ACROSS THE UNITED STATES IN A WAGGON
From the foregoing chapter it will have been seen that Mexico, in the
middle of the nineteenth century, was not a neighbourhood wherein a
man might look to find rest and quiet; and it is safe to say that if
any one part of it was less to be desired than another as a place of
resort, it was the United States frontier.
When the war between Mexico and the United States ended in 1847, this
frontier had to be overhauled and settled afresh, and within the next
two years Presidents Polk and Taylor appointed a Boundary Commission.
One of the commissioners was the late John Russell Bartlett, secretary
to the New York Ethnographical Society, and subsequently one of the
greatest authorities on the Indian races.
Mr. Bartlett did not leave New York for his southward journey till the
summer of 1850, and one of the first lessons that he learned on that
journey was that redskins, like other men, cannot be understood from
books or from mere surface examination. Anxious to see as much as
possible of the Indians of the southern States, he elected to travel
by waggon, there being no immediate hurry for him to present himself
at El Paso. Such a course meant passing through wild regions of
prairie, plain, and hill, peopled by Missouris, Choctaws, Bannocks,
Comanches, Chicasas, Araphoes, and perhaps a score more of savage
tribes, the majority of whom still regarded the white man as their
natural enemy; and the details of that ride, with his subsequent
adventures in and round Mexico, would occupy more than the whole of
this book.
His first acquaintance with the Missouri Indians came about while the
waggon was crossing the great undulating plains near the Arkansas
River. He was seated under the tilt pretending to write letters, but,
in actual fact, dozing off to sleep under the influence of a sudden
spell of heat, when a wild shriek from the direction of his leaders'
heads aroused him. He looked up and found that he was alone, though
this was nothing out of the ordinary; for his negro attendant and his
two waggoners not infrequently got down and walked when the horses
were obliged to move slowly or when there was an opportunity of
filling the pot. Before he could reach the forepart of the waggon, the
black's curly head showed above the front-board, eyes bulging and
teeth chattering with terror.
"Look, Massa; look!" he shrieked.
"Catch hold o' them ribbons, _will_ ye?" he heard one of the teamsters
shout; but the negro was too paralysed with fear to obey. The next
moment the man who had called out, and had now got possession of the
reins, landed with a flying leap on the footboard, and was followed
with no less precipitation by his mate.
"Gun; quick!" panted the second man, while the first endeavoured to
control the frightened horses.
Stumbling over the cowering nigger, Mr. Bartlett joined the teamsters.
The four horses were still shying violently and kicking in every
direction; and, not fifteen feet from the two wheelers, was a bison,
charging with furious determination straight at them. He caught up his
gun, which hung in slings close to his hand, and emptied both barrels
at the formidable beast, which fell on his knees, gasping and
bellowing, till two more bullets from the second teamster made him
roll over.
"Reckon we'll have some of his meat, when them hosses have done
rearing," said the shooter. It took time to quiet the terror-stricken
creatures, and, in the end, the driver was forced to give them their
heads for a while; and they had hardly settled to their normal
condition when a fresh incident occurred to trouble their peace.
A succession of single shouts from various directions sounded from
beyond the hill which they were now passing, and suddenly swelled into
a long, howling, shrieking chorus that was echoed by maddened
bellowings as from a thousand bulls. With difficulty the horses
allowed themselves to be held in, and as they were walked past the
final spur of the hill, a truly wonderful sight broke on the
spectators. They had come to the mouth of a pleasant, grassy valley,
in the midst of which a herd of over two hundred bison were running
hither and thither, butting each other, falling over, or trying
furiously to reach the slopes; while, down the hill on either side, a
great troop of mounted Indians swept like a torrent; spears slung at
their backs, arrows flying from the bows in their hands. With all the
order and method of a cavalry brigade, they slackened their speed
suddenly, and, spreading out, formed themselves into a huge circle;
then straightway continued with their spears the work of slaughter
which their arrows had begun.
For ever on the move, now to right, now to left, now charging into the
heaving brown mass, they plied their lances untiringly, time after
time avoiding, with no visible effort, the desperate charge of one or
other of the bisons. To a man who loved sport, but not slaughter, it
was a revolting sight; yet fascinating as well, by reason of the skill
and pertinacity which these savages displayed in their task of blood.
Now and then one or two energetic bulls would force a way through some
opening in the line, in the fond hope of being allowed to flee over
the hills; but there was always some vigilant horseman ready to give
chase or else to send half a dozen arrows in rapid succession, and so
to cut short the creature's chance of escape. Not till every bison lay
dead did the redskins stay their hands or condescend to turn an eye on
the onlookers who had drawn up at the entrance to the valley.
Bartlett waited with curiosity to see what the Indians' next move
would be. As concerned himself they might be perfectly harmless;
already he had come to the conclusion that the redskin is a very much
maligned man; but, whether harmless or offensive, the hunters had now
caught sight of the waggon, and to attempt to flee before men, mounted
as well as they were, would only be a ridiculous waste of energy. A
few turned their horses his way, but the great majority continued to
hunt down the game; but whatever work these had still to do, was very
soon done; for, by the time their brethren had come up with the
waggon, they were following in their wake.
From the teamsters Bartlett learned that the horsemen were Missouris--a
branch of the Sioux--and accordingly he stood up in the waggon and
began hesitatingly to address the foremost in what he had already
mastered of the Siouan dialect. The effect should have been
flattering; they didn't give him "three cheers," their education in
that form of enthusiasm being as yet imperfect; but they smiled
encouragingly and turned their spears points downwards, while the more
demonstrative pressed up to him, patted his shoulders, his ribs, and his
leggings, telling him that he was a great man, a wise chief, and a
"good medicine"--whatever that might mean.
Three men who appeared, from their more ornate dress, to be rulers
among the tribe, now turned and gave some directions to those who were
coming up behind them; and, as these rode forward, Bartlett noticed
that every man of the division that had stayed to cut up the carcases
carried one or more semi-globular lumps of bison-beef on his
saddle-bow; and it was to bestow some of these lumps on the stranger
that the chief had called them. In a couple of minutes the footboard
was like a butcher's stall, for meat enough lay there to feed the four
occupants of the waggon for about a month. On Bartlett's asking where
was the best place to cross the river, a chief told him there was a
ferry fourteen miles farther, to which the troop would have great
pleasure in escorting him.
[Illustration: A BISON SURROUND
The Indians would surround a herd of bison and wantonly kill every member
of it. They would cut off the hump only, leaving the rest of the carcase
for wolves and coyotes.]
"We have finished our hunting for the day, and are going home to our
camp, which is a few miles this side of the river," he said.
"Finished?" reiterated Bartlett. "Then who is going to carry the game
home?" He pointed to the carcase-crowded valley.
"Oh, _those_ are for the coyotes and wolves," said the oldest chief
contemptuously.
"Then why kill so many?"
The chief pointed to one of the blocks of meat.
"That is all that we care to eat; and just now we have no need of
hides or hoofs, so we can afford to leave those."
The meat that had been cut away was just the "hump" of the animal; the
raised portion of the withers. In his old age, Mr. Bartlett was not
surprised to hear naturalists and sportsmen bewailing the scarcity of
bisons after what he saw that day, and on many subsequent occasions.
The Indians had surrounded and slain a whole herd, with the wanton
love of destruction that the child and the savage usually display.
They were in the habit of using the horns for spear-heads, and the
hoofs to make the glue with which they fixed their arrow-points; but
here were enough horns and glue to equip a dozen regiments of
Indians--and all left to waste and rot.
The ferry was reached before dark; the Indians were rewarded with bits
of finery, and a plug or two of tobacco, and went on their way.
As the waggon neared the "Llano Estacado," Bartlett began to hear
news of redskins who might not accord him so amiable a reception. At
the Red River tributary of the Mississippi, he was told that several
American travellers had been murdered in the valleys and passes by
Apaches, who were popularly supposed to be a sort of hired assassins
of the Mexicans at this time. The tidings did not sound encouraging,
but he had now travelled through about twelve hundred miles of Indian
territory without encountering so much as an angry word or a petty
theft, and he was not prepared to go out of his way on account of a
mere rumour.
He had scarcely crossed the first part of the hill-ridge that encloses
the celebrated Llano, when his waggon broke down without the least
warning. Tools were got out and the damage examined, and the axle-bar
of the hind wheels was found to be so injured as to necessitate
repairs that would take a good deal of time.
Jim, the black, had just unharnessed the horses, and was pegging them
down, when one of the teamsters reported a small batch of Apaches
overtaking them, as though they might have followed the waggon from a
distance.
"I see they all have muskets," commented Bartlett. "That doesn't look
promising. We must make as big a show as we can. Here you, Jim; you
must pretend to be mending the waggon, and we others will stand by and
look as innocent as we can--but with guns and pistols ready."
The negro's courage was not remarkable, and this was a very
satisfactory means of keeping him out of the way, for he would be
perfectly happy under the waggon; the teamsters, on the other hand,
were men who had been through the recent war, and cared no more for
Indians than they did for Mexicans. They and Bartlett picked up their
guns, taking care to hold them as unconcernedly and inoffensively as
possible; but at the same time keeping a sharp eye on the horsemen,
and prepared to fire the moment they saw any of them inclined to take
a preliminary shot at them by way of greeting.
Perhaps this attitude disconcerted the redskins; perhaps they had had
no evil intentions from the beginning; at any rate, they rode up
harmlessly enough, asked what was the matter, and offered to act as
guides if the travellers would give them a little powder and tobacco.
While the teamsters betook themselves to the repairs, Bartlett talked
with the Apaches, questioned them about the way, and told them
smoothly but decisively that he could not part with any ammunition,
though he would give tobacco and some scarlet cloth. The cloth was
received rapturously, and, as soon as the waggon was mended, the
procession moved on, the Apaches proving very satisfactory and
friendly guides.
At parting, Bartlett gave the chief--who, by the way, called himself
"Mangus Colorado"--an old overcoat, and his delight, his pride, and
his antics forthwith convulsed the beholders. Months afterwards, while
scouring the valley of the Rio Grande with Captain Buford and his
dragoons, who were hunting for Indian horse-thieves, the Commissioner
came across Mangus again; he was still wearing the overcoat, though
it was a stifling day, and though he had, all his life, gone naked as
far as the waist.
The guides left the waggon at the beginning of the El Paso road,
whence, though the way was rough and sometimes nearly impassable,
there could be no difficulty in finding the city. On the evening of
the following day, Bartlett, hearing gunshots close at hand, sent a
teamster forward to reconnoitre. The man soon came running back; some
Apaches were besieging a wayside inn, he said. He mounted to his place
and the horses were whipped up to the gallop.
"The more show and noise we make, the better," remarked the driver as
he reached for his gun.
As soon as they were past a belt of boulders they could see what was
taking place. Twelve Indians on horseback were surrounding the house,
while, from behind a half-shuttered window, a man and a woman were
firing despairingly, though the Apaches were sheltered from their
bullets; no one but these two seemed to be about the place. As the
waggon stopped, one of the Indians got off his horse and began to
batter at the flimsy door with the stock of his gun. The second
teamster raised his rifle and fired with as much coolness as if he had
been shooting a prairie wolf, and the redskin fell dead.
"Now they'll make fools of themselves, and get between two fires.
Leastwise they 'most always do," he said.
After a moment's hesitation the Indians charged with a frightful howl
at the waggon; but, in so doing, they brought themselves in full range
of the couple who had been trying to get a shot from the window. Two
more of their number dropped, and the rest pulled up as suddenly as
they had begun their charge. Bartlett and the driver fired, wounding a
man and killing a horse.
Such a reception was more than the Apaches had bargained for or could
stand; they fired one wild, almost aimless volley which flew well
clear of the waggon, then, urging their horses forward, they spurred
past Bartlett's team like a whirlwind and disappeared.
The inn was one kept by a Mexican and his Yankee wife; and they, too,
told fearful tales of the Apaches' depredations; and were both
convinced that, but for the happy arrival of the waggon, they would
have been killed, and their house plundered and burnt.