At night they slept with arms at their sides, ready for instant
action, and a close guard was stationed beyond camp, as it was almost
certain that the Indians would discover them and would run off with
their stock. This was the most dangerous country on the plains and was
constantly invaded by war-parties of Blackfeet, Bloods, Piegans, and
Crows. All had to be constantly upon the alert to avoid losing their
horses and their scalps.
About four o’clock one morning two rifle reports brought every man to
his feet. Yell after yell sounded from the darkness, and shot after
shot came whistling into the camp. In an instant the trappers were up
and about—their rifles replying to this fusillade. Evans and Russell
(two of the most experienced scouts) killed a couple of the Indians
with their first shots, for dawn was just coming, and two black bodies
were seen to leap into the air and then roll down a hill upon which
they had been crouching. The savages were shooting arrows and old
Hudson Bay flintlocks which made a big flash when discharged. As the
scouts aimed at these flaming jets, they must have done considerable
damage, for the Indians fell back. They continued to send shots into
camp until day dawned.
“Let’s charge the critters!” shouted young Bill Hamilton.
“Not on your life, boy!” shouted trapper Williams. “It’s most dangerous
to run into such a number of unknown redskins at night.”
So the young man desisted.
Just before daylight the Indians attempted to recover their slain
comrades, by crawling up to them in the grass. The scouts, however,
were up to such tactics and added one more to keep company with two of
the red men already sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. At this, the
redskins gave a yell of deep despair. Then they filed slowly away,
sending a few parting shots at the trappers, just to show that they
were still in good fighting order.
Five of the trappers’ ponies had been badly wounded, and Williams was
so enraged at the injury which had been done that he was determined
to punish the Indians still further. Leaving two men in camp, he
ordered the rest to follow him on the fresh trail of the early morning
marauders, which led up a small stream. The scouts galloped eagerly
forward, and, coming to a rise, were soon within plain view of the
red men, who were hurrying along, trying to get two of their wounded
comrades to the protection of a grove.
“Dash on to the right!” shouted Williams. “Head the redskins off from
that bunch of trees!”
The red men saw in a moment that they would be cut off from the grove,
and they made for a patch of willows and stunted box-elders just below
them. There were eleven of them in all and the trappers certainly had
them cornered.
It was about a hundred yards to the Indians, and a scout named Dockett
tried a shot at them. The red men returned fire, wounding him in the
thigh. There were a quantity of boulders near by, and Williams ordered
his men to roll them up to the brow of the hill, in order to form
breastworks. Four of the trappers were left behind this, while Williams
told Noble and young Bill Hamilton to follow him to the grove without
letting the Indians notice that they had decamped.
In the grove the trappers concealed themselves, and the wisdom of their
move was quite clear. The Indians realized that they would all be shot
down if they remained in their present position, for the men behind the
brow of the hill now had their range. Six of them made a dash for the
cluster of trees.
When the scurrying red men were within one hundred yards of the timber,
Williams gave orders to shoot. The trappers took careful aim, and, at
the flash of their rifles, three of the red men fell face down. The
other three gave a yell of despair and ran up the hill. The trappers
dashed after them, and the Indians became panic-stricken when they saw
the mounted white men debouch from the thick woodland.
Williams raced onward, dashed right at the Indians, and, although shot
at, managed to bring both of the redskins to the ground. Now all three
had been slain, and the revenge which the trappers had wished for had
been fully satisfied. The redskins were Blackfeet, the most thieving
class of wild riders of the plains.
There were still five Indians in the willows. Many men would have let
them go. But not so with Williams. He was considered the hardest man on
the plains to down in a fight with the Indians, for he was never known
to quit when once started. It was to be a battle to the bitter end.
“There are five Indians down there who shot at and insulted us,” said
he. “They shall have what they would have given us had they been
successful in their attack.” Here he turned to young Hamilton. “Boy,”
said he, “never let an Indian escape who has once attacked you! I want
you to go with me. We will walk to the gulch and approach from below.”
But the trappers held their leader in too high estimation to allow him
to thus recklessly expose himself.
“Your orders are going to be disobeyed for once in your life,” said
they. “We cannot afford to lose you.”
Williams smiled.
“Evans and I will undertake the job,” cried scout Russell. “You cover
us with your fire.”
In a second—and before Williams could answer—they bounded into the
gulch below. Both were quick of foot and had been in so many desperate
battles that they understood the danger of approaching prostrate
redskins; for a wounded Indian is an uncertain animal.
The rest of the scouts kept up a steady fire until Evans and Russell
were seen to be close to the willows. Then they ceased, as the two
scouts bounded forward, yelling like Indians. The other trappers also
rushed down, and although one of the braves had his arrow in his
bow—all ready to shoot—he never pulled it. In a very short time it
was all over.
The Indians had now been annihilated, and among their effects were
found two fine bridles, ammunition, knives, and other articles
belonging to trappers. It was evident that some small body of white
traders had been surprised by these Blackfeet and put out of the way
forever. So ended this stiff little skirmish.
The trappers now kept on their way, set many beaver traps, caught a
great many of these animals; and traded with several bands of friendly
redskins. The men were all fine shots and often received praise from
people for their expertness in fire-arms, but no more than they
merited, for an American mountaineer had no equal on the globe. It was
necessary that the trappers should be very expert, for they carried
their lives in their hands, and were liable to come in contact with
roving war-parties at any moment. To be taken prisoner meant torture
and death, and it was therefore impossible for an Indian to capture
either a scout or a trapper. They knew what would follow.
Young Hamilton thoroughly enjoyed the life and soon became one of the
most proficient talkers in sign language on the plains. The trappers
reached Fort Bridger, where were many Shoshones, who asked the youthful
scout many questions by signs, all of which he answered correctly. This
astonished even the older trappers, many of whom thought that he had
been raised by some tribe.
Williams now left the men of the plains in order to go to Santa Fé on
business, but promised to be back in the spring and organize a new
party for a two-year expedition. Before he left he took young Hamilton
aside and gave him advice in many matters. He looked upon him as a son,
and few fathers ever gave their children better counsel. The trappers
decided to trap near Salt Lake, and the Bear and Malade Rivers, during
the fall.
When they had proceeded for some distance they were met by a party of
Indians, who spoke the Shoshone tongue, and who informed them that they
had to pay for going through their country. Perkins—who was now leader
of the trappers—tried to make peace with them, but without success. He
made the Indians keep away, but they continued to make signs, meaning
“dogs,”—which the white men well understood. The trappers held their
rifles ready for any emergency.
Perkins cautioned his men to have patience, and, filling his pipe,
offered it to the chief, who refused it with contempt, saying: “Big
chief never smokes with white dogs.”
The head trapper’s patience was now almost exhausted and he told the
chief in plain language to “get out.” His men prepared for action, as
he spoke, so the redskins mounted their ponies and departed towards the
South. As they rode off, they cast all kinds of insults at the white
men, both with signs and in spoken language. It was certain that they
would soon follow the trappers and then there would be a big fight.
That night every precaution was taken to guard against a surprise.
Two guards were put on duty, to be relieved at midnight, and a well
fortified position was chosen for camp. Perkins said that it was
customary for the Utahs to attack just before daylight, for this is the
time that the redskins expect to find the whites fast asleep. This is
what occurred in the present instance.
A little before daylight two or three wolf howls were heard by the
guards, who immediately notified Perkins. Soon all the men were up,
their packs being placed in a semi-circle as a breastwork. Twenty of
the best horses were saddled and tied in a thicket, to protect them
from Indian bullets and arrows. Defeat meant death, so the trappers
looked stolidly before them, fully prepared for the worst, if it were
to come.
The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer
points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries
of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is
difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts.
Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many
endeavor to do so.
It was not long before the attack commenced. Just as day began to
dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was
at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp
before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred
strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles
and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded
with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.
The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper
fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the
plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a
result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with
either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both
rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant
death upon many an occasion.
The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but
twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed
that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece
after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush
right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They
retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young
Bill Hamilton’s cap.
The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and
retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them.
The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest
warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed small parties of trappers,
killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty.
After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers
the “go by.”
The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and
then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned
from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form
a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed
upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843.
The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in
common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his
own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and
lodges together.
They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians.
These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the
plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much
loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with
beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a
grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were
particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the
accurate aim of the men in buckskin.
“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more,
because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild
men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold his own with
the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour,
first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in
Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a
fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell
very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this
they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.
As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make
a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had
his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his
traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the
trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to
make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered
where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick
near by.
They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of
willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain
hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in
the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into
the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was
soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall,
brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found,
and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including
his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon back in
camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it
was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who
had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his
blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear
that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless
man of the plains.
The Pah Utes were soon to be encountered, for at two in the afternoon
the pickets signalled: “Indians coming on horseback.” The stock was
corralled and the scouts stood ready for action. The pickets now rode
in and reported sixty Indians, who made their appearance upon a ridge,
about three hundred yards from camp.
“Come out and fight! Come out and fight!” yelled the redskins.
Crawford’s death had cut the scouts down to thirty-eight, but that did
not worry these hardy souls. It was impossible to keep the men back,
so eager were they to avenge the death of their comrade. Leaving three
trappers to take care of camp, the others mounted and started away in
the direction of the Indians.
When the redskins saw them coming they gave yell after yell, thinking,
no doubt, that this would paralyze the white men with fear. Then they
divided and charged from two sides. The trappers let them get to within
one hundred yards, when they halted and brought their rifles into play.
Dropping these upon the ground, they charged with pistols in hand.
Fully twenty-five Indians fell before their accurate shots. This
bewildered the savages, and, before they could recover, the scouts were
in their midst.
One tall redskin was mounted on Crawford’s horse. He tried to get away,
but delayed entirely too long. He was caught, knocked prostrate to
the ground, and the horse, rifle, and pistols of the dead scout were
recovered. Forty-three ponies were captured. Very few of the Pah Utes
made their escape. Poor Crawford, you see, was thus revenged in full.
Two horses which the trappers rode were killed. A few of the scouts
received arrow wounds, but none were serious. The secret of the
frontiersmen’s success was in making every shot count in the first
volley. This bewildered the Indians, and, before they could collect
their thoughts, the plainsmen were among them. The scouts were an
effective body, and were as well drilled in the use of both rifle
and pistol as the soldiers of any nation. Their horses, too, were
trained to stand fire and to be quick in evolutions. The war-whoops
and yells of the Indians simply made them prick up their ears and look
unconcerned.
After this affair the little party received little molestation from
the red men. At a council it was decided to move, as it was not known
how many warriors these Indians could muster, and it was not safe for
one or two men to go any distance from camp after furs. The hardy
adventurers travelled to the Laramie River, where twenty-five of them
determined to go back to St. Louis and to take their furs with them.
The original thirteen all returned to the Far West; Williams going to
Santa Fé, accompanied by Perkins and six others. It was a sad parting
for all, particularly for Bill Hamilton, who had grown to love his
comrades like brothers.
Bill was now a seasoned trapper, and the rest of his career on the
plains was marked by many hazardous adventures with the redskins. He
went to California, during the gold excitement, was in the famous Modoc
war of 1856, where he belonged to the “Buckskin Rangers,” and was
employed as a scout in the uprising of the Sioux in 1876, which was so
disastrous to General Custer and his command. He was among those who
followed Crazy Horse to his end, and finally resigned from the service
of the Government to resume the free and independent life of a trapper.
At eighty-two years of age he was living a peaceful and contented
life at Columbus, Montana, where—as he says in his biography—“I am
thankful that I can still enjoy and appreciate the wonderful beauties
of nature.”
A true plainsman, a great shot, a nervy fighter,—such was “Uncle Bill”
Hamilton. At the present time there is no wild and adventurous West
to create such characters as this, for bad Indians have passed away
forever.
UNCLE JOB WITHERSPOON:
AND HIS EXCITING ADVENTURES WITH THE BLACKFEET
NO more famous plainsman ever lived upon the Wyoming prairies than
Uncle Job Witherspoon: a veteran of many an Indian battle: of several
tussles with grizzly bears; and of frequent brushes with desperadoes
and bad men who had taken to the hills in order to escape jail. Born
about 1830, the old fellow was still hale and hearty in the year 1898,
when he was piloting a number of young men through the intricacies of
the Rocky Mountains; a region which he had lived in for many years.
“Well, youngsters,” said the veteran trapper to the party of young
fellows who were upon an amateur hunting excursion, “when you’ve toted
traps and peltries, and fit Injuns as long as I have, you’ll sartainly
have considerable more experience than you have now.”
The old fellow was sitting with his back against a tree trunk, near
the Grosventre River, and before him, in a semi-circle, lay five young
men. All looked up at him eagerly, for they were in a country which had
once been peopled by hostile redskins. It was now safe, for the savage
tribesmen were upon reservations. Still, the air of romance lay over
the beautiful land and added a zest to their expedition, which would
have been absent had they been in a more unhistoric country.
“Ha! Ha! boys!” continued Uncle Job. “You think that you’ll have a
mighty nice time out on the trapping grounds, and I ain’t going to
say as how you won’t. But, take my word for it, ye’ll wish yourselves
back in th’ settlements many a time afore you’ll get there. What with
fighting and hiding from Injuns and them pesky grizzlies, and livin’
sometimes fer weeks together on nothin’ but pine cones an’ such trash
as luck happened to throw in my way to keep body an’ soul together, my
time used to be anything but ’specially agreeable, until I got used to
it. Then I found it barely endurable. It’s a hard life, anyway, boys!”
“My, my, Uncle Job,” said one of the youngsters, “why, then, do you go
back to the plains?”
The trapper laughed.
“Well, there, boys, yer have me, anyhow,” he answered. “Ter be right
down honest with yer, _I likes it_. It’s a fact, as sure as dry prairie
grass will burn, and I wouldn’t live a whole month in Saint Lewy (St.
Louis) fer all th’ money there if I could not be allowed to spend th’
balance of my time in th’ mountain country. I’m used to it, youngsters,
and city air is rank poison to me; besides, I’d spoil fer th’ want
of a fight with some of th’ red varmints of Blackfeet, Pawnees, and
Poncas; for, my boys, that’s the best part of the life on th’ plains.
And now,” continued the old trapper, “I’ll tell yer about a fight, and
a long battle it was, too, which I had with a party of them cowardly
Black feet over on the Sweet-water River. It was something over twenty
years ago, and one fall when I was trapping on the headwaters of the
Columbia.”
The boys drew closer and gazed at the old fellow with wide open eyes.
“We had about a dozen greenhorns at our post, just like yourselves. We
were only a few months from the settlements and these fellows hadn’t
yet got toughened to the kind of a life we had to lead. Some of ’em was
about dyin’ with th’ ager, and we hadn’t a dose of medicine, or even a
blessed drop of spirits to save ’em with. So, as I knew every inch of
th’ country from th’ Pacific to Saint Lewy, I was ordered by th’ head
trader of th’ post to go to Fort Laramie and bring back a supply of
calomel, Queen Anne powders, an’ sich truck fer our sick men.”
“You had your nerve with you,” interrupted one of the boys.
“Always had plenty of that,” continued Uncle Job. “The distance was
about six hundred miles over the mountains. We had come to the western
side of the range the spring before, by way of the Sweet-water Valley
Pass, and I concluded to take that route again toward Laramie.
“Wall, things went well with me for some time. After I got over the
main ridge I kept along the south side of th’ Wind River Mountain and
stopped one day on th’ Green River, in order to make me a new pair of
moccasins. The rough travelling over th’ hills had worn mine out and
left me barefoot. While I was stitching away at my shoes I remembered a
_cache_ (a supply of provisions hidden or stowed away until it should
be convenient to remove them) which a party of us had made the spring
before about a day’s travel out of my regular route. It was on the
North Branch of the Sweet-water River. We had started from the head of
the Platte on our way to the Columbia, with a small drove of pack-mules
loaded with provisions for the new post, and when on the South Branch
one of th’ creeturs give out and we had to _cache_ the cargo. It was a
package of jerked venison and a sack of flour, with a small bag of rice
for th’ sick, when we had ’em, and a five gallon keg of hard cider. It
is a common practice with us trappers to _cache_ our provisions when we
know they will be safe for some future journey that way.