POWDER RIVER—ANOTHER ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE—DETECTION AND DESPAIR—A
QUARREL—MY LIFE SAVED BY “JUMPING BEAR.”
The name given to Powder River by the Indians, is “Chahalee Wacapolah.”
It crosses the country east of the Big Horn Mountains, and from its
banks can be seen the snow-capped Cloud Peak rising grandly from its
surrounding hills. Between these ranges, that culminate in the queenly,
shining crowned height that takes its name from the clouds it seems
to pierce, are fertile valleys, in which game abounds, and delicious
wild fruits in great variety, some of which can not be surpassed by
cultivated orchard products in the richness and flavor they possess,
although they ripen in the neighborhood of everlasting snow.
In these valleys the country seems to roll in gentle slopes, presenting
to the eye many elements of loveliness and future value.
Powder River, which is a muddy stream, comes from the southern side of
the Big Horn Mountains, and takes a southwestern course, and therefore
is not a part of the bright channel that combines to feed the Missouri
River from the Big Horn range.
This range of the Rocky Mountains possesses two distinct, marked
features. First, there is a central or back-bone range, which
culminates in perpetual snow, where Cloud Peak grandly rises, as the
chief of all its proud summits. Falling off gradually toward the
southern valley, there are similar ranges of the Wind River Mountains
beyond.
Between these ranges, and varying in breadth from twelve to twenty-five
miles, are fine hunting grounds, abounding in noble orchards of wild
fruit of various kinds, and grapes, as well as game of the choicest
kind for the huntsman. Notwithstanding its vicinity to snow, there are
gentle slopes which present features of peculiar loveliness.
Several miles northwest, and following the sweep of the higher northern
range, and six to eight miles outside its general base, a new country
opens. Sage brush and cactus, which for nearly two hundred miles have
so largely monopolized the soil, rapidly disappear.
The change, though sudden, is very beautiful. One narrow divide only is
crossed, and the transition about one day’s ride from the above-named
river. The limpid, transparent, and noisy waters of Deer Fork are
reached, and the horses have difficulty in breasting the swift current.
The river is so clear that every pebble and fish is seen distinctly on
the bottom, and the water so cool that ice in midsummer is no object of
desire.
The scenes of natural beauty, and the charms that have endeared this
country to the savage, will in the future lure the emigrant seeking a
home in this new and undeveloped land.
This clear creek is a genuine outflow from the Big Horn Mountains,
and is a type of many others, no less pure and valuable, derived from
melting snow and from innumerable springs in the mountains.
Rock Creek comes next, with far less pretensions, but is similar in
character.
A day’s ride to the northward brings the traveler to Crazy Woman’s Fork.
This ever-flowing stream receives its yellow hue from the Powder River
waters, of which it is a branch.
The country is scarred by countless trails of buffalo, so that what is
often called the Indian trail is merely the hoof-print of these animals.
Leaving Powder River, we passed through large pine forests, and through
valleys rich with beautiful grasses, with limpid springs and seemingly
eternal verdure.
I continued to drop papers by the way, hoping they might lead to my
discovery, which would have proved fatal had any one attempted a
rescue, as the Indians prefer to kill their captives rather than be
forced to give them up.
It was the fifth night of my sojourn with the Indians that I found
myself under the weeping willows of Clear Creek.
The men, weary with travel, and glad to find so good a camping ground,
lay down to sleep, leaving a sufficient guard over their captive and at
the outposts.
Their journey hither had been a perilous one to me, unused as I was to
the rocky paths between narrow gorges and over masses of broken stone,
which their Indian ponies climbed with readiness and ease.
I was led to remark the difference between these ponies and American
horses, who could only struggle to find their foothold over such craggy
ground, while the ponies led the way, picking their steps up almost
perpendicular steeps with burdens on their backs.
Their travel after the rest at Clear Creek partook of the difficult
nature of the mountain passes, and was wearisome in the extreme, and
the duties imposed upon me made life almost too burdensome to be borne.
I was always glad of a respite at the camping ground.
On the sixth night, I lay on a rock, under the shade of some bushes,
meditating on the possibility of escape.
The way was far beyond my reckoning, and the woods where they now were
might be infested with wild beasts; but the prospect of getting away,
and being free from the savages, closed my eyes to the terrors of
starvation and ravenous animals.
Softly I rose and attempted to steal toward some growing timber; but
the watchful chief did not risk his prey so carelessly, his keen eye
was on me, and his iron hand grasped my wrist and drew me back.
Throwing me fiercely on the ground, he hissed a threat through his
clenched teeth, which I momentarily expected him to put into execution,
as I lay trembling at his feet.
I felt from this time that my captivity was for life, and a dull
despair took possession of me.
Sleep, that balm for happier souls, brought only horrid dreams, in
which a dreadful future pictured itself; and then the voices of my
husband and child seemed calling me to their side, alas! in vain, for
when I awoke it was to find myself in the grass of the savage camping
ground, watched over by the relentless guard, and shut out from hope of
home or civilized life.
My feet were covered with a pair of good shoes, and the chiefs
brother-in-law gave me a pair of stockings from his stores, which I
gladly accepted, never, for a moment, suspecting that, in doing thus, I
was outraging a custom of the people among whom I was.
The chief saw the gift, and made no remark at the time, but soon after
he shot one of his brother-in-law’s horses, which he objected to in a
decided manner, and a quarrel ensued.
Realizing that I was the cause of the disagreement, I tremblingly
watched the contest, unable to conciliate either combatant, and
dreading the wrath of both.
The chief would brook no interference, nor would he offer any
reparation for the wrong he had inflicted.
His brother-in-law, enraged at his arrogance, drew his bow, and aimed
his arrow at my heart, determined to have satisfaction for the loss of
his horse.
I could only cry to God for mercy, and prepare to meet the death
which had long hung over my head, when a young Blackfoot, whose name
was Jumping Bear, saved me from the approaching doom by dexterously
snatching the bow from the savage and hurling it to the earth.
He was named Jumping Bear from the almost miraculous dexterity of some
of his feats.
This circumstance and the Indian mentioned were, in my judgment,
instruments in the hand of Providence, in saving Fort Sully from the
vengeance and slaughter of the Blackfeet, who had succeeded in gaining
the confidence of some of the officers on the Missouri River.
His activity in the attack on our train, and the energy he displayed
in killing and pillaging on that occasion, notwithstanding his efforts
to make me believe the contrary, forbade me to think there was any
sympathy in his interference in my behalf.
The Indian submitted to his intervention so far that he did not draw
his bow again, and my suspense was relieved, for the time, by the gift
of a horse from the chief to his brother-in-law, which calmed the fury
of the wronged Indian.
It happened that the animal thus given as a peace-offering was the pack
horse that pulled so uncomfortably against the leading rein, and thus,
in the end, I gained, by the ordeal through which I had passed, in
being relieved of a most unmanageable task.
From the first, I was deprived of every ameliorating comfort that might
have rendered my existence bearable.
No tent was spread for me, no rug, or coverlet, offered me to lie on.
The hard earth, sparsely spread with grass, furnished me a couch,
and apprehension and regret deprived me of the rest my toilsome life
demanded. They offered me no food, and at first I did not dare to ask
for it.
This was partly owing to the absence of all natural appetite, an
intense weakness and craving constantly for drink being the only signs
of the prolonged fast that annoyed me.
The utter hopelessness of my isolation wore on me, driving me almost to
madness, and visions of husband and child haunted my brain; sometimes
they were full of hope and tauntingly happy; at others, I saw them
dying or dead, but always beyond my reach, and separated by the
impassable barrier of my probably lifelong captivity.
In my weakened condition, the horrors of the stake, to which I felt
myself borne daily nearer as they progressed on their homeward route,
appeared like a horrid phantom.
It had been threatened me since my first effort to escape, and I was
led to believe such a punishment was the inevitable consequence of my
attempt.
The terrible heat of the days continued, and the road they took was
singularly barren of water. The Indians, after drinking plentifully
before starting, carry little sticks in their mouths, which they chew
constantly, thus creating saliva, and preventing the parching sensation
I endured from the want of this knowledge.
The seventh night they entered a singular cañon, apparently well known
to them, as they found horses there, which evidently had been left on a
former visit.
I could not but wonder at the sagacity and patience of these Indian
ponies, which were content to wait their master’s coming, and browse
about on the sparse herbage and meager grass.
The Indians had killed an antelope that day, and a piece of the
raw flesh was allotted me for a meal. They had then traveled in a
circuitous route for miles, to reach the mouth of this cañon, and
entered it just after sundown.
Its gloomy shade was a great relief after the heat of the sun, and it
filled my sensitive mind with awe. The sun never seemed to penetrate
its depths, and the damp air rose around me like the breath of a
dungeon.
Downward they went, as if descending into the bowels of the earth, and
the sloping floor they trod was covered with red sand for perhaps the
space of half a mile.
Then they struck a rocky pavement, the perpendicular walls of which
were of earth; but as they made another turning and entered a large
space, they seemed to change to stone with projecting arches and
overhanging cornices.
The high walls rose above the base so as to nearly meet overhead, and,
with their innumerable juttings and irregularities, had the appearance
of carved columns supporting a mighty ruin.
Occasionally a faint ray of the fading light struggled with the gloom,
into which they plunged deeper and deeper, and then their horses’
cautious feet would turn the bones of antelope or deer, drawn thither
by the lurking wolf to feed the young in their lair.
I was startled with dread at the sight, fearing that they might be
human bones, with which mine would soon be mingled.
The increasing darkness had made it necessary for the Indians to carry
torches, which they did, lighting up the grotesque grandeur of earth
and rock through which they passed by the weird glare of their waving
brands.
Arriving at the spot they selected as a camping-ground, they made
fires, whose fantastic gleams danced upon the rocky walls, and added
a magic splendor to their wondrous tracery. The ghostly grandeur of
these unfrequented shades can not be described, but their effect is
marvelous.
They seem to shadow forth the outline of carving and sculpture, and in
the uncertain firelight have all the effect of some old-time temple,
whose art and glory will live forever, even when its classic stones are
dust.
Here I found water for my parched lips, which was more grateful to my
weary senses than any natural phenomenon; and sinking on a moss-grown
rock, near the trickling rill that sank away in the sand beyond, I
found slumber in that strange, fantastic solitude.
I was aroused by a whistling sound, and, gathering myself up, looked
fearfully around me. Two flaming eyes seemed to pierce the darkness
like a sword. I shuddered and held my breath, as a long, lithe serpent
wound past me, trailing its shining length through the damp sand, and
moving slowly out of sight among the dripping vines.
After that I slept no more; and when I saw the struggling light of
day pierce the rocky opening above, I gladly hailed the safety of the
sunshine, even though it brought sorrow, distress, and toil.
When we rose in the morning, they left the cañon by the path they
entered, as it seemed to have no other outlet, and then pursued their
way.