hazardous, even when undertaken well-prepared and with company. As far
as I could see, I might have to go on foot and pack my food and blanket
on my back. I knew that I should have to go alone. Some work had been
done on the road during the summer, but I was unable to learn definitely
whether any camps were yet in the mountains.
At Steilacoom there was a certain character, a doctor, then understood
by few, and I may say not by many even to the end. Yet, somehow, I had
implicit confidence in him, though between him and me there would seem
to have been a gulf that could not be closed. Our habits of life were
diametrically opposite. I would never touch a drop, while the doctor was
always drinking--never sober, neither ever drunk.
It was to this man that I entrusted the safe keeping of my little
family. I knew my wife had such an aversion to people of his kind that I
did not even tell her with whom I would arrange to look out for her
welfare, but suggested another person to whom she might apply in case of
need.
When I spoke to the doctor about what I wanted, he seemed pleased to be
able to do a kind act. To reassure me, he got out his field glasses and
turned them on the cabin across the water, three miles distant. Looking
through them intently for a moment he said, "I can see everything going
on over there. You need have no uneasiness about your folks while you
are gone."
And I did not need to have any concern. Twice a week during all the time
I was away an Indian woman visited the cabin on the island, always with
some little presents. She would ask about the babies and whether there
was anything needed. Then with the parting "_Alki nika keelapie_,"[8]
she would leave.
With a fifty-pound flour sack filled with hard bread, or navy biscuit, a
small piece of dried venison, a couple of pounds of cheese, a tin cup,
and half of a three-point blanket, all made into a pack of less than
forty pounds, I climbed the hill at Steilacoom and took the road leading
to Puyallup. The first night was spent with Jonathan McCarty, whose
cabin was near where the town of Sumner now stands.
McCarty said: "You can't cross the streams on foot; I'll let you have a
pony. He's small, but sure-footed and hardy, and he'll carry you across
the rivers anyhow." McCarty also said: "Tell your folks this is the
greatest grass country on earth. Why, I am sure I harvested five tons of
timothy to the acre this year."
[Illustration: Twice a week the Indian woman visited the cabin.]
The next day found me on the road with my blanket under the saddle, my
sack of hard bread strapped on behind. I was mounted to ride on level
stretches of the road, or across streams, of which I had fully sixty
crossings to make.
White River on the upper reaches is a roaring torrent; the rush of
waters can be heard for a mile or more from the high bluff overlooking
the narrow valley. The river is not fordable except in low water, and
then in but few places. The river bed is full of stones worn rounded and
smooth and slippery, from the size of a man's head to large boulders,
thus making footing for animals uncertain. After my first experience, I
dreaded the crossings to come more than all else on the trip, for a
misstep of the pony's might be fatal.
The little fellow, Bobby, seemed to be equal to the occasion. If the
footing became too uncertain, he would stop stock still and pound the
water with one foot, then reach out carefully until he could find secure
footing, and finally move up a step or two. The water of the river is so
charged with sediment that the bottom cannot be seen; hence the
necessity of feeling the way. I soon learned that my pony could be
trusted on the fords better than I. Thereafter I held only a supporting,
not a guiding, rein and he carried me safely over all the crossings on
my way out.
Allan Porter lived near the first crossing. As he was the last settler I
should see and his the last place where I could get feed for my pony,
other than grass or browse, I put up for the night under his roof.
He said I was going on a "Tom Fool's errand," for my folks could take
care of themselves, and he tried to dissuade me from proceeding on my
journey. But I would not be turned back. The following morning I cut
loose from the settlements and plunged into the deep forest of the
mountains.
The road, if it could be called a road, lay in the narrow valley of
White River or on the mountains adjacent. In some places, as at Mud
Mountain, it reached more than a thousand feet above the river bed.
There were stretches where the forest was so dense that one could
scarcely see to read at midday, while elsewhere large burned areas gave
an opening for daylight.
During the forenoon of this day, in one of those deepest of deep
forests, Bobby stopped short, his ears pricked up. Just then I caught an
indistinct sight of a movement ahead, and thought I heard voices; the
pony made an effort to turn and bolt in the opposite direction. Soon
there appeared three women and eight children on foot, coming down the
road in complete ignorance of the presence of any one but themselves in
the forest.
"Why, stranger! Where on earth did you come from? Where are you going,
and what are you here for?" asked the foremost woman of the party.
Mutual explanations followed. I learned that their teams had become
exhausted and all the wagons but one had been abandoned, and that this
one was on the road a few miles behind. They were entirely out of
provisions and had had nothing to eat for twenty hours except what
natural food they had gathered, and that was not much. They eagerly
inquired the distance to food, which I thought they might possibly reach
that night. Meanwhile I had opened my sack of hard bread and had given
each a cracker, at the eating of which the sound resembled pigs cracking
dry, hard corn.
Neither they nor I had time to parley long. The women with their
children, barefoot and ragged, bareheaded and unkempt, started down the
mountain, intent on reaching food, while I went up the road wondering
how often this scene was to be repeated as I advanced on my journey.
[Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_
White River in the upper reaches is a roaring torrent.]
A dozen biscuits of bread is usually a very small matter, but with me it
might mean a great deal. How far should I have to go? When could I find
out? What would be the plight of my people when found? Or should I find
them at all? Might they not pass by and be on the way down the Columbia
River before I could reach the main immigrant trail? These and kindred
questions weighed on my mind as I slowly ascended the mountain.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTE:
[8] By and by I will return.
[Illustration: The boy led his mother across the log.]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BLAZING THE WAY THROUGH NATCHESS PASS
THE Natchess Pass Trail, along which I must make my way, had been blazed
by a party of intrepid pioneers during the summer of 1853. Fifteen
thousand dollars had been appropriated by Congress to be expended for a
military road through the pass. I saw some of the work, but do not
remember seeing any of the men who were improving the road.
I stuck close to the old trail, making my first camp alone, just west of
the summit. I had reached an altitude where the night chill was keenly
felt, and with only my light blanket missed the friendly contact of the
faithful ox that had served me so well on the Plains. My pony had
nothing but browse for supper, and he was restless. Nevertheless I slept
soundly and was up early, refreshed and ready to resume the journey.
Such a road as I found is difficult to imagine. How the pioneer
trail-blazers had made their way through it is a marvel. It seemed
incredible that forests so tall and so dense could have existed
anywhere on earth. Curiously enough, the heavier the standing timber,
the easier it had been to slip through with wagons, there being but
little undecayed timber or down timber. In the ancient days, however,
great giants had been uprooted, lifting considerable earth with the
upturned roots. As time went on the roots decayed, making mounds two,
three, or four feet high and leaving a corresponding hollow into which
one would plunge; for the whole was covered by a dense, short evergreen
growth that completely hid from view the unevenness of the ground. Over
these hillocks and hollows and over great roots on top of the ground,
they had rolled their wagons.
All sorts of devices had been tried to overcome obstructions. In many
places, where the roots were not too large, cuts had been taken out. In
other places the large timber had been bridged by piling up smaller
logs, rotten chunks, brush, or earth, so that the wheels of the wagon
could be rolled over the body of the tree. Usually three notches would
be cut on the top of the log, two for the wheels and one for the reach,
or coupling pole, to pass through.
In such places the oxen would be taken to the opposite side, and a chain
or rope would be run to the end of the wagon tongue. One man drove, one
or two guided the tongue, others helped at the wheels. In this way, with
infinite labor and great care, the wagons would gradually be worked over
all obstacles and down the mountain in the direction of the settlements.
But the more numerous the difficulties, the more determined I became to
push through at all hazards, for the greater was the necessity of
acquainting myself with the obstacles to be encountered and of reaching
my friends to encourage and help them.
[Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_
In the heart of a Cascade forest.]
Before me lay the summit of the great range, the pass, at five thousand
feet above sea level. At this summit, about twenty miles north of Mt.
Rainier in the Cascade range, is a small stretch of picturesque open
country known as Summit Prairie, in the Natchess Pass.
In this prairie, during the autumn of 1853, a camp of immigrants had
encountered grave difficulties. A short way out from the camp, a steep
mountain declivity lay squarely across their track. One of the women of
the party exclaimed, when she first saw it, "Have we come to the
jumping-off place at last?" It was no exclamation for effect, but a
fervent prayer for deliverance. They could not go back; they must either
go ahead or starve in the mountains.
Stout hearts in the party were not to be deterred from making the effort
to proceed. Go around this hill they could not. Go down it with logs
trailed to the wagons, as they had done at other places, they dared not,
for the hill was so steep the logs would go end over end and would be a
danger instead of a help. The rope they had was run down the hill and
turned out to be too short to reach the bottom.
James Biles, one of the leaders, commanded, "Kill a steer." They killed
a steer, cut his hide into strips, and spliced the strips to the rope.
It was found to be still too short to reach to the bottom.
The order went out: "Kill two more steers!" And two more steers were
killed, their hides cut into strips and the strips spliced to the rope,
which then reached to the bottom of the hill.
By the aid of that rope and the strips of the hides of those three
steers, twenty-nine wagons were lowered down the mountain side to the
bottom of the steep hill. Only one broke away; it crashed down the
mountain and was smashed into splinters.
The feat of bringing that train of wagons in, with the loss of only one
out of twenty-nine, is the greatest I ever knew or heard of in the way
of pioneer travel.
[Illustration: By the aid of one short rope and the strips of the hides
of three steers, twenty-nine wagons were lowered down the mountain
side.]
Nor were the trials ended when the wagons had been brought down to the
bottom of that hill. With snail-like movements, the cattle and men
becoming weaker and weaker, the train crept along, making less progress
each day, until finally it seemed that the oxen could do no more. It
became necessary to send them forward on the trail ten miles, to a place
where it was known that plenty of grass could be had. Meanwhile the work
on the road continued until the third day, when the last particle of
food was gone. Then the teams were brought back, the trip over the whole
ten miles was made, and Connell's Prairie was reached at dark.
In the struggle over that ten miles the women and children had largely
to take care of themselves while the men tugged at the wagons. One
mother and her children, a ten-year old boy, a child of four years, and
a babe of eight months, in some way were passed by the wagons. These
four were left on the right bank of the river when the others had
crossed.
A large fallen tree reached across the river, but the top on the farther
side lay so close to the water that a constant trembling and swaying
made it a dangerous bridge to cross on. None of the four had eaten
anything since the day before, and but a scant supply then; but the boy
resolutely shouldered the four-year-old child and deposited him safely
on the other side. Then came the little tot, the baby, to be carried
across in his arms. Last came the mother.
"I can't go!" she exclaimed. "It makes me so dizzy!"
"Put one hand over your eyes, mother, and take hold of me with the
other," said the boy. They began to move out sidewise on the log, half a
step at a time.
"Hold steady, mother; we are nearly over."
"Oh, I am gone!" she cried, as she lost her balance and fell into the
river. Happily, they were so near the farther bank that the little boy
was able to catch with one hand a branch that hung over the bank while
he held on to his mother with the other hand, and so she was saved.
It was then nearly dark, and without knowing how far it was to camp, the
little party started on the road, tarrying on the bank of the river only
long enough for the mother to wring the water out of her skirts. The boy
carried the baby, while the four-year-old child walked beside his
mother. After nearly two miles of travel and the ascent of a very steep
hill, they caught the glimmer of camp lights; the mother fell senseless,
utterly prostrated.
The boy hurried his two little brothers into camp, calling for help to
rescue his mother. The appeal was promptly responded to; she was carried
into camp and tenderly cared for until she revived.
There were one hundred and twenty-eight people in that train. Among
them, as a boy, was George Himes, who for many years has been Secretary
of the Oregon Historical Society. To him we are indebted for most of
this story of pioneer heroism.
[Illustration: Bobby and I went up the mountain in a zig-zag course.]
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CLIMBING THE CASCADE MOUNTAINS
UP through the Natchess Pass Bobby and I took our lonely way, to reach
and bring over this same difficult trail the party in which were my
parents and my brothers and sisters.
From the first chill night, following the sweat due to the climb of the
day before, my muscles were a bit stiffened; but I was ready for the
climb to the summit. Bobby was of a different mind. As I have said, he
had been restless during the night. I had just strapped the roll of
blankets and hard bread securely behind the saddle, when he suddenly
turned his face homeward and trotted off gaily, down the mountain.
I could do nothing but follow him. The narrow cut of the road and
impenetrable obstructions on either side prevented my heading off his
rascally maneuvers. Finally, on finding a nip of grass by the roadside,
he slackened his gait, and after several futile attempts I managed to
get a firm hold of his tail. After this we went down the mountain
together, much more rapidly than we had come up the evening before.
Bobby forgot to use his heels, else he might for a longer time have been
master of the situation. The fact was he did not want to hurt me, but
was determined to go no farther into mountains where he could not get a
supper. The contest was finally settled in my favor when I managed to
catch hold of the rein. Did I chastise him? Not a bit. I did not blame
him; we were partners, but it was a one-sided partnership, as he had no
interest in the enterprise other than to get enough to eat as we went
along, and when he saw no prospect of food, he rebelled.
We were soon past our camping ground of the night before, and on our way
up the mountain. Bobby would not be led; if I tried to lead him, he
would hold back for a while, then, making a rush up the steep ascent, he
would be on my heels or toes before I could get out of the way. I would
seize his tail with a firm grasp and follow. When he moved rapidly, I
was helped up the mountain. When he slackened his pace, then came the
resting spell. The engineering instinct of the horse tells him how to
reduce grades by angles, and Bobby led me up the mountains in zig-zag
courses, I following always with the firm grasp of the tail that meant
we would not part company, and we did not.
By noon we had surmounted all obstacles and stood upon the summit
prairie--one of them, for there are several. Here Bobby feasted to his
heart's content, while for me it was the same old story--hardtack and
cheese, with a small allotment of dried venison.
To the south, apparently but a few miles distant, the old mountain,
Rainier, loomed up into the clouds fully ten thousand feet higher than
where I stood, a grand scene to behold, worthy of all the effort
expended to reach this point. But I was not attuned to view with
ecstasy the grandeur of what lay before me; rather I scanned the horizon
to ascertain, if I could, what the morrow might bring forth.
This mountain served the pioneer as a huge barometer to forecast the
weather. "How is the mountain this morning?" the farmer asked in harvest
time. "Has the mountain got his nightcap on?" the housewife inquired
before her wash was hung on the line. The Indian would watch the
mountain with intent to determine whether he might expect _snass_
(rain), or _kull snass_ (hail), or _t'kope snass_ (snow), and seldom
failed in his conclusions. So that day I scanned the mountain top,
partially hid in the clouds, with forebodings verified at nightfall.
A light snow came on just before night, which, with the high mountains
on either side of the river, spread darkness rapidly. I was loath to
camp. If I could safely have found my way, I would have traveled all
night. The trail in places was very indistinct and the canyon was but a
few hundred yards wide, with the tortuous river striking first one bluff
and then the other, making numerous crossings necessary.
Finally I saw that I must camp. I crossed the river to an opening where
the bear tracks were so thick that the spot seemed a playground for all
these animals roundabout. The black bears on the western slope were
timid and not dangerous; but I did not know about this species of the
eastern slope.
I found two good-sized trees that had fallen obliquely across each
other. With my pony tethered as a sentinel, and my fire as an advance
post, I went to bed, nearly supperless. I felt lonesome; but I kept my
fire burning all night, and I slept soundly.
Early next morning found Bobby and me on the trail. We were a little
chilled by the cold mountain air and very willing to travel. Towards
nightfall I heard the welcome tinkling of a bell, and soon saw first the
smoke of camp fires, and then a village of tents and grime-covered
wagons. How I tugged at Bobby's halter to make him go faster and then
mounted him, without getting much more speed, can better be imagined
than told.
[Illustration: A night camp in the mountains with a fire to keep off the
bears.]
Could it be the camp I was searching for? It had about the number of
wagons and tents that I expected to meet. No; I was doomed to
disappointment. Yet I rejoiced to find some one to camp with and talk to
other than the pony.
The greeting given me by those tired and almost discouraged travelers
could not have been more cordial had they been my relatives. They had
been toiling for nearly five months on the road across the Plains, and
now there loomed up before them this great mountain range to cross.
Could they do it? If they could not get over with their wagons, could
they get the women and children through safely? I was able to lift a
load of doubt and fear from their jaded minds.
Before I knew what was happening, I caught the fragrance of boiling
coffee and fresh meat cooking. The good matrons knew without telling
that I was hungry and had set to work to prepare me a meal, a sumptuous
meal at that, taking into account the whetted appetite incident to a
diet of hard bread straight, and not much of that either, for two days.
We had met on the Yakima River, at the place where the old trail crosses
that river near the site of the present flourishing city of North
Yakima.
[Illustration: Mountain wolves.]
In this party were some of the people who next year lost their lives in
the White River massacre. They were Harvey H. Jones, his wife, and three
children, and George E. King, his wife, and one child. One of the little
boys of the camp, John I. King, lived to write a graphic account of the
tragedy in which his mother and stepfather and their neighbors lost
their lives. Another boy, a five-year-old child, was taken off, and
after being held captive for nearly four months was then safely
delivered over by the Indians to the military authorities at Fort
Steilacoom.
I never think of those people but with sadness. Their struggle,
doubtless the supreme effort of their lives, was only to go to their
death. I had pointed out to them where to go to get good claims, and
they had lost no time, but had gone straight to the locality recommended
and had set immediately to work preparing shelter for the winter.
"Are you going out on those plains alone?" Mrs. Jones asked me
anxiously.
When I told her that I would have the pony with me, she insisted, "Well,
I don't think it is safe."
Mr. Jones explained that his wife was thinking of the danger from the
ravenous wolves that infested the open country. The party had lost
weakened stock from their forages right close to the camp. He advised me
not to camp near the watering places, but to go up on the high ridge. I
followed his advice with the result, as we shall see, of missing my road
and losing considerable time, which meant not a little trouble and
anxiety.
[Illustration: To dig under was the only way to pass the obstruction.]
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FINDING MY PEOPLE
ON leaving my newly found friends I faced a discouraging prospect. The
start for the high, arid table-lands bordering the Yakima valley cut me
loose from all communication. No more immigrants were met until I
reached the main-traveled route beyond the Columbia River.
The road lay through a forbidding sage plain, or rather an undulating
country, covered by shifting sands and dead grass of comparatively scant
growth. As the sun rose, the heat became intolerable. The dust, in
places, brought vivid memories of the trip across the Plains.
Strive against it as I might, my eyes would strain at the horizon to
catch a glimpse of the expected train. Then an intolerable thirst seized
upon me and compelled me to leave the road and descend into the valley
for water.
I dared not linger off the trail and take chances of missing the
expected train. So I went through another stretch of travel, of heat,
and of thirst, that lasted until during the afternoon, when I found
water on the trail. Tethering my pony for his much-needed dinner, I
opened my sack of hard bread to count the contents; my store was half
gone. I lay down in the shade of a small tree near the spring to take an
afternoon nap. Rousing before sundown, refreshed, Bobby and I took the
trail with new courage.
When night came, I could not find it in my heart to camp. The cool of
the evening invigorated the pony, and we pushed on. Finding that the
road could be followed, though but dimly seen, I kept on the trail until
a late hour, when I unsaddled and hobbled the pony. The saddle blanket
was brought into use, and I was soon off in dreamland forgetting all
about the dust, the trail, or the morrow.
In the morning I awoke to find that the pony had wandered far off on the
hillside, so far, in fact, that it required close scanning to discover
him. To make matters worse, his hobbles had become loosened, giving him
free use of all his feet, and he was in no mood to take the trail again.
Coaxing was of no avail, driving would do no good. Taking an opportunity
to seize his tail, I followed him around about over the plain and
through the sage brush at a rapid gait; finally he slackened pace and I
again became master.
[Illustration: Hobbling the pony.]