The initial opening of the trade with New Mexico from the Missouri
River, as has been related, was not direct to Santa Fe. The limited
number of pack-trains at first passed to the north of the Raton Range,
and travelled to the Spanish settlements in the valley of Taos.
On this original Trail, where now is situated the beautiful city of
Pueblo, the second place of importance in Colorado, there was a little
Indian trading-post called "the Pueblo," from which the present thriving
place derives its name. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad
practically follows the same route that the traders did to reach Pueblo,
as it also does that which the freight caravans later followed from the
Missouri River direct to Santa Fe.
The old Pueblo fort, as nearly as can be determined now, was built as
early as 1840, or not later than 1842, and, as one authority asserts, by
George Simpson and his associates, Barclay and Doyle. Beckwourth claims
to have been the original projector of the fort, and to have given the
general plan and its name, in which I am inclined to believe that he is
correct; perhaps Barclay, Doyle, and Simpson were connected with him, as
he states that there were other trappers, though he mentions no names.
It was a square fort of adobe, with circular bastions at the corners, no
part of the walls being more than eight feet high. Around the inside of
the plaza, or corral, were half a dozen small rooms inhabited by as many
Indian traders and mountain-men.
One of the earlier Indian agents, Mr. Fitzpatrick, in writing from
Bent's Fort in 1847, thus describes the old Pueblo:--
About seventy-five miles above this place, and immediately
on the Arkansas River, there is a small settlement, chiefly
composed of old trappers and hunters; the male part of it
are mostly Americans (Missourians), French Canadians, and
Mexicans. It numbers about one hundred and fifty, and of
this number about sixty men have wives, and some have two.
These wives are of various Indian tribes, as follows; viz.
Blackfeet, Assiniboines, Sioux, Arapahoes, Cheyennes,
Snakes, and Comanches. The American women are Mormons,
a party of Mormons having wintered there, and then departed
for California.
The old trappers and hunters of the Pueblo fort lived entirely upon
game, and a greater part of the year without bread. As soon as their
supply of meat was exhausted, they started to the mountains with two
or three pack-animals, and brought back in two or three days loads of
venison and buffalo.
The Arkansas at the Pueblo is a clear, rapid river about a hundred yards
wide. The bottom, which is enclosed on each side by high bluffs, is
about a quarter of a mile across. In the early days of which I write,
the margin of the stream was heavily timbered with cottonwood, and the
tourist to-day may see the remnant of the primitive great woods, in the
huge isolated trees scattered around the bottom in the vicinity of the
Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad station of the charming mountain
city.
On each side vast rolling prairies stretch away for hundreds of miles,
gradually ascending on the side towards the mountains, where the
highlands are sparsely covered with pinyon and cedar. The lofty
banks through which the Arkansas occasionally passes are of shale and
sandstone, rising precipitously from the water. Ascending the river the
country is wild and broken, until it enters the mountain region, where
the scenery is incomparably grand and imposing. The surrounding prairies
are naturally arid and sterile, producing but little vegetation, and
the primitive grass, though of good quality, is thin and scarce. Now,
however, under a competent system of irrigation, the whole aspect of the
landscape is changed from what it was thirty years ago, and it has all
the luxuriance of a garden.
The whole country, it is claimed, was once possessed by the Shos-shones,
or Snake Indians, of whom the Comanches of the Southern plains are a
branch; and, although many hundred miles divide their hunting-grounds,
they were once, if not the same people, tribes or bands of that great
and powerful nation. They retain a language in common, and there is also
a striking analogy in many of their religious rites and ceremonies,
in their folk-lore, and in some of their everyday customs. These facts
prove, at least, that there was at one time a very close alliance which
bound the two tribes together. Half a century ago they were, in point of
numbers, the two most powerful nations in all the numerous aggregations
of Indians in the West; the Comanches ruling almost supreme on the
Eastern plains, while the Shos-shones were the dominant tribe in the
country beyond the Rocky Mountains, and in the mountains themselves.
Once, many years ago, before the problem of the relative strength of the
various tribes was as well solved as now, the Shos-shones were supposed
to be the most powerful, and numerically the most populous, tribe of
Indians on the North American continent.
In the immediate vicinity of the old Pueblo fort at the time of its
greatest business prosperity, game was scarce; the buffalo had for some
years deserted the neighbouring prairies, but they were always to be
found in the mountain-valleys, particularly in one known as "Bayou
Salado," which forty-five years ago abounded in elk, bear, deer, and
antelope.
The fort was situated a few hundred yards above the mouth of the
"Fontaine qui Bouille" River,[47] so called from two springs of mineral
water near its head, under Pike's Peak, about sixty miles above its
mouth.
As is the case with all the savage races of the world, the American
Indians possess hereditary legends, accounting for all the phenomena
of nature, or any occurrence which is beyond their comprehension. The
Shos-shones had the following story to account for the presence of these
wonderful springs in the midst of their favourite hunting-ground. The
two fountains, one pouring forth the sweetest water imaginable, the
other a stream as bitter as gall, are intimately connected with the
cause of the separation of the two tribes. Their legend thus runs: Many
hundreds of winters ago, when the cottonwoods on the big river were no
higher than arrows, and the prairies were crowded with game, the red
men who hunted the deer in the forests and the buffalo on the plains
all spoke the same language, and the pipe of peace breathed its soothing
cloud whenever two parties of hunters met on the boundless prairie.
It happened one day that two hunters of different nations met on the
bank of a small rivulet, to which both had resorted to quench their
thirst. A small stream of water, rising from a spring on a rock within
a few feet of the bank, trickled over it and fell splashing into the
river. One hunter sought the spring itself; the other, tired by his
exertions in the chase, threw himself at once to the ground, and plunged
his face into the running stream.
The latter had been unsuccessful in the hunt, and perhaps his bad
fortune, and the sight of the fat deer which the other threw from his
back before he drank at the crystal spring, caused a feeling of jealousy
and ill-humour to take possession of his mind. The other, on the
contrary, before he satisfied his thirst, raised in the hollow of his
hand a portion of the water, and, lifting it toward the sun, reversed
his hand, and allowed it to fall upon the ground, as a libation to the
Great Spirit, who had vouch-safed him a successful hunt and the blessing
of the refreshing water with which he was about to quench his thirst.
This reminder that he had neglected the usual offering only increased
the feeling of envy and annoyance which filled the unsuccessful hunter's
heart. The Evil Spirit at that moment entering his body, his temper
fairly flew away, and he sought some pretence to provoke a quarrel with
the other Indian.
"Why does a stranger," he asked, rising from the stream, "drink at the
spring-head, when one to whom the fountain belongs contents himself with
the water that runs from it?"
"The Great Spirit places the cool water at the spring," answered the
other hunter, "that his children may drink it pure and undefiled. The
running water is for the beasts which scour the plains. Ausaqua is a
chief of the Shos-shones; he drinks at the head water."
"The Shos-shones is but a tribe of the Comanches," returned the other:
"Wacomish leads the whole nation. Why does a Shos-shone dare to drink
above him?"
"When the Manitou made his children, whether Shos-shone or Comanche,
Arapaho, Cheyenne, or Pawnee, he gave them buffalo to eat, and the pure
water of the fountain to quench their thirst. He said not to one, 'Drink
here,' and to another, 'Drink there'; but gave the crystal spring to
all, that all might drink."
Wacomish almost burst with rage as the other spoke; but his coward heart
prevented him from provoking an encounter with the calm Shos-shone. The
latter, made thirsty by the words he had spoken--for the Indian is ever
sparing of his tongue--again stooped down to the spring to drink, when
the subtle warrior of the Comanches suddenly threw himself upon the
kneeling hunter and, forcing his head into the bubbling water, held him
down with all his strength until his victim no longer struggled; his
stiffened limbs relaxed, and he fell forward over the spring, drowned.
Mechanically the Comanche dragged the body a few paces from the water,
and, as soon as the head of the dead Indian was withdrawn, the spring
was suddenly and strangely disturbed. Bubbles sprang up from the bottom,
and, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. A thin vapour
arose, and, gradually dissolving, displayed to the eyes of the trembling
murderer the figure of an aged Indian, whose long, snowy hair and
venerable beard, blown aside from his breast, discovered the well-known
totem of the great Wankanaga, the father of the Comanche and Shos-shone
nation.
Stretching out a war-club toward the Comanche, the figure thus addressed
him:--
"Accursed murderer! While the blood of the brave Shos-shone cries to
the Great Spirit for vengeance, may the water of thy tribe be rank
and bitter in their throats!" Thus saying, and swinging his ponderous
war-club round his head, he dashed out the brains of the Comanche, who
fell headlong into the spring, which from that day to this remains rank
and nauseous, so that not even when half dead with thirst, can one drink
from it.
The good Wankanaga, however, to perpetuate the memory of the Shos-shone
warrior, who was renowned in his tribe for valour and nobleness of
heart, struck with the same avenging club a hard, flat rock which
overhung the rivulet, and forthwith a round clear basin opened, which
instantly filled with bubbling, sparkling water, sweet and cool.
From that day the two mighty tribes of the Shos-shones and Comanches
have remained severed and apart, although a long and bloody war followed
the treacherous murder.
The Indians regarded these wonderful springs with awe. The Arapahoes,
especially, attributed to the Spirit of the springs the power of
ordaining the success or failure of their war expeditions. As their
warriors passed by the mysterious pools when hunting their hereditary
enemies, the Utes, they never failed to bestow their votive offerings
upon the spring, in order to propitiate the Manitou of the strange
fountain, and insure a fortunate issue to their path of war. As late as
twenty-five years ago, the visitor to the place could always find the
basin of the spring filled with beads and wampum, pieces of red cloth
and knives, while the surrounding trees were hung with strips of
deerskin, cloth, and moccasins. Signs were frequently observed in the
vicinity of the waters unmistakably indicating that a war-dance had
been executed there by the Arapahoes on their way to the Valley of Salt,
occupied by the powerful Utes.
Never was there such a paradise for hunters as this lone and solitary
spot in the days when the region was known only to them and the trappers
of the great fur companies. The shelving prairie, at the bottom of which
the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by rugged mountains
and contained two or three acres of excellent grass, affording a safe
pasture for their animals, which hardly cared to wander from such
feeding and the salt they loved to lick.
The trappers of the Rocky Mountains belonged to a genus that has
disappeared. Forty years ago there was not a hole or corner in the vast
wilderness of the far West that had not been explored by these hardy
men. From the Mississippi to the mouth of the Colorado of the West, from
the frozen regions of the north to the Gila in Mexico, the beaver hunter
has set his traps in every creek and stream. The mountains and waters,
in many instances, still retain the names assigned them by those rude
hunters, who were veritable pioneers paving the way for the settlement
of the stern country.
A trapper's camp in the old days was quite a picture, as were all its
surroundings. He did not always take the trouble to build a shelter,
unless in the winter. A couple of deerskins stretched over a willow
frame was considered sufficient to protect him from the storm. Sometimes
he contented himself with a mere "breakwind," the rocky wall of a
canyon, or large ravine. Near at hand he set up two poles, in the crotch
of which another was laid, where he kept, out of reach of the hungry
wolf and coyote, his meat, consisting of every variety afforded by the
region in which he had pitched his camp. Under cover of the skins of
the animals he had killed hung his old-fashioned powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, while his trusty rifle, carefully defended from the damp,
was always within reach of his hand. Round his blazing fire at night his
companions, if he had any, were other trappers on the same stream; and,
while engaged in cleaning their arms, making and mending moccasins, or
running bullets, they told long yarns, until the lateness of the hour
warned them to crawl under their blankets.
Not far from the camp, his animals, well hobbled, fed in sight; for
nothing did a hunter dread more than a visit from horse-stealing
Indians, and to be afoot was the acme of misery.
Some hunters who had married squaws carried about with them regular
buffalo-skin lodges, which their wives took care of, according to Indian
etiquette.
The old-time trappers more nearly approximated the primitive savage,
perhaps, than any other class of civilized men. Their lives being spent
in the remote wilderness of the mountains, frequently with no other
companion than Nature herself, their habits and character often assumed
a most singular cast of simplicity, mingled with ferocity, that appeared
to take its colouring from the scenes and objects which surrounded them.
Having no wants save those of nature, their sole concern was to provide
sufficient food to support life, and the necessary clothing to protect
them from the sometimes rigorous climate.
The costume of the average trapper was a hunting-shirt of dressed
buckskin, with long, fringed trousers of the same material, decorated
with porcupine quills. A flexible hat and moccasins covered his
extremities, and over his left shoulder and under his right arm hung his
powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which he also carried flint, steel, and
other odds and ends. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which was stuck
a large knife in a sheath of buffalo-hide, made fast to the belt by a
chain or guard of steel. It also supported a little buckskin case, which
contained a whetstone, a very necessary article; for in taking off the
hides of the beaver a sharp knife was required. His pipe-holder hung
around his neck, and was generally a gage d'amour, a triumph of squaw
workmanship, wrought with beads and porcupine quills, often made in the
shape of a heart.
Necessarily keen observers of nature, they rivalled the beasts of prey
in discovering the haunts and habits of game, and in their skill and
cunning in capturing it outwitted the Indian himself. Constantly exposed
to perils of all kinds, they became callous to any feeling of danger,
and were firm friends or bitter enemies. It was a "word and a blow," the
blow often coming first. Strong, active, hardy as bears, expert in the
use of their weapons, they were just what an uncivilized white man
might be supposed to be under conditions where he must depend upon his
instincts for the support of life.
Having determined upon the locality of his trapping-ground, the hunter
started off, sometimes alone, sometimes three or four of them in
company, as soon as the breaking of the ice in the streams would permit,
if he was to go very far north. Arriving on the spot he has selected
for his permanent camp, the first thing to be done, after he had settled
himself, was to follow the windings of the creeks and rivers, keeping
a sharp lookout for "signs." If he saw a prostrate cottonwood tree, he
carefully examined it to learn whether it was the work of beaver, and
if so whether thrown for the purpose of food, or to dam the stream.
The track of the animal on the mud or sand under the banks was also
examined; if the sign was fresh, he set his trap in the run of the
animal, hiding it under water, and attaching it by a stout chain to a
picket driven in the bank, or to a bush or tree. A float-stick was made
fast to the trap by a cord a few feet long, which, if the animal carried
away the trap, would float on the water and point out its position. The
trap was baited with "medicine," an oily substance obtained from the
beaver. A stick was dipped in this and planted over the trap, and
the beaver, attracted by the smell, put his leg into the trap and was
caught.
When a beaver lodge was discovered, the trap was set at the edge of the
dam, at a point where the animal passed from deep to shoal water, and
always under the surface. Early in the morning, the hunter mounted his
mule and examined all his traps.
The beaver is exceedingly wily, and if by scent or sound or sight he
had any intimation of the presence of a trapper, he put at defiance all
efforts to capture him, consequently it was necessary to practise great
caution when in the neighbourhood of one of their lodges. The trapper
then avoided riding for fear the sound of his horse's feet might strike
dismay among the furry inhabitants under the water, and, instead of
walking on the ground, he waded in the stream, lest he should leave a
scent behind by which he might be discovered.
In the days of the great fur companies, trappers were of two kinds--the
hired hand and the free trapper. The former was hired by the company,
which supplied him with everything necessary, and paid him a certain
price for his furs and peltries. The other hunted on his own hook, owned
his animals and traps, went where he pleased, and sold to whom he chose.
During the hunting season, regardless of the Indians, the fearless
trapper wandered far and near in search of signs. His nerves were in a
state of tension, his mind always clear, and his head cool. His trained
eye scrutinized every part of the country, and in an instant he could
detect anything that was strange. A turned leaf, a blade of grass
pressed down, the uneasiness of wild animals, the actions of the birds,
were all to him paragraphs written in Nature's legible hand.
All the wits of the wily savage were called into play to gain an
advantage over the plucky white man; but with the resources natural to
a civilized mind, the hunter seldom failed, under equal chance, to
circumvent the cunning of the red man. Sometimes, following his trail
for weeks, the Indian watched him set his traps on some timbered stream,
and crawling up the bed of it, so that he left no tracks, he lay in
the bushes until his victim came to examine his traps. Then, when he
approached within a few feet of the ambush, whiz! flew the home-drawn
arrow, which never failed at such close quarters to bring the
unsuspecting hunter to the ground. But for one white scalp that dangled
in the smoke of an Indian's lodge, a dozen black ones, at the end of the
season, ornamented the camp-fires of the rendezvous where the furs were
sold.
In the camp, if he was a very successful hunter, all the appliances for
preparing the skins for market were at hand; if he had a squaw for a
wife, she did all the hard work, as usual. Close to the entrance of
their skin lodge was the "graining-block," a log of wood with the bark
stripped off and perfectly smooth, set obliquely in the ground, on which
the hair was removed from the deerskins which furnished moccasins and
dresses for both herself and her husband. Then there were stretching
frames on which the skins were placed to undergo the process of
"dubbing"; that is, the removal of all flesh and fatty particles
adhering to the skin. The "dubber" was made of the stock of an elk's
horn, with a piece of iron or steel inserted in the end, forming a sharp
knife. The last process the deerskin underwent before it was soft and
pliable enough for making into garments, was the "smoking." This was
effected by digging a round hole in the ground, and lighting in it an
armful of rotten wood or punk; then sticks were planted around the hole,
and their tops brought together and tied. The skins were placed on this
frame, and all openings by which the smoke might escape being carefully
stopped, in ten or twelve hours they were thoroughly cured and ready for
immediate use.
The beaver was the main object of the hunter's quest; its skins were
once worth from six to eight dollars a pound; then they fell to only one
dollar, which hardly paid the expenses of traps, animals, and equipment
for the hunt, and was certainly no adequate remuneration for the
hardships, toil, and danger undergone by the trappers.
The beaver was once found in every part of North America, from Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico, but has so retired from the encroachments of
civilized man, that it is only to be met with occasionally on some
tributary to the remote mountain streams.
The old trappers always aimed to set their traps so that the beaver
would drown when taken. This was accomplished by sinking the trap
several inches under water, and driving a stake through a ring on the
end of the chain into the bottom of the creek. When the beaver finds
himself caught, he pitches and plunges about until his strength is
exhausted, when he sinks down and is drowned, but if he succeeds in
getting to the shore, he always extricates himself by gnawing off the
leg that is in the jaws of the trap.
The captured animals were skinned, and the tails, which are a great
dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin was then stretched over
a hoop or framework of willow twigs and allowed to dry, the flesh and
fatty substance adhering being first carefully scraped off. When dry, it
was folded into a square sheet, the fur turned inwards, and the bundle,
containing twenty skins, tightly pressed and tied, was ready for
transportation. The beaver after the hide is taken off weighs about
twelve pounds, and its flesh, although a little musky, is very fine. Its
tail which is flat and oval in shape, is covered with scales about the
size of those of a salmon. It was a great delicacy in the estimation of
the old trapper; he separated it from the body, thrust a stick in one
end of it, and held it before the fire with the scales on. In a few
moments large blisters rose on the surface, which were very easily
removed. The tail was then perfectly white, and delicious. Next to the
tail the liver was another favourite of the trapper, and when properly
cooked it constituted a delightful repast.
After the season was over, or the hunter had loaded all his
pack-animals, he proceeded to the "rendezvous," where the buyers were to
congregate for the purchase of the fur, the locality of which had been
agreed upon when the hunters started out on their expedition. One of
these was at Bent's old fort and one at Pueblo; another at "Brown's
Hole" on Green River, and there were many more on the great streams
and in the mountains. There the agents of the fur companies and traders
waited for the arrival of the trappers, with such an assortment of goods
as the hardy men required, including, of course, an immense supply of
whiskey. The trappers dropped in day after day, in small bands, packing
their loads of beaver-skins, not infrequently to the value of a thousand
dollars each, the result of one hunt.
The rendezvous was frequently a continuous scene of gambling, brawling,
and fighting, so long as the improvident trapper's money lasted. Seated
around the large camp-fires, cross-legged in Indian fashion, with
a blanket or buffalo-robe spread before them, groups were playing
cards--euchre, seven-up, and poker, the regular mountain games. The
usual stakes were beaver-skins, which were current as coin. When their
fur was all gone, their horses, mules, rifles, shirts, hunting packs,
and trousers were staked. Daring professional gamblers made the rounds
of the camps, challenging each other to play for the trapper's highest
stakes--his horse, or his squaw, if he had one--and it is told of one
great time that two old trappers played for one another's scalps! "There
goes hoss and beaver," was a common mountain expression when any severe
loss was sustained, and shortly "hoss and beaver" found their way into
the pockets of the unconscionable gamblers.
Frequently a trapper would squander the entire product of his hunt,
amounting to hundreds of dollars, in a couple of hours. Then, supplied
with another outfit, he left the rendezvous for another expedition,
which had the same result time after time, although one good hunt
would have enabled him to return to the settlements and live a life of
comparative ease.
It is told of one old Canadian trapper, who had received as much as
fifteen thousand dollars for beaver during his life in the mountains,
extending over twenty years, that each season he had resolved in his
mind to go back to Canada, and with this object in view always converted
his furs into cash; but a fortnight at the rendezvous always "cleaned
him out," and at the end of the twenty years he had not even enough
credit to get a plug of tobacco.
Trading with the Indians in the primitive days of the border was just
what the word signifies in its radical interpretation--a system of
barter exclusively. No money was used in the transaction, as it was long
afterward before the savages began to learn something of the value
of currency from their connection with the sutler's and agency stores
established on reservations and at military posts on the plains and in
the mountains. In the early days, if an Indian by any chance happened to
get possession of a piece of money (only gold or silver was recognized
as a medium of exchange in the remote West), he would immediately
fashion it into some kind of an ornament with which to adorn his person.
Some tribes, however, did indulge in a sort of currency, worthless
except among themselves. This consisted of rare shells, such as the
Oligachuck, so called, of the Pacific coast nations, used by them within
my own recollection, as late as 1858.
The poor Indian, as might have been expected, was generally outrageously
swindled; in fact, I am inclined to believe, always. I never was present
on an occasion when he was not.
The savage's idea of values was very crude until the government, in
attempting to civilize and make a gentleman of him, has transformed him
into a bewildered child. Very soon after his connection with the white
trader, he learned that a gun was more valuable than a knife; but of
their relative cost to manufacture he had no idea. For these reasons,
obviously, he was always at the mercy of the unscrupulous trader who
came to his village, or met him at the rendezvous to barter for his
furs. I know that the price of every article he desired was fixed by the
trader, and never by the Indian, consequently he rarely got the best of
the bargain.
Uncle John Smith, Kit Carson, L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, and a
host of other well-known Indian traders, long since dead, have often
told me that the first thing they did on entering a village with a
pack-load of trinkets to barter, in the earlier days before the whites
had encroached to any great extent, was to arrange a schedule of prices.
They would gather a large number of sticks, each one representing an
article they had brought. With these crude symbols the Indian
made himself familiar in a little while, and when this preliminary
arrangement had been completed, the trading began. The Indian, for
instance, would place a buffalo-robe on the ground; then the trader
commenced to lay down a number of the sticks, representing what he was
willing to give for the robe. The Indian revolved the transaction in his
mind until he thought he was getting a fair equivalent according to his
ideas, then the bargain was made. It was claimed by these old traders,
when they related this to me, that the savage generally was not
satisfied, always insisting upon having more sticks placed on the pile.
I suspect, however, that the trader was ever prepared for this, and
never gave more than he originally intended. The price of that initial
robe having been determined on, it governed the price of all the rest
for the whole trade, regardless of size or fineness, for that day. What
was traded for was then placed by the Indian on one side of the lodge,
and the trader put what he was to give on the other. After prices had
been agreed upon, business went on very rapidly, and many thousand
dollars' worth of valuable furs were soon collected by the successful
trader, which he shipped to St. Louis and converted into gold.
In a few years, relatively, the Indian began to appreciate the value of
our medium of exchange and the power it gave him to secure at the stores
in the widely scattered hamlets and at the military posts on the plains,
those things he coveted, at a fairer equivalent than in the uncertain
and complicated method of direct barter. It was not very long after the
advent of the overland coaches on the Santa Fe Trail, that our currency,
even the greenbacks, had assumed a value to the savage, which he at
least partially understood. Whenever the Indians successfully raided the
stages the mail sacks were no longer torn to pieces or thrown aside
as worthless, but every letter was carefully scrutinized for possible
bills.
I well remember, when the small copper cent, with its spread eagle
upon it, was first issued, about the year 1857, how the soldiers of a
frontier garrison where I was stationed at the time palmed them off
upon the simple savages as two dollar and a half gold pieces, which they
resembled as long as they retained their brightness, and with which
the Indians were familiar, as many were received by the troops from
the paymaster every two months, the savages receiving them in turn for
horses and other things purchased of them by the soldiers.
I have known of Indians who gave nuggets of gold for common calico
shirts costing two dollars in that region and seventy-five cents in the
States, while the lump of precious metal was worth, perhaps, five or
seven dollars. As late as twenty-eight years ago, I have traded for
beautifully smoke-tanned and porcupine-embroidered buffalo-robes for my
own use, giving in exchange a mere loaf of bread or a cupful of brown
sugar.
Very early in the history of the United States, in 1786, the government,
under the authority of Congress, established a plan of trade with the
Indians. It comprised supplying all their physical wants without profit;
factories, or stations as they were called, were erected at points
that were then on the remote frontier; where factors, clerks, and
interpreters were stationed. The factors furnished goods of all kinds to
the Indians, and received from them in exchange furs and peltries. There
was an officer in charge of all these stations called the superintendent
of Indian trade, appointed by the President. As far back as 1821,
there were stations at Prairie du Chien, Fort Edward, Fort Osage, with
branches at Chicago, Green Bay in Arkansas, on the Red River, and other
places in the then far West. These stations were movable, and changed
from time to time to suit the convenience of the Indians. In 1822 the
whole system was abolished by act of Congress, and its affairs wound up,
the American Fur Company, the Missouri Fur Company, and a host of others
having by that time become powerful. Like the great corporations of
to-day, they succeeded in supplanting the government establishments. Of
course, the Indians of the remote plains, which included all the
vast region west of the Missouri River, never had the benefits of the
government trading establishments, but were left to the tender mercies
of the old plainsmen and trappers.
Until the railroad reached the mountains, when the march of a wonderful
immigration closely followed, usurping the lands claimed by the savages,
and the latter were driven, perforce, upon reservations, the winter
camps of the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes were strung along the
Old Trail for miles, wherever a belt of timber on the margin of the
Arkansas, or its tributaries, could be found large enough to furnish
fuel for domestic purposes and cottonwood bark for the vast herds of
ponies in the severe snow-storms.
At these various points the Indians congregated to trade with the
whites. As stated, Bent's Fort, the Pueblo Fort, and Big Timbers were
favourite resorts, and the trappers and old hunters passed a lively
three or four months every year, indulging in the amusements I have
referred to. They were also wonderful story-tellers, and around their
camp-fires many a tale of terrible adventure with Indians and vicious
animals was nightly related.
Baptiste Brown was one of the most famous trappers. Few men had seen
more of wild life in the great prairie wilderness. He had hunted with
nearly every tribe of Indians on the plains and in the mountains, was
often at Bent's Fort, and his soul-stirring narratives made him a most
welcome guest at the camp-fire.
He lived most of his time in the Wind River Mountains, in a beautiful
little valley named after him "Brown's Hole." It has a place on the maps
to-day, and is on what was then called Prairie River, or Sheetskadee,
by the Indians; it is now known as Green River, and is the source of the
great Colorado.
The valley, which is several thousand feet above the sea-level, is about
fifteen miles in circumference, surrounded by lofty hills, and is aptly,
though not elegantly, characterized as a "hole." The mountain-grass is
of the most nutritious quality; groves of cottonwood trees and willows
are scattered through the sequestered spot, and the river, which enters
it from the north, is a magnificent stream; in fact, it is the very
ideal of a hunter's headquarters.
The temperature is very equable, and at one time, years ago, hundreds
of trappers made it their winter quarters. Indians, too, of all the
northern tribes, but more especially the Arapahoes, frequented it to
trade with the white men.
Baptiste Brown was a Canadian who spoke villanous French and worse
English; his vocabulary being largely interspersed with "enfant de
garce," "sacre," "sacre enfant," and "damn" until it was a difficult
matter to tell what he was talking about.
He was married to an Arapahoe squaw, and his strange wooing and winning
of the dusky maiden is a thrilling love-story.
Among the maidens who came with the Arapahoes, when that tribe made a
visit to "Brown's Hole" one winter for the purpose of trading with the
whites, was a young, merry, and very handsome girl, named "Unami," who
after a few interviews completely captured Baptiste's heart. Nothing was
more common, as I have stated, than marriages between the trappers and a
beautiful redskin. Isolated absolutely from women of his own colour, the
poor mountaineer forgets he is white, which, considering the embrowning
influence of constant exposure and sunlight, is not so marvellous after
all. For a portion of the year there is no hunting, and then idleness is
the order of the day. At such times the mountaineer visits the lodges
of his dark neighbours for amusement, and in the spirited dance many
a heart is lost to the squaws. The young trapper, like other enamoured
ones of his sex in civilization, lingers around the house of his fair
sweetheart while she transforms the soft skin of the doe into moccasins,
ornamenting them richly with glittering beads or the coloured quills
of the porcupine, all the time lightening the long hours with the
plain-songs of their tribe. It was upon an occasion of this character
that Baptiste, then in the prime of his youthful manhood, first loved
the dark-eyed Arapahoe.
The course open to him was to woo and win her; but alas! savage papas
are just like fathers in the best civilization--the only difference
between them is that the former are more open and matter-of-fact, since
in savage etiquette a consideration is required in exchange for the
daughter, which belongs exclusively to the parent, and must be of equal
marketable value to the girl.
The usual method is to select your best horse, take him to the lodge
of your inamorata's parents, tie him to a tree, and walk away. If
the animal is considered a fair exchange, matters are soon settled
satisfactorily; if not, other gifts must be added.
At this juncture poor Baptiste was in a bad fix; he had disposed of
all his season's earnings for his winter's subsistence, much of which
consisted of an ample supply of whiskey and tobacco; so he had nothing
left wherewith to purchase the indispensable horse. Without the animal
no wife was to be had, and he was in a terrible predicament; for the
hunting season was long since over, and it wanted a whole month of the
time for a new starting out.
Baptiste was a very determined man, however, and he shouldered his
rifle, intent on accomplishing by a laborious prosecution of the chase
the means of winning his loved one from her parents, notwithstanding
that the elements and the times were against him. He worked
industriously, and after many days was rewarded by a goodly supply of
beavers, otters, and mink which he had trapped, besides many a deerskin
whose wearer he had shot. Returning to his lodge, where he cached his
peltry, he again started out for the forest with hope filling his heart.
Three weeks passed in indifferent success, when one morning, having
entered a deep canyon, which evidently led out to an open prairie where
he thought game might be found, while busy cutting his way through a
thicket of briers with his knife, he suddenly came upon a little valley,
where he saw what caused him to retrace his footsteps into the thicket.
And here it is necessary to relate a custom peculiar to all Indian
tribes. No young man, though his father were the greatest chief in the
nation, can range himself among the warriors, be entitled to enter the
marriage state, or enjoy any other rights of savage citizenship until
he shall have performed some act of personal bravery and daring, or
be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies. In the early springtime,
therefore, all the young men who are of the proper age band themselves
together and take to the forest in search--like the knight-errant of
old--of adventure and danger. Having decided upon a secluded and secret
spot, they collect a number of poles from twenty to thirty feet in
length, and, lashing them together at the small ends, form a huge
conical lodge, which they cover with grass and boughs. Inside they
deposit various articles, with which to "make medicine," or as a
propitiatory offering to the Great Spirit; generally a green buffalo
head, kettles, scalps, blankets, and other things of value, of which the
most prominent and revered is the sacred pipe. The party then enters the
lodge and the first ceremony is smoking this pipe. One of the young men
fills it with tobacco and herbs, places a coal on it from the fire
that has been already kindled in the lodge, and, taking the stem in his
mouth, inhales the smoke and expels it through his nostrils. The ground
is touched with the bowl, the four points of the compass are in turn
saluted, and with various ceremonies it makes the round of the lodge.
After many days of feasting and dancing the party is ready for a
campaign, when they abandon the lodge, and it is death for any one
else to enter, or by any means to desecrate it while its projectors are
absent.
It was upon one of these mystic lodges that Baptiste had accidentally
stumbled, and strange thoughts flashed through his mind; for within the
sacred place were articles, doubtless, of value more than sufficient
to purchase the necessary horse with which he could win the fair Unami.
Baptiste was sorely tempted, but there was an instinctive respect for
religion in the minds of the old trappers, and Brown had too much honour
to think of robbing the Indian temple, although he distinctly remembered
a time when a poor white trapper, having been robbed of his poncho at
the beginning of winter, made free with a blanket he had found in one
of these Arapahoe sacred lodges. When he was brought before the medicine
men of the tribe, charged with the sacrilege, his defence, that, having
been robbed, the Great Spirit took pity on him and pointed out the
blanket and ordered him to clothe himself, was considered good, on the
theory that the Great Spirit had an undoubted right to give away his own
property; consequently the trapper was set free.
Brown, after considering the case, was about to move away, when a hand
was laid on his shoulder, and turning round there stood before him an
Indian in full war-paint.
The greeting was friendly, for the young savage was the brother of
Baptiste's love, to whom he had given many valuable presents during the
past season.
"My white brother is very wakeful; he rises early."
Baptiste laughed, and replied: "Yes, because my lodge is empty. If I
had Unami for a wife, I would not have to get out before the sun; and
I would always have a soft seat for her brother; he will be a great
warrior."
The young brave shook his head gravely, as he pointed to his belt, where
not a scalp was to be seen, and said: "Five moons have gone to sleep and
the Arapahoe hatchet has not been raised. The Blackfeet are dogs, and
hide in their holes."
Without adding anything to this hint that none of the young men had been
able to fulfil their vows, the disconsolate savage led the way to the
camp of the other Arapahoes, his companions in the quest for scalps.
Baptiste was very glad to see the face of a fellow-creature once more,
and he cheerfully followed the footsteps of the young brave, which were
directed away from the medicine lodge toward the rocky canyon which he
had already travelled that morning, where in the very centre of the dark
defile, and within twenty feet of where he had recently passed, was
the camp of the disappointed band. Baptiste was cordially received,
and invited to share the meal of which the party were about to partake,
after which the pipe was passed around. In a little while the Indians
began to talk among themselves by signs, which made Baptiste feel
somewhat uncomfortable, for it was apparent that he was the object of
their interest.
They had argued that Brown's skin indicated that he belonged to the
great tribe of their natural enemies, and with the blood of a white
on their garments, they would have fulfilled the terms of their vow to
their friends and the Great Spirit.
Noticing the trend of the debate, which would lead his friend into
trouble, the brother of Unami arose, and waving his hand said:--
"The Arapahoe is a warrior; his feet outstrip the fleetest horse; his
arrow is as the lightning of the Great Spirit; he is very brave. But a
cloud is between him and the sun; he cannot see his enemy; there is yet
no scalp in his lodge. The Great Spirit is good; he sends a victim, a
man whose skin is white, but his heart is very red; the pale-face is a
brother, and his long knife is turned from his friends, the Arapahoes;
but the Great Spirit is all-powerful. My brother"--pointing to
Baptiste--"is very full of blood; he can spare a little to stain the
blankets of the young men, and his heart shall still be warm; I have
spoken."
As Baptiste expressed it: "Sacre enfant de garce; damn, de ting vas agin
my grain, but de young Arapahoe he have saved my life."
Loud acclamation followed the speech of Unami's brother, and many of
those most clamorous against the white trapper, being actuated by the
earnest desire of returning home with their vow accomplished, when they
would be received into the list of warriors, and have wives and other
honours, were unanimous in agreeing to the proposed plan.
A flint lancet was produced, Baptiste's arm was bared, and the blood
which flowed from the slight wound was carefully distributed, and
scattered over the robes of the delighted Arapahoes.
The scene which followed was quite unexpected to Baptiste, who was
only glad to escape the death to which the majority had doomed him. The
Indians, perfectly satisfied that their vow of shedding an enemy's blood
had been fulfilled, were all gratitude; and to testify that gratitude in
a substantial manner each man sought his pack, and laid at the feet of
the surprised Baptiste a rich present. One gave an otter skin, another
that of a buffalo, and so on until his wealth in furs outstripped his
most sanguine expectations from his hunt. The brother of Unami stood
passively looking on until all the others had successively honoured
his guest, when he advanced toward Baptiste, leading by its bridle a
magnificent horse, fully caparisoned, and a large pack-mule. To refuse
would have been the most flagrant breach of Indian etiquette, and
beside, Brown was too alive to the advantage that would accrue to him to
be other than very thankful.
The camp was then broken up, and the kind savages were soon lost to
Baptiste's sight as they passed down the canyon; and he, as soon as he
had gained a little strength, for he was weak from the blood he had shed
in the good cause, mounted his horse, after loading the mule with
his gifts, and made the best of his way to his lonely lodge, where he
remained several days. He then sold his furs at a good price, as it was
so early in the season, bartered for a large quantity of knives, beads,
powder, and balls, and returned to the Arapahoe village, where the horse
was considered a fair exchange for the pretty Unami; and from that day,
for over thirty years, they lived as happy as any couple in the highest
civilization.
The fate of the Pueblo, where the trappers and hunters had such good
times in the halcyon days of the border, like that which befell nearly
all the trading-posts and ranches on the Old Santa Fe Trail, was to
be partially destroyed by the savages. During the early months of the
winter of 1854, the Utes swept down through the Arkansas valley, leaving
a track of blood behind them, and frightening the settlers so thoroughly
that many left the country never to return. The outbreak was as sudden
as it was devastating. The Pueblo was captured by the savages, and every
man, woman, and child in it murdered, with the exception of one aged
Mexican, and he was so badly wounded that he died in a few days.
His story was that the Utes came to the gates of the fort on Christmas
morning, professing the greatest friendship, and asking permission to be
allowed to come inside and hold a peace conference. All who were in
the fort at the time were Mexicans, and as their cupidity led them to
believe that they could do some advantageous trading with the Indians,
they foolishly permitted the whole band to enter. The result was that
a wholesale massacre followed. There were seventeen persons in all
quartered there, only one of whom escaped death--the old man referred
to--and a woman and her two children, who were carried off as captives;
but even she was killed before the savages had gone a mile from the
place. What became of the children was never known; they probably met
the same fate.