past—hunter as he was!—to go unscathed. His hands, rigid as those of
“the Commandant” in the statue-scene of Mozart’s “Don Giovanni,” dropped
the reins of his horse, and allowed him to travel as he pleased. The
half-breed who attended him, wrapped himself round in his blanket, and
heaved a sigh at the thought of the fine venison that was being lost. At
length, a troop of some three thousand swept almost over them, and Mr.
Ruxton’s instincts as a sportsman prevailed over the inertness and
deadness induced by the icy air; he sprang from his horse, knelt down,
and sent a bullet right into the midst. At the report two antelopes
leaped into the air, to fall prostrate in the dust; one of them shot in
the neck, through which the ball had passed into the body of the other.
While he was cutting up the prize, half a dozen wolves howled around,
drawn to the spot by the scent of blood. A couple of these creatures,
tamed by hunger, gradually drew nearer, occasionally crouching on their
haunches, and licking their eager lips as if already partaking of the
banquet. Mr. Ruxton flung at them a large piece of meat; whereupon the
whole pack threw themselves upon it, growling and fighting, and actually
tearing each other in the wild, fierce fray. “I am sure,” says our
traveller, “I might have approached near enough to have seized one by the
tail, so entirely regardless of my vicinity did they appear. They were
doubtless rendered more ravenous than usual by the uncommon severity of
the weather, and from the fact of the antelope congregating in large
bands, were unable to prey upon these animals, which are their favourite
food. Although rarely attacking a man, yet in such seasons as the
present I have no doubt that they would not hesitate to charge upon a
solitary traveller in the night, particularly as in winter they
congregate in troops of from ten to fifty. They are so abundant in the
mountains, that the hunter takes no notice of them, and seldom throws
away upon the skulking beasts a charge of powder and lead.”
Mr. Ruxton pitched his camp at Rib Creek one night; at La Culebra, or
Snake Creek, the next; at La Trinchera, or Bowl Creek, on the third. The
cold continued excessive. The blast seemed to carry death upon its
wings; snow and sleet fell in heavy showers; the streams were covered
with a solid crust of ice. But the worst part of the journey was through
the Vallerito, or Little Valley—the “Wind-trap,” as the mountaineers
expressively call it—a small circular basin in the midst of rugged
mountains, which receives the winds through their deep gorges and down
their precipitous sides, and pens them up in its confined area to battle
with one another, and with the unfortunates who are forced to traverse
it. How they beat and rage and howl and roar! How they buffet the
traveller in the face, and clasp him round the body as if they would
strangle him! How they dash against the stumbling mules, and whirl the
thick snow about them, and plunge them into dense deep drifts, where they
lie half buried! This “Wind-trap” is only four miles long; and yet Mr.
Ruxton was more than half a day in getting through it.
Once clear of it, he began the ascent of the mountain which forms the
watershed of the Del Norte and Arkansas rivers. The view from the summit
was as wild and drear as one of the circles in Dante’s “Inferno.”
Looking back, the traveller saw everywhere a dense white pall or shroud
of snow, which seemed to conceal but partially the rigid limbs of the
dead and frozen earth. In front of him stretched the main chain of the
Rocky Mountains, dominated by the lofty crest of James’s or Pike’s Peak;
to the south-east, large against the sky, loomed the grim bulk of the two
Cumbres Españolas. At his feet, a narrow valley, green with dwarf oak
and pine, was brightened by the glancing lights of a little stream.
Everywhere against the horizon rose rugged summits and ridges, snow-clad
and pine-clad, and partly separated by rocky gorges. To the eastward the
mountain mass fell off into detached spires and buttresses, and descended
in broken terraces to the vast prairies, which extended far beyond the
limit of vision, “a sea of seeming barrenness, vast and dismal.” As the
traveller gazed upon them, billows of dust swept over the monotonous
surface, impelled by a driving hurricane. Soon the mad wind reached the
mountain-top, and splintered the tall pines, and roared and raved in its
insatiable fury, and filled the air with great whirls of snow, and heaped
it up in dazzling drifts against the trees. Its stern voice made the
silence and the solitude all the more palpable. For not a sound of bird
or beast was to be heard; nor was there sign or token of human life. In
such a scene man is made to feel his own littleness. In the presence of
the giant forces of Nature he seems so mean and powerless that his heart
sinks within him, and his brain grows dizzy, until he remembers that
behind those forces is a Power, eternal and supreme—a Power that seeks
not to destroy, but to bless and comfort and save.
With no little difficulty, Mr. Ruxton and his guide conveyed their mules
and horses down the steep eastern side of the mountain into the valley
beneath. Across Greenhorn Creek they pushed forward to the banks of the
San Carlos; and fourteen miles beyond, they struck the Arkansas, a few
hundred yards above the mouth of Boiling Spring River. There he was
hospitably entertained in the “lodge” of a certain mountaineer and
ex-trapper, John Hawkins.
The home and haunt of the trapper is the vast region of forest and
prairie known as the Far West. He extends his operations from the
Mississippi to the mouth of the western Colorado, from the frozen wastes
of the north to the Gila in Mexico; making war against every animal whose
skin or fur is of any value, and exhibiting in its pursuit the highest
powers of endurance and tenacity, a reckless courage, and an
inexhaustible fertility of resource. On starting for a hunt, whether as
the “hired hand” of a fur company, or working on his own account, he
provides himself with two or three horses or mules—one for saddle, the
others for packs—and six traps, which are carried in a leather bag called
a “trap-sack.” In a wallet of dressed buffalo-skin, called a
“possible-sack,” he carries his ammunition, a few pounds of tobacco, and
dressed deerskins for mocassins and other articles. When hunting, he
loads his saddle mule with the “possible” and “trap-sack;” the furs are
packed on the baggage mules. His costume is a hunting shirt of dressed
buckskin, ornamented with long fringes; and pantaloons of the same
material, but decorated with porcupine quills and long fringes down the
outside of the leg. His head bears a flexible felt hat; his feet are
protected by mocassins. Round his neck is slung his pipe-holder,
generally a love token, in the shape of a heart, garnished with beads and
porcupine quills. Over his left shoulder and under his right arm hang
his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which are stored his balls, flint
and steel, and all kinds of “odds and ends.” A large butcher-knife, in a
sheath of buffalo-hide, is carried in a belt, and fastened to it by a
chain or guard of steel. A tomahawk is also often added, and a long
heavy rifle is necessarily included in the equipment.
Thus provided (we quote now from Mr. Ruxton), and having determined the
locality of his trapping-ground, he starts for the mountains, sometimes
with three or four companions, as soon as the worst of the winter has
passed. When he reaches his hunting-grounds, he follows up the creeks
and streams, vigilantly looking out for “sign.” If he observes a
cotton-wood tree lying prone, he examines it to discover if its fall be
the work of the beaver; and, if so, whether “thrown” for the purpose of
food, or to dam the stream, and raise the water to a level with its
burrow. The track of the beaver on the mud or sand under the bank is
also examined; and if the “sign” be fresh, he sets his trap in the run of
the animal, hiding it under water, and attaching it by a stout chain to a
picket driven in the bank, or to a bush or tree. A “float-stick” is
fastened to the trap by a cord a few feet long, which, if the animal
carry away the trap, floats on the water and indicates its position. The
trap is baited with the “medicine,” an oily substance obtained from a
gland in the scrotum of the beaver. Into this is dipped a stick, which
is planted over the trap; and the beaver, attracted by the smell, and
wishing a close inspection, very foolishly puts his leg into the trap,
and falls a victim to his curiosity.
When “a lodge” is discovered, the trap is set at the edge of the dam, at
the point where the amphibious animals pass from deep to shoal water, but
always beneath the surface. In early morning the hunter mounts his mule,
and examines his traps. The captured animals are skinned, and the tails,
a great dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin is then stretched
over a hoop or framework of osier twigs, and is allowed to dry, the flesh
and fatty substance being industriously scraped or “grained.” When dry,
it is folded into a square sheet, with the fur turned inwards, and the
bundle of ten to twenty skins, well pressed and carefully corded, is
ready for exportation.
During the hunt, regardless of Indian vicinity, the fearless trapper
wanders far and near in search of “sign.” His nerves must always be in a
state of tension; his energies must always rally at his call. His eagle
eye sweeps round the country, and in an instant detects any unusual
appearance. A turned leaf, a blade of grass pressed down, the uneasiness
of the wild animals, the flight of birds, are all paragraphs to him,
written in Nature’s legible hand and plainest language. The subtle
savage summons his utmost craft and cunning to gain an advantage over the
wily white woodman; but, along with the natural instinct of primitive
man, the white hunter has the advantages of the civilized mind, and, thus
provided, seldom fails to baffle, under equal advantages, his Indian
adversary.
* * * * *
While hunting in the Arkansas valley, Mr. Ruxton met with many exciting
experiences; the most serious being that of a night in the snow.
Suspecting that some Indians had carried off his mules, he seized his
rifle, and went in search of them, and coming upon what he supposed to be
their track, followed it up with heroic patience for ten miles. He then
discovered that he had made a mistake; retraced his steps to the camp,
and, with his friend, struck in another direction. This time he hit on
the right trail, and was well pleased to find that the animals were not
in Indian hands, as their ropes evidently still dragged along the ground.
Carrying a lariat and saddle-blanket, so as to ride back on the mules if
they were caught, away went the two dauntless hunters, nor did they stop
to rest until midnight. Then, in the shelter of a thicket and on the
bank of a stream, they kindled a fire, and thankfully lay down within
reach of its genial influence. Alas! a gale of wind at that moment
arose, and scattering the blazing brands to right and left, soon ignited
the dry grass and bushes; so that, to prevent a general conflagration,
they were compelled to extinguish their fire. To prevent themselves from
being frozen to death, they started again in pursuit of the missing
animals, following the trail by moonlight across the bare cold prairies.
Next day their labours were rewarded by the recovery of the mules, and
Mr. Ruxton and his Irish companion began to think of returning. The
latter, by agreement, made at once for the trapper’s cabin; Ruxton, with
the animals, turned off in search of some provisions and packs that had
been left in their hunting encampment. Since morning the sky had
gradually clouded over, and towards sunset had blackened into a dense,
heavy, rolling darkness. The wind had gone down, and a dead, unnatural
calm, the sure precursor of a storm, reigned over the face of nature.
The coyote, mindful of the coming disturbance, was trotting back to his
burrow, and the raven, with swift wings, laboured towards the shelter of
the woods.
Lower and lower sank the clouds, until the very bases of the mountains
were hidden, and the firmament and the earth seemed mingled together.
Though neither branch nor spray was stirred, the valley rang with a
hoarse murmur. Through the gloom the leafless branches of the huge
cotton-wood trees protruded like the gaunt arms of fleshless phantoms.
The whole scene was eery and weird, impressing the mind with an
indefinable sense of awe, with an apprehension of approaching disaster.
The traveller turned his animals towards the covert of the wood; and
they, quivering with terror, were not less eager than himself to gain it.
Two-thirds of the distance still lay before them, when the windows of
heaven opened, and the storm broke, and a tremendous roar filled the
valley, and thick showers of sleet descended, freezing as it fell. The
lonely traveller’s hunting-shirt was soaked through in a moment, and in
another moment frozen hard. The enormous hailstones, beating on his
exposed head and face—for the wind had carried away his cap—almost
stunned and blinded him. The mule he bestrode was suddenly caparisoned
with a sheet of ice. To ride was impossible. He sprang to the ground,
and wrapped himself in the saddle-cloth. As the storm beat in front of
them, the animals wheeled away from the wood, turned their backs upon it,
and made for the open prairies; still, through the intense darkness,
whirled and buffeted in clouds of driving snow, Mr. Ruxton steadfastly
followed them. His sufferings were indescribable; but he persevered.
The wind chilled his blood; the sleet wounded his eyes; with difficulty
his weary feet toiled through the gathering snow, which was soon two feet
in depth; but he persevered. This quality of tenaciousness, without
which no man can become a successful traveller, any more than he can
become a successful musician, painter, sculptor, engineer, Mr. Ruxton
possessed in an eminent degree. He pursued the frightened animals across
the darkening prairie, until, suddenly, on the leeward side of a tuft of
bushes, they stood still. Some vain attempts he made to turn them
towards the wood; they would not move; so that at length, completely
exhausted, and seeing before him nothing but inevitable death, he sank
down behind them in the deep snow, covering his head with his blanket—far
away from human habitation,—far away from all help, but that of God!
Ah, what a night was that! How the wind roared over the frozen plain!
How the snow rolled before it in dense huge billows, that took in the
darkness a sombre greyish colour! What horrible sounds surged upon the
ear and brain of the benumbed watcher, as, with his head on his knees,
pressed down by the snow as by a leaden weight, with the chilled blood
scarcely flowing in his veins, and an icy torpor threatening to arrest
the very motion of his heart, he struggled against the temptation of a
slumber from which he knew that he should wake no more on earth! Once
yield to that fatal sleep, and farewell to life! Yet how he longed to
close his aching eyes, to rest his weary brain, to cease from the tumult
of thought and feeling that confused and exhausted him! Every now and
then the mules would groan heavily, and fall upon the snow, and again
struggle to their legs. Every now and then the yell of famished wolves
arose in the pauses of the storm. So passed the night, or, rather, to
the hunter it seemed as if it were prolonging itself into day; each
second was lengthened into a minute, each minute into an hour. At last,
by keeping his hands buried in the bosom of his hunting-shirt, he so far
restored their natural warmth, that he was able to strike a match and set
light to his pipe, a large one made of cotton-wood bark, that chanced, by
great good fortune, to be filled with tobacco to the brim. This he
smoked with intense delight, and no doubt the stimulus it afforded saved
his life.
He was sinking, however, into a dreamy drowsiness, when he was roused by
a movement among the mules, which cheered him by proving that they were
still alive. With some difficulty he lifted his head to get a look at
the weather, but all was pitch dark. Was it still night? Suddenly he
remembered that he was buried deep in snow, and thrusting his arm above
him, he worked out a hole, through which he could see the sheen of stars
and the glimmer of blue sky. After one or two efforts, he contrived to
stand on his feet, and then he discovered that morning was dawning slowly
in the east, whore the horizon was clear of clouds. By dint of constant
exertion he regained the use of his limbs, and, springing on his horse,
drove the mules before him at full speed across the prairie, and through
the valley, until he reached the Arkansas, where he was welcomed as one
who had risen from the grave. It took him two days, however, to recover
from the effects of that fearful night among the snow.
One of Mr. Ruxton’s most agreeable excursions was to the Boiling Spring
River and the Boiling Fountains, which he found to be situated in the
midst of picturesque combinations of wood and rock. These celebrated
springs issue from round holes in a large, flat white rock, at some
distance from each other; the gas escapes with a hissing sound, like that
of water in a state of ebullition; and the taste is peculiarly
refreshing, like that of, but seeming more pungent than, the very best
soda-water. The Indians call them the “medicine” springs, and regard
them with superstitious reverence as the haunts of a spirit, who, by
breathing through the transparent fluid, causes the perturbation of its
surface. As to this water-spirit the Arapahoes attribute the power of
preventing the success or bringing about the failure of their war
expeditions, they never pass the springs without leaving there some
propitiatory offerings, such as beads, wampum, knives, pieces of red
cloth, strips of deerskin, and mocassins. The country round about was
formerly in the hands of the Shoshone, or Snake Indians, of whom the
Comanches are a branch: the latter now dwell to the east of the Rocky
Mountains; the former to the west, or in the recesses of the mountains
themselves.
The Snake Indians connect a curious legend with these two springs of
sweet and bitter water.
They say that, hundreds of years ago, when the cotton-wood trees on the
Rio Colorado were no higher than arrows, and the red man hunted the
buffalo on the plains, all people spoke the same language, and two
parties of hunters never met without smoking together the pipe of peace.
In this happy age, it chanced on one occasion that a couple of hunters,
belonging to different tribes, met on the bank of a small rivulet, in
which they designed to quench their thirst. A bright clear thread of
water, trickling from a spring in a rock a few feet from the bank, it
wound its silvery way into the river. Now, while one of the hunters
threw himself at once on the ground, and plunged his face into the
running stream, the other first flung from his back a fine deer, and
then, turning towards the spring, poured some of the water out as a
libation to the Great Spirit, who had rewarded his prowess with bow and
arrow, and caused the fountain to flow, at which he was about to refresh
himself.
And it came to pass that the other hunter, who had killed no fat buck,
and had forgotten to make the usual peace-offering, felt his heart swell
with rage and jealousy; and the Evil Spirit taking possession of him, he
sought for an excuse to quarrel with the stranger Indian. Rising to his
feet with a moody frown upon his brow, he exclaimed—
“Why does a stranger drink at the spring-head, when one to whom the
spring belongs is content to drink of the water that runs from it?”
“The Great Spirit,” replied the other, “places the cool water at the
spring, that his children may drink it pure and undefiled. The running
water is for the beasts that inhabit the plains. Au-sa-qua is a chief of
the Shoshone, and he drinks at the head of the waters.”
“The Shoshone,” answered the first speaker, “is but a tribe of the
Comanche. Wa-co-mish is the chief of the great nation. Why does a
Shoshone dare to drink above him?”
“He has said it. The Shoshone drinks at the spring-head; let other
nations be satisfied with the water of the stream that runs into the
fields. Au-sa-qua is chief of his nation. The Comanche are brothers;
let them both drink of the same water.”
“The Shoshone pays tribute to the Comanche. Wa-co-mish leads that nation
to war. Wa-co-mish is chief of the Shoshone, as he is of his own
people.”
“Wa-co-mish lies,” said Au-sa-qua coldly; “his tongue is forked like the
rattlesnake’s; his heart is as black as the Misho-tunga (evil spirit).
When the Manitou made his children, whether Shoshone or Comanche,
Arapaho, Shi-an, or Pá-ui, he gave them buffalo to eat, and the pure
water of the crystal fountain to quench their thirst. He said not to
one, ‘Drink here,’ or to the other, ‘Drink there,’ but gave to all the
bright clear fountain, that all might drink.”
A tempest of fury swept over the soul of Wa-comish as he listened to
these words; but he was a coward at heart, and durst not openly encounter
the cooler and more courageous Shoshone. But when the latter, hot with
speaking, again stooped to drink of the refreshing waters, Wa-co-mish
suddenly threw himself upon him, pressed his head beneath the surface,
and held it there, until his victim, suffocated, ceased to struggle, and
fell forward into the spring, dead.
The murderer had satisfied his passion; but was he happy? No; as he
gazed at the corpse of his victim, he was seized with a passionate sense
of remorse and regret. Loathing himself for the crime he had committed,
he proceeded to drag the body a few paces from the water, which,
thereupon, was suddenly disturbed. The wave trembled to and fro, and
bubbles, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. And, as a
vaporous cloud gradually rose and sank, the figure of an aged Indian was
revealed to the murderer’s straining eyes, whom, by his noble
countenance, his long sinewy hand, and his silvery beard, he knew to be
the great Wau-kan-aga, the father of the Shoshone and Comanche nation,
still remembered and revered for the good deeds and the heroic acts he
had done in life.
Stretching out a war-club towards the shrinking, trembling Wa-co-mish, he
said:
“Accursed of my tribe! this day hast thou snapt the link that bound
together the mightiest nations of the world, while the blood of the brave
Shoshone cries to the Manitou for vengeance. May the water of thy tribe
be rank and bitter in their throats!” And, swinging round his ponderous
war-club, he dashed out the brains of the treacherous Comanche, so that
he fell headlong into the spring, which, from that day, has ever been
nauseous to the taste, and an offence to thirsty lips. But at the same
time, to preserve the memory of the noble Au-sa-qua, he struck a hard
flint rock, higher up the rivulet, with his club, and called forth a
fountain of crystal water, which, even in our own times, is the joy and
the delight of men.
“Never,” says Mr. Ruxton, “never was there such a paradise for hunters as
this lone and solitary spot. The shelving prairie, at the bottom of
which the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by rugged
mountains, and, containing perhaps about two or three acres of excellent
grass, affords a safe pasture to their animals, which would hardly care
to wander from such feeding. Immediately overhead, Pike’s Peak, at an
elevation of 12,000 feet above the level of the sea, towers high into the
clouds; whilst from the fountain, like a granitic amphitheatre, ridge
after ridge, clothed with pine and cedar, rises and meets the stupendous
mass of mountains, well called ‘Rocky,’ which stretches far away north
and southward, their gigantic peaks being visible above the strata of
clouds which hide their rugged bases.”
* * * * *
But here our companionship with Mr. Ruxton ceases. His travels in the
United States do not present any uncommon or remarkable feature; do not
differ from those of the thousand and one sightseers who yearly cross the
Atlantic, and survey the broad territories of the great Western Republic.
With a small party he crossed the wide-rolling prairies to Fort
Leavenworth; thence, passing the Kansas or Caro river, and entering upon
a picturesque country of hill and dale, well wooded and watered, he
penetrated into the valley of the Missouri. Down that noble stream he
made his way to St. Louis, and afterwards traversed the prairies of
Illinois to Chicago; not then, as it is now, the capital of the West, and
the great corn depôt of the Mississippi States. From Chicago he crossed
Lake Michigan to Kalamazoo, where he took the rail to Detroit. A
Canadian steamer conveyed him to Buffalo. Thence, by rail, he travelled
to Albany, and descended the majestic Hudson to New York. His home
voyage was swift and prosperous, and he arrived at Liverpool in the
middle of August, 1847. {89}
DOCTOR BARTH,
AND CENTRAL AFRICA.
A.D. 1850.
I.