TRIP THROUGH THE NATCHESS PASS—[CONTINUED.]
Readers of previous chapters will remember the lonely camp mentioned
and the steep mountain ahead of it to reach the summit.
What with the sweat incident to the day's travel, the chill air of an
October night in the mountains, with but half a three-point blanket
as covering and the ground for a mattress, small wonder my muscles
were a little stiffened when I arose and prepared for the ascent to
the summit. Bobby had, as I have said, been restless during the night,
and, when the roll of blankets and the hard bread was securely strapped
on behind, suddenly turned his face homeward, evidently not relishing
the fare of browse for supper. He seemingly had concluded he had had
enough of the trip, and started to go home, trotting off gaily down
the mountain. I could do nothing else but follow him, as the narrow
cut of the road and impenetrable obstructions on either side utterly
precluded my getting past to head off his rascally maneuvers. Finally,
finding a nip of grass by the roadside, the gait was slackened so that
after several futile attempts I managed to get a firm hold of his tail,
after which we went down the mountain together, much more rapidly than
we had come up the evening before. Bobby forgot to use his heels, else
he might for a longer time been master of the situation. The fact
was, he did not want to hurt me, but was determined to break up the
partnership, and, so far as he was concerned, go no further into the
mountains where he could not get a supper. By dint of persuasion and
main strength of muscle the contest was finally settled in my favor,
and I secured the rein. Did I chastise him? Not a bit. I did not blame
him. We were partners, but it was a one-sided partnership, as he had no
interest in the enterprise other than to get enough to eat as we went
along, and when that failed, rebelled.
It is wonderful, the sagacity of the horse or ox. They know more than
we usually think they do. Let one be associated (yes, that's the word,
associated) with them for a season alone. Their characteristics come to
the front and become apparent, without study. Did I talk to my friend
Bobby? Indeed, I did. There were but few other animate things to talk
to. Perhaps one might see a small bird flit across the vision or a
chipmunk, or hear the whirr of the sudden flight of the grouse, but all
else was solitude, deep and impressive. The dense forest through which
I was passing did not supply conditions for bird or animal life in
profusion.
"You are a naughty lad, Bobby," I said, as I turned his head eastward
to retrace the mile or so of the truant's run.
We were soon past our camping ground of the night before, and on our
way up the mountain. Bobby would not be led, or if he was, would hold
back, till finally making a rush up the steep ascent, would be on my
heels or toes before I could get out of the way. "Go ahead, Bobby," I
would say, and suiting action to words seize the tail with a firm grasp
and follow. When he moved rapidly, by holding on I was helped up the
mountain. When he slackened his pace, then came the resting spell. The
engineering instinct of the horse tells him how to reduce grades by
angles. So Bobby led me up the mountain in zig-zag courses, I following
always with the firm grasp of the tail that meant we would not part
company, and we did not. I felt that it was a mean trick to compel
the poor brute to pull me up the mountain by his tail, supperless,
breakfastless, and discontended. It appeared to me it was just cause
to sever our friendship, which by this time seemed cemented closely,
but then I thought of the attempted abandonment he had been guilty of,
and that perhaps he should submit to some indignities at my hand in
consequence.
By noon we had surmounted all obstacles, and stood upon the summit
prairie—one of them, for there are several—where Bobby feasted to his
heart's content, while I—well, it was the same old story, hard tack
and cheese, with a small allotment of dried venison.
[Illustration: Mt. Rainier.]
To the south, apparently but a few miles distant, the old mountain,
Rainier of old, Tacoma by Winthrop, loomed up into the clouds full
ten thousand feet higher than where I stood, a grand scene to behold,
worthy of all the effort expended to attain this view point. But I
was not attuned to view with ecstasy the grandeur of what lay before
me, but rather to scan the horizon to ascertain, if I could, what the
morrow might bring forth. The mountain to the pioneer has served as
a huge barometer to forecast the weather. "How is the mountain this
morning?" the farmer asks in harvest time. "Has the mountain got his
night cap on?" the housewife inquires before her wash is hung on the
line. The Indian would watch the mountain with intent to determine
whether he might expect "snass" (rain), or "kull snass" (hail), or
"t'kope snass" (snow), and seldom failed in his conclusions, and so I
scanned the mountain top that day partially hid in the clouds, with the
forebodings verified at nightfall, as will be related later.
The next camp was in the Natchess Canyon. I had lingered on the summit
prairie to give the pony a chance to fill up on the luxuriant but
rather washy grass, there found in great abundance. For myself, I had
had plenty of water, but had been stinted in hard bread, remembering my
experience of the day before, with the famishing women and children.
I began to realize more and more the seriousness of my undertaking,
particularly so because I could hear no tidings. A light snow storm
came on just before nightfall, which, with the high mountains on either
side of the river, spread approaching darkness rapidly. I was loth to
camp; somehow I just wanted to go on, and doubtless would have traveled
all night if I could have safely found my way. The canyon was but a few
hundred yards wide, with the tortuous river first striking one bluff
and then the other, necessitating numerous crossings; the intervening
space being glade land of large pine growth with but light undergrowth
and few fallen trees. The whole surface was covered with coarse sand,
in which rounded boulders were imbedded so thick in places as to cause
the trail to be very indistinct, particularly in open spots, where the
snow had fallen unobstructed. Finally, I saw that I must camp, and
after crossing the river, came out in an opening where the bear tracks
were so thick that one could readily believe the spot to be a veritable
play-ground for all the animals round about.
I found two good sized trunks of trees that had fallen; one obliquely
across the other, and, with my pony tethered as a sentinel and my fire
as an advance post I slept soundly, but nearly supperless. The black
bears on the west slope of the mountain I knew were timid and not
dangerous, but I did not know so much about the mountain species, and
can but confess that I felt lonesome, though placing great reliance
upon my fire, which I kept burning all night.
Early next morning found Bobby and me on the trail, a little chilled
with the cold mountain air and very willing to travel. In a hundred
yards or so, we came upon a ford of ice cold water to cross, and others
following in such quick succession, that I realized that we were soon
to leave the canyon. I had been told that at the 32d crossing I would
leave the canyon and ascend a high mountain, and then travel through
pine glades, and that I must then be careful and not lose the trail.
I had not kept strict account of the crossings like one of the men I
had met, who cut a notch in his goad stick at every crossing, but I
knew instinctively we were nearly out, and so I halted to eat what I
supposed would be the only meal of the day, not dreaming what lay in
store for me at nightfall. It would be uninteresting to the general
reader to relate the details of that day's travel, and in fact I cannot
recall much about it except going up the steep mountain—so steep that
Bobby again practiced his engineering instincts and I mine, with my
selfish hand having a firm hold on the tail of my now patient comrade.
From the top of the mountain glade I looked back in wonderment
about how the immigrants had taken their wagons down; I found out by
experience afterwards.
Towards nightfall I found a welcome sound of the tinkling of a bell,
and soon saw the smoke of camp fires, and finally the village of tents
and grime-covered wagons. How I tugged at Bobby's halter to make him go
faster, and then mounted him with not much better results, can better
be imagined than told.
Could it be the camp I was searching for? It was about the number of
wagons and tents that I had expected to meet. No. I was doomed to
disappointment, yet rejoiced to find some one to camp with and talk to
other than the pony.
It is not easy to describe the cordial greeting accorded me by those
tired and almost discouraged immigrants. If we had been near and dear
relatives, the rejoicing could not have been mutually greater. They
had been toiling for nearly five months on the road across the plains,
and now there loomed up before them this great mountain range to
cross. Could they do it? If we cannot get over with our wagons, can
we get the women and children through in safety? I was able to lift a
load of doubt and fear from off their jaded minds. Before I knew what
was happening, I caught the fragrance of boiling coffee and of fresh
meat cooking. It seemed the good matrons knew without telling that I
was hungry (I doubtless looked it), and had set to work to prepare
me a meal, a sumptuous meal at that, taking into account the whetted
appetite incident to a diet of hard bread straight, and not much of
that either, for two days.
We had met on the hither bank of the Yakima River, where the old trail
crosses that river near where the flourishing city of North Yakima now
is. These were the people, a part of them, that are mentioned elsewhere
in my "Tragedy of Leschi," in the chapter on the White River massacre.
Harvey H. Jones, wife and three children, and George E. King, wife and
one child. One of the little boys of the camp is the same person—John
I. King—who has written the graphic account of the tragedy in which
his mother and step-father and their neighbors lost their lives—that
horrible massacre on White River a year later—and the other, George
E. King (but no relation), the little five-year-old who was taken and
held captive for nearly four months, and then safely delivered over by
the Indians to the military authorities at Fort Steilacoom. I never
think of those people but with feelings of sadness; of their struggle,
doubtless the supreme effort of their lives, to go to their death. I
pointed out to them where to go to get good claims, and they lost no
time, but went straight to the locality recommended and immediately to
work, preparing shelter for the winter.
"Are you going out on those plains alone?" asked Mrs. Jones, anxiously.
When I informed her that I would have the pony with me, a faint, sad
smile spread over her countenance as she said, "Well, I don't think
it is safe." Mr. Jones explained that what his wife referred to was
the danger from the ravenous wolves that infested the open country,
and from which they had lost weakened stock from their bold forages,
"right close to the camp," he said, and advised me not to camp near the
watering places, but up on the high ridge. I followed his advice with
the result as we shall see of missing my road and losing considerable
time, and causing me not a little trouble and anxiety.