constant battling with the wild animals of the Blue Ridge, and at the
close of his career all could justly say that nowhere had a more famous
huntsman ever lived in the eastern portion of the then half-settled
United States. Now little game is to be found where once deer, wolves,
bears, and wild cats were plentiful, and, although sturdy and honest
men still reside in the Alleghanies, seldom does one meet with a
character like this bluff old trapper and pioneer.
[Illustration: “HAD KILLED INNUMERABLE BRAVES IN OPEN CONFLICT.”]
“BILL” BENT:
HERO OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL
WHAT one of the plainsmen did not know “Bill” Bent; “Bill,” the
fellow who had battled so often with the Comanches, Kiowas, and other
Indians that they called him “The Red Panther:” “Bill,” who had killed
innumerable braves in open conflict; and “Bill” who had often just
escaped the scalping-knife by a mere hair’s breadth? The old fellow was
a true plains’ hero, and after you have heard some of the stories about
his escapades with the redskins I’ll warrant that you will agree that
he was a marvellously lucky scout.
In 1829 the brother of this fellow—Charles Bent—was upon an
expedition to the mountains near Santa Fé, New Mexico. With him were
numerous others, well armed and well mounted. It was lucky that this
was the case, for every day a cloud of Comanches and Kiowas hung upon
the flanks of the moving line of trappers and kept up a continuous and
rapid fire. Every night the trappers slept upon their arms, certain
that an assault would come before the dawn. Bill Bent was several miles
away—at a little frontier post—and, hearing of the peril of his
brother and his friends, determined to ride to the rescue.
Old Bill rode a large black mule with split ears, which showed that he
had once been owned by a Comanche brave. The Comanches soon sighted
him, and about fifty of them made after him at full tilt. Arrows and
bullets whistled about the head of the gallant scout, but he paid no
more attention to these missiles than if they were flies. Occasionally
he would turn in his saddle and drop some too eager buck whose zeal
had outstripped discretion, and who had galloped within easy range of
Bill’s deadly Hawken rifle.
“Here he comes, boys!” shouted one of the band of plainsmen. “A brave
fellow is after us, sure.”
Bent came dashing up and reached two plainsmen called Coates and
Waldo, who fired at the pursuing redskins, bringing down three of
the foremost. Seeing this, the other Comanches retreated and left
the little band to plod on alone. A force of one hundred and twenty
Mexicans joined the party shortly afterwards, in order to be protected
by them against the overwhelming numbers of the redskins.
The frontiersmen kept on their way across the lava dust and sage brush,
but the Indians—although drawing off at a distance—still pursued.
A famous scout called Ewing Young was travelling about twenty miles
off, and from a fleeing Mexican heard that his brother trappers were
sorely pressed. This particular scout was one of the bravest and most
generous of men. As a trapper, hunter, and Indian fighter, he had few
superiors. He had learned from a friendly redskin that the mountain
canyon towards which the scouts were journeying was occupied by two
thousand warriors, who lay in ambush waiting to entrap and annihilate
the whites. Gathering forty trusty men-of-the-plains around him he rode
to warn the fleeing plainsmen of their danger.
“By George, boys, there they are!”
One of the advance trappers spoke thus, as—from a summit of a high
hill—he saw below him the vast horde of redskins surrounding and
following the retreating scouts with whom Bill Bent was associated. The
redskins set up a wild whooping as soon as they viewed the oncoming
whites. “Crack! crack!” the rifles began to spit and spatter at the
advancing plainsmen.
The scouts were courageous, but the odds were too great even for such
valor as theirs. Swarms of Indians enveloped them, shouting:
“Ki yi! ki yi! The palefaces will soon all be dead!”
At this juncture young Kit Carson first showed the material that he was
made of. Riding out in front, he swung himself under his horse,—and
shooting at a redskin from below its neck, brought him to the ground.
“Bully for you, Kit!” shouted Scout Young. “But these infernal redskins
are too thick for me. I must break loose and retreat to Tavo.”
This the plainsman speedily did, and, although pursued for some
distance, finally got safely away. At Tavo a crowd of trappers were
assembled for their yearly rendezvous. Ninety-five of them joined
Young, crying: “To the rescue of Bill Bent! To the fore! We’ll clean up
all the Comanches in the state!”
“Hurrah, boys!” shouted Young. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear.
We’ll get right after them.”
The Indians, meanwhile, still pursued Bill Bent and his party.
The trappers under Young were not long in riding to the rescue of their
comrades. As they came in sight the redskins gave whoops of disgust,
for they saw that they were outnumbered and outclassed.
“Back to the woods!” shouted young Kit Carson, as he galloped his steed
in the direction of the braves. “Back to the plains, for we’ll get you
now!”
As the party came on, Bill Bent’s followers set up a wild whooping.
“We’re saved!” cried several. “Old Scout Young, we knew, would not let
us be annihilated.”
The Indians now became dispirited. Seeing the reinforcements coming up
in battle array they quickly retired, chanting a death song, for they
had lost fully fifty men in killed and wounded.
Bill Bent’s followers were now free, and Bill, himself, was overjoyed
to have saved his scalp. But he soon came near losing it again.
In the winter of 1830-1831, the tried and seasoned trapper, together
with Robert Isaacs and a comrade whose name is unknown, made his
way to Arizona, on a trapping expedition. For a time they met with
fair success and saw nothing of the redskins. But one day they were
surrounded by a body of Mescalero Apaches, who were the fiercest of
the savage tribes upon the frontier. The Indians were one hundred and
fifty strong. There were but three trappers. What chance had they, you
ask. They had no hope of freedom, but, as Bill Bent expressed it: “We
will sell our lives as dearly as possible and we will make as many
redskins go under as we can before we, ourselves, will give up!”
The trappers threw up a rude stone breastwork when first surrounded.
They were working hard on this, when, with terrific whoops, the Apaches
were after them on the charge.
“Go easy, boys!” shouted Bill Bent. “Make every shot count!”
Two of the trappers fired as he spoke and two of the chiefs fell to
the sod. Before they could get out of range the third man shot off his
rifle, and another one of the braves dropped to the ground. The Apaches
were not disconcerted and again returned to the charge, but they were
met by the deadly fire of the reloaded rifles and the pistols of the
trappers, also.
“Ugh! Ugh!” said they, “we’ve had enough! We must go back!”
Conducting the siege now at long range, the Apaches kept up a desultory
fire for two days. Then they retired in disgust, for they could not
dislodge the trappers.
“Hurrah!” cried Bill Bent, as he saw them going away. “Boys, we can now
get some water!”
The scouts, in fact, were nearly dead with thirst, but they soon found
a spring and refreshed themselves. Leaving Arizona soon afterwards,
they avoided any further trouble with the terrible Apaches, who,
remembering the drubbing which they had received, were glad to allow
them to retreat unmolested.
The old Santa Fé trail in New Mexico was much used by emigrants at this
time and was well watched by the redskins. Should a train be slightly
guarded it would be unsafe for men, women and children, for the Indians
would make short work of them. This deterred all except the boldest
spirits from venturing where was certain peril and probable death. But
among the heroes who were still willing to encounter the fearful odds
of Indian combat were to be found Bill Bent, his brother Charles, the
Waldos, and a few others whom no danger ever daunted, and who saw a
splendid field for trade in this country. In 1839 a party of these men
applied to Andrew Jackson, who had just taken his seat as President.
They asked for a military escort to accompany them to the Arkansas
River, which—at that time—formed the boundary between Mexico and the
United States.
This request was speedily granted, and Major Bennett Riley was
detailed, with two hundred men, to meet the emigrants at Fort
Leavenworth and to accompany them to the Arkansas River. The traders
met at Round Grove, Missouri, where Charles Bent was chosen Captain and
where Bill Bent also joined. With thirty-six wagons, fully freighted
with valuable goods, they set out for Santa Fé, New Mexico.
In due time they reached the Arkansas River at Chateau’s Island, and
here the traders bade farewell to the gallant Major and his brave
soldiers. Plunging into the shallow waters of the stream they were
soon on Mexican soil. But their troubles now commenced. The dry sand
engulfed their wagon wheels almost to the hubs, stalling the teams, and
utterly preventing an orderly march.
“Close up! Close up!” Bill Bent kept shouting.
But in spite of these orders, the wagons were soon strung over a half a
mile of road. Advance and rear detachments had been thrown out to guard
against surprise, but either through the negligence of the videttes, or
from the completeness with which the Indians had concealed themselves,
they had only gone nine miles when the savages seemed to spring out of
the very bowels of the earth. Their rifles spat a deadly fire.
“My stars, look at the redskins!” cried Bill Bent. “They’re after us,
for sure, this time!”
The surprise had been complete, but Charles Bent—mounted upon a large,
black horse—with his long, dark hair floating upon the wind, dashed
up and down the line, forming his men. Every ravine swarmed with the
redskins, and, although they yelled fiercely, above their loud calls
could be heard the voice of Charles Bent.
“Close up, men! Close up!” he kept shouting. “It’s our only chance! And
keep cool! Keep cool!”
Two of the men had been lagging in the rear of the train, and, at the
first fire, one fell dead, while the other—with fifty Indians in
pursuit—dashed for the wagons. Escape seemed to be impossible, but
Bent saw the situation at a glance and charged towards the advancing
savages with twenty scouts. The Indians drew off at this show of force,
and the fleeing trapper was thus able to join his comrades.
_Crash! Crash!_ sounded the rifles, and the battle continued to rage
with fury. Nothing but Bent’s coolness and the desperate bravery of
his men prevented a charge by the red men, who numbered at least a
thousand. Luckily a small, brass cannon was in the train—the first
that ever crossed the Arkansas—and, as it spat its fire, the Comanches
withdrew.
The trappers now dug rifle-pits, but Bent soon saw that without water
his men would be unable to hold their own.
“Who will creep through the hostile redskins and go after Major Riley
and his men?” he asked. “Unless we get his aid we will have to give in
to these frightfully bloodthirsty savages!”
“I will go! I will go!” came from the throats of many. In fact all
seemed to wish to undertake the hazardous journey.
Captain Bent could not help laughing. Nine were finally selected for
the trip. They knew that their only salvation lay in their rifles, for
their mules were so worn down by fatigue that flight was out of the
question.
They rode out expecting to have a tough time of it, but the redskins
allowed them to pass through their lines without firing a single shot
at them. Spurring on their broken-down beasts they hastened towards
the Arkansas River, where they still hoped to find Major Riley with his
troops.
The Major was surely there. He saw them coming away off on the plains,
and, striking his tents, was all prepared to meet them when they
arrived.
“Gentlemen,” said he, when he heard their story, “it is a breach of
national etiquette for me to cross the boundary line into Mexico—a
friendly power—but blood is thicker than water, and I cannot see my
countrymen suffer. I will be with you as soon as my troops can pack up.”
The soldiers were soon on their way. So rapid and silent was the
approach of the force that they even penetrated between the pickets of
the traders and their camp before they were discovered. Cheer after
cheer welled from the throats of the beleaguered plainsmen, as they
approached. The savages heard them, and, seeing that they now would
have to assume the defensive, quietly slipped away.
“Ow! Ow!” said one brave. “We get those palefaces yet.”
Much overjoyed, Bent and his traders again started on their journey,
turning their course from Santa Fé, which point they at first intended
to reach, to Taos, some eighty miles further to the North. By this
détour they not only avoided many canyons, in which were sure to
be lurking savages, but were also able to obtain a military escort
of Mexicans. A General Viscarro—with a goodly number of Mexican
rancheros—accompanied them. But there was still to be trouble.
They reached the rippling courses of the river Cimarron. There a party
of savages approached the Mexicans, who rode on in front. One of them
bore an arrow tied transversely across a spear, it being the symbol of
the cross. Viscarro was a Catholic, and, honoring this novel flag with
true devotion, he was spoken to by one of the braves.
“If the Americans will move aside to some distance,” said he, “we will
lay down our arms and will surrender.”
Viscarro smiled.
“Certainly, red brother,” said he.
The Americans retired beyond a ridge, and no sooner were they out of
the way than the treacherous savages poured a destructive fire into the
Mexican ranks. Many men and officers were wounded. But luckily the two
Bents heard the firing, and suspecting treachery, gathered a number of
mounted soldiers and went to the relief of the men who lived south of
the Rio Grande.
Now was a desperate affair. Bent and his men burst upon the savages
with fierce cries and delivered a deadly volley right in their faces.
Their rifles were then discarded, and, having next emptied their
pistols, they followed up the attack with tomahawks and clubbed rifles.
Soon the Comanches were in full flight and the field was strewn thickly
with their dead and wounded.
A gallant action was performed by a Pueblo (or Village) Indian. He was
near the Mexican General, Viscarro, and understanding the language of
the hostiles, heard one of the latter exclaim in his native tongue:
“Now for the General!” As he spoke he aimed a bullet at the body of
the Mexican commander. The Indian threw himself in front of him—at
this juncture—and fell to the ground; as noble a hero as the lists of
chivalry tell of. Viscarro was much affected by this show of devotion.
Thanks to Bill Bent and his brother Charles, the caravan had been saved
from the hostiles. It was well. From this time on nothing exciting
occurred and the Americans and Mexicans reached their respective
homes in safety, meeting with no more serious annoyance than the
nightly serenade of coyotes. The disheartened Comanches had given
up their attempt to crush out the travel along the Arkansas trail,
and fortunately for the white traders entered into no more military
combinations,—preferring the safer and more natural warfare of the
small, predatory bands. They could then move quickly and could cut off
small unguarded bodies of men.
Bill Bent had done well. Now he did even better, for a fort was named
after him. This was situated on the Arkansas River; was first called
Fort William, and was the property of Lieutenant Vrain and himself.
Built in 1833, here the celebrated Kit Carson was the post hunter from
1834 to 1842. Could the walls of the old fort speak, they would tell
many tales of thrilling battles with the red men.
On one occasion it was besieged by many thousands of plains Indians.
All of the tribes had determined to lay aside their mutual dislike for
one another for once, and to league together for the extermination
of the “palefaces.” They saw that the white traders would soon have
all of this country and they did not like the idea. Bill Bent was
approaching the fort with a wagon-train about this time. Knowing that
two or three hundred raw recruits of the United States garrison formed
its only defense, he hastened rapidly to its relief. On his way he met
several deserters, who (in the night) had scaled the walls of what they
regarded to be a place of doom, and stealing cautiously through the
savage lines, had fled with all speed towards the rising sun,—for they
knew that help was there.
Bill Bent was somewhat alarmed at this. When he arrived in sight of the
fort he saw that it was menaced by a great and awful danger. There were
thousands of hostile Indians dancing their war and scalp dances around
it, and endeavoring to work themselves up to the proper frenzy in order
to make the attack. Bent’s blood began to boil.
“Here!” he cried to one of his best men, “you take charge of the train!
I have to move forward!”
His hat came off as he rode on, but he galloped straight at the fort.
His long hair—meanwhile—trailed out behind like a banner from its
staff. It was a trophy which any of the savages would have been very
proud to wear in his belt.
The Indians were too surprised to fire at him. As he dashed along, he
uttered a fierce war-whoop, and fired his revolver at a savage who was
unwise enough to approach. Behind him came thundering his friend and
ally,—Yellow Bear. He was a great Apache chief, but a friend of the
whites and their staunch supporter. Strung out in the rear were a few
Apache braves, who would have cheerfully sacrificed their lives for
either Bent or Yellow Bear.
Bill Bent reached the fort in safety. So did Yellow Bear and his
braves. The wagon-train came steadily on, its men marching alongside,
fully armed. It, too, reached the doorway of the fort without a mishap.
Here the pioneers found Bent getting everything in proper shape to give
a warm reception to the braves, who from their actions were apparently
ready for the assault. They were met with a hot reception.
Now an unforeseen event occurred.
Upon the morning after Bent’s arrival the lookout beheld a slight cloud
of dust far to the Eastward. After a while, a few black specks could be
seen. They came nearer and were seen to be Indian videttes with their
ponies on a dead run.
The videttes dashed into the Indian encampment, said a few hasty words
to some of the chiefs, and then consternation seemed to take possession
of the redskins. The squaws began at once to take down the lodges.
The travois poles were slung with the tents and equipment. Soon the
entire Indian camp was in full retreat. Amidst the yelping of the dogs,
squalling of the babies, the rattle of pots and kettles piled up on the
travois, and the insulting yells of the warriors, the savage host of
besiegers crossed the Arkansas River and disappeared from view.
“Why, now,” said Bill Bent. “Boys! Seems they’re afraid of us!”
But the mystery was soon explained. Late on the evening of the next
day those in the fort beheld the approach of a regiment of United
States cavalry, which had been sent to its relief. The redskins had an
admirable picket system. By means of this their pony express had told
them of the approach of the cavalry, and, fearing that vengeance might
be taken upon them for their hostile attitude and war-like threats,
they prudently decamped.
Bill Bent had many another adventure upon the plains which was as
thrilling as this. He was known for his courage and was never badly
wounded, although he took a thousand chances. Sad to relate, he married
a Cheyenne wife, and his children—suffering from this taint of redskin
blood—never attained the prominence upon the plains which their fond
parent had held. At last the good old fellow passed to the Happy
Hunting Grounds. He had indeed seen the wild and woolly West in its
palmiest days. Good-by to old Bill, hardy frontiersman and scout, whose
reputation was spotless! Good-by and good luck, Bill Bent!
THOMAS EDDIE:
THE LAST OF THE OLD SCHOOL TRAPPERS
“YOU will do, boy, I will need you!”
The man who spoke—a grizzled old plainsman—nodded to a strong-looking
young Scotchman who was standing before him, rifle in hand, and
motioned to him to take a position among a number of trappers who stood
near by. The fellow who thus spoke was John Ashley (a famous trader and
explorer) who had just organized the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. As he
was in need of vigorous young men his heart naturally warmed towards
the stalwart youth before him, who was yearning for adventure in the
Far West.
This athletic frontiersman was none other than Thomas Eddie, who was
now twenty-four years of age, and whose aim with the rifle was steady
and sure. Born on August 29th, 1799, he had naturally drifted to the
plains, where he was as quick to volunteer upon a dangerous mission
as were “Old Bill” Williams, Bill Gordon, or any of the other valiant
pioneers. He was a fellow of iron will, and the older members of this
expedition soon found that the canny young Scot would do and dare as
much as any of them. As ready and willing to go to the relief of a
stricken comrade as the most experienced man on the plains, he had
not an enemy on the border, except among the redskins, whose hand was
against every white man. As wiry as steel, as keen as a sword blade:
such was the youthful Thomas Eddie, soon to be the hero of many a
startling adventure.
The trappers under Ashley made their way up the waters of the Missouri
in keel-boats. The muddy current of the turbid stream raged furiously
against them, but by vigorous rowing they managed to thread their way
among the numerous snags and sand-bars. At length they reached the
vicinity of an Arickara village, filled with several hundred savages,
and here they intended to trade, before passing up the Yellowstone
River, where was splendid trapping. They rowed on with confidence,
little suspecting that the redskins were in a terrible state of
agitation and anger against all of the white men of the West. In fact,
not many weeks before, an adventurous trapper, who had been travelling
near by, had caught the son of the head chief of this nation, as he
was stealing his horse. He had shot him down as he was in the act
of throwing his leg over his mount. The Arickaras had soon heard of
this, and, in spite of the fact that the white man had been perfectly
justified in killing the horse-thief, determined to avenge the death of
their comrade.
Ashley and his companions did not know of this adventure. Therefore
they rowed onward with confidence, and soon sighted the tepees of the
red men on the right bank of the stream.
“There they are!” cried Eddie, who was in the bow of one of the boats.
“We will have good trade, for I know that they are greatly in need of
arms and of ammunition.”
“Look out for them!” spoke a fellow named Rose, in one of the other
vessels. “From certain signs I know that the red vermin mean mischief.”
This fellow was a Kentuckian who, for some misdemeanor, had been
outlawed in his own state and had then lived among the Crow Indians,
who had made him a chief. Ashley did not like him and believed him to
be a villain. Eddie, however, knew that he spoke with keen knowledge of
the redskins. He, therefore, turned around and cried loudly:
“Ashley, look out for the Indians! They mean mischief!”
To this, the head of the expedition paid not the slightest attention.
Instead, he pushed forward, anchored his boat close in shore, near a
long strip of small cottonwood trees, and pulled out his pipe, smoking
it complacently.
“Be ready for an ambush,” said Rose, “I know that the Arickaras are in
an ugly mood.”
“Oh, pshaw!” answered Ashley. “The red men are over anxious to trade.
It has been ten years since they have been on the war-path against the
whites and I know that they will treat us well. Why, man, these Indians
love me like a brother.”
Rose frowned.
“I have lived among these redskins for many moons,” said he. “And I
know them like a book. Look out. They mean trouble!”
Ashley again pooh-poohed the idea, and rowed to the bank, where he
deposited his articles of trade upon several gaudy blankets. The
Arickaras crowded around him, crying:
“Oh, palefaced brother, you have brought us fine things. Oh, good
brother! Oh, kind brother!”