but after an hour had elapsed, I gained a height, whence the little
valley out of which I had climbed seemed like a deep, dark gulf, though
the inaccessible peak of the mountain was still towering to a much greater
distance above. Objects familiar from childhood surrounded me; crags and
rocks, a black and sullen brook that gurgled with a hollow voice deep
among the crevices, a wood of mossy distorted trees and prostrate trunks
flung down by age and storms, scattered among the rocks, or damming the
foaming waters of the little brook. The objects were the same, yet they
were thrown into a wilder and more startling scene, for the black crags
and the savage trees assumed a grim and threatening aspect, and close
across the valley the opposing mountain confronted me, rising from the
gulf for thousands of feet, with its bare pinnacles and its ragged
covering of pines. Yet the scene was not without its milder features. As I
ascended, I found frequent little grassy terraces, and there was one of
these close at hand, across which the brook was stealing, beneath the
shade of scattered trees that seemed artificially planted. Here I made a
welcome discovery, no other than a bed of strawberries, with their white
flowers and their red fruit, close nestled among the grass by the side of
the brook, and I sat down by them, hailing them as old acquaintances; for
among those lonely and perilous mountains they awakened delicious
associations of the gardens and peaceful homes of far-distant New England.
Yet wild as they were, these mountains were thickly peopled. As I climbed
farther, I found the broad dusty paths made by the elk, as they filed
across the mountainside. The grass on all the terraces was trampled down
by deer; there were numerous tracks of wolves, and in some of the rougher
and more precipitous parts of the ascent, I found foot-prints different
from any that I had ever seen, and which I took to be those of the Rocky
Mountain sheep. I sat down upon a rock; there was a perfect stillness. No
wind was stirring, and not even an insect could be heard. I recollected
the danger of becoming lost in such a place, and therefore I fixed my eye
upon one of the tallest pinnacles of the opposite mountain. It rose sheer
upright from the woods below, and by an extraordinary freak of nature
sustained aloft on its very summit a large loose rock. Such a landmark
could never be mistaken, and feeling once more secure, I began again to
move forward. A white wolf jumped up from among some bushes, and leaped
clumsily away; but he stopped for a moment, and turned back his keen eye
and his grim bristling muzzle. I longed to take his scalp and carry it
back with me, as an appropriate trophy of the Black Hills, but before I
could fire, he was gone among the rocks. Soon I heard a rustling sound,
with a cracking of twigs at a little distance, and saw moving above the
tall bushes the branching antlers of an elk. I was in the midst of a
hunter’s paradise.
Such are the Black Hills, as I found them in July; but they wear a
different garb when winter sets in, when the broad boughs of the fir tree
are bent to the ground by the load of snow, and the dark mountains are
whitened with it. At that season the mountain-trappers, returned from
their autumn expeditions, often build their rude cabins in the midst of
these solitudes, and live in abundance and luxury on the game that harbors
there. I have heard them relate, how with their tawny mistresses, and
perhaps a few young Indian companions, they have spent months in total
seclusion. They would dig pitfalls, and set traps for the white wolves,
the sables, and the martens, and though through the whole night the awful
chorus of the wolves would resound from the frozen mountains around them,
yet within their massive walls of logs they would lie in careless ease and
comfort before the blazing fire, and in the morning shoot the elk and the
deer from their very door.
CHAPTER XVIII
A MOUNTAIN HUNT
The camp was full of the newly-cut lodge-poles; some, already prepared,
were stacked together, white and glistening, to dry and harden in the sun;
others were lying on the ground, and the squaws, the boys, and even some
of the warriors were busily at work peeling off the bark and paring them
with their knives to the proper dimensions. Most of the hides obtained at
the last camp were dressed and scraped thin enough for use, and many of
the squaws were engaged in fitting them together and sewing them with
sinews, to form the coverings for the lodges. Men were wandering among the
bushes that lined the brook along the margin of the camp, cutting sticks
of red willow, or shongsasha, the bark of which, mixed with tobacco, they
use for smoking. Reynal’s squaw was hard at work with her awl and buffalo
sinews upon her lodge, while her proprietor, having just finished an
enormous breakfast of meat, was smoking a social pipe along with Raymond
and myself. He proposed at length that we should go out on a hunt. “Go to
the Big Crow’s lodge,” said he, “and get your rifle. I’ll bet the gray
Wyandotte pony against your mare that we start an elk or a black-tailed
deer, or likely as not, a bighorn, before we are two miles out of camp.
I’ll take my squaw’s old yellow horse; you can’t whip her more than four
miles an hour, but she is as good for the mountains as a mule.”
I mounted the black mule which Raymond usually rode. She was a very fine
and powerful animal, gentle and manageable enough by nature; but of late
her temper had been soured by misfortune. About a week before I had
chanced to offend some one of the Indians, who out of revenge went
secretly into the meadow and gave her a severe stab in the haunch with his
knife. The wound, though partially healed, still galled her extremely, and
made her even more perverse and obstinate than the rest of her species.
The morning was a glorious one, and I was in better health than I had been
at any time for the last two months. Though a strong frame and well
compacted sinews had borne me through hitherto, it was long since I had
been in a condition to feel the exhilaration of the fresh mountain wind
and the gay sunshine that brightened the crags and trees. We left the
little valley and ascended a rocky hollow in the mountain. Very soon we
were out of sight of the camp, and of every living thing, man, beast,
bird, or insect. I had never before, except on foot, passed over such
execrable ground, and I desire never to repeat the experiment. The black
mule grew indignant, and even the redoubtable yellow horse stumbled every
moment, and kept groaning to himself as he cut his feet and legs among the
sharp rocks.
It was a scene of silence and desolation. Little was visible except
beetling crags and the bare shingly sides of the mountains, relieved by
scarcely a trace of vegetation. At length, however, we came upon a forest
tract, and had no sooner done so than we heartily wished ourselves back
among the rocks again; for we were on a steep descent, among trees so
thick that we could see scarcely a rod in any direction.
If one is anxious to place himself in a situation where the hazardous and
the ludicrous are combined in about equal proportions, let him get upon a
vicious mule, with a snaffle bit, and try to drive her through the woods
down a slope of 45 degrees. Let him have on a long rifle, a buckskin frock
with long fringes, and a head of long hair. These latter appendages will
be caught every moment and twitched away in small portions by the twigs,
which will also whip him smartly across the face, while the large branches
above thump him on the head. His mule, if she be a true one, will
alternately stop short and dive violently forward, and his position upon
her back will be somewhat diversified and extraordinary. At one time he
will clasp her affectionately, to avoid the blow of a bough overhead; at
another, he will throw himself back and fling his knee forward against the
side of her neck, to keep it from being crushed between the rough bark of
a tree and the equally unyielding ribs of the animal herself. Reynal was
cursing incessantly during the whole way down. Neither of us had the
remotest idea where we were going; and though I have seen rough riding, I
shall always retain an evil recollection of that five minutes’ scramble.
At last we left our troubles behind us, emerging into the channel of a
brook that circled along the foot of the descent; and here, turning
joyfully to the left, we rode in luxury and ease over the white pebbles
and the rippling water, shaded from the glaring sun by an overarching
green transparency. These halcyon moments were of short duration. The
friendly brook, turning sharply to one side, went brawling and foaming
down the rocky hill into an abyss, which, as far as we could discern, had
no bottom; so once more we betook ourselves to the detested woods. When
next we came forth from their dancing shadow and sunlight, we found
ourselves standing in the broad glare of day, on a high jutting point of
the mountain. Before us stretched a long, wide, desert valley, winding
away far amid the mountains. No civilized eye but mine had ever looked
upon that virgin waste. Reynal was gazing intently; he began to speak at
last:
“Many a time, when I was with the Indians, I have been hunting for gold
all through the Black Hills. There’s plenty of it here; you may be certain
of that. I have dreamed about it fifty times, and I never dreamed yet but
what it came true. Look over yonder at those black rocks piled up against
that other big rock. Don’t it look as if there might be something there?
It won’t do for a white man to be rummaging too much about these
mountains; the Indians say they are full of bad spirits; and I believe
myself that it’s no good luck to be hunting about here after gold. Well,
for all that, I would like to have one of these fellows up here, from down
below, to go about with his witch-hazel rod, and I’ll guarantee that it
would not be long before he would light on a gold mine. Never mind; we’ll
let the gold alone for to-day. Look at those trees down below us in the
hollow; we’ll go down there, and I reckon we’ll get a black-tailed deer.”
But Reynal’s predictions were not verified. We passed mountain after
mountain, and valley after valley; we explored deep ravines; yet still to
my companion’s vexation and evident surprise, no game could be found. So,
in the absence of better, we resolved to go out on the plains and look for
an antelope. With this view we began to pass down a narrow valley, the
bottom of which was covered with the stiff wild-sage bushes and marked
with deep paths, made by the buffalo, who, for some inexplicable reason,
are accustomed to penetrate, in their long grave processions, deep among
the gorges of these sterile mountains.
Reynal’s eye was ranging incessantly among the rocks and along the edges
of the black precipices, in hopes of discovering the mountain sheep
peering down upon us in fancied security from that giddy elevation.
Nothing was visible for some time. At length we both detected something in
motion near the foot of one of the mountains, and in a moment afterward a
black-tailed deer, with his spreading antlers, stood gazing at us from the
top of a rock, and then, slowly turning away, disappeared behind it. In an
instant Reynal was out of his saddle, and running toward the spot. I,
being too weak to follow, sat holding his horse and waiting the result. I
lost sight of him, then heard the report of his rifle, deadened among the
rocks, and finally saw him reappear, with a surly look that plainly
betrayed his ill success. Again we moved forward down the long valley,
when soon after we came full upon what seemed a wide and very shallow
ditch, incrusted at the bottom with white clay, dried and cracked in the
sun. Under this fair outside, Reynal’s eye detected the signs of lurking
mischief. He called me to stop, and then alighting, picked up a stone and
threw it into the ditch. To my utter amazement it fell with a dull splash,
breaking at once through the thin crust, and spattering round the hole a
yellowish creamy fluid, into which it sank and disappeared. A stick, five
or six feet long lay on the ground, and with this we sounded the insidious
abyss close to its edge. It was just possible to touch the bottom. Places
like this are numerous among the Rocky Mountains. The buffalo, in his
blind and heedless walk, often plunges into them unawares. Down he sinks;
one snort of terror, one convulsive struggle, and the slime calmly flows
above his shaggy head, the languid undulations of its sleek and placid
surface alone betraying how the powerful monster writhes in his
death-throes below.
We found after some trouble a point where we could pass the abyss, and now
the valley began to open upon the plains which spread to the horizon
before us. On one of their distant swells we discerned three or four black
specks, which Reynal pronounced to be buffalo.
“Come,” said he, “we must get one of them. My squaw wants more sinews to
finish her lodge with, and I want some glue myself.”
He immediately put the yellow horse at such a gallop as he was capable of
executing, while I set spurs to the mule, who soon far outran her plebeian
rival. When we had galloped a mile or more, a large rabbit, by ill luck,
sprang up just under the feet of the mule, who bounded violently aside in
full career. Weakened as I was, I was flung forcibly to the ground, and my
rifle, falling close to my head, went off with a shock. Its sharp spiteful
report rang for some moments in my ear. Being slightly stunned, I lay for
an instant motionless, and Reynal, supposing me to be shot, rode up and
began to curse the mule. Soon recovering myself, I rose, picked up the
rifle and anxiously examined it. It was badly injured. The stock was
cracked, and the main screw broken, so that the lock had to be tied in its
place with a string; yet happily it was not rendered totally
unserviceable. I wiped it out, reloaded it, and handing it to Reynal, who
meanwhile had caught the mule and led her up to me, I mounted again. No
sooner had I done so, than the brute began to rear and plunge with extreme
violence; but being now well prepared for her, and free from incumbrance,
I soon reduced her to submission. Then taking the rifle again from Reynal,
we galloped forward as before.
We were now free of the mountain and riding far out on the broad prairie.
The buffalo were still some two miles in advance of us. When we came near
them, we stopped where a gentle swell of the plain concealed us from their
view, and while I held his horse Reynal ran forward with his rifle, till I
lost sight of him beyond the rising ground. A few minutes elapsed; I heard
the report of his piece, and saw the buffalo running away at full speed on
the right, and immediately after, the hunter himself unsuccessful as
before, came up and mounted his horse in excessive ill-humor. He cursed
the Black Hills and the buffalo, swore that he was a good hunter, which
indeed was true, and that he had never been out before among those
mountains without killing two or three deer at least.
We now turned toward the distant encampment. As we rode along, antelope in
considerable numbers were flying lightly in all directions over the plain,
but not one of them would stand and be shot at. When we reached the foot
of the mountain ridge that lay between us and the village, we were too
impatient to take the smooth and circuitous route; so turning short to the
left, we drove our wearied animals directly upward among the rocks. Still
more antelope were leaping about among these flinty hillsides. Each of us
shot at one, though from a great distance, and each missed his mark. At
length we reached the summit of the last ridge. Looking down, we saw the
bustling camp in the valley at our feet, and ingloriously descended to it.
As we rode among the lodges, the Indians looked in vain for the fresh meat
that should have hung behind our saddles, and the squaws uttered various
suppressed ejaculations, to the great indignation of Reynal. Our
mortification was increased when we rode up to his lodge. Here we saw his
young Indian relative, the Hail-Storm, his light graceful figure on the
ground in an easy attitude, while with his friend the Rabbit, who sat by
his side, he was making an abundant meal from a wooden bowl of wasna,
which the squaw had placed between them. Near him lay the fresh skin of a
female elk, which he had just killed among the mountains, only a mile or
two from the camp. No doubt the boy’s heart was elated with triumph, but
he betrayed no sign of it. He even seemed totally unconscious of our
approach, and his handsome face had all the tranquillity of Indian
self-control; a self-control which prevents the exhibition of emotion,
without restraining the emotion itself. It was about two months since I
had known the Hail-Storm, and within that time his character had
remarkably developed. When I first saw him, he was just emerging from the
habits and feelings of the boy into the ambition of the hunter and
warrior. He had lately killed his first deer, and this had excited his
aspirations after distinction. Since that time he had been continually in
search of game, and no young hunter in the village had been so active or
so fortunate as he. It will perhaps be remembered how fearlessly he
attacked the buffalo bull, as we were moving toward our camp at the
Medicine-Bow Mountain. All this success had produced a marked change in
his character. As I first remembered him he always shunned the society of
the young squaws, and was extremely bashful and sheepish in their
presence; but now, in the confidence of his own reputation, he began to
assume the airs and the arts of a man of gallantry. He wore his red
blanket dashingly over his left shoulder, painted his cheeks every day
with vermilion, and hung pendants of shells in his ears. If I observed
aright, he met with very good success in his new pursuits; still the
Hail-Storm had much to accomplish before he attained the full standing of
a warrior. Gallantly as he began to bear himself among the women and
girls, he still was timid and abashed in the presence of the chiefs and
old men; for he had never yet killed a man, or stricken the dead body of
an enemy in battle. I have no doubt that the handsome smooth-faced boy
burned with keen desire to flash his maiden scalping-knife, and I would
not have encamped alone with him without watching his movements with a
distrustful eye.
His elder brother, the Horse, was of a different character. He was nothing
but a lazy dandy. He knew very well how to hunt, but preferred to live by
the hunting of others. He had no appetite for distinction, and the
Hail-Storm, though a few years younger than he, already surpassed him in
reputation. He had a dark and ugly face, and he passed a great part of his
time in adorning it with vermilion, and contemplating it by means of a
little pocket looking-glass which I gave him. As for the rest of the day,
he divided it between eating and sleeping, and sitting in the sun on the
outside of a lodge. Here he would remain for hour after hour, arrayed in
all his finery, with an old dragoon’s sword in his hand, and evidently
flattering himself that he was the center of attraction to the eyes of the
surrounding squaws. Yet he sat looking straight forward with a face of the
utmost gravity, as if wrapped in profound meditation, and it was only by
the occasional sidelong glances which he shot at his supposed admirers
that one could detect the true course of his thoughts.
Both he and his brother may represent a class in the Indian community;
neither should the Hail-Storm’s friend, the Rabbit, be passed by without
notice. The Hail-Storm and he were inseparable; they ate, slept, and
hunted together, and shared with one another almost all that they
possessed. If there be anything that deserves to be called romantic in the
Indian character, it is to be sought for in friendships such as this,
which are quite common among many of the prairie tribes.
Slowly, hour after hour, that weary afternoon dragged away. I lay in
Reynal’s lodge, overcome by the listless torpor that pervaded the whole
encampment. The day’s work was finished, or if it were not, the
inhabitants had resolved not to finish it at all, and all were dozing
quietly within the shelter of the lodges. A profound lethargy, the very
spirit of indolence, seemed to have sunk upon the village. Now and then I
could hear the low laughter of some girl from within a neighboring lodge,
or the small shrill voices of a few restless children, who alone were
moving in the deserted area. The spirit of the place infected me; I could
not even think consecutively; I was fit only for musing and reverie, when
at last, like the rest, I fell asleep.
When evening came and the fires were lighted round the lodges, a select
family circle convened in the neighborhood of Reynal’s domicile. It was
composed entirely of his squaw’s relatives, a mean and ignoble clan, among
whom none but the Hail-Storm held forth any promise of future distinction.
Even his protests were rendered not a little dubious by the character of
the family, less however from any principle of aristocratic distinction
than from the want of powerful supporters to assist him in his
undertakings, and help to avenge his quarrels. Raymond and I sat down
along with them. There were eight or ten men gathered around the fire,
together with about as many women, old and young, some of whom were
tolerably good-looking. As the pipe passed round among the men, a lively
conversation went forward, more merry than delicate, and at length two or
three of the elder women (for the girls were somewhat diffident and
bashful) began to assail Raymond with various pungent witticisms. Some of
the men took part and an old squaw concluded by bestowing on him a
ludicrous nick name, at which a general laugh followed at his expense.
Raymond grinned and giggled, and made several futile attempts at repartee.
Knowing the impolicy and even danger of suffering myself to be placed in a
ludicrous light among the Indians, I maintained a rigid inflexible
countenance, and wholly escaped their sallies.
In the morning I found, to my great disgust, that the camp was to retain
its position for another day. I dreaded its languor and monotony, and to
escape it, I set out to explore the surrounding mountains. I was
accompanied by a faithful friend, my rifle, the only friend indeed on
whose prompt assistance in time of trouble I could implicitly rely. Most
of the Indians in the village, it is true, professed good-will toward the
whites, but the experience of others and my own observation had taught me
the extreme folly of confidence, and the utter impossibility of foreseeing
to what sudden acts the strange unbridled impulses of an Indian may urge
him. When among this people danger is never so near as when you are
unprepared for it, never so remote as when you are armed and on the alert
to meet it any moment. Nothing offers so strong a temptation to their
ferocious instincts as the appearance of timidity, weakness, or security.
Many deep and gloomy gorges, choked with trees and bushes, opened from the
sides of the hills, which were shaggy with forests wherever the rocks
permitted vegetation to spring. A great number of Indians were stalking
along the edges of the woods, and boys were whooping and laughing on the
mountain-sides, practicing eye and hand, and indulging their destructive
propensities by following birds and small animals and killing them with
their little bows and arrows. There was one glen, stretching up between
steep cliffs far into the bosom of the mountain. I began to ascend along
its bottom, pushing my way onward among the rocks, trees, and bushes that
obstructed it. A slender thread of water trickled along its center, which
since issuing from the heart of its native rock could scarcely have been
warmed or gladdened by a ray of sunshine. After advancing for some time, I
conceived myself to be entirely alone; but coming to a part of the glen in
a great measure free of trees and undergrowth, I saw at some distance the
black head and red shoulders of an Indian among the bushes above. The
reader need not prepare himself for a startling adventure, for I have none
to relate. The head and shoulders belonged to Mene-Seela, my best friend
in the village. As I had approached noiselessly with my moccasined feet,
the old man was quite unconscious of my presence; and turning to a point
where I could gain an unobstructed view of him, I saw him seated alone,
immovable as a statue, among the rocks and trees. His face was turned
upward, and his eyes seemed riveted on a pine tree springing from a cleft
in the precipice above. The crest of the pine was swaying to and fro in
the wind, and its long limbs waved slowly up and down, as if the tree had
life. Looking for a while at the old man, I was satisfied that he was
engaged in an act of worship or prayer, or communion of some kind with a
supernatural being. I longed to penetrate his thoughts, but I could do
nothing more than conjecture and speculate. I knew that though the
intellect of an Indian can embrace the idea of an all-wise, all-powerful
Spirit, the supreme Ruler of the universe, yet his mind will not always
ascend into communion with a being that seems to him so vast, remote, and
incomprehensible; and when danger threatens, when his hopes are broken,
when the black wing of sorrow overshadows him, he is prone to turn for
relief to some inferior agency, less removed from the ordinary scope of
his faculties. He has a guardian spirit, on whom he relies for succor and
guidance. To him all nature is instinct with mystic influence. Among those
mountains not a wild beast was prowling, a bird singing, or a leaf
fluttering, that might not tend to direct his destiny or give warning of
what was in store for him; and he watches the world of nature around him
as the astrologer watches the stars. So closely is he linked with it that
his guardian spirit, no unsubstantial creation of the fancy, is usually
embodied in the form of some living thing—a bear, a wolf, an eagle,
or a serpent; and Mene-Seela, as he gazed intently on the old pine tree,
might believe it to inshrine the fancied guide and protector of his life.
Whatever was passing in the mind of the old man, it was no part of sense
or of delicacy to disturb him. Silently retracing my footsteps, I
descended the glen until I came to a point where I could climb the steep
precipices that shut it in, and gain the side of the mountain. Looking up,
I saw a tall peak rising among the woods. Something impelled me to climb;
I had not felt for many a day such strength and elasticity of limb. An
hour and a half of slow and often intermittent labor brought me to the
very summit; and emerging from the dark shadows of the rocks and pines, I
stepped forth into the light, and walking along the sunny verge of a
precipice, seated myself on its extreme point. Looking between the
mountain peaks to the westward, the pale blue prairie was stretching to
the farthest horizon like a serene and tranquil ocean. The surrounding
mountains were in themselves sufficiently striking and impressive, but
this contrast gave redoubled effect to their stern features.
CHAPTER XIX
PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
When I took leave of Shaw at La Bonte’s Camp, I promised that I would meet
him at Fort Laramie on the 1st of August. That day, according to my
reckoning, was now close at hand. It was impossible, at best, to fulfill
my engagement exactly, and my meeting with him must have been postponed
until many days after the appointed time, had not the plans of the Indians
very well coincided with my own. They too, intended to pass the mountains
and move toward the fort. To do so at this point was impossible, because
there was no opening; and in order to find a passage we were obliged to go
twelve or fourteen miles southward. Late in the afternoon the camp got in
motion, defiling back through the mountains along the same narrow passage
by which they had entered. I rode in company with three or four young
Indians at the rear, and the moving swarm stretched before me, in the
ruddy light of sunset, or in the deep shadow of the mountains far beyond
my sight. It was an ill-omened spot they chose to encamp upon. When they
were there just a year before, a war party of ten men, led by The
Whirlwind’s son, had gone out against the enemy, and not one had ever
returned. This was the immediate cause of this season’s warlike
preparations. I was not a little astonished when I came to the camp, at
the confusion of horrible sounds with which it was filled; howls, shrieks,
and wailings were heard from all the women present, many of whom not
content with this exhibition of grief for the loss of their friends and
relatives, were gashing their legs deeply with knives. A warrior in the
village, who had lost a brother in the expedition; chose another mode of
displaying his sorrow. The Indians, who, though often rapacious, are
utterly devoid of avarice, are accustomed in times of mourning, or on
other solemn occasions, to give away the whole of their possessions, and
reduce themselves to nakedness and want. The warrior in question led his
two best horses into the center of the village, and gave them away to his
friends; upon which songs and acclamations in praise of his generosity
mingled with the cries of the women.
On the next morning we entered once more among the mountains. There was
nothing in their appearance either grand or picturesque, though they were
desolate to the last degree, being mere piles of black and broken rocks,
without trees or vegetation of any kind. As we passed among them along a
wide valley, I noticed Raymond riding by the side of a younger squaw, to
whom he was addressing various insinuating compliments. All the old squaws
in the neighborhood watched his proceedings in great admiration, and the
girl herself would turn aside her head and laugh. Just then the old mule
thought proper to display her vicious pranks; she began to rear and plunge
most furiously. Raymond was an excellent rider, and at first he stuck fast
in his seat; but the moment after, I saw the mule’s hind-legs flourishing
in the air, and my unlucky follower pitching head foremost over her ears.
There was a burst of screams and laughter from all the women, in which his
mistress herself took part, and Raymond was instantly assailed by such a
shower of witticisms, that he was glad to ride forward out of hearing.
Not long after, as I rode near him, I heard him shouting to me. He was
pointing toward a detached rocky hill that stood in the middle of the
valley before us, and from behind it a long file of elk came out at full
speed and entered an opening in the side of the mountain. They had
scarcely disappeared when whoops and exclamations came from fifty voices
around me. The young men leaped from their horses, flung down their heavy
buffalo robes, and ran at full speed toward the foot of the nearest
mountain. Reynal also broke away at a gallop in the same direction, “Come
on! come on!” he called to us. “Do you see that band of bighorn up yonder?
If there’s one of them, there’s a hundred!”
In fact, near the summit of the mountain, I could see a large number of
small white objects, moving rapidly upward among the precipices, while
others were filing along its rocky profile. Anxious to see the sport, I
galloped forward, and entering a passage in the side of the mountain,
ascended the loose rocks as far as my horse could carry me. Here I
fastened her to an old pine tree that stood alone, scorching in the sun.
At that moment Raymond called to me from the right that another band of
sheep was close at hand in that direction. I ran up to the top of the
opening, which gave me a full view into the rocky gorge beyond; and here I
plainly saw some fifty or sixty sheep, almost within rifle-shot,
clattering upward among the rocks, and endeavoring, after their usual
custom, to reach the highest point. The naked Indians bounded up lightly
in pursuit. In a moment the game and hunters disappeared. Nothing could be
seen or heard but the occasional report of a gun, more and more distant,
reverberating among the rocks.
I turned to descend, and as I did so I could see the valley below alive
with Indians passing rapidly through it, on horseback and on foot. A
little farther on, all were stopping as they came up; the camp was
preparing, and the lodges rising. I descended to this spot, and soon after
Reynal and Raymond returned. They bore between them a sheep which they had
pelted to death with stones from the edge of a ravine, along the bottom of
which it was attempting to escape. One by one the hunters came dropping
in; yet such is the activity of the Rocky Mountain sheep that, although
sixty or seventy men were out in pursuit, not more than half a dozen
animals were killed. Of these only one was a full-grown male. He had a
pair of horns twisted like a ram’s, the dimensions of which were almost
beyond belief. I have seen among the Indians ladles with long handles,
capable of containing more than a quart, cut from such horns.
There is something peculiarly interesting in the character and habits of
the mountain sheep, whose chosen retreats are above the region of
vegetation and storms, and who leap among the giddy precipices of their
aerial home as actively as the antelope skims over the prairies below.
Through the whole of the next morning we were moving forward, among the
hills. On the following day the heights gathered around us, and the
passage of the mountains began in earnest. Before the village left its
camping ground, I set forward in company with the Eagle-Feather, a man of
powerful frame, but of bad and sinister face. His son, a light-limbed boy,
rode with us, and another Indian, named the Panther, was also of the
party. Leaving the village out of sight behind us, we rode together up a
rocky defile. After a while, however, the Eagle-Feather discovered in the
distance some appearance of game, and set off with his son in pursuit of
it, while I went forward with the Panther. This was a mere NOM DE GUERRE;
for, like many Indians, he concealed his real name out of some
superstitious notion. He was a very noble looking fellow. As he suffered
his ornamented buffalo robe to fall into folds about his loins, his
stately and graceful figure was fully displayed; and while he sat his
horse in an easy attitude, the long feathers of the prairie cock
fluttering from the crown of his head, he seemed the very model of a wild
prairie-rider. He had not the same features as those of other Indians.
Unless his handsome face greatly belied him, he was free from the
jealousy, suspicion, and malignant cunning of his people. For the most
part, a civilized white man can discover but very few points of sympathy
between his own nature and that of an Indian. With every disposition to do
justice to their good qualities, he must be conscious that an impassable
gulf lies between him and his red brethren of the prairie. Nay, so alien
to himself do they appear that, having breathed for a few months or a few
weeks the air of this region, he begins to look upon them as a troublesome
and dangerous species of wild beast, and, if expedient, he could shoot
them with as little compunction as they themselves would experience after
performing the same office upon him. Yet, in the countenance of the
Panther, I gladly read that there were at least some points of sympathy
between him and me. We were excellent friends, and as we rode forward
together through rocky passages, deep dells, and little barren plains, he
occupied himself very zealously in teaching me the Dakota language. After
a while, we came to a little grassy recess, where some gooseberry bushes
were growing at the foot of a rock; and these offered such temptation to
my companion, that he gave over his instruction, and stopped so long to
gather the fruit that before we were in motion again the van of the
village came in view. An old woman appeared, leading down her pack horse
among the rocks above. Savage after savage followed, and the little dell
was soon crowded with the throng.
That morning’s march was one not easily to be forgotten. It led us through
a sublime waste, a wilderness of mountains and pine forests, over which
the spirit of loneliness and silence seemed brooding. Above and below
little could be seen but the same dark green foliage. It overspread the
valleys, and the mountains were clothed with it from the black rocks that
crowned their summits to the impetuous streams that circled round their
base. Scenery like this, it might seem, could have no very cheering effect
on the mind of a sick man (for to-day my disease had again assailed me) in
the midst of a horde of savages; but if the reader has ever wandered, with
a true hunter’s spirit, among the forests of Maine, or the more
picturesque solitudes of the Adirondack Mountains, he will understand how
the somber woods and mountains around me might have awakened any other
feelings than those of gloom. In truth they recalled gladdening
recollections of similar scenes in a distant and far different land. After
we had been advancing for several hours through passages always narrow,
often obstructed and difficult, I saw at a little distance on our right a
narrow opening between two high wooded precipices. All within seemed
darkness and mystery. In the mood in which I found myself something
strongly impelled me to enter. Passing over the intervening space I guided
my horse through the rocky portal, and as I did so instinctively drew the
covering from my rifle, half expecting that some unknown evil lay in
ambush within those dreary recesses. The place was shut in among tall
cliffs, and so deeply shadowed by a host of old pine trees that, though
the sun shone bright on the side of the mountain, nothing but a dim
twilight could penetrate within. As far as I could see it had no tenants
except a few hawks and owls, who, dismayed at my intrusion, flapped
hoarsely away among the shaggy branches. I moved forward, determined to
explore the mystery to the bottom, and soon became involved among the
pines. The genius of the place exercised a strange influence upon my mind.
Its faculties were stimulated into extraordinary activity, and as I passed
along many half-forgotten incidents, and the images of persons and things
far distant, rose rapidly before me with surprising distinctness. In that
perilous wilderness, eight hundred miles removed beyond the faintest
vestige of civilization, the scenes of another hemisphere, the seat of
ancient refinement, passed before me more like a succession of vivid
paintings than any mere dreams of the fancy. I saw the church of St.
Peter’s illumined on the evening of Easter Day, the whole majestic pile,
from the cross to the foundation stone, penciled in fire and shedding a
radiance, like the serene light of the moon, on the sea of upturned faces
below. I saw the peak of Mount Etna towering above its inky mantle of
clouds and lightly curling its wreaths of milk-white smoke against the
soft sky flushed with the Sicilian sunset. I saw also the gloomy vaulted
passages and the narrow cells of the Passionist convent where I once had
sojourned for a few days with the fanatical monks, its pale, stern inmates
in their robes of black, and the grated window from whence I could look
out, a forbidden indulgence, upon the melancholy Coliseum and the
crumbling ruins of the Eternal City. The mighty glaciers of the Splugen
too rose before me, gleaming in the sun like polished silver, and those
terrible solitudes, the birthplace of the Rhine, where bursting from the
bowels of its native mountains, it lashes and foams down the rocky abyss
into the little valley of Andeer. These recollections, and many more,
crowded upon me, until remembering that it was hardly wise to remain long
in such a place, I mounted again and retraced my steps. Issuing from
between the rocks I saw a few rods before me the men, women, and children,
dogs and horses, still filing slowly across the little glen. A bare round
hill rose directly above them. I rode to the top, and from this point I
could look down on the savage procession as it passed just beneath my
feet, and far on the left I could see its thin and broken line, visible
only at intervals, stretching away for miles among the mountains. On the
farthest ridge horsemen were still descending like mere specks in the
distance.
I remained on the hill until all had passed, and then, descending,
followed after them. A little farther on I found a very small meadow, set
deeply among steep mountains; and here the whole village had encamped. The
little spot was crowded with the confused and disorderly host. Some of the
lodges were already completely prepared, or the squaws perhaps were busy
in drawing the heavy coverings of skin over the bare poles. Others were as
yet mere skeletons, while others still—poles, covering, and all—lay
scattered in complete disorder on the ground among buffalo robes, bales of
meat, domestic utensils, harness, and weapons. Squaws were screaming to
one another, horses rearing and plunging dogs yelping, eager to be
disburdened of their loads, while the fluttering of feathers and the gleam
of barbaric ornaments added liveliness to the scene. The small children
ran about amid the crowd, while many of the boys were scrambling among the
overhanging rocks, and standing, with their little bows in their hands,
looking down upon a restless throng. In contrast with the general
confusion, a circle of old men and warriors sat in the midst, smoking in
profound indifference and tranquillity. The disorder at length subsided.
The horses were driven away to feed along the adjacent valley, and the
camp assumed an air of listless repose. It was scarcely past noon; a vast
white canopy of smoke from a burning forest to the eastward overhung the
place, and partially obscured the sun; yet the heat was almost
insupportable. The lodges stood crowded together without order in the
narrow space. Each was a perfect hothouse, within which the lazy
proprietor lay sleeping. The camp was silent as death. Nothing stirred
except now and then an old woman passing from lodge to lodge. The girls
and young men sat together in groups under the pine trees upon the
surrounding heights. The dogs lay panting on the ground, too lazy even to
growl at the white man. At the entrance of the meadow there was a cold
spring among the rocks, completely overshadowed by tall trees and dense
undergrowth. In this cold and shady retreat a number of girls were
assembled, sitting together on rocks and fallen logs, discussing the
latest gossip of the village, or laughing and throwing water with their
hands at the intruding Meneaska. The minutes seemed lengthened into hours.
I lay for a long time under a tree, studying the Ogallalla tongue, with
the zealous instructions of my friend the Panther. When we were both tired
of this I went and lay down by the side of a deep, clear pool formed by
the water of the spring. A shoal of little fishes of about a pin’s length
were playing in it, sporting together, as it seemed, very amicably; but on
closer observation, I saw that they were engaged in a cannibal warfare
among themselves. Now and then a small one would fall a victim, and
immediately disappear down the maw of his voracious conqueror. Every
moment, however, the tyrant of the pool, a monster about three inches
long, with staring goggle eyes, would slowly issue forth with quivering
fins and tail from under the shelving bank. The small fry at this would
suspend their hostilities, and scatter in a panic at the appearance of
overwhelming force.
“Soft-hearted philanthropists,” thought I, “may sigh long for their
peaceful millennium; for from minnows up to men, life is an incessant
battle.”
Evening approached at last, the tall mountain-tops around were still gay
and bright in sunshine, while our deep glen was completely shadowed. I
left the camp and ascended a neighboring hill, whose rocky summit
commanded a wide view over the surrounding wilderness. The sun was still
glaring through the stiff pines on the ridge of the western mountain. In a
moment he was gone, and as the landscape rapidly darkened, I turned again
toward the village. As I descended the hill, the howling of wolves and the
barking of foxes came up out of the dim woods from far and near. The camp
was glowing with a multitude of fires, and alive with dusky naked figures,
whose tall shadows flitted among the surroundings crags.
I found a circle of smokers seated in their usual place; that is, on the
ground before the lodge of a certain warrior, who seemed to be generally
known for his social qualities. I sat down to smoke a parting pipe with my
savage friends. That day was the 1st of August, on which I had promised to
meet Shaw at Fort Laramie. The Fort was less than two days’ journey
distant, and that my friend need not suffer anxiety on my account, I
resolved to push forward as rapidly as possible to the place of meeting. I
went to look after the Hail-Storm, and having found him, I offered him a
handful of hawks’-bells and a paper of vermilion, on condition that he
would guide me in the morning through the mountains within sight of
Laramie Creek.
The Hail-Storm ejaculated “How!” and accepted the gift. Nothing more was
said on either side; the matter was settled, and I lay down to sleep in
Kongra-Tonga’s lodge.
Long before daylight Raymond shook me by the shoulder.
“Everything is ready,” he said.
I went out. The morning was chill, damp, and dark; and the whole camp
seemed asleep. The Hail-Storm sat on horseback before the lodge, and my
mare Pauline and the mule which Raymond rode were picketed near it. We
saddled and made our other arrangements for the journey, but before these
were completed the camp began to stir, and the lodge-coverings fluttered
and rustled as the squaws pulled them down in preparation for departure.
Just as the light began to appear we left the ground, passing up through a
narrow opening among the rocks which led eastward out of the meadow.
Gaining the top of this passage, I turned round and sat looking back upon
the camp, dimly visible in the gray light of the morning. All was alive
with the bustle of preparation. I turned away, half unwilling to take a
final leave of my savage associates. We turned to the right, passing among
the rocks and pine trees so dark that for a while we could scarcely see
our way. The country in front was wild and broken, half hill, half plain,
partly open and partly covered with woods of pine and oak. Barriers of
lofty mountains encompassed it; the woods were fresh and cool in the early
morning; the peaks of the mountains were wreathed with mist, and sluggish
vapors were entangled among the forests upon their sides. At length the
black pinnacle of the tallest mountain was tipped with gold by the rising
sun. About that time the Hail-Storm, who rode in front gave a low
exclamation. Some large animal leaped up from among the bushes, and an
elk, as I thought, his horns thrown back over his neck, darted past us
across the open space, and bounded like a mad thing away among the
adjoining pines. Raymond was soon out of his saddle, but before he could
fire, the animal was full two hundred yards distant. The ball struck its
mark, though much too low for mortal effect. The elk, however, wheeled in
its flight, and ran at full speed among the trees, nearly at right angles
to his former course. I fired and broke his shoulder; still he moved on,
limping down into the neighboring woody hollow, whither the young Indian
followed and killed him. When we reached the spot we discovered him to be
no elk, but a black-tailed deer, an animal nearly twice the size of the
common deer, and quite unknown to the East. We began to cut him up; the
reports of the rifles had reached the ears of the Indians, and before our
task was finished several of them came to the spot. Leaving the hide of
the deer to the Hail-Storm, we hung as much of the meat as we wanted
behind our saddles, left the rest to the Indians, and resumed our journey.
Meanwhile the village was on its way, and had gone so far that to get in
advance of it was impossible. Therefore we directed our course so as to
strike its line of march at the nearest point. In a short time, through
the dark trunks of the pines, we could see the figures of the Indians as
they passed. Once more we were among them. They were moving with even more
than their usual precipitation, crowded close together in a narrow pass
between rocks and old pine trees. We were on the eastern descent of the
mountain, and soon came to a rough and difficult defile, leading down a
very steep declivity. The whole swarm poured down together, filling the
rocky passageway like some turbulent mountain stream. The mountains before
us were on fire, and had been so for weeks. The view in front was obscured
by a vast dim sea of smoke and vapor, while on either hand the tall
cliffs, bearing aloft their crest of pines, thrust their heads boldly
through it, and the sharp pinnacles and broken ridges of the mountains
beyond them were faintly traceable as through a veil. The scene in itself
was most grand and imposing, but with the savage multitude, the armed
warriors, the naked children, the gayly appareled girls, pouring
impetuously down the heights, it would have formed a noble subject for a
painter, and only the pen of a Scott could have done it justice in
description.
We passed over a burnt tract where the ground was hot beneath the horses’
feet, and between the blazing sides of two mountains. Before long we had
descended to a softer region, where we found a succession of little
valleys watered by a stream, along the borders of which grew abundance of
wild gooseberries and currants, and the children and many of the men
straggled from the line of march to gather them as we passed along.
Descending still farther, the view changed rapidly. The burning mountains
were behind us, and through the open valleys in front we could see the
ocean-like prairie, stretching beyond the sight. After passing through a
line of trees that skirted the brook, the Indians filed out upon the
plains. I was thirsty and knelt down by the little stream to drink. As I
mounted again I very carelessly left my rifle among the grass, and my
thoughts being otherwise absorbed, I rode for some distance before
discovering its absence. As the reader may conceive, I lost no time in
turning about and galloping back in search of it. Passing the line of
Indians, I watched every warrior as he rode by me at a canter, and at
length discovered my rifle in the hands of one of them, who, on my
approaching to claim it, immediately gave it up. Having no other means of
acknowledging the obligation, I took off one of my spurs and gave it to
him. He was greatly delighted, looking upon it as a distinguished mark of
favor, and immediately held out his foot for me to buckle it on. As soon
as I had done so, he struck it with force into the side of his horse, who
gave a violent leap. The Indian laughed and spurred harder than before. At
this the horse shot away like an arrow, amid the screams and laughter of
the squaws, and the ejaculations of the men, who exclaimed: “Washtay!—Good!”
at the potent effect of my gift. The Indian had no saddle, and nothing in
place of a bridle except a leather string tied round the horse’s jaw. The
animal was of course wholly uncontrollable, and stretched away at full
speed over the prairie, till he and his rider vanished behind a distant
swell. I never saw the man again, but I presume no harm came to him. An
Indian on horseback has more lives than a cat.
The village encamped on a scorching prairie, close to the foot of the
mountains. The beat was most intense and penetrating. The coverings of the
lodges were raised a foot or more from the ground, in order to procure
some circulation of air; and Reynal thought proper to lay aside his
trapper’s dress of buckskin and assume the very scanty costume of an
Indian. Thus elegantly attired, he stretched himself in his lodge on a
buffalo robe, alternately cursing the heat and puffing at the pipe which
he and I passed between us. There was present also a select circle of
Indian friends and relatives. A small boiled puppy was served up as a
parting feast, to which was added, by way of dessert, a wooden bowl of
gooseberries, from the mountains.
“Look there,” said Reynal, pointing out of the opening of his lodge; “do
you see that line of buttes about fifteen miles off? Well, now, do you see
that farthest one, with the white speck on the face of it? Do you think
you ever saw it before?”
“It looks to me,” said I, “like the hill that we were camped under when we
were on Laramie Creek, six or eight weeks ago.”
“You’ve hit it,” answered Reynal.
“Go and bring in the animals, Raymond,” said I: “we’ll camp there
to-night, and start for the Fort in the morning.”
The mare and the mule were soon before the lodge. We saddled them, and in
the meantime a number of Indians collected about us. The virtues of
Pauline, my strong, fleet, and hardy little mare, were well known in camp,
and several of the visitors were mounted upon good horses which they had
brought me as presents. I promptly declined their offers, since accepting
them would have involved the necessity of transferring poor Pauline into
their barbarous hands. We took leave of Reynal, but not of the Indians,
who are accustomed to dispense with such superfluous ceremonies. Leaving
the camp we rode straight over the prairie toward the white-faced bluff,
whose pale ridges swelled gently against the horizon, like a cloud. An
Indian went with us, whose name I forget, though the ugliness of his face
and the ghastly width of his mouth dwell vividly in my recollection. The
antelope were numerous, but we did not heed them. We rode directly toward
our destination, over the arid plains and barren hills, until, late in the
afternoon, half spent with heat, thirst, and fatigue, we saw a gladdening
sight; the long line of trees and the deep gulf that mark the course of
Laramie Creek. Passing through the growth of huge dilapidated old
cottonwood trees that bordered the creek, we rode across to the other
side.
The rapid and foaming waters were filled with fish playing and splashing
in the shallows. As we gained the farther bank, our horses turned eagerly
to drink, and we, kneeling on the sand, followed their example. We had not
gone far before the scene began to grow familiar.
“We are getting near home, Raymond,” said I.
There stood the Big Tree under which we had encamped so long; there were
the white cliffs that used to look down upon our tent when it stood at the
bend of the creek; there was the meadow in which our horses had grazed for
weeks, and a little farther on, the prairie-dog village where I had
beguiled many a languid hour in persecuting the unfortunate inhabitants.
“We are going to catch it now,” said Raymond, turning his broad, vacant
face up toward the sky.
In truth, the landscape, the cliffs and the meadow, the stream and the
groves were darkening fast. Black masses of cloud were swelling up in the
south, and the thunder was growling ominously.
“We will camp here,” I said, pointing to a dense grove of trees lower down
the stream. Raymond and I turned toward it, but the Indian stopped and
called earnestly after us. When we demanded what was the matter, he said
that the ghosts of two warriors were always among those trees, and that if
we slept there, they would scream and throw stones at us all night, and
perhaps steal our horses before morning. Thinking it as well to humor him,
we left behind us the haunt of these extraordinary ghosts, and passed on
toward Chugwater, riding at full gallop, for the big drops began to patter
down. Soon we came in sight of the poplar saplings that grew about the
mouth of the little stream. We leaped to the ground, threw off our
saddles, turned our horses loose, and drawing our knives, began to slash
among the bushes to cut twigs and branches for making a shelter against
the rain. Bending down the taller saplings as they grew, we piled the
young shoots upon them; and thus made a convenient penthouse, but all our
labor was useless. The storm scarcely touched us. Half a mile on our right
the rain was pouring down like a cataract, and the thunder roared over the
prairie like a battery of cannon; while we by good fortune received only a
few heavy drops from the skirt of the passing cloud. The weather cleared
and the sun set gloriously. Sitting close under our leafy canopy, we
proceeded to discuss a substantial meal of wasna which Weah-Washtay had
given me. The Indian had brought with him his pipe and a bag of
shongsasha; so before lying down to sleep, we sat for some time smoking
together. Previously, however, our wide-mouthed friend had taken the
precaution of carefully examining the neighborhood. He reported that eight
men, counting them on his fingers, had been encamped there not long
before. Bisonette, Paul Dorion, Antoine Le Rouge, Richardson, and four
others, whose names he could not tell. All this proved strictly correct.
By what instinct he had arrived at such accurate conclusions, I am utterly
at a loss to divine.
It was still quite dark when I awoke and called Raymond. The Indian was
already gone, having chosen to go on before us to the Fort. Setting out
after him, we rode for some time in complete darkness, and when the sun at
length rose, glowing like a fiery ball of copper, we were ten miles
distant from the Fort. At length, from the broken summit of a tall sandy
bluff we could see Fort Laramie, miles before us, standing by the side of
the stream like a little gray speck in the midst of the bounding
desolation. I stopped my horse, and sat for a moment looking down upon it.
It seemed to me the very center of comfort and civilization. We were not
long in approaching it, for we rode at speed the greater part of the way.
Laramie Creek still intervened between us and the friendly walls. Entering
the water at the point where we had struck upon the bank, we raised our
feet to the saddle behind us, and thus, kneeling as it were on horseback,
passed dry-shod through the swift current. As we rode up the bank, a
number of men appeared in the gateway. Three of them came forward to meet
us. In a moment I distinguished Shaw; Henry Chatillon followed with his
face of manly simplicity and frankness, and Delorier came last, with a
broad grin of welcome. The meeting was not on either side one of mere
ceremony. For my own part, the change was a most agreeable one from the
society of savages and men little better than savages, to that of my
gallant and high-minded companion and our noble-hearted guide. My
appearance was equally gratifying to Shaw, who was beginning to entertain
some very uncomfortable surmises concerning me.
Bordeaux greeted me very cordially, and shouted to the cook. This
functionary was a new acquisition, having lately come from Fort Pierre
with the trading wagons. Whatever skill he might have boasted, he had not
the most promising materials to exercise it upon. He set before me,
however, a breakfast of biscuit, coffee, and salt pork. It seemed like a
new phase of existence, to be seated once more on a bench, with a knife
and fork, a plate and teacup, and something resembling a table before me.
The coffee seemed delicious, and the bread was a most welcome novelty,
since for three weeks I had eaten scarcely anything but meat, and that for
the most part without salt. The meal also had the relish of good company,
for opposite to me sat Shaw in elegant dishabille. If one is anxious
thoroughly to appreciate the value of a congenial companion, he has only
to spend a few weeks by himself in an Ogallalla village. And if he can
contrive to add to his seclusion a debilitating and somewhat critical
illness, his perceptions upon this subject will be rendered considerably
more vivid.
Shaw had been upward of two weeks at the Fort. I found him established in
his old quarters, a large apartment usually occupied by the absent
bourgeois. In one corner was a soft and luxuriant pile of excellent
buffalo robes, and here I lay down. Shaw brought me three books.
“Here,” said he, “is your Shakespeare and Byron, and here is the Old
Testament, which has as much poetry in it as the other two put together.”
I chose the worst of the three, and for the greater part of that day lay
on the buffalo robes, fairly reveling in the creations of that resplendent
genius which has achieved no more signal triumph than that of half
beguiling us to forget the pitiful and unmanly character of its possessor.
CHAPTER XX
THE LONELY JOURNEY
On the day of my arrival at Fort Laramie, Shaw and I were lounging on two
buffalo robes in the large apartment hospitably assigned to us; Henry
Chatillon also was present, busy about the harness and weapons, which had
been brought into the room, and two or three Indians were crouching on the
floor, eyeing us with their fixed, unwavering gaze.
“I have been well off here,” said Shaw, “in all respects but one; there is
no good shongsasha to be had for love or money.”
I gave him a small leather bag containing some of excellent quality, which
I had brought from the Black Hills.
“Now, Henry,” said he, “hand me Papin’s chopping-board, or give it to that
Indian, and let him cut the mixture; they understand it better than any
white man.”
The Indian, without saying a word, mixed the bark and the tobacco in due
proportions, filled the pipe and lighted it. This done, my companion and I
proceeded to deliberate on our future course of proceeding; first,
however, Shaw acquainted me with some incidents which had occurred at the
fort during my absence.
About a week previous four men had arrived from beyond the mountains;
Sublette, Reddick, and two others. Just before reaching the Fort they had
met a large party of Indians, chiefly young men. All of them belonged to
the village of our old friend Smoke, who, with his whole band of
adherents, professed the greatest friendship for the whites. The travelers
therefore approached, and began to converse without the least suspicion.
Suddenly, however, their bridles were violently seized and they were
ordered to dismount. Instead of complying, they struck their horses with
full force, and broke away from the Indians. As they galloped off they
heard a yell behind them, mixed with a burst of derisive laughter, and the
reports of several guns. None of them were hurt though Reddick’s bridle
rein was cut by a bullet within an inch of his hand. After this taste of
Indian hostility they felt for the moment no disposition to encounter
further risks. They intended to pursue the route southward along the foot
of the mountains to Bent’s Fort; and as our plans coincided with theirs,
they proposed to join forces. Finding, however, that I did not return,
they grew impatient of inaction, forgot their late escape, and set out
without us, promising to wait our arrival at Bent’s Fort. From thence we
were to make the long journey to the settlements in company, as the path
was not a little dangerous, being infested by hostile Pawnees and
Comanches.
We expected, on reaching Bent’s Fort, to find there still another
re-enforcement. A young Kentuckian of the true Kentucky blood, generous,
impetuous, and a gentleman withal, had come out to the mountains with
Russel’s party of California emigrants. One of his chief objects, as he
gave out, was to kill an Indian; an exploit which he afterwards succeeded
in achieving, much to the jeopardy of ourselves and others who had to pass
through the country of the dead Pawnee’s enraged relatives. Having become
disgusted with his emigrant associates he left them, and had some time
before set out with a party of companions for the head of the Arkansas. He
sent us previously a letter, intimating that he would wait until we
arrived at Bent’s Fort, and accompany us thence to the settlements. When,
however, he came to the Fort, he found there a party of forty men about to
make the homeward journey. He wisely preferred to avail himself of so
strong an escort. Mr. Sublette and his companions also set out, in order
to overtake this company; so that on reaching Bent’s Fort, some six weeks
after, we found ourselves deserted by our allies and thrown once more upon
our own resources.
But I am anticipating. When, before leaving the settlement we had made
inquiries concerning this part of the country of General Kearny, Mr.
Mackenzie, Captain Wyeth, and others well acquainted with it, they had all
advised us by no means to attempt this southward journey with fewer than
fifteen or twenty men. The danger consists in the chance of encountering
Indian war parties. Sometimes throughout the whole length of the journey
(a distance of 350 miles) one does not meet a single human being;
frequently, however, the route is beset by Arapahoes and other unfriendly
tribes; in which case the scalp of the adventurer is in imminent peril. As
to the escort of fifteen or twenty men, such a force of whites could at
that time scarcely be collected by the whole country; and had the case
been otherwise, the expense of securing them, together with the necessary
number of horses, would have been extremely heavy. We had resolved,
however, upon pursuing this southward course. There were, indeed, two
other routes from Fort Laramie; but both of these were less interesting,
and neither was free from danger. Being unable therefore to procure the
fifteen or twenty men recommended, we determined to set out with those we
had already in our employ, Henry Chatillon, Delorier, and Raymond. The men
themselves made no objection, nor would they have made any had the journey
been more dangerous; for Henry was without fear, and the other two without
thought.
Shaw and I were much better fitted for this mode of traveling than we had
been on betaking ourselves to the prairies for the first time a few months
before. The daily routine had ceased to be a novelty. All the details of
the journey and the camp had become familiar to us. We had seen life under
a new aspect; the human biped had been reduced to his primitive condition.
We had lived without law to protect, a roof to shelter, or garment of
cloth to cover us. One of us at least had been without bread, and without
salt to season his food. Our idea of what is indispensable to human
existence and enjoyment had been wonderfully curtailed, and a horse, a
rifle, and a knife seemed to make up the whole of life’s necessaries. For
these once obtained, together with the skill to use them, all else that is
essential would follow in their train, and a host of luxuries besides. One
other lesson our short prairie experience had taught us; that of profound
contentment in the present, and utter contempt for what the future might
bring forth.
These principles established, we prepared to leave Fort Laramie. On the
fourth day of August, early in the afternoon, we bade a final adieu to its
hospitable gateway. Again Shaw and I were riding side by side on the
prairie. For the first fifty miles we had companions with us; Troche, a
little trapper, and Rouville, a nondescript in the employ of the Fur
Company, who were going to join the trader Bisonette at his encampment
near the head of Horse Creek. We rode only six or eight miles that
afternoon before we came to a little brook traversing the barren prairie.
All along its course grew copses of young wild-cherry trees, loaded with
ripe fruit, and almost concealing the gliding thread of water with their
dense growth, while on each side rose swells of rich green grass. Here we
encamped; and being much too indolent to pitch our tent, we flung our
saddles on the ground, spread a pair of buffalo robes, lay down upon them,
and began to smoke. Meanwhile, Delorier busied himself with his hissing
frying-pan, and Raymond stood guard over the band of grazing horses.
Delorier had an active assistant in Rouville, who professed great skill in
the culinary art, and seizing upon a fork, began to lend his zealous aid
in making ready supper. Indeed, according to his own belief, Rouville was
a man of universal knowledge, and he lost no opportunity to display his
manifold accomplishments. He had been a circus-rider at St. Louis, and
once he rode round Fort Laramie on his head, to the utter bewilderment of
all the Indians. He was also noted as the wit of the Fort; and as he had
considerable humor and abundant vivacity, he contributed more that night
to the liveliness of the camp than all the rest of the party put together.
At one instant he would be kneeling by Delorier, instructing him in the
true method of frying antelope steaks, then he would come and seat himself
at our side, dilating upon the orthodox fashion of braiding up a horse’s
tail, telling apocryphal stories how he had killed a buffalo bull with a
knife, having first cut off his tail when at full speed, or relating
whimsical anecdotes of the bourgeois Papin. At last he snatched up a
volume of Shakespeare that was lying on the grass, and halted and stumbled
through a line or two to prove that he could read. He went gamboling about
the camp, chattering like some frolicsome ape; and whatever he was doing
at one moment, the presumption was a sure one that he would not be doing
it the next. His companion Troche sat silently on the grass, not speaking
a word, but keeping a vigilant eye on a very ugly little Utah squaw, of
whom he was extremely jealous.
On the next day we traveled farther, crossing the wide sterile basin
called Goche’s Hole. Toward night we became involved among deep ravines;
and being also unable to find water, our journey was protracted to a very
late hour. On the next morning we had to pass a long line of bluffs, whose
raw sides, wrought upon by rains and storms, were of a ghastly whiteness
most oppressive to the sight. As we ascended a gap in these hills, the way
was marked by huge foot-prints, like those of a human giant. They were the
track of the grizzly bear; and on the previous day also we had seen
abundance of them along the dry channels of the streams we had passed.
Immediately after this we were crossing a barren plain, spreading in long
and gentle undulations to the horizon. Though the sun was bright, there
was a light haze in the atmosphere. The distant hills assumed strange,
distorted forms, and the edge of the horizon was continually changing its
aspect. Shaw and I were riding together, and Henry Chatillon was alone, a
few rods before us; he stopped his horse suddenly, and turning round with
the peculiar eager and earnest expression which he always wore when
excited, he called to us to come forward. We galloped to his side. Henry
pointed toward a black speck on the gray swell of the prairie, apparently
about a mile off. “It must be a bear,” said he; “come, now, we shall all
have some sport. Better fun to fight him than to fight an old buffalo
bull; grizzly bear so strong and smart.”
So we all galloped forward together, prepared for a hard fight; for these
bears, though clumsy in appearance and extremely large, are incredibly
fierce and active. The swell of the prairie concealed the black object
from our view. Immediately after it appeared again. But now it seemed
quite near to us; and as we looked at it in astonishment, it suddenly
separated into two parts, each of which took wing and flew away. We
stopped our horses and looked round at Henry, whose face exhibited a
curious mixture of mirth and mortification. His hawk’s eye had been so
completely deceived by the peculiar atmosphere that he had mistaken two
large crows at the distance of fifty rods for a grizzly bear a mile off.
To the journey’s end Henry never heard the last of the grizzly bear with
wings.
In the afternoon we came to the foot of a considerable hill. As we
ascended it Rouville began to ask questions concerning our conditions and
prospects at home, and Shaw was edifying him with a minute account of an
imaginary wife and child, to which he listened with implicit faith.
Reaching the top of the hill we saw the windings of Horse Creek on the
plains below us, and a little on the left we could distinguish the camp of
Bisonette among the trees and copses along the course of the stream.
Rouville’s face assumed just then a most ludicrously blank expression. We
inquired what was the matter, when it appeared that Bisonette had sent him
from this place to Fort Laramie with the sole object of bringing back a
supply of tobacco. Our rattle-brain friend, from the time of his reaching
the Fort up to the present moment, had entirely forgotten the object of
his journey, and had ridden a dangerous hundred miles for nothing.
Descending to Horse Creek we forded it, and on the opposite bank a
solitary Indian sat on horseback under a tree. He said nothing, but turned
and led the way toward the camp. Bisonette had made choice of an admirable
position. The stream, with its thick growth of trees, inclosed on three
sides a wide green meadow, where about forty Dakota lodges were pitched in
a circle, and beyond them half a dozen lodges of the friendly Cheyenne.
Bisonette himself lived in the Indian manner. Riding up to his lodge, we
found him seated at the head of it, surrounded by various appliances of
comfort not common on the prairie. His squaw was near him, and rosy
children were scrambling about in printed-calico gowns; Paul Dorion also,
with his leathery face and old white capote, was seated in the lodge,
together with Antoine Le Rouge, a half-breed Pawnee, Sibille, a trader,
and several other white men.
“It will do you no harm,” said Bisonette, “to stay here with us for a day
or two, before you start for the Pueblo.”
We accepted the invitation, and pitched our tent on a rising ground above
the camp and close to the edge of the trees. Bisonette soon invited us to
a feast, and we suffered abundance of the same sort of attention from his
Indian associates. The reader may possibly recollect that when I joined
the Indian village, beyond the Black Hills, I found that a few families
were absent, having declined to pass the mountains along with the rest.
The Indians in Bisonette’s camp consisted of these very families, and many
of them came to me that evening to inquire after their relatives and
friends. They were not a little mortified to learn that while they, from
their own timidity and indolence, were almost in a starving condition, the
rest of the village had provided their lodges for the next season, laid in
a great stock of provisions, and were living in abundance and luxury.
Bisonette’s companions had been sustaining themselves for some time on
wild cherries, which the squaws pounded up, stones and all, and spread on
buffalo robes, to dry in the sun; they were then eaten without further
preparation, or used as an ingredient in various delectable compounds.
On the next day the camp was in commotion with a new arrival. A single
Indian had come with his family the whole way from the Arkansas. As he
passed among the lodges he put on an expression of unusual dignity and
importance, and gave out that he had brought great news to tell the
whites. Soon after the squaws had erected his lodge, he sent his little
son to invite all the white men, and all the most distinguished Indians,
to a feast. The guests arrived and sat wedged together, shoulder to
shoulder, within the hot and suffocating lodge. The Stabber, for that was
our entertainer’s name, had killed an old buffalo bull on his way. This
veteran’s boiled tripe, tougher than leather, formed the main item of the
repast. For the rest, it consisted of wild cherries and grease boiled
together in a large copper kettle. The feast was distributed, and for a
moment all was silent, strenuous exertion; then each guest, with one or
two exceptions, however, turned his wooden dish bottom upward to prove
that he had done full justice to his entertainer’s hospitality. The
Stabber next produced his chopping board, on which he prepared the mixture
for smoking, and filled several pipes, which circulated among the company.
This done, he seated himself upright on his couch, and began with much
gesticulation to tell his story. I will not repeat his childish jargon. It
was so entangled, like the greater part of an Indian’s stories, with
absurd and contradictory details, that it was almost impossible to
disengage from it a single particle of truth. All that we could gather was
the following:
He had been on the Arkansas, and there he had seen six great war parties
of whites. He had never believed before that the whole world contained
half so many white men. They all had large horses, long knives, and short
rifles, and some of them were attired alike in the most splendid war
dresses he had ever seen. From this account it was clear that bodies of
dragoons and perhaps also of volunteer cavalry had been passing up the
Arkansas. The Stabber had also seen a great many of the white lodges of
the Meneaska, drawn by their long-horned buffalo. These could be nothing
else than covered ox-wagons used no doubt in transporting stores for the
troops. Soon after seeing this, our host had met an Indian who had lately
come from among the Comanches. The latter had told him that all the
Mexicans had gone out to a great buffalo hunt. That the Americans had hid
themselves in a ravine. When the Mexicans had shot away all their arrows,
the Americans had fired their guns, raised their war-whoop, rushed out,
and killed them all. We could only infer from this that war had been
declared with Mexico, and a battle fought in which the Americans were
victorious. When, some weeks after, we arrived at the Pueblo, we heard of
General Kearny’s march up the Arkansas and of General Taylor’s victories
at Matamoras.
As the sun was setting that evening a great crowd gathered on the plain by
the side of our tent, to try the speed of their horses. These were of
every shape, size, and color. Some came from California, some from the
States, some from among the mountains, and some from the wild bands of the
prairie. They were of every hue—white, black, red, and gray, or
mottled and clouded with a strange variety of colors. They all had a wild
and startled look, very different from the staid and sober aspect of a
well-bred city steed. Those most noted for swiftness and spirit were
decorated with eagle-feathers dangling from their manes and tails. Fifty
or sixty Dakotas were present, wrapped from head to foot in their heavy
robes of whitened hide. There were also a considerable number of the
Cheyenne, many of whom wore gaudy Mexican ponchos swathed around their
shoulders, but leaving the right arm bare. Mingled among the crowd of
Indians were a number of Canadians, chiefly in the employ of Bisonette;
men, whose home is in the wilderness, and who love the camp fire better
than the domestic hearth. They are contented and happy in the midst of
hardship, privation, and danger. Their cheerfulness and gayety is
irrepressible, and no people on earth understand better how “to daff the
world aside and bid it pass.” Besides these, were two or three
half-breeds, a race of rather extraordinary composition, being according
to the common saying half Indian, half white man, and half devil. Antoine
Le Rouge was the most conspicuous among them, with his loose pantaloons
and his fluttering calico skirt. A handkerchief was bound round his head
to confine his black snaky hair, and his small eyes twinkled beneath it,
with a mischievous luster. He had a fine cream-colored horse whose speed
he must needs try along with the rest. So he threw off the rude
high-peaked saddle, and substituting a piece of buffalo robe, leaped
lightly into his seat. The space was cleared, the word was given, and he
and his Indian rival darted out like lightning from among the crowd, each
stretching forward over his horse’s neck and plying his heavy Indian whip
with might and main. A moment, and both were lost in the gloom; but
Antoine soon came riding back victorious, exultingly patting the neck of
his quivering and panting horse.
About midnight, as I lay asleep, wrapped in a buffalo robe on the ground
by the side of our cart, Raymond came up and woke me. Something he said,
was going forward which I would like to see. Looking down into camp I saw,
on the farther side of it, a great number of Indians gathered around a
fire, the bright glare of which made them visible through the thick
darkness; while from the midst of them proceeded a loud, measured chant
which would have killed Paganini outright, broken occasionally by a burst
of sharp yells. I gathered the robe around me, for the night was cold, and
walked down to the spot. The dark throng of Indians was so dense that they
almost intercepted the light of the flame. As I was pushing among them
with but little ceremony, a chief interposed himself, and I was given to
understand that a white man must not approach the scene of their
solemnities too closely. By passing round to the other side, where there
was a little opening in the crowd, I could see clearly what was going
forward, without intruding my unhallowed presence into the inner circle.
The society of the “Strong Hearts” were engaged in one of their dances.
The Strong Hearts are a warlike association, comprising men of both the
Dakota and Cheyenne nations, and entirely composed, or supposed to be so,
of young braves of the highest mettle. Its fundamental principle is the
admirable one of never retreating from any enterprise once commenced. All
these Indian associations have a tutelary spirit. That of the Strong
Hearts is embodied in the fox, an animal which a white man would hardly
have selected for a similar purpose, though his subtle and cautious
character agrees well enough with an Indian’s notions of what is honorable
in warfare. The dancers were circling round and round the fire, each
figure brightly illumined at one moment by the yellow light, and at the
next drawn in blackest shadow as it passed between the flame and the
spectator. They would imitate with the most ludicrous exactness the
motions and the voice of their sly patron the fox. Then a startling yell
would be given. Many other warriors would leap into the ring, and with
faces upturned toward the starless sky, they would all stamp, and whoop,
and brandish their weapons like so many frantic devils.
Until the next afternoon we were still remaining with Bisonette. My
companion and I with our three attendants then left his camp for the
Pueblo, a distance of three hundred miles, and we supposed the journey
would occupy about a fortnight. During this time we all earnestly hoped
that we might not meet a single human being, for should we encounter any,
they would in all probability be enemies, ferocious robbers and murderers,
in whose eyes our rifles would be our only passports. For the first two
days nothing worth mentioning took place. On the third morning, however,
an untoward incident occurred. We were encamped by the side of a little
brook in an extensive hollow of the plain. Delorier was up long before
daylight, and before he began to prepare breakfast he turned loose all the
horses, as in duty bound. There was a cold mist clinging close to the
ground, and by the time the rest of us were awake the animals were
invisible. It was only after a long and anxious search that we could
discover by their tracks the direction they had taken. They had all set
off for Fort Laramie, following the guidance of a mutinous old mule, and
though many of them were hobbled they had driven three miles before they
could be overtaken and driven back.
For the following two or three days we were passing over an arid desert.
The only vegetation was a few tufts of short grass, dried and shriveled by
the heat. There was an abundance of strange insects and reptiles. Huge
crickets, black and bottle green, and wingless grasshoppers of the most
extravagant dimensions, were tumbling about our horses’ feet, and lizards
without numbers were darting like lightning among the tufts of grass. The
most curious animal, however, was that commonly called the horned frog. I
caught one of them and consigned him to the care of Delorier, who tied him
up in a moccasin. About a month after this I examined the prisoner’s
condition, and finding him still lively and active, I provided him with a
cage of buffalo hide, which was hung up in the cart. In this manner he
arrived safely at the settlements. From thence he traveled the whole way
to Boston packed closely in a trunk, being regaled with fresh air
regularly every night. When he reached his destination he was deposited
under a glass case, where he sat for some months in great tranquillity and
composure, alternately dilating and contracting his white throat to the
admiration of his visitors. At length, one morning, about the middle of
winter, he gave up the ghost. His death was attributed to starvation, a
very probable conclusion, since for six months he had taken no food
whatever, though the sympathy of his juvenile admirers had tempted his
palate with a great variety of delicacies. We found also animals of a
somewhat larger growth. The number of prairie dogs was absolutely
astounding. Frequently the hard and dry prairie would be thickly covered,
for many miles together, with the little mounds which they make around the
mouth of their burrows, and small squeaking voices yelping at us as we
passed along. The noses of the inhabitants would be just visible at the
mouth of their holes, but no sooner was their curiosity satisfied than
they would instantly vanish. Some of the bolder dogs—though in fact
they are no dogs at all, but little marmots rather smaller than a rabbit—would
sit yelping at us on the top of their mounds, jerking their tails
emphatically with every shrill cry they uttered. As the danger grew nearer
they would wheel about, toss their heels into the air, and dive in a
twinkling down into their burrows. Toward sunset, and especially if rain
were threatening, the whole community would make their appearance above
ground. We would see them gathered in large knots around the burrow of
some favorite citizen. There they would all sit erect, their tails spread
out on the ground, and their paws hanging down before their white breasts,
chattering and squeaking with the utmost vivacity upon some topic of
common interest, while the proprietor of the burrow, with his head just
visible on the top of his mound, would sit looking down with a complacent
countenance on the enjoyment of his guests. Meanwhile, others would be
running about from burrow to burrow, as if on some errand of the last
importance to their subterranean commonwealth. The snakes were apparently
the prairie dog’s worst enemies, at least I think too well of the latter
to suppose that they associate on friendly terms with these slimy
intruders, who may be seen at all times basking among their holes, into
which they always retreat when disturbed. Small owls, with wise and grave
countenances, also make their abode with the prairie dogs, though on what
terms they live together I could never ascertain. The manners and customs,
the political and domestic economy of these little marmots is worthy of
closer attention than one is able to give when pushing by forced marches
through their country, with his thoughts engrossed by objects of greater
moment.
On the fifth day after leaving Bisonette’s camp we saw late in the
afternoon what we supposed to be a considerable stream, but on our
approaching it we found to our mortification nothing but a dry bed of sand
into which all the water had sunk and disappeared. We separated, some
riding in one direction and some in another along its course. Still we
found no traces of water, not even so much as a wet spot in the sand. The
old cotton-wood trees that grew along the bank, lamentably abused by
lightning and tempest, were withering with the drought, and on the dead
limbs, at the summit of the tallest, half a dozen crows were hoarsely
cawing like birds of evil omen as they were. We had no alternative but to
keep on. There was no water nearer than the South Fork of the Platte,
about ten miles distant. We moved forward, angry and silent, over a desert
as flat as the outspread ocean.
The sky had been obscured since the morning by thin mists and vapors, but
now vast piles of clouds were gathered together in the west. They rose to
a great height above the horizon, and looking up toward them I
distinguished one mass darker than the rest and of a peculiar conical
form. I happened to look again and still could see it as before. At some
moments it was dimly seen, at others its outline was sharp and distinct;
but while the clouds around it were shifting, changing, and dissolving
away, it still towered aloft in the midst of them, fixed and immovable. It
must, thought I, be the summit of a mountain, and yet its heights
staggered me. My conclusion was right, however. It was Long’s Peak, once
believed to be one of the highest of the Rocky Mountain chain, though more
recent discoveries have proved the contrary. The thickening gloom soon hid
it from view and we never saw it again, for on the following day and for
some time after, the air was so full of mist that the view of distant
objects was entirely intercepted.
It grew very late. Turning from our direct course we made for the river at
its nearest point, though in the utter darkness it was not easy to direct
our way with much precision. Raymond rode on one side and Henry on the
other. We could hear each of them shouting that he had come upon a deep
ravine. We steered at random between Scylla and Charybdis, and soon after
became, as it seemed, inextricably involved with deep chasms all around
us, while the darkness was such that we could not see a rod in any
direction. We partially extricated ourselves by scrambling, cart and all,
through a shallow ravine. We came next to a steep descent down which we
plunged without well knowing what was at the bottom. There was a great
crackling of sticks and dry twigs. Over our heads were certain large
shadowy objects, and in front something like the faint gleaming of a dark
sheet of water. Raymond ran his horse against a tree; Henry alighted, and
feeling on the ground declared that there was grass enough for the horses.
Before taking off his saddle each man led his own horses down to the water
in the best way he could. Then picketing two or three of the evil-disposed
we turned the rest loose and lay down among the dry sticks to sleep. In
the morning we found ourselves close to the South Fork of the Platte on a
spot surrounded by bushes and rank grass. Compensating ourselves with a
hearty breakfast for the ill fare of the previous night, we set forward
again on our journey. When only two or three rods from the camp I saw Shaw
stop his mule, level his gun, and after a long aim fire at some object in
the grass. Delorier next jumped forward and began to dance about,
belaboring the unseen enemy with a whip. Then he stooped down and drew out
of the grass by the neck an enormous rattlesnake, with his head completely
shattered by Shaw’s bullet. As Delorier held him out at arm’s length with
an exulting grin his tail, which still kept slowly writhing about, almost
touched the ground, and the body in the largest part was as thick as a
stout man’s arm. He had fourteen rattles, but the end of his tail was
blunted, as if he could once have boasted of many more. From this time
till we reached the Pueblo we killed at least four or five of these snakes
every day as they lay coiled and rattling on the hot sand. Shaw was the
St. Patrick of the party, and whenever he or any one else killed a snake
he always pulled off his tail and stored it away in his bullet-pouch,
which was soon crammed with an edifying collection of rattles, great and
small. Delorier, with his whip, also came in for a share of the praise. A
day or two after this he triumphantly produced a small snake about a span
and a half long, with one infant rattle at the end of his tail.
We forded the South Fork of the Platte. On its farther bank were the
traces of a very large camp of Arapahoes. The ashes of some three hundred
fires were visible among the scattered trees, together with the remains of
sweating lodges, and all the other appurtenances of a permanent camp. The
place however had been for some months deserted. A few miles farther on we
found more recent signs of Indians; the trail of two or three lodges,
which had evidently passed the day before, where every foot-print was
perfectly distinct in the dry, dusty soil. We noticed in particular the
track of one moccasin, upon the sole of which its economical proprietor
had placed a large patch. These signs gave us but little uneasiness, as
the number of the warriors scarcely exceeded that of our own party. At
noon we rested under the walls of a large fort, built in these solitudes
some years since by M. St. Vrain. It was now abandoned and fast falling
into ruin. The walls of unbaked bricks were cracked from top to bottom.
Our horses recoiled in terror from the neglected entrance, where the heavy
gates were torn from their hinges and flung down. The area within was
overgrown with weeds, and the long ranges of apartments, once occupied by
the motley concourse of traders, Canadians, and squaws, were now miserably
dilapidated. Twelve miles further on, near the spot where we encamped,
were the remains of still another fort, standing in melancholy desertion
and neglect.
Early on the following morning we made a startling discovery. We passed
close by a large deserted encampment of Arapahoes. There were about fifty
fires still smouldering on the ground, and it was evident from numerous
signs that the Indians must have left the place within two hours of our
reaching it. Their trail crossed our own at right angles, and led in the
direction of a line of hills half a mile on our left. There were women and
children in the party, which would have greatly diminished the danger of
encountering them. Henry Chatillon examined the encampment and the trail
with a very professional and businesslike air.
“Supposing we had met them, Henry?” said I.
“Why,” said he, “we hold out our hands to them, and give them all we’ve
got; they take away everything, and then I believe they no kill us.
Perhaps,” added he, looking up with a quiet, unchanged face, “perhaps we
no let them rob us. Maybe before they come near, we have a chance to get
into a ravine, or under the bank of the river; then, you know, we fight
them.”
About noon on that day we reached Cherry Creek. Here was a great abundance
of wild cherries, plums, gooseberries, and currants. The stream, however,
like most of the others which we passed, was dried up with the heat, and
we had to dig holes in the sand to find water for ourselves and our
horses. Two days after, we left the banks of the creek which we had been
following for some time, and began to cross the high dividing ridge which
separates the waters of the Platte from those of the Arkansas. The scenery
was altogether changed. In place of the burning plains we were passing now
through rough and savage glens and among hills crowned with a dreary
growth of pines. We encamped among these solitudes on the night of the
16th of August. A tempest was threatening. The sun went down among volumes
of jet-black cloud, edged with a bloody red. But in spite of these
portentous signs, we neglected to put up the tent, and being extremely
fatigued, lay down on the ground and fell asleep. The storm broke about
midnight, and we erected the tent amid darkness and confusion. In the
morning all was fair again, and Pike’s Peak, white with snow, was towering
above the wilderness afar off.
We pushed through an extensive tract of pine woods. Large black squirrels
were leaping among the branches. From the farther edge of this forest we
saw the prairie again, hollowed out before us into a vast basin, and about
a mile in front we could discern a little black speck moving upon its
surface. It could be nothing but a buffalo. Henry primed his rifle afresh
and galloped forward. To the left of the animal was a low rocky mound, of
which Henry availed himself in making his approach. After a short time we
heard the faint report of the rifle. The bull, mortally wounded from a
distance of nearly three hundred yards, ran wildly round and round in a
circle. Shaw and I then galloped forward, and passing him as he ran,
foaming with rage and pain, we discharged our pistols into his side. Once
or twice he rushed furiously upon us, but his strength was rapidly
exhausted. Down he fell on his knees. For one instant he glared up at his
enemies with burning eyes through his black tangled mane, and then rolled
over on his side. Though gaunt and thin, he was larger and heavier than
the largest ox. Foam and blood flew together from his nostrils as he lay
bellowing and pawing the ground, tearing up grass and earth with his
hoofs. His sides rose and fell like a vast pair of bellows, the blood
spouting up in jets from the bullet-holes. Suddenly his glaring eyes
became like a lifeless jelly. He lay motionless on the ground. Henry
stooped over him, and making an incision with his knife, pronounced the
meat too rank and tough for use; so, disappointed in our hopes of an
addition to our stock of provisions, we rode away and left the carcass to
the wolves.
In the afternoon we saw the mountains rising like a gigantic wall at no
great distance on our right. “Des sauvages! des sauvages!” exclaimed
Delorier, looking round with a frightened face, and pointing with his whip
toward the foot of the mountains. In fact, we could see at a distance a
number of little black specks, like horsemen in rapid motion. Henry
Chatillon, with Shaw and myself, galloped toward them to reconnoiter, when
to our amusement we saw the supposed Arapahoes resolved into the black
tops of some pine trees which grew along a ravine. The summits of these
pines, just visible above the verge of the prairie, and seeming to move as
we ourselves were advancing, looked exactly like a line of horsemen.
We encamped among ravines and hollows, through which a little brook was
foaming angrily. Before sunrise in the morning the snow-covered mountains
were beautifully tinged with a delicate rose color. A noble spectacle
awaited us as we moved forward. Six or eight miles on our right, Pike’s
Peak and his giant brethren rose out of the level prairie, as if springing
from the bed of the ocean. From their summits down to the plain below they
were involved in a mantle of clouds, in restless motion, as if urged by
strong winds. For one instant some snowy peak, towering in awful solitude,
would be disclosed to view. As the clouds broke along the mountain, we
could see the dreary forests, the tremendous precipices, the white patches
of snow, the gulfs and chasms as black as night, all revealed for an
instant, and then disappearing from the view. One could not but recall the
stanza of “Childe Harold”:
Every line save one of this description was more than verified here. There
were no “dwellings of the mountaineer” among these heights. Fierce
savages, restlessly wandering through summer and winter, alone invade
them. “Their hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against
them.”
On the day after, we had left the mountains at some distance. A black
cloud descended upon them, and a tremendous explosion of thunder followed,
reverberating among the precipices. In a few moments everything grew black
and the rain poured down like a cataract. We got under an old cotton-wood
tree which stood by the side of a stream, and waited there till the rage
of the torrent had passed.
The clouds opened at the point where they first had gathered, and the
whole sublime congregation of mountains was bathed at once in warm
sunshine. They seemed more like some luxurious vision of Eastern romance
than like a reality of that wilderness; all were melted together into a
soft delicious blue, as voluptuous as the sky of Naples or the transparent
sea that washes the sunny cliffs of Capri. On the left the whole sky was
still of an inky blackness; but two concentric rainbows stood in brilliant
relief against it, while far in front the ragged cloud still streamed
before the wind, and the retreating thunder muttered angrily.
Through that afternoon and the next morning we were passing down the banks
of the stream called La Fontaine qui Bouille, from the boiling spring
whose waters flow into it. When we stopped at noon, we were within six or
eight miles of the Pueblo. Setting out again, we found by the fresh tracks
that a horseman had just been out to reconnoiter us; he had circled half
round the camp, and then galloped back full speed for the Pueblo. What
made him so shy of us we could not conceive. After an hour’s ride we
reached the edge of a hill, from which a welcome sight greeted us. The
Arkansas ran along the valley below, among woods and groves, and closely
nestled in the midst of wide cornfields and green meadows where cattle
were grazing rose the low mud walls of the Pueblo.
CHAPTER XXI
THE PUEBLO AND BENT’S FORT
We approached the gate of the Pueblo. It was a wretched species of fort of
most primitive construction, being nothing more than a large square
inclosure, surrounded by a wall of mud, miserably cracked and dilapidated.
The slender pickets that surmounted it were half broken down, and the gate
dangled on its wooden hinges so loosely, that to open or shut it seemed
likely to fling it down altogether. Two or three squalid Mexicans, with
their broad hats, and their vile faces overgrown with hair, were lounging
about the bank of the river in front of it. They disappeared as they saw
us approach; and as we rode up to the gate a light active little figure
came out to meet us. It was our old friend Richard. He had come from Fort
Laramie on a trading expedition to Taos; but finding, when he reached the
Pueblo, that the war would prevent his going farther, he was quietly
waiting till the conquest of the country should allow him to proceed. He
seemed to consider himself bound to do the honors of the place. Shaking us
warmly by the hands, he led the way into the area.
Here we saw his large Santa Fe wagons standing together. A few squaws and
Spanish women, and a few Mexicans, as mean and miserable as the place
itself, were lazily sauntering about. Richard conducted us to the state
apartment of the Pueblo, a small mud room, very neatly finished,
considering the material, and garnished with a crucifix, a looking-glass,
a picture of the Virgin, and a rusty horse pistol. There were no chairs,
but instead of them a number of chests and boxes ranged about the room.
There was another room beyond, less sumptuously decorated, and here three
or four Spanish girls, one of them very pretty, were baking cakes at a mud
fireplace in the corner. They brought out a poncho, which they spread upon
the floor by way of table-cloth. A supper, which seemed to us luxurious,
was soon laid out upon it, and folded buffalo robes were placed around it
to receive the guests. Two or three Americans, besides ourselves, were
present. We sat down Turkish fashion, and began to inquire the news.
Richard told us that, about three weeks before, General Kearny’s army had
left Bent’s Fort to march against Santa Fe; that when last heard from they
were approaching the mountainous defiles that led to the city. One of the
Americans produced a dingy newspaper, containing an account of the battles
of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma. While we were discussing these
matters, the doorway was darkened by a tall, shambling fellow, who stood
with his hands in his pockets taking a leisurely survey of the premises
before he entered. He wore brown homespun pantaloons, much too short for
his legs, and a pistol and bowie knife stuck in his belt. His head and one
eye were enveloped in a huge bandage of white linen. Having completed his
observations, he came slouching in and sat down on a chest. Eight or ten
more of the same stamp followed, and very coolly arranging themselves
about the room, began to stare at the company. Shaw and I looked at each
other. We were forcibly reminded of the Oregon emigrants, though these
unwelcome visitors had a certain glitter of the eye, and a compression of
the lips, which distinguished them from our old acquaintances of the
prairie. They began to catechise us at once, inquiring whence we had come,
what we meant to do next, and what were our future prospects in life.
The man with the bandaged head had met with an untoward accident a few
days before. He was going down to the river to bring water, and was
pushing through the young willows which covered the low ground, when he
came unawares upon a grizzly bear, which, having just eaten a buffalo
bull, had lain down to sleep off the meal. The bear rose on his hind legs,
and gave the intruder such a blow with his paw that he laid his forehead
entirely bare, clawed off the front of his scalp, and narrowly missed one
of his eyes. Fortunately he was not in a very pugnacious mood, being
surfeited with his late meal. The man’s companions, who were close behind,
raised a shout and the bear walked away, crushing down the willows in his
leisurely retreat.
These men belonged to a party of Mormons, who, out of a well-grounded fear
of the other emigrants, had postponed leaving the settlements until all
the rest were gone. On account of this delay they did not reach Fort
Laramie until it was too late to continue their journey to California.
Hearing that there was good land at the head of the Arkansas, they crossed
over under the guidance of Richard, and were now preparing to spend the
winter at a spot about half a mile from the Pueblo.
When we took leave of Richard, it was near sunset. Passing out of the
gate, we could look down the little valley of the Arkansas; a beautiful
scene, and doubly so to our eyes, so long accustomed to deserts and
mountains. Tall woods lined the river, with green meadows on either hand;
and high bluffs, quietly basking in the sunlight, flanked the narrow
valley. A Mexican on horseback was driving a herd of cattle toward the
gate, and our little white tent, which the men had pitched under a large
tree in the meadow, made a very pleasing feature in the scene. When we
reached it, we found that Richard had sent a Mexican to bring us an
abundant supply of green corn and vegetables, and invite us to help
ourselves to whatever we wished from the fields around the Pueblo.
The inhabitants were in daily apprehensions of an inroad from more
formidable consumers than ourselves. Every year at the time when the corn
begins to ripen, the Arapahoes, to the number of several thousands, come
and encamp around the Pueblo. The handful of white men, who are entirely
at the mercy of this swarm of barbarians, choose to make a merit of
necessity; they come forward very cordially, shake them by the hand, and
intimate that the harvest is entirely at their disposal. The Arapahoes
take them at their word, help themselves most liberally, and usually turn
their horses into the cornfields afterward. They have the foresight,
however, to leave enough of the crops untouched to serve as an inducement
for planting the fields again for their benefit in the next spring.
The human race in this part of the world is separated into three
divisions, arranged in the order of their merits; white men, Indians, and
Mexicans; to the latter of whom the honorable title of “whites” is by no
means conceded.
In spite of the warm sunset of that evening the next morning was a dreary
and cheerless one. It rained steadily, clouds resting upon the very
treetops. We crossed the river to visit the Mormon settlement. As we
passed through the water, several trappers on horseback entered it from
the other side. Their buckskin frocks were soaked through by the rain, and
clung fast to their limbs with a most clammy and uncomfortable look. The
water was trickling down their faces, and dropping from the ends of their
rifles, and from the traps which each carried at the pommel of his saddle.
Horses and all, they had a most disconsolate and woebegone appearance,
which we could not help laughing at, forgetting how often we ourselves had
been in a similar plight.
After half an hour’s riding we saw the white wagons of the Mormons drawn
up among the trees. Axes were sounding, trees were falling, and log-huts
going up along the edge of the woods and upon the adjoining meadow. As we
came up the Mormons left their work and seated themselves on the timber
around us, when they began earnestly to discuss points of theology,
complain of the ill-usage they had received from the “Gentiles,” and sound
a lamentation over the loss of their great temple at Nauvoo. After
remaining with them an hour we rode back to our camp, happy that the
settlements had been delivered from the presence of such blind and
desperate fanatics.
On the morning after this we left the Pueblo for Bent’s Fort. The conduct
of Raymond had lately been less satisfactory than before, and we had
discharged him as soon as we arrived at the former place; so that the
party, ourselves included, was now reduced to four. There was some
uncertainty as to our future course. The trail between Bent’s Fort and the
settlements, a distance computed at six hundred miles, was at this time in
a dangerous state; for since the passage of General Kearny’s army, great
numbers of hostile Indians, chiefly Pawnees and Comanches, had gathered
about some parts of it. A little after this time they became so numerous
and audacious, that scarcely a single party, however large, passed between
the fort and the frontier without some token of their hostility. The
newspapers of the time sufficiently display this state of things. Many men
were killed, and great numbers of horses and mules carried off. Not long
since I met with the gentleman, who, during the autumn, came from Santa Fe
to Bent’s Fort, when he found a party of seventy men, who thought
themselves too weak to go down to the settlements alone, and were waiting
there for a re-enforcement. Though this excessive timidity fully proves
the ignorance and credulity of the men, it may also evince the state of
alarm which prevailed in the country. When we were there in the month of
August, the danger had not become so great. There was nothing very
attractive in the neighborhood. We supposed, moreover, that we might wait
there half the winter without finding any party to go down with us; for
Mr. Sublette and the others whom we had relied upon had, as Richard told
us, already left Bent’s Fort. Thus far on our journey Fortune had kindly
befriended us. We resolved therefore to take advantage of her gracious
mood and trusting for a continuance of her favors, to set out with Henry
and Delorier, and run the gauntlet of the Indians in the best way we
could.
Bent’s Fort stands on the river, about seventy-five miles below the
Pueblo. At noon of the third day we arrived within three or four miles of
it, pitched our tent under a tree, hung our looking-glasses against its
trunk and having made our primitive toilet, rode toward the fort. We soon
came in sight of it, for it is visible from a considerable distance,
standing with its high clay walls in the midst of the scorching plains. It
seemed as if a swarm of locusts had invaded the country. The grass for
miles around was cropped close by the horses of General Kearny’s soldiery.
When we came to the fort, we found that not only had the horses eaten up
the grass, but their owners had made away with the stores of the little
trading post; so that we had great difficulty in procuring the few
articles which we required for our homeward journey. The army was gone,
the life and bustle passed away, and the fort was a scene of dull and lazy
tranquillity. A few invalid officers and soldiers sauntered about the
area, which was oppressively hot; for the glaring sun was reflected down
upon it from the high white walls around. The proprietors were absent, and
we were received by Mr. Holt, who had been left in charge of the fort. He
invited us to dinner, where, to our admiration, we found a table laid with
a white cloth, with castors in the center and chairs placed around it.
This unwonted repast concluded, we rode back to our camp.
Here, as we lay smoking round the fire after supper, we saw through the
dusk three men approaching from the direction of the fort. They rode up
and seated themselves near us on the ground. The foremost was a tall,
well-formed man, with a face and manner such as inspire confidence at
once. He wore a broad hat of felt, slouching and tattered, and the rest of
his attire consisted of a frock and leggings of buckskin, rubbed with the
yellow clay found among the mountains. At the heel of one of his moccasins
was buckled a huge iron spur, with a rowel five or six inches in diameter.
His horse, who stood quietly looking over his head, had a rude Mexican
saddle, covered with a shaggy bearskin, and furnished with a pair of
wooden stirrups of most preposterous size. The next man was a sprightly,
active little fellow, about five feet and a quarter high, but very strong
and compact. His face was swarthy as a Mexican’s and covered with a close,
curly black beard. An old greasy calico handkerchief was tied round his
head, and his close buckskin dress was blackened and polished by grease
and hard service. The last who came up was a large strong man, dressed in
the coarse homespun of the frontiers, who dragged his long limbs over the
ground as if he were too lazy for the effort. He had a sleepy gray eye, a
retreating chin, an open mouth and a protruding upper lip, which gave him
an air of exquisite indolence and helplessness. He was armed with an old
United States yager, which redoubtable weapon, though he could never hit
his mark with it, he was accustomed to cherish as the very sovereign of
firearms.
The first two men belonged to a party who had just come from California
with a large band of horses, which they had disposed of at Bent’s Fort.
Munroe, the taller of the two, was from Iowa. He was an excellent fellow,
open, warm-hearted and intelligent. Jim Gurney, the short man, was a
Boston sailor, who had come in a trading vessel to California, and taken
the fancy to return across the continent. The journey had already made him
an expert “mountain man,” and he presented the extraordinary phenomenon of
a sailor who understood how to manage a horse. The third of our visitors
named Ellis, was a Missourian, who had come out with a party of Oregon
emigrants, but having got as far as Bridge’s Fort, he had fallen
home-sick, or as Jim averred, love-sick—and Ellis was just the man
to be balked in a love adventure. He thought proper to join the California
men and return homeward in their company.
They now requested that they might unite with our party, and make the
journey to the settlements in company with us. We readily assented, for we
liked the appearance of the first two men, and were very glad to gain so
efficient a re-enforcement. We told them to meet us on the next evening at
a spot on the river side, about six miles below the fort. Having smoked a
pipe together, our new allies left us, and we lay down to sleep.
CHAPTER XXII
TETE ROUGE, THE VOLUNTEER
The next morning, having directed Delorier to repair with his cart to the
place of meeting, we came again to the fort to make some arrangements for
the journey. After completing these we sat down under a sort of perch, to
smoke with some Cheyenne Indians whom we found there. In a few minutes we
saw an extraordinary little figure approach us in a military dress. He had
a small, round countenance, garnished about the eyes with the kind of
wrinkles commonly known as crow’s feet and surrounded by an abundant crop
of red curls, with a little cap resting on the top of them. Altogether, he
had the look of a man more conversant with mint juleps and oyster suppers
than with the hardships of prairie service. He came up to us and entreated
that we would take him home to the settlements, saying that unless he went
with us he should have to stay all winter at the fort. We liked our
petitioner’s appearance so little that we excused ourselves from complying
with his request. At this he begged us so hard to take pity on him, looked
so disconsolate, and told so lamentable a story that at last we consented,
though not without many misgivings.
The rugged Anglo-Saxon of our new recruit’s real name proved utterly
unmanageable on the lips of our French attendants, and Henry Chatillon,
after various abortive attempts to pronounce it, one day coolly christened
him Tete Rouge, in honor of his red curls. He had at different times been
clerk of a Mississippi steamboat, and agent in a trading establishment at
Nauvoo, besides filling various other capacities, in all of which he had
seen much more of “life” than was good for him. In the spring, thinking
that a summer’s campaign would be an agreeable recreation, he had joined a
company of St. Louis volunteers.
“There were three of us,” said Tete Rouge, “me and Bill Stevens and John
Hopkins. We thought we would just go out with the army, and when we had
conquered the country, we would get discharged and take our pay, you know,
and go down to Mexico. They say there is plenty of fun going on there.
Then we could go back to New Orleans by way of Vera Cruz.”
But Tete Rouge, like many a stouter volunteer, had reckoned without his
host. Fighting Mexicans was a less amusing occupation than he had
supposed, and his pleasure trip was disagreeably interrupted by brain
fever, which attacked him when about halfway to Bent’s Fort. He jolted
along through the rest of the journey in a baggage wagon. When they came
to the fort he was taken out and left there, together with the rest of the
sick. Bent’s Fort does not supply the best accommodations for an invalid.
Tete Rouge’s sick chamber was a little mud room, where he and a companion
attacked by the same disease were laid together, with nothing but a
buffalo robe between them and the ground. The assistant surgeon’s deputy
visited them once a day and brought them each a huge dose of calomel, the
only medicine, according to his surviving victim, which he was acquainted
with.
Tete Rouge woke one morning, and turning to his companion, saw his eyes
fixed upon the beams above with the glassy stare of a dead man. At this
the unfortunate volunteer lost his senses outright. In spite of the
doctor, however, he eventually recovered; though between the brain fever
and the calomel, his mind, originally none of the strongest, was so much
shaken that it had not quite recovered its balance when we came to the
fort. In spite of the poor fellow’s tragic story, there was something so
ludicrous in his appearance, and the whimsical contrast between his
military dress and his most unmilitary demeanor, that we could not help
smiling at them. We asked him if he had a gun. He said they had taken it
from him during his illness, and he had not seen it since; “but perhaps,”
he observed, looking at me with a beseeching air, “you will lend me one of
your big pistols if we should meet with any Indians.” I next inquired if
he had a horse; he declared he had a magnificent one, and at Shaw’s
request a Mexican led him in for inspection. He exhibited the outline of a
good horse, but his eyes were sunk in the sockets, and every one of his
ribs could be counted. There were certain marks too about his shoulders,
which could be accounted for by the circumstance, that during Tete Rouge’s
illness, his companions had seized upon the insulted charger, and
harnessed him to a cannon along with the draft horses. To Tete Rouge’s
astonishment we recommended him by all means to exchange the horse, if he
could, for a mule. Fortunately the people at the fort were so anxious to
get rid of him that they were willing to make some sacrifice to effect the
object, and he succeeded in getting a tolerable mule in exchange for the
broken-down steed.
A man soon appeared at the gate, leading in the mule by a cord which he
placed in the hands of Tete Rouge, who, being somewhat afraid of his new
acquisition, tried various flatteries and blandishments to induce her to
come forward. The mule, knowing that she was expected to advance, stopped
short in consequence, and stood fast as a rock, looking straight forward
with immovable composure. Being stimulated by a blow from behind she
consented to move, and walked nearly to the other side of the fort before
she stopped again. Hearing the by-standers laugh, Tete Rouge plucked up
spirit and tugged hard at the rope. The mule jerked backward, spun herself
round, and made a dash for the gate. Tete Rouge, who clung manfully to the
rope, went whisking through the air for a few rods, when he let go and
stood with his mouth open, staring after the mule, who galloped away over
the prairie. She was soon caught and brought back by a Mexican, who
mounted a horse and went in pursuit of her with his lasso.
Having thus displayed his capacity for prairie travel, Tete Rouge
proceeded to supply himself with provisions for the journey, and with this
view he applied to a quartermaster’s assistant who was in the fort. This
official had a face as sour as vinegar, being in a state of chronic
indignation because he had been left behind the army. He was as anxious as
the rest to get rid of Tete Rouge. So, producing a rusty key, he opened a
low door which led to a half-subterranean apartment, into which the two
disappeared together. After some time they came out again, Tete Rouge
greatly embarrassed by a multiplicity of paper parcels containing the
different articles of his forty days’ rations. They were consigned to the
care of Delorier, who about that time passed by with the cart on his way
to the appointed place of meeting with Munroe and his companions.
We next urged Tete Rouge to provide himself, if he could, with a gun. He
accordingly made earnest appeals to the charity of various persons in the
fort, but totally without success, a circumstance which did not greatly
disturb us, since in the event of a skirmish he would be much more apt to
do mischief to himself or his friends than to the enemy. When all these
arrangements were completed we saddled our horses and were preparing to
leave the fort, when looking round we discovered that our new associate
was in fresh trouble. A man was holding the mule for him in the middle of
the fort, while he tried to put the saddle on her back, but she kept
stepping sideways and moving round and round in a circle until he was
almost in despair. It required some assistance before all his difficulties
could be overcome. At length he clambered into the black war saddle on
which he was to have carried terror into the ranks of the Mexicans.
“Get up,” said Tete Rouge, “come now, go along, will you.”
The mule walked deliberately forward out of the gate. Her recent conduct
had inspired him with so much awe that he never dared to touch her with
his whip. We trotted forward toward the place of meeting, but before he
had gone far we saw that Tete Rouge’s mule, who perfectly understood her
rider, had stopped and was quietly grazing, in spite of his protestations,
at some distance behind. So getting behind him, we drove him and the
contumacious mule before us, until we could see through the twilight the
gleaming of a distant fire. Munroe, Jim, and Ellis were lying around it;
their saddles, packs, and weapons were scattered about and their horses
picketed near them. Delorier was there too with our little cart. Another
fire was soon blazing high. We invited our new allies to take a cup of
coffee with us. When both the others had gone over to their side of the
camp, Jim Gurney still stood by the blaze, puffing hard at his little
black pipe, as short and weather-beaten as himself.
“Well!” he said, “here are eight of us; we’ll call it six—for them
two boobies, Ellis over yonder, and that new man of yours, won’t count for
anything. We’ll get through well enough, never fear for that, unless the
Comanches happen to get foul of us.”
CHAPTER XXIII
INDIAN ALARMS
We began our journey for the frontier settlements on the 27th of August,
and certainly a more ragamuffin cavalcade never was seen on the banks of
the Upper Arkansas. Of the large and fine horses with which we had left
the frontier in the spring, not one remained; we had supplied their place
with the rough breed of the prairie, as hardy as mules and almost as ugly;
we had also with us a number of the latter detestable animals. In spite of
their strength and hardihood, several of the band were already worn down
by hard service and hard fare, and as none of them were shod, they were
fast becoming foot-sore. Every horse and mule had a cord of twisted
bull-hide coiled around his neck, which by no means added to the beauty of
his appearance. Our saddles and all our equipments were by this time
lamentably worn and battered, and our weapons had become dull and rusty.
The dress of the riders fully corresponded with the dilapidated furniture
of our horses, and of the whole party none made a more disreputable
appearance than my friend and I. Shaw had for an upper garment an old red
flannel shirt, flying open in front and belted around him like a frock;
while I, in absence of other clothing, was attired in a time-worn suit of
leather.
Thus, happy and careless as so many beggars, we crept slowly from day to
day along the monotonous banks of the Arkansas. Tete Rouge gave constant
trouble, for he could never catch his mule, saddle her, or indeed do
anything else without assistance. Every day he had some new ailment, real
or imaginary, to complain of. At one moment he would be woebegone and
disconsolate, and the next he would be visited with a violent flow of
spirits, to which he could only give vent by incessant laughing,
whistling, and telling stories. When other resources failed, we used to
amuse ourselves by tormenting him; a fair compensation for the trouble he
cost us. Tete Rouge rather enjoyed being laughed at, for he was an odd
compound of weakness, eccentricity, and good-nature. He made a figure
worthy of a painter as he paced along before us, perched on the back of
his mule, and enveloped in a huge buffalo-robe coat, which some charitable
person had given him at the fort. This extraordinary garment, which would
have contained two men of his size, he chose, for some reason best known
to himself, to wear inside out, and he never took it off, even in the
hottest weather. It was fluttering all over with seams and tatters, and
the hide was so old and rotten that it broke out every day in a new place.
Just at the top of it a large pile of red curls was visible, with his
little cap set jauntily upon one side, to give him a military air. His
seat in the saddle was no less remarkable than his person and equipment.
He pressed one leg close against his mule’s side, and thrust the other out
at an angle of 45 degrees. His pantaloons were decorated with a military
red stripe, of which he was extremely vain; but being much too short, the
whole length of his boots was usually visible below them. His blanket,
loosely rolled up into a large bundle, dangled at the back of his saddle,
where he carried it tied with a string. Four or five times a day it would
fall to the ground. Every few minutes he would drop his pipe, his knife,
his flint and steel, or a piece of tobacco, and have to scramble down to
pick them up. In doing this he would contrive to get in everybody’s way;
and as the most of the party were by no means remarkable for a fastidious
choice of language, a storm of anathemas would be showered upon him, half
in earnest and half in jest, until Tete Rouge would declare that there was
no comfort in life, and that he never saw such fellows before.
Only a day or two after leaving Bent’s Fort Henry Chatillon rode forward
to hunt, and took Ellis along with him. After they had been some time
absent we saw them coming down the hill, driving three dragoon-horses,
which had escaped from their owners on the march, or perhaps had given out
and been abandoned. One of them was in tolerable condition, but the others
were much emaciated and severely bitten by the wolves. Reduced as they
were we carried two of them to the settlements, and Henry exchanged the
third with the Arapahoes for an excellent mule.
On the day after, when we had stopped to rest at noon, a long train of
Santa Fe wagons came up and trailed slowly past us in their picturesque
procession. They belonged to a trader named Magoffin, whose brother, with
a number of other men, came over and sat down around us on the grass. The
news they brought was not of the most pleasing complexion. According to
their accounts, the trail below was in a very dangerous state. They had
repeatedly detected Indians prowling at night around their camps; and the
large party which had left Bent’s Fort a few weeks previous to our own
departure had been attacked, and a man named Swan, from Massachusetts, had
been killed. His companions had buried the body; but when Magoffin found
his grave, which was near a place called the Caches, the Indians had dug
up and scalped him, and the wolves had shockingly mangled his remains. As
an offset to this intelligence, they gave us the welcome information that
the buffalo were numerous at a few days’ journey below.
On the next afternoon, as we moved along the bank of the river, we saw the
white tops of wagons on the horizon. It was some hours before we met them,
when they proved to be a train of clumsy ox-wagons, quite different from
the rakish vehicles of the Santa Fe traders, and loaded with government
stores for the troops. They all stopped, and the drivers gathered around
us in a crowd. I thought that the whole frontier might have been ransacked
in vain to furnish men worse fitted to meet the dangers of the prairie.
Many of them were mere boys, fresh from the plow, and devoid of knowledge
and experience. In respect to the state of the trail, they confirmed all
that the Santa Fe men had told us. In passing between the Pawnee Fork and
the Caches, their sentinels had fired every night at real or imaginary
Indians. They said also that Ewing, a young Kentuckian in the party that
had gone down before us, had shot an Indian who was prowling at evening
about the camp. Some of them advised us to turn back, and others to hasten
forward as fast as we could; but they all seemed in such a state of
feverish anxiety, and so little capable of cool judgment, that we attached
slight weight to what they said. They next gave us a more definite piece
of intelligence; a large village of Arapahoes was encamped on the river
below. They represented them to be quite friendly; but some distinction
was to be made between a party of thirty men, traveling with oxen, which
are of no value in an Indian’s eyes and a mere handful like ourselves,
with a tempting band of mules and horses. This story of the Arapahoes
therefore caused us some anxiety.
Just after leaving the government wagons, as Shaw and I were riding along
a narrow passage between the river bank and a rough hill that pressed
close upon it, we heard Tete Rouge’s voice behind us. “Hallo!” he called
out; “I say, stop the cart just for a minute, will you?”
“What’s the matter, Tete?” asked Shaw, as he came riding up to us with a
grin of exultation. He had a bottle of molasses in one hand, and a large
bundle of hides on the saddle before him, containing, as he triumphantly
informed us, sugar, biscuits, coffee, and rice. These supplies he had
obtained by a stratagem on which he greatly plumed himself, and he was
extremely vexed and astonished that we did not fall in with his views of
the matter. He had told Coates, the master-wagoner, that the commissary at
the fort had given him an order for sick-rations, directed to the master
of any government train which he might meet upon the road. This order he
had unfortunately lost, but he hoped that the rations would not be refused
on that account, as he was suffering from coarse fare and needed them very
much. As soon as he came to camp that night Tete Rouge repaired to the box
at the back of the cart, where Delorier used to keep his culinary
apparatus, took possession of a saucepan, and after building a little fire
of his own, set to work preparing a meal out of his ill-gotten booty. This
done, he seized on a tin plate and spoon, and sat down under the cart to
regale himself. His preliminary repast did not at all prejudice his
subsequent exertions at supper; where, in spite of his miniature
dimensions, he made a better figure than any of us. Indeed, about this
time his appetite grew quite voracious. He began to thrive wonderfully.
His small body visibly expanded, and his cheeks, which when we first took
him were rather yellow and cadaverous, now dilated in a wonderful manner,
and became ruddy in proportion. Tete Rouge, in short, began to appear like
another man.
Early in the afternoon of the next day, looking along the edge of the
horizon in front, we saw that at one point it was faintly marked with pale
indentations, like the teeth of a saw. The lodges of the Arapahoes, rising
between us and the sky, caused this singular appearance. It wanted still
two or three hours of sunset when we came opposite their camp. There were
full two hundred lodges standing in the midst of a grassy meadow at some
distance beyond the river, while for a mile around and on either bank of
the Arkansas were scattered some fifteen hundred horses and mules grazing
together in bands, or wandering singly about the prairie. The whole were
visible at once, for the vast expanse was unbroken by hills, and there was
not a tree or a bush to intercept the view.
Here and there walked an Indian, engaged in watching the horses. No sooner
did we see them than Tete Rouge begged Delorier to stop the cart and hand
him his little military jacket, which was stowed away there. In this he
instantly invested himself, having for once laid the old buffalo coat
aside, assumed a most martial posture in the saddle, set his cap over his
left eye with an air of defiance, and earnestly entreated that somebody
would lend him a gun or a pistol only for half an hour. Being called upon
to explain these remarkable proceedings, Tete Rouge observed that he knew
from experience what effect the presence of a military man in his uniform
always had upon the mind of an Indian, and he thought the Arapahoes ought
to know that there was a soldier in the party.
Meeting Arapahoes here on the Arkansas was a very different thing from
meeting the same Indians among their native mountains. There was another
circumstance in our favor. General Kearny had seen them a few weeks
before, as he came up the river with his army, and renewing his threats of
the previous year, he told them that if they ever again touched the hair
of a white man’s head he would exterminate their nation. This placed them
for the time in an admirable frame of mind, and the effect of his menaces
had not yet disappeared. I was anxious to see the village and its
inhabitants. We thought it also our best policy to visit them openly, as
if unsuspicious of any hostile design; and Shaw and I, with Henry
Chatillon, prepared to cross the river. The rest of the party meanwhile
moved forward as fast as they could, in order to get as far as possible
from our suspicious neighbors before night came on.
The Arkansas at this point, and for several hundred miles below, is
nothing but a broad sand-bed, over which a few scanty threads of water are
swiftly gliding, now and then expanding into wide shallows. At several
places, during the autumn, the water sinks into the sand and disappears
altogether. At this season, were it not for the numerous quicksands, the
river might be forded almost anywhere without difficulty, though its
channel is often a quarter of a mile wide. Our horses jumped down the
bank, and wading through the water, or galloping freely over the hard
sand-beds, soon reached the other side. Here, as we were pushing through
the tall grass, we saw several Indians not far off; one of them waited
until we came up, and stood for some moments in perfect silence before us,
looking at us askance with his little snakelike eyes. Henry explained by
signs what we wanted, and the Indian, gathering his buffalo robe about his
shoulders, led the way toward the village without speaking a word.
The language of the Arapahoes is so difficult, and its pronunciations so
harsh and guttural, that no white man, it is said, has ever been able to
master it. Even Maxwell the trader, who has been most among them, is
compelled to resort to the curious sign language common to most of the
prairie tribes. With this Henry Chatillon was perfectly acquainted.
Approaching the village, we found the ground all around it strewn with
great piles of waste buffalo meat in incredible quantities. The lodges
were pitched in a very wide circle. They resembled those of the Dakota in
everything but cleanliness and neatness. Passing between two of them, we
entered the great circular area of the camp, and instantly hundreds of
Indians, men, women and children, came flocking out of their habitations
to look at us; at the same time, the dogs all around the village set up a
fearful baying. Our Indian guide walked toward the lodge of the chief.
Here we dismounted; and loosening the trail-ropes from our horses’ necks,
held them securely, and sat down before the entrance, with our rifles laid
across our laps. The chief came out and shook us by the hand. He was a
mean-looking fellow, very tall, thin-visaged, and sinewy, like the rest of
the nation, and with scarcely a vestige of clothing. We had not been
seated half a minute before a multitude of Indians came crowding around us
from every part of the village, and we were shut in by a dense wall of
savage faces. Some of the Indians crouched around us on the ground; others
again sat behind them; others, stooping, looked over their heads; while
many more stood crowded behind, stretching themselves upward, and peering
over each other’s shoulders, to get a view of us. I looked in vain among
this multitude of faces to discover one manly or generous expression; all
were wolfish, sinister, and malignant, and their complexions, as well as
their features, unlike those of the Dakota, were exceedingly bad. The
chief, who sat close to the entrance, called to a squaw within the lodge,
who soon came out and placed a wooden bowl of meat before us. To our
surprise, however, no pipe was offered. Having tasted of the meat as a
matter of form, I began to open a bundle of presents—tobacco,
knives, vermilion, and other articles which I had brought with me. At this
there was a grin on every countenance in the rapacious crowd; their eyes
began to glitter, and long thin arms were eagerly stretched toward us on
all sides to receive the gifts.
The Arapahoes set great value upon their shields, which they transmit
carefully from father to son. I wished to get one of them; and displaying
a large piece of scarlet cloth, together with some tobacco and a knife, I
offered them to any one who would bring me what I wanted. After some delay
a tolerable shield was produced. They were very anxious to know what we
meant to do with it, and Henry told them that we were going to fight their
enemies, the Pawnees. This instantly produced a visible impression in our
favor, which was increased by the distribution of the presents. Among
these was a large paper of awls, a gift appropriate to the women; and as
we were anxious to see the beauties of the Arapahoe village Henry
requested that they might be called to receive them. A warrior gave a
shout as if he were calling a pack of dogs together. The squaws, young and
old, hags of eighty and girls of sixteen, came running with screams and
laughter out of the lodges; and as the men gave way for them they gathered
round us and stretched out their arms, grinning with delight, their native
ugliness considerably enhanced by the excitement of the moment.
Mounting our horses, which during the whole interview we had held close to
us, we prepared to leave the Arapahoes. The crowd fell back on each side
and stood looking on. When we were half across the camp an idea occurred
to us. The Pawnees were probably in the neighborhood of the Caches; we
might tell the Arapahoes of this and instigate them to send down a war
party and cut them off, while we ourselves could remain behind for a while
and hunt the buffalo. At first thought this plan of setting our enemies to
destroy one another seemed to us a masterpiece of policy; but we
immediately recollected that should we meet the Arapahoe warriors on the
river below they might prove quite as dangerous as the Pawnees themselves.
So rejecting our plan as soon as it presented itself, we passed out of the
village on the farther side. We urged our horses rapidly through the tall
grass which rose to their necks. Several Indians were walking through it
at a distance, their heads just visible above its waving surface. It bore
a kind of seed as sweet and nutritious as oats; and our hungry horses, in
spite of whip and rein, could not resist the temptation of snatching at
this unwonted luxury as we passed along. When about a mile from the
village I turned and looked back over the undulating ocean of grass. The
sun was just set; the western sky was all in a glow, and sharply defined
against it, on the extreme verge of the plain, stood the numerous lodges
of the Arapahoe camp.
Reaching the bank of the river, we followed it for some distance farther,
until we discerned through the twilight the white covering of our little
cart on the opposite bank. When we reached it we found a considerable
number of Indians there before us. Four or five of them were seated in a
row upon the ground, looking like so many half-starved vultures. Tete
Rouge, in his uniform, was holding a close colloquy with another by the
side of the cart. His gesticulations, his attempts at sign-making, and the
contortions of his countenance, were most ludicrous; and finding all these
of no avail, he tried to make the Indian understand him by repeating
English words very loudly and distinctly again and again. The Indian sat
with his eye fixed steadily upon him, and in spite of the rigid immobility
of his features, it was clear at a glance that he perfectly understood his
military companion’s character and thoroughly despised him. The exhibition
was more amusing than politic, and Tete Rouge was directed to finish what
he had to say as soon as possible. Thus rebuked, he crept under the cart
and sat down there; Henry Chatillon stopped to look at him in his
retirement, and remarked in his quiet manner that an Indian would kill ten
such men and laugh all the time.
One by one our visitors rose and stalked away. As the darkness thickened
we were saluted by dismal sounds. The wolves are incredibly numerous in
this part of the country, and the offal around the Arapahoe camp had drawn
such multitudes of them together that several hundred were howling in
concert in our immediate neighborhood. There was an island in the river,
or rather an oasis in the midst of the sands at about the distance of a
gunshot, and here they seemed gathered in the greatest numbers. A horrible
discord of low mournful wailings, mingled with ferocious howls, arose from
it incessantly for several hours after sunset. We could distinctly see the
wolves running about the prairie within a few rods of our fire, or
bounding over the sand-beds of the river and splashing through the water.
There was not the slightest danger to be feared from them, for they are
the greatest cowards on the prairie.
In respect to the human wolves in our neighborhood, we felt much less at
our ease. We seldom erected our tent except in bad weather, and that night
each man spread his buffalo robe upon the ground with his loaded rifle
laid at his side or clasped in his arms. Our horses were picketed so close
around us that one of them repeatedly stepped over me as I lay. We were
not in the habit of placing a guard, but every man that night was anxious
and watchful; there was little sound sleeping in camp, and some one of the
party was on his feet during the greater part of the time. For myself, I
lay alternately waking and dozing until midnight. Tete Rouge was reposing
close to the river bank, and about this time, when half asleep and half
awake, I was conscious that he shifted his position and crept on all-fours
under the cart. Soon after I fell into a sound sleep from which I was
aroused by a hand shaking me by the shoulder. Looking up, I saw Tete Rouge
stooping over me with his face quite pale and his eyes dilated to their
utmost expansion.
“What’s the matter?” said I.
Tete Rouge declared that as he lay on the river bank, something caught his
eye which excited his suspicions. So creeping under the cart for safety’s
sake he sat there and watched, when he saw two Indians, wrapped in white
robes, creep up the bank, seize upon two horses and lead them off. He
looked so frightened, and told his story in such a disconnected manner,
that I did not believe him, and was unwilling to alarm the party. Still it
might be true, and in that case the matter required instant attention.
There would be no time for examination, and so directing Tete Rouge to
show me which way the Indians had gone, I took my rifle, in obedience to a
thoughtless impulse, and left the camp. I followed the river back for two
or three hundred yards, listening and looking anxiously on every side. In
the dark prairie on the right I could discern nothing to excite alarm; and
in the dusky bed of the river, a wolf was bounding along in a manner which
no Indian could imitate. I returned to the camp, and when within sight of
it, saw that the whole party was aroused. Shaw called out to me that he
had counted the horses, and that every one of them was in his place. Tete
Rouge, being examined as to what he had seen, only repeated his former
story with many asseverations, and insisted that two horses were certainly
carried off. At this Jim Gurney declared that he was crazy; Tete Rouge
indignantly denied the charge, on which Jim appealed to us. As we declined
to give our judgment on so delicate a matter, the dispute grew hot between
Tete Rouge and his accuser, until he was directed to go to bed and not
alarm the camp again if he saw the whole Arapahoe village coming.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CHASE
The country before us was now thronged with buffalo, and a sketch of the
manner of hunting them will not be out of place. There are two methods
commonly practiced, “running” and “approaching.” The chase on horseback,
which goes by the name of “running,” is the more violent and dashing mode
of the two. Indeed, of all American wild sports, this is the wildest. Once
among the buffalo, the hunter, unless long use has made him familiar with
the situation, dashes forward in utter recklessness and self-abandonment.
He thinks of nothing, cares for nothing but the game; his mind is
stimulated to the highest pitch, yet intensely concentrated on one object.
In the midst of the flying herd, where the uproar and the dust are
thickest, it never wavers for a moment; he drops the rein and abandons his
horse to his furious career; he levels his gun, the report sounds faint
amid the thunder of the buffalo; and when his wounded enemy leaps in vain
fury upon him, his heart thrills with a feeling like the fierce delight of
the battlefield. A practiced and skillful hunter, well mounted, will
sometimes kill five or six cows in a single chase, loading his gun again
and again as his horse rushes through the tumult. An exploit like this is
quite beyond the capacities of a novice. In attacking a small band of
buffalo, or in separating a single animal from the herd and assailing it
apart from the rest, there is less excitement and less danger. With a bold
and well trained horse the hunter may ride so close to the buffalo that as
they gallop side by side he may reach over and touch him with his hand;
nor is there much danger in this as long as the buffalo’s strength and
breath continue unabated; but when he becomes tired and can no longer run
at ease, when his tongue lolls out and foam flies from his jaws, then the
hunter had better keep at a more respectful distance; the distressed brute
may turn upon him at any instant; and especially at the moment when he
fires his gun. The wounded buffalo springs at his enemy; the horse leaps
violently aside; and then the hunter has need of a tenacious seat in the
saddle, for if he is thrown to the ground there is no hope for him. When
he sees his attack defeated the buffalo resumes his flight, but if the
shot be well directed he soon stops; for a few moments he stands still,
then totters and falls heavily upon the prairie.
The chief difficulty in running buffalo, as it seems to me, is that of
loading the gun or pistol at full gallop. Many hunters for convenience’
sake carry three or four bullets in the mouth; the powder is poured down
the muzzle of the piece, the bullet dropped in after it, the stock struck
hard upon the pommel of the saddle, and the work is done. The danger of
this method is obvious. Should the blow on the pommel fail to send the
bullet home, or should the latter, in the act of aiming, start from its
place and roll toward the muzzle, the gun would probably burst in
discharging. Many a shattered hand and worse casualties besides have been
the result of such an accident. To obviate it, some hunters make use of a
ramrod, usually hung by a string from the neck, but this materially
increases the difficulty of loading. The bows and arrows which the Indians
use in running buffalo have many advantages over fire arms, and even white
men occasionally employ them.
The danger of the chase arises not so much from the onset of the wounded
animal as from the nature of the ground which the hunter must ride over.
The prairie does not always present a smooth, level, and uniform surface;
very often it is broken with hills and hollows, intersected by ravines,
and in the remoter parts studded by the stiff wild-sage bushes. The most
formidable obstructions, however, are the burrows of wild animals, wolves,
badgers, and particularly prairie dogs, with whose holes the ground for a
very great extent is frequently honeycombed. In the blindness of the chase
the hunter rushes over it unconscious of danger; his horse, at full
career, thrusts his leg deep into one of the burrows; the bone snaps, the
rider is hurled forward to the ground and probably killed. Yet accidents
in buffalo running happen less frequently than one would suppose; in the
recklessness of the chase, the hunter enjoys all the impunity of a drunken
man, and may ride in safety over the gullies and declivities where, should
he attempt to pass in his sober senses, he would infallibly break his
neck.
The method of “approaching,” being practiced on foot, has many advantages
over that of “running”; in the former, one neither breaks down his horse
nor endangers his own life; instead of yielding to excitement he must be
cool, collected, and watchful; he must understand the buffalo, observe the
features of the country and the course of the wind, and be well skilled,
moreover, in using the rifle. The buffalo are strange animals; sometimes
they are so stupid and infatuated that a man may walk up to them in full
sight on the open prairie, and even shoot several of their number before
the rest will think it necessary to retreat. Again at another moment they
will be so shy and wary, that in order to approach them the utmost skill,
experience, and judgment are necessary. Kit Carson, I believe, stands
pre-eminent in running buffalo; in approaching, no man living can bear
away the palm from Henry Chatillon.
To resume the story: After Tete Rouge had alarmed the camp, no further
disturbance occurred during the night. The Arapahoes did not attempt
mischief, or if they did the wakefulness of the party deterred them from
effecting their purpose. The next day was one of activity and excitement,
for about ten o’clock the men in advance shouted the gladdening cry of
“Buffalo, buffalo!” and in the hollow of the prairie just below us, a band
of bulls were grazing. The temptation was irresistible, and Shaw and I
rode down upon them. We were badly mounted on our traveling horses, but by
hard lashing we overtook them, and Shaw, running alongside of a bull, shot
into him both balls of his double-barreled gun. Looking round as I
galloped past, I saw the bull in his mortal fury rushing again and again
upon his antagonist, whose horse constantly leaped aside, and avoided the
onset. My chase was more protracted, but at length I ran close to the bull
and killed him with my pistols. Cutting off the tails of our victims by
way of trophy, we rejoined the party in about a quarter of an hour after
we left it. Again and again that morning rang out the same welcome cry of
“Buffalo, buffalo!” Every few moments in the broad meadows along the
river, we would see bands of bulls, who, raising their shaggy heads, would
gaze in stupid amazement at the approaching horsemen, and then breaking
into a clumsy gallop, would file off in a long line across the trail in
front, toward the rising prairie on the left. At noon, the whole plain
before us was alive with thousands of buffalo—bulls, cows, and
calves—all moving rapidly as we drew near; and far-off beyond the
river the swelling prairie was darkened with them to the very horizon. The
party was in gayer spirits than ever. We stopped for a nooning near a
grove of trees by the river side.
“Tongues and hump ribs to-morrow,” said Shaw, looking with contempt at the
venison steaks which Delorier placed before us. Our meal finished, we lay
down under a temporary awning to sleep. A shout from Henry Chatillon
aroused us, and we saw him standing on the cartwheel stretching his tall
figure to its full height while he looked toward the prairie beyond the
river. Following the direction of his eyes we could clearly distinguish a
large dark object, like the black shadow of a cloud, passing rapidly over
swell after swell of the distant plain; behind it followed another of
similar appearance though smaller. Its motion was more rapid, and it drew
closer and closer to the first. It was the hunters of the Arapahoe camp
pursuing a band of buffalo. Shaw and I hastily sought and saddled our best
horses, and went plunging through sand and water to the farther bank. We
were too late. The hunters had already mingled with the herd, and the work
of slaughter was nearly over. When we reached the ground we found it
strewn far and near with numberless black carcasses, while the remnants of
the herd, scattered in all directions, were flying away in terror, and the
Indians still rushing in pursuit. Many of the hunters, however, remained
upon the spot, and among the rest was our yesterday’s acquaintance, the
chief of the village. He had alighted by the side of a cow, into which he
had shot five or six arrows, and his squaw, who had followed him on
horseback to the hunt, was giving him a draught of water out of a canteen,
purchased or plundered from some volunteer soldier. Recrossing the river
we overtook the party, who were already on their way.
We had scarcely gone a mile when an imposing spectacle presented itself.
From the river bank on the right, away over the swelling prairie on the
left, and in front as far as we could see, extended one vast host of
buffalo. The outskirts of the herd were within a quarter of a mile. In
many parts they were crowded so densely together that in the distance
their rounded backs presented a surface of uniform blackness; but
elsewhere they were more scattered, and from amid the multitude rose
little columns of dust where the buffalo were rolling on the ground. Here
and there a great confusion was perceptible, where a battle was going
forward among the bulls. We could distinctly see them rushing against each
other, and hear the clattering of their horns and their hoarse bellowing.
Shaw was riding at some distance in advance, with Henry Chatillon; I saw
him stop and draw the leather covering from his gun. Indeed, with such a
sight before us, but one thing could be thought of. That morning I had
used pistols in the chase. I had now a mind to try the virtue of a gun.
Delorier had one, and I rode up to the side of the cart; there he sat
under the white covering, biting his pipe between his teeth and grinning
with excitement.
“Lend me your gun, Delorier,” said I.
“Oui, monsieur, oui,” said Delorier, tugging with might and main to stop
the mule, which seemed obstinately bent on going forward. Then everything
but his moccasins disappeared as he crawled into the cart and pulled at
the gun to extricate it.
“Is it loaded?” I asked.
“Oui, bien charge; you’ll kill, mon bourgeois; yes, you’ll kill—c’est
un bon fusil.”
I handed him my rifle and rode forward to Shaw.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Come on,” said I.
“Keep down that hollow,” said Henry, “and then they won’t see you till you
get close to them.”
The hollow was a kind of ravine very wide and shallow; it ran obliquely
toward the buffalo, and we rode at a canter along the bottom until it
became too shallow, when we bent close to our horses’ necks, and then
finding that it could no longer conceal us, came out of it and rode
directly toward the herd. It was within gunshot; before its outskirts,
numerous grizzly old bulls were scattered, holding guard over their
females. They glared at us in anger and astonishment, walked toward us a
few yards, and then turning slowly round retreated at a trot which
afterward broke into a clumsy gallop. In an instant the main body caught
the alarm. The buffalo began to crowd away from the point toward which we
were approaching, and a gap was opened in the side of the herd. We entered
it, still restraining our excited horses. Every instant the tumult was
thickening. The buffalo, pressing together in large bodies, crowded away
from us on every hand. In front and on either side we could see dark
columns and masses, half hidden by clouds of dust, rushing along in terror
and confusion, and hear the tramp and clattering of ten thousand hoofs.
That countless multitude of powerful brutes, ignorant of their own
strength, were flying in a panic from the approach of two feeble horsemen.
To remain quiet longer was impossible.
“Take that band on the left,” said Shaw; “I’ll take these in front.”
He sprang off, and I saw no more of him. A heavy Indian whip was fastened
by a band to my wrist; I swung it into the air and lashed my horse’s flank
with all the strength of my arm. Away she darted, stretching close to the
ground. I could see nothing but a cloud of dust before me, but I knew that
it concealed a band of many hundreds of buffalo. In a moment I was in the
midst of the cloud, half suffocated by the dust and stunned by the
trampling of the flying herd; but I was drunk with the chase and cared for
nothing but the buffalo. Very soon a long dark mass became visible,
looming through the dust; then I could distinguish each bulky carcass, the
hoofs flying out beneath, the short tails held rigidly erect. In a moment
I was so close that I could have touched them with my gun. Suddenly, to my
utter amazement, the hoofs were jerked upward, the tails flourished in the
air, and amid a cloud of dust the buffalo seemed to sink into the earth
before me. One vivid impression of that instant remains upon my mind. I
remember looking down upon the backs of several buffalo dimly visible
through the dust. We had run unawares upon a ravine. At that moment I was
not the most accurate judge of depth and width, but when I passed it on my
return, I found it about twelve feet deep and not quite twice as wide at
the bottom. It was impossible to stop; I would have done so gladly if I
could; so, half sliding, half plunging, down went the little mare. I
believe she came down on her knees in the loose sand at the bottom; I was
pitched forward violently against her neck and nearly thrown over her head
among the buffalo, who amid dust and confusion came tumbling in all
around. The mare was on her feet in an instant and scrambling like a cat
up the opposite side. I thought for a moment that she would have fallen
back and crushed me, but with a violent effort she clambered out and
gained the hard prairie above. Glancing back I saw the huge head of a bull
clinging as it were by the forefeet at the edge of the dusty gulf. At
length I was fairly among the buffalo. They were less densely crowded than
before, and I could see nothing but bulls, who always run at the rear of
the herd. As I passed amid them they would lower their heads, and turning
as they ran, attempt to gore my horse; but as they were already at full
speed there was no force in their onset, and as Pauline ran faster than
they, they were always thrown behind her in the effort. I soon began to
distinguish cows amid the throng. One just in front of me seemed to my
liking, and I pushed close to her side. Dropping the reins I fired,
holding the muzzle of the gun within a foot of her shoulder. Quick as
lightning she sprang at Pauline; the little mare dodged the attack, and I
lost sight of the wounded animal amid the tumultuous crowd. Immediately
after I selected another, and urging forward Pauline, shot into her both
pistols in succession. For a while I kept her in view, but in attempting
to load my gun, lost sight of her also in the confusion. Believing her to
be mortally wounded and unable to keep up with the herd, I checked my
horse. The crowd rushed onward. The dust and tumult passed away, and on
the prairie, far behind the rest, I saw a solitary buffalo galloping
heavily. In a moment I and my victim were running side by side. My
firearms were all empty, and I had in my pouch nothing but rifle bullets,
too large for the pistols and too small for the gun. I loaded the latter,
however, but as often as I leveled it to fire, the little bullets would
roll out of the muzzle and the gun returned only a faint report like a
squib, as the powder harmlessly exploded. I galloped in front of the
buffalo and attempted to turn her back; but her eyes glared, her mane
bristled, and lowering her head, she rushed at me with astonishing
fierceness and activity. Again and again I rode before her, and again and
again she repeated her furious charge. But little Pauline was in her
element. She dodged her enemy at every rush, until at length the buffalo
stood still, exhausted with her own efforts; she panted, and her tongue
hung lolling from her jaws.
Riding to a little distance I alighted, thinking to gather a handful of
dry grass to serve the purpose of wadding, and load the gun at my leisure.
No sooner were my feet on the ground than the buffalo came bounding in
such a rage toward me that I jumped back again into the saddle with all
possible dispatch. After waiting a few minutes more, I made an attempt to
ride up and stab her with my knife; but the experiment proved such as no
wise man would repeat. At length, bethinking me of the fringes at the
seams of my buckskin pantaloons, I jerked off a few of them, and reloading
my gun, forced them down the barrel to keep the bullet in its place; then
approaching, I shot the wounded buffalo through the heart. Sinking to her
knees, she rolled over lifeless on the prairie. To my astonishment, I
found that instead of a fat cow I had been slaughtering a stout yearling
bull. No longer wondering at the fierceness he had shown, I opened his
throat and cutting out his tongue, tied it at the back of my saddle. My
mistake was one which a more experienced eye than mine might easily make
in the dust and confusion of such a chase.
Then for the first time I had leisure to look at the scene around me. The
prairie in front was darkened with the retreating multitude, and on the
other hand the buffalo came filing up in endless unbroken columns from the
low plains upon the river. The Arkansas was three or four miles distant. I
turned and moved slowly toward it. A long time passed before, far down in
the distance, I distinguished the white covering of the cart and the
little black specks of horsemen before and behind it. Drawing near, I
recognized Shaw’s elegant tunic, the red flannel shirt, conspicuous far
off. I overtook the party, and asked him what success he had met with. He
had assailed a fat cow, shot her with two bullets, and mortally wounded
her. But neither of us were prepared for the chase that afternoon, and
Shaw, like myself, had no spare bullets in his pouch; so he abandoned the
disabled animal to Henry Chatillon, who followed, dispatched her with his
rifle, and loaded his horse with her meat.
We encamped close to the river. The night was dark, and as we lay down we
could hear mingled with the howling of wolves the hoarse bellowing of the
buffalo, like the ocean beating upon a distant coast.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BUFFALO CAMP
No one in the camp was more active than Jim Gurney, and no one half so
lazy as Ellis. Between these two there was a great antipathy. Ellis never
stirred in the morning until he was compelled to, but Jim was always on
his feet before daybreak; and this morning as usual the sound of his voice
awakened the party.
“Get up, you booby! up with you now, you’re fit for nothing but eating and
sleeping. Stop your grumbling and come out of that buffalo robe or I’ll
pull it off for you.”
Jim’s words were interspersed with numerous expletives, which gave them
great additional effect. Ellis drawled out something in a nasal tone from
among the folds of his buffalo robe; then slowly disengaged himself, rose
into sitting posture, stretched his long arms, yawned hideously, and
finally, raising his tall person erect, stood staring round him to all the
four quarters of the horizon. Delorier’s fire was soon blazing, and the
horses and mules, loosened from their pickets, were feeding in the
neighboring meadow. When we sat down to breakfast the prairie was still in
the dusky light of morning; and as the sun rose we were mounted and on our
way again.
“A white buffalo!” exclaimed Munroe.
“I’ll have that fellow,” said Shaw, “if I run my horse to death after
him.”
He threw the cover of his gun to Delorier and galloped out upon the
prairie.
“Stop, Mr. Shaw, stop!” called out Henry Chatillon, “you’ll run down your
horse for nothing; it’s only a white ox.”
But Shaw was already out of hearing. The ox, who had no doubt strayed away
from some of the government wagon trains, was standing beneath some low
hills which bounded the plain in the distance. Not far from him a band of
veritable buffalo bulls were grazing; and startled at Shaw’s approach,
they all broke into a run, and went scrambling up the hillsides to gain
the high prairie above. One of them in his haste and terror involved
himself in a fatal catastrophe. Along the foot of the hills was a narrow
strip of deep marshy soil, into which the bull plunged and hopelessly
entangled himself. We all rode up to the spot. The huge carcass was half
sunk in the mud, which flowed to his very chin, and his shaggy mane was
outspread upon the surface. As we came near the bull began to struggle
with convulsive strength; he writhed to and fro, and in the energy of his
fright and desperation would lift himself for a moment half out of the
slough, while the reluctant mire returned a sucking sound as he strained
to drag his limbs from its tenacious depths. We stimulated his exertions
by getting behind him and twisting his tail; nothing would do. There was
clearly no hope for him. After every effort his heaving sides were more
deeply imbedded and the mire almost overflowed his nostrils; he lay still
at length, and looking round at us with a furious eye, seemed to resign
himself to his fate. Ellis slowly dismounted, and deliberately leveling
his boasted yager, shot the old bull through the heart; then he lazily
climbed back again to his seat, pluming himself no doubt on having
actually killed a buffalo. That day the invincible yager drew blood for
the first and last time during the whole journey.
The morning was a bright and gay one, and the air so clear that on the
farthest horizon the outline of the pale blue prairie was sharply drawn
against the sky. Shaw felt in the mood for hunting; he rode in advance of
the party, and before long we saw a file of bulls galloping at full speed
upon a vast green swell of the prairie at some distance in front. Shaw
came scouring along behind them, arrayed in his red shirt, which looked
very well in the distance; he gained fast on the fugitives, and as the
foremost bull was disappearing behind the summit of the swell, we saw him
in the act of assailing the hindmost; a smoke sprang from the muzzle of
his gun, and floated away before the wind like a little white cloud; the
bull turned upon him, and just then the rising ground concealed them both
from view.
We were moving forward until about noon, when we stopped by the side of
the Arkansas. At that moment Shaw appeared riding slowly down the side of
a distant hill; his horse was tired and jaded, and when he threw his
saddle upon the ground, I observed that the tails of two bulls were
dangling behind it. No sooner were the horses turned loose to feed than
Henry, asking Munroe to go with him, took his rifle and walked quietly
away. Shaw, Tete Rouge, and I sat down by the side of the cart to discuss
the dinner which Delorier placed before us; we had scarcely finished when
we saw Munroe walking toward us along the river bank. Henry, he said, had
killed four fat cows, and had sent him back for horses to bring in the
meat. Shaw took a horse for himself and another for Henry, and he and
Munroe left the camp together. After a short absence all three of them
came back, their horses loaded with the choicest parts of the meat; we
kept two of the cows for ourselves and gave the others to Munroe and his
companions. Delorier seated himself on the grass before the pile of meat,
and worked industriously for some time to cut it into thin broad sheets
for drying. This is no easy matter, but Delorier had all the skill of an
Indian squaw. Long before night cords of raw hide were stretched around
the camp, and the meat was hung upon them to dry in the sunshine and pure
air of the prairie. Our California companions were less successful at the
work; but they accomplished it after their own fashion, and their side of
the camp was soon garnished in the same manner as our own.
We meant to remain at this place long enough to prepare provisions for our
journey to the frontier, which as we supposed might occupy about a month.
Had the distance been twice as great and the party ten times as large, the
unerring rifle of Henry Chatillon would have supplied meat enough for the
whole within two days; we were obliged to remain, however, until it should
be dry enough for transportation; so we erected our tent and made the
other arrangements for a permanent camp. The California men, who had no
such shelter, contented themselves with arranging their packs on the grass
around their fire. In the meantime we had nothing to do but amuse
ourselves. Our tent was within a rod of the river, if the broad sand-beds,
with a scanty stream of water coursing here and there along their surface,
deserve to be dignified with the name of river. The vast flat plains on
either side were almost on a level with the sand-beds, and they were
bounded in the distance by low, monotonous hills, parallel to the course
of the Arkansas. All was one expanse of grass; there was no wood in view,
except some trees and stunted bushes upon two islands which rose from amid
the wet sands of the river. Yet far from being dull and tame this
boundless scene was often a wild and animated one; for twice a day, at
sunrise and at noon, the buffalo came issuing from the hills, slowly
advancing in their grave processions to drink at the river. All our
amusements were too at their expense. Except an elephant, I have seen no
animal that can surpass a buffalo bull in size and strength, and the world
may be searched in vain to find anything of a more ugly and ferocious
aspect. At first sight of him every feeling of sympathy vanishes; no man
who has not experienced it can understand with what keen relish one
inflicts his death wound, with what profound contentment of mind he
beholds him fall. The cows are much smaller and of a gentler appearance,
as becomes their sex. While in this camp we forebore to attack them,
leaving to Henry Chatillon, who could better judge their fatness and good
quality, the task of killing such as we wanted for use; but against the
bulls we waged an unrelenting war. Thousands of them might be slaughtered
without causing any detriment to the species, for their numbers greatly
exceed those of the cows; it is the hides of the latter alone which are
used for purpose of commerce and for making the lodges of the Indians; and
the destruction among them is therefore altogether disproportioned.
Our horses were tired, and we now usually hunted on foot. The wide, flat
sand-beds of the Arkansas, as the reader will remember, lay close by the
side of our camp. While we were lying on the grass after dinner, smoking,
conversing, or laughing at Tete Rouge, one of us would look up and
observe, far out on the plains beyond the river, certain black objects
slowly approaching. He would inhale a parting whiff from the pipe, then
rising lazily, take his rifle, which leaned against the cart, throw over
his shoulder the strap of his pouch and powder-horn, and with his
moccasins in his hand walk quietly across the sand toward the opposite
side of the river. This was very easy; for though the sands were about a
quarter of a mile wide, the water was nowhere more than two feet deep. The
farther bank was about four or five feet high, and quite perpendicular,
being cut away by the water in spring. Tall grass grew along its edge.
Putting it aside with his hand, and cautiously looking through it, the
hunter can discern the huge shaggy back of the buffalo slowly swaying to
and fro, as with his clumsy swinging gait he advances toward the water.
The buffalo have regular paths by which they come down to drink. Seeing at
a glance along which of these his intended victim is moving, the hunter
crouches under the bank within fifteen or twenty yards, it may be, of the
point where the path enters the river. Here he sits down quietly on the
sand. Listening intently, he hears the heavy monotonous tread of the
approaching bull. The moment after he sees a motion among the long weeds
and grass just at the spot where the path is channeled through the bank.
An enormous black head is thrust out, the horns just visible amid the mass
of tangled mane. Half sliding, half plunging, down comes the buffalo upon
the river-bed below. He steps out in full sight upon the sands. Just
before him a runnel of water is gliding, and he bends his head to drink.
You may hear the water as it gurgles down his capacious throat. He raises
his head, and the drops trickle from his wet beard. He stands with an air
of stupid abstraction, unconscious of the lurking danger. Noiselessly the
hunter cocks his rifle. As he sits upon the sand, his knee is raised, and
his elbow rests upon it, that he may level his heavy weapon with a
steadier aim. The stock is at his shoulder; his eye ranges along the
barrel. Still he is in no haste to fire. The bull, with slow deliberation,
begins his march over the sands to the other side. He advances his
foreleg, and exposes to view a small spot, denuded of hair, just behind
the point of his shoulder; upon this the hunter brings the sight of his
rifle to bear; lightly and delicately his finger presses upon the
hair-trigger. Quick as thought the spiteful crack of the rifle responds to
his slight touch, and instantly in the middle of the bare spot appears a
small red dot. The buffalo shivers; death has overtaken him, he cannot
tell from whence; still he does not fall, but walks heavily forward, as if
nothing had happened. Yet before he has advanced far out upon the sand,
you see him stop; he totters; his knees bend under him, and his head sinks
forward to the ground. Then his whole vast bulk sways to one side; he
rolls over on the sand, and dies with a scarcely perceptible struggle.
Waylaying the buffalo in this manner, and shooting them as they come to
water, is the easiest and laziest method of hunting them. They may also be
approached by crawling up ravines, or behind hills, or even over the open
prairie. This is often surprisingly easy; but at other times it requires
the utmost skill of the most experienced hunter. Henry Chatillon was a man
of extraordinary strength and hardihood; but I have seen him return to
camp quite exhausted with his efforts, his limbs scratched and wounded,
and his buckskin dress stuck full of the thorns of the prickly-pear among
which he had been crawling. Sometimes he would lay flat upon his face, and
drag himself along in this position for many rods together.
On the second day of our stay at this place, Henry went out for an
afternoon hunt. Shaw and I remained in camp until, observing some bulls
approaching the water upon the other side of the river, we crossed over to
attack them. They were so near, however, that before we could get under
cover of the bank our appearance as we walked over the sands alarmed them.
Turning round before coming within gunshot, they began to move off to the
right in a direction parallel to the river. I climbed up the bank and ran
after them. They were walking swiftly, and before I could come within
gunshot distance they slowly wheeled about and faced toward me. Before
they had turned far enough to see me I had fallen flat on my face. For a
moment they stood and stared at the strange object upon the grass; then
turning away, again they walked on as before; and I, rising immediately,
ran once more in pursuit. Again they wheeled about, and again I fell
prostrate. Repeating this three or four times, I came at length within a
hundred yards of the fugitives, and as I saw them turning again I sat down
and leveled my rifle. The one in the center was the largest I had ever
seen. I shot him behind the shoulder. His two companions ran off. He
attempted to follow, but soon came to a stand, and at length lay down as
quietly as an ox chewing the cud. Cautiously approaching him, I saw by his
dull and jellylike eye that he was dead.
When I began the chase, the prairie was almost tenantless; but a great
multitude of buffalo had suddenly thronged upon it, and looking up, I saw
within fifty rods a heavy, dark column stretching to the right and left as
far as I could see. I walked toward them. My approach did not alarm them
in the least. The column itself consisted entirely of cows and calves, but
a great many old bulls were ranging about the prairie on its flank, and as
I drew near they faced toward me with such a shaggy and ferocious look
that I thought it best to proceed no farther. Indeed I was already within
close rifle-shot of the column, and I sat down on the ground to watch
their movements. Sometimes the whole would stand still, their heads all
facing one way; then they would trot forward, as if by a common impulse,
their hoofs and horns clattering together as they moved. I soon began to
hear at a distance on the left the sharp reports of a rifle, again and
again repeated; and not long after, dull and heavy sounds succeeded, which
I recognized as the familiar voice of Shaw’s double-barreled gun. When
Henry’s rifle was at work there was always meat to be brought in. I went
back across the river for a horse, and returning, reached the spot where
the hunters were standing. The buffalo were visible on the distant
prairie. The living had retreated from the ground, but ten or twelve
carcasses were scattered in various directions. Henry, knife in hand, was
stooping over a dead cow, cutting away the best and fattest of the meat.
When Shaw left me he had walked down for some distance under the river
bank to find another bull. At length he saw the plains covered with the
host of buffalo, and soon after heard the crack of Henry’s rifle.
Ascending the bank, he crawled through the grass, which for a rod or two
from the river was very high and rank. He had not crawled far before to
his astonishment he saw Henry standing erect upon the prairie, almost
surrounded by the buffalo. Henry was in his appropriate element. Nelson,
on the deck of the Victory, hardly felt a prouder sense of mastery than
he. Quite unconscious that any one was looking at him, he stood at the
full height of his tall, strong figure, one hand resting upon his side,
and the other arm leaning carelessly on the muzzle of his rifle. His eyes
were ranging over the singular assemblage around him. Now and then he
would select such a cow as suited him, level his rifle, and shoot her
dead; then quietly reloading, he would resume his former position. The
buffalo seemed no more to regard his presence than if he were one of
themselves; the bulls were bellowing and butting at each other, or else
rolling about in the dust. A group of buffalo would gather about the
carcass of a dead cow, snuffing at her wounds; and sometimes they would
come behind those that had not yet fallen, and endeavor to push them from
the spot. Now and then some old bull would face toward Henry with an air
of stupid amazement, but none seemed inclined to attack or fly from him.
For some time Shaw lay among the grass, looking in surprise at this
extraordinary sight; at length he crawled cautiously forward, and spoke in
a low voice to Henry, who told him to rise and come on. Still the buffalo
showed no sign of fear; they remained gathered about their dead
companions. Henry had already killed as many cows as we wanted for use,
and Shaw, kneeling behind one of the carcasses, shot five bulls before the
rest thought it necessary to disperse.
The frequent stupidity and infatuation of the buffalo seems the more
remarkable from the contrast it offers to their wildness and wariness at
other times. Henry knew all their peculiarities; he had studied them as a
scholar studies his books, and he derived quite as much pleasure from the
occupation. The buffalo were a kind of companions to him, and, as he said,
he never felt alone when they were about him. He took great pride in his
skill in hunting. Henry was one of the most modest of men; yet, in the
simplicity and frankness of his character, it was quite clear that he
looked upon his pre-eminence in this respect as a thing too palpable and
well established ever to be disputed. But whatever may have been his
estimate of his own skill, it was rather below than above that which
others placed upon it. The only time that I ever saw a shade of scorn
darken his face was when two volunteer soldiers, who had just killed a
buffalo for the first time, undertook to instruct him as to the best
method of “approaching.” To borrow an illustration from an opposite side
of life, an Eton boy might as well have sought to enlighten Porson on the
formation of a Greek verb, or a Fleet Street shopkeeper to instruct
Chesterfield concerning a point of etiquette. Henry always seemed to think
that he had a sort of prescriptive right to the buffalo, and to look upon
them as something belonging peculiarly to himself. Nothing excited his
indignation so much as any wanton destruction committed among the cows,
and in his view shooting a calf was a cardinal sin.
Henry Chatillon and Tete Rouge were of the same age; that is, about
thirty. Henry was twice as large, and fully six times as strong as Tete
Rouge. Henry’s face was roughened by winds and storms; Tete Rouge’s was
bloated by sherry cobblers and brandy toddy. Henry talked of Indians and
buffalo; Tete Rouge of theaters and oyster cellars. Henry had led a life
of hardship and privation; Tete Rouge never had a whim which he would not
gratify at the first moment he was able. Henry moreover was the most
disinterested man I ever saw; while Tete Rouge, though equally
good-natured in his way, cared for nobody but himself. Yet we would not
have lost him on any account; he admirably served the purpose of a jester
in a feudal castle; our camp would have been lifeless without him. For the
past week he had fattened in a most amazing manner; and indeed this was
not at all surprising, since his appetite was most inordinate. He was
eating from morning till night; half the time he would be at work cooking
some private repast for himself, and he paid a visit to the coffee-pot
eight or ten times a day. His rueful and disconsolate face became jovial
and rubicund, his eyes stood out like a lobster’s, and his spirits, which
before were sunk to the depths of despondency, were now elated in
proportion; all day he was singing, whistling, laughing, and telling
stories. Being mortally afraid of Jim Gurney, he kept close in the
neighborhood of our tent. As he had seen an abundance of low dissipated
life, and had a considerable fund of humor, his anecdotes were extremely
amusing, especially since he never hesitated to place himself in a
ludicrous point of view, provided he could raise a laugh by doing so. Tete
Rouge, however, was sometimes rather troublesome; he had an inveterate
habit of pilfering provisions at all times of the day. He set ridicule at
utter defiance; and being without a particle of self-respect, he would
never have given over his tricks, even if they had drawn upon him the
scorn of the whole party. Now and then, indeed, something worse than
laughter fell to his share; on these occasions he would exhibit much
contrition, but half an hour after we would generally observe him stealing
round to the box at the back of the cart and slyly making off with the
provisions which Delorier had laid by for supper. He was very fond of
smoking; but having no tobacco of his own, we used to provide him with as
much as he wanted, a small piece at a time. At first we gave him half a
pound together, but this experiment proved an entire failure, for he
invariably lost not only the tobacco, but the knife intrusted to him for
cutting it, and a few minutes after he would come to us with many
apologies and beg for more.
We had been two days at this camp, and some of the meat was nearly fit for
transportation, when a storm came suddenly upon us. About sunset the whole
sky grew as black as ink, and the long grass at the river’s edge bent and
rose mournfully with the first gusts of the approaching hurricane. Munroe
and his two companions brought their guns and placed them under cover of
our tent. Having no shelter for themselves, they built a fire of driftwood
that might have defied a cataract, and wrapped in their buffalo robes, sat
on the ground around it to bide the fury of the storm. Delorier ensconced
himself under the cover of the cart. Shaw and I, together with Henry and
Tete Rouge, crowded into the little tent; but first of all the dried meat
was piled together, and well protected by buffalo robes pinned firmly to
the ground. About nine o’clock the storm broke, amid absolute darkness; it
blew a gale, and torrents of rain roared over the boundless expanse of
open prairie. Our tent was filled with mist and spray beating through the
canvas, and saturating everything within. We could only distinguish each
other at short intervals by the dazzling flash of lightning, which
displayed the whole waste around us with its momentary glare. We had our
fears for the tent; but for an hour or two it stood fast, until at length
the cap gave way before a furious blast; the pole tore through the top,
and in an instant we were half suffocated by the cold and dripping folds
of the canvas, which fell down upon us. Seizing upon our guns, we placed
them erect, in order to lift the saturated cloth above our heads. In this
disagreeable situation, involved among wet blankets and buffalo robes, we
spent several hours of the night during which the storm would not abate
for a moment, but pelted down above our heads with merciless fury. Before
long the ground beneath us became soaked with moisture, and the water
gathered there in a pool two or three inches deep; so that for a
considerable part of the night we were partially immersed in a cold bath.
In spite of all this, Tete Rouge’s flow of spirits did not desert him for
an instant, he laughed, whistled, and sung in defiance of the storm, and
that night he paid off the long arrears of ridicule which he owed us.
While we lay in silence, enduring the infliction with what philosophy we
could muster, Tete Rouge, who was intoxicated with animal spirits, was
cracking jokes at our expense by the hour together. At about three o’clock
in the morning, “preferring the tyranny of the open night” to such a
wretched shelter, we crawled out from beneath the fallen canvas. The wind
had abated, but the rain fell steadily. The fire of the California men
still blazed amid the darkness, and we joined them as they sat around it.
We made ready some hot coffee by way of refreshment; but when some of the
party sought to replenish their cups, it was found that Tete Rouge, having
disposed of his own share, had privately abstracted the coffee-pot and
drank up the rest of the contents out of the spout.
In the morning, to our great joy, an unclouded sun rose upon the prairie.
We presented rather a laughable appearance, for the cold and clammy
buckskin, saturated with water, clung fast to our limbs; the light wind
and warm sunshine soon dried them again, and then we were all incased in
armor of intolerable rigidity. Roaming all day over the prairie and
shooting two or three bulls, were scarcely enough to restore the stiffened
leather to its usual pliancy.
Besides Henry Chatillon, Shaw and I were the only hunters in the party.
Munroe this morning made an attempt to run a buffalo, but his horse could
not come up to the game. Shaw went out with him, and being better mounted
soon found himself in the midst of the herd. Seeing nothing but cows and
calves around him, he checked his horse. An old bull came galloping on the
open prairie at some distance behind, and turning, Shaw rode across his
path, leveling his gun as he passed, and shooting him through the shoulder
into the heart. The heavy bullets of Shaw’s double-barreled gun made wild
work wherever they struck.
A great flock of buzzards were usually soaring about a few trees that
stood on the island just below our camp. Throughout the whole of yesterday
we had noticed an eagle among them; to-day he was still there; and Tete
Rouge, declaring that he would kill the bird of America, borrowed
Delorier’s gun and set out on his unpatriotic mission. As might have been
expected, the eagle suffered no great harm at his hands. He soon returned,
saying that he could not find him, but had shot a buzzard instead. Being
required to produce the bird in proof of his assertion he said he believed
he was not quite dead, but he must be hurt, from the swiftness with which
he flew off.
“If you want,” said Tete Rouge, “I’ll go and get one of his feathers; I
knocked off plenty of them when I shot him.”
Just opposite our camp was another island covered with bushes, and behind
it was a deep pool of water, while two or three considerable streams
course’d over the sand not far off. I was bathing at this place in the
afternoon when a white wolf, larger than the largest Newfoundland dog, ran
out from behind the point of the island, and galloped leisurely over the
sand not half a stone’s throw distant. I could plainly see his red eyes
and the bristles about his snout; he was an ugly scoundrel, with a bushy
tail, large head, and a most repulsive countenance. Having neither rifle
to shoot nor stone to pelt him with, I was looking eagerly after some
missile for his benefit, when the report of a gun came from the camp, and
the ball threw up the sand just beyond him; at this he gave a slight jump,
and stretched away so swiftly that he soon dwindled into a mere speck on
the distant sand-beds. The number of carcasses that by this time were
lying about the prairie all around us summoned the wolves from every
quarter; the spot where Shaw and Henry had hunted together soon became
their favorite resort, for here about a dozen dead buffalo were fermenting
under the hot sun. I used often to go over the river and watch them at
their meal; by lying under the bank it was easy to get a full view of
them. Three different kinds were present; there were the white wolves and
the gray wolves, both extremely large, and besides these the small prairie
wolves, not much bigger than spaniels. They would howl and fight in a
crowd around a single carcass, yet they were so watchful, and their senses
so acute, that I never was able to crawl within a fair shooting distance;
whenever I attempted it, they would all scatter at once and glide silently
away through the tall grass. The air above this spot was always full of
buzzards or black vultures; whenever the wolves left a carcass they would
descend upon it, and cover it so densely that a rifle-bullet shot at
random among the gormandizing crowd would generally strike down two or
three of them. These birds would now be sailing by scores just about our
camp, their broad black wings seeming half transparent as they expanded
them against the bright sky. The wolves and the buzzards thickened about
us with every hour, and two or three eagles also came into the feast. I
killed a bull within rifle-shot of the camp; that night the wolves made a
fearful howling close at hand, and in the morning the carcass was
completely hollowed out by these voracious feeders.
After we had remained four days at this camp we prepared to leave it. We
had for our own part about five hundred pounds of dried meat, and the
California men had prepared some three hundred more; this consisted of the
fattest and choicest parts of eight or nine cows, a very small quantity
only being taken from each, and the rest abandoned to the wolves. The pack
animals were laden, the horses were saddled, and the mules harnessed to
the cart. Even Tete Rouge was ready at last, and slowly moving from the
ground, we resumed our journey eastward. When we had advanced about a
mile, Shaw missed a valuable hunting knife and turned back in search of
it, thinking that he had left it at the camp. He approached the place
cautiously, fearful that Indians might be lurking about, for a deserted
camp is dangerous to return to. He saw no enemy, but the scene was a wild
and dreary one; the prairie was overshadowed by dull, leaden clouds, for
the day was dark and gloomy. The ashes of the fires were still smoking by
the river side; the grass around them was trampled down by men and horses,
and strewn with all the litter of a camp. Our departure had been a
gathering signal to the birds and beasts of prey; Shaw assured me that
literally dozens of wolves were prowling about the smoldering fires, while
multitudes were roaming over the prairie around; they all fled as he
approached, some running over the sand-beds and some over the grassy
plains. The vultures in great clouds were soaring overhead, and the dead
bull near the camp was completely blackened by the flock that had alighted
upon it; they flapped their broad wings, and stretched upward their
crested heads and long skinny necks, fearing to remain, yet reluctant to
leave their disgusting feast. As he searched about the fires he saw the
wolves seated on the distant hills waiting for his departure. Having
looked in vain for his knife, he mounted again, and left the wolves and
the vultures to banquet freely upon the carrion of the camp.
CHAPTER XXVI
DOWN THE ARKANSAS
In the summer of 1846 the wild and lonely banks of the Upper Arkansas
beheld for the first time the passage of an army. General Kearny, on his
march to Santa Fe, adopted this route in preference to the old trail of
the Cimarron. When we came down the main body of the troops had already
passed on; Price’s Missouri regiment, however, was still on the way,
having left the frontier much later than the rest; and about this time we
began to meet them moving along the trail, one or two companies at a time.
No men ever embarked upon a military expedition with a greater love for
the work before them than the Missourians; but if discipline and
subordination be the criterion of merit, these soldiers were worthless
indeed. Yet when their exploits have rung through all America, it would be
absurd to deny that they were excellent irregular troops. Their victories
were gained in the teeth of every established precedent of warfare; they
were owing to a singular combination of military qualities in the men
themselves. Without discipline or a spirit of subordination, they knew how
to keep their ranks and act as one man. Doniphan’s regiment marched
through New Mexico more like a band of free companions than like the paid
soldiers of a modern government. When General Taylor complimented Doniphan
on his success at Sacramento and elsewhere, the colonel’s reply very well
illustrates the relations which subsisted between the officers and men of
his command:
“I don’t know anything of the maneuvers. The boys kept coming to me, to
let them charge; and when I saw a good opportunity, I told them they might
go. They were off like a shot, and that’s all I know about it.”
The backwoods lawyer was better fitted to conciliate the good-will than to
command the obedience of his men. There were many serving under him, who
both from character and education could better have held command than he.
At the battle of Sacramento his frontiersmen fought under every possible
disadvantage. The Mexicans had chosen their own position; they were drawn
up across the valley that led to their native city of Chihuahua; their
whole front was covered by intrenchments and defended by batteries of
heavy cannon; they outnumbered the invaders five to one. An eagle flew
over the Americans, and a deep murmur rose along their lines. The enemy’s
batteries opened; long they remained under fire, but when at length the
word was given, they shouted and ran forward. In one of the divisions,
when midway to the enemy, a drunken officer ordered a halt; the
exasperated men hesitated to obey.
“Forward, boys!” cried a private from the ranks; and the Americans,
rushing like tigers upon the enemy, bounded over the breastwork. Four
hundred Mexicans were slain upon the spot and the rest fled, scattering
over the plain like sheep. The standards, cannon, and baggage were taken,
and among the rest a wagon laden with cords, which the Mexicans, in the
fullness of their confidence, had made ready for tying the American
prisoners.
Doniphan’s volunteers, who gained this victory, passed up with the main
army; but Price’s soldiers, whom we now met, were men from the same
neighborhood, precisely similar in character, manner, and appearance. One
forenoon, as we were descending upon a very wide meadow, where we meant to
rest for an hour or two, we saw a dark body of horsemen approaching at a
distance. In order to find water, we were obliged to turn aside to the
river bank, a full half mile from the trail. Here we put up a kind of
awning, and spreading buffalo robes on the ground, Shaw and I sat down to
smoke beneath it.
“We are going to catch it now,” said Shaw; “look at those fellows,
there’ll be no peace for us here.”
And in good truth about half the volunteers had straggled away from the
line of march, and were riding over the meadow toward us.
“How are you?” said the first who came up, alighting from his horse and
throwing himself upon the ground. The rest followed close, and a score of
them soon gathered about us, some lying at full length and some sitting on
horseback. They all belonged to a company raised in St. Louis. There were
some ruffian faces among them, and some haggard with debauchery; but on
the whole they were extremely good-looking men, superior beyond measure to
the ordinary rank and file of an army. Except that they were booted to the
knees, they wore their belts and military trappings over the ordinary
dress of citizens. Besides their swords and holster pistols, they carried
slung from their saddles the excellent Springfield carbines, loaded at the
breech. They inquired the character of our party, and were anxious to know
the prospect of killing buffalo, and the chance that their horses would
stand the journey to Santa Fe. All this was well enough, but a moment
after a worse visitation came upon us.
“How are you, strangers? whar are you going and whar are you from?” said a
fellow, who came trotting up with an old straw hat on his head. He was
dressed in the coarsest brown homespun cloth. His face was rather sallow
from fever-and-ague, and his tall figure, though strong and sinewy was
quite thin, and had besides an angular look, which, together with his
boorish seat on horseback, gave him an appearance anything but graceful.
Plenty more of the same stamp were close behind him. Their company was
raised in one of the frontier counties, and we soon had abundant evidence
of their rustic breeding; dozens of them came crowding round, pushing
between our first visitors and staring at us with unabashed faces.
“Are you the captain?” asked one fellow.
“What’s your business out here?” asked another.
“Whar do you live when you’re at home?” said a third.
“I reckon you’re traders,” surmised a fourth; and to crown the whole, one
of them came confidentially to my side and inquired in a low voice,
“What’s your partner’s name?”
As each newcomer repeated the same questions, the nuisance became
intolerable. Our military visitors were soon disgusted at the concise
nature of our replies, and we could overhear them muttering curses against
us. While we sat smoking, not in the best imaginable humor, Tete Rouge’s
tongue was never idle. He never forgot his military character, and during
the whole interview he was incessantly busy among his fellow-soldiers. At
length we placed him on the ground before us, and told him that he might
play the part of spokesman for the whole. Tete Rouge was delighted, and we
soon had the satisfaction of seeing him talk and gabble at such a rate
that the torrent of questions was in a great measure diverted from us. A
little while after, to our amazement, we saw a large cannon with four
horses come lumbering up behind the crowd; and the driver, who was perched
on one of the animals, stretching his neck so as to look over the rest of
the men, called out:
“Whar are you from, and what’s your business?”
The captain of one of the companies was among our visitors, drawn by the
same curiosity that had attracted his men. Unless their faces belied them,
not a few in the crowd might with great advantage have changed places with
their commander.
“Well, men,” said he, lazily rising from the ground where he had been
lounging, “it’s getting late, I reckon we had better be moving.”
“I shan’t start yet anyhow,” said one fellow, who was lying half asleep
with his head resting on his arm.
“Don’t be in a hurry, captain,” added the lieutenant.
“Well, have it your own way, we’ll wait a while longer,” replied the
obsequious commander.
At length however our visitors went straggling away as they had come, and
we, to our great relief, were left alone again.
No one can deny the intrepid bravery of these men, their intelligence and
the bold frankness of their character, free from all that is mean and
sordid. Yet for the moment the extreme roughness of their manners half
inclines one to forget their heroic qualities. Most of them seem without
the least perception of delicacy or propriety, though among them
individuals may be found in whose manners there is a plain courtesy, while
their features bespeak a gallant spirit equal to any enterprise.
No one was more relieved than Delorier by the departure of the volunteers;
for dinner was getting colder every moment. He spread a well-whitened
buffalo hide upon the grass, placed in the middle the juicy hump of a fat
cow, ranged around it the tin plates and cups, and then acquainted us that
all was ready. Tete Rouge, with his usual alacrity on such occasions, was
the first to take his seat. In his former capacity of steamboat clerk, he
had learned to prefix the honorary MISTER to everybody’s name, whether of
high or low degree; so Jim Gurney was Mr. Gurney, Henry was Mr. Henry, and
even Delorier, for the first time in his life, heard himself addressed as
Mr. Delorier. This did not prevent his conceiving a violent enmity against
Tete Rouge, who, in his futile though praiseworthy attempts to make
himself useful used always to intermeddle with cooking the dinners.
Delorier’s disposition knew no medium between smiles and sunshine and a
downright tornado of wrath; he said nothing to Tete Rouge, but his wrongs
rankled in his breast. Tete Rouge had taken his place at dinner; it was
his happiest moment; he sat enveloped in the old buffalo coat, sleeves
turned up in preparation for the work, and his short legs crossed on the
grass before him; he had a cup of coffee by his side and his knife ready
in his hand and while he looked upon the fat hump ribs, his eyes dilated
with anticipation. Delorier sat just opposite to him, and the rest of us
by this time had taken our seats.
“How is this, Delorier? You haven’t given us bread enough.”
At this Delorier’s placid face flew instantly into a paroxysm of
contortions. He grinned with wrath, chattered, gesticulated, and hurled
forth a volley of incoherent words in broken English at the astonished
Tete Rouge. It was just possible to make out that he was accusing him of
having stolen and eaten four large cakes which had been laid by for
dinner. Tete Rouge, utterly confounded at this sudden attack, stared at
Delorier for a moment in dumb amazement, with mouth and eyes wide open. At
last he found speech, and protested that the accusation was false; and
that he could not conceive how he had offended Mr. Delorier, or provoked
him to use such ungentlemanly expressions. The tempest of words raged with
such fury that nothing else could be heard. But Tete Rouge, from his
greater command of English, had a manifest advantage over Delorier, who
after sputtering and grimacing for a while, found his words quite
inadequate to the expression of his wrath. He jumped up and vanished,
jerking out between his teeth one furious sacre enfant de grace, a
Canadian title of honor, made doubly emphatic by being usually applied
together with a cut of the whip to refractory mules and horses.
The next morning we saw an old buffalo escorting his cow with two small
calves over the prairie. Close behind came four or five large white
wolves, sneaking stealthily through the long meadow-grass, and watching
for the moment when one of the children should chance to lag behind his
parents. The old bull kept well on his guard, and faced about now and then
to keep the prowling ruffians at a distance.
As we approached our nooning place, we saw five or six buffalo standing at
the very summit of a tall bluff. Trotting forward to the spot where we
meant to stop, I flung off my saddle and turned my horse loose. By making
a circuit under cover of some rising ground, I reached the foot of the
bluff unnoticed, and climbed up its steep side. Lying under the brow of
the declivity, I prepared to fire at the buffalo, who stood on the flat
surface about not five yards distant. Perhaps I was too hasty, for the
gleaming rifle-barrel leveled over the edge caught their notice; they
turned and ran. Close as they were, it was impossible to kill them when in
that position, and stepping upon the summit I pursued them over the high
arid tableland. It was extremely rugged and broken; a great sandy ravine
was channeled through it, with smaller ravines entering on each side like
tributary streams. The buffalo scattered, and I soon lost sight of most of
them as they scuttled away through the sandy chasms; a bull and a cow
alone kept in view. For a while they ran along the edge of the great
ravine, appearing and disappearing as they dived into some chasm and again
emerged from it. At last they stretched out upon the broad prairie, a
plain nearly flat and almost devoid of verdure, for every short
grass-blade was dried and shriveled by the glaring sun. Now and then the
old bull would face toward me; whenever he did so I fell to the ground and
lay motionless. In this manner I chased them for about two miles, until at
length I heard in front a deep hoarse bellowing. A moment after a band of
about a hundred bulls, before hidden by a slight swell of the plain, came
at once into view. The fugitives ran toward them. Instead of mingling with
the band, as I expected, they passed directly through, and continued their
flight. At this I gave up the chase, and kneeling down, crawled to within
gunshot of the bulls, and with panting breath and trickling brow sat down
on the ground to watch them; my presence did not disturb them in the
least. They were not feeding, for, indeed, there was nothing to eat; but
they seemed to have chosen the parched and scorching desert as the scene
of their amusements. Some were rolling on the ground amid a cloud of dust;
others, with a hoarse rumbling bellow, were butting their large heads
together, while many stood motionless, as if quite inanimate. Except their
monstrous growth of tangled grizzly mane, they had no hair; for their old
coat had fallen off in the spring, and their new one had not as yet
appeared. Sometimes an old bull would step forward, and gaze at me with a
grim and stupid countenance; then he would turn and butt his next
neighbor; then he would lie down and roll over in the dirt, kicking his
hoofs in the air. When satisfied with this amusement he would jerk his
head and shoulders upward, and resting on his forelegs stare at me in this
position, half blinded by his mane, and his face covered with dirt; then
up he would spring upon all-fours, and shake his dusty sides; turning half
round, he would stand with his beard touching the ground, in an attitude
of profound abstraction, as if reflecting on his puerile conduct. “You are
too ugly to live,” thought I; and aiming at the ugliest, I shot three of
them in succession. The rest were not at all discomposed at this; they
kept on bellowing and butting and rolling on the ground as before. Henry
Chatillon always cautioned us to keep perfectly quiet in the presence of a
wounded buffalo, for any movement is apt to excite him to make an attack;
so I sat still upon the ground, loading and firing with as little motion
as possible. While I was thus employed, a spectator made his appearance; a
little antelope came running up with remarkable gentleness to within fifty
yards; and there it stood, its slender neck arched, its small horns thrown
back, and its large dark eyes gazing on me with a look of eager curiosity.
By the side of the shaggy and brutish monsters before me, it seemed like
some lovely young girl wandering near a den of robbers or a nest of
bearded pirates. The buffalo looked uglier than ever. “Here goes for
another of you,” thought I, feeling in my pouch for a percussion cap. Not
a percussion cap was there. My good rifle was useless as an old iron bar.
One of the wounded bulls had not yet fallen, and I waited for some time,
hoping every moment that his strength would fail him. He still stood firm,
looking grimly at me, and disregarding Henry’s advice I rose and walked
away. Many of the bulls turned and looked at me, but the wounded brute
made no attack. I soon came upon a deep ravine which would give me shelter
in case of emergency; so I turned round and threw a stone at the bulls.
They received it with the utmost indifference. Feeling myself insulted at
their refusal to be frightened, I swung my hat, shouted, and made a show
of running toward them; at this they crowded together and galloped off,
leaving their dead and wounded upon the field. As I moved toward the camp
I saw the last survivor totter and fall dead. My speed in returning was
wonderfully quickened by the reflection that the Pawnees were abroad, and
that I was defenseless in case of meeting with an enemy. I saw no living
thing, however, except two or three squalid old bulls scrambling among the
sand-hills that flanked the great ravine. When I reached camp the party
was nearly ready for the afternoon move.
We encamped that evening at a short distance from the river bank. About
midnight, as we all lay asleep on the ground, the man nearest to me gently
reaching out his hand, touched my shoulder, and cautioned me at the same
time not to move. It was bright starlight. Opening my eyes and slightly
turning I saw a large white wolf moving stealthily around the embers of
our fire, with his nose close to the ground. Disengaging my hand from the
blanket, I drew the cover from my rifle, which lay close at my side; the
motion alarmed the wolf, and with long leaps he bounded out of the camp.
Jumping up, I fired after him when he was about thirty yards distant; the
melancholy hum of the bullet sounded far away through the night. At the
sharp report, so suddenly breaking upon the stillness, all the men sprang
up.
“You’ve killed him,” said one of them.
“No, I haven’t,” said I; “there he goes, running along the river.
“Then there’s two of them. Don’t you see that one lying out yonder?”
We went to it, and instead of a dead white wolf found the bleached skull
of a buffalo. I had missed my mark, and what was worse, had grossly
violated a standing law of the prairie. When in a dangerous part of the
country, it is considered highly imprudent to fire a gun after encamping,
lest the report should reach the ears of the Indians.
The horses were saddled in the morning, and the last man had lighted his
pipe at the dying ashes of the fire. The beauty of the day enlivened us
all. Even Ellis felt its influence, and occasionally made a remark as we
rode along, and Jim Gurney told endless stories of his cruisings in the
United States service. The buffalo were abundant, and at length a large
band of them went running up the hills on the left.
“Do you see them buffalo?” said Ellis, “now I’ll bet any man I’ll go and
kill one with my yager.”
And leaving his horse to follow on with the party, he strode up the hill
after them. Henry looked at us with his peculiar humorous expression, and
proposed that we should follow Ellis to see how he would kill a fat cow.
As soon as he was out of sight we rode up the hill after him, and waited
behind a little ridge till we heard the report of the unfailing yager.
Mounting to the top, we saw Ellis clutching his favorite weapon with both
hands, and staring after the buffalo, who one and all were galloping off
at full speed. As we descended the hill we saw the party straggling along
the trail below. When we joined them, another scene of amateur hunting
awaited us. I forgot to say that when we met the volunteers Tete Rouge had
obtained a horse from one of them, in exchange for his mule, whom he
feared and detested. The horse he christened James. James, though not
worth so much as the mule, was a large and strong animal. Tete Rouge was
very proud of his new acquisition, and suddenly became ambitious to run a
buffalo with him. At his request, I lent him my pistols, though not
without great misgivings, since when Tete Rouge hunted buffalo the pursuer
was in more danger than the pursued. He hung the holsters at his saddle
bow; and now, as we passed along, a band of bulls left their grazing in
the meadow and galloped in a long file across the trail in front.
“Now’s your chance, Tete; come, let’s see you kill a bull.” Thus urged,
the hunter cried, “Get up!” and James, obedient to the signal, cantered
deliberately forward at an abominably uneasy gait. Tete Rouge, as we
contemplated him from behind; made a most remarkable figure. He still wore
the old buffalo coat; his blanket, which was tied in a loose bundle behind
his saddle, went jolting from one side to the other, and a large tin
canteen half full of water, which hung from his pommel, was jerked about
his leg in a manner which greatly embarrassed him.
“Let out your horse, man; lay on your whip!” we called out to him. The
buffalo were getting farther off at every instant. James, being ambitious
to mend his pace, tugged hard at the rein, and one of his rider’s boots
escaped from the stirrup.
“Woa! I say, woa!” cried Tete Rouge, in great perturbation, and after much
effort James’ progress was arrested. The hunter came trotting back to the
party, disgusted with buffalo running, and he was received with
overwhelming congratulations.
“Too good a chance to lose,” said Shaw, pointing to another band of bulls
on the left. We lashed our horses and galloped upon them. Shaw killed one
with each barrel of his gun. I separated another from the herd and shot
him. The small bullet of the rifled pistol, striking too far back, did not
immediately take effect, and the bull ran on with unabated speed. Again
and again I snapped the remaining pistol at him. I primed it afresh three
or four times, and each time it missed fire, for the touch-hole was
clogged up. Returning it to the holster, I began to load the empty pistol,
still galloping by the side of the bull. By this time he was grown
desperate. The foam flew from his jaws and his tongue lolled out. Before
the pistol was loaded he sprang upon me, and followed up his attack with a
furious rush. The only alternative was to run away or be killed. I took to
flight, and the bull, bristling with fury, pursued me closely. The pistol
was soon ready, and then looking back, I saw his head five or six yards
behind my horse’s tail. To fire at it would be useless, for a bullet
flattens against the adamantine skull of a buffalo bull. Inclining my body
to the left, I turned my horse in that direction as sharply as his speed
would permit. The bull, rushing blindly on with great force and weight,
did not turn so quickly. As I looked back, his neck and shoulders were
exposed to view; turning in the saddle, I shot a bullet through them
obliquely into his vitals. He gave over the chase and soon fell to the
ground. An English tourist represents a situation like this as one of
imminent danger; this is a great mistake; the bull never pursues long, and
the horse must be wretched indeed that cannot keep out of his way for two
or three minutes.
We were now come to a part of the country where we were bound in common
prudence to use every possible precaution. We mounted guard at night, each
man standing in his turn; and no one ever slept without drawing his rifle
close to his side or folding it with him in his blanket. One morning our
vigilance was stimulated by our finding traces of a large Comanche
encampment. Fortunately for us, however, it had been abandoned nearly a
week. On the next evening we found the ashes of a recent fire, which gave
us at the time some uneasiness. At length we reached the Caches, a place
of dangerous repute; and it had a most dangerous appearance, consisting of
sand-hills everywhere broken by ravines and deep chasms. Here we found the
grave of Swan, killed at this place, probably by the Pawnees, two or three
weeks before. His remains, more than once violated by the Indians and the
wolves, were suffered at length to remain undisturbed in their wild burial
place.
For several days we met detached companies of Price’s regiment. Horses
would often break loose at night from their camps. One afternoon we picked
up three of these stragglers quietly grazing along the river. After we
came to camp that evening, Jim Gurney brought news that more of them were
in sight. It was nearly dark, and a cold, drizzling rain had set in; but
we all turned out, and after an hour’s chase nine horses were caught and
brought in. One of them was equipped with saddle and bridle; pistols were
hanging at the pommel of the saddle, a carbine was slung at its side, and
a blanket rolled up behind it. In the morning, glorying in our valuable
prize, we resumed our journey, and our cavalcade presented a much more
imposing appearance than ever before. We kept on till the afternoon, when,
far behind, three horsemen appeared on the horizon. Coming on at a
hand-gallop, they soon overtook us, and claimed all the horses as
belonging to themselves and others of their company. They were of course
given up, very much to the mortification of Ellis and Jim Gurney.
Our own horses now showed signs of fatigue, and we resolved to give them
half a day’s rest. We stopped at noon at a grassy spot by the river. After
dinner Shaw and Henry went out to hunt; and while the men lounged about
the camp, I lay down to read in the shadow of the cart. Looking up, I saw
a bull grazing alone on the prairie more than a mile distant. I was tired
of reading, and taking my rifle I walked toward him. As I came near, I
crawled upon the ground until I approached to within a hundred yards; here
I sat down upon the grass and waited till he should turn himself into a
proper position to receive his death-wound. He was a grim old veteran. His
loves and his battles were over for that season, and now, gaunt and
war-worn, he had withdrawn from the herd to graze by himself and recruit
his exhausted strength. He was miserably emaciated; his mane was all in
tatters; his hide was bare and rough as an elephant’s, and covered with
dried patches of the mud in which he had been wallowing. He showed all his
ribs whenever he moved. He looked like some grizzly old ruffian grown gray
in blood and violence, and scowling on all the world from his misanthropic
seclusion. The old savage looked up when I first approached, and gave me a
fierce stare; then he fell to grazing again with an air of contemptuous
indifference. The moment after, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he
threw up his head, faced quickly about, and to my amazement came at a
rapid trot directly toward me. I was strongly impelled to get up and run,
but this would have been very dangerous. Sitting quite still I aimed, as
he came on, at the thin part of the skull above the nose. After he had
passed over about three-quarters of the distance between us, I was on the
point of firing, when, to my great satisfaction, he stopped short. I had
full opportunity of studying his countenance; his whole front was covered
with a huge mass of coarse matted hair, which hung so low that nothing but
his two forefeet were visible beneath it; his short thick horns were
blunted and split to the very roots in his various battles, and across his
nose and forehead were two or three large white scars, which gave him a
grim and at the same time a whimsical appearance. It seemed to me that he
stood there motionless for a full quarter of an hour, looking at me
through the tangled locks of his mane. For my part, I remained as quiet as
he, and looked quite as hard; I felt greatly inclined to come to term with
him. “My friend,” thought I, “if you’ll let me off, I’ll let you off.” At
length he seemed to have abandoned any hostile design. Very slowly and
deliberately he began to turn about; little by little his side came into
view, all be-plastered with mud. It was a tempting sight. I forgot my
prudent intentions, and fired my rifle; a pistol would have served at that
distance. Round spun old bull like a top, and away he galloped over the
prairie. He ran some distance, and even ascended a considerable hill,
before he lay down and died. After shooting another bull among the hills,
I went back to camp.
At noon, on the 14th of September, a very large Santa Fe caravan came up.
The plain was covered with the long files of their white-topped wagons,
the close black carriages in which the traders travel and sleep, large
droves of animals, and men on horseback and on foot. They all stopped on
the meadow near us. Our diminutive cart and handful of men made but an
insignificant figure by the side of their wide and bustling camp. Tete
Rouge went over to visit them, and soon came back with half a dozen
biscuits in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other. I inquired where
he got them. “Oh,” said Tete Rouge, “I know some of the traders. Dr. Dobbs
is there besides.” I asked who Dr. Dobbs might be. “One of our St. Louis
doctors,” replied Tete Rouge. For two days past I had been severely
attacked by the same disorder which had so greatly reduced my strength
when at the mountains; at this time I was suffering not a little from the
sudden pain and weakness which it occasioned. Tete Rouge, in answer to my
inquiries, declared that Dr. Dobbs was a physician of the first standing.
Without at all believing him, I resolved to consult this eminent
practitioner. Walking over to the camp, I found him lying sound asleep
under one of the wagons. He offered in his own person but an indifferent
specimen of his skill, for it was five months since I had seen so
cadaverous a face.
His hat had fallen off, and his yellow hair was all in disorder; one of
his arms supplied the place of a pillow; his pantaloons were wrinkled
halfway up to his knees, and he was covered with little bits of grass and
straw, upon which he had rolled in his uneasy slumber. A Mexican stood
near, and I made him a sign that he should touch the doctor. Up sprang the
learned Dobbs, and, sitting upright, rubbed his eyes and looked about him
in great bewilderment. I regretted the necessity of disturbing him, and
said I had come to ask professional advice. “Your system, sir, is in a
disordered state,” said he solemnly, after a short examination.
I inquired what might be the particular species of disorder.
“Evidently a morbid action of the liver,” replied the medical man; “I will
give you a prescription.”
Repairing to the back of one of the covered wagons, he scrambled in; for a
moment I could see nothing of him but his boots. At length he produced a
box which he had extracted from some dark recess within, and opening it,
he presented me with a folded paper of some size. “What is it?” said I.
“Calomel,” said the doctor.
Under the circumstances I would have taken almost anything. There was not
enough to do me much harm, and it might possibly do good; so at camp that
night I took the poison instead of supper.
That camp is worthy of notice. The traders warned us not to follow the
main trail along the river, “unless,” as one of them observed, “you want
to have your throats cut!” The river at this place makes a bend; and a
smaller trail, known as the Ridge-path, leads directly across the prairie
from point to point, a distance of sixty or seventy miles.
We followed this trail, and after traveling seven or eight miles, we came
to a small stream, where we encamped. Our position was not chosen with
much forethought or military skill. The water was in a deep hollow, with
steep, high banks; on the grassy bottom of this hollow we picketed our
horses, while we ourselves encamped upon the barren prairie just above.
The opportunity was admirable either for driving off our horses or
attacking us. After dark, as Tete Rouge was sitting at supper, we observed
him pointing with a face of speechless horror over the shoulder of Henry,
who was opposite to him. Aloof amid the darkness appeared a gigantic black
apparition; solemnly swaying to and fro, it advanced steadily upon us.
Henry, half vexed and half amused, jumped up, spread out his arms, and
shouted. The invader was an old buffalo bull, who with characteristic
stupidity, was walking directly into camp. It cost some shouting and
swinging of hats before we could bring him first to a halt and then to a
rapid retreat.
That night the moon was full and bright; but as the black clouds chased
rapidly over it, we were at one moment in light and at the next in
darkness. As the evening advanced, a thunderstorm came up; it struck us
with such violence that the tent would have been blown over if we had not
interposed the cart to break the force of the wind. At length it subsided
to a steady rain. I lay awake through nearly the whole night, listening to
its dull patter upon the canvas above. The moisture, which filled the tent
and trickled from everything in it, did not add to the comfort of the
situation. About twelve o’clock Shaw went out to stand guard amid the rain
and pitch darkness. Munroe, the most vigilant as well as one of the
bravest among us, was also on the alert. When about two hours had passed,
Shaw came silently in, and touching Henry, called him in a low quick voice
to come out. “What is it?” I asked. “Indians, I believe,” whispered Shaw;
“but lie still; I’ll call you if there’s a fight.”
He and Henry went out together. I took the cover from my rifle, put a
fresh percussion cap upon it, and then, being in much pain, lay down
again. In about five minutes Shaw came in again. “All right,” he said, as
he lay down to sleep. Henry was now standing guard in his place. He told
me in the morning the particulars of the alarm. Munroe’ s watchful eye
discovered some dark objects down in the hollow, among the horses, like
men creeping on all fours. Lying flat on their faces, he and Shaw crawled
to the edge of the bank, and were soon convinced that what they saw were
Indians. Shaw silently withdrew to call Henry, and they all lay watching
in the same position. Henry’s eye is of the best on the prairie. He
detected after a while the true nature of the moving objects; they were
nothing but wolves creeping among the horses.
It is very singular that when picketed near a camp horses seldom show any
fear of such an intrusion. The wolves appear to have no other object than
that of gnawing the trail-ropes of raw hide by which the animals are
secured. Several times in the course of the journey my horse’s trail-rope
was bitten in two by these nocturnal visitors.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE SETTLEMENTS
The next day was extremely hot, and we rode from morning till night
without seeing a tree or a bush or a drop of water. Our horses and mules
suffered much more than we, but as sunset approached they pricked up their
ears and mended their pace. Water was not far off. When we came to the
descent of the broad shallowy valley where it lay, an unlooked-for sight
awaited us. The stream glistened at the bottom, and along its banks were
pitched a multitude of tents, while hundreds of cattle were feeding over
the meadows. Bodies of troops, both horse and foot, and long trains of
wagons with men, women, and children, were moving over the opposite ridge
and descending the broad declivity in front. These were the Mormon
battalion in the service of government, together with a considerable
number of Missouri volunteers. The Mormons were to be paid off in
California, and they were allowed to bring with them their families and
property. There was something very striking in the half-military,
half-patriarchal appearance of these armed fanatics, thus on their way
with their wives and children, to found, if might be, a Mormon empire in
California. We were much more astonished than pleased at the sight before
us. In order to find an unoccupied camping ground, we were obliged to pass
a quarter of a mile up the stream, and here we were soon beset by a swarm
of Mormons and Missourians. The United States officer in command of the
whole came also to visit us, and remained some time at our camp.
In the morning the country was covered with mist. We were always early
risers, but before we were ready the voices of men driving in the cattle
sounded all around us. As we passed above their camp, we saw through the
obscurity that the tents were falling and the ranks rapidly forming; and
mingled with the cries of women and children, the rolling of the Mormon
drums and the clear blast of their trumpets sounded through the mist.
From that time to the journey’s end, we met almost every day long trains
of government wagons, laden with stores for the troops and crawling at a
snail’s pace toward Santa Fe.
Tete Rouge had a mortal antipathy to danger, but on a foraging expedition
one evening, he achieved an adventure more perilous than had yet befallen
any man in the party. The night after we left the Ridge-path we encamped
close to the river. At sunset we saw a train of wagons encamping on the
trail about three miles off; and though we saw them distinctly, our little
cart, as it afterward proved, entirely escaped their view. For some days
Tete Rouge had been longing eagerly after a dram of whisky. So, resolving
to improve the present opportunity, he mounted his horse James, slung his
canteen over his shoulder, and set forth in search of his favorite liquor.
Some hours passed without his returning. We thought that he was lost, or
perhaps that some stray Indian had snapped him up. While the rest fell
asleep I remained on guard. Late at night a tremulous voice saluted me
from the darkness, and Tete Rouge and James soon became visible, advancing
toward the camp. Tete Rouge was in much agitation and big with some
important tidings. Sitting down on the shaft of the cart, he told the
following story:
When he left the camp he had no idea, he said, how late it was. By the
time he approached the wagoners it was perfectly dark; and as he saw them
all sitting around their fires within the circle of wagons, their guns
laid by their sides, he thought he might as well give warning of his
approach, in order to prevent a disagreeable mistake. Raising his voice to
the highest pitch, he screamed out in prolonged accents, “Camp, ahoy!”
This eccentric salutation produced anything but the desired result.
Hearing such hideous sounds proceeding from the outer darkness, the
wagoners thought that the whole Pawnee nation were about to break in and
take their scalps. Up they sprang staring with terror. Each man snatched
his gun; some stood behind the wagons; some threw themselves flat on the
ground, and in an instant twenty cocked muskets were leveled full at the
horrified Tete Rouge, who just then began to be visible through the
darkness.
“Thar they come,” cried the master wagoner, “fire, fire! shoot that
feller.”
“No, no!” screamed Tete Rouge, in an ecstasy of fright; “don’t fire,
don’t! I’m a friend, I’m an American citizen!”
“You’re a friend, be you?” cried a gruff voice from the wagons; “then what
are you yelling out thar for, like a wild Injun. Come along up here if
you’re a man.”
“Keep your guns p’inted at him,” added the master wagoner, “maybe he’s a
decoy, like.”
Tete Rouge in utter bewilderment made his approach, with the gaping
muzzles of the muskets still before his eyes. He succeeded at last in
explaining his character and situation, and the Missourians admitted him
into camp. He got no whisky; but as he represented himself as a great
invalid, and suffering much from coarse fare, they made up a contribution
for him of rice, biscuit, and sugar from their own rations.
In the morning at breakfast, Tete Rouge once more related this story. We
hardly knew how much of it to believe, though after some cross-questioning
we failed to discover any flaw in the narrative. Passing by the wagoner’s
camp, they confirmed Tete Rouge’s account in every particular.
“I wouldn’t have been in that feller’s place,” said one of them, “for the
biggest heap of money in Missouri.”
To Tete Rouge’s great wrath they expressed a firm conviction that he was
crazy. We left them after giving them the advice not to trouble themselves
about war-whoops in future, since they would be apt to feel an Indian’s
arrow before they heard his voice.
A day or two after, we had an adventure of another sort with a party of
wagoners. Henry and I rode forward to hunt. After that day there was no
probability that we should meet with buffalo, and we were anxious to kill
one for the sake of fresh meat. They were so wild that we hunted all the
morning in vain, but at noon as we approached Cow Creek we saw a large
band feeding near its margin. Cow Creek is densely lined with trees which
intercept the view beyond, and it runs, as we afterward found, at the
bottom of a deep trench. We approached by riding along the bottom of a
ravine. When we were near enough, I held the horses while Henry crept
toward the buffalo. I saw him take his seat within shooting distance,
prepare his rifle, and look about to select his victim. The death of a fat
cow was certain, when suddenly a great smoke arose from the bed of the
Creek with a rattling volley of musketry. A score of long-legged
Missourians leaped out from among the trees and ran after the buffalo, who
one and all took to their heels and vanished. These fellows had crawled up
the bed of the Creek to within a hundred yards of the buffalo. Never was
there a fairer chance for a shot. They were good marksmen; all cracked
away at once, and yet not a buffalo fell. In fact, the animal is so
tenacious of life that it requires no little knowledge of anatomy to kill
it, and it is very seldom that a novice succeeds in his first attempt at
approaching. The balked Missourians were excessively mortified, especially
when Henry told them if they had kept quiet he would have killed meat
enough in ten minutes to feed their whole party. Our friends, who were at
no great distance, hearing such a formidable fusillade, thought the
Indians had fired the volley for our benefit. Shaw came galloping on to
reconnoiter and learn if we were yet in the land of the living.
At Cow Creek we found the very welcome novelty of ripe grapes and plums,
which grew there in abundance. At the Little Arkansas, not much farther
on, we saw the last buffalo, a miserable old bull, roaming over the
prairie alone and melancholy.
From this time forward the character of the country was changing every
day. We had left behind us the great arid deserts, meagerly covered by the
tufted buffalo grass, with its pale green hue, and its short shriveled
blades. The plains before us were carpeted with rich and verdant herbage
sprinkled with flowers. In place of buffalo we found plenty of prairie
hens, and we bagged them by dozens without leaving the trail. In three or
four days we saw before us the broad woods and the emerald meadows of
Council Grove, a scene of striking luxuriance and beauty. It seemed like a
new sensation as we rode beneath the resounding archs of these noble
woods. The trees were ash, oak, elm, maple, and hickory, their mighty
limbs deeply overshadowing the path, while enormous grape vines were
entwined among them, purple with fruit. The shouts of our scattered party,
and now and then a report of a rifle, rang amid the breathing stillness of
the forest. We rode forth again with regret into the broad light of the
open prairie. Little more than a hundred miles now separated us from the
frontier settlements. The whole intervening country was a succession of
verdant prairies, rising in broad swells and relieved by trees clustering
like an oasis around some spring, or following the course of a stream
along some fertile hollow. These are the prairies of the poet and the
novelist. We had left danger behind us. Nothing was to be feared from the
Indians of this region, the Sacs and Foxes, the Kansas and the Osages. We
had met with signal good fortune. Although for five months we had been
traveling with an insufficient force through a country where we were at
any moment liable to depredation, not a single animal had been stolen from
us, and our only loss had been one old mule bitten to death by a
rattlesnake. Three weeks after we reached the frontier the Pawnees and the
Comanches began a regular series of hostilities on the Arkansas trail,
killing men and driving off horses. They attacked, without exception,
every party, large or small, that passed during the next six months.
Diamond Spring, Rock Creek, Elder Grove, and other camping places besides,
were passed all in quick succession. At Rock Creek we found a train of
government provision wagons, under the charge of an emaciated old man in
his seventy-first year. Some restless American devil had driven him into
the wilderness at a time when he should have been seated at his fireside
with his grandchildren on his knees. I am convinced that he never
returned; he was complaining that night of a disease, the wasting effects
of which upon a younger and stronger man, I myself had proved from severe
experience. Long ere this no doubt the wolves have howled their moonlight
carnival over the old man’s attenuated remains.
Not long after we came to a small trail leading to Fort Leavenworth,
distant but one day’s journey. Tete Rouge here took leave of us. He was
anxious to go to the fort in order to receive payment for his valuable
military services. So he and his horse James, after bidding an
affectionate farewell, set out together, taking with them as much
provision as they could conveniently carry, including a large quantity of
brown sugar. On a cheerless rainy evening we came to our last encamping
ground. Some pigs belonging to a Shawnee farmer were grunting and rooting
at the edge of the grove.
“I wonder how fresh pork tastes,” murmured one of the party, and more than
one voice murmured in response. The fiat went forth, “That pig must die,”
and a rifle was leveled forthwith at the countenance of the plumpest
porker. Just then a wagon train, with some twenty Missourians, came out
from among the trees. The marksman suspended his aim, deeming it
inexpedient under the circumstances to consummate the deed of blood.
In the morning we made our toilet as well as circumstances would permit,
and that is saying but very little. In spite of the dreary rain of
yesterday, there never was a brighter and gayer autumnal morning than that
on which we returned to the settlements. We were passing through the
country of the half-civilized Shawanoes. It was a beautiful alternation of
fertile plains and groves, whose foliage was just tinged with the hues of
autumn, while close beneath them rested the neat log-houses of the Indian
farmers. Every field and meadow bespoke the exuberant fertility of the
soil. The maize stood rustling in the wind, matured and dry, its shining
yellow ears thrust out between the gaping husks. Squashes and enormous
yellow pumpkins lay basking in the sun in the midst of their brown and
shriveled leaves. Robins and blackbirds flew about the fences; and
everything in short betokened our near approach to home and civilization.
The forests that border on the Missouri soon rose before us, and we
entered the wide tract of shrubbery which forms their outskirts. We had
passed the same road on our outward journey in the spring, but its aspect
was totally changed. The young wild apple trees, then flushed with their
fragrant blossoms, were now hung thickly with ruddy fruit. Tall grass
flourished by the roadside in place of the tender shoots just peeping from
the warm and oozy soil. The vines were laden with dark purple grapes, and
the slender twigs of the maple, then tasseled with their clusters of small
red flowers, now hung out a gorgeous display of leaves stained by the
frost with burning crimson. On every side we saw the tokens of maturity
and decay where all had before been fresh and beautiful. We entered the
forest, and ourselves and our horses were checkered, as we passed along,
by the bright spots of sunlight that fell between the opening boughs. On
either side the dark rich masses of foliage almost excluded the sun,
though here and there its rays could find their way down, striking through
the broad leaves and lighting them with a pure transparent green.
Squirrels barked at us from the trees; coveys of young partridges ran
rustling over the leaves below, and the golden oriole, the blue jay, and
the flaming red-bird darted among the shadowy branches. We hailed these
sights and sounds of beauty by no means with an unmingled pleasure. Many
and powerful as were the attractions which drew us toward the settlements,
we looked back even at that moment with an eager longing toward the
wilderness of prairies and mountains behind us. For myself I had suffered
more that summer from illness than ever before in my life, and yet to this
hour I cannot recall those savage scenes and savage men without a strong
desire again to visit them.
At length, for the first time during about half a year, we saw the roof of
a white man’s dwelling between the opening trees. A few moments after we
were riding over the miserable log bridge that leads into the center of
Westport. Westport had beheld strange scenes, but a rougher looking troop
than ours, with our worn equipments and broken-down horses, was never seen
even there. We passed the well-remembered tavern, Boone’s grocery and old
Vogel’s dram shop, and encamped on a meadow beyond. Here we were soon
visited by a number of people who came to purchase our horses and
equipage. This matter disposed of, we hired a wagon and drove on to Kansas
Landing. Here we were again received under the hospitable roof of our old
friend Colonel Chick, and seated on his porch we looked down once more on
the eddies of the Missouri.
Delorier made his appearance in the morning, strangely transformed by the
assistance of a hat, a coat, and a razor. His little log-house was among
the woods not far off. It seemed he had meditated giving a ball on the
occasion of his return, and had consulted Henry Chatillon as to whether it
would do to invite his bourgeois. Henry expressed his entire conviction
that we would not take it amiss, and the invitation was now proffered,
accordingly, Delorier adding as a special inducement that Antoine
Lejeunesse was to play the fiddle. We told him we would certainly come,
but before the evening arrived a steamboat, which came down from Fort
Leavenworth, prevented our being present at the expected festivities.
Delorier was on the rock at the landing place, waiting to take leave of
us.
“Adieu! mes bourgeois; adieu! adieu!” he cried out as the boat pulled off;
“when you go another time to de Rocky Montagnes I will go with you; yes, I
will go!”
He accompanied this patronizing assurance by jumping about swinging his
hat, and grinning from ear to ear. As the boat rounded a distant point,
the last object that met our eyes was Delorier still lifting his hat and
skipping about the rock. We had taken leave of Munroe and Jim Gurney at
Westport, and Henry Chatillon went down in the boat with us.
The passage to St. Louis occupied eight days, during about a third of
which we were fast aground on sand-bars. We passed the steamer Amelia
crowded with a roaring crew of disbanded volunteers, swearing, drinking,
gambling, and fighting. At length one evening we reached the crowded levee
of St. Louis. Repairing to the Planters’ House, we caused diligent search
to be made for our trunks, which after some time were discovered stowed
away in the farthest corner of the storeroom. In the morning we hardly
recognized each other; a frock of broadcloth had supplanted the frock of
buckskin; well-fitted pantaloons took the place of the Indian leggings,
and polished boots were substituted for the gaudy moccasins.
After we had been several days at St. Louis we heard news of Tete Rouge.
He had contrived to reach Fort Leavenworth, where he had found the
paymaster and received his money. As a boat was just ready to start for
St. Louis, he went on board and engaged his passage. This done, he
immediately got drunk on shore, and the boat went off without him. It was
some days before another opportunity occurred, and meanwhile the sutler’s
stores furnished him with abundant means of keeping up his spirits.
Another steamboat came at last, the clerk of which happened to be a friend
of his, and by the advice of some charitable person on shore he persuaded
Tete Rouge to remain on board, intending to detain him there until the
boat should leave the fort. At first Tete Rouge was well contented with
this arrangement, but on applying for a dram, the barkeeper, at the
clerk’s instigation, refused to let him have it. Finding them both
inflexible in spite of his entreaties, he became desperate and made his
escape from the boat. The clerk found him after a long search in one of
the barracks; a circle of dragoons stood contemplating him as he lay on
the floor, maudlin drunk and crying dismally. With the help of one of them
the clerk pushed him on board, and our informant, who came down in the
same boat, declares that he remained in great despondency during the whole
passage. As we left St. Louis soon after his arrival, we did not see the
worthless, good-natured little vagabond again.
On the evening before our departure Henry Chatillon came to our rooms at
the Planters’ House to take leave of us. No one who met him in the streets
of St. Louis would have taken him for a hunter fresh from the Rocky
Mountains. He was very neatly and simply dressed in a suit of dark cloth;
for although, since his sixteenth year, he had scarcely been for a month
together among the abodes of men, he had a native good taste and a sense
of propriety which always led him to pay great attention to his personal
appearance. His tall athletic figure, with its easy flexible motions,
appeared to advantage in his present dress; and his fine face, though
roughened by a thousand storms, was not at all out of keeping with it. We
took leave of him with much regret; and unless his changing features, as
he shook us by the hand, belied him, the feeling on his part was no less
than on ours. Shaw had given him a horse at Westport. My rifle, which he
had always been fond of using, as it was an excellent piece, much better
than his own, is now in his hands, and perhaps at this moment its sharp
voice is startling the echoes of the Rocky Mountains. On the next morning
we left town, and after a fortnight of railroads and steamboat we saw once
more the familiar features of home.