to know them in season.”
In places on the level prairie rose, as if they were oases, groups of
cottonwood or alder, so wreathed with wild grapes and lianas that they
could not be recognized under the tendrils and leaves. On the lianas
in turn climbed ivy and the prickly, thorny “wachtia,” resembling wild
roses. Flowers were just dropping at all points; inside, underneath
that screen and beyond that wall, was a certain mysterious gloom; at
the tree trunks were sleeping great pools of water of the spring-time,
which the sun was unable to drink up; from the tree-tops and among the
brocade of flowers came wonderful voices and the calling of birds. When
for the first time I showed such trees to Lillian and such hanging
cascades of flowers, she stood as if fixed to the earth, repeating with
clasped hands,—
“Oh, Ralph! is that real?”
She said that she was a little afraid to enter such a depth; but one
afternoon, when the heat was great, and over the prairie was flying, as
it were, the hot breath of the Texan wind, we rode in, and Katty came
after us.
We stopped at a little pool, which reflected our two horses and our two
forms; we remained in silence for a time. It was cool there, obscure,
solemn as in a Gothic cathedral, and somewhat awe-inspiring. The light
of day came in bedimmed, greenish from the leaves. Some bird, hidden
under the cupola of lianas, cried, “No! no! no!” as if warning us not
to go farther; Katty began to tremble and nestle up to the horses;
Lillian and I looked at each other suddenly, and for the first time
our lips met, and having met could not separate. She drank my soul, I
drank her soul. Breath began to fail each of us, still lips were on
lips. At last her eyes were covered with mist, and the hands which she
had placed on my shoulders were trembling as in a fever: she was seized
with a kind of oblivion of her own existence, so that she grew faint
and placed her head on my bosom. We were drunk with each other, with
bliss, and with ecstasy. I dared not move; but because I had a soul
overfilled, because I loved a hundred times more than may be thought or
expressed, I raised my eyes to discover if through the thick leaves I
could see the sky.
Recovering our senses, we came out at last from beneath the green
density to the open prairie, where we were surrounded by the bright
sunshine and warm breeze; before us was spread the broad and gladsome
landscape. Prairie chickens were fluttering in the grass, and on slight
elevations, which were perforated like a sieve by prairie dogs, stood,
as it were, an army of those little creatures, which vanished under the
earth at our coming; directly in front was the caravan, and horsemen
careering around it.
It seemed to me that we had come out of a dark chamber to the white
world, and the same thought must have come to Lillian. The brightness
of the day rejoiced me; but that excess of golden light and the memory
of rapturous kisses, traces of which were still evident on her face,
penetrated Lillian as it were with alarm and with sadness.
“Ralph, will you not take that ill of me?” asked she, on a sudden.
“What comes to your head, O my own! God forget me if in my heart there
is any feeling but respect and the highest love for you.”
“I did that because I love greatly,” said she; and therewith her lips
began to quiver and she wept in silence, and though I was working the
soul out of myself she remained sad all that day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER IV]
AT last we came to the Missouri. Indians chose generally the time of
crossing that river to fall upon caravans; defence is most difficult
when some wagons are on one bank, and some in the river; when the
draught-beasts are stubborn and balky, and disorder rises among the
people. Indeed, I noticed, before our arrival at the river, that Indian
spies had for two days been following us; I took every precaution
therefore, and led the train in complete military order. I did not
permit wagons to loiter on the prairie, as in the eastern districts
of Iowa; the men had to stay together and be in perfect readiness for
battle.
When we had come to the bank and found a ford, I ordered two divisions,
of sixty men each, to intrench themselves on both banks, so as to
secure the passage under cover of small forts and the muzzles of
rifles. The remaining hundred and twenty emigrants had to take the
train over. I did not send in more than a few wagons at once, so as to
avoid confusion. With such an arrangement everything took place in the
greatest order, and attack became impossible, for the attackers would
have had to carry one or the other intrenchment before they could fall
upon those who were crossing the river.
How far these precautions were not superfluous the future made evident,
for two years later four hundred Germans were cut to pieces by the
Kiowas, at the place where Omaha stands at this moment. I had this
advantage besides: my men, who previously had heard more than once
narratives, which went to the East, of the terrible danger of crossing
the yellow waters of the Missouri, seeing the firmness and ease with
which I had solved the problem, gained blind confidence, and began to
look on me as some ruling spirit of the plains.
Daily did those praises and that enthusiasm reach Lillian, in whose
loving eyes I grew to be a legendary hero. Aunt Atkins said to her:
“While your Pole is with you, you may sleep out in the rain, for he
won’t let the drops fall on you.” And the heart rose in my maiden from
those praises. During the whole time of crossing I could give her
hardly a moment, and could only say hurriedly with my eyes what my lips
could not utter. All day I was on horseback, now on one bank, now on
the other, now in the water. I was in a hurry to advance as soon as
possible from those thick yellow waters, which were bearing down with
them rotten trees, bunches of leaves, grass, and malodorous mud from
Dakota, infectious with fever.
Besides this, the people were wearied immensely, from continual
watching; the horses grew sick from unwholesome water, which we could
not use until we had kept it in charcoal a number of hours.
At last, after eight days’ time, we found ourselves on the right bank
of the river without having broken a wagon, and with the loss of only
seven head of mules and horses. That day, however, the first arrows
fell, for my men killed, and afterward, according to the repulsive
habit of the plains, scalped three Indians, who had been trying to
push in among the mules. In consequence of this deed an embassy of
six leading warriors of the Bloody Tracks, belonging to the Pawnee
stock, visited us on the following day. They sat down at our fire with
tremendous importance, demanding horses and mules in return for the
dead men, declaring that, in case of refusal, five hundred warriors
would attack us immediately. I made no great account of those five
hundred warriors, since I had the train in order and defended with
intrenchments. I saw well that that embassy had been sent merely
because those wild people had caught at the first opportunity to extort
something without an attack, in the success of which they had lost
faith. I should have driven them away in one moment, had I not wished
to exhibit them to Lillian. In fact, while they were sitting at the
council-fire motionless, with eyes fixed on the flame, she, concealed
in the wagon, was looking with alarm and curiosity at their dress
trimmed at the seams with human hair, their tomahawks adorned with
feathers on the handles, and at their faces painted black and red,
which meant war. In spite of these preparations, however, I refused
their demand sharply, and, passing from a defensive to an offensive
rôle, declared that if even one mule disappeared from the train, I
would go to their tribe myself and scatter the bones of their five
hundred warriors over the prairie.
They went away, repressing their rage with difficulty, but when going
they brandished their tomahawks over their heads in sign of war.
However, my words sank in their memory; for at the time of their
departure two hundred of my men, prepared purposely, rose up with
threatening aspect, rattling their weapons, and gave forth a shout of
battle. That readiness made a deep impression on the wild warriors.
Some hours later Henry Simpson, who at his own instance had gone
out to observe the embassy, returned, all panting, with news that a
considerable division of Indians was approaching us.
I, knowing Indian ways perfectly, knew that those were mere threats,
for the Indians, armed with bows made of hickory, were not in numbers
sufficient to meet Kentucky rifles of long range. I said that to
Lillian, wishing to quiet her, for she was trembling like a leaf; but
all the others were sure that a battle was coming; the younger ones,
whose warlike spirit was roused, wished for it eagerly.
In fact, we heard the howling of the redskins soon after; still, they
kept at the distance of some gun-shots, as if seeking a favorable
moment.
In our camp immense fires, replenished with cottonwood and willows,
were burning all night; the men stood guard around the wagons; the
women were singing psalms from fear; the mules, not driven out as usual
to the night pasture, but confined behind the wagons, were braying and
biting one another; the dogs, feeling the nearness of the Indians, were
howling,—in a word, it was noisy and threatening throughout the camp.
In brief moments of silence we heard the mournful and ominous howling
of the Indian outposts, calling with the voices of coyotes.
About midnight the Indians tried to set fire to the prairie, but the
damp grass of spring would not burn, though for some days not a
raindrop had fallen on that region.
When riding around the camp-ground before daybreak I had a chance of
seeing Lillian for a moment. I found her sleeping from weariness,
with her head resting on the knees of Aunt Atkins, who, armed with a
bowie-knife, had sworn to destroy the whole tribe, if one of them dared
to come near her darling. As to me, I looked on that fair sleeping
face with the love not only of a man, but almost of a mother, and I
felt equally with Aunt Atkins that I would tear into pieces any one
who would threaten my beloved. In her was my joy, in her my delight;
beyond her I had nothing but endless wandering, tramping, and mishaps.
Before my eyes I had the best proof of this: in the distance were the
prairie, the rattle of weapons, the night on horseback, the struggle
with predatory redskin murderers; nearer, right there before my face,
was the quiet sleep of that dear one, so full of faith and trust in
me, that my word alone had convinced her that there could be no
attack, and she had fallen asleep as full of confidence as if under her
father’s roof.
When I looked at those two pictures, I felt for the first time how
that adventurous life without a morrow had wearied me, and I saw at
once that I should find rest and satisfaction with her alone. “If
only to California!” thought I, “if only to California! But the toils
of the journey—merely one-half of which, and that half the easiest,
is over—are evident already on that pallid face; but a beautiful
rich country is waiting for us there, with its warm sky and eternal
spring.” Thus meditating, I covered the feet of the sleeper with my
buffalo-robe, so that the night cold might not harm her, and returned
to the end of the camp.
It was time, for a thick mist had begun to rise from the river; the
Indians might really take advantage of it and try their fortune. The
fires were dimmed more and more, and grew pale. An hour later one man
could not see another if ten paces distant. I gave command then to cry
on the square every minute, and soon nothing was heard in that camp but
the prolonged “All’s well!” which passed from mouth to mouth like the
words of a litany.
But the Indian camp had grown perfectly still, as if its occupants were
dumb. This began to alarm me. At the first dawn an immense weariness
mastered us; God knows how many nights the majority of the men had
passed without sleep,—besides, the fog, wonderfully penetrating, sent a
chill and a shiver through all.
Would it not be better, thought I, instead of standing on one place and
waiting for what may please the Indians, to attack and scatter them
to the four winds? This was not simply the whim of an Uhlan, but an
absolute need; for a daring and lucky attack might gain us great glory,
which, spreading among the wild tribes, would give us safety for a long
stretch of road.
Leaving behind me one hundred and thirty men, under the lead of the
old prairie wolf, Smith, I commanded a hundred others to mount their
horses, and we moved forward somewhat cautiously, but gladly, for the
cold had become more annoying, and in this way it was possible to warm
ourselves at least. At twice the distance of a gunshot we raced forward
at a gallop with shouting, and in the midst of a musket-fire rushed,
like a storm, on the savages. A ball, sent from our side by some
awkward marksman, whistled right at my ear, but only tore my cap.
Meanwhile, we were on the necks of the Indians, who expected anything
rather than an attack, for this was surely the first time that
emigrants had charged the besiegers. Great alarm so blinded them,
therefore, that they fled in every direction, howling from fright like
wild beasts, and perishing without resistance. A smaller division of
these people, pushed to the river and, deprived of retreat, defended
themselves so sternly and stubbornly that they chose to rush into the
water rather than beg for life.
Their spears pointed with sharpened deer-horns and tomahawks made of
hard flint were not very dangerous, but they used them with wonderful
skill. We burst through these, however, in the twinkling of an eye. I
took one prisoner, a sturdy rascal, whose hatchet and arm I broke in
the moment of fighting with hatchets.
We seized a few tens of horses, but so wild and vicious that there was
no use in them. We made a few prisoners, all wounded. I gave command
to care for these most attentively, and set them free afterward at
Lillian’s request, having given them blankets, arms, and horses,
necessary for men seriously wounded. These poor fellows, believing
that we would tie them to stakes for torture, had begun to chant their
monotonous death-songs, and were simply terrified at first by what had
happened. They thought that we would liberate only to hunt them in
Indian fashion; but seeing that no danger threatened, they went away,
exalting our bravery and the goodness of “Pale Flower,” which name they
had given Lillian.
That day ended, however, with a sad event, which cast a shade on our
delight at such a considerable victory, and its foreseen results. Among
my men there were none killed; a number, nevertheless, had received
wounds more or less serious; the most grievously wounded was Henry
Simpson, whose eagerness had borne him away during battle. In the
evening his condition grew so much worse, that he was dying; he wished
to make some confession to me, but, poor fellow, he could not speak,
for his jaw had been broken by a tomahawk. He merely muttered: “Pardon,
my captain!” Immediately convulsions seized him. I divined what he
wanted, remembering the bullet which in the morning had whistled at my
ear, and I forgave him, as becomes a Christian. I knew that he carried
with him to the grave a deep, though unacknowledged feeling for
Lillian, and supposed that he might have sought death.
He died about midnight; we buried him under an immense cottonwood, on
the bark of which I carved out a cross with my knife.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CHAPTER V]
ON the following day we moved on. Before us was a prairie still more
extensive, more level, wilder, a region which the foot of a white man
had hardly touched at that time,—in a word, we were in Nebraska.
During the first days we moved quickly enough over treeless expanses,
but not without difficulty, for there was an utter lack of wood for
fuel. The banks of the Platte River, which cuts the whole length of
those measureless plains, were, it is true, covered with a dense
growth of osier and willow; but that river having a shallow bed,
had overflowed, as is usual in spring, and we had to keep far away.
Meanwhile we passed the nights at smouldering fires of buffalo dung,
which, not dried yet sufficiently by the sun, rather smouldered with a
blue flame than burnt. We hurried on then with every effort toward Big
Blue River, where we could find abundance of fuel.
The country around us bore every mark of a primitive land. Time after
time, before the train, which extended now in a very loose line, rushed
herds of antelopes with ruddy hair and with white under the belly; at
times there appeared in the waves of grass the immense shaggy heads of
buffaloes, with bloodshot eyes and steaming nostrils; then again these
beasts were seen in crowds, like black moving patches on the distant
prairie.
In places we passed near whole towns formed of mounds raised by
prairie dogs. The Indians did not show themselves at first, and only
a number of days later did we see three wild horsemen, ornamented
with feathers; but they vanished before our eyes in an instant, like
phantoms. I convinced myself afterward that the bloody lesson which I
had given them on the Missouri, made the name of “Big Ara” (for thus
they had modified Big Ralph) terrible among the many tribes of prairie
robbers; the kindness shown the prisoners had captivated those people,
wild and revengeful, though not devoid of knightly feeling.
When we had come to Big Blue River, I resolved to halt ten days at
its woody banks. The second half of the road, which lay before us,
was more difficult than the first, for beyond the prairie were the
Rocky Mountains, and farther on the “Bad Lands” of Utah and Nevada.
Meanwhile, our mules and horses, in spite of abundant pasture, had
become lean and road-weary; hence it was needful to recruit their
strength with a considerable rest. For this purpose we halted in the
triangle formed by the Big Blue River and Beaver Creek.
It was a strong position, which, secured on two sides by the rivers and
on the third by the wagons, had become almost impregnable, especially
since wood and water were found on the spot. Of camp labor there was
scarcely any, excessive watching was not needed, and the emigrants
could use their leisure with perfect freedom. The days, too, were the
most beautiful of our journey. The weather continued to be marvellous,
and the nights grew so warm that one might sleep in the open air.
The people went out in the morning to hunt, and returned at midday,
weighed down with antelopes and prairie birds, which lived in millions
in the country about; the rest of the day they spent eating, sleeping,
singing, or shooting for amusement at wild geese, which flew in whole
flocks above the camp.
In my life there has never been anything better or happier than those
ten days between the rivers. From morning till evening I did not part
from Lillian, and that beginning not of passing visits, but, as it
were, of life, convinced me more and more that I had loved once and
forever her, the mild and gentle. I became acquainted with Lillian in
those days more nearly and more deeply. At night, instead of sleeping,
I thought frequently of what she was, and that she had become to me
as dear and as needful in life as air is for breathing. God sees
that I loved greatly her beautiful face, her long tresses, and her
eyes,—as blue as that sky bending over Nebraska,—and her form, lithe
and slender, which seemed to say: “Support and defend me forever;
without thee I cannot help myself in the world!” God sees that I
loved everything that was in her, every poor bit of clothing of hers,
and she attracted me with such force that I could not resist; but
there was another charm in her for me, and that was her sweetness and
sensitiveness.
Many women have I met in life, but never have I met and never shall I
meet another such, and I feel endless grief when I think of her. The
soul in Lillian Morris was as sensitive as that flower whose leaves
nestle in when you draw near to it. Sensitive to every word of mine,
she comprehended everything and reflected every thought, just as
deep, transparent water reflects all that passes by the brink of it.
At the same time that pure heart yielded itself to feeling with such
timidity that I felt how great her love must be when she weakened and
gave herself in sacrifice. And then everything honorable in my soul
was changed into one feeling of gratitude to her. She was simply my
one, my dearest in the world; so modest, that I had to persuade her
that to love is not a sin, and I was breaking my head continually over
this: how can I persuade her? In such emotions time passed for us
at the meeting of the rivers, till at last my supreme happiness was
accomplished.
One morning at daybreak we started to walk up Beaver Creek; I wanted
to show her the beavers; a whole kingdom of them was flourishing
not farther than half a mile from our wagons. Walking along the bank
carefully, near the bushes, we came soon to our object. There was
a little bay as it were, or a lakelet, formed by the creek, at the
brink of which stood two great hickory-trees; at the very bank grew
weeping-willows, half their branches in the water. The beaver-dam, a
little higher up in the creek, stopped its flow, and kept the water
ever at one height in the lakelet, above whose clear surface rose the
round cupola-shaped houses of these very clever animals.
Probably the foot of man had never stood before in that retreat, hidden
on all sides by trees. Pushing apart cautiously the slender limbs of
the willows, we looked at the water, which was as smooth as a mirror,
and blue. The beavers were not at their work yet; the little water-town
slumbered in visible quiet; and such silence reigned on the lake that
I heard Lillian’s breath when she thrust her golden head through the
opening in the branches with mine and our temples touched. I caught her
waist with my arm to hold her on the slope of the bank, and we waited
patiently, delighted with what our eyes were taking in.
Accustomed to life in wild places, I loved Nature as my own mother,
though simply; but I felt that something like God’s delight in Creation
was present.
It was early morning; the light had barely come, and was reddening
among the branches of the hickories; the dew was dropping from the
leaves of the willows, and the world was growing brighter each instant.
Later on, there came to the other shore prairie chickens, gray, with
black throats, pretty crests on their heads, and they drank water,
raising their bills as they swallowed.
“Ah, Ralph! how good it is here,” whispered Lillian.
There was nothing in my head then but a cottage in some lonely canyon,
she with me, and such a rosary of peaceful days, flowing calmly into
eternity and endless rest. It seemed to us that we had brought to that
wedding of Nature our own wedding, to that calm our calm, and to that
bright light the bright light of happiness within us.
Now the smooth surface described itself in a circle, and from the water
came up slowly the bearded face of a beaver, wet and rosy from the
gleam of the morning; then a second, and the two little beasts swam
toward the lake, pushing apart with their noses blue lines, puffing
and muttering. They climbed the dam, and, sitting on their haunches,
began to call; at that signal heads, larger and smaller, rose up as if
by enchantment; a plashing was heard in the lake. The herd appeared at
first to be playing,—simply diving and screaming in its own fashion
from delight; but the first pair, looking from the dam, gave a sudden,
prolonged whistle from their nostrils, and in a twinkle half of the
beavers were on the dam, and the other half had swum to the banks and
vanished under the willows, where the water began to boil, and a sound
as it were of sawing indicated that the little beasts were working
there, cutting branches and bark.