HOW UNCLE JEFF CAME TO "ROARING WATER"--THE SITUATION OF THE FARM--THE
INMATES OF THE HOUSE--MY SISTER CLARICE AND BLACK RACHEL--UNCLE JEFF--
BARTLE WON AND GIDEON TUTTLE--ARRIVAL OF LIEUTENANT BROADSTREET AND HIS
MEN--THE TROOPERS QUARTERED IN THE HUT--OUR FARM-LABOURERS--SUDDEN
APPEARANCE OF THE REDSKIN WINNEMAK--HIS FORMER VISIT TO THE FARM--
CLARICE ENCOUNTERS HIM AT THE SPRING--BADLY WOUNDED--KINDLY TREATED BY
CLARICE AND RACHEL--HIS GRATITUDE.
We were most of us seated round a blazing fire of pine logs, which
crackled away merrily, sending the sparks about in all directions, at
the no small risk of setting fire to garments of a lighter texture than
ours. Although the flowers were blooming on the hill-sides, in the
woods and valleys, and by the margins of the streams; humming-birds were
flitting about gathering their dainty food; and the bears, having
finished the operation of licking their paws, had come out in search of
more substantial fare; and the buffalo had been seen migrating to the
north,--the wind at night blew keenly from off the snow-capped
mountain-tops which, at no great distance, rose above us, and rendered a
fire acceptable even to us hardy backwoodsmen.
Our location was far in advance of any settlement in that latitude of
North America, for Uncle Jeff Crockett "could never abide," he averred,
"being in the rear of his fellow-creatures." Whenever he had before
found people gathering around him at the spot where he had pitched his
tent, or rather, put up his log-hut, he had sold his property (always to
advantage, however), and yoking his team, had pushed on westward, with a
few sturdy followers.
On and on he had come, until he had reached the base of the Rocky
Mountains. He would have gone over them, but, having an eye to
business, and knowing that it was necessary to secure a market for his
produce, he calculated that he had come far enough for the present. He
therefore climbed the sides of the mountain for a short distance, until
he entered a sort of canon, which, penetrating westward, greatly
narrowed, until it had the appearance of a cleft with lofty crags on
either side,--while it opened out eastward, overlooking the broad valley
and the plain beyond.
He chose the spot as one capable of being defended against the Redskins,
never in those parts very friendly to white men,--especially towards
those whom they found settling themselves on lands which they looked
upon as their own hunting-grounds, although they could use them for no
other purpose.
Another reason which had induced Uncle Jeff to select this spot was,
that not far off was one of the only practicable passes through the
mountains either to the north or south, and that the trail to it led
close below us at the foot of the hills, so that every emigrant train or
party of travellers going to or from the Great Salt Lake or California
must pass in sight of the house.
A stream, issuing from the heights above, fell over the cliffs, forming
a roaring cataract; and then, rushing through the canon, made its way
down into the valley, irrigating and fertilising the ground, until it
finally reached a large river, the Platte, flowing into the Missouri.
From this cataract our location obtained its name of "Roaring Water;"
but it was equally well-known as "Uncle Jeff's Farm."
Our neighbours, if such they could be called in this wild region, were
"birds of passage." Now and then a few Indian families might fix their
tents in the valley below; or a party of hunters or trappers might
bivouac a night or two under the shelter of the woods, scattered here
and there; or travellers bound east or west might encamp by the margin
of the river for the sake of recruiting their cattle, or might
occasionally seek for shelter at the log-house which they saw perched
above them, where, in addition to comfortable quarters, abundant fare
and a hospitable welcome--which Uncle Jeff never refused to any one,
whoever he might be, who came to his door--were sure to be obtained.
But it is time that I should say something about the inmates of the
house at the period I am describing.
First, there was Uncle Jeff Crockett, a man of about forty-five, with a
tall, stalwart figure, and a handsome countenance (though scarred by a
slash from a tomahawk, and the claws of a bear with which he had had a
desperate encounter). A bright blue eye betokened a keen sight, as also
that his rifle was never likely to miss its aim; while his well-knit
frame gave assurance of great activity and endurance.
I was then about seventeen, and Uncle Jeff had more than once
complimented me by remarking that "I was a true chip of the old block,"
as like what he was when at my age as two peas, and that he had no fear
but that I should do him credit; so that I need not say any more about
myself.
I must say something, however, about my sister Clarice, who was my
junior by rather more than a year. Fair as a lily she was, in spite of
summer suns, from which she took but little pains to shelter herself;
but they had failed even to freckle her clear skin, or darken her light
hair--except, it might be, that from them it obtained the golden hue
which tinged it. Delicate as she looked, she took an active part in all
household duties, and was now busy about some of them at the further end
of the big hall, which served as our common sitting-room, workshop,
kitchen, and often as a sleeping-room, when guests were numerous. She
was assisted by Rachel Prentiss, a middle-aged negress, the only other
woman in the establishment; who took upon herself the out-door work and
rougher duties, with the exception of tending the poultry and milking
the cows, in which Clarice also engaged.
I have not yet described the rest of the party round the fire. There
was Bartle Won, a faithful follower, for many years, of Uncle Jeff; but
as unlike him as it was possible that any two human beings could be.
Bartle was a wiry little fellow, with bow legs, broad shoulders (one
rather higher than the other), and a big head, out of which shone a pair
of grey eyes, keen as those of a hawk--the only point in which he
resembled Uncle Jeff. He was wonderfully active and strong,
notwithstanding his figure; and as for fatigue, he did not know what it
meant. He could go days without eating or drinking; although, when he
did get food, he certainly made ample amends for his abstinence. He was
no great runner; but when once on the back of a horse, no animal,
however vicious and up to tricks, had been able to dislodge him.
Gideon Tuttle was another faithful follower of Uncle Jeff: he was a
hardy backwoodsman, whose gleaming axe had laid many monarchs of the
forest low. Though only of moderate height, few men could equal him in
strength. He could fell an ox with his fist, and hold down by the horns
a young bull, however furious. He had had several encounters with
bears; and although on two occasions only armed with a knife, he had
come off victorious. His nerve and activity equalled his strength. He
was no great talker, and he was frequently morose and ill-tempered; but
he had one qualification which compensated for all his other
deficiencies--he was devotedly attached to Uncle Jeff.
There were engaged on the farm, besides these, four other hands: an
Irishman, a Spaniard, a negro, and a half-breed, who lived by themselves
in a rough hut near the house. Although Uncle Jeff was a great advocate
for liberty and equality, he had no fancy to have these fellows
in-doors; their habits and language not being such as to make close
intimacy pleasant.
The two old followers of Uncle Jeff--although they would have laughed at
the notion of being called gentlemen--were clean in their persons, and
careful in their conversation, especially in the presence of Clarice.
Just before sunset that evening, our party had been increased by the
arrival of an officer of the United States army and four men, who were
on their way from Fort Laramie to Fort Harwood, on the other side of the
mountains; but they had been deserted by their Indian guide, and having
been unable to find the entrance to the pass, were well-nigh worn out
with fatigue and vexation when they caught sight of Roaring Water Farm.
The officer and his men were received with a hearty welcome.
"There is food enough in the store, and we will make a shake-down for
you in this room," said Uncle Jeff, wringing the hand of the officer in
his usual style.
The latter introduced himself as Lieutenant Manley Broadstreet. He was
a fine-looking young fellow, scarcely older than I was; but he had
already seen a great deal of service in border warfare with the Indians,
as well as in Florida and Texas.
"You are welcome here, friends," said Uncle Jeff, who, as I have said,
was no respecter of persons, and made little distinction between the
lieutenant and his men.
At this Lieutenant Broadstreet demurred, and, as he glanced at Clarice,
inquired whether there was any building near in which the men could be
lodged.
"They are not very fit company for a young lady," he remarked aside.
He did not, however, object to the sergeant joining him; and the other
three men were accordingly ordered to take up their quarters at the hut,
with its motley inhabitants.
Their appearance, I confess, somewhat reminded me of Falstaff's "ragged
regiment." The three varied wonderfully in height. The tallest was not
only tall, but thin in the extreme, his ankles protruding below his
trousers, and his wrists beyond the sleeves of his jacket; he had lost
his military hat, and had substituted for it a high beaver, which he had
obtained from some Irish emigrant on the road. He was a German; and his
name, he told me, was Karl Klitz. The shortest of the party, Barnaby
Gillooly, was also by far the fattest; indeed, it seemed surprising
that, with his obese figure, he could undergo the fatigue he must
constantly have been called upon to endure. He seemed to be a jolly,
merry fellow notwithstanding, as he showed by breaking into a hearty
laugh as Klitz, stumbling over a log, fell with his long neck and
shoulders on the one side, and his heels kicking up in the air on the
other. The last man was evidently a son of Erin, from the few words he
uttered in a rich brogue, which had not deteriorated by long absence
from home and country. He certainly presented a more soldierly
appearance than did his two comrades, but the ruddy blue hue of his nose
and lips showed that when liquor was to be obtained he was not likely to
let it pass his lips untasted.
The three soldiers were welcomed by the inhabitants of the hut, who were
glad to have strangers with whom they could chat, and who could bring
them news from the Eastern States.
On coming back to the house, after conducting the three men to the hut,
I found the lieutenant and his sergeant, Silas Custis, seated before the
fire; the young lieutenant every now and then, as was not surprising,
casting a glance at Clarice. But she was too busily occupied in getting
the supper-table ready to notice the admiration she was inspiring.
Rachel, with frying-pan in hand, now made her way towards the fire, and
begging those who impeded her movements to draw on one side, she
commenced her culinary operations. She soon had a huge dish of rashers
of bacon ready; while a couple of pots were carried off to be emptied of
their contents; and some cakes, which had been cooking under the ashes,
were withdrawn, and placed hot and smoking on the platter.
"All ready, genl'em," exclaimed Rachel; "you can fall to when you like."
The party got up, and we took our seats at the table. Clarice, who
until a short time before had been assisting Rachel, now returned--
having been away to arrange her toilet. She took her usual seat at the
head of the table; and the lieutenant, to his evident satisfaction,
found himself placed near her. He spoke in a pleasant, gentlemanly
tone, and treated Clarice in every respect as a young lady,--as, indeed,
she was. He now and then addressed me; and the more he said, the more I
felt inclined to like him.
Uncle Jeff had a good deal of conversation with Sergeant Custis, who
appeared to be a superior sort of person, and had, I suspect, seen
better days.
We were still seated at supper when the door opened and an Indian
stalked into the room, decked with war-paint and feathers, and rifle in
hand.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed, stopping and regarding us, as if unwilling to
advance without permission.
"Come in, friend," said Uncle Jeff, rising and going towards him; "sit
down, and make yourself at home. You would like some food, I guess?"
The Indian again uttered a significant "Ugh!" as, taking advantage of
Uncle Jeff's offer, he seated himself by the fire.
"Why, uncle," exclaimed Clarice, "it is Winnemak!"
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But I must explain how Clarice came to know the Indian, whom, at the
first moment, no one else had recognised.
Not far off, in a grove of cottonwood trees up the valley, there came
forth from the side of the hill a spring of singularly bright and cool
water, of which Uncle Jeff was particularly fond; as were, indeed, the
rest of us. Clarice made it a practice every evening, just before we
returned home from our day's work, to fetch a large pitcher of water
from this spring, that we might have it as cool and fresh as possible.
It happened that one afternoon, in the spring of the previous year, she
had set off with this object in view, telling Rachel where she was
going; but she had just got out of the enclosure when she caught sight
of one of the cows straying up the valley.
"I go after her, Missie Clarice; you no trouble you-self," cried Rachel.
So Clarice continued her way, carrying her pitcher on her head. It was
somewhat earlier than usual; and having no especial work to attend to at
home, she did not hurry. It was as warm a day as any in summer, and
finding the heat somewhat oppressive, she sat down by the side of the
pool to enjoy the refreshing coolness of the air which came down the
canon. "I ought to be going home," she said to herself; and taking her
pitcher, she filled it with water.
She was just about to replace it on her head, when she was startled by
the well-known Indian "Ugh!" uttered by some one who was as yet
invisible. She at first felt a little alarmed, but recollecting that if
the stranger had been an enemy he would not have given her warning, she
stood still, with her pitcher in her hand, looking around her.
Presently an Indian appeared from among the bushes, his dress torn and
travel-stained, and his haggard looks showing that he must have
undergone great fatigue. He made signs, as he approached, to show that
he had come over the mountains; he then pointed to his lips, to let her
understand that he was parched with thirst.
"Poor man! you shall have some water, then," said Clarice, immediately
holding up the pitcher, that the stranger might drink without
difficulty. His looks brightened as she did so; and after he had drunk
his fill he gave her back the pitcher, drawing a long breath, and
placing his hand on his heart to express his gratitude.
While the Indian was drinking, Clarice observed Rachel approaching, with
a look of alarm on her countenance. It vanished, however, when she saw
how Clarice and the Indian were employed.
"Me dare say de stranger would like food as well as drink," she observed
as she joined them, and making signs to the Indian to inquire if he was
hungry.
He nodded his head, and uttered some words. But although neither
Clarice nor Rachel could understand his language, they saw very clearly
that he greatly required food.
"Come along, den," said Rachel; "you shall hab some in de twinkle ob an
eye, as soon as we get home.--Missie Clarice, me carry de pitcher, or
Indian fancy you white slavey;" and Rachel laughed at her own wit.
She then told Clarice how she had caught sight of the Indian coming over
the mountain, as she was driving home the cow; and that, as he was
making his way towards the spring, she had been dreadfully alarmed at
the idea that he might surprise her young mistress. She thought it
possible, too, that he might be accompanied by other Redskins, and that
they should perhaps carry her off; or, at all events, finding the house
undefended, they might pillage it, and get away with their booty before
the return of the men.
"But he seems friendly and well-disposed," said Clarice, looking at the
Indian; "and even if he had not been suffering from hunger and thirst, I
do not think he would have been inclined to do us any harm. The
Redskins are not all bad; and many, I fear, have been driven, by the ill
treatment they have received from white men, to retaliate, and have
obtained a worse character than they deserve."
"Dere are bad red men, and bad white men, and bad black men; but, me
tink, not so many ob de last," said Rachel, who always stuck up for her
own race.
The red man seemed to fancy that they were talking about him; and he
tried to smile, but failed in the attempt. It was with difficulty, too,
he could drag on his weary limbs.
As soon as they reached the house Rachel made him sit down; and within a
minute or two a basin of broth was placed before him, at which she blew
away until her cheeks almost cracked, in an endeavour to cool it, that
he might the more speedily set to. He assisted her, as far as his
strength would allow, in the operation; and then placing the basin to
his lips, he eagerly drained off its contents, without making use of the
wooden spoon with which she had supplied him.
"Dat just to keep body and soul togedder, till somet'ing more 'stantial
ready for you," she said.
Clarice had in the meantime been preparing some venison steaks, which,
with some cakes from the oven, were devoured by the Indian with the same
avidity with which he had swallowed the broth. But although the food
considerably revived him, he still showed evident signs of exhaustion;
so Rachel, placing a buffalo robe in the corner of the room, invited him
to lie down and rest. He staggered towards it, and in a few minutes his
heavy breathing showed that he was asleep.
Uncle Jeff was somewhat astonished, when he came in, on seeing the
Indian; but he approved perfectly of what Clarice and Rachel had done.
"To my mind," he observed, "when these Redskins choose to be enemies, we
must treat them as enemies, and shoot them down, or they will be having
our scalps; but if they wish to be friends, we should treat them as
friends, and do them all the good we can."
Uncle Jeff forgot just then that we ought to do good to our enemies as
well as to our friends; but that would be a difficult matter for a man
to accomplish when a horde of savages are in arms, resolved to take his
life; so I suppose it means that we must do them good when we can get
them to be at peace--or to bury the war-hatchet, as they would express
themselves.
The Indian slept on, although he groaned occasionally as if in pain,--
nature then asserting its sway, though, had he been awake, he probably
would have given no sign of what he was suffering.
"I suspect the man must be wounded," observed Uncle Jeff. "It will be
better not to disturb him."
We had had supper, and the things were being cleared away, when, on
going to look at the Indian, I saw that his eyes were open, and that he
was gazing round him, astonished at seeing so many people.
"He is awake," I observed; and Clarice, coming up, made signs to inquire
whether he would have some more food.
He shook his head, and lay back again, evidently unable to sit up.
Just then Uncle Jeff, who had been out, returned.
"I suspect that he is one of the Kaskayas, whose hunting-grounds are
between this and the Platte," observed Uncle Jeff; and approaching the
Indian, he stooped over him and spoke a few words in the dialect of the
tribe he had mentioned.
The Indian answered him, although with difficulty.
"I thought so," said Uncle Jeff. "He has been badly wounded by an arrow
in the side, and although he managed to cut it out and bind up the hurt,
he confesses that he still suffers greatly. Here, Bartle, you are the
best doctor among us," he added, turning to Won, who was at work mending
some harness on the opposite side of the room; "see what you can do for
the poor fellow."
Bartle put down the straps upon which he was engaged, and joined us,
while Clarice retired. Uncle Jeff and Bartle then examined the Indian's
side.
"I will get some leaves to bind over the wound to-morrow morning, which
will quickly heal it; and, in the meantime, we will see if Rachel has
not got some of the ointment which helped to cure Gideon when he cut
himself so badly with his axe last spring."
Rachel, who prided herself on her ointment, quickly produced a jar of
it, and assisted Bartle in dressing the Indian's wound. She then gave
him a cooling mixture which she had concocted.
The Indian expressed his gratitude in a few words, and again covering
himself up with a buffalo robe, was soon asleep.
The next morning he was better, but still unable to move.
He remained with us ten days, during which Clarice and Rachel watched
over him with the greatest care, making him all sorts of dainty dishes
which they thought he would like; and in that time he and Uncle Jeff
managed to understand each other pretty well.
The Indian, according to the reticent habits of his people, was not
inclined to be very communicative at first as to how he had received his
wound; but as his confidence increased he owned that he had, with a
party of his braves, made an excursion to the southward to attack their
old enemies the Arrapahas, but that he and his followers had been
overwhelmed by greatly superior numbers. His people had been cut off to
a man, and himself badly wounded. He had managed, however, to make his
escape to the mountains without being observed by his foes. As he knew
that they were on the watch for him, he was afraid of returning to the
plains, and had kept on the higher ground, where he had suffered greatly
from hunger and thirst, until he had at length fallen in with Clarice at
the spring.
At last he was able to move about; and his wound having completely
healed, he expressed his wish to return to his people.
"Winnemak will ever be grateful for the kindness shown him by the
Palefaces," he said, as he was wishing us good-bye. "A time may come
when he may be able to show what he feels; he is one who never forgets
his friends, although he may be far away from them."
"We shall be happy to see you whenever you come this way," said Uncle
Jeff; "but as for doing us any good, why, we do not exactly expect that.
We took care of you, as we should take care of any one who happened to
be in distress and wanted assistance, whether a Paleface or a Redskin."
Winnemak now went round among us, shaking each person by the hand. When
he came to Clarice he stopped, and spoke to her for some time,--
although, of course, she could not understand a word he said.
Uncle Jeff, who was near, made out that he was telling her he had a
daughter of her age, and that he should very much like to make them
known to each other. "My child is called Maysotta, the `White Lily;'
though, when she sees you, she will say that that name ought to be
yours," he added.
Clarice asked Uncle Jeff to tell Winnemak that she should be very glad
to become acquainted with Maysotta whenever he could bring her to the
farm.
Uncle Jeff was so pleased with the Indian, that he made him a present of
a rifle and a stock of ammunition; telling him that he was sure he would
ever be ready to use it in the service of his friends.
Winnemak's gratitude knew no bounds, and he expressed himself far more
warmly than Indians are accustomed to do. Then bidding us farewell, he
took his way to the north-east.
"I know these Indians pretty well," observed Bartle, as Winnemak
disappeared in the distance. "We may see his face again when he wants
powder and shot, but he will not trouble himself to come back until
then."
We had begun to fancy that Bartle was right, for many months went by and
we saw nothing of our Indian friend. Our surprise, therefore, was
great, when he made his appearance in the manner I have described in an
earlier portion of the chapter.