is all that is effected; and nearly the whole morning is taken up in
getting fairly underweigh. The loose stock had been sent off earlier,
for they had been collected and corralled the previous night; and,
after a twelve hours' fast, it was necessary they should reach the
end of the day's journey betimes. They found the herd grazing in the
bottom of the Arkansa, at a point previously fixed upon for their
first camp. Here the oxen were unyoked, and the waggons drawn up to
form the three sides of a small square. The women then descended from
their seats, and prepared the evening meal. A huge fire was kindled
before the waggons, and round this the whole party collected; whilst
large kettles of coffee boiled on it, and hoe-cakes baked upon the
embers.
The women were sadly down-hearted, as well they might be, with the
dreary prospect before them; and poor Mary, when she saw the Mormon
encampment shut out from her sight by the rolling bluffs, and nothing
before her but the bleak, barren prairie, could not divest herself
of the idea that she had looked for the last time on civilised
fellow-creatures, and fairly burst into tears.
In the morning the heavy waggons rolled on again, across the upland
prairies, to strike the trail used by the traders in passing from
the south fork of the Platte to the Arkansa. They had for guide a
Canadian voyageur, who had been in the service of the Indian traders,
and knew the route well, and who had agreed to pilot them to Fort
Lancaster, on the north fork of the Platte. Their course led for
about thirty miles up the Boiling Spring River, whence they pursued
a north-easterly course to the dividing ridge which separates the
waters of the Platte and Arkansa. Their progress was slow, for the
ground was saturated with wet, and exceedingly heavy for the cattle,
and they scarcely advanced more than ten miles a-day.
At the camp-fire at night, Antoine, the Canadian guide, amused them
with tales of the wild life and perilous adventures of the hunters
and trappers who make the mountains their home; often extorting a
scream from the women by the description of some scene of Indian
fight and slaughter, or beguiling them of a commiserating tear by the
narrative of the sufferings and privations endured by those hardy
hunters in their arduous life.
Mary listened with the greater interest, since she remembered that
such was the life, which had been led by one very dear to her--by
one, long supposed to be dead, of whom she had never but once, since
his departure, nearly fifteen years before, heard a syllable. Her
imagination pictured him as the bravest and most daring of these
adventurous hunters, and conjured up his figure charging through the
midst of whooping savages, or stretched on the ground perishing from
wounds, or cold, or famine.
Amongst the characters who figured in Antoine's stories, a hunter
named La Bonté was made conspicuous for deeds of hardiness, and
daring. The first mention of the name caused the blood to rush to
Mary's face: not that she for a moment imagined it was her La Bonté,
for she knew the name was a common one; but, associated with feelings
which she had never got the better of, it recalled a sad epoch in her
former life, to which she could not look back without mingled pain
and pleasure.
Once only, and about two years after his departure, had she ever
received tidings of her former lover. A mountaineer had returned from
the Far West to settle in his native State, and had found his way to
the neighbourhood of old Brand's farm. Meeting him by accident, Mary,
hearing him speak of the mountain hunters, had inquired, tremblingly
after La Bonté. Her informant knew him well--had trapped in company
with him--and had heard at the trading fort, whence he had taken his
departure for the settlements, that La Bonté had been killed on the
Yellow Stone by Blackfeet; which report was confirmed by some Indians
of that nation. This was all she had ever learned of the lover of her
youth.
Now, upon hearing the name of La Bonté so often mentioned by Antoine,
a vague hope was raised in her breast that he was still alive, and
she took an opportunity of questioning the Canadian closely on the
subject.
"Who was this La Bonté, Antoine, whom you say was so brave a
mountaineer?" she asked one day.
"J'ne sais pas, he vas un beau garçon, and strong comme le
diable--enfant de garce, mais he pas not care a dam for les sauvages,
pe gar. He shoot de centare avec his carabine; and ride de cheval
comme one Comanche. He trap heap castor, (what you call beevare,) and
get plenty dollare--mais he open hand vare wide--and got none too.
Den, he hont vid de Blackfoot and avec de Cheyenne, and all round de
montaignes he hont dam sight."
"But, Antoine, what became of him at last? and why did he not come
home, when he made so many dollars?" asked poor Mary.
"Enfant de garce, mais pourquoi he com home? Pe gar, de
montaigne-man, he love de montaigne and de prairie more better dan he
love de grandes villes--même de Saint Louis ou de Montreal. Wagh! La
Bonté, well he one montaigne-man, wagh! He love de buffaloe, an de
chevreaux plus que de boeuf and de mouton, may be. Mais on-dit dat
he have autre raison--dat de gal he lofe in Missouri not lofe him,
and for dis he not go back. Mais now he go ondare, m' on dit. He vas
go to de Californe, may be to steal de hos and de mule--pe gar, and
de Espagnols rub him out, and take his hair, so he mort."
"But are you sure of this?" she asked, trembling with grief.
"Ah, now, j'ne suis pas sûr, mais I tink you know dis La Bonté.
Enfant de garce, maybe you de gal in Missouri he lofe, and not lofe
him. Pe gar! 'fant de garce! fort beau garçon dis La Bonté, pourquoi
you ne l'aimez pas? Maybe he not gone ondare. Maybe he turn op,
autre-fois. De trappares, dey go ondare tree, four, ten times, mais
dey turn op twenty time. De sauvage not able for kill La Bonté, ni de
dam Espagnols. Ah, non! ne craignez pas; pe gar, he not gone ondare
encore."
Spite of the good-natured attempts of the Canadian, poor Mary burst
into a flood of tears: not that the information took her unawares,
for she long had believed him dead; but because the very mention of
his name awoke the strongest feelings within her breast, and taught
her how deep was the affection she had felt for him whose loss and
violent fate she now bewailed.
As the waggons of the lone caravan roll on towards the Platte, we
return to the camp where La Bonté, Killbuck, and the stranger, were
sitting before the fire when last we saw them:--Killbuck loquitur.
"The doins of them Mormon fools can't be beat by Spaniards, stranger.
Their mummums and thummums you speak of won't 'shine' whar Injuns are
about; nor pint out a trail, whar nothin crossed but rattler-snakes
since fust it snow'd on old Pike's Peak. If they pack along them
_profits_, as you tell of, who can make it rain hump-ribs and
marrow-guts when the crowd gets out of the buffler range, they are
'some,' now, that's a fact. But this child don't believe it. I'd
laugh to get a sight on these darned Mormonites, I would. They're
'no account,' I guess; and it's the 'meanest' kind of action to haul
their women critters and their young 'uns to sech a starving country
as the Californys."
"They are not all Mormons in the crowd," said the strange hunter;
"and there's one family amongst them with some smartish boys and
girls, I tell you. Their name's Brand."
La Bonté looked up from the lock of his rifle, which he was
cleaning--but either didn't hear, or, hearing, didn't heed, for he
continued his work.
"And they are going to part company," continued the stranger, "and
put out alone for Platte and the South Pass."
"They'll lose their hair, I'm thinking," said Killbuck, "if the
Rapahos are out thar."
"I hope not," continued the other, "for there's a girl amongst them
worth more than that."
"Poor beaver!" said La Bonté, looking up from his work. "I'd hate to
see any white gal in the hands of Injuns, and of Rapahos worse than
all. Where does she come from, stranger?"
"Down below St Louis, from Tennessee, I've heard them say."
"Tennessee," cried La Bonté,--"hurrah for the old State! What's her
name, stran----" At this moment Killbuck's old mule pricked her ears
and snuffed the air, which action catching La Bonté's eye, he rose
abruptly, without waiting a reply to his question, and exclaimed,
"The old mule smells Injuns, or I'm a Spaniard!"
The hunter did the old mule justice, and she well maintained her
reputation as the best "guard" in the mountains; for in two minutes
an Indian stalked into the camp, dressed in a cloth capote, and in
odds and ends of civilised attire.
"Rapaho," cried Killbuck, as soon as he saw him; and the Indian
catching the word, struck his hand upon his breast, and exclaimed,
in broken Spanish and English mixed, "Si, si, me Arapaho, white man
amigo. Come to camp--eat heap _carne_--me amigo white man. Come
from Pueblo--hunt cibola--me gun break--_no puedo matar nada: mucha
hambre_, (very hungry)--heap eat."
Killbuck offered his pipe to the Indian, and spoke to him in his own
language, which both he and La Bonté well understood. They learned
that he was married to a Mexican woman, and lived with some hunters
at the Pueblo fort on the Arkansa. He volunteered the information
that a war party of his people were out on the Platte trail to
intercept the Indian traders on their return from the North Fork;
and as some "Mormones" had just started with three waggons in that
direction, he said his people would make a "roise." Being muy amigo
himself to the whites, he cautioned his present companions from
crossing to the "divide," as the "braves," he said, were a "heap"
mad, and their hearts were "big," and nothing in the shape of white
skin would live before them.
"Wagh!" exclaimed Killbuck, "the Rapahos know me, I'm thinking; and
small gain they've made against this child. I've knowed the time when
my gun cover couldn't hold more of their scalps."
The Indian was provided with some powder, of which he stood in need;
and, after gorging as much meat as his capacious stomach would hold,
he left the camp, and started into the mountain.
The next day our hunters started on their journey down the river,
travelling leisurely, and stopping wherever good grass presented
itself. One morning they suddenly struck a wheel trail, which left
the creek banks and pursued a course at right angles to it, in the
direction of the "divide." Killbuck pronounced it but a few hours
old, and that of three waggons drawn by oxen.
"Wagh!" he exclaimed, "if them poor devils of Mormonites ain't going
head first into the Rapaho trap. They'll be 'gone beaver' afore long."
"Ay," said the strange hunter, "these are the waggons belonging to
old Brand, and he has started alone for Laramie. I hope nothing will
happen to them."
"Brand!" muttered La Bonté. "I knowed that name mighty well once,
years agone; and should hate the worst kind that mischief happened
to any one who bore it. This trail's as fresh as paint; and it goes
against me to let these simple critters help the Rapahos to their own
hair. This child feels like helping 'em out of the scrape. What do
you say, old hos?"
"I thinks with you, boy," answered Killbuck, "and go in for following
this waggon trail, and telling the poor critters that there's danger
ahead of them. What's your talk, stranger?"
"I go with you," shortly answered the latter; and both followed
quickly after La Bonté, who was already trotting smartly on the trail.
Meanwhile the three waggons, containing the household gods of the
Brand family, rumbled slowly over the rolling prairie, and towards
the upland ridge of the "divide," which, studded with dwarf pine
and cedar thickets, rose gradually before them. They travelled with
considerable caution, for already the quick eye of Antoine had
discovered recent Indian sign upon the trail, and, with mountain
quickness, had at once made it out to be that of a war party;
for there were no horses with them, and, after one or two of the
mocassin tracks, the mark of a rope which trailed upon the ground
was sufficient to show him that the Indians were provided with the
usual lasso of skin, with which to secure the horses stolen in the
expedition. The men of the party were consequently all mounted and
thoroughly armed, the waggons moved in a line abreast, and a sharp
look-out was kept on all sides. The women and children were all
consigned to the interior of the waggons; and the latter had also
guns in readiness, to take their part in the defence should an attack
be made.
However, they had seen no Indians, and no fresh sign, for two days
after they left the Boiling Spring River, and they began to think
they were well out of their neighbourhood. One evening they camped
on a creek called Black Horse, and, as usual, had corralled the
waggons, and forted as well as circumstances would permit, when
three or four Indians suddenly appeared on a bluff at a little
distance, and, making signals of peaceable intentions, approached
the camp. Most of the men were absent at the time, attending to the
cattle or collecting fuel, and only old Brand and one of his young
grandchildren, about fourteen years old, remained in camp. The
Indians were hospitably received, and regaled with a smoke, after
which they began to evince their curiosity by examining every article
lying about, and signifying their wishes that it should be given to
them. Finding their hints were not taken, they laid hold of several
things which took their fancies, and, amongst others, of the pot
which was boiling on the fire, and with which one of them was about
very coolly to walk off, when old Brand, who up to this moment had
retained possession of his temper, seized it out of the Indian's
hand, and knocked him down. One of the others instantly began to
draw the buckskin cover from his gun, and would no doubt have taken
summary vengeance for the insult offered to his companion, when Mary
Brand courageously stepped up to him, and, placing her left hand upon
the gun which he was in the act of uncovering, with the other pointed
a pistol at his breast.
Whether daunted by the bold act of the girl, or admiring her devotion
to her father, the Indian drew himself back, exclaimed "Howgh!" and
drew the cover again on his piece, went up to old Brand, who all this
time looked him sternly in the face, and, shaking him by the hand,
motioned at the same time to the others to be peaceable.
The other whites presently coming into camp, the Indians sat quietly
down by the fire, and, when the supper was ready, joined in the
repast, after which they gathered their buffalo robes about them,
and quietly withdrew. Meanwhile Antoine, knowing the treacherous
character of the savages, advised that the greatest precaution should
be taken to secure the stock; and before dark, therefore, all the
mules and horses were hobbled and secured within the corral, the
oxen being allowed to feed at liberty--for the Indians scarcely care
to trouble themselves with such cattle. A guard was also set round
the camp, and relieved every two hours; the fire was extinguished,
lest the savages should fire, by its light, at any of the party,
and all slept with rifles ready at their sides. However, the night
passed quietly, and nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the camp.
The prairie wolves loped hungrily around, and their mournful cry
was borne upon the wind as they chased deer and antelope on the
neighbouring plain; but not a sign of lurking Indians was seen or
heard.
In the morning, shortly after sunrise, they were in the act of yoking
the oxen to the waggons, and driving in the loose animals which
had been turned out to feed at daybreak, when some Indians again
appeared upon the bluff, and, descending it, confidently approached
the camp. Antoine strongly advised their not being allowed to enter;
but Brand, ignorant of Indian treachery, replied that, so long as
they came as friends they could not be deemed enemies, and allowed no
obstruction to be offered to their approach. It was now observed that
they were all painted, armed with bows and arrows, and divested of
their buffalo robes, appearing naked to the breech-clout, their legs
only being protected by deerskin leggings, reaching to the middle of
the thigh. Six or seven first arrived, and others quickly followed,
dropping in one after the other, until a score or more were collected
round the waggons. Their demeanour, at first friendly, soon changed
as their numbers increased, and they now became urgent in their
demands for powder and lead, and bullying in their manner. A chief
accosted Brand, and, through Antoine, informed him "that, unless the
demands of his braves were acceded to, he could not be responsible
for the consequences; that they were out on the 'war-trail,' and
their eyes were red with blood, so that they could not distinguish
between white and Yutah scalps; that the party, with all their
women and waggons, were in the power of the Indian 'braves,' and
therefore the white chief's best plan was to make the best terms he
could; that all they required was that they should give up their
guns and ammunition 'on the prairie,' and all their mules and
horses--retaining the 'medicine' buffaloes (the oxen) to draw their
waggons."
By this time the oxen were yoked, and the teamsters, whip in hand,
only waited the word to start. Old Brand foamed whilst the Indian
stated his demands, but, hearing him to the end, exclaimed, "Darn the
red devil! I wouldn't give him a grain of powder to save my life. Put
out, boys!"--and, turning to his horse, which stood ready saddled,
was about to mount, when the Indians sprang at once upon the waggons,
and commenced their attack, yelling like fiends.
One jumped upon old Brand, pulled him back as he was rising in the
stirrup, and drew his bow upon him at the same moment. In an instant
the old backwoodsman pulled a pistol from his belt, and, putting
the muzzle to the Indian's heart, shot him dead. Another Indian,
flourishing his war-club, laid the old man at his feet; whilst others
dragged the women from the waggons, and others rushed upon the men,
who made brave fight in their defence.
Mary, when she saw her father struck to the ground, sprang with a
shrill cry to his assistance; for at that moment a savage, frightful
as red paint could make him, was standing over his prostrate body,
brandishing a glittering knife in the air, preparatory to thrusting
it into the old man's breast. For the rest, all was confusion--in
vain the small party of whites struggled against overpowering
numbers. Their rifles cracked but once, and they were quickly
disarmed; whilst the shrieks of the women and children, and the loud
yells of the Indians, added to the scene of horror and confusion. As
Mary flew to her father's side, an Indian threw his lasso at her,
the noose falling over her shoulders, and, jerking it tight, he
uttered a delighted yell as the poor girl was thrown back violently
to the ground. As she fell, another deliberately shot an arrow at her
body, whilst the one who had thrown the lasso rushed forward, his
scalp-knife flashing in his hand, to seize the bloody trophy of his
savage deed. The girl rose to her knees, and looked wildly towards
the spot where her father lay bathed in blood; but the Indian pulled
the rope violently, dragged her some yards upon the ground, and then
rushed with a yell of vengeance upon his victim. He paused, however,
as at that moment a shout as fierce as his own sounded at his very
ear; and, looking up, he saw La Bonté gallopping madly down the
bluff, his long hair and the fringes of his hunting-shirt and leggins
flying in the wind, his right arm supporting his trusty rifle,
whilst close behind him came Killbuck and the stranger. Dashing
with loud hurrahs to the scene of action, La Bonté, as he charged
down the bluff, caught sight of the girl struggling in the hands of
the ferocious Indian. Loud was the war-shout of the mountaineer, as
he struck his heavy spurs to the rowels in his horse's side, and
bounded like lightning to the rescue. In a single stride he was upon
the Indian, and, thrusting the muzzle of his rifle into his very
breast, he pulled the trigger, driving the savage backward by the
blow itself, at the same moment that the bullet passed through his
heart, and tumbled him over stone-dead. Throwing down his rifle, La
Bonté wheeled his obedient horse, and, drawing a pistol from his
belt, again charged the enemy, into the midst of whom Killbuck and
the stranger were dealing death-giving blows. Yelling for victory,
the mountaineers rushed at the Indians; and they, panic-struck at
the sudden attack, and thinking this was but the advanced guard of a
large band, fairly turned and fled, leaving five of their number dead
upon the field.
Mary, shutting her eyes to the expected death-stroke, heard the loud
shout La Bonté gave in charging down the bluff, and, again looking
up, saw the wild-looking mountaineer rush to her rescue, and save her
from the savage by his timely blow. Her arms were still pinned by the
lasso, which prevented her from rising to her feet; and La Bonté was
the first to run to aid her, as soon as the fight was fairly over.
He jumped from his horse, cut the skin rope which bound her, raised
her from the ground, and, upon her turning up her face to thank him,
beheld his never-to-be-forgotten Mary Brand; whilst she, hardly
believing her senses, recognised in her deliverer her former lover,
and still well-beloved La Bonté.
"What, Mary! can it be you?" he asked, looking intently upon the
trembling woman.
"La Bonté, you don't forget me!" she answered, and threw herself
sobbing into the arms of the sturdy mountaineer.
There we will leave her for the present, and help Killbuck and
his companions to examine the killed and wounded. Of the former,
five Indians and two whites lay dead, grandchildren of old Brand,
fine lads of fourteen or fifteen, who had fought with the greatest
bravery, and lay pierced with arrows and lance wounds. Old Brand had
received a sore buffet, but a hatful of cold water from the creek
sprinkled over his face soon restored him. His sons had not escaped
scot-free, and Antoine was shot through the neck, and, falling, had
actually been half scalped by an Indian, whom the timely arrival of
La Bonté had caused to leave his work unfinished.
Silently, and with sad hearts, the survivors of the family saw
the bodies of the two boys buried on the river bank, and the spot
marked with a pile of loose stones, procured from the rocky bed of
the creek. The carcasses of the treacherous Indians were left to
be devoured by wolves, and their bones to bleach in the sun and
wind--a warning to their tribe, that such foul treachery as they had
meditated had met with a merited retribution.
The next day the party continued their course to the Platte. Antoine
and the stranger returned to the Arkansa, starting in the night
to avoid the Indians; but Killbuck and La Bonté lent the aid of
their rifles to the solitary caravan, and, under their experienced
guidance, no more Indian perils were encountered. Mary no longer
sat perched up in her father's Conostoga, but rode a quiet mustang
by La Bonté's side; and no doubt they found a theme with which to
while away the monotonous journey over the dreary plains. South Fork
was passed, and Laramie was reached. The Sweet Water mountains,
which hang over the "pass" to California, were long since in sight;
but when the waters of the North Fork of Platte lay before their
horses' feet, and the broad trail was pointed out which led to the
great valley of Columbia and their promised land, the heads of the
oxen were turned _down_ the stream, where the shallow waters flow
on to join the great Missouri--and not _up_, towards the mountains
where they leave their spring-heads, from which springs flow several
waters--some coursing their way to the eastward, fertilising, in
their route to the Atlantic, the lands of civilised man; others
westward, forcing a passage through rocky cañons, and flowing through
a barren wilderness, inhabited by fierce and barbarous tribes.
These were the routes to choose from: and, whatever was the cause,
the oxen turned their yoked heads away from the rugged mountains;
the teamsters joyfully cracked their ponderous whips, as the waggons
rolled lightly down the Platte; and men, women, and children, waved
their hats and bonnets in the air, and cried out lustily, "Hurrah for
home!"