A few days after his departure, La Bonté found himself at St Louis,
the emporium of the fur trade, and the fast-rising metropolis of the
precocious settlements of the west. Here, a prey to the agony of mind
which jealousy, remorse, and blighted love mix into a very puchero of
misery, he got into the company of certain “rowdies,” a class that
every western city particularly abounds in; and, anxious to drown his
sorrows in any way, and quite unscrupulous as to the means, he plunged
into all the vicious excitements of drinking, gambling, and fighting,
which form the every-day amusements of the rising generation of St
Louis.
Perhaps in no other part of the United States, where indeed humanity
is frequently to be seen in many curious and unusual phases, is there
a population so marked in its general character, and at the same
time divided into such distinct classes, as in the above-named city.
Dating, as it does, its foundation from yesterday—for what are thirty
years in the growth of a metropolis?—its founders are now scarcely
passed middle life, regarding with astonishment the growing works of
their hands; and whilst gazing upon its busy quays, piled with grain
and other produce of the west, its fleets of huge steamboats lying
tier upon tier alongside the wharves, its well-stored warehouses,
and all the bustling concomitants of a great commercial depôt,
they can scarcely realise the memory of a few short years, when on
the same spot nothing was to be seen but the miserable hovels of a
French village—the only sign of commerce being the unwieldy bateaux
of the Indian traders, laden with peltries from the distant regions
of the Platte and Upper Missouri. Where now intelligent and wealthy
merchants walk erect, in conscious substantiality of purse and credit,
and direct the commerce of a vast and well-peopled region, there
stalked but the other day, in dress of buckskin, the Indian trader
of the west; and all the evidences of life, mayhap, consisted of
the eccentric vagaries of the different bands of trappers and hardy
mountaineers, who accompanied, some for pleasure and some as escort,
the periodically arriving bateaux, laden with the beaver skins and
buffalo robes collected during the season at the different trading
posts in the Far West.
These, nevertheless, were the men whose hardy enterprise opened to
commerce and the plough the vast and fertile regions of the West.
Rough and savage though they were, they were the true pioneers
of that extraordinary tide of civilisation which has poured its
resistless current through tracts large enough for kings to govern,
over a country now teeming with cultivation, where, a few short
years ago, countless herds of buffalo roamed unmolested, where the
bear and deer abounded, and the savage Indian skulked through the
woods and prairies, lord of the unappreciated soil that now yields
its prolific treasures to the spade and plough of civilised man. To
the wild and half-savage trapper, who may be said to exemplify the
energy, enterprise, and hardihood characteristic of the American
people, divested of all the false and vicious glare with which a
high state of civilisation, too rapidly attained, has obscured their
real and genuine character, in which the above traits are eminently
prominent—to these men alone is due the empire of the West—destined in
a few short years to become the most important of those confederate
states composing the mighty union of North America.
Sprung, then, out of the wild and adventurous fur trade, St Louis,
still the emporium of that species of commerce, preserves even now,
in the character of its population, many of the marked peculiarities
distinguishing its early founders, who were identified with the
primitive Indian in hardihood and instinctive wisdom. Whilst the
French portion of the population retain the thoughtless levity and
frivolous disposition of their original source, the Americans of St
Louis, who may lay claim to be native, as it were, are as strongly
distinguished for determination and energy of character as they are
for physical strength and animal courage; and are remarkable, at
the same time, for a singular aptitude in carrying out commercial
enterprises to successful terminations, apparently incompatible with
the thirst of adventure and excitement which forms so prominent a
feature in their character. In St Louis and with her merchants have
originated many commercial enterprises of gigantic speculation, not
confined to the immediate locality or to the distant Indian fur trade,
but embracing all parts of the continent, and even a portion of the
Old World. And here it must be remembered that St Louis is situated
inland, at a distance of upwards of one thousand miles from the sea,
and three thousand from the capital of the United States.
Besides her merchants and upper class, who form a little aristocracy
even here, a large portion of her population, still connected with the
Indian and fur trade, preserve all their original characteristics,
unacted upon by the influence of advancing civilisation. There is,
moreover, a large floating population of foreigners of all nations,
who must possess no little amount of enterprise to be tempted to
this spot, whence they spread over the remote western tracts, still
infested by the savage; so that, if any of their blood is infused into
the native population, the characteristic energy and enterprise is
increased, and not tempered down by the foreign cross.
But perhaps the most singular of the casual population are the
mountaineers, who, after several seasons spent in trapping, and with
good store of dollars, arrive from the scene of their adventures,
wild as savages, determined to enjoy themselves, for a time, in all
the gaiety and dissipation of the western city. In one of the back
streets of the town is a tavern well known as the “Rocky-Mountain
House,” and hither the trappers resort, drinking and fighting as long
as their money lasts, which, as they are generous and lavish as Jack
Tars, is for a few days only. Such scenes, both tragic and comic, as
are enacted in the Rocky-Mountain House, are beyond the powers of pen
to describe; and when a fandango is in progress, to which congregate
the coquettish belles from “Vide Poche,” as the French portion of
the suburb is nicknamed,—the grotesque endeavours of the bear-like
mountaineers to sport a figure on the light fantastic toe, and their
insertions into the dance of the mystic jumps of Terpsichorean Indians
when engaged in the “medicine” dances in honour of bear, of buffalo,
or ravished scalp,—are such startling innovations on the choreographic
art as would make the shade of Gallini quake and gibber in his pumps.
Passing the open doors and windows of the Mountain House, the
stranger stops short as the sounds of violin and banjo twang upon his
ears, accompanied by extraordinary noises—sounding unearthly to the
greenhorn listener, but recognised by the initiated as an Indian song
roared out of the stentorian lungs of a mountaineer, who patting his
stomach with open hands, to improve the necessary shake, choruses the
well-known Indian chant:—
Hi—Hi—Hi—Hi,
Hi-i—Hi-i—Hi-i—Hi-i
Hi-ya—hi-ya—hi-ya—hi-ya
Hi-ya—hi-ya—hi-ya—hi-ya
Hi-ya—hi-ya—hi—hi,
&c. &c. &c.
and polishes off the high notes with a whoop which makes the old
wooden houses shake again, as it rattles and echoes down the street.
Here, over fiery “monaghahela,” Jean Batiste, the sallow half-breed
voyageur from the north—and who, deserting the service of the “North
West” (the Hudson's Bay Company), has come down the Mississippi, from
the “Falls,” to try the sweets and liberty of “free” trapping—hobnobs
with a stalwart leather-clad “boy,” just returned from trapping on
the waters of Grand River, on the western side the mountains, who
interlards his mountain jargon with Spanish words picked up in Taos
and California. In one corner a trapper, lean and gaunt from the
starving regions of the Yellow Stone, has just recognised an old
companyero, with whom he hunted years before in the perilous country
of the Blackfeet.
“Why, John, old hos, how do you come on?”
“What! Meek, old 'coon! I thought you were under?”
One from Arkansa stalks into the centre of the room, with a pack of
cards in his hand, and a handful of dollars in his hat. Squatting
cross-legged on a buffalo robe, he smacks down the money, and cries
out—“Ho, boys, hyar's a deck, and hyar's the beaver (rattling the
coin), who dar set his hos? Wagh!”
Tough are the yarns of wondrous hunts and Indian perils, of
hairbreadth 'scapes and curious “fixes.” Transcendant are the
qualities of sundry rifles, which call these hunters masters; “plum”
is the “centre” each vaunted barrel shoots; sufficing for a hundred
wigs is the “hair” each hunter has “lifted” from Indians' scalps;
multitudinous the “coups” he has “struck.” As they drink so do they
brag, first of their guns, their horses, and their squaws, and lastly
of themselves:—and when it comes to that, “ware steel.”
La Bonté, on his arrival at St Louis, found himself one day in no less
a place than this; and here he made acquaintance with an old trapper
about to start for the mountains in a few days, to hunt on the head
waters of Platte and Green River. With this man he resolved to start,
and, having still some hundred dollars in cash, he immediately set
about equipping himself for the expedition. To effect this, he first
of all visited the gun-store of Hawken, whose rifles are renowned
in the mountains, and exchanged his own piece, which was of very
small bore, for a regular mountain rifle. This was of very heavy
metal, carrying about thirty-two balls to the pound, stocked to the
muzzle, and mounted with brass, its only ornament being a buffalo
bull, looking exceedingly ferocious, which was not very artistically
engraved upon the trap in the stock. Here, too, he laid in a few
pounds of powder and lead, and all the necessaries for a long hunt.
His next visit was to a smith's store, which smith was black by trade
and black by nature, for he was a nigger, and, moreover, celebrated
as being the best maker of beaver-traps in St Louis, and of him he
purchased six new traps, paying for the same twenty dollars—procuring,
at the same time, an old trap-sack, made of stout buffalo skin, in
which to carry them.
We next find La Bonté and his companion—one Luke, better known as
Grey-Eye, one of his eyes having been “gouged” in a mountain fray—at
Independence, a little town situated on the Missouri, several hundred
miles above St Louis, and within a short distance of the Indian
frontier.
Independence may be termed the “prairie port” of the western country.
Here the caravans destined for Santa Fé, and the interior of Mexico,
assemble to complete their necessary equipment. Mules and oxen are
purchased, teamsters hired, and all stores and outfit laid in here
for the long journey over the wide expanse of prairie ocean. Here,
too, the Indian traders and the Rocky-Mountain trappers rendezvous,
collecting in sufficient force to ensure their safe passage through
the Indian country. At the seasons of departure and arrival of
these bands, the little town presents a lively scene of bustle and
confusion. The wild and dissipated mountaineers get rid of their last
dollars in furious orgies, treating all comers to galore of drink,
and pledging each other, in horns of potent whisky, to successful
hunts and “heaps of beaver.” When every cent has disappeared from
their pouches, the free trapper often makes away with rifle, traps,
and animals, to gratify his “dry” (for your mountaineer is never
“thirsty”); and then, “hos and beaver” gone, is necessitated to hire
himself to one of the leaders of big bands, and hypothecate his
services for an equipment of traps and animals. Thus La Bonté picked
up three excellent mules for a mere song, with their accompanying
pack-saddles, _apishamores_,[17] and lariats, and the next day, with
Luke, “put out” for Platte.
As they passed through the rendezvous, which was encamped on a little
stream beyond the town, even our young Mississippian was struck with
the novelty of the scene. Upwards of forty huge waggons, of Conostoga
and Pittsburg build, and covered with snow-white tilts, were ranged in
a semicircle, or rather a horse-shoe form, on the flat open prairie,
their long “tongues” (poles) pointing outwards; with the necessary
harness for four pairs of mules, or eight yoke of oxen, lying on the
ground beside them, spread in ready order for “hitching up.” Round
the waggons groups of teamsters, tall stalwart young Missourians,
were engaged in busy preparation for the start, greasing the wheels,
fitting or repairing harness, smoothing ox-bows, or overhauling their
own moderate kits or “possibles.” They were all dressed in the same
fashion: a pair of “homespun” pantaloons, tucked into thick boots
reaching nearly to the knee, and confined round the waist by a broad
leathern belt, which supported a strong butcher-knife in a sheath. A
coarse checked shirt was their only other covering, with a fur cap on
the head.
Numerous camp-fires surrounded the waggons, and near them lounged
wild-looking mountaineers, easily distinguished from the “greenhorn”
teamsters by their dresses of buckskin, and their weather-beaten
faces. Without an exception, these were under the influence of the
rosy god; and one, who sat, the picture of misery, at a fire by
himself—staring into the blaze with vacant countenance, his long
matted hair hanging in unkempt masses over his face, begrimed with
the dirt of a week, and pallid with the effects of ardent drink—was
suffering from the usual consequences of having “kept it up” beyond
the usual point, paying the penalty in a fit of “horrors”—as _delirium
tremens_ is most aptly termed by sailors and the unprofessional.
In another part, the merchants of the caravan and the Indian traders
superintended the lading of the waggons, or mule packs. They were
dressed in civilised attire, and some were even bedizened in St Louis
or Eastern City dandyism, to the infinite disgust of the mountain men,
who look upon a bourge-way (bourgeois) with most undisguised contempt,
despising the very simplest forms of civilisation. The picturesque
appearance of the encampment was not a little heightened by the
addition of several Indians from the neighbouring Shawnee settlement,
who, mounted on their small active horses, on which they reclined,
rather than sat, in negligent attitudes, quietly looked on at the
novel scene, indifferent to the “chaff” in which the thoughtless
teamsters indulged at their expense. Numbers of mules and horses were
picketed at hand, whilst a large herd of noble oxen were being driven
towards the camp—the wo-ha of the teamsters sounding far and near, as
they collected the scattered beasts in order to yoke up.
As most of the mountain men were utterly unable to move from camp,
Luke and La Bonté, with three or four of the most sober, started in
company, intending to wait on “Blue,” a stream which runs into the Caw
or Kanzas River, until the “balance” of the band came up. Mounting
their mules, and leading the loose animals, they struck at once into
the park-like prairie, and were speedily out of sight of civilisation.
It was the latter end of May, towards the close of the season of
heavy rains, which in early spring render the climate of this country
almost intolerable, at the same time that they fertilise and thaw the
soil, so long bound up by the winter's frosts. The grass was every
where luxuriantly green, and gaudy flowers dotted the surface of the
prairie. This term, however, should hardly be applied to the beautiful
undulating scenery of this park-like country. Unlike the flat monotony
of the Grand Plains, here well wooded uplands, clothed with forest
trees of every species, and picturesque dells, through which run
clear bubbling streams belted with gay-blossomed shrubs, every where
present themselves; whilst on the level meadow-land, topes of trees
with spreading foliage afford a shelter to the game and cattle, and
well-timbered knolls rise at intervals from the plain.
Many clear streams dashing over their pebbly beds intersect the
country, from which, in the noon-day's heat, the red-deer jump,
shaking their wet sides, as the noise of approaching man disturbs
them; and booming grouse rise from the tall luxuriant herbage at
every step. Where the deep escarpments of the river banks exhibit the
section of the earth, a rich alluvial soil of surpassing depth courts
the cultivation of civilised man; and in every feature it is evident
that here nature has worked with kindliest and most bountiful hand.
For hundreds of miles along the western or right bank of the
Missouri does a country extend, with which, for fertility and natural
resources, no part of Europe can stand comparison. Sufficiently large
to contain an enormous population, it has, besides, every advantage
of position, and all the natural capabilities which should make it
the happy abode of civilised man. Through this unpeopled country the
United States pours her greedy thousands, to seize upon the barren
territories of her feeble neighbour.
Camping the first night on “Black Jack,” our mountaineers here cut
each man a spare hickory wiping-stick for his rifle; and La Bonté, who
was the only greenhorn of the party, witnessed a savage ebullition
of rage on the part of one of his companions, exhibiting the perfect
unrestraint which these men impose upon their passions, and the
barbarous anger which the slightest opposition to their will excites.
One of the trappers, on arriving at the camping-place, dismounted from
his horse, and, after divesting it of the saddle, endeavoured to lead
his mule by the rope up to the spot where he wished to deposit his
pack. Mule-like, however, the more he pulled the more stubbornly she
remained in her tracks, planting her fore-legs firmly, and stretching
out her neck with provoking obstinacy. Truth to tell, it does require
the temper of a thousand Jobs to manage a mule; and in no case does
the wilful mulishness of the animal stir up one's choler more than
in the very trick this one played, and which is a daily occurrence.
After tugging ineffectually for several minutes, winding the rope
round his body, and throwing himself suddenly forward with all his
strength, the trapper actually foamed with passion; and although he
might have subdued the animal at once by fastening the rope with a
half-hitch round its nose, this, with an obstinacy equal to that of
the mule itself, he refused to attempt, preferring to vanquish her by
main strength. Failing so to do, the mountaineer, with a volley of
blasphemous imprecations, suddenly seized his rifle, and levelling it
at the mule's head, shot her dead.
Passing the Wa-ka-rasha, a well-timbered stream, they met a band of
Osages going “to buffalo.” These Indians, in common with some tribes
of the Pawnees, shave the head, with the exception of a ridge from
the forehead to the centre of the scalp, which is “roached” or hogged
like the mane of a mule, and stands erect, plastered with unguents,
and ornamented with feathers of the hawk and turkey. The naked scalp
is often painted in mosaic with black and red, the face with shining
vermilion. This band were all naked to the breech-clout, the warmth
of the sun having made them throw their dirty blankets from their
shoulders. These Indians not unfrequently levy contributions on the
strangers they accidentally meet; but they easily distinguish the
determined mountaineer from the incautious greenhorn, and think it
better to let the former alone.
Crossing Vermilion, the trappers arrived on the fifth day at “Blue,”
where they encamped in the broad timber belting the creek, and there
awaited the arrival of the remainder of the party.
It was two days before they came up; but the following day they
started for the mountains, fourteen in number, striking a trail which
follows the “Big Blue” in its course through the prairies, which, as
they advanced to the westward, gradually smoothed away into a vast
unbroken expanse of rolling plain. Herds of antelope began to show
themselves, and some of the hunters, leaving the trail, soon returned
with plenty of their tender meat. The luxuriant but coarse grass they
had hitherto seen now changed into the nutritious and curly buffalo
grass, and their animals soon improved in appearance on the excellent
pasture. In a few days, without any adventure, they struck the Platte
River, its shallow waters (from which it derives its name) spreading
over a wide and sandy bed, numerous sand bars obstructing the sluggish
current, nowhere sufficiently deep to wet the forder's knee.
By this time, but few antelope having been seen, the party ran
entirely out of meat; and, one whole day and part of another having
passed without so much as a stray rabbit presenting itself, not a few
objurgations on the buffalo grumbled from the lips of the hunters, who
expected ere this to have reached the land of plenty. La Bonté killed
a fine deer, however, in the river bottom, after they had encamped,
not one particle of which remained after supper that night, but
which hardly took the rough edge off their keen appetites. Although
already in the buffalo range, no traces of these animals had yet been
seen; and as the country afforded but little game, and the party did
not care to halt and lose time in hunting for it, they moved along
hungry and sulky, the theme of conversation being the well remembered
merits of good buffalo meat,—of “fat fleece,” “hump rib,” and “tender
loin;” of delicious “boudins,” and marrow bones too good to think
of. La Bonté had never seen the lordly animal, and consequently but
half believed the accounts of the mountaineers, who described their
countless bands as covering the prairie far as the eye could reach,
and requiring days of travel to pass through; but the visions of
such dainty and abundant feeding as they descanted on set his mouth
watering, and danced before his eyes as he slept supperless, night
after night, on the banks of the hungry Platte.
One morning he had packed his animals before the rest, and was riding
a mile in advance of the party, when he saw on one side the trail,
looming in the refracted glare which mirages the plains, three large
dark objects without shape or form, which rose and fell in the
exaggerated light like ships at sea. Doubting what it could be, he
approached the strange objects; and as the refraction disappeared
before him, the dark masses assumed a more distinct form, and clearly
moved with life. A little nearer, and he made them out—they were
buffalo. Thinking to distinguish himself, the greenhorn dismounted
from his mule, and quickly hobbled her, throwing his lasso on the
ground to trail behind when he wished to catch her. Then, rifle in
hand, he approached the huge animals, and, being a good hunter, knew
well to take advantage of the inequalities of the ground and face the
wind; by which means he crawled at length to within forty yards of
the buffalo, which quietly cropped the grass, unconscious of danger.
Now, for the first time, he gazed upon the noble beast he had so often
heard of, and longed to see. With coal-black beard sweeping the ground
as he fed, an enormous bull was in advance of the others, his wild
brilliant eyes peering from an immense mass of shaggy hair, which
covered his neck and shoulder. From this point his skin was smooth as
one's hand, a sleek and shining dun, and his ribs were well covered
with shaking flesh. Whilst leisurely cropping the short curly grass
he occasionally lifted his tail into the air, and stamped his foot as
a fly or musquito annoyed him—flapping the intruder with his tail, or
snatching at the itching part with his ponderous head.
When La Bonté had sufficiently admired the buffalo, he lifted his
rifle, and, taking steady aim, and certain of his mark, pulled the
trigger, expecting to see the huge beast fall over at the report. What
was his surprise and consternation, however, to see the animal only
flinch when the ball struck him, and then gallop off, followed by the
others, apparently unhurt. As is generally the case with greenhorns,
he had fired too high, ignorant that the only certain spot to strike a
buffalo is but a few inches above the brisket, and that a higher shot
is rarely fatal. When he rose from the ground, he saw all the party
halting in full view of his discomfiture; and when he joined them,
loud were the laughs, and deep the regrets of the hungry at his first
attempt.
However, they now knew that they were in the country of meat; and a
few miles farther, another band of stragglers presenting themselves,
three of the hunters went in pursuit, La Bonté taking a mule to pack
in the meat. He soon saw them crawling towards the band, and shortly
two puffs of smoke, and the sharp cracks of their rifles, showed that
they had got within shot; and when he rode up, two fine buffaloes were
stretched upon the ground. Now, for the first time, he was initiated
in the mysteries of “butchering.” He watched the hunters as they
turned the carcass on the belly, stretching out the legs to support it
on each side. A transverse cut was then made at the nape of the neck,
and, gathering the long hair of the boss in one hand, the skin was
separated from the shoulder. It was then laid open from this point to
the tail, along the spine, and then, freed from the sides and pulled
down to the brisket, but still attached to it, was stretched upon
the ground to receive the dissected portions. Then the shoulder was
severed, the fleece removed from along the backbone, and the hump-ribs
cut off with a tomahawk. All this was placed upon the skin; and after
the “boudins” had been withdrawn from the stomach, and the tongue—a
great dainty—taken from the head, the meat was packed upon the mule,
and the whole party hurried to camp rejoicing.
There was merry-making in the camp that night, and the way they
indulged their appetites—or, in their own language, “throw'd” the
meat “cold”—would have made the heart of a dyspeptic leap for joy or
burst with envy. Far into the “still watches of the tranquil night”
the fat-clad “depouille” saw its fleshy mass grow small by degrees
and beautifully less, before the trenchant blades of the hungry
mountaineers; appetising yards of well-browned “boudin” slipped glibly
down their throats; rib after rib of tender hump was picked and flung
to the wolves; and when human nature, with helpless gratitude, and
confident that nothing of superexcellent comestibility remained, was
lazily wiping the greasy knife that had done such good service,—a
skilful hunter was seen to chuckle to himself as he raked the deep
ashes of the fire, and drew therefrom a pair of tongues so admirably
baked, so soft, so sweet, and of such exquisite flavour, that a veil
is considerately drawn over the effects their discussion produced in
the mind of our greenhorn La Bonté, and the raptures they excited in
the bosom of that, as yet, most ignorant mountaineer. Still, as he
ate he wondered, and wondering admired, that nature, in giving him
such profound gastronomic powers, and such transcendant capabilities
of digestion, had yet bountifully provided an edible so peculiarly
adapted to his ostrich-like appetite, that after consuming nearly his
own weight in rich and fat buffalo meat, he felt as easy and as little
incommoded as if he had lightly supped on strawberries and cream.
Sweet was the digestive pipe after such a feast; soft was the sleep
and deep, which sealed the eyes of the contented trappers that night.
It felt like the old thing, they said, to be once more amongst the
“meat;” and, as they were drawing near the dangerous portion of the
trail, they felt at home; although they now could never be confident,
when they lay down at night upon their buffalo robes, of awaking again
in this life, knowing, as they did, full well, that savage men lurked
near, thirsting for their blood.
However, no enemies showed themselves as yet, and they proceeded
quietly up the river, vast herds of buffaloes darkening the plains
around them, affording them more than abundance of the choicest
meat; but, to their credit be it spoken, no more was killed than was
absolutely required,—unlike the cruel slaughter made by most of the
white travellers across the plains, who wantonly destroy these noble
animals, not even for the excitement of sport, but in cold-blooded
and insane butchery. La Bonté had practice enough to perfect him in
the art, and, before the buffalo range was passed, he was ranked as
a first-rate hunter. One evening he had left the camp for meat, and
was approaching a band of cows for that purpose, crawling towards
them along the bed of a dry hollow in the prairie, when he observed
them suddenly jump towards him, and immediately afterwards a score of
mounted Indians appeared, whom, by their dress, he at once knew to be
Pawnees and enemies. Thinking they might not discover him, he crouched
down in the ravine; but a noise behind caused him to turn his head,
and he saw some five or six advancing up the bed of the dry creek,
whilst several more were riding on the bluffs. The cunning savages had
cut off his retreat to his mule, which he saw in the possession of
one of them. His presence of mind, however, did not desert him; and
seeing at once that to remain where he was would be like being caught
in a trap (as the Indians could advance to the edge of the bluff and
shoot him from above), he made for the open prairie, determined at
least to sell his scalp dearly, and make “a good fight.” With a yell
the Indians charged, but halted when they saw the sturdy trapper
deliberately kneel, and, resting his rifle on the wiping-stick, take
a steady aim as they advanced. Full well the Pawnees know, to their
cost, that a mountaineer seldom pulls his trigger without sending a
bullet to the mark; and, certain that one at least must fall, they
hesitated to make the onslaught. Steadily the white retreated with
his face to the foe, bringing the rifle to his shoulder the instant
that one advanced within shot, the Indians galloping round, firing the
few guns they had amongst them at long distances, but without effect.
One young “brave,” more daring than the rest, rode out of the crowd,
and dashed at the hunter, throwing himself, as he passed within a few
yards, from the saddle, and hanging over the opposite side of his
horse, thus presenting no other mark than his left foot. As he crossed
La Bonté, he discharged his bow from under his horse's neck, and with
such good aim, that the arrow, whizzing through the air, struck the
stock of the hunter's rifle, which was at his shoulder, and, glancing
off, pierced his arm, inflicting, luckily, but a slight wound. Again
the Indian turned in his course, the others encouraging him with loud
war-whoops, and, once more passing at still less distance, he drew
his arrow to the head. This time, however, the eagle eye of the white
detected the action, and suddenly rising from his knee as the Indian
approached (hanging by his foot alone over the opposite side of the
horse), he jumped towards the animal with outstretched arms and a loud
yell, causing it to start suddenly, and swerve from its course. The
Indian lost his foot-hold, and, after a fruitless struggle to regain
his position, fell to the ground; but instantly rose upon his feet
and gallantly confronted the mountaineer, striking his hand upon his
brawny chest and shouting a loud whoop of defiance. In another instant
the rifle of La Bonté had poured forth its contents; and the brave
savage, springing into the air, fell dead to the ground, just as the
other trappers, who had heard the firing, galloped up to the spot.
At sight of them the Pawnees, with yells of disappointed vengeance,
hastily retreated.
That night La Bonté first lifted hair!
A few days later the mountaineers reached the point where the Platte
divides into two great forks: the northern one, stretching to the
north-west, skirts the eastern base of the Black Hills, and sweeping
round to the south rises in the vicinity of the mountain valley called
the New Park, receiving the Laramie, Medicine Bow, and Sweet-Water
creeks. The other, or “South Fork,” strikes towards the mountains
in a south-westerly direction, hugging the base of the main chain
of the Rocky Mountains; and, fed by several small creeks, rises in
the uplands of the Bayou Salade, near which is also the source of
the Arkansa. To the forks of the Platte the valley of that river
extends from three to five miles on each side, enclosed by steep sandy
bluffs, from the summits of which the prairies stretch away in broad
undulating expanse to the north and south. The “bottom,” as it is
termed, is but thinly covered with timber, the cotton-woods being
scattered only here and there; but some of the islands in the broad
bed of the stream are well wooded, leading to the inference that the
trees on the banks have been felled by Indians who formerly frequented
the neighbourhood of this river as a chosen hunting-ground. As, during
the long winters, the pasture in the vicinity is scarce and withered,
the Indians feed their horses on the bark of the sweet cotton-wood,
upon which they subsist, and even fatten. Thus, wherever a village
has encamped, the trunks of these trees strew the ground, their upper
limbs and smaller branches peeled of their bark, and looking as white
and smooth as if scraped with a knife.
On the forks, however, the timber is heavier and of greater variety,
some of the creeks being well wooded with ash and cherry, which break
the monotony of the everlasting cotton-wood.
Dense masses of buffalo still continued to darken the plains, and
numerous bands of wolves hovered round the outskirts of the vast
herds, singling out the sick and wounded animals, and preying upon
such calves as the rifles and arrows of the hunters had bereaved of
their mothers. The white wolf is the invariable attendant upon the
buffalo; and when one of these persevering animals is seen, it is
certain sign that buffalo are not far distant. Besides the buffalo
wolf, there are four distinct varieties common to the plains, and
all more or less attendant upon the buffalo. These are, the black,
the gray, the brown, and last and least the _coyote_, or _cayeute_
of the mountaineers, the “_wach-unka-mănet_,” or “medicine wolf” of
the Indians, who hold the latter animal in reverential awe. This
little wolf, whose fur is of great thickness and beauty, is of
diminutive size, but wonderfully sagacious, making up by cunning
what it wants in physical strength. In bands of from three to thirty
they not unfrequently station themselves along the “runs” of the
deer and the antelope, extending their line for many miles—and the
quarry being started, each wolf follows in pursuit until tired, when
it relinquishes the chase to another relay, following slowly after
until the animal is fairly run down, when all hurry to the spot and
speedily consume the carcass. The cayeute, however, is often made a
tool of by his larger brethren, unless, indeed, he acts from motives
of spontaneous charity. When a hunter has slaughtered game, and is in
the act of butchering it, these little wolves sit patiently at a short
distance from the scene of operations, while at a more respectful one
the larger wolves (the white or gray) lope hungrily around, licking
their chops in hungry expectation. Not unfrequently the hunter throws
a piece of meat towards the smaller one, who seizes it immediately,
and runs off with the morsel in his mouth. Before he gets many yards
with his prize, the large wolf pounces with a growl upon him, and the
cayeute, dropping the meat, returns to his former position, and will
continue his charitable act as long as the hunter pleases to supply
him.
Wolves are so common on the plains and in the mountains, that the
hunter never cares to throw away a charge of ammunition upon them,
although the ravenous animals are a constant source of annoyance to
him, creeping to the camp-fire at night, and gnawing his saddles and
_apishamores_, eating the skin ropes which secure the horses and mules
to their pickets, and even their very hobbles, and not unfrequently
killing or entirely disabling the animals themselves.
Round the camp, during the night, the cayeute keeps unremitting watch,
and the traveller not unfrequently starts from his bed with affright,
as the mournful and unearthly chiding of the wolf breaks suddenly upon
his ear: the long-drawn howl being taken up by others of the band,
until it dies away in the distance, or some straggler passing within
hearing answers to the note, and howls as he lopes away.
Our party crossed the south fork about ten miles from its juncture
with the main stream, and then, passing the prairie, struck the north
fork a day's travel from the other. At the mouth of an ash-timbered
creek they came upon Indian “sign,” and, as now they were in the
vicinity of the treacherous Sioux, they moved along with additional
caution, Frapp and Gonneville, two experienced mountaineers, always
heading the advance.
About noon they had crossed over to the left bank of the fork,
intending to camp on a large creek where some fresh beaver “sign” had
attracted the attention of some of the trappers; and as, on further
examination, it appeared that two or three lodges of that animal were
not far distant, it was determined to remain here a day or two, and
set their traps.
Gonneville, old Luke, and La Bonté, had started up the creek, and were
carefully examining the banks for “sign,” when the former, who was in
front, suddenly paused, and looking intently up the stream, held up
his hand to his companions to signal them to stop.
Luke and La Bonté both followed the direction of the trapper's intent
and fixed gaze. The former uttered in a suppressed tone the expressive
exclamation, Wagh!—the latter saw nothing but a wood-duck swimming
swiftly down the stream, followed by her downy progeny.
Gonneville turned his head, and extending his arm twice with a forward
motion up the creek, whispered—“Les sauvages.”
“Injuns, sure, and Sioux at that,” answered Luke.
Still La Bonté looked, but nothing met his view but the duck with her
brood, now rapidly approaching; and as he gazed, the bird suddenly
took wing, and, flapping on the water, flew a short distance down the
stream and once more settled on it.
“Injuns?” he asked; “where are they?”
“Whar?” repeated old Luke, striking the flint of his rifle, and
opening the pan to examine the priming. “What brings a duck a-streakin
it down stream, if humans aint behint her? and who's thar in these
diggins but Injuns, and the worst kind? and we'd better push to camp,
I'm thinking, if we mean to save our hair.”
“Sign” sufficient, indeed, it was to all the trappers, who, on being
apprised of it, instantly drove in their animals, and picketed
them; and hardly had they done so when a band of Indians made their
appearance on the banks of the creek, from whence they galloped to the
bluff which overlooked the camp at the distance of about six hundred
yards; and crowning this, in number some forty or more, commenced
brandishing their spears and guns, and whooping loud yells of
defiance. The trappers had formed a little breast-work of their packs,
forming a semicircle, the chord of which was made by the animals
standing in a line, side by side, closely picketed and hobbled. Behind
this defence stood the mountaineers, rifle in hand, and silent and
determined. The Indians presently descended the bluff on foot, leaving
their animals in charge of a few of the party, and, scattering,
advanced under cover of the sage bushes which dotted the bottom, to
about two hundred yards of the whites. Then a chief advanced before
the rest, and made the sign for a talk with the Long-knives, which
led to a consultation amongst the latter, as to the policy of acceding
to it. They were in doubts as to the nation these Indians belonged to,
some bands of the Sioux being friendly, and others bitterly hostile to
the whites.
Gonneville, who spoke the Sioux language, and was well acquainted with
the nation, affirmed they belonged to a band called the Yanka-taus,
well known to be the most evil-disposed of that treacherous nation;
another of the party maintained they were Brulés, and that the chief
advancing towards them was the well-known Tah-sha-tunga or Bull Tail,
a most friendly chief of that tribe. The majority, however, trusted
to Gonneville, and he volunteered to go out to meet the Indian,
and hear what he had to say. Divesting himself of all arms save
his butcher-knife, he advanced towards the savage, who awaited his
approach, enveloped in the folds of his blanket. At a glance he knew
him to be a Yanka-tau, from the peculiar make of his moccasins, and
the way in which his face was daubed with paint.
“Howgh!” exclaimed both as they met; and, after a silence of a few
moments, the Indian spoke, asking—“Why the Long-knives hid behind
their packs, when his band approached? Were they afraid, or were they
preparing a dog-feast to entertain their friends?” The whites were
passing through his country, burning his wood, drinking his water,
and killing his game; but he knew they had now come to pay for the
mischief they had done, and that the mules and horses they had brought
with them were intended as a present to their red friends.
“He was Mah-to-ga-shane,” he said, “the Brave Bear: his tongue was
short, but his arm long; and he loved rather to speak with his bow
and his lance than with the weapon of a squaw. He had said it: the
Long-knives had horses with them and mules; and these were for him, he
knew, and for his 'braves.' Let the White-face go back to his people
and return with the animals, or he, the 'Brave Bear,' would have to
come and take them; and his young men would get mad and would feel
blood in their eyes; and then he would have no power over them; and
the whites would have to 'go under.'”
The trapper answered shortly.—“The Long-knives,” he said, “had brought
the horses for themselves—their hearts were big, but not towards the
Yanka-taus: and if they had to give up their animals, it would be
to _men_ and not _squaws_. They were not 'wah-keitcha,'[18] (French
engagés), but Long-knives; and, however short were the tongues of the
Yanka-taus, theirs were still shorter, and their rifles longer. The
Yanka-taus were dogs and squaws, and the Long-knives spat upon them.”
Saying this, the trapper turned his back and rejoined his companions;
whilst the Indian slowly proceeded to his people, who, on learning the
contemptuous way in which their threats had been treated, testified
their anger with loud yells; and, seeking whatever cover was afforded,
commenced a scattering volley upon the camp of the mountaineers. The
latter reserved their fire, treating with cool indifference the balls
which began to rattle about them; but as the Indians, emboldened by
this apparent inaction, rushed for a closer position, and exposed
their bodies within a long range, half-a-dozen rifles rang from the
assailed, and two Indians fell dead, one or two more being wounded.
As yet, not one of the whites had been touched, but several of the
animals had received wounds from the enemy's fire of balls and arrows.
Indeed, the Indians remained at too great a distance to render the
volleys from their crazy fusees any thing like effectual, and had to
raise their pieces considerably to make their bullets reach as far
as the camp. After three of their band had been killed outright, and
many more wounded, their fire began to slacken, and they drew off to
a greater distance, evidently resolved to beat a retreat. Retiring
to the bluff, they discharged their pieces in a last volley, mounted
their horses and galloped off, carrying their wounded with them.
This last volley, however, although intended as a mere bravado,
unfortunately proved fatal to one of the whites. Gonneville, at the
moment, was standing on a pack, to get an uninterrupted sight for a
last shot, when one of the random bullets struck him in the breast.
La Bonté caught him in his arms as he was about to fall, and laying
the wounded trapper gently on the ground, stripped him of his buckskin
hunting-frock, to examine the wound. A glance was sufficient to
convince his companions that the blow was mortal. The ball had passed
through the lungs; and in a few moments the throat of the wounded
man swelled and turned to a livid blue colour, as the choking blood
ascended. Only a few drops of purple blood trickled from the wound,—a
fatal sign,—and the eyes of the mountaineer were already glazing with
death's icy touch. His hand still grasped the barrel of his rifle,
which had done good service in the fray. Anon he essayed to speak,
but, choked with blood, only a few inarticulate words reached the ears
of his companions, as they bent over him.
“Rubbed—out—at—last,” they heard him say, the words gurgling in his
blood-filled throat; and opening his eyes once more, and turning them
upwards for a last look at the bright sun, the trapper turned gently
on his side and breathed his last sigh.
With no other tools than their scalp-knives, the hunters dug a grave
on the banks of the creek; and whilst some were engaged in this work,
others sought the bodies of the Indians they had slain in the attack,
and presently returned with three reeking scalps, the trophies of the
fight. The body of the mountaineer was wrapped in a buffalo robe,
the scalps being placed on his breast, and the dead man was then laid
in the shallow grave, and quickly covered—without a word of prayer,
or sigh of grief; for, however much his companions may have felt, not
a word escaped them. The bitten lip and frowning brow told of anger
rather than of sorrow, as they vowed—what they thought would better
please the spirit of the dead man than vain regrets—bloody and lasting
revenge.
Trampling down the earth which filled the grave, they raised upon
it a pile of heavy stones; and packing their mules once more, and
taking a last look at their comrade's lonely resting-place, they
turned their backs upon the stream, which has ever since been known as
“Gonneville's Creek.”
If the reader casts his eye over any of the recent maps of the
western country, which detail the features of the regions embracing
the Rocky Mountains, and the vast prairies at their bases, he will
not fail to observe that many of the creeks or smaller streams which
feed the larger rivers,—as the Missouri, Platte, and Arkansa,—are
called by familiar proper names, both English and French. These are
invariably christened after some unfortunate trapper, killed there in
Indian fight; or treacherously slaughtered by the lurking savages,
while engaged in trapping beaver on the stream. Thus alone is the
memory of these hardy men perpetuated, at least of those whose fate
is ascertained: for many, in every season, never return from their
hunting expeditions, but meet a sudden death from Indians, or a more
lingering fate from accident or disease in some lonely gorge of the
mountains where no footfall save their own, or the heavy tread of
grizzly bear, disturbs the unbroken silence of the awful solitude.
Then, as many winters pass without some old familiar faces making
their appearance at the merry rendezvous, their long protracted
absence may perhaps elicit a remark, as to where such and such
a mountain worthy can have betaken himself, to which the casual
rejoinder of “Gone under, maybe,” too often gives a short but certain
answer.
In all the philosophy of hardened hearts, our hunters turned from the
spot where the unmourned trapper met his death. La Bonté, however, not
yet entirely steeled by mountain life to a perfect indifference to
human feeling, drew his hard hand across his eye, as the unbidden tear
rose from his rough but kindly heart. He could not forget so soon the
comrade he had lost, the companion in the hunt or over the cheerful
camp-fire, the narrator of many a tale of dangers past, of sufferings
from hunger, cold, thirst, and untended wounds, of Indian perils, and
other vicissitudes. One tear dropped from the young hunter's eye, and
rolled down his cheek—the last for many a long year.
In the forks of the northern branch of the Platte, formed by the
junction of the Laramie, they found a big village of the Sioux
encamped near the station of one of the fur companies. Here the party
broke up; many, finding the alcohol of the traders an impediment to
their further progress, remained some time in the vicinity, while La
Bonté, Luke, and a trapper named Marcelline, started in a few days
to the mountains, to trap on Sweet Water and Medicine Bow. They had
leisure, however, to observe all the rascalities connected with the
Indian trade, although at this season (August) hardly commenced.
However, a band of Indians having come in with several packs of last
year's robes, and being anxious to start speedily on their return, a
trader from one of the forts had erected his lodge in the village.
Here he set to work immediately, to induce the Indians to trade.
First, a chief appoints three “soldiers” to guard the trader's lodge
from intrusion; and these sentries amongst the thieving fraternity can
be invariably trusted. Then the Indians are invited to have a drink—a
taste of the fire-water being given to all to incite them to trade. As
the crowd presses upon the entrance to the lodge, and those in rear
become impatient, some large-mouthed savage who has received a portion
of the spirit, makes his way, with his mouth full of the liquor and
cheeks distended, through the throng, and is instantly surrounded
by his particular friends. Drawing the face of each, by turns, near
his own, he squirts a small quantity into his open mouth, until
the supply is exhausted, when he returns for more, and repeats the
generous distribution.
When paying for the robes, the traders, in measuring out the liquor
in a tin half-pint cup, thrust their thumbs or the four fingers of
the hand into the measure, in order that it may contain the less, or
not unfrequently fill the bottom with melted buffalo fat, with the
same object. So greedy are the Indians, that they never discover the
cheat, and, once under the influence of the liquor, cannot distinguish
between the first cup of comparatively strong spirit, and the
following ones diluted five hundred per cent, and poisonously drugged
to boot.
Scenes of drunkenness, riot, and bloodshed last until the trade is
over. In the winter it occupies several weeks, during which period the
Indians present the appearance, under the demoralising influence of
the liquor, of demons rather than of men.