that they were soon going against their old enemies, the Sioux. The
trade went on, many of the trappers coming ashore in order to better
bargain with the redskins; a few, however, remaining in the boats.
Ashley seemed to be well satisfied with the manner in which everything
was going. He suspected nothing until one of his men came to him and
whispered in his ear:
“Three of our trappers have secretly disappeared, and I fear that they
have been murdered.”
The leader of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company was at last alarmed.
He made preparations for defense and gathered his men about him in
a hollow square. But the Indians, finding that they no longer could
conceal their enmity, now set up a loud whooping and yelling. A shot
was fired. Another and another followed in quick succession, and the
cottonwood thickets swarmed with the savages, who poured a rain of
bullets at the trappers upon the bank and upon those in the boats.
“Drop to the ground, boys!” shouted Ashley, “and we will fight for our
lives.”
A desperate encounter ensued. Although surrounded in the rear, the
trappers fought their way to the bank, jumped into the river, and
attempted to swim to their boats. Many were drowned, others were killed
by bullets as they splashed towards their craft, but the majority
clambered aboard in safety.
“Cut the ropes,” shouted Ashley, “and get away from here as quickly as
you are able!”
Under a terrific fire the boats began to slowly drift down the river.
Oars were soon run out and the trappers were well beyond range of the
murderous Arickara rifles. Of one hundred and forty-nine men they
had lost sixty killed and drowned, and scarcely one of them did not
bear marks of bullet or arrow wounds. It had been a desperate affair.
Had the confident Ashley but listened to the sage advice of the Crow
renegade there would have been no such slaughter. Thus ended the famous
stampede of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, on the ninth day of March,
1828.
But how about the stalwart young Eddie? This lucky plainsman escaped
with only one arrow wound in his forearm. He was heroic in the defense
of the boats, and, taking charge of one of them, managed to get her
safely to Council Bluffs, where the Fur Company retreated in good
order. Poor, old trappers! They had met with a warmer reception than
they had bargained for!
As luck would have it, a Colonel Leavenworth was then at Council Bluffs
with a detachment of United States troopers. Ashley soon told him his
story, and wound up his sad tale with the request that he help him to
chastise the savages.
“That I will do right willingly,” answered the gallant soldier. “White
Bear, with his band of Sioux warriors, will go with me, I know. He says
that he is just itching for a little brush with the Arickaras. He will
be of great assistance to us.”
Eddie joined the detachment as it departed, and, marching speedily
towards the village, the soldiers and allied Sioux found the Arickaras
abandoning it. A sharp skirmish took place; the soldiers and trappers
fell upon the rear guard, and, routing it speedily, dashed among the
tepees, which were set on fire and quickly consumed. The Arickaras
fled across the prairie. As the skirmish was in progress White Bear,
the Sioux leader, was the hero of a desperate affair, which made him
always well known among the whites, and greatly respected by all of the
valiant men of the frontier.
While the fight was at its hottest this Sioux chieftain singled out a
giant Arickara warrior, rushed upon him, tomahawk in hand, and cried
out:
“If you are a man, halt and struggle with me. We will see which is the
better.”
The Arickara had a bow in his hand, and, turning upon the Bear, sent a
shower of arrows whistling around him. One of them pierced his thigh,
but the Sioux stopped and pulled the missile from the wound. Then, with
tomahawk upraised, he charged upon his enemy.
The Arickara chief had discharged his last arrow, and, seeing that it
was too late to fly, wheeled and faced his antagonist. He was a large
and powerful man, but the Sioux warrior was more agile. Uttering a
loud and discordant yell, White Bear rushed at his foe. All the other
combatants stopped for a moment, in order to view this strange and
startling contest.
The sun gleamed upon the tomahawks of the two braves as they danced
around each other. Again and again each endeavored to strike a blow,
but, by skillful dodging, the weapon was evaded, and the warriors
continued to prance about in a circle. Suddenly the Sioux bent over and
struck the Arickara warrior a fierce stroke upon the knee; so fierce,
indeed, that he nearly severed his leg from his body. White Bear leaped
forward, dodged sideways, and evaded the descending tomahawk of the
Arickara chieftain. The latter tottered and then fell to the ground.
Before he could recover, the Sioux had dealt a death-blow, and, amidst
the wild yelling and screeching of the spectators, deftly scalped his
enemy, holding the top-knot aloft, and himself uttering the wild yelp
of triumph. “Um-Yah! Um-Yah! Uh-Yah!”
The Arickaras were dispersed and well punished for their attack upon
Ashley and his men. The troops returned in triumph to Council Bluffs,
and Eddie was congratulated by the head trapper for his part in the
affair.
“But now, my boy,” said the veteran plainsman, “I want you to go up the
Yellowstone, cross the mountains, and, with fourteen others, bring back
a whole lot of peltries.”
“I’m your man,” said Eddie. “I’m off as soon as you say the word.”
The fourteen trappers moved to the Yellowstone, where they hunted and
trapped with great success, until winter. Then they made their way to
the village of some friendly Crows. They were treated with kindness and
hospitality, and had great good luck in procuring beaver peltries. When
spring came they travelled towards the Rocky Mountains, after making
appropriate speeches of friendship to their hosts, and giving them many
presents.
In the mountains their old enemies—the Blackfeet—were very
mischievous. They often stole their traps, attempted to stampede their
ponies, and fired at them from ambush. Nearly every night the alarm
would sound: “Indians! Indians! Look to your horses!” And, during the
day, the Blackfoot sentinels could be seen upon the skyline, perched
upon the summit of some high hill. They would signal to their friends
in the valleys below and tell them of the progress of the trappers.
The pioneers were repeatedly ambushed, but they marched valiantly on,
fighting as they went. At last they left the mountains, pressed onward
towards the Pacific slope, and, almost perishing from hunger, were
rescued by some trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, who took them to
their post on the Columbia River. They spent the winter in this place.
When spring approached, the pioneers again set out for the Yellowstone.
As they approached the Bear River, an Indian runner came bounding down
the trail. He was of the Snake tribe and held up his right hand in
token of friendship.
“I come from the people of the great chief, Pim,” said he. “The Great
Spirit has taken our beloved ruler to the land of the hereafter. It is
requested by his people that our white brothers read over him their
medicine book (the Bible) and sing one of their songs. Then lay our
great chief to rest upon the banks of the Bear River. Here he can ever
hear the wonderful music of the stream, and here his spirit can make
the beaver plenty for our white brothers.”
It was a strange request.
“Boys,” said Thomas Eddie, “we will do as our red brother wishes. We
will bury our good friend Pim in a Christian manner, for he was always
kindly disposed to all the trappers and pioneers who came in contact
with him.”
Turning back upon their trail, the trappers travelled forty miles
to the camp of the Snakes. In relays of four, they carried the dead
chieftain slowly and tenderly to the banks of the roaring Bear River,
and there laid him to rest, reading over him the burial service and
singing a hymn. A volley was fired over the open grave, then, turning
sadly towards the mountains, the men in buckskin left the red men to
perform their own last rites over the dead chieftain.
As they neared the hills, the pugnacious Blackfeet again began
to harass them. Every day they made an attack, but as they were
principally armed with arrows they did little damage. A few had rifles,
but they rarely used them. When the trappers had been fighting with
these fellows, the year before, numbers of them had fallen beneath the
steady aim of the whites, but not a single trapper had been killed or
even dangerously wounded. This shows you what poor marksmen the Indians
were.
Not long afterwards the little band of adventurers was passing through
a narrow and lonely valley. As they reached a passageway through high
and precipitous cliffs, a shot rang out, and a wild Indian yell told
them the Blackfeet were again on their trail.
“We’re ambushed, boys!” cried Eddie. “Take to cover and ward off these
skulkers, for from the sound of their fire it is apparent that they
have plenty of guns and ammunition.”
He had scarcely spoken when he uttered a sharp cry of pain, for a rifle
ball struck him in the thigh and penetrated well into his flesh. It was
cut out by a trapper called Will Sublette, with a beaver knife, but our
hero was in a serious condition for some time thereafter. Fortunately
the members of the party were near water, so they threw up a rough
barricade, by means of digging with their hunting-knives, and adding
brush and tree trunks to the fortification. Several were unable to
proceed, five had been killed, and twenty were severely wounded.
The Blackfeet could be easily seen as they circled about, some on foot,
some on their ponies. They continuously yelped, howled like coyotes,
and kept up a fusillade against the earth and brush fortification.
Fortune favored the trappers, however, as there was an abundance of
beaver in the stream which ran through the valley and these were easily
captured. Trout were also plentiful and the wanderers managed to put
up a fortification behind which they could catch the speckled beauties
without molestation by the painted and bloodthirsty Blackfeet. The
wounded made a rapid recovery, and in ten days were able to travel.
“Now, boys,” said Eddie, at this time, “it is important that we get
away. Let us take our old clothes, stuff them with grass in order to
deceive the red men, and light our camp-fires as usual. The Blackfeet
will see the dark bodies near the flames and will not suspect that we
have gotten away. We will move off towards the North, but you must make
no noise.”
The trappers were eager to be off. That night they lighted their
fires, placed the dummy figures so that they could be readily seen,
and crept away from their little fortification. The Blackfeet did not
suspect this departure, and, although it was a hazardous march over a
rough path, allowed the men under Eddie to get safely away. By forced
marches, and travelling over a crooked trail, the pioneers at length
reached the Yellowstone. But their troubles were not yet at an end.
Trapper Eddie had left camp one day in order to look for game, and was
returning to the place where the horses were tethered, when he saw a
small band of Crow Indians who were endeavoring to drive off the stock.
Firing at the leader of the expedition he knocked him to the ground.
One of the braves jumped to the earth, lifted the dead chieftain upon
his horse, and rode off with him. Eddie’s comrades heard the shooting
and galloped to meet their leader.
Eddie knew the valley well. It doubled almost upon itself, making a
horse-shoe curve, and he was aware that should he ascend the mountain
on the right he would be able to head off the redskins.
“Boys!” cried he. “Follow me over that mountain. We will meet the red
men, recapture our bronchos, and pay them well for their dastardly
attempt to run off our steeds.”
His men gave a cheer, and, putting spurs to their horses, galloped up
the steep slope of the mountain. Sure enough, as they reached the top,
there were the redskins just below them. Uttering a wild cowboy yell,
the trappers dashed to the assault.
A narrow pass in the mountains lay before them and for this the
Indians hastened, yelping fiercely as they went. The trappers were as
experienced men at shooting on horseback as Buffalo Bill, and they
soon dropped most of the Crows as they vainly endeavored to escape.
The fellow who was carrying the leader was badly wounded, and as he
endeavored to ride his heavily burdened horse across a stream, which
flowed through the valley, the animal stumbled and fell, throwing both
the live and the dead man into the water. The trappers were close upon
them as they went down, but what became of the dead chieftain and his
attendant was never known. They disappeared from view. Whether the
live Crow was killed by the fall, or was stunned and perished in the
swift current, is still a question. Perhaps he made his way back to
his own tribe. At any rate, a careful search failed to discover the
whereabouts of either of them.
“By George!” cried “Old Bill” Williams, who was one of Eddie’s party,
“I reckon that the dead one has carried the live fellow to Heaven with
him.”
The horses were soon retaken, and with smiles of satisfaction upon
their faces the trappers returned to their camp on the Yellowstone.
Here, seated around the blazing camp-fire, they again fought over
their battles, compared notes of the country, made rude maps of their
routes, with the various rivers, mountains, and plains; and those who
had seen the waters of the Great Salt Lake told their comrades of this
vast inland sea, whose waters were bitterly salt, and into whose depths
nothing could sink because of the great buoyancy of the waves.
There was an abundance of game in the Yellowstone country. The fourteen
scouts spent the entire season, and part of the next, in trapping for
mink, beaver, otter, and bear. They set their beaver traps in all
the suitable streams between the head of the Missouri River and the
upper waters of the Platte, meeting with great success. Indians were
plentiful, but seemed to leave them alone, for they had undoubtedly
heard of the summary vengeance which the trappers had taken upon the
thieving Crows.
“Boys,” said Eddie, one day, “we are about all through with our
ammunition and I would like to send seven of our number to Santa Fé,
New Mexico, in order to get a supply. Who will be willing to undertake
the trip?”
“I will,” came from the throats of many, and it was plainly evident
that there would be little difficulty in getting volunteers for this
hazardous duty.
Seven were chosen for the journey—seven of the strongest and most
hardy—but the seven were never seen again. Cheerfully they set out
across the sandy plains of Colorado. When they were just about to
disappear from view, they turned and waved their hands to those left
behind.
“So long, boys,” cried one. “We will meet again in a few months.”
But they never met again. From the time that they disappeared upon the
horizon all trace of them was lost. Perhaps they fell before the arrows
and bullets of the Sioux, Kiowa, Apache, Comanche, Navajo, or other
red men. Perhaps the lounging and lazy Spanish banditti captured them
and carried them across the Mexican line. At any rate, their fate is
enveloped in impenetrable mystery.
Eddie and his companions waited for many months for some sign of their
comrades. At length they gave up hopes of their return, and leaving
a note to direct them where to go should they ever come back, made
their way to the Yellowstone. Hostile red men hovered about them and
endeavored to cut off their ponies, but these were dispersed in several
smart skirmishes. Finally they reached a camp some forty miles above
Boulder, Colorado, where Eddie and Bill Gordon had a rather serious
encounter with some Arapahoes, when returning from an antelope hunt.
“By gracious!” cried Bill, the trapper, as he saw the redskins
swooping down upon them. “I believe that we are about to lose our
scalps, Eddie. ‘_Never say die_,’ must be our motto.”
“Let’s break for that canyon,” answered the lion-hearted Eddie. “If we
get into those rocks the yelping redskins can shoot all they want to
but they can’t hurt us. We’ll crawl over there by the water so that
they cannot starve us out. We have food enough to last us for some
time.”
Crack! Crack! sounded the rifles of the red men, and both Eddie and
Gordon were struck. Nothing daunted, they ran to the shelter of the
ravine, where they returned the fire with so much accuracy that two of
the redskins fell to the ground. The Indians numbered about twelve,
but only five were detached to follow the two scouts, while the rest
rode away, carrying the two dead men with them. As they went in the
direction of the camp of the plainsmen Eddie feared that they would
surprise his comrades and would annihilate them.
“Gordon,” said he, “you must remain here, while I run back to camp and
warn our companions of the approach of these murderers. You have only
five to deal with, and I know that you can handle them.”
Eddie ran swiftly up the canyon, and then, back-tracking, hid
himself behind a huge boulder. The redskins saw him and made after
his retreating form with great speed, but failed to see him in his
hiding-place. They were soon out of sight.
The scout darted down the canyon as rapidly as possible and dashed
out upon the open prairie as hard as he could go. Before him was an
Arapaho who was watching the Indian ponies. He was mounted upon a
buckskin pinto and was armed with a rifle, tomahawk, and knife. As
Eddie approached, he raised his rifle. The scout did likewise and both
fired at about the same moment.
The trapper was struck in the shoulder, but the injury was not severe,
while his own ball passed through the red man’s thigh, breaking the
leg of the horse upon which he was riding. This brought him to the
earth and pinned the warrior beneath him, but the savage frantically
struggled to escape, and, as the white man approached, drew his knife.
His tomahawk had dropped some distance away as he fell.
Now was a thrilling encounter. Notwithstanding the pain in his wound
and his weakness from loss of blood, the Indian made a desperate fight.
He hoped, no doubt, that the shots which both he and his antagonist had
fired would bring his companions to his assistance. No such luck was in
store for him. Eddie was a small and wiry man, while the Arapaho was
a veritable giant in stature. The scout was armed with a tomahawk and
endeavored to get in a thrust, but with ill success, for the redskin
parried his every attempt. Just as Eddie had succeeded in making a
sweeping blow, which, had it reached the red man, would have cut him
down, the savage caught his arm, and the tomahawk flew from his grasp.
The Indian’s knife was in his left hand and the scout made a desperate
lunge in order to seize it.
It was a hazardous moment for Thomas Eddie. As he struggled for the
possession of the coveted knife he saw four Arapahoes emerge from the
mouth of the canyon and dash towards them. It was touch and go with the
famous man of the frontier. The savage made a thrust at this moment.
Eddie caught the blade in his right hand, but the knife cut him through
and through, inflicting a desperate and gaping wound. In spite of the
pain it caused him, the trapper held on. With his other hand he seized
the Arapaho by the throat and pushed him to the earth.
A new complication arose. A shot rang out from the mouth of the canyon
and the foremost Indian fell to the ground. The other three halted and
faced the new enemy, while the big fellow with whom he was struggling
turned his head for a moment, in order to see who was approaching.
On the short moment hung his life, for Eddie wrested the long knife
from him, and, as he looked around, buried the blade in his side.
The Arapaho fell to the ground, with a long, gasping cry. The three
savages, who were approaching, were now about fifty yards away and they
fired upon the victorious scout, but did not hit him. Instead of this
they wounded another one of their horses.
Hurrah for Eddie! He had certainly done well, and was in the same class
with Adam Poe, who, if you remember, had such a desperate battle with
Big Foot, the celebrated Shawnee warrior and athlete.[2] The nervy
fellow was not to be caught napping. Dashing to the nearest pony, he
set off at full speed for the mouth of the canyon, circling as he did
so, in order to avoid the three savages. To his surprise, he met Bill
Gordon, who told him that from the top of a low mountain he had seen
the Arapahoes engaged in a battle with a band of Crows, way off upon
the plain, and that therefore he had returned to his assistance, as he
knew that their companions in camp would not be molested.
“Well, let’s finish up these Arapahoes,” cried Eddie. “And punish them
for their interference with honest men. Are you with me, Bill?”
Old Bill uttered a wild yell.
“Of course I’m with you, son,” said he. “Lay on! Lay on!”
Spurring their mustangs, the two scouts dashed madly after the fleeing
redskins. They caught up with them, and by excellent shooting succeeded
in killing them all. At once they returned to their own camp with the
arms and ponies of the savages, and, upon narrating their adventures to
the other scouts, it was decided to move as rapidly as possible from
such a dangerous locality. Turning towards the turbid waters of the
Yellowstone, they soon reached this wonderful stream, where no other
bands of Indians molested them. Their battles were over.
Upon their return to the settlement at Council Bluffs all welcomed them
uproariously, for many thought that the nervy fellows had perished in
the wilderness. Their furs and peltries netted them a snug figure;
so snug, in fact, that plainsman Eddie purchased a tavern of his own
called the Green Tree. Here he dispensed a lavish hospitality and here
he brought his bride in 1833. She was a Miss Clarke, a reigning belle
of St. Louis, and, although the mother of eleven sturdy children (five
boys and six girls) always remained a woman of remarkable beauty. Many
were the tales which the trapper used to tell his children of his early
experiences on the plains, and, although the frost of old age gradually
touched his auburn hair with snow, the fire and imagination of youth
always kept the spirit of the old pioneer as fresh as when, as a young
man, he made that dangerous trip to the wild region of the West as a
member of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Thus in peace and comfort
passed the declining years of the last of the trappers of the Great
Frontier.
JIM BRIDGER:
FOUNDER OF BRIDGER, WYOMING, AND FAMOUS INDIAN FIGHTER
IN the lower corner of the mighty state of Wyoming is a town named
after one of the most noted of the trappers of the West—Jim
Bridger—who not only fought Indians but also traded and trapped in
many an unexplored portion of the once unknown regions near the Rocky
Mountains. Fort Bridger—a strong stockade near by—received its name
from this famous plainsman, who hailed from Illinois, and who was not
only of humble, but also of somewhat unrespectable parentage. Young Jim
ran away, when quite young, in order to escape the hard usage which was
his lot at home. On the border he soon made his mark, for he was not
only a great rifle shot but also a man of unusual strength and agility.
One day the scout was in a block-house, with a number of other
frontiersmen who had recently been attacked by a band of Blackfoot
warriors. These were encamped at no great distance, and a truce had
been declared whereby neither side should molest the other. Jim Bridger
wandered into the camp of the red men, and walked down the main street,
looking, with an interested eye, at their tepees, their squaws, and
the little papooses.
[Illustration:
Courtesy of the Century Company.
JIM BRIDGER.]
“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted some young bucks. “Paleface he look like pig. Ugh!
Ugh! He no fight. He run away.”
Bridger grew crimson, but said nothing.
“Paleface waddle like duck,” continued one of the Blackfeet. “Paleface
have nose like black dog.”