impart a few facts about this wild region, and the wild people who
inhabit it. We are not aware of the precise boundaries, if there are
any, of the country claimed by the Crows; it appears to extend from
the Black Hills to the Rocky Mountains, including a part of their lofty
ranges, and embracing many of the plains and valleys watered by the Wind
River, the Yellowstone, the Powder River, the Little Missouri, and the
Nebraska. The country varies in soil and climate; there are vast plains
of sand and clay, studded with large red sand-hills; other parts are
mountainous and picturesque; it possesses warm springs, and coal mines,
and abounds with game.
But let us give the account of the country as rendered by Arapooish, a
Crow chief, to Mr. Robert Campbell, of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company.
“The Crow country,” said he, “is a good country. The Great Spirit has
put it exactly in the right place; while you-are in it you fare well;
whenever you go out of it, whichever way you travel, you fare worse.
“If you go to the south, you have to wander over great barren plains;
the water is warm and bad, and you meet the fever and ague.
“To the north it is cold; the winters are long and bitter, with no
grass; you cannot keep horses there, but must travel with dogs. What is
a country without horses?
“On the Columbia they are poor and dirty, paddle about in canoes, and
eat fish. Their teeth are worn out; they are always taking fish-bones
out of their mouths. Fish is poor food.
“To the east, they dwell in villages; they live well; but they drink the
muddy water of the Missouri--that is bad. A Crow’s dog would not drink
such water.
“About the forks of the Missouri is a fine country; good water; good
grass; plenty of buffalo. In summer, it is almost as good as the Crow
country; but in winter it is cold; the grass is gone; and there is no
salt weed for the horses.
“The Crow country is exactly in the right place. It has snowy mountains
and sunny plains; all kinds of climates and good things for every
season. When the summer heats scorch the prairies, you can draw up under
the mountains, where the air is sweet and cool, the grass fresh, and the
bright streams come tumbling out of the snow-banks. There you can
hunt the elk, the deer, and the antelope, when their skins are fit for
dressing; there you will find plenty of white bears and mountain sheep.
“In the autumn, when your horses are fat and strong from the mountain
pastures, you can go down into the plains and hunt the buffalo, or trap
beaver on the streams. And when winter comes on, you can take shelter in
the woody bottoms along the rivers; there you will find buffalo meat for
yourselves, and cotton-wood bark for your horses: or you may winter in
the Wind River valley, where there is salt weed in abundance.
“The Crow country is exactly in the right place. Everything good is to
be found there. There is no country like the Crow country.”
Such is the eulogium on his country by Arapooish.
We have had repeated occasions to speak of the restless and predatory
habits of the Crows. They can muster fifteen hundred fighting men, but
their incessant wars with the Blackfeet, and their vagabond, predatory
habits, are gradually wearing them out.
In a recent work, we related the circumstance of a white man named Rose,
an outlaw, and a designing vagabond, who acted as guide and interpreter
to Mr. Hunt and his party, on their journey across the mountains to
Astoria, who came near betraying them into the hands of the Crows, and
who remained among the tribe, marrying one of their women, and adopting
their congenial habits. A few anecdotes of the subsequent fortunes of
that renegade may not be uninteresting, especially as they are connected
with the fortunes of the tribe.
Rose was powerful in frame and fearless in spirit; and soon by his
daring deeds took his rank among the first braves of the tribe. He
aspired to command, and knew it was only to be attained by desperate
exploits. He distinguished himself in repeated actions with Blackfeet.
On one occasion, a band of those savages had fortified themselves within
a breastwork, and could not be harmed. Rose proposed to storm the work.
“Who will take the lead?” was the demand. “I!” cried he; and putting
himself at their head, rushed forward. The first Blackfoot that opposed
him he shot down with his rifle, and, snatching up the war-club of his
victim, killed four others within the fort. The victory was complete,
and Rose returned to the Crow village covered with glory, and bearing
five Blackfoot scalps, to be erected as a trophy before his lodge. From
this time, he was known among the Crows by the name of Che-ku-kaats,
or “the man who killed five.” He became chief of the village, or rather
band, and for a time was the popular idol. His popularity soon awakened
envy among the native braves; he was a stranger, an intruder, a white
man. A party seceded from his command. Feuds and civil wars succeeded
that lasted for two or three years, until Rose, having contrived to set
his adopted brethren by the ears, left them, and went down the Missouri
in 1823. Here he fell in with one of the earliest trapping expeditions
sent by General Ashley across the mountains. It was conducted by
Smith, Fitzpatrick, and Sublette. Rose enlisted with them as guide
and interpreter. When he got them among the Crows, he was exceedingly
generous with their goods; making presents to the braves of his adopted
tribe, as became a high-minded chief.
This, doubtless, helped to revive his popularity. In that expedition,
Smith and Fitzpatrick were robbed of their horses in Green River valley;
the place where the robbery took place still bears the name of Horse
Creek. We are not informed whether the horses were stolen through the
instigation and management of Rose; it is not improbable, for such was
the perfidy he had intended to practice on a former occasion toward Mr.
Hunt and his party.
The last anecdote we have of Rose is from an Indian trader. When General
Atkinson made his military expedition up the Missouri, in 1825, to
protect the fur trade, he held a conference with the Crow nation,
at which Rose figured as Indian dignitary and Crow interpreter. The
military were stationed at some little distance from the scene of the
“big talk”; while the general and the chiefs were smoking pipes and
making speeches, the officers, supposing all was friendly, left the
troops, and drew near the scene of ceremonial. Some of the more knowing
Crows, perceiving this, stole quietly to the camp, and, unobserved,
contrived to stop the touch-holes of the field-pieces with dirt. Shortly
after, a misunderstanding occurred in the conference: some of the
Indians, knowing the cannon to be useless, became insolent. A tumult
arose. In the confusion, Colonel O’Fallan snapped a pistol in the face
of a brave, and knocked him down with the butt end. The Crows were all
in a fury. A chance-medley fight was on the point of taking place, when
Rose, his natural sympathies as a white man suddenly recurring, broke
the stock of his fusee over the head of a Crow warrior, and laid so
vigorously about him with the barrel, that he soon put the whole throng
to flight. Luckily, as no lives had been lost, this sturdy rib roasting
calmed the fury of the Crows, and the tumult ended without serious
consequences.
What was the ultimate fate of this vagabond hero is not distinctly
known. Some report him to have fallen a victim to disease, brought on by
his licentious life; others assert that he was murdered in a feud
among the Crows. After all, his residence among these savages, and
the influence he acquired over them, had, for a time, some beneficial
effects. He is said, not merely to have rendered them more formidable
to the Blackfeet, but to have opened their eyes to the policy of
cultivating the friendship of the white men.
After Rose’s death, his policy continued to be cultivated, with
indifferent success, by Arapooish, the chief already mentioned, who
had been his great friend, and whose character he had contributed
to develope. This sagacious chief endeavored, on every occasion, to
restrain the predatory propensities of his tribe when directed against
the white men. “If we keep friends with them,” said he, “we have nothing
to fear from the Blackfeet, and can rule the mountains.” Arapooish
pretended to be a great “medicine man”, a character among the Indians
which is a compound of priest, doctor, prophet, and conjurer. He carried
about with him a tame eagle, as his “medicine” or familiar. With the
white men, he acknowledged that this was all charlatanism, but said it
was necessary, to give him weight and influence among his people.
Mr. Robert Campbell, from whom we have most of these facts, in the
course of one of his trapping expeditions, was quartered in the
village of Arapooish, and a guest in the lodge of the chieftain. He had
collected a large quantity of furs, and, fearful of being plundered,
deposited but a part in the lodge of the chief; the rest he buried in a
cache. One night, Arapooish came into the lodge with a cloudy brow, and
seated himself for a time without saying a word. At length, turning to
Campbell, “You have more furs with you,” said he, “than you have brought
into my lodge?”
“I have,” replied Campbell.
“Where are they?”
Campbell knew the uselessness of any prevarication with an Indian; and
the importance of complete frankness. He described the exact place where
he had concealed his peltries.
“‘Tis well,” replied Arapooish; “you speak straight. It is just as you
say. But your cache has been robbed. Go and see how many skins have been
taken from it.”
Campbell examined the cache, and estimated his loss to be about one
hundred and fifty beaver skins.
Arapooish now summoned a meeting of the village. He bitterly reproached
his people for robbing a stranger who had confided to their honor; and
commanded that whoever had taken the skins, should bring them back:
declaring that, as Campbell was his guest and inmate of his lodge, he
would not eat nor drink until every skin was restored to him.
The meeting broke up, and every one dispersed. Arapooish now charged
Campbell to give neither reward nor thanks to any one who should bring
in the beaver skins, but to keep count as they were delivered.
In a little while, the skins began to make their appearance, a few at
a time; they were laid down in the lodge, and those who brought them
departed without saying a word. The day passed away. Arapooish sat
in one corner of his lodge, wrapped up in his robe, scarcely moving a
muscle of his countenance. When night arrived, he demanded if all
the skins had been brought in. Above a hundred had been given up, and
Campbell expressed himself contented. Not so the Crow chieftain. He
fasted all that night, nor tasted a drop of water. In the morning, some
more skins were brought in, and continued to come, one and two at a
time, throughout the day, until but a few were wanting to make the
number complete. Campbell was now anxious to put an end to this fasting
of the old chief, and again declared that he was perfectly satisfied.
Arapooish demanded what number of skins were yet wanting. On being told,
he whispered to some of his people, who disappeared. After a time the
number were brought in, though it was evident they were not any of the
skins that had been stolen, but others gleaned in the village.
“Is all right now?” demanded Arapooish.
“All is right,” replied Campbell.
“Good! Now bring me meat and drink!”
When they were alone together, Arapooish had a conversation with his
guest.
“When you come another time among the Crows,” said he, “don’t hide your
goods: trust to them and they will not wrong you. Put your goods in the
lodge of a chief, and they are sacred; hide them in a cache, and any one
who finds will steal them. My people have now given up your goods for
my sake; but there are some foolish young men in the village, who may
be disposed to be troublesome. Don’t linger, therefore, but pack your
horses and be off.”
Campbell took his advice, and made his way safely out of the Crow
country. He has ever since maintained that the Crows are not so black
as they are painted. “Trust to their honor,” says he, “and you are safe:
trust to their honesty, and they will steal the hair off your head.”
Having given these few preliminary particulars, we will resume the
course of our narrative.
23.
Departure from--Green River valley--Popo-Agie--Its course--
The rivers into which it runs--Scenery of the Bluffs the
great Tar Spring--Volcanic tracts in the Crow country--
Burning Mountain of Powder River--Sulphur springs--Hidden
fires--Colter’s Hell-Wind River--Campbell’s party--
Fitzpatrick and his trappers--Captain Stewart, an amateur
traveller--Nathaniel Wyeth--Anecdotes of his expedition to
the Far West--Disaster of Campbell’s party--A union of
bands--The Bad Pass--The rapids--Departure of Fitzpatrick--
Embarkation of peltries--Wyeth and his bull boat--Adventures
of Captain--Bonneville in the Bighorn Mountains--Adventures
in the plain--Traces of Indians--Travelling precautions--
Dangers of making a smoke--The rendezvous
ON THE 25TH of July, Captain Bonneville struck his tents, and set out
on his route for the Bighorn, at the head of a party of fifty-six men,
including those who were to embark with Cerre. Crossing the Green River
valley, he proceeded along the south point of the Wind River range of
mountains, and soon fell upon the track of Mr. Robert Campbell’s party,
which had preceded him by a day. This he pursued, until he perceived
that it led down the banks of the Sweet Water to the southeast. As this
was different from his proposed direction, he left it; and turning to
the northeast, soon came upon the waters of the Popo Agie. This stream
takes its rise in the Wind River Mountains. Its name, like most Indian
names, is characteristic. Popo, in the Crow language, signifies head;
and Agie, river. It is the head of a long river, extending from the
south end of the Wind River Mountains in a northeast direction, until it
falls into the Yellowstone. Its course is generally through plains,
but is twice crossed by chains of mountains; the first called the
Littlehorn; the second, the Bighorn. After it has forced its way through
the first chain, it is called the Horn River; after the second chain,
it is called the Bighorn River. Its passage through this last chain
is rough and violent; making repeated falls, and rushing down long and
furious rapids, which threaten destruction to the navigator; though a
hardy trapper is said to have shot down them in a canoe. At the foot of
these rapids, is the head of navigation; where it was the intention of
the parties to construct boats, and embark.
Proceeding down along the Popo Agie, Captain Bonneville came again in
full view of the “Bluffs,” as they are called, extending from the base
of the Wind River Mountains far away to the east, and presenting to the
eye a confusion of hills and cliffs of red sandstone, some peaked and
angular, some round, some broken into crags and precipices, and piled up
in fantastic masses; but all naked and sterile. There appeared to be no
soil favorable to vegetation, nothing but coarse gravel; yet, over all
this isolated, barren landscape, were diffused such atmospherical tints
and hues, as to blend the whole into harmony and beauty.
In this neighborhood, the captain made search for “the great Tar
Spring,” one of the wonders of the mountains; the medicinal properties
of which, he had heard extravagantly lauded by the trappers. After a
toilsome search, he found it at the foot of a sand-bluff, a little east
of the Wind River Mountains; where it exuded in a small stream of the
color and consistency of tar. The men immediately hastened to collect
a quantity of it, to use as an ointment for the galled backs of
their horses, and as a balsam for their own pains and aches. From the
description given of it, it is evidently the bituminous oil, called
petrolium or naphtha, which forms a principal ingredient in the potent
medicine called British Oil. It is found in various parts of Europe and
Asia, in several of the West India islands, and in some places of the
United States. In the state of New York, it is called Seneca Oil, from
being found near the Seneca lake.
The Crow country has other natural curiosities, which are held in
superstitious awe by the Indians, and considered great marvels by the
trappers. Such is the Burning Mountain, on Powder River, abounding
with anthracite coal. Here the earth is hot and cracked; in many places
emitting smoke and sulphurous vapors, as if covering concealed fires. A
volcanic tract of similar character is found on Stinking River, one of
the tributaries of the Bighorn, which takes its unhappy name from the
odor derived from sulphurous springs and streams. This last mentioned
place was first discovered by Colter, a hunter belonging to Lewis and
Clarke’s exploring party, who came upon it in the course of his lonely
wanderings, and gave such an account of its gloomy terrors, its hidden
fires, smoking pits, noxious streams, and the all-pervading “smell
of brimstone,” that it received, and has ever since retained among
trappers, the name of “Colter’s Hell!”
Resuming his descent along the left bank of the Popo Agie, Captain
Bonneville soon reached the plains; where he found several large streams
entering from the west. Among these was Wind River, which gives its name
to the mountains among which it takes its rise. This is one of the most
important streams of the Crow country. The river being much swollen,
Captain Bonneville halted at its mouth, and sent out scouts to look for
a fording place. While thus encamped, he beheld in the course of the
afternoon a long line of horsemen descending the slope of the hills on
the opposite side of the Popo Agie. His first idea was that they were
Indians; he soon discovered, however, that they were white men, and,
by the long line of pack-horses, ascertained them to be the convoy of
Campbell, which, having descended the Sweet Water, was now on its way to
the Horn River.
The two parties came together two or three days afterwards, on the
4th of August, after having passed through the gap of the Littlehorn
Mountain. In company with Campbell’s convoy was a trapping party of the
Rocky Mountain Company, headed by Fitzpatrick; who, after Campbell’s
embarkation on the Bighorn, was to take charge of all the horses,
and proceed on a trapping campaign. There were, moreover, two chance
companions in the rival camp. One was Captain Stewart, of the British
army, a gentleman of noble connections, who was amusing himself by a
wandering tour in the Far West; in the course of which, he had lived
in hunter’s style; accompanying various bands of traders, trappers, and
Indians; and manifesting that relish for the wilderness that belongs to
men of game spirit.
The other casual inmate of Mr. Campbell’s camp was Mr. Nathaniel Wyeth;
the self-same leader of the band of New England salmon fishers, with
whom we parted company in the valley of Pierre’s Hole, after the battle
with the Blackfeet. A few days after that affair, he again set out
from the rendezvous in company with Milton Sublette and his brigade of
trappers. On his march, he visited the battle ground, and penetrated to
the deserted fort of the Blackfeet in the midst of the wood. It was a
dismal scene. The fort was strewed with the mouldering bodies of the
slain; while vultures soared aloft, or sat brooding on the trees around;
and Indian dogs howled about the place, as if bewailing the death
of their masters. Wyeth travelled for a considerable distance to the
southwest, in company with Milton Sublette, when they separated; and the
former, with eleven men, the remnant of his band, pushed on for Snake
River; kept down the course of that eventful stream; traversed the Blue
Mountains, trapping beaver occasionally by the way, and finally, after
hardships of all kinds, arrived, on the 29th of October, at Vancouver,
on the Columbia, the main factory of the Hudson’s Bay Company.
He experienced hospitable treatment at the hands of the agents of that
company; but his men, heartily tired of wandering in the wilderness, or
tempted by other prospects, refused, for the most part, to continue
any longer in his service. Some set off for the Sandwich Islands; some
entered into other employ. Wyeth found, too, that a great part of the
goods he had brought with him were unfitted for the Indian trade; in a
word, his expedition, undertaken entirely on his own resources, proved a
failure. He lost everything invested in it, but his hopes. These were as
strong as ever. He took note of every thing, therefore, that could be of
service to him in the further prosecution of his project; collected
all the information within his reach, and then set off, accompanied by
merely two men, on his return journey across the continent. He had got
thus far “by hook and by crook,” a mode in which a New England man can
make his way all over the world, and through all kinds of difficulties,
and was now bound for Boston; in full confidence of being able to form a
company for the salmon fishery and fur trade of the Columbia.
The party of Mr. Campbell had met with a disaster in the course of
their route from the Sweet Water. Three or four of the men, who were
reconnoitering the country in advance of the main body, were visited one
night in their camp, by fifteen or twenty Shoshonies. Considering this
tribe as perfectly friendly, they received them in the most cordial and
confiding manner. In the course of the night, the man on guard near the
horses fell sound asleep; upon which a Shoshonie shot him in the head,
and nearly killed him. The savages then made off with the horses,
leaving the rest of the party to find their way to the main body on
foot.
The rival companies of Captain Bonneville and Mr. Campbell, thus
fortuitously brought together, now prosecuted their journey in great
good fellowship; forming a joint camp of about a hundred men. The
captain, however, began to entertain doubts that Fitzpatrick and his
trappers, who kept profound silence as to their future movements,
intended to hunt the same grounds which he had selected for his autumnal
campaign; which lay to the west of the Horn River, on its tributary
streams. In the course of his march, therefore, he secretly detached
a small party of trappers, to make their way to those hunting grounds,
while he continued on with the main body; appointing a rendezvous, at
the next full moon, about the 28th of August, at a place called the
Medicine Lodge.
On reaching the second chain, called the Bighorn Mountains, where
the river forced its impetuous way through a precipitous defile, with
cascades and rapids, the travellers were obliged to leave its banks,
and traverse the mountains by a rugged and frightful route, emphatically
called the “Bad Pass.” Descending the opposite side, they again made for
the river banks; and about the middle of August, reached the point below
the rapids where the river becomes navigable for boats. Here Captain
Bonneville detached a second party of trappers, consisting of ten
men, to seek and join those whom he had detached while on the route;
appointing for them the same rendezvous, (at the Medicine Lodge,) on the
28th of August.
All hands now set to work to construct “bull boats,” as they are
technically called; a light, fragile kind of bark, characteristic of
the expedients and inventions of the wilderness; being formed of buffalo
skins, stretched on frames. They are sometimes, also, called skin boats.
Wyeth was the first ready; and, with his usual promptness and hardihood,
launched his frail bark, singly, on this wild and hazardous voyage, down
an almost interminable succession of rivers, winding through countries
teeming with savage hordes. Milton Sublette, his former fellow
traveller, and his companion in the battle scenes of Pierre’s Hole,
took passage in his boat. His crew consisted of two white men, and two
Indians. We shall hear further of Wyeth, and his wild voyage, in the
course of our wanderings about the Far West.