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LIFE IN THE FAR WEST
by
GEORGE FREDERICK RUXTON
Author of “Travels in Mexico,” &c.
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London.
M.DCCC.XLIX.
Originally Published in Blackwood's Magazine.
John Hughes, Printer, Edinburgh.
THE LATE
GEORGE FREDERICK RUXTON.
The London newspapers of October 1848 contained the mournful tidings
of the death, at St Louis on the Mississippi, and at the early age of
twenty-eight, of Lieutenant George Frederick Ruxton, formerly of her
Majesty's 89th regiment, the author of the following sketches.
Many men, even in the most enterprising periods of our history, have
been made the subjects of elaborate biography, with far less title to
the honour than this lamented young officer. Time was not granted him
to embody in a permanent shape a tithe of his personal experiences
and strange adventures in three quarters of the globe. Considering,
indeed, the amount of physical labour he underwent, and the extent of
the fields over which his wanderings spread, it is almost surprising
he found leisure to write so much. At the early age of seventeen, Mr
Ruxton quitted Sandhurst, to learn the practical part of a soldier's
profession in the civil wars of Spain. He obtained a commission in a
squadron of lancers then attached to the division of General Diego
Leon, and was actively engaged in several of the most important
combats of the campaign. For his marked gallantry on these occasions,
he received from Queen Isabella II., the cross of the first class of
the order of St Fernando, an honour which has seldom been awarded to
one so young. On his return from Spain he found himself gazetted to a
commission in the 89th regiment; and it was whilst serving with that
distinguished corps in Canada that he first became acquainted with
the stirring scenes of Indian life, which he has since so graphically
portrayed. His eager and enthusiastic spirit soon became wearied with
the monotony of the barrack-room; and, yielding to that impulse which
in him was irresistibly developed, he resigned his commission, and
directed his steps towards the stupendous wilds, tenanted only by the
red Indian, or by the solitary American trapper.
Those familiar with Mr Ruxton's writings cannot fail to have remarked
the singular delight with which he dwells upon the recollections of
this portion of his career, and the longing which he carried with him,
to the hour of his death, for a return to those scenes of primitive
freedom. “Although liable to an accusation of barbarism,” he writes,
“I must confess that the very happiest moments of my life have been
spent in the wilderness of the Far West; and I never recall, but with
pleasure, the remembrance of my solitary camp in the Bayou Salade,
with no friend near me more faithful than my rifle, and no companions
more sociable than my good horse and mules, or the attendant cayute
which nightly serenaded us. With a plentiful supply of dry pine-logs
on the fire, and its cheerful blaze streaming far up into the sky,
illuminating the valley far and near, and exhibiting the animals,
with well-filled bellies, standing contentedly at rest over their
picket-fire, I would sit cross-legged, enjoying the genial warmth,
and, pipe in mouth, watch the blue smoke as it curled upwards,
building castles in its vapoury wreaths, and, in the fantastic shapes
it assumed, peopling the solitude with figures of those far away.
Scarcely, however, did I ever wish to change such hours of freedom for
all the luxuries of civilised life; and, unnatural and extraordinary
as it may appear, yet such is the fascination of the life of the
mountain hunter, that I believe not one instance could be adduced of
even the most polished and civilised of men, who had once tasted the
sweets of its attendant liberty, and freedom from every worldly care,
not regretting the moment when he exchanged it for the monotonous life
of the settlements, nor sighing and sighing again once more to partake
of its pleasures and allurements.”
On his return to Europe from the Far West, Mr Ruxton, animated with
a spirit as enterprising and fearless as that of Raleigh, planned
a scheme for the exploration of Central Africa, which was thus
characterised by the president of the Royal Geographical Society, in
his anniversary address for 1845:—“To my great surprise, I recently
conversed with an ardent and accomplished youth, Lieutenant Ruxton,
late of the 89th regiment, who had formed the daring project of
traversing Africa in the parallel of the southern tropic, and has
actually started for this purpose. Preparing himself by previous
excursions on foot, in North Africa and Algeria, he sailed from
Liverpool early in December last, in the Royalist, for Ichaboe. From
that spot he was to repair to Walvish Bay, where we have already
mercantile establishments. The intrepid traveller had received from
the agents of these establishments such favourable accounts of the
nations towards the interior, as also of the nature of the climate,
that he has the most sanguine hopes of being able to penetrate to the
central region, if not of traversing it to the Portuguese colonies
of Mozambique. If this be accomplished, then indeed will Lieutenant
Ruxton have acquired for himself a permanent name among British
travellers, by making us acquainted with the nature of the axis of the
great continent of which we possess the southern extremity.”
In pursuance of this hazardous scheme, Ruxton, with a single
companion, landed on the coast of Africa, a little to the south of
Ichaboe, and commenced his journey of exploration. But it seemed as
if both nature and man had combined to baffle the execution of his
design. The course of their travel lay along a desert of moving sand,
where no water was to be found, and little herbage, save a coarse
tufted grass, and twigs of the resinous myrrh. The immediate place
of their destination was Angra Peguena, on the coast, described as
a frequented station, but which in reality was deserted. One ship
only was in the offing when the travellers arrived, and, to their
inexpressible mortification, they discovered that she was outward
bound. No trace was visible of the river or streams laid down in
the maps as falling into the sea at this point, and no resource was
left to the travellers save that of retracing their steps—a labour
for which their strength was hardly adequate. But for the opportune
assistance of a body of natives, who encountered them at the very
moment when they were sinking from fatigue and thirst, Ruxton and his
companion would have been added to the long catalogue of those whose
lives have been sacrificed in the attempt to explore the interior of
that fatal country.
The jealousy of the traders, and of the missionaries settled on the
African coast, who constantly withheld or perverted that information
which was absolutely necessary for the successful prosecution of the
journey, induced Ruxton to abandon the attempt for the present. He
made, however, several interesting excursions towards the interior,
and more especially in the country of the Bosjesmans.
Finding his own resources inadequate for the accomplishment of
his favourite project, Mr Ruxton, on his return to England, made
application for Government assistance. But though this demand was
not altogether refused, it having been referred to the Council of
the Royal Geographical Society, and favourably reported upon by that
body, so many delays interposed that Ruxton, in disgust, resolved
to withdraw from the scheme, and to abandon that field of African
research which he had already contemplated from its borders. He next
bent his steps to Mexico; and, fortunately, has presented to the world
his reminiscences of that country, in one of the most fascinating
volumes which, of late years, has issued from the press. It would,
however, appear that the African scheme, the darling project of his
life, had again recurred to him at a later period; for, in the course
of the present spring, before setting out on that journey which was
destined to be his last, the following expressions occur in one of his
letters:—
“My movements are uncertain, for I am trying to get up a yacht
voyage to Borneo and the Indian Archipelago; have volunteered
to Government to explore Central Africa; and the Aborigines
Protection Society wish me to go out to Canada to organise the
Indian tribes; whilst, for my own part and inclination, I wish to
go to all parts of the world at once.”
As regards the volume to which this notice serves as Preface, the
editor does not hesitate to express a very high opinion of its merits.
Written by a man untrained to literature, and whose life, from
boy-hood upwards, was passed in the field and on the road, in military
adventure and travel, its style is yet often as remarkable for graphic
terseness and vigour, as its substance every where is for great
novelty and originality. The narrative of “Life in the Far West” was
first offered for insertion in _Blackwood's Magazine_ in the spring
of 1848, when the greater portion of the manuscript was sent, and the
remainder shortly followed. During its publication in that periodical,
the wildness of the adventures related excited suspicions in certain
quarters as to their actual truth and fidelity. It may interest the
reader to know that the scenes described are pictures from life,
the results of the author's personal experience. The following are
extracts from letters addressed by him, in the course of last summer,
to the conductors of the Magazine above named:—
“I have brought out a few more softening traits in the characters
of the mountaineers—but not at the sacrifice of truth—for some of
them have their good points; which, as they are rarely allowed
to rise to the surface, must be laid hold of at once before they
sink again. Killbuck—that 'old hos' _par exemple_, was really
pretty much of a gentleman, as was La Bonté. Bill Williams,
another 'hard case,' and Rube Herring, were 'some' too.
“The scene where La Bonté joins the Chase family is so far true,
that he did make a sudden appearance; but, in reality, a day
before the Indian attack. The Chases (and I wish I had not given
the proper name[1]) did start for the Platte alone, and were
stampedoed upon the waters of the Platte.
“The Mexican fandango _is true to the letter_. It does seem
difficult to understand how they contrived to keep their
knives out of the hump-ribs of the mountaineers; but how
can you account for the fact, that, the other day, 4000 Mexicans,
with 13 pieces of artillery, behind strong entrenchments and
two lines of parapets, were routed by 900 raw Missourians; 300
killed, as many more wounded, all their artillery captured, as
well as several hundred prisoners; and that not one American was
killed in the affair? _This is positive fact._
“I myself, with three trappers, cleared a fandango at Taos, armed
only with bowie-knives—some score Mexicans, at least, being in
the room.
“With regard to the incidents of Indian attacks, starvation,
cannibalism, &c., I have invented not one out of my own head.
They are all matters of history in the mountains; but I have, no
doubt, jumbled the _dramatis personæ_ one with another, and may
have committed anachronisms in the order of their occurrence.”
Again he wrote as follows:—
“I think it would be as well to correct a misapprehension as to
the truth or fiction of the paper. It is no _fiction_. There is
no incident in it which has not actually occurred, nor one
character who is not well known in the Rocky Mountains, with
the exception of two whose names are changed—the originals of
these being, however, equally well known with the others.”
His last letter, written just before his departure from England, a few
weeks previously to his death, will hardly be read by any one who ever
knew the writer, without a tear of sympathy for the sad fate of this
fine young man, dying miserably in a strange land, before he had well
commenced the hazardous journey whose excitement and dangers he so
joyously anticipated:—
“As you say, human nature can't go on feeding on civilised
fixings in this 'big village;' and this child has felt like
going West for many a month, being half froze for buffler meat
and mountain doins. My route takes me _viâ_ New York, the Lakes,
and St Louis, to Fort Leavenworth, or Independence on the Indian
frontier. Thence packing my 'possibles' on a mule, and mounting a
buffalo horse (Panchito, if he is alive), I strike the
Santa Fé trail to the Arkansa, away up that river to the
mountains, winter in the Bayou Salade, where Killbuck and La
Bonté joined the Yutes, cross the mountains next spring to
Great Salt Lake—and that's far enough to look forward to—always
supposing my hair is not lifted by Comanche or Pawnee on the
scalping route of the Coon Creeks and Pawnee Fork.”
Poor fellow! he spoke lightly, in the buoyancy of youth and a
confident spirit, of the fate he little thought to meet, but which
too surely overtook him—not indeed by Indian blade, but by the no
less deadly stroke of disease. Another motive, besides that love of
rambling and adventure, which, once conceived and indulged, is so
difficult to eradicate, impelled him across the Atlantic. He had for
some time been out of health at intervals, and he thought the air
of his beloved prairies would be efficacious to work a cure. In a
letter to a friend, in the month of May last, he thus referred to the
probable origin of the evil:—
“I have been confined to my room for many days, from the
effects of an accident I met with in
the Rocky Mountains, having been spilt from the bare back of a
mule, and falling on the sharp picket of an Indian lodge on the
small of my back. I fear I injured my spine, for I have never
felt altogether the thing since, and shortly after I saw you,
the symptoms became rather ugly. However, I am now getting round
again.”
His medical advisers shared his opinion that he had sustained internal
injury from this ugly fall; and it is not improbable that it was
the remote, but real cause of his dissolution. From whatsoever this
ensued, it will be a source of deep and lasting regret to all who
ever enjoyed opportunities of appreciating the high and sterling
qualities of George Frederick Ruxton. Few men, so prepossessing on
first acquaintance, gained so much by being better known. With great
natural abilities and the most dauntless bravery, he united a modesty
and gentleness peculiarly pleasing. Had he lived, and resisted his
friends' repeated solicitations to abandon a roving life, and settle
down in England, there can be little doubt that he would have made
his name eminent on the list of those daring and persevering men,
whose travels in distant and dangerous lands have accumulated for
England, and for the world, so rich a store of scientific and general
information. And, although the few words it has been thought right
and becoming here to devote to his memory, will doubtless be more
particularly welcome to his personal friends, we are persuaded that
none will peruse without interest this brief tribute to the merits of
a gallant soldier, and accomplished English gentleman.
LIFE IN THE FAR WEST.
CHAPTER I.
Away to the head waters of the Platte, where several small streams
run into the south fork of that river, and head in the broken ridges
of the “Divide” which separates the valleys of the Platte and
Arkansa, were camped a band of trappers on a creek called Bijou. It
was the month of October, when the early frosts of the coming winter
had crisped and dyed with sober brown the leaves of the cherry and
quaking ash belting the brooks; and the ridges and peaks of the Rocky
Mountains were already covered with a glittering mantle of snow,
sparkling in the still powerful rays of the autumn sun.
The camp had all the appearance of permanency; for not only did it
comprise one or two unusually comfortable shanties, but the numerous
stages on which huge stripes of buffalo meat were hanging in process
of cure, showed that the party had settled themselves here in order to
lay in a store of provisions, or, as it is termed in the language of
the mountains, “to make meat.” Round the camp fed twelve or fifteen
mules and horses, their fore-legs confined by hobbles of raw hide;
and, guarding these animals, two men paced backwards and forwards,
driving in the stragglers, ascending ever and anon the bluffs which
overhung the river, and leaning on their long rifles, whilst they
swept with their eyes the surrounding prairie. Three or four fires
burned in the encampment, at some of which Indian women carefully
tended sundry steaming pots; whilst round one, which was in the
centre of it, four or five stalwart hunters, clad in buckskin, sat
cross-legged, pipe in mouth.
They were a trapping party from the north fork of Platte, on their
way to wintering-ground in the more southern valley of the Arkansa;
some, indeed, meditating a more extended trip, even to the distant
settlements of New Mexico, the paradise of mountaineers. The elder of
the company was a tall gaunt man, with a face browned by twenty years'
exposure to the extreme climate of the mountains; his long black hair,
as yet scarcely tinged with grey, hanging almost to his shoulders, but
his cheeks and chin clean shaven, after the fashion of the mountain
men. His dress was the usual hunting-frock of buckskin, with long
fringes down the seams, with pantaloons similarly ornamented, and
moccasins of Indian make. Whilst his companions puffed their pipes in
silence, he narrated a few of his former experiences of western life;
and whilst the buffalo “hump-ribs” and “tender loin” are singing away
in the pot, preparing for the hunters' supper, we will note down the
yarn as it spins from his lips, giving it in the language spoken in
the “far west:”—
“'Twas about 'calf-time,' maybe a little later, and not a hunderd year
ago, by a long chalk, that the biggest kind of rendezvous was held
'to' Independence, a mighty handsome little location away up on old
Missoura. A pretty smart lot of boys was camp'd thar, about a quarter
from the town, and the way the whisky flowed that time was 'some'
now, _I_ can tell you. Thar was old Sam Owins—him as got 'rubbed
out'[2] by the Spaniards at Sacramenty, or Chihuahuy, this hos doesn't
know which, but he 'went under'[3] any how. Well, Sam had his train
along, ready to hitch up for the Mexican country—twenty thunderin big
Pittsburg waggons; and the way _his_ Santa Fé boys took in the liquor
beat all—eh, Bill?”
“_Well_, it did.”
“Bill Bent—his boys camped the other side the trail, and they was all
mountain men, wagh!—and Bill Williams, and Bill Tharpe (the Pawnees
took his hair on Pawnee Fork last spring): three Bills, and them
three's all 'gone under.' Surely Hatcher went out that time; and
wasn't Bill Garey along, too? Didn't him and Chabonard sit in camp for
twenty hours at a deck of Euker? Them was Bent's Indian traders up on
Arkansa. Poor Bill Bent! them Spaniards made meat of him. He lost his
topknot to Taos. A 'clever' man was Bill Bent as _I_ ever know'd trade
a robe or 'throw' a bufler in his tracks. Old St Vrain could knock the
hind-sight off him though, when it came to shootin, and old silver
heels spoke true, she did: 'plum-center' she was, eh?”
“_Well_, she wasn't nothin else.”
“The Greasers[4] payed for Bent's scalp, they tell me. Old St Vrain
went out of Santa Fé with a company of mountain men, and the way they
made 'em sing out was 'slick as shootin'. He 'counted a coup,' did
St Vrain. He throwed a Pueblo as had on poor Bent's shirt. I guess
he tickled that niggur's hump-ribs. Fort William[5] aint the lodge
it was, an' never will be agin, now he's gone under; but St Vrain's
'pretty much of a gentleman,' too; if he aint, I'll be dog-gone, eh,
Bill?”
“He is _so-o_.”
“Chavez had his waggons along. He was only a Spaniard any how, and
some of his teamsters put a ball into him his next trip, and made a
raise of _his_ dollars, wagh! Uncle Sam hung 'em for it, I heard, but
can't b'lieve it, nohow. If them Spaniards wasn't born for shootin',
why was beaver made? You was with us that spree, Jemmy?”
“No _sirre-e_; I went out when Spiers lost his animals on Cimmaron: a
hunderd and forty mules and oxen was froze that night, wagh!”
“Surely Black Harris was thar; and the darndest liar was Black
Harris—for lies tumbled out of his mouth like boudins out of a
bufler's stomach. He was the child as saw the putrefied forest in the
Black Hills. Black Harris come in from Laramie; he'd been trapping
three year an' more on Platte and the 'other side;' and, when he got
into Liberty, he fixed himself right off like a Saint Louiy dandy.
Well, he sat to dinner one day in the tavern, and a lady says to him:—
“'Well, Mister Harris, I hear you're a great travler.'
“'Travler, marm,' says Black Harris, 'this niggur's no travler; I ar'
a trapper, marm, a mountain-man, wagh!'
“'Well, Mister Harris, trappers are great travlers, and you goes over
a sight of ground in your perishinations, I'll be bound to say.'
“'A sight, marm, this coon's gone over, if that's the way your 'stick
floats.'[6] I've trapped beaver on Platte and Arkansa, and away up on
Missoura and Yaller Stone; I've trapped on Columbia, on Lewis Fork,
and Green River; I've trapped, marm, on Grand River and the Heely
(Gila). I've fout the 'Blackfoot' (and d——d bad Injuns they ar); I've
'raised the hair'[7] of more _than one_ Apach, and made a Rapaho
'come' afore now; I've trapped in heav'n, in airth, and h—; and scalp
my old head, marm, but I've seen a putrefied forest.'
“'La, Mister Harris, a what?'
“'A putrefied forest, marm, as sure as my rifle's got hind-sights,
and _she_ shoots center. I was out on the Black Hills, Bill Sublette
knows the time—the year it rained fire—and every body knows when that
was. If thar wasn't cold doins about that time, this child wouldn't
say so. The snow was about fifty foot deep, and the bufler lay dead
on the ground like bees after a beein'; not whar we was tho', for
_thar_ was no bufler, and no meat, and me and my band had been livin'
on our mocassins (leastwise the parflesh[8]), for six weeks; and poor
doins that feedin' is, marm, as you'll never know. One day we crossed
a 'cañon' and over a 'divide,' and got into a peraira, whar was green
grass, and green trees, and green leaves on the trees, and birds
singing in the green leaves, and this in Febrary, wagh! Our animals
was like to die when they see the green grass, and we all sung out,
'hurraw for summer doins.'
“'Hyar goes for meat,' says I, and I jest ups old Ginger at one of
them singing birds, and down come the crittur elegant; its darned head
spinning away from the body, but never stops singing, and when I takes
up the meat, I finds it stone, wagh! 'Hyar's damp powder and no fire
to dry it,' I says, quite skeared.
“'Fire be dogged,' says old Rube. 'Hyar's a hos as 'll make fire
come;' and with that he takes his axe and lets drive at a cotton
wood. Schr-u-k—goes the axe agin the tree, and out comes a bit of the
blade as big as my hand. We looks at the animals, and thar they stood
shaking over the grass, which I'm dog-gone if it wasn't stone, too.
Young Sublette comes up, and he'd been clerking down to the fort on
Platte, so he know'd something. He looks and looks, and scrapes the
trees with his butcher knife, and snaps the grass like pipe stems, and
breaks the leaves a-snappin' like Californy shells.'
“'What's all this, boy?' I asks.
“'Putrefactions,' says he, looking smart, 'putrefactions, or I'm a
niggur.'
“'La, Mister Harris,' says the lady, 'putrefactions! why, did the
leaves, and the trees, and the grass smell badly?'
“'Smell badly, marm!' says Black Harris, 'would a skunk stink if he
was froze to stone? No, marm, this child didn't know what putrefaction
was, and young Sublette's varsion wouldn't 'shine' nohow, so I chips
a piece out of a tree and puts it in my trap-sack, and carries it in
safe to Laramie. Well, old Captain Stewart, (a clever man was that,
though he was an Englishman), he comes along next spring, and a Dutch
doctor chap was along too. I shows him the piece I chipped out of
the tree, and he called it a putrefaction too; and so, marm, if that
wasn't a putrefied peraira, what was it? For this hos doesn't know,
and _he_ knows 'fat cow' from 'poor bull,' anyhow.'
“Well, old Black Harris is gone under too, I believe. He went to the
'Parks' trapping with a Vide Poche Frenchman, who shot him for his
bacca and traps. Darn them Frenchmen, they're no account any way you
lays your sight. (Any bacca in your bag, Bill? this beaver feels like
chawing.)
“Well, any how, thar was the camp, and they was goin to put out the
next morning; and the last as come out of Independence was that ar
Englishman. He'd a nor-west[9] capote on, and a two-shoot gun rifled.
Well, them English are darned fools; they can't fix a rifle any
ways; but that one did shoot 'some;' leastwise _he_ made it throw
plum-center. He made the bufler 'come,' _he_ did, and fout well at
Pawnee Fork too. What was his name? All the boys called him Cap'en,
and he got his fixings from old Choteau; but what he wanted out thar
in the mountains, I never jest rightly know'd. He was no trader, nor
a trapper, and flung about his dollars right smart. Thar was old grit
in him, too, and a hair of the black b'ar at that.[10] They say he
took the bark off the Shians when he cleared out of the village with
old Beaver Tail's squaw. He'd been on Yaller Stone afore that: Leclerc
know'd him in the Blackfoot, and up in the Chippeway country; and
he had the best powder as ever I flashed through life, and his gun
was handsome, that's a fact. Them thar locks was grand; and old Jake
Hawken's nephey, (him as trapped on Heeley that time), told me, the
other day, as he saw an English gun on Arkansa last winter as beat all
off hand.
“Nigh upon two hundred dollars I had in my possibles, when I went to
that camp to see the boys afore they put out; and you know, Bill, as I
sat to 'Euker' and 'seven up'[11] till every cent was gone.
“'Take back twenty, old coon,' says Big John.
“'H—'s full of such takes back,' says I; and I puts back to town and
fetches the rifle and the old mule, puts my traps into the sack, gets
credit for a couple of pounds of powder at Owin's store, and hyar I
ar on Bijou, with half a pack of beaver, and running meat yet, old
hos: so put a log on, and let's have a smoke.
“Hurraw, Jake, old coon, bear a hand, and let the squaw put them tails
in the pot; for sun's down, and we'll have to put out pretty early to
reach 'Black Tail' by this time to-morrow. Who's fust guard, boys?
them cussed 'Rapahos' will be after the animals to-night, or I'm no
judge of Injun sign. How many did you see, Maurice?”
“Enfant de Gârce, me see bout honderd, when I pass Squirrel Creek, one
dam war-party, parceque, they no hosses, and have de lariats for steal
des animaux. May be de Yutas in Bayou Salade.”
“We'll be having trouble to-night, I'm thinking, if the devils are
about. Whose band was it, Maurice?”
“Slim-Face—I see him ver close—is out; mais I think it White Wolf's.”
“White Wolf, maybe, will lose his hair if he and his band knock round
here too often. That Injun put me afoot when we was out on 'Sandy'
that fall. This niggur owes him one, any how.”
“H—'s full of White Wolves: go ahead, and roll out some of your doins
across the plains that time.”
“You seed sights that spree, eh, boy?”
“_Well_, we did. Some of em got their flints fixed this side of Pawnee
Fork, and a heap of mule-meat went wolfing. Just by Little Arkansa
we saw the first Injun. Me and young Somes was ahead for meat, and I
had hobbled the old mule and was 'approaching' some goats,[12] when
I see the critturs turn back their heads and jump right away for me.
'Hurraw, Dick!' I shouts, 'hyars brown-skin acomin,' and off I makes
for the mule. The young greenhorn sees the goats runnin up to him, and
not being up to Injun ways, blazes at the first and knocks him over.
Jest then seven darned red heads top the bluff, and seven Pawnees come
a-screechin upon us. I cuts the hobbles and jumps on the mule, and,
when I looks back, there was Dick Somes ramming a ball down his gun
like mad, and the Injuns flinging their arrows at him pretty smart,
I tell you. 'Hurraw, Dick, mind your hair,' and I ups old Greaser
and let one Injun 'have it,' as was going plum into the boy with his
lance. _He_ turned on his back handsome, and Dick gets the ball down
at last, blazes away, and drops another. Then we charged on em, and
they clears off like runnin cows; and I takes the hair off the heads
of the two we made meat of; and I do b'lieve thar's some of them
scalps on my old leggings yet.
“Well, Dick was as full of arrows as a porky-pine: one was sticking
right through his cheek, one in his meat-bag, and two more 'bout his
hump-ribs. I tuk 'em all out slick, and away we go to camp, (for they
was jost a-campin' when we went ahead) and carryin' the goat too.
Thar' was a hurroo when we rode in with the scalps at the end of our
guns. 'Injuns! Injuns!' was the cry from the greenhorns; 'we'll be
'tacked to-night, that's certain.'
“'Tacked be ——' says old Bill; 'aint we men too, and white at that?
Look to your guns, boys; send out a strong hos'-guard with the
animals, and keep your eyes skinned.'
“Well, as soon as the animals were unhitched from the waggons, the
guvner sends out a strong guard, seven boys, and old hands at that. It
was pretty nigh upon sundown, and Bill had just sung out to 'corral.'
The boys were drivin' in the animals, and we were all standin' round
to get 'em in slick, when, 'howgh-owgh-owgh-owgh,' we hears right
behind the bluff, and 'bout a minute and a perfect crowd of Injuns
gallops down upon the animals. Wagh! war'nt thar hoopin'! We jump
for the guns, but before we get to the fires, the Injuns were among
the cavayard. I saw Ned Collyer and his brother, who were in the
hos'-guard, let drive at 'em; but twenty Pawnees were round 'em before
the smoke cleared from their rifles, and when the crowd broke the two
boys were on the ground, and their hair gone. Well, that ar Englishman
just saved the cavayard. He had his horse, a regular buffalo-runner,
picketed round the fire quite handy, and as soon as he sees the fix,
he jumps upon her and rides right into the thick of the mules, and
passes through 'em, firing his two-shoot gun at the Injuns, and, by
Gor, he made two come. The mules, which was a snortin' with funk and
running before the Injuns, as soon as they see the Englisman's mare
(mules 'ill go to h— after a horse, you all know), followed her right
into the corral, and thar they was safe. Fifty Pawnees come screechin'
after 'em, but we was ready that time, and the way we throw'd 'em
was something handsome, I tell you. But three of the hos'-guard got
skeared—leastwise their mules did, and carried 'em off into the
peraira, and the Injuns having enough of _us_, dashed after 'em right
away. Them poor devils looked back miserable now, with about a hundred
red varmints tearin' after their hair, and whooping like mad. Young
Jem Bulcher was the last; and when he seed it was no use, and his time
was nigh, he throw'd himself off the mule, and standing as upright
as a hickory wiping stick, he waves his hand to us, and blazes away
at the first Injun as come up, and dropped him slick; but the moment
after, you may guess, _he_ died.
“We could do nothin', for, before our guns were loaded, all three
were dead and their scalps gone. Five of our boys got rubbed out that
time, and seven Injuns lay wolf's meat, while a many more went away
gut-shot, I'll lay. How'sever, five of us went under, and the Pawnees
made a raise of a dozen mules, wagh!”
Thus far, in his own words, we have accompanied the old hunter in
his tale; and probably he would have taken us, by the time that the
Squaw Chilipat had pronounced the beaver tails cooked, safely across
the grand prairies—fording Cotton Wood, Turkey Creek, Little Arkansa,
Walnut Creek, and Pawnee Fork—passed the fireless route of the Coon
Creeks, through a sea of fat buffalo meat, without fuel to cook it;
have struck the big river, and, leaving at the “Crossing” the waggons
destined for Santa Fé, have trailed us up the Arkansa to Bent's Fort;
thence up Boiling Spring, across the divide over to the southern fork
of the Platte, away up to the Black Hills, and finally camped us, with
hair still preserved, in the beaver-abounding valleys of the Sweet
Water, and Câche la Poudre, under the rugged shadow of the Wind River
mountains; if it had not so happened, at this juncture, as all our
mountaineers sat cross-legged round the fire, pipe in mouth, and with
Indian gravity listened to the yarn of the old trapper, interrupting
him only with an occasional wagh! or with the exclamations of some
participator in the events then under narration, who would every now
and then put in a corroborative,—“This child remembers that fix,” or,
“hyar's a niggur lifted hair that spree,” &c.—that a whizzing noise
was heard in the air, followed by a sharp but suppressed cry from one
of the hunters.
In an instant the mountaineers had sprung from their seats, and,
seizing the ever-ready rifle, each one had thrown himself on the
ground a few paces beyond the light of the fire (for it was now
night-fall;) but not a word escaped them, as, lying close, with
their keen eyes directed towards the gloom of the thicket, near
which the camp was placed, with rifles cocked, they waited a renewal
of the attack. Presently the leader of the band, no other than
Killbuck, who had so lately been recounting some of his experiences
across the plains, and than whom no more crafty woodsman or more
expert trapper ever tracked a deer or grained a beaverskin, raised
his tall, leather-clad form, and, placing his hand over his mouth,
made the prairie ring with the wild protracted note of an Indian
war-whoop. This was instantly repeated from the direction where the
animals belonging to the camp were grazing, under the charge of
the horse-guard. Three shrill whoops answered the warning of the
leader, and showed that the guard was on the alert, and understood
the signal. However, with the manifestation of their presence, the
Indians appeared to be satisfied; or, what is more probable, the
act of aggression had been committed by some daring young warrior,
who, being out on his first expedition, desired to strike the first
_coup_, and thus signalise himself at the outset of the campaign.
After waiting some few minutes, expecting a renewal of the attack,
the mountaineers in a body rose from the ground and made towards the
animals, with which they presently returned to the camp; and, after
carefully hobbling and securing them to pickets firmly driven into the
ground, mounting an additional guard, and examining the neighbouring
thicket, they once more assembled round the fire, relit their pipes,
and puffed away the cheering weed as composedly as if no such being as
a Redskin, thirsting for their lives, was within a thousand miles of
their perilous encampment.
“If ever thar was bad Injuns on these plains,” at last growled
Killbuck, biting hard the pipe-stem between his teeth, “it's these
Rapahos, and the meanest kind at that.”
“Can't beat the Blackfeet, any how,” chimed in one La Bonté, from
the Yellow Stone country, a fine handsome specimen of a mountaineer.
“However, one of you quit this arrow out of my hump,” he continued,
bending forwards to the fire, and exhibiting an arrow sticking out
under his right shoulder-blade, and a stream of blood trickling down
his buckskin coat from the wound.
This his nearest neighbour essayed to do; but finding, after a tug,
that it “would not come,” expressed his opinion that the offending
weapon would have to be “butchered” out. This was accordingly effected
with the ready blade of a scalp-knife; and a handful of beaver-fur
being placed on the wound, and secured by a strap of buckskin round
the body, the wounded man donned his hunting-shirt once more, and
coolly set about lighting his pipe, his rifle lying across his lap,
cocked and ready for use.
It was now near midnight—dark and misty; and the clouds, rolling away
to the eastward from the lofty ridges of the Rocky Mountains, were
gradually obscuring the dim starlight. As the lighter vapours faded
from the mountains, a thick black cloud succeeded them, and settled
over the loftier peaks of the chain, faintly visible through the gloom
of night, whilst a mass of fleecy scud soon overspread the whole
sky. A hollow moaning sound crept through the valley, and the upper
branches of the cotton woods, with their withered leaves, began to
rustle with the first breath of the coming storm. Huge drops of rain
fell at intervals, hissing as they dropped into the blazing fires, and
pattering on the skins with which the hunters hurriedly covered the
exposed baggage. The mules near the camp cropped the grass with quick
and greedy bites round the circuit of their pickets, as if conscious
that the storm would soon prevent their feeding, and already humped
their backs as the chilling rain fell upon their flanks. The prairie
wolves crept closer to the camp, and in the confusion that ensued from
the hurry of the trappers to cover the perishable portions of their
equipment, contrived more than once to dart off with a piece of meat,
when their peculiar and mournful chiding would be heard as they fought
for the possession of the ravished morsel.
When every thing was duly protected, the men set to work to spread
their beds, those who had not troubled themselves to erect a shelter
getting under the lee of the piles of packs and saddles; whilst
Killbuck, disdaining even such care of his carcass, threw his buffalo
robe on the bare ground, declaring his intention to “take” what was
coming at all hazards, and “any how.” Selecting a high spot, he drew
his knife and proceeded to cut drains round it, to prevent the water
running into him as he lay; then taking a single robe he carefully
spread it, placing under the end farthest from the fire a large stone
brought from the creek. Having satisfactorily adjusted this pillow,
he added another robe to the one already laid, and placed over all a
Navajo blanket, supposed to be impervious to rain. Then he divested
himself of his pouch and powder-horn, which, with his rifle, he placed
inside his bed, and quickly covered up lest the wet should reach them.
Having performed these operations to his satisfaction, he lighted
his pipe by the hissing embers of the half-extinguished fire (for by
this time the rain poured in torrents), and went the rounds of the
picketed animals, cautioning the guard round the camp to keep their
“eyes skinned, for there would be 'powder burned' before morning.”
Then returning to the fire, and kicking with his mocassined foot the
slumbering ashes, he squatted down before it, and thus soliloquised:—
“Thirty year have I been knocking about these mountains from
Missoura's head as far sothe as the starving Gila. I've trapped a
'heap,'[13] and many a hundred pack of beaver I've traded in my time,
wagh! What has come of it, and whar's the dollars as ought to be in
my possibles? Whar's the ind of this, I say? Is a man to be hunted by
Injuns all his days? Many's the time I've said I'd strike for Taos,
and trap a squaw, for this child's getting old, and feels like wanting
a woman's face about his lodge for the balance of his days; but when
it comes to caching of the old traps, I've the smallest kind of heart,
I have. Certain, the old-state comes across my mind now and again,
but who's thar to remember my old body? But them diggings gets too
over crowded now-a-days, and its hard to fetch breath amongst them
big bands of corncrackers to Missoura. Beside, it goes against natur
to leave bufler meat and feed on hog; and them white gals are too
much like picturs, and a deal too 'fofarraw' (fanfaron). No; darn the
settlements, I say. It won't shine, and whar's the dollars? Howsever,
beaver's 'bound to rise;' human natur can't go on selling beaver a
dollar a pound; no, no, that arn't a going to shine much longer, I
know. Them was the times when this child first went to the mountains:
six dollars the plew—old 'un or kitten. Wagh! but its bound to rise,
I says agin; and hyar's a coon knows whar to lay his hand on a dozen
pack right handy, and then he'll take the Taos trail, wagh!”
Thus soliloquising, Killbuck knocked the ashes from his pipe, and
placed it in the gaily ornamented case that hung round his neck,
drew his knife-belt a couple of holes tighter, resumed his pouch and
powder-horn, took his rifle, which he carefully covered with the folds
of his Navajo blanket, and striding into the darkness, cautiously
reconnoitred the vicinity of the camp. When he returned to the fire he
sat himself down as before, but this time with his rifle across his
lap; and at intervals his keen gray eye glanced piercingly around,
particularly towards an old, weather-beaten, and grizzled mule, who
now, old stager as she was, having filled her belly, stood lazily over
her picket pin, with her head bent down and her long ears flapping
over her face, her limbs gathered under her, and her back arched to
throw off the rain, tottering from side to side as she rested and
slept.
“Yep, old gal!” cried Killbuck to the animal, at the same time picking
a piece of burnt wood from the fire and throwing it at her, at which
the mule gathered itself up and cocked her ears as she recognised her
master's voice. “Yep, old gal! and keep your nose open; thar's brown
skin about, I'm thinkin', and maybe you'll get 'roped' (lasso'd) by
a Rapaho afore mornin.” Again the old trapper settled himself before
the fire; and soon his head began to nod, as drowsiness stole over
him. Already he was in the land of dreams; revelling amongst bands of
“fat cow,” or hunting along a stream well peopled with beaver; with
no Indian “sign” to disturb him, and the merry rendezvous in close
perspective, and his peltry selling briskly at six dollars the plew,
and galore of alcohol to ratify the trade. Or, perhaps, threading
the back trail of his memory, he passed rapidly through the perilous
vicissitudes of his hard, hard life—starving one day, revelling in
abundance the next; now beset by whooping savages thirsting for
his blood, baying his enemies like the hunted deer, but with the
unflinching courage of a man; now, all care thrown aside, secure and
forgetful of the past, a welcome guest in the hospitable trading fort;
or back, as the trail gets fainter, to his childhood's home in the
brown forests of old Kentuck, tended and cared for—his only thought to
enjoy the homminy and johnny cakes of his thrifty mother. Once more,
in warm and well remembered homespun, he sits on the snake fence round
the old clearing, and munching his hoe-cake at set of sun, listens to
the mournful note of the whip-poor-will, or the harsh cry of the noisy
catbird, or watches the agile gambols of the squirrels as they chase
each other, chattering the while, from branch to branch of the lofty
tamarisks, wondering how long it will be before he will be able to
lift his father's heavy rifle, and use it against the tempting game.
Sleep, however, sat lightly on the eyes of the wary mountaineer, and
a snort from the old mule in an instant stretched his every nerve.
Without a movement of his body, his keen eye fixed itself upon the
mule, which now stood with head bent round, and eyes and ears pointed
in one direction, snuffing the night air and snorting with apparent
fear. A low sound from the wakeful hunter roused the others from their
sleep; and raising their bodies from their well-soaked beds, a single
word apprised them of their danger.
“Injuns!”
Scarcely was the word out of Killbuck's lips, when, above the howling
of the furious wind, and the pattering of the rain, a hundred savage
yells broke suddenly upon their ears from all directions round the
camp; a score of rifle-shots rattled from the thicket, and a cloud of
arrows whistled through the air, whilst a crowd of Indians charged
upon the picketed animals. “Owgh, owgh—owgh—owgh—g-h-h.” “A foot, by
gor!” shouted Killbuck, “and the old mule gone at that. On 'em, boys,
for old Kentuck!” And he rushed towards his mule, which jumped and
snorted mad with fright, as a naked Indian strove to fasten a lariat
round her nose, having already cut the rope which fastened her to the
picket-pin.
“Quit that, you cussed devil!” roared the trapper, as he jumped upon
the savage, and without raising his rifle to his shoulder, made a
deliberate thrust with the muzzle at his naked breast, striking him
full, and at the same time pulling the trigger, actually driving the
Indian two paces backwards with the shock, when he fell in a heap, and
dead. But at the same moment, an Indian, sweeping his club round his
head, brought it with fatal force down upon Killbuck; for a moment the
hunter staggered, threw out his arms wildly into the air, and fell
headlong to the ground.
“Owgh! owgh, owgh-h-h!” cried the Rapaho, and, striding over the
prostrate body, he seized with his left hand the middle lock of the
trapper's long hair, and drew his knife round the head to separate the
scalp from the skull. As he bent over to his work, the trapper named
La Bonté saw his companion's peril, rushed quick as thought at the
Indian, and buried his knife to the hilt between his shoulders. With
a gasping shudder the Rapaho fell dead upon the prostrate body of his
foe.
The attack, however, lasted but a few seconds. The dash at the animals
had been entirely successful, and, driving them before them, with
loud cries, the Indians disappeared quickly in the darkness. Without
waiting for daylight, two of the three trappers who alone were to be
seen, and who had been within the shanties at the time of attack,
without a moment's delay commenced packing two horses, which having
been fastened to the shanties had escaped the Indians, and placing
their squaws upon them, showering curses and imprecations on their
enemies, left the camp, fearful of another onset, and resolved to
retreat and câche themselves until the danger was over. Not so La
Bonté, who, stout and true, had done his best in the fight, and now
sought the body of his old comrade, from which, before he could
examine the wounds, he had first to remove the corpse of the Indian he
had slain. Killbuck still breathed. He had been stunned; but, revived
by the cold rain beating upon his face, he soon opened his eyes, and
recognised his trusty friend, who, sitting down, lifted his head into
his lap, and wiped away the blood that streamed from the wounded scalp.
“Is the top-knot gone, boy?” asked Killbuck; “for my head feels
queersome, I tell you.”
“Thar's the Injun as felt like lifting it,” answered the other,
kicking the dead body with his foot.
“Wagh! boy, you've struck a coup; so scalp the nigger right off, and
then fetch me a drink.”
The morning broke clear and cold. With the exception of a light cloud
which hung over Pike's Peak, the sky was spotless; and a perfect calm
had succeeded the boisterous storm of the previous night. The creek
was swollen and turbid with the rains; and as La Bonté proceeded a
little distance down the bank to find a passage to the water, he
suddenly stopped short, and an involuntary cry escaped him. Within a
few feet of the bank lay the body of one of his companions, who had
formed the guard at the time of the Indians' attack. It was lying on
the face, pierced through the chest with an arrow which was buried
to the very feathers, and the scalp torn from the bloody skull.
Beyond, but all within a hundred yards, lay the three others, dead,
and similarly mutilated. So certain had been the aim, and so close the
enemy, that each had died without a struggle, and consequently had
been unable to alarm the camp. La Bonté, with a glance at the bank,
saw at once that the wily Indians had crept along the creek, the noise
of the storm facilitating their approach undiscovered, and crawling up
the bank, had watched their opportunity to shoot simultaneously the
four hunters on guard.
Returning to Killbuck, he apprised him of the melancholy fate of their
companions, and held a council of war as to their proceedings. The old
hunter's mind was soon made up. “First,” said he, “I get back my old
mule; she's carried me and my traps these twelve years, and I aint
a goin' to lose her yet. Second, I feel like taking hair, and some
Rapahos has to 'go under' for this night's work. Third, We have got to
câche the beaver. Fourth, We take the Injun trail, wharever it leads.”
No more daring mountaineer than La Bonté ever trapped a beaver, and no
counsel could have more exactly tallied with his own inclination than
the law laid down by old Killbuck.
“Agreed,” was his answer, and forthwith he set about forming a câche.
In this instance they had not sufficient time to construct a regular
one, so they contented themselves with securing their packs of beaver
in buffalo robes, and tying them in the forks of several cotton-woods,
under which the camp had been made. This done, they lit a fire, and
cooked some buffalo meat; and, whilst smoking a pipe, carefully
cleaned their rifles, and filled their horns and pouches with good
store of ammunition.
A prominent feature in the character of the hunters of the far west is
their quick determination and resolve in cases of extreme difficulty
and peril, and their fixedness of purpose, when any plan of operations
has been laid requiring bold and instant action in carrying out. It is
here that they so infinitely surpass the savage Indian, in bringing
to a successful issue their numerous hostile expeditions against
the natural foe of the white man in the wild and barbarous regions
of the west. Ready to resolve as they are prompt to execute, and
combining far greater dash and daring with equal subtlety and caution,
they possess great advantage over the vacillating Indian, whose
superstitious mind in a great degree paralyses the physical energy of
his active body; and who, by waiting for propitious signs and seasons
before he undertakes an enterprise, often loses the opportunity by
which his white and more civilised enemy knows so well how to profit.
Killbuck and La Bonté were no exceptions to this characteristic rule;
and before the sun was a hand's-breadth above the eastern horizon,
the two hunters were running on the trail of the victorious Indians.
Striking from the creek where the night attack was made, they crossed
to another known as Kioway, running parallel to Bijou, a few hours'
journey westward, and likewise heading in the “divide.” Following this
to its forks, they struck into the upland prairies lying at the foot
of the mountains; and crossing to the numerous water-courses which
feed the creek called “Vermilion” or “Cherry,” they pursued the trail
over the mountain-spurs until it reached a fork of the Boiling Spring.
Here the war-party had halted and held a consultation, for from this
point the trail turned at a tangent to the westward, and entered the
rugged gorges of the mountains. It was now evident to the two trappers
that their destination was the Bayou Salade,—a mountain valley which
is a favourite resort of the buffalo in the winter season, and which,
and for this reason, is often frequented by the Yuta Indians as
their wintering ground. That the Rapahos were on a war expedition
against the Yutas, there was little doubt; and Killbuck, who knew
every inch of the ground, saw at once, by the direction the trail had
taken, that they were making for the Bayou in order to surprise their
enemies, and, therefore, were not following the usual Indian trail
up the cañon of the Boiling Spring River. Having made up his mind to
this, he at once struck across the broken ground lying at the foot of
the mountains, steering a course a little to the eastward of north,
or almost in the direction whence he had come: and then, pointing
westward, about noon he crossed a mountain chain, and descending into
a ravine through which a little rivulet tumbled over its rocky bed,
he at once proved the correctness of his judgment by striking the
Indian trail, now quite fresh, as it wound through the cañon along
the bank of the stream. The route he had followed, impracticable to
pack-animals, had saved at least half-a-day's journey, and brought
them within a short distance of the object of their pursuit; for, at
the head of the gorge, a lofty bluff presenting itself, the hunters
ascended to the summit, and, looking down, descried at their very feet
the Indian camp, with their own stolen cavallada feeding quietly round.
“Wagh!” exclaimed both the hunters in a breath. “And thar's the old
ga'l at that,” chuckled Killbuck, as he recognised his old grizzled
mule making good play at the rich buffalo grass with which these
mountain valleys abound.
“If we don't make 'a raise' afore long, I wouldn't say so. Thar plans
is plain to this child as beaver sign. They're after Yuta hair, as
certain as this gun has got hind-sights; but they ar'nt agoin' to pack
them animals after 'em, and have crawled like 'rattlers' along this
bottom to câche 'em till they come back from the Bayou,—and maybe
they'll leave half a dozen 'soldiers'[14] with 'em.”
How right the wily trapper was in his conjectures will be shortly
proved. Meanwhile, with his companion, he descended the bluff, and
pushing his way into a thicket of dwarf pine and cedar, sat down on a
log, and drew from an end of the blanket, strapped on his shoulder, a
portion of a buffalo's liver, which they both discussed, _raw_, with
infinite relish; eating in lieu of bread (an unknown luxury in these
parts) sundry strips of dried fat. To have kindled a fire would have
been dangerous, since it was not impossible that some of the Indians
might leave their camp to hunt, when the smoke would at once have
betrayed the presence of enemies. A light was struck, however for
their pipes, and after enjoying this true consolation for some time,
they laid a blanket on the ground, and, side by side, soon fell asleep.
If Killbuck had been a prophet, or the most prescient of “medicine
men,” he could not have more exactly predicted the movements in the
Indian camp. About three hours before “sundown,” he rose and shook
himself, which movement was sufficient to awaken his companion.
Telling La Bonté to lie down again and rest, he gave him to understand
that he was about to reconnoitre the enemy's camp; and after carefully
examining his rifle, and drawing his knife-belt a hole or two tighter,
he proceeded on his dangerous errand. Ascending the same bluff whence
he had first discovered the Indian camp, he glanced rapidly around,
and made himself master of the features of the ground—choosing
a ravine by which he might approach the camp more closely, and
without danger of being discovered. This was soon effected; and
in half an hour the trapper was lying on his belly on the summit
of a pine-covered bluff, which overlooked the Indians within easy
rifle-shot, and so perfectly concealed by the low spreading branches
of the cedar and arbor-vitæ, that not a particle of his person could
be detected; unless, indeed, his sharp twinkling gray eye contrasted
too strongly with the green boughs that covered the rest of his face.
Moreover, there was no danger of their hitting upon his trail, for
he had been careful to pick his steps on the rock-covered ground, so
that not a track of his moccasin was visible. Here he lay, still as
a carcagien in wait for a deer, only now and then shaking the boughs
as his body quivered with a suppressed chuckle, when any movement in
the Indian camp caused him to laugh inwardly at his (if they had known
it) unwelcome propinquity. He was not a little surprised, however,
to discover that the party was much smaller than he had imagined,
counting only forty warriors; and this assured him that the band had
divided, one half taking the Yuta trail by the Boiling Spring, the
other (the one before him) taking a longer circuit in order to reach
the Bayou, and make the attack on the Yutas in a different direction.
At this moment the Indians were in deliberation. Seated in a large
circle round a very small fire,[15] the smoke from which ascended
in a thin straight column, they each in turn puffed a huge cloud of
smoke from three or four long cherry-stemmed pipes, which went the
round of the party; each warrior touching the ground with the heel
of the pipe-bowl, and turning the stem upwards and away from him as
“medicine” to the Great Spirit, before he himself inhaled the fragrant
kinnik-kinnik. The council, however, was not general, for only fifteen
of the older warriors took part in it, the others sitting outside and
at some little distance from the circle. Behind each were his arms—bow
and quiver, and shield hanging from a spear stuck in the ground, and
a few guns in ornamented covers of buckskin were added to some of the
equipments.
Near the fire, and in the centre of the inner circle, a spear was
fixed upright in the ground, and on this dangled the four scalps of
the trappers killed the preceding night; and underneath them, affixed
to the same spear, was the mystic “medicine bag,” by which Killbuck
knew that the band before him was under the command of the chief of
the tribe.
Towards the grim trophies on the spear, the warriors, who in turn
addressed the council, frequently pointed—more than one, as he did
so, making the gyratory motion of the right hand and arm, which the
Indians use in describing that they have gained an advantage by skill
or cunning. Then pointing westward, the speaker would thrust out his
arm, extending his fingers at the same time, and closing and reopening
them repeatedly, meaning, that although four scalps already ornamented
the “medicine” pole, they were as nothing compared to the numerous
trophies they would bring from the Salt Valley, where they expected to
find their hereditary enemies the Yutas. “That now was not the time
to count their coups,” (for at this moment one of the warriors rose
from his seat, and, swelling with pride, advanced towards the spear,
pointing to one of the scalps, and then striking his open hand on
his naked breast, jumped into the air, as if about to go through the
ceremony). “That before many suns all their spears together would not
hold the scalps they had taken, and that they would return to their
village and spend a moon relating their achievements, and counting
coups.”
All this Killbuck learned: thanks to his knowledge of the language
of signs—a master of which, if even he have no ears or tongue, never
fails to understand, and be understood by, any of the hundred tribes
whose languages are perfectly distinct and different. He learned,
moreover, that at sundown the greater part of the band would resume
the trail, in order to reach the Bayou by the earliest dawn; and also,
that no more than four or five of the younger warriors would remain
with the captured animals. Still the hunter remained in his position
until the sun had disappeared behind the ridge; when, taking up their
arms, and throwing their buffalo robes on their shoulders, the war
party of Rapahos, one behind the other, with noiseless step, and
silent as the dumb, moved away from the camp. When the last dusky form
had disappeared behind a point of rocks which shut in the northern end
of the little valley or ravine, Killbuck withdrew his head from its
screen, crawled backwards on his stomach from the edge of the bluff,
and, rising from the ground, shook and stretched himself; then gave
one cautious look around, and immediately proceeded to rejoin his
companion.
“_Lave_ (get up), boy,” said Killbuck, as soon as he reached him.
“Hyar's grainin' to do afore long—and sun's about down, I'm thinking.”
“Ready, old hos,” answered La Bonté, giving himself a shake. “What's
the sign like, and how many's the lodge?”
“Fresh, and five, boy. How do you feel?”
“_Half froze for hair._ Wagh!”
“We'll have moon to-night, and as soon as _she_ gets up, we'll make
'em 'come.'”
Killbuck then described to his companion what he had seen, and
detailed his plan. This was simply to wait until the moon afforded
sufficient light, then to approach the Indian camp and charge into
it, “lift” as much “hair” as they could, recover their animals, and
start at once to the Bayou and join the friendly Yutas, warning them
of the coming danger. The risk of falling in with either of the Rapaho
bands was hardly considered; to avoid this, they trusted to their own
foresight, and the legs of their mules, should they encounter them.
Between sundown and the rising of the moon, they had leisure to eat
their supper, which, as before, consisted of raw buffalo-liver; after
discussing which, Killbuck pronounced himself “a 'heap' better,” and
ready for “huggin.”
In the short interval of almost perfect darkness which preceded the
moonlight, and taking advantage of one of the frequent squalls of
wind which howl down the narrow gorges of the mountains, these two
determined men, with footsteps noiseless as the panther's, crawled
to the edge of the little plateau of some hundred yards' square,
where the five Indians in charge of the animals were seated round
the fire, perfectly unconscious of the vicinity of danger. Several
clumps of cedar bushes dotted the small prairie, and amongst these the
well-hobbled mules and horses were feeding. These animals, accustomed
to the presence of whites, would not notice the two hunters as they
crept from clump to clump nearer to the fire, and also served, even if
the Indians should be on the watch, to conceal their movements from
them.
This the two men at once perceived; but old Killbuck knew that if
he passed within sight or smell of his mule, he would be received
with a hinny of recognition, which would at once alarm the enemy.
He therefore first ascertained where his own animal was feeding,
which luckily was at the farther side of the prairie, and would not
interfere with his proceedings.
Threading their way amongst the feeding mules, they approached a
clump of bushes about forty yards from the spot where the unconscious
savages were seated smoking round the fire; and here they awaited,
scarcely drawing breath the while, the moment when the moon rose above
the mountain into the clear cold sky, and gave them light sufficient
to make sure their work of bloody retribution. Not a pulsation in the
hearts of these stern determined men beat higher than its wont; not
the tremour of a nerve disturbed their frame. They stood with lips
compressed and rifles ready, their pistols loosened in their belts,
their scalp-knives handy to their gripe. The lurid glow of the coming
moon already shot into the sky above the ridge, which stood out in
bold relief against the light; and the luminary herself just peered
over the mountain, illuminating its pine-clad summit, and throwing her
beams on an opposite peak, when Killbuck touched his companion's arm,
and whispered, “Wait for the full light, boy.”
At this moment, however, unseen by the trapper, the old grizzled mule
had gradually approached, as she fed along the plateau; and, when
within a few paces of their retreat, a gleam of moonshine revealed to
the animal the erect forms of the two whites. Suddenly she stood still
and pricked her ears, and stretching out her neck and nose, snuffed
the air. Well she knew her old master.
Killbuck, with eyes fixed upon the Indians, was on the point of giving
the signal of attack to his comrade, when the shrill hinny of his mule
reverberated through the gorge. The Indians jumped to their feet and
seized their arms, when Killbuck, with a loud shout of “At 'em boy;
give the niggurs h—!” rushed from his concealment, and with La Bonté
by his side, yelling a fierce war-whoop, sprung upon the startled
savages.
Panic-struck with the suddenness of the attack, the Indians scarcely
knew where to run, and for a moment stood huddled together like
sheep. Down dropped Killbuck on his knee, and stretching out his
wiping-stick, planted it on the ground at the extreme length of his
arm. As methodically and as coolly as if about to aim at a deer, he
raised his rifle to this rest and pulled the trigger. At the report
an Indian fell forward on his face, at the same moment that La Bonté,
with equal certainty of aim and like effect, discharged his own rifle.
The three surviving Indians, seeing that their assailants were but
two, and knowing that their guns were empty, came on with loud yells.
With the left hand grasping a bunch of arrows, and holding the bow
already bent and arrow fixed, they steadily advanced, bending low to
the ground to get their objects between them and the light, and thus
render their aim more certain. The trappers, however, did not care
to wait for them. Drawing their pistols, they charged at once; and
although the bows twanged, and the three arrows struck their mark, on
they rushed, discharging their pistols at close quarters. La Bonté
threw his empty one at the head of an Indian who was pulling his
second arrow to its head at a yard's distance, drew his knife at the
same moment, and made at him.
But the Indian broke and ran, followed by his surviving companion; and
as soon as Killbuck could ram home another ball, he sent a shot flying
after them as they scrambled up the mountain side, leaving in their
fright and hurry their bows and shields on the ground.
The fight was over, and the two trappers confronted each other:—“We've
given 'em h—!” laughed Killbuck.
“_Well_, we have,” answered the other, pulling an arrow out of his
arm.—“Wagh!”
“We'll lift the hair, any how,” continued the first, “afore the
scalp's cold.”
Taking his whetstone from the little sheath on his knife-belt, the
trapper proceeded to “edge” his knife, and then stepping to the
first prostrate body, he turned it over to examine if any symptom of
vitality remained. “Thrown cold!” he exclaimed, as he dropped the
lifeless arm he had lifted. “I sighted him about the long ribs, but
the light was bad, and I couldn't get a 'bead' 'off hand' any how.”
Seizing with his left hand the long and braided lock on the centre of
the Indian's head, he passed the point edge of his keen butcher-knife
round the parting, turning it at the same time under the skin to
separate the scalp from the skull; then, with a quick and sudden
jerk of his hand, he removed it entirely from the head, and giving
the reeking trophy a wring upon the grass to free it from the blood,
he coolly hitched it under his belt, and proceeded to the next; but
seeing La Bonté operating upon this, he sought the third, who lay
some little distance from the others. This one was still alive, a
pistol-ball having passed through his body, without touching a vital
spot.
“Gut-shot is this niggur,” exclaimed the trapper; “them pistols never
throws 'em in their tracks;” and thrusting his knife, for mercy's
sake, into the bosom of the Indian, he likewise tore the scalp-lock
from his head, and placed it with the other.
La Bonté had received two trivial wounds, and Killbuck till now had
been walking about with an arrow sticking through the fleshy part of
his thigh, the point being perceptible near the surface of the other
side. To free his leg from the painful encumbrance, he thrust the
weapon completely through, and then, cutting off the arrow-head below
the barb, he drew it out, the blood flowing freely from the wound. A
tourniquet of buckskin soon stopped this, and, heedless of the pain,
the hardy mountaineer sought for his old mule, and quickly brought it
to the fire (which La Bonté had rekindled), lavishing many a caress,
and most comical terms of endearment, upon the faithful companion of
his wanderings. They found all the animals safe and well; and after
eating heartily of some venison which the Indians had been cooking at
the moment of the attack, made instant preparations to quit the scene
of their exploit, not wishing to trust to the chance of the Rapahos
being too frightened to again molest them.
Having no saddles, they secured buffalo robes on the backs of two
mules—Killbuck, of course, riding his own—and lost no time in
proceeding on their way. They followed the course of the Indians
up the stream, and found that it kept the cañons and gorges of the
mountains, where the road was better; but it was with no little
difficulty that they made their way, the ground being much broken,
and covered with rocks. Killbuck's wound became very painful, and
his leg stiffened and swelled distressingly, but he still pushed on
all night, and, at daybreak, recognising their position, he left the
Indian trail, and followed a little creek which rose in a mountain
chain of moderate elevation, and above which, and to the south, Pike's
Peak towered high into the clouds. With great difficulty they crossed
this ridge, and ascending and descending several smaller ones, which
gradually smoothed away as they met the valley, about three hours
after sunrise they found themselves in the south-east corner of the
Bayou Salade.
The Bayou Salade, or Salt Valley, is the most southern of three very
extensive valleys, forming a series of table-lands in the very centre
of the main chain of the Rocky Mountains, known to the trappers by the
name of the “Parks.” The numerous streams by which they are watered
abound in the valuable fur-bearing beaver, whilst every species of
game common to the west is found here in great abundance. The Bayou
Salade especially, owing to the salitrose nature of the soil and
springs, is the favourite resort of all the larger animals common
to the mountains; and, in the sheltered prairies of the Bayou, the
buffalo, forsaking the barren and inclement regions of the exposed
plains, frequent these upland valleys, in the winter months; and
feeding upon the rich and nutritious buffalo grass which, on the
bare prairies, at that season, is either dry and rotten, or entirely
exhausted, not only sustain life, but retain a great portion of the
“condition” that the abundant fall and summer pasture of the lowlands
has laid upon their bones. Therefore is this valley sought by the
Indians as a wintering ground. Its occupancy has been disputed by most
of the mountain tribes, and long and bloody wars have been waged to
make good the claims set forth by Yuta, Rapaho, Sioux, and Shians.
However, to the first of these it may be said now to belong, since
their “big village” has wintered there for many successive years;
whilst the Rapahos seldom visit it unless on war expeditions against
the Yutas.
Judging, from the direction the Rapahos were taking, that the friendly
tribe of Yutas were there already, the trappers had resolved to join
them as soon as possible; and therefore, without resting, pushed on
through the uplands, and, towards the middle of the day, had the
satisfaction of descrying the conical lodges of the village, situated
on a large level plateau, through which ran a mountain stream. A
numerous band of mules and horses were scattered over the pasture,
and round them several mounted Indians kept guard. As the trappers
descended the bluffs into the plain, some straggling Indians caught
sight of them; and instantly one of them, lassoing a horse from the
herd, mounted it, bare-backed, and flew like wind to the village to
spread the news. Soon the lodges disgorged their inmates; first the
women and children rushed to the side of the strangers' approach; then
the younger Indians, unable to restrain their curiosity, mounted their
horses, and galloped forth to meet them. The old chiefs, enveloped in
buffalo robes (softly and delicately dressed as the Yutas alone know
how), and with tomahawk held in one hand and resting in the hollow of
the other arm, sallied last of all from their lodges, and, squatting
in a row on a sunny bank outside the village, awaited, with dignified
composure, the arrival of the whites. Killbuck was well known to most
of them, having trapped in their country and traded with them years
before at Roubideau's fort at the head waters of the Rio Grande. After
shaking hands with all who presented themselves, he at once gave them
to understand that their enemies, the Rapahos, were at hand, with a
hundred warriors at least, elated by the coup they had just struck
against the whites, bringing, moreover, four white scalps to incite
them to brave deeds.
At this news the whole village was speedily in commotion: the
war-shout was taken up from lodge to lodge; the squaws began to lament
and tear their hair; the warriors to paint and arm themselves. The
elder chiefs immediately met in council, and, over the medicine-pipe,
debated as to the best course to pursue,—whether to wait the attack,
or sally out and meet the enemy. In the mean time, the braves were
collected together by the chiefs of their respective bands, and
scouts, mounted on the fastest horses, despatched in every direction
to procure intelligence of the enemy.
The two whites, after watering their mules and picketing them in some
good grass near the village, drew near the council fire, without,
however, joining in the “talk,” until they were invited to take their
seats by the eldest chief. Then Killbuck was called upon to give
his opinion as to the direction in which he judged the Rapahos to be
approaching, which he delivered in their own language, with which
he was well acquainted. In a short time the council broke up, and,
without noise or confusion, a band of one hundred chosen warriors
left the village, immediately after one of the scouts had galloped
in and communicated some intelligence to the chiefs. Killbuck and La
Bonté volunteered to accompany the war-party, weak and exhausted as
they were; but this was negatived by the chiefs, who left their white
brothers to the care of the women, who tended their wounds, now stiff
and painful: and spreading their buffalo robes in a warm and roomy
lodge, left them to the repose they so much needed.