We have said that La Bonté was a philosopher: he took the streaks of
ill luck which checkered his mountain life with perfect carelessness,
if not with stoical indifference. Nothing ruffled his danger-steeled
equanimity of temper; no sudden emotion disturbed his mind. We have
seen how wives were torn from him without eliciting a groan or
grumble, (but such _contretemps_, it may be said, can scarcely find a
place in the category of ills); how the loss of mules and mustangs,
harried by horse-stealing Indians, left him in the _ne-plus-ultra_
of mountain misery—“afoot;” how packs and peltries, the hard-earned
“beaver” of his perilous hunts, were “raised” at one fell swoop by
free-booting bands of savages. Hunger and thirst, we know, were
commonplace sensations to the mountaineer. His storm-hardened flesh
scarce felt the pinging wounds of arrow-point or bullet; and when in
the midst of Indian fight, it is not probable that any tender qualms
of feeling would allay the itching of his fingers for his enemy's
scalp-lock, nor would any remains of civilised fastidiousness prevent
his burying his knife again and again in the life-blood of an Indian
savage.
Still, in one dark corner of his heart, there shone at intervals a
faint spark of what was once a fiercely-burning fire. Neither time,
that corroder of all things, nor change, that ready abettor of
oblivion, nor scenes of peril and excitement, which act as dampers
to more quiet memories, could smother this little smouldering spark,
which now and again—when rarely-coming calm succeeded some stirring
passage in the hunter's life, and left him, for a brief time, devoid
of care, and victim to his thoughts—would flicker suddenly, and light
up all the nooks and corners of his rugged breast, and discover to his
mind's eye that one deep-rooted memory clung there still, though long
neglected; proving that, spite of time and change, of life and fortune,
“On revient toujours à ses premiers amours.”
Often and often as La Bonté sat cross-legged before his solitary
camp-fire, and, pipe in mouth, watched the blue smoke curling
upwards in the clear cold sky, a well-remembered form appeared to
gaze upon him from the vapoury wreaths. Then would old recollections
crowd before him, and old emotions, long a stranger to his breast,
shape themselves, as it were, into long-forgotten but now familiar
pulsations. Again he felt the soft subduing influence which once, in
days gone by, a certain passion exercised over his mind and body; and
often a trembling seized him, the same he used to experience at the
sudden sight of one Mary Brand, whose dim and dreamy apparition so
often watched his lonely bed, or, unconsciously conjured up, cheered
him in the dreary watches of the long and stormy winter nights.
At first he only knew that one face haunted his dreams by night, and
the few moments by day when he thought of any thing, and this face
smiled lovingly upon him, and cheered him mightily. Name he had quite
forgotten, or recalled it vaguely, and, setting small store by it, had
thought of it no more.
For many years after he had deserted his home, La Bonté had cherished
the idea of again returning to his country. During this period he had
never forgotten his old flame, and many a choice fur he had carefully
laid by, intended as a present for Mary Brand; and many a _gâge
d'amour_ of cunning shape and device, worked in stained quills of
porcupine and bright-coloured beads—the handiwork of nimble-fingered
squaws—he had packed in his possible sack for the same destination,
hoping a time would come when he might lay them at her feet.
Year after year wore on, however, and still found him, with traps and
rifle, following his perilous avocation; and each succeeding one saw
him more and more wedded to the wild mountain-life. He was conscious
how unfitted he had become again to enter the galling harness of
conventionality and civilisation. He thought, too, how changed in
manners and appearance he now must be, and could not believe that
he would again find favour in the eyes of his quondam love, who, he
judged, had long since forgotten him; and inexperienced as he was in
such matters, yet he knew enough of womankind to feel assured that
time and absence had long since done the work, if even the natural
fickleness of woman's nature had lain dormant. Thus it was that he
came to forget Mary Brand, but still remembered the all-absorbing
feeling she had once created in his breast, the shadow of which still
remained, and often took form and feature in the smoke-wreaths of his
solitary camp-fire.
If truth be told, La Bonté had his failings as a mountaineer, and—sin
unpardonable in hunter law—still possessed, in holes and corners of
his breast seldom explored by his inward eye, much of the leaven of
kindly human nature, which now and again involuntarily peeped out, as
greatly to the contempt of his comrade trappers as it was blushingly
repressed by the mountaineer himself. Thus, in his various matrimonial
episodes, he treated his dusky _sposas_ with all the consideration
the sex could possibly demand from hand of man. No squaw of his ever
humped shoulder to receive a castigatory and marital “lodge-poling”
for offence domestic; but often has his helpmate blushed to see her
pale-face lord and master devote himself to the feminine labour
of packing huge piles of fire-wood on his back, felling trees,
butchering unwieldy buffalo—all which are included in the Indian
category of female duties. Thus he was esteemed an excellent _parti_
by all the marriageable young squaws of Blackfoot, Crow, and
Shoshone, of Yutah, Shian, and Arapaho; but after his last connubial
catastrophe, he steeled his heart against all the charms and coquetry
of Indian belles, and persevered in unblessed widowhood for many a
long day.
From the point where we left him on his way to the waters of the
Columbia, we must jump with him over a space of nearly two years,
during which time he had a most uninterrupted run of good luck;
trapping with great success on the head streams of the Columbia and
Yellow Stone—the most dangerous of trapping ground—and finding good
market for his peltries at the “North-west” posts—beaver fetching as
high a price as five and six dollars a “plew”—the “golden age” of
trappers, now, alas, never to return, and existing only in the fond
memory of the mountaineers. This glorious time, however, was too good
to last. In mountain language, “such heap of fat meat was not going to
'shine' much longer.”
La Bonté was at this time one of a band of eight trappers, whose
hunting ground was about the head waters of the Yellow Stone, which
we have before said is in the country of the Blackfeet. With him were
Killbuck, Meek, Marcellin, and three others; and the leader of the
party was Bill Williams, that old “hard case” who had spent forty
years and more in the mountains, until he had become as tough as the
parflêche soles of his moccasins. They were all good men and true,
expert hunters, and well-trained mountaineers. After having trapped
all the streams they were acquainted with, it was determined to strike
into the mountains, at a point where old Williams affirmed, from the
“run” of the hills, there must be plenty of water, although not one
of the party had before explored the country, or knew any thing of
its nature, or of the likelihood of its affording game for themselves
or pasture for their animals. However, they packed their peltry, and
put out for the land in view—a lofty peak, dimly seen above the more
regular summit of the chain, being their landmark.
For the first day or two their route lay between two ridges of
mountains, and by following the little valley which skirted a creek,
they kept on level ground, and saved their animals considerable labour
and fatigue. Williams always rode ahead, his body bent over his
saddle-horn, across which rested a long heavy rifle, his keen gray
eyes peering from under the slouched brim of a flexible felt-hat,
black and shining with grease. His buckskin hunting-shirt, bedaubed
until it had the appearance of polished leather, hung in folds over
his bony carcass; his nether extremities being clothed in pantaloons
of the same material (with scattered fringes down the outside of
the leg—which ornaments, however, had been pretty well thinned to
supply “whangs” for mending moccasins or pack-saddles), which, shrunk
with wet, clung tightly to his long, spare, sinewy legs. His feet
were thrust into a pair of Mexican stirrups made of wood, and as big
as coal-scuttles; and iron spurs of incredible proportions, with
tinkling drops attached to the rowels, were fastened to his heel—a
bead-worked strap, four inches broad, securing them over the instep.
In the shoulder-belt which sustained his powder-horn and bullet-pouch,
were fastened the various instruments essential to one pursuing his
mode of life. An awl, with deer-horn handle, and the point defended
by a case of cherry-wood carved by his own hand, hung at the back
of the belt, side by side with a worm for cleaning the rifle; and
under this was a squat and quaint-looking bullet-mould, the handles
guarded by strips of buckskin to save his fingers from burning when
running balls, having for its companion a little bottle made from the
point of an antelope's horn, scraped transparent, which contained
the “medicine” used in baiting the traps. The old coon's face was
sharp and thin, a long nose and chin hob-nobbing each other; and
his head was always bent forward giving him the appearance of being
hump-backed. He _appeared_ to look neither to the right nor left,
but, in fact, his little twinkling eye was everywhere. He looked at
no one he was addressing, always seeming to be thinking of something
else than the subject of his discourse, speaking in a whining, thin,
cracked voice, and in a tone that left the hearer in doubt whether he
was laughing or crying. On the present occasion he had joined this
band, and naturally assumed the leadership (for Bill ever refused to
go in harness), in opposition to his usual practice, which was to hunt
alone. His character was well known. Acquainted with every inch of the
Far West, and with all the Indian tribes who inhabited it, he never
failed to outwit his Red enemies, and generally made his appearance
at the rendezvous, from his solitary expeditions, with galore of
beaver, when numerous bands of trappers dropped in on foot, having
been despoiled of their packs and animals by the very Indians through
the midst of whom old Williams had contrived to pass unseen and
unmolested. On occasions when he had been in company with others, and
attacked by Indians, Bill invariably fought manfully, and with all the
coolness that perfect indifference to death or danger could give, but
always “on his own hook.” His rifle cracked away merrily, and never
spoke in vain; and in a charge—if ever it came to that—his keen-edged
butcher-knife tickled the fleece of many a Blackfoot. But at the same
time, if he saw that discretion was the better part of valour, and
affairs wore so cloudy an aspect as to render retreat advisable, he
would first express his opinion in curt terms, and decisively, and,
charging up his rifle, would take himself off and “câche”[25] so
effectually that to search for him was utterly useless. Thus, when
with a large party of trappers, when any thing occurred which gave him
a hint that trouble was coming, or more Indians were about than he
considered good for his animals, Bill was wont to exclaim—
“Do 'ee hyar now, boys, thar's sign about? this hos feels like
caching;” and, without more words, and stoically deaf to all
remonstrances, he would forthwith proceed to pack his animals, talking
the while to an old, crop-eared, raw-boned Nez-percé pony, his own
particular saddle-horse, who in dogged temper and iron hardiness, was
a worthy companion of his self-willed master. This beast, as Bill
seized his apishamore to lay upon its galled back, would express
displeasure by humping its back and shaking its withers with a wincing
motion, that always excited the ire of the old trapper; and no sooner
had he laid the apishamore smoothly on the chafed skin, than a wriggle
of the animal shook it off.
“Do 'ee hyar now, you darned crittur?” he would whine out, “can't
'ee keep quiet your old fleece now? Isn't this old coon putting out
to save 'ee from the darned Injuns now, do 'ee hyar?” And then,
continuing his work and taking no notice of his comrades, who stood
by bantering the eccentric old trapper, he would soliloquise—“Do 'ee
hyar, now? This niggur sees sign ahead—he does; he'll be afoot afore
long, if he don't keep his eye skinned,—_he_ will. _Injuns_ is all
about, they ar': Blackfoot at that. Can't come round this child—they
can't, wagh!” And at last, his pack animals securely tied to the tail
of his horse, he would mount, and throwing the rifle across the horn
of his saddle, and without noticing his companions, would drive the
jingling spurs into his horse's gaunt sides, and muttering, “Can't
come round this child—they can't!” would ride away; and nothing more
would be seen or heard of him perhaps for months, when they would
not unfrequently, themselves bereft of animals in the scrape he had
foreseen, find him located in some solitary valley, in his lonely
camp, with his animals securely picketed around, and his peltries safe.
However, if he took it into his head to keep company with a party,
all felt perfectly secure under his charge. His iron frame defied
fatigue, and, at night, his love for himself and his own animals
was sufficient guarantee that the camp would be well guarded. As he
rode ahead, his spurs jingling, and thumping the sides of his old
horse at every step, he managed, with admirable dexterity, to take
advantage of the best line of country to follow—avoiding the gullies
and cañons and broken ground, which would otherwise have impeded his
advance. This tact appeared instinctive, for he looked neither right
nor left, whilst continuing a course as straight as possible at the
foot of the mountains. In selecting a camping site, he displayed
equal skill: wood, water, and grass began to fill his thoughts
towards sundown, and when these three requisites for a camping ground
presented themselves, old Bill sprang from his saddle, unpacked his
animals in a twinkling, and hobbled them, struck fire and ignited a
few chips (leaving the rest to pack in the wood), lit his pipe, and
enjoyed himself. On one occasion, when passing through the valley,
they had come upon a band of fine buffalo cows, and, shortly after
camping, two of the party rode in with a good supply of fat fleece.
One of the party was a “greenhorn” on his first hunt, fresh from a
fort on Platte, and as yet uninitiated in the mysteries of mountain
cooking. Bill, lazily smoking his pipe, called to him, as he happened
to be nearest, to butcher off a piece of meat and put it in his pot.
Markhead seized the fleece, and commenced innocently carving off a
huge ration, when a gasping roar from the old trapper caused him to
drop his knife.
“Ti-ya,” growled Bill, “do 'ee hyar, now, you darned greenhorn, do 'ee
spile fat cow like that whar you was raised? Them doins wont shine in
this crowd, boy, do 'ee hyar, darned you? What! butcher meat across
the grain! why, whar'll the blood be goin' to, you precious Spaniard?
Down the grain, I say,” he continued in a severe tone of rebuke,
“and let your flaps be long, or out the juice'll run slick—do 'ee
hyar, now?” But this heretical error nearly cost the old trapper his
appetite, and all night long he grumbled his horror at seeing “fat
cow spiled in that fashion.”
When two or three days' journey brought them to the end of the
valley, and they commenced the passage of the mountain, their march
was obstructed by all kinds of obstacles; although they had chosen
what appeared to be a gap in the chain, and what was in fact the only
practicable passage in that vicinity. They followed the cañon of a
branch of the Yellow Stone, where it entered the mountain; but from
this point it became a torrent, and it was only by dint of incredible
exertions that they reached the summit of the ridge. Game was
exceedingly scarce in the vicinity, and they suffered extremely from
hunger, having, on more than one occasion, recourse to the parflêche
soles of their moccasins to allay its pangs. Old Bill, however, never
grumbled; he chewed away at his shoes with relish even, and as long as
he had a pipeful of tobacco in his pouch, was a happy man. Starvation
was as yet far off, for all their animals were in existence; but as
they were in a country where it was difficult to procure a remount,
each trapper hesitated to sacrifice one of his horses to his appetite.
From the summit of the ridge, Bill recognised the country on the
opposite side to that whence they had just ascended as familiar to
him, and pronounced it to be full of beaver, as well as abounding in
the less desirable commodity of Indians. This was the valley lying
about the lakes now called Eustis and Biddle, in which are many
thermal and mineral springs, well known to the trappers by the names
of the Soda, Beer, and Brimstone Springs, and regarded by them with no
little awe and curiosity, as being the breathing-places of his Satanic
majesty—considered, moreover, to be the “biggest kind” of “medicine”
to be found in the mountains. If truth be told, old Bill hardly
relished the idea of entering this country, which he pronounced to be
of “bad medicine” notoriety, but nevertheless agreed to guide them to
the best trapping ground.
One day they reached a creek full of beaver sign, and determined to
halt here and establish their headquarters, while they trapped in the
neighbourhood. We must here observe, that at this period—which was
one of considerable rivalry amongst the various trading companies in
the Indian territory—the Indians, having become possessed of arms
and ammunition in great quantities, had grown unusually daring and
persevering in their attacks on the white hunters who passed through
their country, and consequently the trappers were compelled to roam
about in larger bands for mutual protection, which, although it made
them less liable to open attack, yet rendered it more difficult for
them to pursue their calling without being discovered; for, where one
or two men might pass unseen, the broad trail of a large party, with
its animals, was not likely to escape the sharp eyes of the cunning
savages.
They had scarcely encamped when the old leader, who had sallied out a
short distance from camp to reconnoitre the neighbourhood, returned
with an Indian moccasin in his hand, and informed his companions that
its late owner and others were about.
“Do 'ee hyar now, boys, thar's _Injuns_ knocking round, and Blackfoot
at that; but thar's plenty of beaver too, and this child means
trapping any how.”
His companions were anxious to leave such dangerous vicinity; but the
old fellow, contrary to his usual caution, determined to remain where
he was—saying that there were Indians all over the country for that
matter; and as they had determined to hunt here, he had made up his
mind too—which was conclusive, and all agreed to stop where they were,
in spite of the Indians. La Bonté killed a couple of mountain sheep
close to camp, and they feasted rarely on the fat mutton that night,
and were unmolested by marauding Blackfeet.
The next morning, leaving two of their number in camp, they started in
parties of two, to hunt for beaver sign and set their traps. Markhead
paired with one Batiste, Killbuck and La Bonté formed another couple,
Meek and Marcellin another; two Canadians trapped together, and Bill
Williams and another remained to guard the camp: but this last,
leaving Bill mending his moccasins, started off to kill a mountain
sheep, a band of which animals was visible.
Markhead and his companion, the first couple on the list, followed a
creek, which entered that on which they had encamped, about ten miles
distant. Beaver sign was abundant, and they had set eight traps, when
Markhead came suddenly upon fresh Indian sign, where squaws had passed
through the shrubbery on the banks of the stream to procure water, as
he knew from observing a large stone placed by them in the stream,
on which to stand to enable them to dip their kettles in the deepest
water. Beckoning to his companion to follow, and cocking his rifle,
he carefully pushed aside the bushes, and noiselessly proceeded up
the bank, when, creeping on hands and knees, he gained the top, and,
looking from his hiding-place, descried three Indian huts standing
on a little plateau near the creek. Smoke curled from the roofs of
branches, but the skin doors were carefully closed, so that he was
unable to distinguish the number of the inmates. At a little distance,
however, he observed two or three squaws gathering wood, with the
usual attendance of curs, whose acuteness in detecting the scent of
strangers was much to be dreaded.
Markhead was a rash and daring young fellow, caring no more for
Indians than he did for prairie dogs, and acting ever on the spur
of the moment, and as his inclination dictated, regardless of
consequences. He at once determined to enter the lodges, and attack
the enemy, should any be there; and the other trapper was fain to
join him in the enterprise. The lodges proved empty, but the fires
were still burning, and meat cooking upon them, to which the hungry
hunters did ample justice, besides helping themselves to whatever
goods and chattels, in the shape of leather and moccasins, took their
fancy.
Gathering their spoil into a bundle, they sought their horses, which
they had left tied under cover of the timber on the banks of the
creek; and, mounting, took the back trail, to pick up their traps
and remove from so dangerous a neighbourhood. They were approaching
the spot where the first trap was set, a thick growth of ash and
quaking-ash concealing the stream, when Markhead, who was riding
ahead, observed the bushes agitated, as if some animal was making its
way through them. He instantly stopped his horse, and his companion
rode to his side, to inquire the cause of this abrupt halt. They
were within a few yards of the belt of shrubs which skirted the
stream; and before Markhead had time to reply, a dozen swarthy heads
and shoulders suddenly protruded from the leafy screen, and as many
rifle-barrels and arrows were pointing at their breasts. Before the
trappers had time to turn their horses and fly, a cloud of smoke
burst from the thicket almost in their faces. Batiste, pierced with
several balls, fell dead, and Markhead felt himself severely wounded.
However, he struck the spurs into his horse; and as some half-score
Blackfeet jumped with loud cries from their cover, he discharged
his rifle amongst them, and galloped off, a volley of balls and
arrows whistling after him. He drew no bit until he reined up at the
camp-fire, where he found Bill quietly dressing a deer-skin. That
worthy looked up from his work; and seeing Markhead's face streaming
with blood, and the very unequivocal evidence of an Indian rencontre
in the shape of an arrow sticking in his back, he asked,—“Do 'ee feel
bad now, boy? Whar away you see them darned Blackfoot?”
“Well, pull this arrow out of my back, and may be I'll feel like
telling,” answered Markhead.
“Do 'ee hyar now! hold on till I've grained this cussed skin, will
'ee! Did 'ee ever see sich a darned pelt, now? it won't take the
smoke any how I fix it.” And Markhead was fain to wait the leisure of
the imperturbable old trapper, before he was eased of his annoying
companion.
Old Bill expressed no surprise or grief when informed of the fate of
poor Batiste. He said it was “just like greenhorns, runnin' into them
cussed Blackfoot;” and observed that the defunct trapper, being only a
Vide-pôche, was “no account anyhow.” Presently Killbuck and La Bonté
galloped into camp, with another alarm of Indians. They had also been
attacked suddenly by a band of Blackfeet, but, being in a more open
country, had got clear off, after killing two of their assailants,
whose scalps hung at the horns of their saddles. They had been in
a different direction to that in which Markhead and his companion
had proceeded, and, from the signs they had observed, expressed
their belief that the country was alive with Indians. Neither of
these men had been wounded. Presently the two Canadians made their
appearance on the bluff, galloping with might and main to camp, and
shouting “Indians, Indians,” as they came. All being assembled, and a
council held, it was determined to abandon the camp and neighbourhood
immediately. Old Bill was already packing his animals, and as he
pounded the saddle down on the withers of his old Rosinante, he
muttered,—“Do 'ee hyar, now! this coon 'ull câche, _he_ will.” So
mounting his horse, and leading his pack mule by a lariat, he bent
over his saddle-horn, dug his ponderous rowels into the lank sides of
his beast, and, without a word, struck up the bluff and disappeared.
The others, hastily gathering up their packs, and most of them having
lost their traps, quickly followed his example, and “put out.” On
cresting the high ground which rose from the creek, they observed
thin columns of smoke mounting into the air from many different
points, the meaning of which they were at no loss to guess. However
they were careful not to show themselves on elevated ground, keeping
as much as possible under the banks of the creek, when such a course
was practicable; but, the bluffs sometimes rising precipitously from
the water, they were more than once compelled to ascend the banks,
and continue their course along the uplands, whence they might easily
be discovered by the Indians. It was nearly sundown when they left
their camp, but they proceeded during the greater part of the night at
as rapid a rate as possible; their progress, however, being greatly
retarded as they advanced into the mountain, their route lying up
stream. Towards morning they halted for a brief space, but started
again as soon as daylight permitted them to see their way over the
broken ground.
The creek now forced its way through a narrow cañon, the banks being
thickly clothed with a shrubbery of cottonwood and quaking-ash. The
mountain rose on each side, but not abruptly, being here and there
broken into plateaus and shelving prairies. In a very thick bottom,
sprinkled with coarse grass, they halted about noon, and removed the
saddles and packs from their wearied animals, picketing them in the
best spots of grass.
La Bonté and Killbuck, after securing their animals, left the camp to
hunt, for they had no provisions of any kind; and a short distance
beyond it, the former came suddenly upon a recent moccasin track in
the timber. After examining it for a moment, he raised his head with
a broad grin, and, turning to his companion, pointed into the cover,
where, in the thickest part, they discerned the well-known figure of
old Bill's horse, browsing upon the cherry bushes. Pushing through the
thicket in search of the brute's master, La Bonté suddenly stopped
short as the muzzle of a rifle-barrel gaped before his eyes at the
distance of a few inches, whilst the thin voice of Bill muttered—
“Do 'ee hyar now, I was nigh giving 'ee h——: I _was_ now. If I
didn't think 'ee was Blackfoot, I'm dogged now.” And not a little
indignant was the old fellow that his câche had been so easily, though
accidentally, discovered. However, he presently made his appearance in
camp, leading his animals, and once more joined his late companions,
not deigning to give any explanation as to why or wherefore he had
deserted them the day before, merely muttering, “do 'ee hyar now,
thar's trouble comin'.”
The two hunters returned after sundown with a black-tailed deer; and
after eating the better part of the meat, and setting a guard, the
party were glad to roll in their blankets and enjoy the rest they
so much needed. They were undisturbed during the night; but at dawn
of day the sleepers were roused by a hundred fierce yells, from the
mountains enclosing the creek on which they had encamped. The yells
were instantly followed by a ringing volley, the bullets thudding into
the trees, and cutting the branches near them, but without causing
any mischief. Old Bill rose from his blanket and shook himself, and
exclaimed “Wagh!” as at that moment a ball plumped into the fire over
which he was standing, and knocked the ashes about in a cloud. All
the mountaineers seized their rifles and sprang to cover; but as yet
it was not sufficiently light to show them their enemy, the bright
flashes from the guns alone indicating their position. As morning
dawned, however, they saw that both sides of the cañon were occupied
by the Indians; and, from the firing, judged there must be at least a
hundred warriors engaged in the attack. Not a shot had yet been fired
by the trappers, but as the light increased, they eagerly watched
for an Indian to expose himself, and offer a mark to their trusty
rifles. La Bonté, Killbuck, and old Bill, lay a few yards distant from
each other, flat on their faces, near the edge of the thicket, their
rifles raised before them, and the barrels resting in the forks of
convenient bushes. From their place of concealment to the position of
the Indians—who, however, were scattered here and there, wherever a
rock afforded them cover—was a distance of about a hundred and fifty
yards, or within fair rifle-shot. The trappers were obliged to divide
their force, since both sides of the creek were occupied; but, such
was the nature of the ground, and the excellent cover afforded by
the rocks and boulders, and clumps of dwarf pine and hemlock, that
not a hand's-breadth of an Indian's body had yet been seen. Nearly
opposite La Bonté, a shelving glade in the mountain side ended in an
abrupt precipice, and at the very edge, and almost toppling over it,
were several boulders, just of sufficient size to afford cover to a
man's body. As this bluff overlooked the trappers' position, it was
occupied by the Indians, and every rock covered an assailant. At one
point, just over where La Bonté and Killbuck were lying, two boulders
lay together, with just sufficient interval to admit a rifle-barrel
between them, and from this breas-twork an Indian kept up a most
annoying fire. All his shots fell in dangerous propinquity to one or
other of the trappers, and already Killbuck had been grazed by one
better directed than the others. La Bonté watched for some time in
vain for a chance to answer this persevering marksman, and at length
an opportunity offered, by which he was not long in profiting.
The Indian, as the light increased, was better able to discern his
mark, and fired, and yelled every time he did so, with redoubled
vigour. In his eagerness, and probably whilst in the act of taking
aim, he leaned too heavily against the rock which covered him, and,
detaching it from its position, down it rolled into the cañon,
exposing his body by its fall. At the same instant, a wreath of smoke
puffed from the bushes which concealed the trappers, and the crack
of La Bonté's rifle spoke the first word of reply to the Indian
challenge. A few feet behind the rock, fell the dead body of the
Indian, rolling down the steep sides of the cañon, and only stopped
by a bush at the very bottom, within a few yards of the spot where
Markhead lay concealed in some high grass.
That daring fellow instantly jumped from his cover, and drawing his
knife, rushed to the body, and in another moment held aloft the
Indian's scalp, giving, at the same time, a triumphant whoop. A score
of rifles were levelled and discharged at the intrepid mountaineer;
but in the act many Indians incautiously exposed themselves, every
rifle in the timber cracked simultaneously, and for each report an
Indian bit the dust.
Now, however, they changed their tactics. Finding they were unable
to drive the trappers from their position, they retired from the
mountain, and the firing suddenly ceased. In their retreat they were
forced to expose themselves, and again the whites dealt destruction
amongst them. As the Indians retired, yelling loudly, the hunters
thought they had given up the contest; but presently a cloud of smoke
rising from the bottom immediately below them, at once discovered
the nature of their plans. A brisk wind was blowing up the cañon;
and, favoured by it, they fired the brush on the banks of the stream,
knowing that before this the hunters must speedily retreat.
Against such a result, but for the gale of wind which drove the fire
roaring before it, they could have provided—for your mountaineer never
fails to find resources on a pinch. They would have fired the brush
to leeward of their position, and also carefully ignited that to
windward, or between them and the advancing flame, extinguishing it
immediately when a sufficient space had thus been cleared, over which
the flame could not leap, and thus cutting themselves off from it both
above and below their position. In the present instance they could not
profit by such a course, as the wind was so strong that, if once the
bottom caught fire, they would not be able to extinguish it; besides
which, in the attempt, they would so expose themselves that they would
be picked off by the Indians without difficulty. As it was, the fire
came roaring before the wind with the speed of a race-horse, and,
spreading from the bottom, licked the mountain sides, the dry grass
burning like tinder. Huge volumes of stifling smoke rolled before it,
and, in a very few minutes, the trappers were hastily mounting their
animals, driving the packed ones before them. The dense clouds of
smoke concealed every thing from their view, and, to avoid this, they
broke from the creek and galloped up the sides of the cañon on to the
more level plateau. As they attained this, a band of mounted Indians
charged them. One, waving a red blanket, dashed through the cavallada,
and was instantly followed by all the loose animals of the trappers,
the rest of the Indians pursuing with loud shouts. So sudden was the
charge, that the whites had not power to prevent the stampede. Old
Bill, as usual, led his pack mules by the lariat; but the animals,
mad with terror at the shouts of the Indians, broke from him, nearly
pulling him out of his seat at the same time.
To cover the retreat of the others with their prey, a band of mounted
Indians now appeared, threatening an attack in front, whilst their
first assailants, rushing from the bottom, at least a hundred strong,
assaulted in rear. “Do 'ee hyar, boys!” shouted old Bill, “break, or
you'll go under. This child's goin' to câche!” and saying the word,
off he went. _Sauve-qui-peut_ was the order of the day, and not a
moment too soon, for overwhelming numbers were charging upon them, and
the mountain resounded with savage yells. La Bonté and Killbuck stuck
together: they saw old Bill, bending over his saddle, dive right into
the cloud of smoke, and apparently make for the creek bottom—their
other companions scattering each on his own hook, and saw no more
of them for many a month; and thus was one of the most daring and
successful bands broken up that ever trapped in the mountains of the
Far West.
It is painful to follow the steps of the poor fellows who, thus
despoiled of the hardly-earned produce of their hunt, saw all their
wealth torn from them at one swoop. The two Canadians were killed upon
the night succeeding that of the attack. Worn with fatigue, hungry and
cold, they had built a fire in what they thought was a secure retreat,
and, rolled in their blankets, were soon buried in a sleep from which
they never awoke. An Indian boy tracked them, and watched their camp.
Burning with the idea of signalising himself thus early, he awaited
his opportunity, and noiselessly approaching their resting-place,
shot them both with arrows, and returned in triumph to his people with
their horses and scalps.
La Bonté and Killbuck sought a passage in the mountain by which
to cross over to the head waters of the Columbia, and there fall
in with some of the traders or trappers of the North-west. They
became involved in the mountains, in a part where was no game of any
description, and no pasture for their miserable animals. One of these
they killed for food; the other, a bag of bones, died from sheer
starvation. They had very little ammunition, their moccasins were worn
out, and they were unable to procure skins to supply themselves with
fresh ones. Winter was fast approaching; the snow already covered the
mountains; and storms of sleet and hail poured incessantly through
the valleys, benumbing their exhausted limbs, hardly protected by
scanty and ragged covering. To add to their miseries, poor Killbuck
was taken ill. He had been wounded in the groin by a bullet some time
before, and the ball still remained. The wound, aggravated by walking
and the excessive cold, assumed an ugly appearance, and soon rendered
him incapable of sustained exertion, all motion even being attended
with intolerable pain. La Bonté had made a shanty for his suffering
companion, and spread a soft bed of pine branches for him, by the
side of a small creek at the point where it came out of the mountain
and followed its course through a little prairie. They had been three
days without other food than a piece of parflêche, which had formed
the back of La Bonté's bullet-pouch, and which, after soaking in
the creek, they eagerly devoured. Killbuck was unable to move, and
sinking fast from exhaustion. His companion had hunted from morning
till night, as well as his failing strength would allow him, but had
not seen the traces of any kind of game, with the exception of some
old buffalo tracks, made apparently months before by a band of bulls
crossing the mountain.
The morning of the fourth day La Bonté, as usual, rose at daybreak
from his blanket, and was proceeding to collect wood for the fire
during his absence while hunting, when Killbuck called to him, and in
an almost inarticulate voice desired him to seat himself by his side.
“Boy,” he said, “this old hos feels like goin' under, and that afore
long. You're stout yet, and if thar was meat handy, you'd come round
slick. Now, boy, I'll be under, as I said, afore many hours, and if
you don't raise meat you'll be in the same fix. I never eat dead
meat[26] myself, and wouldn't ask no one to do it neither; but meat
fair killed is meat any way; so, boy, put your knife in this old
niggur's lights, and help yourself. It's 'poor bull,' I know, but
maybe it'll do to keep life in; and along the fleece thar's meat yet,
and maybe my old hump ribs has picking on 'em.”
“You're a good old hos,” answered La Bonté, “but this child ain't
turned niggur yet.”
Killbuck then begged his companion to leave him to his fate, and
strive himself to reach game; but this alternative La Bonté likewise
generously refused, and faintly endeavouring to cheer the sick man,
left him once again to look for game. He was so weak that he felt
difficulty in supporting himself, and knowing how futile would be his
attempts to hunt, he sallied from the camp convinced that a few hours
more would see the last of him.
He had scarcely raised his eyes, when, hardly crediting his senses,
he saw within a few hundred yards of him an old bull, worn with age,
lying on the prairie. Two wolves were seated on their haunches before
him, their tongues lolling from their mouths, whilst the buffalo
was impotently rolling his ponderous head from side to side, his
blood-shot eyes glaring fiercely at his tormentors, and flakes of
foam, mixed with blood, dropping from his mouth over his long shaggy
beard. La Bonté was transfixed; he scarcely dared to breathe, lest the
animal should be alarmed and escape. Weak as it was, he could hardly
have followed it, and, knowing that his own and companion's life hung
upon the success of his shot, he scarcely had strength to raise his
rifle. By dint of extraordinary exertions and precautions, which were
totally unnecessary, for the poor old bull had not a move in him, the
hunter approached within shot. Lying upon the ground, he took a long
steady aim, and fired. The buffalo raised its matted head, tossed it
wildly for an instant, and, stretching out its limbs convulsively,
turned over on its side and was dead.
Killbuck heard the shot, and crawling from under the little shanty
which covered his bed, saw, to his astonishment, La Bonté in the act
of butchering a buffalo within two hundred yards of camp. “Hurraw for
you!” he faintly exclaimed; and exhausted by the exertion he had used,
and perhaps by the excitement of an anticipated feast, fell back and
fainted.
However, the killing was the easiest matter, for when the huge carcass
lay dead upon the ground, our hunter had hardly strength to drive the
blade of his knife through the tough hide of the old patriarch. Then
having cut off as much of the meat as he could carry, eating the while
sundry portions of the liver, which he dipped in the gall-bladder by
way of relish, La Bonté cast a wistful look upon the half-starved
wolves, who now loped round and round, licking their chops, only
waiting until his back was turned to fall to with appetite equal to
his own, and capabilities of swallowing and digesting far superior. La
Bonté looked at the buffalo and then at the wolves, levelled his rifle
and shot one dead, at which the survivor scampered off without delay.
Arrived at camp, packing in a tolerable load of the best part of the
animal—for hunger lent him strength—he found poor Killbuck lying on
his back, deaf to time, and to all appearance gone under. Having no
salvolatile or vinaigrette at hand, La Bonté flapped a lump of raw
fleece into his patient's face, and this instantly revived him. Then
taking the sick man's shoulder, he raised him tenderly into a sitting
posture, and invited, in kindly accents, “the old hos to feed,”
thrusting at the same time a tolerable slice of liver into his hand,
which the patient looked at wistfully and vaguely for a few short
moments, and then greedily devoured. It was nightfall by the time that
La Bonté, assisted by many intervals of hard eating, packed in the
last of the meat, which formed a goodly pile around the fire.
“Poor bull” it was in all conscience: the labour of chewing a mouthful
of the “tender loin” was equal to a hard day's hunt; but to them,
poor starved fellows, it appeared the richest of meat. They still
preserved a small tin pot, and in this, by stress of eternal boiling,
La Bonté contrived to make some strong soup, which soon restored his
sick companion to marching order. For himself, as soon as a good meal
had filled him, he was strong as ever, and employed himself in drying
the remainder of the meat for future use. Even the wolf, bony as he
was, was converted into meat, and rationed them several days. Winter,
however, had set in with such severity, and Killbuck was still so
weak, that La Bonté determined to remain in his present position
until spring, as he now found that buffalo frequently visited the
valley, as it was more bare of snow than the lowlands, and afforded
them better pasture; and one morning he had the satisfaction of seeing
a band of seventeen bulls within long rifle-shot of the camp, out of
which four of the fattest were soon laid low by his rifle.
They still had hard times before them, for towards spring the buffalo
again disappeared; the greater part of their meat had been spoiled,
owing to there not being sufficient sun to dry it thoroughly; and
when they resumed their journey they had nothing to carry with them,
and had a desert before them without game of any kind. We pass over
what they suffered. Hunger and thirst were their portion, and Indians
assaulted them at times, and many miraculous and hair-breadth escapes
they had from these enemies.