Produced by Mark C. Orton, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
SADDLE AND MOCASSIN
BY
FRANCIS FRANCIS, JUN.
AUTHOR OF
"IN A LONDON SUBURB," "WAR, WAVES, AND WANDERINGS."
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL,
LIMITED.
1887.
[_All rights reserved._]
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO THE MEMORY OF
THE LATE FRANCIS FRANCIS
(AUTHOR OF "A BOOK ON ANGLING," ETC., ETC., ETC.),
AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN
"SANS PEUR ET SANS REPROCHE."
PREFACE.
The following sketches were made at different times and during various
cruises in the States. The earlier ones are fairly close records of the
scenes and incidents which they profess to describe. My movements in the
country referred to in the two latter were, however, too desultory to
admit of similar treatment; in some cases I traversed the same ground
two or three times, and remained for weeks without gleaning anything
that would be of interest to the ordinary reader. In the trips detailed
in this part of the book, therefore, I have occasionally introduced
characters and materials that do not strictly belong in the situations
assigned to them. In fact, my object has been rather to present two
characteristic studies of local colour than bare records of the travels
that afford a pretext for them.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
THE YELLOWSTONE PARK.--I. 1
CHAPTER II.
THE YELLOWSTONE PARK.--II. 23
CHAPTER III.
QUAIL SHOOTING IN THE SIERRAS 41
CHAPTER IV.
A GLIMPSE OF SONORA 60
CHAPTER V.
THE WINCHESTER WATER MEADS 87
CHAPTER VI.
ON PEND D'OREILLE LAKE 100
CHAPTER VII.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--I. 120
CHAPTER VIII.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--II. 135
CHAPTER IX.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--III. 154
CHAPTER X.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--IV. 175
CHAPTER XI.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--V. 193
CHAPTER XII.
ANIMAS VALLEY.--VI. 215
CHAPTER XIII.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--I. 235
CHAPTER XIV.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--II. 256
CHAPTER XV.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--III. 268
CHAPTER XVI.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--IV. 277
CHAPTER XVII.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--V. 285
CHAPTER XVIII.
A CRUISE IN NORTHERN MEXICO.--VI. 301
SADDLE AND MOCASSIN.
CHAPTER I.
THE YELLOWSTONE PARK.[1]--I.
"Wal, sir, I tell you that that thar Yellowstone Park and them geysers
is jest indescribable--that's what they are, sure!" said all the
packers, teamsters, and prospectors whom we consulted on the subject.
A greater measure of truth characterised this statement than is usually
contained in eulogistic reports of scenery.
We were advised at Ogden that pack trains or waggons could be hired at
various points on the "Utah Northern" branch of the Union Pacific
Railway; in order to economise time, therefore, my companion preceded me
to contract for transport, whilst I remained behind to conclude
arrangements in connection with the commissariat department. These
completed, I followed him. He met me at Dillon with a history of woe. No
"outfits" were to be obtained elsewhere at so short a notice, and here
the demands for them were exorbitant. No regard was taken of current
rates; the teamsters seemed inclined to regard us as legitimate spoil. I
ventured to expostulate with one man:
"What you ask would pay you in three weeks more than your 'outfit'
cost."
"Oh, horses is dear in this country!" he remarked irrelevantly.
"Quite so; but we don't want to _buy_ any."
"Wal, it ain't much for them as has the means and wants to 'go in.'"
I am afraid that, to use a miner's expression, we did not "pan out" as
well as was anticipated. A little diplomacy eventually secured us the
services of a Mormon freighter named Andrews, his boy, a waggon, and
twelve mules and horses, upon reasonable terms. We engaged a cook, and
with Dick (the guide we had brought from Ogden) the "outfit" was
complete.
Dick was an old soldier, and a first-rate fellow. True, the Dillon
whisky proved too much for him when we were starting, but ordinary
poison had been a mild beverage by comparison with it, and we were so
glad that it did not kill him outright that we excused his temporary
indisposition. Besides, even beneath its influence he displayed the most
charming urbanity, and the greatest anxiety to get under way.
"All I wants, Mr. Francis, is to make a start, to get away--beyond the
pale of civilisation, as you may say--beyond (hic) the pale," he repeats
meditatively.
"Beyond the pail or the cask, Dick?"
"Beyond the pale," replies he dubiously, after a thoughtful pause.
Dick was hearty in his endeavours to engage an "outfit."
"Say! you! look here, now!" he would explain to a native; "these here
men don't want none of your ---- ---- snide outfits, but jest good
_bronchos_, and a waggon, and strong harness."
"Wal, can't yer find no waggons?"
"Waggons! ----! waggons 'nough for a whole army! But, ---- ---- it,
these fellows all propose to make independent fortunes out of us in a
single day. Why, they want jest as much to hire out one _broncho_ for a
week as'll buy whole team."
Swearing is prevalent among these fellows. The reply given to us by a
teamster that we met and consulted about the distance of a certain day's
journey, concerning which it appeared that we had been misinformed, was
by no means exceptional. "Thirty-five miles, ---- ---- it! Why ---- ----
it, it ain't a ---- ---- bit more than twenty-five ---- ---- no! ----!"
Our man, Andrews, was rather gifted in this line. He was to be heard at
his best in the early morning, when engaged in catching the hobbled
mules and horses. Amongst the more innocent titles conferred by him upon
certain members of our stud were, "the yaller, one-eyed cuss," "the
private curse," "the bandy-legged, hobbling, contrary son of----" etc.,
etc.; here following contumelious references to both the animal's remote
ancestors and immediate progenitors. Frantic with rage, he usually
concluded by hysterically imploring us to assist him in hanging them, or
driving them into the river with a view of drowning them. Brown, our
cook, one of the quietest, gentlest, and best old fellows in the world,
rather enjoyed these scenes. His cooking, which really left nothing to
be desired, so far as camp cookery was concerned, met with severe
criticism at the hands of this unwashed Mormon. The meekest cook would
have resented this.
"Yes," he said one day, as he turned the antelope steaks in the
frying-pan, and listened to the voice of the teamster, softly swearing
in the distance, "yes, Mormons always do swear ter'ble, and the women as
well, and the children, too--and smoke. I guess they smokes more, and
stands for the swearingest people as there is anywhere. And they're all
alike."
We took no tent, but relied entirely on fine weather and buffalo robes.
For the first few days the track lay through a gameless and
uninteresting alkali country. The dryness of the atmosphere was
remarkable. Moist sugar became as hard as rock; discharged powder left
nothing but a little dry dust in the gun-barrels; our lips cracked, and
our fingernails grew so brittle that it was impossible to pare without
breaking them. As we proceeded, the scenery grew wild, and in places
fine. On many slopes the pine forests had been swept by fire, and
skeleton trunks, from which the bark had fallen away, stood out in
ghostly array from the yellow, red, and russet undergrowth, or looked
with ascetic asperity upon the bright belt of light-leaved willow
bushes, whose boughs danced gaily in the sunlight on the foot-hills.
At length we surmounted a low divide at the head of the Centennial
Valley, and caught our first glimpse of Henry's Lake. In the purple haze
of an autumnal sunset it lay below us; and the ripples that dwelt there,
waked from their midday slumbers by the evening breeze, sparkled, and
glittered, and tossed, and laughed, whilst they restlessly compared
their blue, and gold, and violet reflections, and chased each other to
the shores of emerald islands out on the silver bosom of the waters.
Time was when only the sun came up and looked in upon the solitude of
this beautiful sheet of water, dreaming its time away in the still heart
of the mountains. At most an occasional Indian wandered thither, to hunt
antelope on its grassy shores, wild fowl in its reedy fringe, or spear,
by torchlight, the noble trout that haunt its crystal depths. Now it is
in a fair way to become a summer resort. Already a log hotel has been
tried there, and jam-pots and empty meat-tins lie around it in
profusion. Fortunately, for some reason it has been deserted. So the
pelicans, the swans, and geese that dot the lake's wide surface, the
ducks and flocks of teal that sail there in fleets, or skim in close
order to and fro, the grouse in the willow thickets, and the wary
regiments of antelope upon the slopes, have yet a respite of comparative
security to enjoy before civilisation drives them from their patrimony.
We frequently camped near a trout stream. The trout, although proof
against the persuasive influence of the artificial fly, were generally
amenable to the seductions of the grasshopper, the butterfly, or grub.
Dick's disgust at fly-fishing was amusing. One day B. lent him a rod,
and I gave him some flies. He was absent about an hour, and then
returned, with but little more than the winch and the butt of the rod.
"Well, Piscator, what luck?" inquired B.
"Why, these durned fish don't _piscate_ worth a cent. Guess I'll go and
_catch_ some with a pole and a 'hopper, or there won't be any fish for
supper."
The identification of trout was one of sundry points upon which the
teamster and I agreed to differ. Trout vary considerably in their
markings in these mountain streams; still, a trout is unmistakable.
"That's a pretty trout," I said one day.
"He ain't no trout. That thar's a chub."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"A chap told me so."
"I should call it a trout."
"Wal, they call it a chub down at the terminus,[2] and I reckon the boys
there know something. Anyway, he's a chub in this country."
With this conclusive argument Andrews always crushed me. We were at
issue upon several questions of this and other natures. Only one,
however, threatened to result unpleasantly.
Andrews had a boy. He was a surly, flat-faced boy, with a nose like a
red pill. His name was Bud, or Buddy. The father thought all the world
of Bud. He was one of the many "smartest boys in the States." Naturally
his proud spirit brooked no restraint. On all subjects he considered
himself the best-informed person in the party. Although only twelve
years old, his education was complete, and he possessed, together with
great experience and implicit self-reliance, a shot-gun, a rifle, and a
racing pony. Bud from the commencement had assumed command of the
expedition; he seemed to labour under the impression that we had come
from England on purpose to accompany him.
Whenever the trail was well travelled, he would drive our spare stock a
few yards ahead of us, so that we were thoroughly annoyed by the dust.
This amused him. Expostulation being without avail, I was forced to
insist upon his taking his amusement in some other way. Bud declared
that "he would be dog-durned if he was going to run his interior" (he
called it by some other name) "out a-driving the stock any further
ahead--durned if he would." However, he was induced to change his mind,
and although the teamster expended a great deal of energy in bold talk
and gesticulation, the moment an opportunity was offered him of
displaying his prowess, he collapsed. The matter was, therefore, settled
amicably. Thenceforward Bud was more circumspect. He used to overeat
himself. When just retribution overtook him, his devoted parent, in an
agony of fear, would declare his intention of returning to the terminus
in quest of a doctor. On two occasions we hung for awhile in the
greatest anxiety upon Bud's languid responses to inquiries concerning
his health; and we questioned him as if we loved him--which we didn't.
We all doctored him, too. Yet he lived! Evidently his constitution was
strong. Once, in a fit of meddlesome benevolence, I restrained his
father from giving him a powerful aperient for diarrhoea. Like most acts
of officious good-nature, it was often a source of regret afterwards.
It is a fatal mistake to allow a boy to accompany a party of this kind,
the more especially one of these ill-conditioned, never-corrected,
western frontier cubs. They seem to think it incumbent upon them to air
their smartness and impertinence at the expense of strangers. Dogs, in
camp, are apt to lead to trouble, too, in the West. A dog is regarded
there with somewhat the same feelings that he would excite in a
Mussulman household. Our dog was the cause of annoyance on several
occasions. Once the men mutinied in a body, because I collected some
scraps after supper, and gave them to him _on a plate_.
Those who dwell in the neighbourhood of the Yellowstone National Park,
love enthusiastically to term it Wonderland, and not without reason.
Within its boundaries (one hundred miles square), there are over 10,000
active geysers, hot springs, fumaroles, solfataras, salses, and boiling
pools. Of these, over 2,000 are found in the small area comprising the
Upper, Middle, and Lower Geyser Basins. Sulphur mountains, an obsidian
mountain, a mud volcano, a so-called blood geyser, and various other
remarkable phenomena add to the interest of this extraordinary region,
whilst there is scenery here that, for grandeur and grotesqueness, may
challenge comparison with the world's most striking features. Proceeding
at once towards the Upper Geyser Basin, we pass the Lower Basin with its
so termed "paint pots," or "cream pots," boiling vats of a
semi-silicious clay, which varies in colour from creamy white to pink or
slate, some fine geysers, and the intermediate "Hell's half-acre," and
adjoining pools. These are at once the most impressive and beautiful
pools in the Park. I turned aside twice to them--once on my way to the
Upper Basin, and once on my return; seeing them on these occasions under
completely diverse aspects, for on the first day a thunderstorm darkened
the wonted serenity of the sky.
They are situated in a desolate expanse of white, formed by deposits
from the numerous springs that bubble up on all sides. The first pool is
of comparative unimportance. The second (whence the locality derives its
name) considerably exceeds half-an-acre in size. It has but recently
assumed its present dimensions. These are daily increasing, apparently,
and it bids fair, if its devouring energies continue unabated, to unite
with its fellow pools, and form a lake some acres in extent. Numerous
cracks and fissures scallop its edges, indicating the direction of
future encroachments, and it is with feelings of some misapprehension
that the stranger to these infernal regions cautiously approaches to
windward of the stream, to gaze into the awesome gulf below him. The
boiling hiss and roar of many waters issues unceasingly from its depths,
but heavy clouds veil them from view, and the miniature cliffs that
plunge precipitously down are speedily lost in steam. A breath of wind
sweeps past, and through a rift in the swelling billows of vapour a
glimpse of the seething surface is obtained. It is a sight that alone
repays the labour of a journey thither. And seen as I first saw it, when
thunder rolled overhead, and the heavens were rent from time to time
with the flash of lightning, the wild character of the scene was
enhanced.
Unlike "Hell's half-acre," the third and largest pool is brimful, and
overflows its edges, forming, with the minerals that its waters contain
in solution, a succession of steps and tiny ledges, which entirely
surround it. It is impossible to conceive anything more beautiful than
the colouring here presented. The water is of the purest, brightest
cerulean hue, but near the shallow edges it takes its tone from the
enclosing rocks, and the glorious azure is lost in yellow, pale green,
or red, whilst chemical deposits, in exquisite arrangements, such as the
genius of Nature alone can suggest, of ecru and ivory, lemon and orange,
buff, chocolate, brown, pink, vermilion, bronze, and fawn encircle the
pool, or paint with ribbon-like effect the tiny streams that trickle
from its overflow. Nor is this all. In the transparent curtain of
languid steam--an airy tissue of impossible delicacy, that is gently
wafted across the pine-wood landscape--dim reflections of all these
wondrous colours, slowly dissipating and fading from sight, are visible.
Alas, that anything so lovely should ever fade! The sleepy stillness,
the appearance of profound depth, and the moist brilliancy of colouring
in this pool defy description. The brush of the greatest artist, the pen
of the finest writer would alike be laid aside in despair, and the
genius of man forced to bow before the power of Nature, were it tasked
to convey a faithful picture of the fantastic beauty of this unearthly
scene.
Passing on through a pine forest, seared and blackened by recent fires,
and through the Middle Geyser Basin, with its columns of steam, its
subterraneous rumblings, its hollow echoing of our horses' trampling,
its hissing craters, and its bubbling springs (lying sometimes within a
few feet of the track), we entered the Upper Basin towards evening.
Imagine the head of a valley walled in by pine-clad hills, and threaded
by a stream that rushes through a bottom of desert white, dotted by
clumps of pine-trees, from amidst which dense columns of steam rise on
all sides and tower into the heavens. All evidences of the storm had
cleared, and sinking amidst gold and purple clouds, the sun shed a fiery
glow through the trees upon the ridges, that caused each twig--almost I
had said each pine-needle--to stand out clearly against the sky. As we
crossed the stream and mounted the opposite bank, a vast body of steam,
followed by a jet of water 160 feet high, shot up into the air at the
further end of the basin.
"There goes 'Old Faithful'!" exclaimed Dick; "the only reliable geyser
in the Park. You can always bet on seeing him every sixty-five minutes."
Already encamped here, we found a large party of ladies and gentlemen
from Boston, who were travelling through the Park. They informed us that
the "Giantess" (perhaps the finest, but certainly the most capricious
geyser of all) was expected to play in the morning, and the "Castle" to
perform the next evening. There are nine principal geysers, namely, the
Giant, Giantess, Castle, Grand, Beehive, Comet, Fan, Grotto, and Old
Faithful. With the exception of the Grotto (which simply churns and
makes an uproar), one or other of these tremendous fountains may be
expected to cast a stream of water from one to two or even three hundred
feet high into the air at any moment.
All geysers have not the same action, and most of them, in style of
action, in the duration of their eruptions, and in the intervals that
elapse between them, are apt individually to vary. Some play with
laboured pumping, others throw a steady jet, some wear themselves out in
a single effort, others subside only to commence again repeatedly. Thus
an eruption may extend from two to twenty minutes--the approximate time
occupied by the Grand--or even to one hour and twenty minutes, a period
that the Giant has been known to play.
The colours that tinge the edges of some craters, and stain the courses
of the streams which they send forth, are indescribably beautiful. The
snowy whiteness of the grounding is relieved by dainty buffs, pale
pinks, and softest ecrus, deep yellows shot with brown, orange streaked
with vermilion, or straying into crimson, chocolate merging into black,
and interlined with lemon--by colours, in fact, run riot, and all
glistening wet beneath the clearest crystal water, that in the centre of
the crater deepens into a heavenly blue. From such brilliancy it is a
relief to turn to the sullen pines upon the hills.
Extinct domes and craters overgrown by flourishing trees, or mounds
still bare, and even steaming, with otherwise only their immense size to
attest the mighty power that formed and has capriciously deserted them,
are found here and there amongst those known still to be active. Some
of the more modern craters are surrounded by the skeleton trunks of
trees that their eruptions have killed, and which, under the action of
their mineral waters, are rapidly becoming petrified; whilst in the
conflict betwixt desolation and verdure, which, owing to the frequent
variation of the centres of action, is constantly in progress, the lowly
bunch-grass steals ground wherever it dared draw a blade.
Of the geysers whose eruptions we witnessed, the Grand was, I think, one
of the most interesting. It played each evening at a regular hour. We
were thus enabled to get comfortably into front seats, focus our
glasses, and discuss the programme, as it were, before the performance
commenced. This it did very abruptly, although the activity displayed at
a small vent-hole, and the furious bubbling in another orifice connected
with it, might be accepted as premonitory symptoms. Suddenly, with a
single prefatory spurt, a vast column of water, over 200 feet high, was
shot into the air. For a few minutes the pressure was maintained with
unrelaxed vigour, then as suddenly it ceased, and the waters shrank back
out of sight in the crater. Meanwhile the vent and cauldron were still
furiously labouring, and subterraneous thunder shook the ground on which
we stood. After a minute's cessation, the water burst forth again
without warning, and with even greater violence. This continued until
nine successive pulsations had occurred, the later efforts, however,
perceptibly diminishing in grandeur.
It was a marvellous sight. The maddened rush of scalding water breaking
free for a moment from its mysterious captivity, the gigantic columns of
dense vapour, the showers of wreathed spray and crystal darts, forming,
as they fell, screen upon screen of dazzling trellis-work, the
lance-like jets pennoned with puffs of steam, the underground reports,
the wondrous effects of the evening sun upon the silver spears that with
lightning rapidity flashed forth and were shivered, broke and reformed
again, the rainbow that shone through the slowly drifting masses of
gauzy mist, the glitter and softness, passion and repose, formed a scene
in which majestic fury was oddly mingled with the frailest loveliness.
The packers and teamsters were right: "The Yellowstone Park and them
geysers were jest indescribable." Over and over again was the admission
forced from us, and not least heartily when, in the dim valley at
night, the ghostly columns of vapour were seen winding from amidst
impenetrable shadows and invading the silent heavens, whilst the rush
and splashing of those mighty fountains from time to time broke the
stillness of the breathless hours.
Slightly removed from the main group here is one of minor importance,
containing, nevertheless, objects of considerable interest. Chief
amongst these is the Golconda spring. In some respects this is one of
the most striking features in the Upper Basin. It lies in the hollow of
banks that form an exact representation of an inverted horse-hoof. By
tiny terraces (the creation of deposits contained in its heavily charged
waters) the stream issues from the frog of the hoof, and spreads over a
large surface on its shallow course to the river. There is a strange
fascination in striving to pierce the profound, pellucid, and brilliant
depths of this extraordinary spring. Somewhat akin the feeling is to
that which impels us to gaze and gaze into some deep ravine. One could
stand for hours here, tracing the ivory cliffs bathed in what seems to
be a pool of melted sapphires--down, down, down to where the gleaming
waters grow black and awesome, and the creamy rocks contracting, lose
their fantastic imagery, and mass in mystery to form the gloomy portals
of a lower world.
As a game country the Yellowstone Park is a mistake. You may kill a few
antelope, an occasional elk, or deer; it would not be impossible to
happen on a stray bear or bison; but to go there merely for game is to
court disappointment. Besides which, hunting is restricted in the Park.
Beyond its boundaries, good game countries are easy of access; within
them, summer tourists have scared away all the game.[3] Nevertheless, it
is always possible to kill enough birds and antelope to vary the camp
fare. It is a delightful climate there in summer, and a glorious country
for gipsying. He must be hard to please who would tire soon of those
cool, dim pine woods and grassy glades, where the chipmunk and squirrel
curiously reconnoitre you, and the odour of pine-sap is heavy on the
air; where the breeze from without penetrates only in softened and
saddened murmurous tones, that, in rising and falling, seem to come
from so far away, to linger so short a while near you, and to die so
slowly away in the unexplored aisles of the forest.
On we used to ride silently over the thick carpet of pine-quills,
smoking pipe after pipe whilst we chatted unrestrainedly, or travelled
back lazily over the past and its scenes in thought. From time to time
we would halt, till the waggon wheels were heard creaking in the
distance, and then pass on again ahead of the men. Occasionally the
scene changed for a stream-threaded valley, full of beaver-dams, near
which a few ducks sailed idly, in security, to the intense excitement of
the wise-looking retriever, "Shot," who would glance from them to us
with unmistakable meaning. Here the pine yielded place to the aspen, and
the chipmunk and squirrel were succeeded by gorgeous butterflies, and
red-winged grasshoppers that sprang away with a noisy clapping of wings
from every tuft of grass beneath our horses' hoofs. At night, round a
blazing camp fire, Dick, old Brown, B., and I would sit talking through
many a pleasant hour, till the flames waxed low and red, and the
vociferous snoring of the teamster and his cub warned us to turn in.
Brown then "got off" his last tale or joke, and with a hearty "good
night" we sought our couches of springy pine-tops and buffalo robes,
where we slept the calm sleep of a natural life. What silver-lit skies
spread above us; what a marvellous blue their fathomless depths
embosomed; and how exquisitely delicate was the tracery of pine-boughs
betwixt us and the late-rising moon! "Good night, good night!" And with
a lazy yawn "Shot" would coil himself up close to me, and make himself
comfortable for the night also.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Appeared originally in the _Nineteenth Century_.
[2] The "terminus" is whichever village on the railway the speaker
happens to frequent.
[3] This was written in 1882. Since then hide hunters have completed
their ruthless destruction of game in the western country, and the
chance of finding any anywhere is now very small. I believe also that
the Park has become a regular tourist resort, furnished with railways,
hotels, etc., and hunting there is now altogether forbidden.