Spinning upon his heel he rushed up to the nearest redskin, hit him a
blow between the eyes and sent him reeling to the ground. Immediately
the whole camp was in an uproar. The trapper was surrounded by a
yelling, screeching mob of savages—was made a prisoner—and was
carried, struggling, to a lodge upon the outskirts of the village. Then
the Indians gathered in a dense throng in order to decide upon the fate
of their captive.
There was much discussion as to what was to be done with the scout.
Some were for a light punishment, as the trappers in the block-house
were numerous, and their rifles were accurate shooters when held by the
steady hands of the frontiersmen. “No! No!” shouted many others. “He
should be carried to the mountains and there tortured. He has struck
one of our braves. The paleface must suffer death!”
Three older chiefs listened to all of this wild talk and then gave
their decision.
“The Paleface shall suffer death and torture! Let some of the young men
go to his lodge and bring him to us.”
With a wild whoop, a number of the youthful warriors rushed to the
tepee in which they had shoved the trapper, stoutly bound with deer
thongs. As they threw open the flap which hung over the doorway
surprise and dismay marked their features, for the bird had flown.
All were chagrined and angered at the loss of their quarry. Whooping
savagely, they dashed back to their companions, many of whom favored
an immediate attack upon the block-house; but the counsel of the older
chiefs prevailed.
“The paleface warriors have sticks which shoot very straight,” said
they. “We must go away, or they may attack us.”
Packing up their goods, and loading their travois, they fled to the
mountains.
But how had the daring plainsman escaped? Hush! It was a dusky-hued
maiden who had set him free, and love will always find a way.
Jim Bridger, in fact, had met a young Indian girl in the village who
had returned the sudden affection of the young trapper with much
interest. With sadness and dismay she watched his capture, and, when
she saw him thrown into the lodge, at first she determined to run to
the block-house in order to notify his comrades of his predicament. She
knew that they would then demand his release, but, fearing an attack
in which some of her relatives would be killed and her lover would be
doubtless assassinated, she decided to say nothing to the trappers.
Instead, she determined to set him free by her own hand. While the
savages wrangled over what was to be his fate she determined to creep
to his tent, cut the deer thongs, and point out the way to freedom.
Two sentinels watched the lodge where Jim Bridger lay, and, as the
Indian maid approached, one of them moved towards her. She stooped
almost to the earth, darted behind a neighboring tepee, and crept
stealthily towards the rear of the tent. As luck would have it,
there was no sentinel at this point, and she cut a long slit in the
buffalo-skin curtain. Bridger was lying upon a robe endeavoring to snap
his bonds, and as he saw her uttered an exclamation of surprise. At
this, the girl clapped one hand over his mouth. With the other she cut
the raw-hide thongs, and beckoned to him to follow her.
The scout wormed his way out of the side of the tent, crept upon all
fours to a safe distance, then rose and faced the Indian maiden.
“Dearest,” said he, “you have saved my life, and Jim Bridger never
forgets the kindness of such a one as you. You shall be my wife.”
The Blackfoot maiden blushed, and answered that whether there was peace
or war between her people and his, she would meet him in a certain
grove of pine trees, at the base of a distant mountain peak, after
two full moons. She counselled him how to avoid the sentinels, how to
elude any pursuers by darting through a certain canyon, and then, as
he pressed her to his heart, their lips met. A moment more and she had
torn herself away, and had vanished down the steep cliffs upon which
they had clambered.
The scout did not tell his comrades how he had escaped, for he feared
that they would laugh at him. And as the days passed by his brother
trappers noticed that he was cutting notches in a stick in order to
mark the time elapsing before some important event. At length the stick
was almost filled with little triangular marks, and Bridger, saddling
his horse, led another by a long lariat, and set off for a certain
towering peak in the mountains. His companions little guessed what was
his real destination. Five days elapsed before they again laid eyes
upon him, but all were startled and much surprised to see him ride into
the camp, one brilliant morning, with a dusky, Indian maiden by his
side. A broad smile was upon his face, while the bride looked radiantly
happy. As they rode up, the joyous trappers gave three times three for
Mr. and Mrs. Jim Bridger.
From now on the pioneer had an adventurous career, and, although away
from his home for months at a time, was always devoted to his Blackfoot
bride, although he often had passages at arms with her kinsmen. Not
long after his marriage he was in the Medicine Bow Mountains, with
a party of trappers, when they were surrounded by hundreds of the
Blackfeet. Crying to them to surrender, the savage warriors circled
about upon their ponies, screeching like so many devils, for they were
sure that they had the white men cornered. It looked dark for the
adventurous trappers.
“We must fight desperately, men,” cried out the gallant Jim. “And must
make our way towards the mountains near the Yellowstone. There we can
stand these pesky varmints off from behind the boulders. But now we
must break through their circle. Are you all ready? Then—come on.”
The trappers cheered as Bridger led a charge against the wild riders of
the plains, who scattered before the resolute attack. By alternately
fighting and retreating, the frontiersmen gradually made their way
towards the distant hills, and—although a few were badly wounded—at
length they reached the protection of some giant boulders which
afforded them excellent protection against the bullets and arrows
of the red men. Seeing that it was now impossible to get them, the
savages fired a parting volley and retired. The last shot proved to
be an unlucky one for Jim Bridger’s best friend—a man named Milton
Sublette—as a ball from an Indian rifle struck him in the ankle and
tore through both flesh and bone.
Stanching the flow of blood as best they could, the trappers carried
their wounded companion away with them upon a Mackinaw blanket, slung
between two of the pack-animals. His leg was amputated with the aid of
a beaver knife hacked into a saw, and in spite of the fact that they
possessed no chloroform, ether, or other anesthetic, the patient bore
everything with stoical indifference. His life was saved, and—strange
as it may seem—upon his arrival at Saint Louis he submitted to a
second operation in order to obtain a better-looking stump, and was
back again in his old haunts within six months: trapping, fishing, and
travelling with as much joy in living as before. Such was the spirit
and energy of these old men of the mountains.
Bridger was later engaged in piloting emigrant trains across the
prairie, in the vicinity of the Republican River, where Sandy Forsyth
had his great battle with Roman Nose some years later. With him was
a scout called Jim Beckwith, who has left the following account of a
tight, little brush which was indulged in by two bands of Sioux and
Pawnee warriors, just after the trappers had driven away a force of
about fifty Pawnees who had attempted to run off their horses.
“I seen that the Pawnees would soon be after us again,” said the
gallant Beckwith, “and I knowed that the Sioux would do the same thing.
So I saw that we’d have about a thousand redskins after us, and we
wouldn’t be a taste for them. I seen that this wouldn’t do, so I says
to Jim Bridger, says I, ‘Jim, what are we goin’ ter do?’ ‘Give it
up,’ said Jim, says he, ‘Fight till the reds down us, I reckon, and
then turn up our toes like men.’ All this time—bless your soul—them
pilgrims what we wuz a-guidin’, wuz in the wagons cryin’. It wuz awful.
“Wall, I jest made up my mind, sir, that I didn’t intend tew give my
heart tew no Injun jest then, so I callates about whar th’ two parties
of red devils would meet. When we got thar, we drove over a raise in
th’ plain and jes’ waited fur ’em. In about two hours I seen th’ dust
raisin’ in th’ East in er gret, big cloud. ‘Them’s Pawnees,’ says I,
‘by th’ tarnal prophet.’ Then I looked intew th’ West, and thar th’
dust wuz raisin’, too. ‘Them’s Sioux,’ says I, ‘an’ th’ Devil take
’em. I hev seen pleasanter sights.’ Wall, after waitin’ some time th’
Injuns seen each other, an’ of all th’ cussed yellin’ you ever heard,
it wuz thar. I jes’ laid back an’ laughed, while Bridger done some tall
chucklin’ too, when them two bands got together. It was lively times,
yew bet.
“Th’ Injuns didn’t have many guns in them days, but you kin jest rest
assured that they used their arrers fur what wuz in ’em. Thar they went
circlin’ aroun’ each other, bendin’ under their hosses’ necks, an’
lettin’ th’ arrers fly. At one time th’ air wuz near so full uv arrers
thet it made a cloud, shettin’ out th’ sun. Their ponies got stuck full
uv ’em. Their dogs wuz full uv ’em, an’ every Injun in th’ gang had er
lot uv ’em stickin’ inter him. I seed a big, fat feller ridin’ off with
two uv ’em stickin’ into th’ seat uv his buckskins, an’ it reminded me
so uv er big pincushion, thet I near died uv laughin’. Then they begun
tew run. They run this way, an’ they run that, and—by Gravy—I believe
thet some uv them Injuns be still runnin’ from one another. By Gum,
they wuz so busy fightin’ each other, thet they left us plum alone.”
This was certainly a laughable incident, but a bit later occurred
another episode which was not quite so amusing for the daring and
adventurous Jim Bridger.
About six months after the fight upon the Republican, with five
companions, the trapper was travelling near the Platte River. The
plainsmen were in search of buffalo and had seen a fair sized herd
when a band of Sioux Indians appeared upon one of the rolling bluffs.
The trappers sought cover, for they expected an attack, and they were
not far from being wrong, for the red men immediately made after them;
circled about them upon their ponies, and fired their rifles at long
range.
“Dig a trench with your knives,” shouted Bridger. “These fellows are
out for our blood and they are going to come pretty near getting us.
Move over near that water hole so that they can’t make us die of
thirst, and we’ll see who can last the longest.”
Scrambling to their knees, the plainsmen quickly threw up a barricade
near the water hole, and, hobbling their ponies behind them, began to
take careful aim at the Sioux—one of whom was soon sent to the Happy
Hunting Grounds. This enraged the remainder, and wild, blood-curdling
yells echoed across the prairie as they drew nearer, hoping to make a
rush and annihilate the five white trappers.
“Get ready, boys!” again shouted Bridger. “They’re going to rush us!”
All prepared for the advance by laying out additional ammunition and
placing long hunting-knives near at hand. In a few moments the Sioux
came on, whipping their ponies to their utmost speed, and yelping madly.
A ringing volley knocked over four of the leaders, but still on
they came. Another shot sent a fifth chieftain to the Great Beyond,
and, as the trappers reloaded, the Sioux seemed to lose heart. They
swerved aside from the breastwork, offering excellent targets to the
plainsmen, and, with a dull thud, still another red warrior fell from
his galloping pinto. Two of the trappers, meanwhile, were wounded by
bullets, while an arrow stuck into the coat sleeve of Jim Bridger,
himself.
Now retiring beyond range, the redskins kept up a perpetual fusillade
with rifles and with arrows. The trappers held their fire, threw up
still higher entrenchments, and waited for the next onslaught, but this
did not come. Instead, the Sioux lighted the long, dry prairie grass,
and a sheet of flame and smoke curled surely and steadily towards the
band of plainsmen, for the wind was blowing directly upon them. What
were they to do now?
Necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as a flash, Jim Bridger
leaped across the embankment, touched the grass off immediately in
front of them, and burnt off quite a small alley-way before the roaring
crackling flames came to their place of refuge. The force of the flames
thus spent itself before the embankment was reached, and the wily
savages renewed their whooping and yelling. Again they charged, but
again they were driven off; while night closed over both besieger and
besieged, bringing a lull to the unequal battle.
Next day the fight was renewed, and all five of the trappers were
wounded. Towards evening it was decided that one of the party should
creep through the lines and bring aid from a camp of fifty trappers,
who were some miles down the river. The choice fell upon Jim Bridger,
and it found him ready to undertake the hazardous expedition. At
twelve o’clock he crawled over the side of the little fortification and
wormed his way towards the fringe of red warriors who lay about them in
a circle.
The scout kept on as quietly as he could and crawled for fully two
hundred yards before he saw, or heard, anything of the redskins. Then
he got to his feet (as he considered himself through their lines) and
prepared to run. But before him was an Indian pony, its master sound
asleep by its side. The horse had been feeding in a deep ravine,
and—suddenly scenting the trapper—gave a snort which roused its
master. The Sioux warrior gazed stupidly at the frontiersman.
But Bridger did not take long to make up his mind what to do. He dashed
towards the Indian, intending to strangle him before he could give the
alarm. The redskin uttered a loud whoop, and his companions immediately
ran in his direction. The scout realized that nothing was now to be
gained by silence, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the red man dead.
Then, leaping upon his mustang, he urged him upon the gallop. The Sioux
were all around him on their pintos, but he had the good fortune to be
upon one of their fastest horses, which seemed to outdistance any of
the pursuers.
It was a hot chase. The red men fired again and again at the fleeing
trapper but they could not hit him. His mustang leaped over the deep
crevasses, dodged badger and prairie-dog holes, and brought him safely
to the camp of his companions by two o’clock in the afternoon. The
Sioux had given up the chase, and, little suspecting that other
trappers were camped near by, had returned to the siege of the four,
hoping now to make one sudden rush and gain their scalps. Their blood
was up, for twenty-five of their number had fallen before the accurate
fire of the besieged.
“Come at once!” cried the panting Bridger, as he reached the camp of
the plainsmen. “If you do not hurry, my four companions will all be
massacred by the red men. To horse! To horse!”
It did not take the trappers long to catch their ponies and jump into
their saddles.
“Show us where your friends are!” cried they, “and we’ll fix th’
redskins before another sun.”
Bridger turned and piloted the band of plainsmen back to the place
where he had left his beleaguered companions. They went on the run,
but, making a wide détour in order to gain the sand-hills in the rear
of the besiegers, waited until morning. Then they heard rifle shots in
the distance and knew that the battle was on again.
Creeping towards the sound of firing, they soon saw the Sioux preparing
for a final charge upon the valorous four, and opened upon them. They
had clustered together for a rush, and this weltering volley fairly
took the heart out of those of small courage. Many fell dead,—the rest
made all haste to get out of range,—while the four trappers in the
embankment came running towards their deliverers like wild men. With
yells of joy they hugged the burly form of Jim Bridger, to whose nerve
and courage they owed their lives.
The scout and plainsman soon moved from the upper waters of the
Missouri—after the fur trade had ceased to be prosperous—and founded
a trading post in the southwestern part of the State of Wyoming—named
Fort Bridger. Here he dealt in skins, furs, and peltries, accumulating
a large amount of property, as the Fort was a stopping-place for all
the emigrant trains bound for Salt Lake City and for California. He
remained true to his Blackfoot wife, and several half-breed children
made life merry in the long, low log-hut which the scout had erected as
his abode. The famous plainsman lived to a ripe, old age—like most of
the early trappers—and was ever ready to tell of his battle with the
Sioux, when he rescued his four companions from their clutches. This
was the most thrilling of all his many adventures upon the frontier.
“OLD BILL” WILLIAMS:
THE FAMOUS LOG RIDER OF COLORADO
“I HATE every Indian that I ever saw and would just as lief take a shot
at one as eat!”
So spoke a raw-boned trapper, with a tangled mat of brown hair hanging
across his shoulders, and, as he said this, he gazed vindictively
toward some Indian warriors who were riding slowly past the wagon-train
with which the plainsman was travelling. His comrades looked at him and
laughed, for this was the favorite theme of Bill Williams, familiarly
known as “Old Bill,” although this was a term of endearment and not
because of his years, for he was as young as any of them.
The Indians rode on, and from their own glances, which they threw at
the gaunt and ungainly trapper, it was plainly evident that they fully
reciprocated the feeling which the plainsman held for them. “Ugh! He
one bad man!” a gaudy warrior was heard to remark.
“Old Bill” Williams was born in Tennessee, his father being one of the
Virginian pioneers who crossed the Blue Ridge and settled in the state
when it was swarming with Indians,—all eager to have the land for
themselves alone—and not willing to allow the whites to get possession
of it without a severe struggle. His son grew up in surroundings
of savagery and warfare. He took part in many of the Ohio campaigns
against the red men in that state, and was invariably used as a scout,
for his knowledge of woodcraft was excellent. After the red men were
partially subdued, he moved further west to the Rockies, where his
scouting habits still clung to him. He would often be absent for many
weeks upon his solitary expeditions, and would as frequently return
with scalps as with the furs of wild animals.
The Crows and the Blackfeet were continually at war with each other,
with the advantage upon the side of the latter, for the Crows were more
cowardly than their war-like enemies. They had the advantage, however,
of having a white renegade to lead them. His name was Rose: formerly
one of the land pirates who lived near and upon the treacherous waters
of the Mississippi. This desperate man taught the redskins how to
fight like the whites and continually advised them in their councils
of war, so that they often defeated the Blackfeet in their sanguinary
encounters.
One day “Old Bill” Williams was off on a scout with Bill Gordon, and,
becoming separated from him, was endeavoring to reach camp by water, so
as to leave no trail for the eye of some lurking Blackfoot warrior. He
was therefore floating down stream on a log. As he reached a shallow
part of the creek the muddied water and footprints upon the bank showed
where a big grizzly had just gone by.
“By Gravy,” said the scout to himself, “here’s the chance to make a
hundred dollars from that old fellow’s hide. I’m after him.”
Wading to the shore, he started off through the brush, and followed
Bruin with his head down, for the bushes kept slapping him in the eyes.
As he was thus proceeding, he suddenly debouched from the brush into a
cleared space. Before him was no grizzly, but a band of ten Blackfoot
warriors. They stopped in amazement, and so did Williams, who said in
loud tones: “Gee-hos-i-phat!”
The Indians, on the other hand, set up a loud yelping, and, seeing them
preparing to fire, “Old Bill” raised his trusty flint-lock, pulled the
trigger, and knocked over a big, fine-looking savage who had on the
war-bonnet of a chieftain. Not stopping to make closer acquaintance,
the wiry Bill then dashed into a neighboring canyon. As he glanced over
his shoulder he saw that only four of the Blackfeet were coming after
him.
The scout raced along for about a quarter of a mile; then, seeing that
the redskins were far behind, stopped in order to load his rifle. He
had just rammed home a ball when the Blackfeet began to draw near, so
he dropped behind the stump of a moss-grown tree and waited for them
to come on. They approached quite hurriedly, gazing at the ground
for tracks, and eagerly pointing out the traces of the trapper’s
footprints. When they came within good range “Old Bill” pressed the
trigger and a Blackfoot brave fell to the earth, shot through the heart.
“I reckon that this will stop ’em fer er minute er two,” said the man
of the plains as he continued his flight up the canyon. He raced ahead
for about a half a mile, then halted again in order to load his gun.
The Indians were soon upon him, but they had learned caution, and
spread out on either side of him, in order to get in his rear. “Old
Bill” was not to be caught napping, and ran like a deer still further
up the divide. He was much swifter of foot than the red men, and soon
left them far behind. The scout sat down upon a fallen tree trunk, and
said to himself:
“Now, I’ll back track like a grizzly, and will get another shot at
these painted hyenas.”
Suiting the action to the words, he put on a furious burst of speed for
about a half a mile, then doubled back for about two hundred yards. To
the right was some fallen timber, and into this the trapper skipped
like a molly cotton-tail. “Ah ha!” said he. “I think this will get ’em!”
In a few moments the red warriors hastened by on the run: one of them
about a hundred yards astern of the rest. As he came opposite the
hiding-place of the scout, “Old Bill” leaped into view, and knocking
him down with a well directed bullet, seized his victim’s gun just as
another started to come back to where he was standing. This one was
dispatched by the Blackfoot rifle, and “Old Bill” had the satisfaction
of seeing the fourth (and last) savage run up the canyon in terror,
screaming:
“The Great Spirit is with him! The Great Spirit is with him!”
As he disappeared a broad smile came to the face of the trapper, while
he wiped the beads of perspiration from his brow.
“By Crickets!” said he. “A tight squeeze, Bill. A tight squeeze!”
I regret to state that the old fellow _scalped_ the dead redskins, for
he was apparently as much of an Indian as were his enemies. He also
took the precaution to plunge into a mountain stream which gurgled
and rushed down a side of the canyon. He followed the water until he
reached the mouth of the canyon, then, as he heard voices, dashed into
a crevasse in the rocks. A number of Blackfeet soon went by.
“Where has the old wolf gone?” he heard one of them ask. “He runs like
a rabbit.”
“You are right,” said another, “but he has an eye like a hawk, and can
hold the shooting-stick without flinching. Go carefully! Go carefully!
He may be hidden near by!”
They went on up the canyon, and not long afterwards a wailing and
screeching came from their direction, showing that they had discovered
their dead.
“This is no place for me,” mused the old scout. “I must get away
quickly.”
Darting up a neighboring gully, he had just stowed himself away in a
fissure of the rocky wall when he heard the Blackfeet returning. They
were carrying their dead companions and were wailing dismally. “Old
Bill” knew that there would be small chance for him should he fall
into their clutches. The cold shivers ran up and down his spine as he
contemplated such a happening.
For two days the trapper remained in the canyon. He was afraid to
venture forth, because the Blackfeet were undoubtedly near by, and he
knew that, once they again saw him, it would be all up with “Old Bill.”
He had a tough, dried piece of buffalo meat with him, which kept up his
strength, although he suffered terribly from thirst during the day, for
he was afraid to venture to the stream until nightfall. Far off, in the
valley, he could hear the death chant of the red men.