We now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still
acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the
ground in advance. Although the four of us might have defended
ourselves against four times our number of Indian enemies, we were
passing through apart of the country, where, if Indians were to be met
at all, it would be in large bands or "war-parties." The Arkansas heads
in that peculiar section of the Rocky Mountain chain known as the
"Parks"--a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of
fur-trading and trapping--the arena of a greater number of adventures--
of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes--than perhaps any other
spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe. Here the great
Cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or "Sierras," over
which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, "Pike's" and
"Long's" Peaks, and the "Wa-to-ya" or "Cumbres Espanolas";--projected
far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of
eternal snow. Between their bases--embosomed amid the most rugged
surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities--lie
_vallees_, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring--watered by
crystal streams--sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the
world. The most noted of these are the Old and New "Parks," and the
"Bayou Salade"--because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of
smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men--the
trappers--who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their
perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver--
its favourite _building ground_.
Over these valley-plains roam "gangs" of the gigantic buffalo; while in
the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and
black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds. On the cliffs that
overhang them, the noble form of the _carnero cimmaron (ovis montana_)--
or, "Bighorn" of the hunters--maybe seen, in bold outline against the
sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly
bear--the most fierce and formidable of American _carnivora_. The red
couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to
contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some
stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black
vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict. Birds of
fairer fame add animation to the scene. The magnificent _meleagris_,
shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a
tempting aim to the hunter's rifle--as it promises to afford him a rich
repast; and the _coq de prairie_, and its gigantic congener the "sage
grouse," whirr up at intervals along the path. The waters have their
denizens, in the grey Canada and white-fronted geese--ducks of numerous
species--the stupid pelican and shy loon--gulls, cormorants, and the
noble swan; while the groves of _alamo_ ring with the music of numerous
bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist.
But no land of peace is this fair region of the Rocky Mountains. There
are parks, but no palaces--there are fertile fields, but none to till
them--for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of
day. The trapper skulks silently along the creek--scarcely trusting
himself to whisper to his companion--and watching warily as he renews
the bait of _castoreum_. The hunter glides with stealthy tread from
copse to copse--dreading the echo of his own rifle. Even the
red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his
kindred--a "hunting" or "war-party." The ground is neutral, as it is
hostile--claimed by many tribes and owned by none. All enter it to hunt
or make war, but none to settle or colonise. From every quarter of the
compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as
there are points upon the card. From the north, the Crow and Sioux;
from the south, the Kiowa, the Comanche, the Jicarilla-Apache--and even
at times the tame Taosa. From the east penetrate, the Cheyenne, the
Pawnee, and Arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters'
paradise, pour the warlike bands of the Utah and Shoshonee. All these
tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or
less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the
deadliest character. Such are the vendettas between Crow and Shoshonee,
Pawnee and Comanche, Utah and Arapaho. Some of the tribe have the
repute of being friendly to the whites. Among these may be mentioned
the Utahs and Crows; while the more dreaded names are Cheyenne, Kiowa,
and Arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted
Blackfeet farther north. In all cases, however, the amity of the
prairie Indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed;
and the trapper--even in Crow or Utah land--is accustomed "to sleep with
one eye open." In past times, Utahs have been more partial to the
pale-faces than most other tribes of North Americans; and in their
territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or "rendezvous," are
situated. At times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters;
and then are the Utahs to be dreaded--more, perhaps, than any other
Indians. In their association with their trapper allies, they have
learnt how to handle--and with skill--that most formidable of weapons,
for partisan warfare--the hunter's rifle.
At the time of which I write, the Utahs were reported to be on good
terms with the whites. The Mormons had done everything to conciliate
them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their
territory with perfect safety. It was chiefly in the passes that led to
the Utahs' country, that danger from Indians was to be apprehended--in
the valleys and ravines above mentioned--where Cheyennes, Comanches,
Pawnees, and Arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the Utahs
themselves.
We were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great
Cordillera. From beyond the Big Timbers, three routes were open to it.
First was the southern route through the Eaton mountains, which leads to
Santa Fe, in New Mexico, and is known as the "Santa Fe trail." I did
not anticipate their taking this one. It was not their design, on
leaving Fort Smith, to pass by Santa Fe--else would they have kept up
the Canadian, by the head of the Llano Estacado; and thence to
California by the Gila. Another route parts from the Arkansas still
higher up--by one of its affluents, the _Fontaine que bouit_. This is
the "Cherokee trail," which, after running north along the eastern slope
of the Rocky Mountains, crosses them by the Cheyenne Pass, and on
through Bridger's Pass into the central valley of the Great Basin.
Neither did I believe that the train would travel by this trail. The
season of the year was against the supposition. In all probability, the
central route of the three would be the one followed--leading from the
Arkansas up the Huerfano river, and through "Robideau's Pass," or that
of the "Sangre de Cristo." Either of these conducts into the valley of
the Rio del Norte; thence by the famed "Coochetopa," or "gate of the
buffaloes," on the head waters of the Western Colorado.
This pass, though long known to the trappers and _ciboleros_ of New
Mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the Pacific; but,
being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both
by Californian and Mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons.
The caravan had left Van Buren with the design of taking this road; but
I knew that the design might be altered by contingencies--hence our
uncertainty.
The Rocky Mountains could be crossed, by following up the Arkansas to
its remotest sources on the southern side of the Bayou Salade; but the
stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass
practicable for wheeled vehicles. Only by mounted men, or pack-mules,
can the Cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not
occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it. At
three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the
Arkansas--near Bent's Old Fort, for the southern route: at the _Fontaine
que bouit_ river, for the northern; and for the central, it should
diverge up the valley of the Huerfano. In any case, our risk would be
unquestionably great. We should have to travel through districts of
country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill
each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where,
though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to _scalp_, after killing
each other, is equally a _mutual_ custom!
Such was the character of the region through which we should have to
travel. No wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before
it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains.
Independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten
on. At first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design
of overtaking the train. They had the _escort_ in their thoughts, and
along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat. But a little
instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from Indians--of
which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance--reconciled them
to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a
pleasing rapidity. Both preferred risking the skin of their backs to
losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear:
since I had promised to _disguise_ them, before bringing them face to
face with the troopers of the escort.
Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much
caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. We made
most way under the friendly shadow of night--sometimes by the light of
the moon--and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our
neighbourhood. Only two of us could ride at a time--the other two
taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well,
as when each has a horse to himself. Our pack-animals gave us little
trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow
in file, and without requiring to be led. We refrained from making
fires, where the ground was unfavourable. Only when we could choose our
camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth
of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we
extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple
_cuisine_. These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely
necessary in a passage across the prairies--at least by a party so small
as ours. Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a
misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be
told.