Of the famous men whose lives are so interwoven with the history of the
Old Santa Fe Trail that the story of the great highway is largely made
up of their individual exploits and acts of bravery, it has been my
fortune to have known nearly all intimately, during more than a third of
a century passed on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains.
First of all, Christopher, or Kit, Carson, as he is familiarly known
to the world, stands at the head and front of celebrated frontiersmen,
trappers, scouts, guides, and Indian fighters.
I knew him well through a series of years, to the date of his death in
1868, but I shall confine myself to the events of his remarkable career
along the line of the Trail and its immediate environs. In 1826 a party
of Santa Fe traders passing near his father's home in Howard County,
Missouri, young Kit, who was then but seventeen years old, joined the
caravan as hunter. He was already an expert with the rifle, and thus
commenced his life of adventure on the great plains and in the Rocky
Mountains.
His first exhibition of that nerve and coolness in the presence of
danger which marked his whole life was in this initial trip across the
plains. When the caravan had arrived at the Arkansas River, somewhere
in the vicinity of the great bend of that stream, one of the teamsters,
while carelessly pulling his rifle toward him by the barrel, discharged
the weapon and received the ball in his arm, completely crushing the
bones. The blood from the wound flowed so copiously that he nearly lost
his life before it could be arrested. He was fixed up, however, and the
caravan proceeded on its journey, the man thinking no more seriously
of his injured arm. In a few days, however, the wound began to indicate
that gangrene had set in, and it was determined that only by an
amputation was it possible for him to live beyond a few days. Every
one of the older men of the caravan positively declined to attempt the
operation, as there were no instruments of any kind. At this juncture
Kit, realizing the extreme necessity of prompt action, stepped forward
and offered to do the job. He told the unfortunate sufferer that he had
had no experience in such matters, but that as no one else would do
it, he would take the chances. All the tools that Kit could find were
a razor, a saw, and the king-bolt of a wagon. He cut the flesh with the
razor, sawed through the bone as if it had been a piece of joist, and
seared the horrible wound with the king-bolt, which he had heated to a
white glow, for the purpose of stopping the flow of blood that naturally
followed such rude surgery. The operation was a complete success; the
man lived many years afterward, and was with his surgeon in many an
expedition.
In the early days of the commerce of the prairies, Carson was the hunter
at Bent's Fort for a period of eight years. There were about forty men
employed at the place; and when the game was found in abundance in the
mountains, it was a relatively easy task and just suited to his love of
sport, but when it grew scarce, as it often did, his prowess was tasked
to its utmost to keep the forty mouths from crying for food. He became
such an unerring shot with the rifle during that time that he was called
the "Nestor of the Rocky Mountains." His favourite game was the buffalo,
although he killed countless numbers of other animals.
All of the plains tribes of Indians, as did the powerful Utes of the
mountains, knew him well; for he had often visited in their camps, sat
in their lodges, smoked the pipe, and played with their little boys. The
latter fact may not appear of much consequence, but there are no people
on earth who have a greater love for their boy children than the savages
of America. The Indians all feared him, too, at the same time that they
respected his excellent judgment, and frequently were governed by his
wise counsel. The following story will show his power in this direction.
The Sioux, one of the most numerous and warlike tribes at that time,
had encroached upon the hunting-grounds of the southern Indians, and the
latter had many a skirmish with them on the banks of the Arkansas along
the line of the Trail. Carson, who was in the upper valley of the river,
was sent for to come down and help them drive the obnoxious Sioux back
to their own stamping-ground. He left Fort Bent, and went with the party
of Comanche messengers to the main camp of that tribe and the Arapahoes,
with whom they had united. Upon his arrival, he was told that the Sioux
had a thousand warriors and many rifles, and the Comanches and Arapahoes
were afraid of them on account of the great disparity of numbers, but
that if he would go with them on the war-path, they felt assured they
could overcome their enemies. Carson, however, instead of encouraging
the Comanches and Arapahoes to fight, induced them to negotiate with
the Sioux. He was sent as mediator, and so successfully accomplished his
mission that the intruding tribe consented to leave the hunting-grounds
of the Comanches as soon as the buffalo season was over; which they did,
and there was no more trouble.
After many adventures in California with Fremont, Carson, with his
inseparable friend, L. B. Maxwell, embarked in the wool-raising
industry. Shortly after they had established themselves on their ranch,
the Apaches made one of their frequent murdering and plundering raids
through Northern New Mexico, killing defenceless women and children,
running off stock of all kinds, and laying waste every little ranch they
came across in their wild foray. Not very far from the city of Santa Fe,
they ruthlessly butchered a Mr. White and his son, though three of their
number were slain by the brave gentlemen before they were overpowered.
Other of the blood-thirsty savages carried away the women and children
of the desolated home and took them to their mountain retreat in the
vicinity of Las Vegas. Mr. White was a highly respected merchant, and
news of this outrage spreading rapidly through the settlements, it was
determined that the savages should not go without punishment this time,
at least. Carson's reputation as an Indian fighter was at its height, so
the natives of the country sent for him, and declined to move until he
came. For some unexplained reason, after he arrived at Las Vegas, he
was not placed in charge of the posse, that position having already
been given to a Frenchman. Carson, as was usual with him, never murmured
because he was assigned to a subordinate position, but took his place,
ready to do his part in whatever capacity.
The party set out for the stronghold of the savages, and rode night and
day on the trail of the murderers, hoping to surprise them and recapture
the women and children; but so much time had been wasted in delays,
that Carson feared they would only find the mutilated bodies of the
poor captives. In a few days after leaving Las Vegas, the retreat of the
savages was discovered in the fastness of the mountains, where they had
fortified themselves in such a manner that they could resist ten times
the number of their pursuers. Carson, as soon as he saw them, without
a second's hesitation, and giving a characteristic yell, dashed in,
expecting, of course, that the men would follow him; but they only stood
in gaping wonderment at his bravery, not daring to venture after him.
He did not discover his dilemma until he had advanced so far alone that
escape seemed impossible. But here his coolness, which always served him
in the moment of supreme danger, saved his scalp. As the savages turned
on him, he threw himself on the off side of his horse, Indian fashion,
for he was as expert in a trick of that kind as the savages themselves,
and rode back to the little command. He had six arrows in his horse and
a bullet through his coat!
The Indians in those days were poorly armed, and did not long follow up
the pursuit after Carson; for, observing the squad of mounted Mexicans,
they retreated to the top of a rocky prominence, from which point they
could watch every movement of the whites. Carson was raging at the
apathy, not to say cowardice, of the men who had sent for him to join
them, but he kept his counsel to himself; for he was anxious to save
the captured women and children. He talked to the men very earnestly,
however, exhorting them not to flinch in the duty they had come so
far to perform, and for which he had come at their call. This had
the desired effect; for he induced them to make a charge, which was
gallantly performed, and in such a brave manner that the Indians fled,
scarcely making an effort to defend themselves. Five of their number
were killed at the furious onset of the Mexicans, but unfortunately, as
he anticipated, only the murdered corpses of the women and children were
the result of the victory.
President Polk appointed Carson to a second lieutenancy,[48] and his
first official duty was conducting fifty soldiers under his command
through the country of the Comanches, who were then at war with the
whites. A fight occurred at a place known as Point of Rocks,[49] where
on arriving, Carson found a company of volunteers for the Mexican War,
and camped near them. About dawn the next morning, all the animals of
the volunteers were captured by a band of Indians, while the herders
were conducting them to the river-bottom to graze. The herders had no
weapons, and luckily, in the confusion attending the bold theft, ran
into Carson's camp; and as he, with his men, were ready with their
rifles, they recaptured the oxen, but the horses were successfully
driven off by their captors.
Several of the savages were mortally wounded by Carson's prompt charge,
as signs after they had cleared out proved; but the Indian custom of
tying the wounded on their ponies precluded the chance of taking any
scalps. The wily Comanche, like the Arab of the desert, is generally
successful in his sudden assaults, but Carson, who was never surprised,
was always equal to his tactics.
One of the two soldiers whose turn it had been to stand guard that
morning was discovered to have been asleep when the alarm of Indians was
given, and Carson at once administered the Indian method of punishment,
making the man wear the dress of a squaw for that day. Then going on, he
arrived at Santa Fe, where he turned over his little command.
While there, he heard that a gang of those desperadoes so frequently the
nuisance of a new country had formed a conspiracy to murder and rob two
wealthy citizens whom they had volunteered to accompany over the Trail
to the States. The caravan was already many miles on its way when Carson
was informed of the plot. In less than an hour he had hired sixteen
picked men and was on his march to intercept them. He took a short cut
across the mountains, taking especial care to keep out of the way of
the Indians, who were on the war-path, but as to whose movements he
was always posted. In two days he came upon a camp of United States
recruits, en route to the military posts in New Mexico, whose commander
offered to accompany him with twenty men. Carson accepted the generous
proposal, by forced marches soon overtook the caravan of traders, and
at once placed one Fox, the leader of the gang, in irons, after which he
informed the owners of the caravan of the escape they had made from the
wretches whom they were treating so kindly. At first the gentlemen were
astounded at the disclosures made to them, but soon admitted that
they had noticed many things which convinced them that the plot really
existed, and but for the opportune arrival of the brave frontiersman it
would shortly have been carried out.
The members of the caravan who were perfectly trustworthy were then
ordered to corral the rest of the conspirators, thirty-five in number,
and they were driven out of camp, with the exception of Fox, the leader,
whom Carson conveyed to Taos. He was imprisoned for several months, but
as a crime in intent only could be proved against him, and as the adobe
walls of the house where he was confined were not secure enough to
retain a man who desired to release himself, he was finally liberated,
and cleared out.
The traders were profuse in their thanks to Carson for his timely
interference, but he refused every offer of remuneration. On their
return to Santa Fe from St. Louis, however, they presented him with
a magnificent pair of pistols, upon whose silver mounting was an
inscription commemorating his brave deed and the gratitude of the
donors.
The following summer was spent in a visit to St. Louis, and early in the
fall he returned over the Trail, arriving at the Cheyenne village on
the Upper Arkansas without meeting with any incident worthy of note. On
reaching that point, he learned that the Indians had received a terrible
affront from an officer commanding a detachment of United States troops,
who had whipped one of their chiefs; and that consequently the whole
tribe was enraged, and burning for revenge upon the whites. Carson was
the first white man to approach the place since the insult, and so
many years had elapsed since he was the hunter at Bent's Fort, and
so grievously had the Indians been offended, that his name no longer
guaranteed safety to the party with whom he was travelling, nor even
insured respect to himself, in the state of excitement existing in the
village. Carson, however, deliberately pushed himself into the presence
of a war council which was just then in session to consider the question
of attacking the caravan, giving orders to his men to keep close
together, and guard against a surprise.
The savages, supposing that he could not understand their language,
talked without restraint, and unfolded their plans to capture his party
and kill them all, particularly the leader. After they had reached this
decision, Carson coolly rose and addressed the council in the Cheyenne
language, informing the Indians who he was, of his former associations
with and kindness to their tribe, and that now he was ready to render
them any assistance they might require; but as to their taking his
scalp, he claimed the right to say a word.
The Indians departed, and Carson went on his way; but there were
hundreds of savages in sight on the sand hills, and, though they made
no attack, he was well aware that he was in their power, nor had they
abandoned the idea of capturing his train. His coolness and deliberation
kept his men in spirit, and yet out of the whole fifteen, which was the
total number of his force, there were only two or three on whom he could
place any reliance in case of an emergency.
When the train camped for the night, the wagons were corralled, and
the men and mules all brought inside the circle. Grass was cut with
sheath-knives and fed to the animals, instead of their being picketed
out as usual, and as large a guard as possible detailed. When the camp
had settled down to perfect quiet, Carson crawled outside it, taking
with him a Mexican boy, and after explaining to him the danger which
threatened them all, told him that it was in his power to save the lives
of the company. Then he sent him on alone to Rayedo, a journey of nearly
three hundred miles, to ask for an escort of United States troops to be
sent out to meet the train, impressing upon the brave little Mexican
the importance of putting a good many miles between himself and the
camp before morning. And so he started him, with a few rations of food,
without letting the rest of his party know that such measures were
necessary. The boy had been in Carson's service for some time, and was
known to him as a faithful and active messenger, and in a wild country
like New Mexico, with the outdoor life and habits of its people, such a
journey was not an unusual occurrence.
Carson now returned to the camp, to watch all night himself, and at
daybreak all were on the Trail again. No Indians made their appearance
until nearly noon, when five warriors came galloping up toward the
train. As soon as they came close enough to hear his voice, Carson
ordered them to halt, and going up to them, told how he had sent a
messenger to Rayedo the night before to inform the troops that their
tribe were annoying him, and that if he or his men were molested,
terrible punishment would be inflicted by those who would surely come
to his relief. The savages replied that they would look for the moccasin
tracks, which they undoubtedly found, and the whole village passed away
toward the hills after a little while, evidently seeking a place of
safety from an expected attack by the troops.
The young Mexican overtook the detachment of soldiers whose officer had
caused all the trouble with the Indians, to whom he told his story; but
failing to secure any sympathy, he continued his journey to Rayedo, and
procured from the garrison of that place immediate assistance. Major
Grier, commanding the post, at once despatched a troop of his regiment,
which, by forced marches, met Carson twenty-five miles below Bent's
Fort, and though it encountered no Indians, the rapid movement had
a good effect upon the savages, impressing them with the power and
promptness of the government.
Early in the spring of 1865, Carson was ordered, with three companies,
to put a stop to the depredations of marauding bands of Cheyennes,
Kiowas, and Comanches upon the caravans and emigrant outfits travelling
the Santa Fe Trail. He left Fort Union with his command and marched
over the Dry or Cimarron route to the Arkansas River, for the purpose of
establishing a fortified camp at Cedar Bluffs, or Cold Spring, to afford
a refuge for the freight trains on that dangerous part of the Trail. The
Indians had for some time been harassing not only the caravans of
the citizen traders, but also those of the government, which carried
supplies to the several military posts in the Territory of New Mexico.
An expedition was therefore planned by Carson to punish them, and he
soon found an opportunity to strike a blow near the adobe fort on the
Canadian River. His force consisted of the First Regiment of New Mexican
Volunteer Cavalry and seventy-five friendly Indians, his entire
command numbering fourteen commissioned officers and three hundred
and ninety-six enlisted men. With these he attacked the Kiowa village,
consisting of about one hundred and fifty lodges. The fight was a very
severe one, and lasted from half-past eight in the morning until after
sundown. The savages, with more than ordinary intrepidity and boldness,
made repeated stands against the fierce onslaughts of Carson's
cavalrymen, but were at last forced to give way, and were cut down as
they stubbornly retreated, suffering a loss of sixty killed and wounded.
In this battle only two privates and one noncommissioned officer were
killed, and one non-commissioned officer and thirteen privates, four of
whom were friendly Indians, wounded. The command destroyed one hundred
and fifty lodges, a large amount of dried meats, berries, buffalo-robes,
cooking utensils, and also a buggy and spring-wagon, the property of
Sierrito,[50] the Kiowa chief.
In his official account of the fight, Carson states that he found
ammunition in the village, which had been furnished, no doubt, by
unscrupulous Mexican traders.
He told me that he never was deceived by Indian tactics but once in his
life. He said that he was hunting with six others after buffalo, in
the summer of 1835; that they had been successful, and came into
their little bivouac one night very tired, intending to start for the
rendezvous at Bent's Fort the next morning. They had a number of dogs,
among them some excellent animals. These barked a good deal, and seemed
restless, and the men heard wolves.
"I saw," said Kit, "two big wolves sneaking about, one of them quite
close to us. Gordon, one of my men, wanted to fire his rifle at it, but
I did not let him, for fear he would hit a dog. I admit that I had a
sort of an idea that those wolves might be Indians; but when I noticed
one of them turn short around, and heard the clashing of his teeth as he
rushed at one of the dogs, I felt easy then, and was certain that they
were wolves sure enough. But the red devil fooled me, after all, for
he had two dried buffalo bones in his hands under the wolfskin, and he
rattled them together every time he turned to make a dash at the dogs!
Well, by and by we all dozed off, and it wasn't long before I was
suddenly aroused by a noise and a big blaze. I rushed out the first
thing for our mules, and held them. If the savages had been at all
smart, they could have killed us in a trice, but they ran as soon as
they fired at us. They killed one of my men, putting five bullets in his
body and eight in his buffalo-robe. The Indians were a band of Sioux on
the war-trail after a band of Snakes, and found us by sheer accident.
They endeavoured to ambush us the next morning, but we got wind of their
little game and killed three of them, including the chief."
Carson's nature was made up of some very noble attributes. He was
brave, but not reckless like Custer; a veritable exponent of Christian
altruism, and as true to his friends as the needle to the pole. Under
the average stature, and rather delicate-looking in his physical
proportions, he was nevertheless a quick, wiry man, with nerves of
steel, and possessing an indomitable will. He was full of caution,
but showed a coolness in the moment of supreme danger that was good to
witness.
During a short visit at Fort Lyon, Colorado, where a favourite son of
his was living, early in the morning of May 23, 1868, while mounting his
horse in front of his quarters (he was still fond of riding), an
artery in his neck was suddenly ruptured, from the effects of which,
notwithstanding the medical assistance rendered by the fort surgeons, he
died in a few moments.
His remains, after reposing for some time at Fort Lyon, were taken to
Taos, so long his home in New Mexico, where an appropriate monument was
erected over them. In the Plaza at Santa Fe, his name also appears cut
on a cenotaph raised to commemorate the services of the soldiers of the
Territory. As an Indian fighter he was matchless. The identical rifle
used by him for more than thirty-five years, and which never failed him,
he bequeathed, just before his death, to Montezuma Lodge, A. F. & A. M.,
Santa Fe, of which he was a member.
James Bridger, "Major Bridger," or "Old Jim Bridger," as we was called,
another of the famous coterie of pioneer frontiersmen, was born in
Washington, District of Columbia, in 1807. When very young, a mere boy
in fact, he joined the great trapping expedition under the leadership
of James Ashley, and with it travelled to the far West, remote from the
extreme limit of border civilization, where he became the compeer and
comrade of Carson, and certainly the foremost mountaineer, strictly
speaking, the United States has produced.
Having left behind him all possibilities of education at such an
early age, he was illiterate in his speech and as ignorant of the
conventionalities of polite society as an Indian; but he possessed a
heart overflowing with the milk of human kindness, was generous in the
extreme, and honest and true as daylight.
He was especially distinguished for the discovery of a defile through
the intricate mazes of the Rocky Mountains, which bears his name,
Bridger's Pass. He rendered important services as guide and scout during
the early preliminary surveys for a transcontinental railroad, and for a
series of years was in the employ of the government, in the old regular
army on the great plains and in the mountains, long before the breaking
out of the Civil War. To Bridger also belongs the honour of having seen,
first of all white men, the Great Salt Lake of Utah, in the winter of
1824-25.
After a series of adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and terrible
encounters with the Indians, in 1856 he purchased a farm near Westport,
Missouri; but soon left it in his hunger for the mountains, to return
to it only when worn-out and blind, to be buried there without even the
rudest tablet to mark the spot.
"I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country
churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets." This quotation came to
my mind one Sunday morning two or three years ago, as I mused over
Bridger's neglected grave among the low hills beyond the quaint old town
of Westport. I thought I knew, as I stood there, that he whose bones
were mouldering beneath the blossoming clover at my feet, would have
wished for his last couch a more perfect solitude and isolation from the
wearisome world's busy sound than even the immortal Burke.
The grassy mound, over which there was no stone to record the name
of its occupant, covered the remains of the last of his class, a type
vanished forever, for the border is a thing of the past; and upon the
gentle breeze of that delightful morning, like the droning of bees in
a full flowered orchard, was wafted to my ears the hum of Kansas City's
civilization, only three or four miles distant, in all of which I
was sure there was nothing that would have been congenial to the old
frontiersman.
At one time early in the '60's, while the engineers of the proposed
Union Pacific Railway were temporarily in Denver, then an insignificant
mushroom-hamlet, they became somewhat confused as to the most
practicable point in the range over which to run their line. After
debating the question, they determined, upon a suggestion from some of
the old settlers, to send for Jim Bridger, who was then visiting in St.
Louis. A pass, via the overland stage, was enclosed in a letter to him,
and he was urged to start for Denver at once, though nothing of the
business for which his presence was required was told him in the text.
In about two weeks the old man arrived, and the next morning, after he
had rested, asked why he had been sent for from such a distance.
The engineers then began to explain their dilemma. The old mountaineer
waited patiently until they had finished, when, with a look of disgust
on his withered countenance, he demanded a large piece of paper,
remarking at the same time,--
"I could a told you fellers all that in St. Louis, and saved you the
expense of bringing me out here."
He was handed a sheet of manilla paper, used for drawing the details of
bridge plans. The veteran pathfinder spread it on the ground before him,
took a dead coal from the ashes of the fire, drew a rough outline map,
and pointing to a certain peak just visible on the serrated horizon,
said,--
"There's where you fellers can cross with your road, and nowhere else,
without more diggin' an' cuttin' than you think of."
That crude map is preserved, I have been told, in the archives of the
great corporation, and its line crosses the main spurs of the Rocky
Mountains, just where Bridger said it could with the least work.
The resemblance of old John Smith, another of the coterie, to President
Andrew Johnson was absolutely astonishing. When that chief magistrate,
in his "swinging around the circle," had arrived at St. Louis, and was
riding through the streets of that city in an open barouche, he was
pointed out to Bridger, who happened to be there. But the venerable
guide and scout, with supreme disgust depicted on his countenance at the
idea of any one attempting to deceive him, said to his informant,--
"H---l! Bill, you can't fool me! That's old John Smith."
At one time many years ago, during Bridger's first visit to St. Louis,
then a relatively small place, a friend accidentally came across him
sitting on a dry-goods box in one of the narrow streets, evidently
disgusted with his situation. To the inquiry as to what he was doing
there all alone, the old man replied,--
"I've been settin' in this infernal canyon ever sence mornin', waitin'
for some one to come along an' invite me to take a drink. Hundreds of
fellers has passed both ways, but none of 'em has opened his head. I
never seen sich a onsociable crowd!"
Bridger had a fund of most remarkable stories, which he had drawn upon
so often that he really believed them to be true.
General Gatlin,[51] who was graduated from West Point in the early
'30's, and commanded Fort Gibson in the Cherokee Nation over sixty years
ago, told me that he remembered Bridger very well; and had once asked
the old guide whether he had ever been in the great canyon of the
Colorado River.
"Yes, sir," replied the mountaineer, "I have, many a time. There's where
the oranges and lemons bear all the time, and the only place I was ever
at where the moon's always full!"
He told me and also many others, at various times, that in the winter
of 1830 it began to snow in the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and
continued for seventy days without cessation. The whole country was
covered to a depth of seventy feet, and all the vast herds of buffalo
were caught in the storm and died, but their carcasses were perfectly
preserved.
"When spring came, all I had to do," declared he, "was to tumble 'em
into Salt Lake, an' I had pickled buffalo enough for myself and the
whole Ute Nation for years!"
He said that on account of that terrible storm, which annihilated them,
there have been no buffalo in that region since.
Bridger had been the guide, interpreter, and companion of that
distinguished Irish sportsman, Sir George Gore, whose strange tastes
led him in 1855 to abandon life in Europe and bury himself for over two
years among the savages in the wildest and most unfrequented glens of
the Rocky Mountains.
The outfit and adventures of this titled Nimrod, conducted as they were
on the largest scale, exceeded anything of the kind ever before seen
on this continent, and the results of his wanderings will compare
favourably with those of Gordon Cumming in Africa.
Some idea may be formed of the magnitude of his outfit when it is
stated that his retinue consisted of about fifty individuals, including
secretaries, steward, cooks, fly-makers, dog-tenders, servants, etc.
He was borne over the country with a train of thirty wagons, besides
numerous saddle-horses and dogs.
During his lengthened hunt he killed the enormous aggregate of forty
grizzly bears and twenty-five hundred buffalo, besides numerous antelope
and other small game.
Bridger said of Sir George that he was a bold, dashing, and successful
hunter, and an agreeable gentleman. His habit was to lie in bed until
about ten or eleven o'clock in the morning, then he took a bath, ate his
breakfast, and set out, generally alone, for the day's hunt, and it was
not unusual for him to remain out until ten at night, seldom returning
to the tents without augmenting the catalogue of his beasts. His
dinner was then served, to which he generally extended an invitation to
Bridger, and after the meal was over, and a few glasses of wine had been
drunk, he was in the habit of reading from some book, and eliciting
from Bridger his comments thereon. His favourite author was Shakespeare,
which Bridger "reckin'd was too highfalutin" for him; moreover he
remarked, "thet he rather calcerlated that thar big Dutchman, Mr.
Full-stuff, was a leetle too fond of lager beer," and thought it would
have been better for the old man if he had "stuck to Bourbon whiskey
straight."
Bridger seemed very much interested in the adventures of Baron
Munchausen, but admitted after Sir George had finished reading them,
that "he be dog'oned ef he swallered everything that thar Baron
Munchausen said," and thought he was "a darned liar," yet he
acknowledged that some of his own adventures among the Blackfeet woul be
equally marvellous "if writ down in a book."
A man whose one act had made him awe-inspiring was Belzy Dodd. Uncle
Dick Wooton, in relating the story, says: "I don't know what his first
name was, but Belzy was what we called him. His head was as bald as a
billiard ball, and he wore a wig. One day while we were all at Bent's
Fort, while there were a great number of Indians about, Belzy concluded
to have a bit of fun. He walked around, eying the Indians fiercely
for some time, and finally, dashing in among them, he gave a series of
war-whoops which discounted a Comanche yell, and pulling off his wig,
threw it down at the feet of the astonished and terror-stricken red men.
"The savages thought the fellow had jerked off his own scalp, and not
one of them wanted to stay and see what would happen next. They left the
fort, running like so many scared jack-rabbits, and after that none of
them could be induced to approach anywhere near Dodd."
They called him "The-white-man-who-scalps-himself," and Uncle Dick said
that he believed he could have travelled across the plains alone with
perfect safety.
Jim Baker was another noted mountaineer and hunter of the same era as
Carson, Bridger, Wooton, Hobbs, and many others. Next to Kit Carson,
Baker was General Fremont's most valued scout.
He was born in Illinois, and lived at home until he was eighteen years
of age, when he enlisted in the service of the American Fur Company,
went immediately to the Rocky Mountains, and remained there until his
death. He married a wife according to the Indian custom, from the Snake
tribe, living with her relatives many years and cultivating many of
their habits, ideas, and superstitions. He firmly believed in the
efficacy of the charms and incantations of the medicine men in curing
diseases, divining where their enemy was to be found, forecasting
the result of war expeditions, and other such ridiculous matters.
Unfortunately, too, Baker would sometimes take a little more whiskey
than he could conveniently carry, and often made a fool of himself, but
he was a generous, noble-hearted fellow, who would risk his life for a
friend at any time, or divide his last morsel of food.
Like mountaineers generally, Baker was liberal to a fault, and eminently
improvident. He made a fortune by his work, but at the annual rendezvous
of the traders, at Bent's Fort or the old Pueblo, would throw away the
earnings of months in a few days' jollification.
He told General Marcy, who was a warm friend of his, that after one
season in which he had been unusually successful in accumulating a large
amount of valuable furs, from the sale of which he had realized the
handsome sum of nine thousand dollars, he resolved to abandon his
mountain life, return to the settlements, buy a farm, and live
comfortably during the remainder of his days. He accordingly made ready
to leave, and was on the eve of starting when a friend invited him to
visit a monte-bank which had been organized at the rendezvous. He was
easily led away, determined to take a little social amusement with his
old comrade, whom he might never see again, and followed him; the result
of which was that the whiskey circulated freely, and the next morning
found Baker without a cent of money; he had lost everything. His entire
plans were thus frustrated, and he returned to the mountains, hunting
with the Indians until he died.
Jim Baker's opinions of the wild Indians of the great plains and
the mountains were very decided: "That they are the most onsartinist
varmints in all creation, an' I reckon thar not more'n half human; for
you never seed a human, arter you'd fed an' treated him to the best
fixin's in your lodge, jis turn round and steal all your horses, or ary
other thing he could lay his hands on. No, not adzactly. He would feel
kind o' grateful, and ask you to spread a blanket in his lodge ef you
ever came his way. But the Injin don't care shucks for you, and is ready
to do you a lot of mischief as soon as he quits your feed. No, Cap.,"
he said to Marcy when relating this, "it's not the right way to make 'em
gifts to buy a peace; but ef I war gov'nor of these United States, I'll
tell what I'd do. I'd invite 'em all to a big feast, and make 'em think
I wanted to have a talk; and as soon as I got 'em together, I'd light in
and raise the har of half of 'em, and then t'other half would be mighty
glad to make terms that would stick. That's the way I'd make a treaty
with the dog'oned red-bellied varmints; and as sure as you're born,
Cap., that's the only way."
The general, when he first met Baker, inquired of him if he had
travelled much over the settlements of the United States before he came
to the mountains; to which he said: "Right smart, right smart, Cap."
He then asked whether he had visited New York or New Orleans. "No, I
hasn't, Cap., but I'll tell you whar I have been. I've been mighty nigh
all over four counties in the State of Illinois!"
He was very fond of his squaw and children, and usually treated them
kindly; only when he was in liquor did he at all maltreat them.
Once he came over into New Mexico, where General Marcy was stationed at
the time, and determined that for the time being he would cast aside
his leggings, moccasins, and other mountain dress, and wear a civilized
wardrobe. Accordingly, he fitted himself out with one. When Marcy met
him shortly after he had donned the strange clothes, he had undergone
such an entire change that the general remarked he should hardly have
known him. He did not take kindly to this, and said: "Consarn these
store butes, Cap.; they choke my feet like h---l." It was the first time
in twenty years that he had worn anything on his feet but moccasins, and
they were not ready for the torture inflicted by breaking in a new pair
of absurdly fitting boots. He soon threw them away, and resumed the
softer foot-gear of the mountains.
Baker was a famous bear hunter, and had been at the death of many a
grizzly. On one occasion he was setting his traps with a comrade on the
head waters of the Arkansas, when they suddenly met two young grizzly
bears about the size of full-grown dogs. Baker remarked to his friend
that if they could "light in and kill the varmints" with their knives,
it would be a big thing to boast of. They both accordingly laid aside
their rifles and "lit in," Baker attacking one and his comrade the
other. The bears immediately raised themselves on their haunches, and
were ready for the encounter. Baker ran around, endeavouring to get in a
blow from behind with his long knife; but the young brute he had tackled
was too quick for him, and turned as he went around so as always to
confront him face to face. He knew if he came within reach of his claws,
that although young, he could inflict a formidable wound; moreover, he
was in fear that the howls of the cubs would bring the infuriated mother
to their rescue, when the hunters' chances of getting away would be
slim. These thoughts floated hurriedly through his mind, and made him
desirous to end the fight as soon as he could. He made many vicious
lunges at the bear, but the animal invariably warded them off with his
strong fore legs like a boxer. This kind of tactics, however, cost the
lively beast several severe cuts on his shoulders, which made him
the more furious. At length he took the offensive, and with his month
frothing with rage, bounded toward Baker, who caught and wrestled with
him, succeeding in giving him a death-wound under the ribs.
While all this was going on, his comrade had been furiously engaged with
the other bear, and by this time had become greatly exhausted, with the
odds decidedly against him. He entreated Baker to come to his assistance
at once, which he did; but much to his astonishment, as soon as he
entered the second contest his comrade ran off, leaving him to fight
the battle alone. He was, however, again victorious, and soon had the
satisfaction of seeing his two antagonists stretched out in front of
him, but as he expressed it, "I made my mind up I'd never fight nary
nother grizzly without a good shootin'-iron in my paws."
He established a little store at the crossing of Green River, and
had for some time been doing a fair business in trafficking with the
emigrants and trading with the Indians; but shortly a Frenchman came to
the same locality and set up a rival establishment, which, of course,
divided the limited trade, and naturally reduced the income of Baker's
business.
This engendered a bitter feeling of hostility, which soon culminated in
a cessation of all social intercourse between the two men. About this
time General Marcy arrived there on his way to California, and he
describes the situation of affairs thus:--
"I found Baker standing in his door, with a revolver loaded and cocked
in each hand, very drunk and immensely excited. I dismounted and
asked him the cause of all this disturbance. He answered: 'That thar
yaller-bellied, toad-eatin' Parly Voo, over thar, an' me, we've been
havin' a small chance of a scrimmage to-day. The sneakin' pole-cat, I'll
raise his har yet, ef he don't quit these diggins'!'
"It seems that they had an altercation in the morning, which ended in
a challenge, when they ran to their cabins, seized their revolvers, and
from the doors, which were only about a hundred yards from each other,
fired. Then they retired to their cabins, took a drink of whiskey,
reloaded their revolvers, and again renewed the combat. This strange
duel had been going on for several hours when I arrived, but,
fortunately for them, the whiskey had such an effect on their nerves
that their aim was very unsteady, and none of the shots had as yet taken
effect.
"I took away Baker's revolvers, telling him how ashamed I was to find a
man of his usually good sense making such a fool of himself. He gave in
quietly, saying that he knew I was his friend, but did not think I would
wish to have him take insults from a cowardly Frenchman.
"The following morning at daylight Jim called at my tent to bid me
good-by, and seemed very sorry for what had occurred the day before.
He stated that this was the first time since his return from New Mexico
that he had allowed himself to drink whiskey, and when the whiskey was
in him he had 'nary sense.'"
Among the many men who have distinguished themselves as mountaineers,
traders, and Indian fighters along the line of the Old Trail, was one
who eventually became the head chief of one of the most numerous
and valorous tribes of North American savages--James P. Beckwourth.
Estimates of him vary considerably. Francis Parkman, the historian, who
I think never saw him and writes merely from hearsay, says: "He is a
ruffian of the worst class; bloody and treacherous, without honor or
honesty; such, at least, is the character he bears on the great plains.
Yet in his case the standard rules of character fail; for though he will
stab a man in his slumber, he will also do the most desperate and daring
acts."
I never saw Beckwourth, but I have heard of him from those of my
mountaineer friends who knew him intimately; I think that he died long
before Parkman made his tour to the Rocky Mountains. Colonel Boone, the
Bents, Carson, Maxwell, and others ascribed to him no such traits as
those given by Parkman, and as to his honesty, it is an unquestioned
fact that Beckwourth was the most honest trader among the Indians of all
who were then engaged in the business. As Kit Carson and Colonel Boone
were the only Indian agents whom I ever knew or heard of that dealt
honestly with the various tribes, as they were always ready to
acknowledge, and the withdrawal of the former by the government was the
cause of a great war, so also Beckwourth was an honest Indian trader.
He was a born leader of men, and was known from the Yellowstone to the
Rio Grande, from Santa Fe to Independence, and in St. Louis. From the
latter town he ran away when a boy with a party of trappers, and himself
became one of the most successful of that hardy class. The woman who
bore him had played in her childhood beneath the palm trees of Africa;
his father was a native of France, and went to the banks of the wild
Mississippi of his own free will, but probably also from reasons of
political interest to his government.
In person Beckwourth was of medium height and great muscular power,
quick of apprehension, and with courage of the highest order. Probably
no man ever met with more personal adventures involving danger to life,
even among the mountaineers and trappers who early in the century
faced the perils of the remote frontier. From his neck he always wore
suspended a perforated bullet, with a large oblong bead on each side of
it, tied in place by a single thread of sinew. This amulet he obtained
while chief of the Crows,[52] and it was his "medicine," with which he
excited the superstition of his warriors.
His success as a trader among the various tribes of Indians has never
been surpassed; for his close intimacy with them made him know what
would best please their taste, and they bought of him when other traders
stood idly at their stockades, waiting almost hopelessly for customers.
But Beckwourth himself said: "The traffic in whiskey for Indian property
was one of the most infernal practices ever entered into by man. Let the
most casual thinker sit down and figure up the profits on a forty-gallon
cask of alcohol, and he will be thunderstruck, or rather whiskey-struck.
When it was to be disposed of, four gallons of water were added to each
gallon of alcohol. In two hundred gallons there are sixteen hundred
pints, for each one of which the trader got a buffalo-robe worth five
dollars. The Indian women toiled many long weeks to dress those sixteen
hundred robes. The white traders got them for worse than nothing; for
the poor Indian mother hid herself and her children until the effect of
the poison passed away from the husband and father, who loved them when
he had no whiskey, and abused and killed them when he had. Six thousand
dollars for sixty gallons of alcohol! Is it a wonder with such profits
that men got rich who were engaged in the fur trade? Or was it a miracle
that the buffalo were gradually exterminated?--killed with so little
remorse that the hides, among the Indians themselves, were known by the
appellation of 'A pint of whiskey.'"
Beckwourth claims to have established the Pueblo where the beautiful
city of Pueblo, Colorado, is now situated. He says: "On the 1st of
October, 1842, on the Upper Arkansas, I erected a trading-post and
opened a successful business. In a very short time I was joined by from
fifteen to twenty free trappers, with their families. We all united
our labour and constructed an adobe fort sixty yards square. By the
following spring it had grown into quite a little settlement, and we
gave it the name of Pueblo."