PROCEED WEST--BOG OUR HORSE--CROSS THE KNIFE HILLS--REACH THE
UNICA, OR WHITE RIVER--ABANDON THE HORSE AT A HUNTER'S, AND
PROCEED WITH PACKS--OBJECTS OF PITY--SUGAR-LOAF PRAIRIE--
CAMP UNDER A CLIFF--FORD THE UNICA TWICE--DESCEND INTO A
CAVERN--REACH BEAVER RIVER, THE HIGHEST POINT OF OCCUPANCY
BY A HUNTER POPULATION.
Dec. 5th. The rain ceased during the night, and left us a clear
atmosphere in the morning. At an early hour we completed the package of
the horse, and, taking the reins, I led him to the brink of the river,
and with difficulty effected a passage. The cliffs which formed the
western side of the valley, presented an obstacle not easily surmounted.
By leading the animal in a zigzag course, however, this height was
finally attained. The prospect, as far as the eye could reach, was
discouraging. Hill on hill rose before us, with little timber, it is
true, to impede us, but implying a continual necessity of crossing
steeps and depressions. After encountering this rough surface about two
miles, we came into a valley having a stream tributary to the Great
North Fork of White river, which we had quitted that morning, but at a
higher point. In this sub-valley we found our way impeded by another
difficulty--namely, the brush and small canes that grew near the brook.
To avoid this impediment, I took the horse across a low piece of ground,
having a thicket, but which appeared to be firm. In this I was mistaken;
for the animal's feet soon began to sink, and ere long he stuck fast.
The effort to extricate him but served to sink him deeper, and, by
pawing to get out, he continually widened the slough in which he had
sunk. We then obtained poles, and endeavored to pry him up; but our own
footing was continually giving way, and we at length beheld him in a
perfect slough of soft black mud. After getting his pack off, we decided
to leave him to his fate. We carried the pack to dry ground, on one side
of the valley, and spread the articles out, not without deeply
regretting the poor beast's plight. But then it occurred to us that, if
the horse were abandoned, we must also abandon our camp-kettle, large
axe, beds, and most of our camp apparatus; and another and concentrated
effort was finally resolved on. To begin, we cut down two tall saplings,
by means of which the horse was pried up from the bottom of the slough.
He was then grasped by the legs and turned over, which brought his feet
in contact with the more solid part of the ground. A determined effort,
both of horse and help, now brought him to his feet. He raised himself
up, and, by pulling with all our might, we brought him on dry ground. I
then led him gently to our place of deposit, and, by means of bunches of
sere grass, we both busied ourselves first to rub off the mud and wet,
and afterwards to groom him, and rub him dry. When he was properly
restored, it was found that he was able to carry his pack-saddle and
pack; and he was led slowly up the valley about three miles, where we
encamped. The grass in this little valley was of a nourishing quality,
and by stopping early we allowed him to recruit himself. We did not
estimate our whole distance this day at more than nine miles.
Dec. 6th. Butcher had improved his time well in the tender grass during
the night, and presented a more spirited appearance in the morning. We
were now near the head of Bogbrook, which we had been following; and as
we quitted its sides, long to be remembered for our mishap, we began to
ascend an elevated and bleak tract of the Mocama or Knife hills, so
called, over which the winds rushed strongly as we urged our way. Few
large trees were seen on these eminences, which were often bare, with a
hard cherty footing, replaced sometimes by clusters of brambles and
thickets. In one of these, a valuable _couteau de chasse_ was swept from
its sheath at my side, and lost. I was now reduced to a single knife,
of the kind fabricated for the Indians, under the name of scalper. For a
distance of sixteen miles we held on our way, in a west-south-west
course, turning neither to the right nor left. As night approached, we
found ourselves descending into a considerable valley, caused by a
river. The shrubbery and grass of its banks had been swept by fire in
the fall, and a new crop of grass was just rising. We formed our
encampment in this fire-swept area, which afforded Butcher another
benefit, and made some amends for his scanty fare among the bleak
eminences of the Ozarks. This stream proved to be the Little North Fork
of White river. We here despatched the last morsel of our turkey.
Dec. 7th. The ascent of the hills which bounded the valley on the
south-west was found to be very difficult; and when the summit was
reached, there spread before us an extensive prairie, of varied surface.
Trees occasionally appeared, but were in no place so thickly diffused as
to prevent the growth of a beautiful carpet of prairie grass. When we
had gone about six miles, a bold mound-like hill rose on our left, which
seemed a favorable spot for getting a view of the surrounding country.
We had been told by the hunters that in travelling fifteen miles about
west, we should reach a settlement at Sugar-loaf Prairie, on the main
channel of the Unica or White river. But on reaching the summit of this
natural look-out, we could descry nothing that betokened human
habitation. As far as the eye could reach, prairies and groves filled
the undulating vista. On reaching its foot again, where our horse was
tied, we changed our course to the south, believing that our directions
had been vague. We had gone about a mile in this direction, when we
entered a faint and old horse-path. This gave animation to our steps. We
pursued it about three miles, when it fell into another and plainer
path, having the fresh tracks of horses. We were now on elevated ground,
which commanded views of the country all around. Suddenly the opposite
side of a wide valley appeared to open far beneath us, and, stepping
forward the better to scan it, the river of which we were in search
presented its bright, broad, and placid surface to our view, at several
hundred feet below. We stood admiringly on the top of a high, rocky, and
precipitous cliff. Instinctively to shout, was my first impulse. My
companion, as he came up, also shouted. We had reached the object of our
search.
Pursuing the brow of the precipice about a mile, a log building and some
fields were discovered on the opposite bank. On descending the path
whose traces we had followed, it brought us to a ford. We at once
prepared to cross the river, which was four or five hundred yards wide,
reaching, in some places, half-leg high. On ascending the opposite bank,
we came to the house of a Mr. M'Garey, who received us with an air of
hospitality, and made us welcome to his abode. He had several grown
sons, who were present, and who, as we found by their costume and
conversation, were hunters. Mrs. M'G. was engaged in trying bears' fat,
and in due time she invited us to sit down to a meal of these scraps,
with excellent corn-bread and sassafras tea, with sugar and milk, served
in cups.
M'Garey had a bluff frankness of manner, with an air of independence in
the means of living, and an individuality of character, which impressed
us favorably. He told us that we were eight hundred miles west of the
Mississippi by the stream, that White river was navigable by keel-boats
for this distance, and that there were several settlements on its banks.
He had several acres in cultivation in Indian corn, possessed horses,
cows, and hogs, and, as we observed at the door, a hand-mill. At a
convenient distance was a smokehouse, where meats were preserved. I
observed a couple of odd volumes of books on a shelf. He was evidently a
pioneer on the Indian land. He said that the Cherokees had been
improperly located along the western bank of White river, extending to
the Arkansas, and that the effect was to retard and prevent the purchase
and settlement of the country by the United States. He complained of
this, as adverse to the scattered hunters, who were anxious to get
titles for their lands. He did not represent the Cherokees as being
hostile, or as having committed any depredations. But he depicted the
Osages as the scourge and terror of the country. They roamed from the
Arkansas to the Missouri frontier, and pillaged whoever fell in their
way. He detailed the particulars of a robbery committed in the very
house we were sitting in, when they took away horses, clothes, and
whatever they fancied. They had visited him in this way twice, and
recently stole from him eight beaver-skins; and during their last foray
in the valley, they had robbed one of his neighbors, called Teen Friend,
of all his arms, traps, and skins, and detained him a prisoner. This
tribe felt hostile to all the settlers on the outskirts of Missouri and
Arkansas, and were open robbers and plunderers of all the whites who
fell defenceless into their hands. They were, he thought, particularly
to be dreaded in the region which we proposed to explore. He also said
that the Osages were hostile to the newly-arrived Cherokees, who had
migrated from the east side of the Mississippi, and had settled in the
country between the Red river and Arkansas, and that these tribes were
daily committing trespasses upon each other. Having myself, but a short
time before, noticed the conclusion of a peace between the western
Cherokees and Osages at St. Louis, before General Clark, I was surprised
to hear this; but he added, as an illustration of this want of faith,
that when the Cherokees returned from that treaty, they pursued a party
of Osages near the banks of White river, and stole twenty horses from
them.
Dec. 8th. On comparing opinions, for which purpose we had an interview
outside the premises, it seemed that these statements were to be
received with some grains of allowance. They were natural enough for a
victim of Indian robberies, and doubtless true; but the events had not
been recent, and they were not deemed sufficient to deter us from
proceeding in our contemplated tour to the higher Ozarks at the sources
of the river. It was evident that we had erred a good deal from our
stick bridge at Calamarca, from the proper track; but we were
nevertheless determined not to relinquish our object.
Having obtained the necessary information, we determined to pursue our
way, for which purpose we turned the horse to graze with M'Garey's, rid
ourselves of all our heavy baggage by depositing it with him, and
prepared our knapsacks for this new essay. When ready, our host refused
to take any pay for his hospitalities, but, conducting us to his
smokehouse, opened the door, and then, drawing his knife from its
sheath, placed it, with an air of pomposity, in my hand, offering the
handle-end, and said, "Go in and cut." I did so, taking what appeared to
be sufficient to last us to our next expected point of meeting hunters.
The place was well filled with buffalo and bear meat, both smoked and
fresh, hanging on cross-bars.
At nine o'clock we bade our kind entertainer adieu, and, taking
directions to reach Sugar-loaf Prairie, crossed over the river by the
same ford which we had taken in our outward track from Camp No, in the
valley of the Great North Fork. Relieved from the toilsome task of
leading the horse, we ascended the opposite cliffs with alacrity, and
vigorously pursued our course, over elevated ground, for about sixteen
miles. The path then became obscure; the ground was so flinty and hard,
that it was in vain we searched for tracks of horses' feet. Some time
was lost in this search, and we finally encamped in a cane bottom in the
river valley.
My companion had again charged himself with the coffeepot, which he
carried in a similar manner at his back; and when I came to open my
pack, told me he thought I had not cut deep enough into the dried bear's
meat of M'Garey's smokehouse. To a man who refused all pay, and had been
invariably kind, I felt that moderation, in this respect, was due. I
was, besides, myself to be the carrier of it; and we, indeed, never had
cause to regret the carefulness of my selection.
Dec. 9th. Finding ourselves in the river's bottom, we forced our way,
with no small effort, through the thick growth of cane and vines. We
had, perhaps, advanced seven miles through this dense vegetation, when
we suddenly burst into a small cleared space. Here, in a little,
incomplete shanty, we found a woman and her young child. She had not a
morsel to eat, and looked half famished. Her husband had gone into the
forest to hunt something to eat. The child looked feeble. We were
touched at the sight, and did all we could to relieve them. They had
been in that position of new-comers about two weeks, having come up from
the lower parts of the river.
From this point, we ascended the river hills eastwardly, and pursued our
journey along an elevated range to the Sugar-loaf Prairie--a name which
is derived from the striking effects of denudation on the limestone
cliffs, which occupy the most elevated positions along this valley. We
were received with blunt hospitality by a tall man in leather, called
Coker, whose manner appears to be characteristic of the hunter. Our
approach was heralded by the usual loud and long barking of dogs, and we
found the premises surrounded by the invariable indications of a
successful hunter--skins of the bear and other animals, stretched out on
frames to dry.
We were no sooner at home with our entertainer, than he began to
corroborate what we had before heard of the hostility of the Osages. He
considered the journey at this season hazardous, as he thought they had
not yet broke up their fall hunting-camps, and retired to their villages
on the Grand Osaw (Osage). He also thought it a poor season for game,
and presented a rather discouraging prospect to our view. My gun having
proved useless, we tried to obtain a rifle which he possessed, and
seemed willing to part with, but not at a reasonable price.
Mr. Coker represented the settlers of Sugar-loaf Prairie to consist of
four families, situated within the distance of eight miles, including
both banks of the river. This was exclusive of two families living at
Beaver creek, the highest point yet occupied.
Dec. 10th. It was noon before we were prepared to depart from Coker's.
The old man refused to take anything for our meals and lodging; and we
bade him adieu, after taking his directions as to the best route to
pursue to reach Beaver creek, our next point. We travelled through a
lightly-timbered, hilly, barren country, about eight miles, when the
skies became overcast, and some rain fell. It was still an early hour to
encamp, but we came at this time into a small ravine, with running
water, which had on one bank a shelving cave in the limestone rock,
forming a protection from the rain. We built a fire from red cedar,
which emitted a strong aromatic odor. The weather begins to assume a
wintry character; this is the first day we have been troubled with cold
fingers.
Dec. 11th. We left our camp at the cave on Cedar brook, and resumed our
march at an early hour, and found the face of the country still rough
and undulating, but covered, to a great extent, with brush. My companion
thought we had gone far enough to have struck the waters of the Beaver,
and, as he carried the compass this day, he deviated westward from the
intended course. This brought us to the banks of a river, which he
insisted, contrary to my opinion, must be the Beaver. To me this did not
seem probable, but, yielding the point to him, we forded the stream at
waist deep. We then ascended a lofty and difficult range of river hills,
and, finding ourselves now at the level of the country, we held on in a
westerly course, till it became clearly evident, even to my companion,
that we were considerably west of the White river. We then retraced our
steps, descended the river hills to the bank of the stream, and followed
up its immediate margin, in search of a convenient spot for encampment;
for, by this time, night approached rapidly. We were soon arrested by a
precipitous cliff, against the base of which the river washed. As the
sun sank lower, we felt a keen and cold wind, but could not find a stick
of wood on the western bank with which to kindle a fire. The alternative
presented to us was, either to remain here all night without a fire,
exposed to the chilling blast, or cross a deep stream to the opposite
shore, where there was an extensive alluvial plain, covered with trees
and the cane plant, and promising an abundance of fuel.
Night had already closed around us, when we decided to cross the river.
We found it to be four or five feet deep, and some two hundred yards
wide. When we got over, it was with great difficulty that we succeeded
in collecting a sufficiency of dry materials to kindle a fire; and by
the time we had accomplished it, our wet clothes had become stiff and
cold, the wind at the same time blowing very fiercely. Our utmost
efforts were required to dry and warm ourselves, nor did we attain
these points in a sufficient degree to secure a comfortable night's
rest.
Dec. 12th. The ground this morning was covered with white hoar-frost,
with a keen and cold air, and a wintry sky. Early daylight found us
treading our way across the low grounds to the cliffs. We soon ascended
on an elevated rocky shore, bordering the river, which was completely
denuded of trees and shrubbery. It was early, the sun not having yet
risen, when we beheld before us, rising out of the ground, a column of
air which appeared to be of a warmer temperature. Its appearance was
like that of smoke from a chimney on a frosty morning. On reaching it,
the phenomenon was found to be caused by a small orifice in the earth,
from which rarefied air issued. On looking down intently, and partially
excluding the light, it was seen to be a fissure in the limestone rock,
with jagged, narrow sides, leading down into a cavern. I determined to
try the descent, and found the opening large enough to admit my body.
Feeling for a protuberance on which to rest my feet, and closely
pressing the sides of the orifice, I slowly descended. My fear was that
the crevice would suddenly enlarge, and let me drop. But I descended in
safety. I thus let myself down directly about twenty feet, and came to
the level floor of a gallery which led in several directions. The light
from above was sufficient to reveal the dark outlines of a ramified
cavern, and to guide my footsteps for a distance. I went as far in the
largest gallery as the light cast any direct rays, but found nothing at
all on the floor or walls to reward my adventure. It was a notable
fissure in a carbonate of lime, entirely dry, and without stalactites.
What I most feared in these dim recesses, was some carnivorous animal,
for whose residence it appeared to be well adapted. Having explored it
as far as I could command any light to retrace my steps, I returned to
the foot of the original orifice. I found no difficulty, by pressing on
each side, in ascending to the surface, bringing along a fragment of the
limestone rock. I afterwards observed, while descending the river, that
this cavern was in a high, precipitous part of the coast, of calcareous
rock, the foot of which was washed by the main channel of White river.
We now resumed our march, and, at the distance of about six miles,
reached Beaver creek, a mile or two above its mouth. It is a beautiful,
clear stream, of sixty yards wide, with a depth of two feet, and a hard,
gravelly bottom. We forded it, and, keeping down the bank, soon fell
into a horse-path, which led us, in following it about a mile and a
half, to a hunter's dwelling, occupied by a man named Fisher. He
received us in a friendly manner, and we took up our abode with him. Six
or eight hundred yards higher, there was another cabin, occupied by a
man named Holt. Both had been but a short time located at this place;
they had not cleared any ground, nor even finished the log houses they
occupied. Both buildings were on the bank of the river, on the edge of a
large and very fertile bottom, well wooded, and with a very picturesque
coast of limestone opposite, whose denuded pinnacles had received the
name of the Little Tower.