Recollections of Mountain Life.
Position of The Spring.--The Cachè.--Kit Carson's Character and
Appearance.--Cool Bravery of a Mountain Trapper.--Untamed
Character of Many Hunters.--The Surveyor's Camp in an Indian
Territory.--Terrors from Indians.--Joe Walker.--A Mountain
Man.--Soda Lake.--Optical Illusion.--Camp on Beaver Lake.--The
Piyute Chief. Conversation with Him.--An alarm.--A Battle.
Mr. Goodyear in his interesting narrative continues: Here let me speak a
word or two about water. The springs, as a general thing, are found near
the summit of the mountains. In some cases I have had to pack the water a
distance of forty miles, for months at a time. From a lake where it
bubbled up from the bottom as warm as you would like to hold your hand in,
the process of evaporation in the leather bottles rendered it soon, almost
as cool as ice water.
Let us now return to our first camping ground on the Mohavè river. Here I
_cached_ or buried for concealment, some of my provisions, to relieve the
animals of their heavy load. If Mr. Indian does not find the _cache_, it
will be all right on our return. I will explain how we do it. First, then,
we send out two or three men as scouts, to see if they can discover any
signs of Indians, such as footprints or trail, or smoke, or anything of
that kind. Men that are used to it, can distinguish between the footprints
of an Indian and a white man. They can also, at a long distance off, tell
an Indian fire from a white man's.
Any mountaineer can tell by the trail, how long since persons have passed,
the number of the party, as well as the number of animals. An Indian, when
he makes a fire, uses half a dozen little sticks as big as your thumb, and
very dry, and all the smoke the fire makes, will ascend straight up in one
steady column. The white man will use, if he is a novice, the dry to
kindle with, and then he will chuck on the wet wood, which will cause a
great smoke.
But to return to my _cache_. I keep out my scouts all the time we are to
work. "Boys, get your shovels, and dig a hole about four or five feet
deep, by ten feet in length. Put a lot of wood or branches in the bottom.
In with the provisions, canvas over the top, or more bushes. Cover over
all with earth. Then take ashes from previous fires, and scatter over the
top; then build fires over them, so as to dry the sand."
It was here in this camp that I first met Christopher Carson, or Kit
Carson, as he was called. From his wide acquaintance with the Indians on
both sides of the Rocky mountains; from his personal knowledge of the many
tribes of the red men; from his bravery under all circumstances in which
he has been placed, Kit Carson stands at the head of all the hardy
pioneers of the Great West. It is now more than twenty years, since I
first met him on the Mohavè river, about eighty miles from San Bernardino.
He was accompanied by an American and half a dozen Mexicans or half
breeds, who were assisting him to drive some sheep. As he rode up, he
saluted me with Buenos dias Señor, which means 'good day sir.' I answered
the salutation in the same language, at the same time clasping his hand as
he dismounted, and introduced himself as Kit Carson. He is about five feet
eight or nine inches high, and weighs about one hundred and sixty pounds.
He had a round, jolly looking face, a dark piercing eye, that looked right
through you, and seemed to read your every thought. His long brown hair
hung around his shoulders. His dress consisted of buckskin coat and pants,
with leggins coming up to his knees, and in which he carried, in true
Mexican style, his Machete or long two-edged knife.
His coat and pants were heavily fringed, in which the quills of the
porcupine bore a conspicuous part. A cap of fox-skin surmounted his head,
with four coon's tails sticking out around the edges of the cap. On his
feet were moccasins. His never-failing rifle was strapped to his back, as
also a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, which latter contained bullets, lead
and moulds. Around his waist there was a heavy belt, which was fastened by
a large, highly polished silver buckle. Attached to the belt, were a pair
of revolvers and a hunting knife.
The noble steed by which he stood, was gayly caparisoned, in true Mexican
style. In many places his trappings were covered with gold and silver. His
bridle also glittered with silver ornaments and buckles.
Thus Kit Carson stands before you, the beau ideal of a mountain man, or
trapper, always ready to help every one in distress, or to avenge an
injury, and no matter what the odds, would fight to the death, believing
that if he went under, fighting for his friends, it was all right.
Kit Carson was a host in himself. It is my belief that he was feared,
singly and alone, more than any other trapper in the Indian country. For
my own part, in an Indian fight, many a one of which I have been in, I
would rather have Carson than twenty common men. His name struck terror
to an Indian. And if it were known that Kit, with a companion or two, was
on their trail, they would flee faster than they would from a whole
regiment of Uncle Sam's men. If Kit was after them, they might as well
commence their death song at once, and prepare for their happy hunting
grounds, for he would surely catch them any where this side of that.
But I must not forget the names of other brave trappers, with whom I
became acquainted, and who often shared with me my camp in the Indian
country, such as Peg Leg Smith, Joseph Walker, and a host of other brave
men. I will here tell you how Smith got his name of Peg Leg.
Thirty years ago, he and some of his companions were trapping in the
Indian country. They had made a hut in a ravine. For a camping place, it
was so well concealed, that for a long time they were undisturbed. One
day, however, Smith and three or four of his party were discovered by
Indians, about two miles from camp. A fight took place, in which Smith was
struck by a rifle ball, that shattered the bone below the knee. He fell,
and during the melee managed to crawl into a thicket, unobserved either by
the Indians or his own men. Here, after tying up his own leg with buckskin
thongs which he cut from his hunting shirt, he very coolly and
deliberately went to work with his own knife, and cut his own leg off.
After this he crawled to his camp, where he found his companions who
supposed he was dead, and who were expecting the next morning to go and
find his body.
This is said to be a true story, and who of those who were in California
twenty years ago, do not remember Peg Leg Smith and his horse
John. He would come into San Francisco, or Benicia, riding like the
wind, his long grey hair floating about his shoulders, and then that
never-to-be-forgotten war-whoop! And now here in Benicia, he dashes up to
the Vallejos hotel.
"John," he says to his horse, "down sir, quick. I'm mighty dry." Down goes
the horse; old Peg gets off. "Boys, how are you. I say there," addressing
the bar tender, "make me a whiskey toddy."
This is done at once. No pay is expected. No one expects Peg Leg Smith to
pay for any thing, where he is known.
Most of these men possessed many noble impulses, and would prove true to
the death for their friends. But they considered the killing of an Indian
as justifiable, whenever they met with one.
I was at this time at work under Colonel Jack Hayes, of Texas. Every one
familiar with the history of that State in its infancy, will remember him
as an old Indian fighter. He was one who never turned his back on friend
or foe. At this time, he was United States Surveyor-General of California.
Some may like to know how we camp in an Indian country. I will give a
brief description of our camp. First our pack saddles are placed in a
circle, enclosing a pretty large space. Our provisions and goods are then
stored inside of the circle. Our animals are picketed at our heads, the
pack saddles serving as pillows, and our feet being towards the centre of
the circle. When there is danger to be apprehended, the animals are placed
within the circle. But ordinarily, they graze to the extent of their
picket ropes upon the rich grass outside. Generally inside the circle
there is a rousing fire. Those of us who are not on guard, lie down in our
blankets, feet towards the fire. Our rifles are placed in the hollow of
the left arm; our revolvers at our back, ready for instant use. The sky is
our covering, the earth our support. The guard patrols on the outside the
circle, outside the horses. We go to sleep to dream of home and friends,
and often to be awakened by the quick sharp bark of the cayote, the
howling of the grey wolf, or what is far worse, the almost infernal
war-whoop of the Indian.
My orders to each man, in case of an attack, were not to rise. The guard
also, as they came inside the circle of pack saddles, were to throw
themselves flat on the ground. Those that were in their blankets were to
roll over on their stomachs, and then when they saw an Indian to 'blaze
away.' When we were on the line and expected trouble, we would build a
fire and at dark, after supper, move away slowly for one or two miles, and
lie down without any fires, and in this way cheat Mr. Indian.
Sometimes after working all day we were obliged to fight for our lives all
the latter part of the night; for this is the time which the Indian
chooses for his fighting, as a general rule. Notwithstanding these
apparent drawbacks, I must say that the life of a mountain man or trapper,
had ever indescribable charms for me.
And now in conclusion, let me give you an account of my last Indian fight,
which happened in the year 1859, on the Colorado river, near what is now
called Fort Mohavè. At that time the Indians in that region had seen but
few white men, and they had obtained but about half a dozen old guns. I,
having surveyed a large portion of the country previously, was chosen to
act as guide to Colonel Hoffman, who was to be escorted by fifty dragoons
from Fort Tejou, near Los Angelos, to Fort Yuma. I, not then being
acquainted with the country upon the Colorado river down to the fort, the
celebrated scout and trapper Joe Walker, was to go with us, to act as
guide after we had passed through that portion of the country with which I
was acquainted.
Joe was a tall, large man, six feet high and weighing over two hundred
pounds. We slept together in the same blankets, and many a night have I
laid awake, listening to his stories of fights with the Indians and his
hair-breadth escapes.
I shall pass rapidly over our journey across the mountains and along the
valley of the Mohavè river. Away we go across Soda Lake, which is dry, and
the surface of which as far northward as the eye can extend, is covered
with saleratus, white as the driven snow. If you should see at a distance
anything coming towards you, it would seem to approach bottom upwards; if
an animal, the feet would be in the air.
But on we go to the Granite springs, thence we pass on to Piyute Creek.
Slowly we ascend the mountains from which we are to descend to the
Colorado river. Colonel Hoffman orders a halt, for the smoke of Indian
fires is seen ascending for miles along the banks of the majestic river.
Having got all things prepared for either peace or war, we march down into
the valley. The Indians have undoubtedly caught sight of us, for suddenly
the smoke disappears, all the fires apparently being extinguished. We
press on and soon reach the banks of the river.
Following down the stream a mile or two, the colonel searches for a good
spot for a camping-ground. As we are on the move, all mounted, well armed
and in military array, about thirty Indians showed themselves. Moving
cautiously at first, they gradually became emboldened and ran along our
lines asking sundry questions. But we returned no answers. Having selected
the spot for camping-ground, we lay out our camp in the form of a
triangle. On the one side is a bluff from six to ten feet high, on the
opposite side is a lake called Beaver Lake, about five hundred yards wide.
Here, upon the rich grass which borders the lake, we tether our animals,
each one having the range of a rope about thirty feet long. Here we
considered them safe, as the Indians would hardly attempt to attack them.
It was early in the month of January, 1859.
The third side of our triangle was a dry swamp, covered with a dense
growth of willow bushes. By order of the colonel, these bushes were cut
down for a distance of sixty or eighty yards, so that no foe could
approach unseen. By four o'clock in the afternoon, the labor of
establishing our camp was completed. At some distance from us there was a
large and constantly increasing band of Indians, curiously watching our
proceedings. They were all well armed with their native weapons of lances,
bows and arrows.
As I was talking in one part of the camp with Joe Walker, Colonel Hoffman
approached us and said,
"I want one of you to go and have a talk with the Indians."
"Very well sir," I replied, and turning to Joe, added, "will you go, or
shall I?"
"You had better go, I guess," Joe replied.
I at once set out towards the Indians, and when I arrived within speaking
distance, hailed them in Spanish, saying that I wished to see their chief
and to have a talk. I had left my rifle in the camp, but still had my
revolvers, and my knife. A young fellow, tall, of splendid proportions,
and one of the fiercest looking Indians I ever saw, stepped out towards
me, with his bows and arrows. He was entirely naked except his breach
clout and a small plaid shawl thrown over his shoulders. The ends were
fastened down by a piece of black tape. On this tape was strung a pair of
common shears, apparently as an ornament.
His color was like a new piece of copper, clear, brilliant and exceedingly
beautiful, like one of the most majestic statues in shining bronze. "How
do you do?" said he, in Spanish, as he approached me and held out his
hand. I took his hand, returning the salutation in the same language.
"Why do you come here?" he then promptly said. "This is our country. We
have nothing to give you, for yourselves or your horses."
I gave him some tobacco in token of good will, and then replied: "We have
come to look at the country. We do not wish you to give us anything. If
you are friendly, we shall give you presents. If you attack us, we shall
kill you." I then added: "Some of the Indians of this country massacred a
party only a year ago. We shall have no more killed by them. We shall
build a fort here, to protect our emigrants."
He replied a little angrily, "I am a Mohavè. My people own this country. I
shall kill whoever I please." I had not any doubt that the shawl and the
shears came from the party they had massacred. I pointed to the shawl and
said:
"Where did you get that?"
"I bought them," he replied, evidently annoyed. "I bought them from the
Piute Indians."
"My brother," I replied, "does not talk with a straight tongue. It is
forked, and his words are crooked." He now added, with considerable
warmth:
"Go to your own camp, and prepare for war. I will not kill you. Your guns
are short. I will take your horses, and my men shall have a big feast.
Your horses are fat and good. I have many men many braves. You have but
few. Go to your camp and prepare for war."
"Indian," said I, "I go, but remember that our short guns kill an Indian
every time. We never stop to load them."
I turned to go back to the camp. It is not etiquette on such an occasion
to back out, watching your opponent, as though you were a coward and
feared an attack. I turned squarely round, with my back to the Indian,
when I saw the boys at the fort suddenly raise their rifles with their
muzzles directed towards us. At that moment, an arrow whizzed through my
buckskin shirt, just making a flesh wound on the shoulder. I had slightly
turned as the arrow left the bow, otherwise I should probably have
received my death-wound. Instantly, with my revolver already in my hand, I
discharged in quick succession, two shots at the savage, who was distant
but a few feet from me. The first bullet broke his arm; the second passed
through his heart. I instantly seized the shawl and shears and taking a
little of his hair to remember him by, started on a jump towards our men,
who were rushing towards me as fast as possible. The arrows flew so thick
and fast, that you would have thought it was hailing. Night soon came on,
and the Indians retired, probably to get recruits and to renew the battle
in the morning with the certainty of our destruction. We doubled our guard
for the night, during which I was awakened but once. Joe Walker and I
slept together. So much used were we both to such little affairs, that I
do not believe we should have awakened at all, had we not been called.
About twelve o'clock, a sentry came to where we were sleeping, and
touching me, said:
"Guide, I believe there is an Indian creeping up behind a bush." Joe says,
"Bill, get up and see what it is. My eyes are not as good in the night as
yours."
So out of my blanket I got, grabbed my revolver and went towards the
bluff. The sentinel accompanying me, pointed out the bush. I did not like
to fire into it, lest I should give a false alarm. I watched it about ten
minutes, and there was not the least movement. "I guess," I said, "it is
nothing but a bush." But at that moment, I perceived a very slight
agitation of the branches. It proved that there must be somebody there.
"Oho! Mr. Indian," I exclaimed, "at your old tricks." I raised my
revolver, took deliberate aim at the very heart of the bush, and fired.
Mr. Indian gave a hideous yell, and he had gone to his happy hunting
grounds. In the morning, we prepared to leave. The Indians, as we
afterwards learned, had fifteen hundred warriors within a radius of five
miles. We numbered but about fifty men. But we had rifles, they had only
bows and arrows. The superiority of our arms raised us above all fear.
It was manifest however, with the earliest dawn, from the large number of
warriors assembled, and the menacing cries they raised, that we must have
a fight. Colonel Hoffman detached every fourth man, each one to hold four
horses. The rest of the dragoons were marshalled on the bluff, which as I
have mentioned, lined one side of our encampment. As our rifles could
throw a bullet more than twice as far as any arrow could be thrown, the
battle was rather a source of amusement to us, than of terror. No Indian
could approach within arrow shot of our ranks, without meeting certain
death. It must be confessed that we had no more compunctions in shooting
an Indian than in shooting a bear or a wolf. As they dodged from tree to
tree, assailing us with their impotent arrows, our keen marksmen watched
their opportunity to strike them down with the invisible death-dealing
bullet.
Old Joe Walker practiced with our Hawkins' rifles and revolvers, as he
said, "just to keep his hand in." After an hour or two of this strange
battle, in which the Indians suffered fearful carnage, and we encountered
no loss, our foe in rage and despair retired. They left sixty of their
number dead, besides taking with them many wounded. We continued our march
without further molestation.
And now my friend, if you shall find anything interesting to you in this
short sketch, I shall be satisfied. I have written a great deal more than
I expected to write, when I began. And yet you have but a very brief
narrative of my adventures in California.
Yours truly,
(signed) William E. Goodyear.