our people have been killed, and our young men who have gone to the
mountains are eager to avenge the blood of their relations, which has
been shed by the whites. Our young men are bad, and if they meet you,
they will believe that you are carrying goods and ammunition to their
enemies, and will fire upon you. You have told us that this will make
war. We know that our great father has many soldiers and big guns, and
we are anxious to keep our lives. We love the whites, and are desirous
of peace. Thinking all these things, we have decided to keep you here
until our warriors return. We are glad to see you among us. Our father
is rich and we expected that you would have brought us presents from
him――horses and guns and blankets. But we are glad to see you, anyway.
We look upon your coming as the light that goes before the sun; for you
will tell our great father that you have seen us, and how we are naked
and poor and have nothing to eat, and he will send us all these things.”
The chief sat down, and enveloped himself in his red blanket. Another
chief, doffing his blanket (which was blue trimmed with red), standing
also spoke. He said, like the first, that they loved the whites very
much, and could not bear to have them injured when they came as
friends, and that it was better for them to stay safely at the post and
not go on. Then the great father at Washington would be grateful and
would give his red children many blankets and horses and much food and
powder and lead!
Other chiefs spoke, in turn――and all blandly expressed the hope that
in reward for their tender care of the expedition in forbidding it to
proceed, the “great father” at Washington would liberally reward them!
When the half circle of chiefs had said their say, Lieutenant Frémont
replied――Agent Boudeau translating his sentences into Sioux.
“We thank you for your good words,” replied the lieutenant, to their
up-turned solemn visages. “We know that you do not wish us to be
harmed, and it will please the great father at Washington to hear about
it. We should like to stay with you a long time, but the trail is
waiting, we have not come to the end of it. We hope that your young men
will not take us as enemies. That would be a great pity, when we come
as friends. But in case that your young men might not see plainly, and
blood would be shed, and perhaps many of them killed, we ask that two
or three of you go with us, to signal the young men and tell them that
we are friends. We ask that you go with us, as our guests, to spread
your robes in my lodge and eat at my fire; and when we return safely I
will give presents.”
The chief in the red blanket arose.
“We have heard the speech of the white chief, and it is good,” he
said. “But we are old and poor and tired, and we cannot travel far on
horseback. We must sit in our lodges and smoke our pipes among the
women, and let our young warriors take the trail. Besides, we have no
power now over the young men, and it would be bad for us if we tried to
interfere on the war-path.”
He seated himself, and was applauded by a chorus of grunts from his
comrades.
Lieutenant Frémont answered, instantly and energetically――with a
glance at Kit Carson as if to read approval in his sober face.
“You say that you love the whites; why have you killed so many already
this spring? You say you love the whites, and you are full of words
about friendship; but you are unwilling to undergo the fatigue of a
few days’ ride to save our lives! We do not believe what you have
said; we will listen to you no more. Whatever a chief among us tells
his soldiers to do, is done. We obey our chiefs. We are soldiers of
the great chief your father. He has told us to come out here, and see
this country and all the Indians, his children. Why should we not go
on and do it? Before we came, we heard that you had killed his people
and wanted to be his children no longer; but we came anyway, holding
out our hands in peace. Now we find that the stories we heard are not
lies, and that your young men are on the war-path and you are no more
his friends and children. But we have thrown away our bodies, and will
not turn back. When you told us that your young men would kill us, you
did not know that our hearts were strong, and you did not count the
rifles that my young men carry in their hands. We may be few, and you
are many, in numbers, and you may think to kill us; but if you try
there will be much crying of women in your villages, for many of your
young men will stay behind and forget to return with the others from
the mountains. Do you think that our great chief will let his soldiers
die, and will not cover their graves? Before the snows melt again his
warriors will have swept away your villages as the fires in autumn
sweep the prairies. Look around. See! I have pulled down my white
lodges and my people are ready: when the sun is ten paces higher, we
shall be on the march. If you have anything new to tell us, you should
say it soon. I am done.”
With that the lieutenant turned his back, and strode out; after him
strode Kit Carson and Lucien Maxwell and all, even the agent, with the
three boys forming the rear. Presently, at decent interval, filed forth
the chiefs, blanket shrouded; they crossed the court and passed through
the gate, for the lodges without.
“That was a good speech, wasn’t it!” praised Randolph. “And he means
what he says, too.”
“Guess you start right away,” said Henry; for Lieutenant Frémont had
immediately mounted his horse, at the post gate, and was dashing for
the camp, followed by the other men. So, hastily vaulting into their
own saddles, with a whoop the three boys, abreast, raced after.
VI
INTO THE WILDER WEST
Oliver secretly was pleased to see that Kit Carson, scouring the plain
like a centaur, soon overtook the lieutenant. No rider could beat Kit.
However, neck and neck they galloped into the camp, and simultaneously
checked their horses short.
“All right. En avant!” cried Frémont, his voice ringing keenly. And Kit
Carson shouted to his own squad: “Ketch up, boys!”
The mules and carts were packed and waiting; now into their saddles
clambered the men. Frémont and Carson and Maxwell and others proceeded
to shake hands with Agent Boudeau; gay salutations of parting were
exchanged.
“We’ll ride a little way with you, but we can’t go far, I suppose,”
vouchsafed Henry, to Oliver.
“We’ll be here when you come back, though. You can tell us all about
it,” proposed Randolph, hopefully. “You’ll see Independence Rock and
Devil’s Gate and South Pass and Wind River Mountains and everything!”
But they were interrupted, for just as amidst a jostling and confusion
of orders addressed to pack animals and mule teams the company were
forming upon the march, came galloping from the direction of the post
one of the Sioux chiefs.
“Thar’s Bull’s Tail,” grumbled Lieutenant Ike. “Wants to say something.”
“The chief says that they are sorry to see you go in anger,” translated
Agent Boudeau to Lieutenant Frémont. “It makes their hearts sad to
think that you are likely to run into danger. So they have found a
young man who will join you this evening and try to keep you safe. But
he is very poor; he has no horse, and he expects you to give him one.”
“That is good. Tell him to send the young man. We will camp about
fifteen miles from here, near where the river Platte issues from the
red rocks.”
The chief grunted acknowledgment and loped back to the post, probably
on his way to Fort Platte below, at the mouth of the Laramie.
Once again the company were set in motion; they strung out into a
long procession, Frémont and Kit Carson leading; the Frémont party
following, and the Carson party as the second division. The Frémont
party had eight stout two-wheeled covered carts, for the provisions
and tents and scientific instruments. These carts creaked; the drivers
cracked whips above the two-mule teams; the happy-go-lucky Frenchmen
laughed and sung and chattered; but the men from Taos rode more gravely.
Now at a turn of the trail, where it entered the hills, only a few
minutes’ ride from the post, must Henry and Randolph reluctantly
halt, and let the train continue without them. They waved hand at the
men; and with answering wave from Lieutenant Frémont and Kit Carson
and Oliver, and voyageurs and trappers all, the cavalcade passed on.
Glancing back, Oliver noted that the hill defile had at once closed,
shutting off view of Fort Laramie. The expedition was fairly started
for the South Pass, 280 miles westward, at the source of the Sweetwater
River. This was the great pass by which trappers and fur traders
crossed the Rocky Mountains from the east or the American side to the
west side shared by the United States and Great Britain; it was the
pass to Oregon.
The trail, plainly wheel-marked by the party of the first Oregon
emigrants which had travelled through only three weeks before,
traversed a wide, rolling sagy plateau which occupied much of the space
between the valley of the Laramie Creek, south, and of the North Platte
River, north. About ten miles from the post a shallow, dry creek-bed
was entered.
Down the creek-bed, which now ran with a little current of clear warm
water, continued the procession, and unexpectedly to Oliver they all
emerged at a rapidly flowing river.
“North Platte,” announced Trapper New, nonchalantly. “Yep; an’ a heap
beaver stream, wagh!”
The leaders had halted; the Frémont party already were unharnessing and
unsaddling; so evidently this was the camping-place for the night. The
upper end of the valley was closed by cliffs of scarlet, peeping over a
little swell that intervened.
“I’ve seen time when this hyar valley war full o’ buff’ler an’ elk an’
deer,” remarked Trapper New, as the Carson squad good-naturedly hustled
to beat the larger party in making camp. “But when Injuns air out, game
gets scarce. We’re going to have a lean trail, I reckon.”
At this moment a ripple of laughter flowed through the party. Oliver
followed the glances, and saw that the Frémont party were trying to
erect a large tent; rather, a buffalo-hide lodge which they must have
procured from the Indians at Fort Laramie. It was some twenty feet
high, to the peak, and eighteen feet across, at the base, and was to be
stretched like a cone over a framework of lodge-poles set in a circle
and slanted to meet at a point. Almost the whole party, including the
lieutenant and Kit Carson, were working at it. But twice it had toppled
and fallen, burying the workers under its folds.
“Now, Kit knows,” complained Ike Chamberlain. “He’s seen many a lodge
put up. But hyar comes somebody who knows better, I reckon. You watch.
It’s squaw work, anyhow; not man work.”
Into the camp had ridden Agent Bissonette, from Fort Platte, with two
Indians――man and wife. The woman, grinning broadly, at once trudged to
the struggling group, and by gestures and short exclamations, and by
applying deftly her own strength, soon had the skin tent stretched and
stationary.
Flushed and apologetic, Kit Carson strolled to his squad.
“That’s harder than I thought,” he said. “I’ve seen a thousand lodges
raised an’ struck, but I never touched one before. Thar always were
squaws to do it.”
“Camp hyar, do we, for the night?” commented Lieutenant Ike.
“Yes. Frémont wants to ride over an’ inspect the canyon mouth yon, whar
he’s coming down in his rubber boat, on our way back.”
“He air, air he!” grunted Ike. “Humph! Old White Head tried that once,
didn’t he――’fore his ha’r turned.”
By “White Head” Oliver knew that Thomas Fitzpatrick, a noted trapper
captain, was meant.
“Wall, he knows that Fitz lost all his furs an’ nigh lost his life,
voyaging into those canyons; but he’s bound to find out for himself,
an’ I guess he will.”
The canyon mouth was located at the red cliffs, up the valley about
three miles; and as the sun had not set, and as there was nothing
especial to do, a little bunch of the men from the two commands rode
over. Oliver saw that here at the red cliffs the Platte came tumbling
out of the mountain country. High upon either hand rose the scarlet
walls, about one hundred yards apart, their shelves dotted with a few
pines, their tops bearing a fringe of the same dark-green. The river
roared loudly, as it boiled down. Many rocks stuck up through the
current.
“It’s wuss above,” quoth William New, when they all emerged, and rode
away. “’Tain’t any place for human being to travel in. Thar’s one place
called Fiery Narrows――wagh!”
“Ah, who fears?” laughed Descoteaux, Frenchman, of the Frémont party.
“Where Monsieur Frémont go, I go.”
“I, too,” announced Clément Lambert, his comrade.
Frémont himself, with Basil Lajeunesse, his trusted adjutant, surveyed
the place, the next morning; and when they rode back it was rumored
that the lieutenant was more determined than ever to launch his boat,
on the return from the South Pass.
As the company continued to advance, the next day, the country grew
drier. Grasshoppers jumped in clouds from beneath hoof and wheel; so
that William New, with whom Oliver rode, shook his head.
“Signs air bad,” he mumbled. “When hoppers air many, grass air few.”
No Indians had yet been sighted; but early in the afternoon a sudden
commotion swept the line, as from scouting service in the advance back
galloped four Frémont men.
“Aux armes!” they shouted. “To arms! They come――the savages!”
Around whirled their horses Kit Carson and Frémont, and while the
lieutenant and Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse urgently strove with
the van, Kit Carson sped recklessly adown the line to the rear.
“To the river, boys!” he shouted. “We’ll fort thar, an’ let ’em come!
Quick, now!”
How the men jumped to his clear tones! The river was near, on the
right; its hither bank was high and steep; pack animals and mule teams
were forced into trot and lope; the packs swayed and jolted, the carts
jolted and swayed; loud rose the cries of the drivers. Just as on the
Santa Fé Trail, in the attack by the Kiowas, now here upon the edge of
the river, under the steep bank the carts were instantly wheeled into a
semi-circle, enclosing the horses and mules. Over the bank peered the
defenders, rifle muzzles forward, Oliver ready with his tack-studded
gift from Kit.
“Bang! Whang!” sounded the reports as several of the Frémont men fired
their guns, to be certain of their condition.
Mr. Bissonette and the Indian who was to protect the march from attack
by his people had not “forted” with the column; they had at once ridden
on, to meet the enemy, and to explain. Now here they came, back, with
two new Indians.
“Wagh! Sioux!” grunted the men around Oliver.
Kit Carson, Lieutenant Frémont, Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse
stepped out and received the approaching four.
A brief conference was held only a dozen yards beyond the bank rampart.
The twain Sioux were painted and half naked (save for the paint on
their chests); they seemed sullen and unresponsive, and spoke with few
words and many sign-gestures. Mr. Bissonette eked out their tale, and
in the fort Trapper New kept pace for the benefit of Oliver and the
others.
“Been on war path, up Sweetwater; looking for scalps――need scalps
to make their dead warriors happy by a dance, an’ to dry up the
tears o’ the women (wagh!); too many white people in their country;
overtook party o’ whites (emigrants, I reckon) at Indypendence Rock on
Sweetwater; Broken Hand (Oliver knew that this meant Thomas Fitzpatrick
again) war leading party; half o’ Sioux wanted to attack, half didn’t;
these two war in half that did want to――――”
“Give it to ’em, boys!”
“Feed ’em Galena pills!”
“Lift their ha’r!”
“Tirez! Tirez! (Fire! Shoot!)”
“Des coups de baguettes pour les scoundrels! (Shots for the
scoundrels!)”
Thus rose the indignant cries, at the announcement. But Frémont turned
and raised his hand commandingly; and the cries died to a mutter.
“They war in the half that did want to,” continued Trapper New.
“Finally, the war party busted, seeing they couldn’t agree, an’ have
scattered. Most went over into Crow country, north, after Crow scalps
an’ hosses; rest air travelling back down the Platte. Thar’s no grass
an’ no buff’ler.”
Lieutenant Frémont and the others were conducting the two Sioux around
the bank and into the little fort. Still sullen, the visitors were
permitted to gaze about, and see how angry and well-armed were this
white company. Then they were given a present of tobacco and told to go.
“Wall,” remarked the quiet voice of Kit Carson, as, among his men, for
a moment he reflectively watched the two Sioux ride off as if glad
to escape, “I’ve fought Injuns an’ they’ve fought me, in mountains
an’ on plains, for over fifteen year, now――but sometimes I don’t
blame ’em. ’Tain’t natural for ’em to sit by an’ let their country be
occupied by whites――their country that they’ve owned. An’ that’s what
it means――this settler travel to Oregon: it means white people on both
sides the mountains. Beaver air thinned, buff’ler air getting scarce,
an’ some day thar won’t be any room for the Injun. An’ they suspect it.
Pore critters!”
VII
OVER THE FAMED SOUTH PASS
“The best advice that I can give you is to turn back at once,” declared
Mr. Bissonette, flatly, to Lieutenant Frémont.
’Twas near noon of the fifth day after the adventure with the first
of the Indians. Other Indians, mainly Sioux, had been met, in small
parties, as the Frémont company had travelled on up the Platte. This
morning the trail finally had intercepted the road to Oregon, which
here crossed the river, and four miles beyond more Indians were met.
The obliging Mr. Bissonette had come far enough; by the Oregon Trail he
was going back to Fort Platte at the mouth of the Laramie Creek, but he
lingered to have an interview with these latest of the Sioux.
“They say that the country ahead is very bad,” he reported. “Their main
village has made a wide detour from the river to the south, looking for
game. There are no buffalo in this whole region, because on account of
the drought and the grasshoppers there is no grass. The trail of the
village is marked by lodges thrown away in flight, and by the skeletons
of the horses that the people must eat for food, or that have starved
to death. The best advice that I can give you, is to turn back at once.”
“No, sir; I am under instructions to go on to the South Pass, and on I
go,” replied Lieutenant Frémont, loudly enough for all the men to hear.
“But if anybody wishes to turn back with you, now that there is the
opportunity, he has my permission.”
Ensued a moment of expectancy, as man looked upon man; no one made the
move or said the word.
“Ma foi! (My goodness!)” exclaimed Basil Lajeunesse, breaking the
spell. “We’ll eat the mules!”
At this they all laughed. Mr. Bissonette shook hands around, and so
did the Indian whom the chiefs had sent along; and they rode away,
down the Oregon road, for the post――the Indian with his squaw and his
horse-present.
Henceforth Kit Carson was to be the guide, for he knew the country from
the Platte up the Sweetwater.
Ere proceeding, first they must get rid of their cumbersome baggage and
their carts, so as to be able to travel light and fast. The Kit Carson
party already were travelling light, trapper style; but for plains work
the Frémont party had their carts and the several tents. However, here,
after the discouraging report, through Mr. Bissonette, from the Sioux,
all turned to and made a cache or hiding place for the discarded stuff.
The carts were taken apart――hoods and frames and wheels――and these
pieces were stowed out of sight among thick willows growing near. A
hole ten feet square and six feet deep was dug in a sandy opening in
the midst of the same willows, and lined with brush, and tarpaulins;
and in this were stowed the other things not absolutely necessary. They
were covered with an old buffalo robe; the sand was thrown in, the top
was levelled and any suspicious “sign” smoothed away or disfigured; and
with pack-mules laden the company were prepared for the long hard trail
awaiting.
“Wagh!” grunted William New. “Hyar’s whar we shine. Now for Indypendence
Rock an’ the Sweetwater an’ the Pass over. We got a guide who air up to
trap. That agent purty nigh lost us, but you can’t lose Kit Carson.”
“How far to the Pass?” queried Oliver.
“Wall, by regular trail it’s ’bout fifty miles to the Rock, an’ then a
hundred to the Pass. But we aren’t going by regular trail; see? We’re
travelling on up the Platte, an’ it turns southward, for the Bull Pen
or what they call New Park; whilst the regular Oregon an’ trapper trail
cuts the curves, on other side, lining for the Sweetwater. It’s the
Sweetwater that flows down from the Pass an’ j’ines the Platte below at
head o’ those red canyons we saw.”
The stories by the Indians seemed not true; for when the next day the
march was resumed buffalo were sighted. Some would have been killed had
not Clément Lambert’s horse, just as Clément was closing in on the
tail of the fleeing herd, plunged headlong into a sudden ravine; while
Clément was climbing out, the buffalo, tails high, scrambled like goats
up a precipice ridge, and escaped.
Nevertheless, the camp that night was supplied with jerked or dried
buffalo meat from a previous hunt, and found plenty of grass.
Frémont had named the camp, several nights back, where the buffalo meat
had been obtained, Dried Meat Camp. Yesterday’s camp was of course
Cache Camp; on this all agreed. This afternoon’s camp was pitched near
a mud bank studded with large pebbles worn oval; therefore William New
dubbed it Goose-Egg Camp!
Now according to Lieutenant Frémont’s compass the Platte was inclining
more and more to the south; and it was rumored among the men that
unless they crossed pretty soon to the Sweetwater, so as to strike
it above its juncture with the Platte, they would be entangled among
precipices. The country was beautifully red, with brown and pink
sandstone and “pudding-stone” (as the pebbly formation was termed),
and even the soil was red; a curious landscape flowed through by the
greenish river. But twelve miles from Goose-Egg Camp Kit Carson, riding
ahead with Lieutenant Frémont, halted. So halted the column.
“Injun sign,” announced Ike Chamberlain, for the way was crossed by a
trail of an Indian village which, here camping, had left lodge-poles
and horse skeletons.
But not for “Injun sign” had halted Kit Carson; he was talking
earnestly with the lieutenant and with Lucien Maxwell and Basil
Lajeunesse, and pointing.
“We’ll have to turn off. Knew we would,” predicted Trapper New. “An’
that army fellow’ll find out why, if Kit hasn’t told him plain enough
an’ he goes on. Yonder’s whar the Platte comes out the Fiery Narrows,
an’ on above the Fiery Narrows (which are _some_, I say!) are nothing
but more canyons clear to mouth o’ Sweetwater. Even a beaver couldn’t
get through, an’ I don’t reckon we can, either. An’ it’d take a bird to
cross.”
Evidently Kit Carson had persuaded, for around swung the march, to
double on its trail as far as a fair island, divided from the shore
by only a shallow current. Close upon either bank of the river was
a red ridge――one set with the “pudding-stones,” some as large as a
football. Upon this island, grassy and containing about twenty acres,
was established the night’s camp. To-morrow would the march be directed
west across the angle from the Platte to the Sweetwater.
“Fifteen miles, an’ I’ll be glad to get thar,” asserted Ike, at the
evening fire. “Sweetwater trail is good trap trail; an’ if we’re
locating emigrant route to Oregon that’s the road.”
The camp was a cheerful spot, this night, being supplied with mountain
mutton; for Lieutenant Frémont and several of the men had ridden out
upon a little exploring tour, beyond a red ridge, and had returned with
mountain sheep. Now arose a discussion as to whether the sheep could
leap off high cliffs and land head-first on their broad-based horns.
Ike and William New, Joseph Descoteaux and others of the Kentuckians
and French in the two parties claimed to have seen the sheep make such
escapes, when pursued――but not one had seen them land! Mr. Preuss,
the funny, red-faced, bristly-haired German who was the map-maker and
sketcher with the Frémont party and helped Mr. Frémont in figuring,
said that the horns were for other purpose. However, as Kit Carson and
the lieutenant were inclined to believe that the sheep could perform
these leaps, the theory was generally adopted.