Again we must take a jump with La Bonté over a space of several
months; when we find him, in company of half a dozen trappers, amongst
them his inseparable compañero Killbuck, camped on the Greenhorn
creek, _en route_ to the settlements of New Mexico. They have a few
mules packed with beaver for the Taos market: but this expedition has
been planned more for pleasure than profit—a journey to Taos valley
being the only civilised relaxation coveted by the mountaineers. Not a
few of the present band are bound thither with matrimonial intentions;
the belles of Nuevo Mejico being to them the _ne plus ultra_ of female
perfection, uniting most conspicuous personal charms (although coated
with cosmetic _alegria_—an herb, with the juice of which the women
of Mexico hideously bedaub their faces), with all the hard-working
industry of Indian squaws. The ladies, on their part, do not hesitate
to leave the paternal abodes, and eternal tortilla-making, to share
the perils and privations of the American mountaineers in the distant
wilderness. Utterly despising their own countrymen, whom they are
used to contrast with the dashing white hunters who swagger in all
the pride of fringe and leather through their towns—they, as is but
natural, gladly accept husbands from the latter class; preferring the
stranger, who possesses the heart and strong right arm to defend them,
to the miserable cowardly “peládos,” who hold what little they have on
sufferance of savage Indians, but one degree superior to themselves.
Certainly no band of hunters that ever appeared in the vale of Taos,
numbered in its ranks a properer lot of lads than those now camped on
Greenhorn, intent on matrimonial foray into the settlements of New
Mexico. There was young Dick Wooton, who was “some” for his inches,
being six feet six, and as straight and strong as the barrel of his
long rifle. Shoulder to shoulder with this “boy,” stood Rube Herring,
and not a hair's-breadth difference in height or size was there
between them. Killbuck, though mountain winters had sprinkled a few
snow-flakes on his head, _looked up_ to neither; and La Bonté held
his own with any mountaineer who ever set a trap in sight of Long's
Peak or the Snowy Range. Marcellin—who, though a Mexican, despised
his people and abjured his blood, having been all his life in the
mountains with the white hunters—looked down easily upon six feet and
odd inches. In form a Hercules, he had the symmetry of an Apollo;
with strikingly handsome features, and masses of long black hair
hanging from his slouching beaver over the shoulders of his buckskin
hunting shirt. He, as he was wont to say, was “no dam Spaniard, but
'mountainee man,' wagh!” Chabonard, a half-breed, was not lost in
the crowd;—and, the last in height, but the first in every quality
which constitutes excellence in a mountaineer, whether of indomitable
courage, or perfect indifference to death or danger; with an iron
frame capable of withstanding hunger, thirst, heat, cold, fatigue, and
hardships of every kind; of wonderful presence of mind, and endless
resources in times of peril; with the instinct of an animal, and the
moral courage of a _man_—who was “taller” for his inches than KIT
CARSON, paragon of mountaineers?[32] Small in stature, and slenderly
limbed, but with muscles of wire, with a fair complexion and quiet
intelligent features, to look at Kit none would suppose that the
mild-looking being before him was an incarnate devil in Indian fight,
and had raised more hair from head of Redskins than any two men in the
western country; and yet, thirty winters had scarcely planted a line
or furrow on his clean-shaven face. No name, however, was better known
in the mountains—from Yellow Stone to Spanish Peaks, from Missouri to
Columbia River—than that of Kit Carson, “raised” in Boonlick, county
of Missouri State, and a credit to the diggins that gave him birth.
On Huerfano or Orphan Creek, so called from an isolated _hutte_ which
stands on a prairie near the stream, our party fell in with a village
of Yuta Indians, at that time hostile to the whites. Both parties
were preparing for battle, when Killbuck, who spoke the language,
went forward with signs of peace, and after a talk with several
chiefs, entered into an armistice, each party agreeing not to molest
the other. After trading for a few deer-skins, which the Yutas are
celebrated for dressing delicately fine, the trappers moved hastily
on out of such dangerous company, and camped under the mountain on
Oak Creek, where they forted in a strong position, and constructed a
corral in which to secure their animals at night. At this point is
a tolerable pass through the mountains, where a break occurs in a
range, whence they gradually decrease in magnitude until they meet
the sierras of Mexico, which connect the two mighty chains of the
Andes and the Rocky Mountains. From the summit of the dividing ridge,
to the eastward, a view is had of the vast sea of prairie which
stretches away from the base of the mountains, in dreary barrenness,
for nearly a thousand miles, until it meets the fertile valley of
the great Missouri. Over this boundless expanse, nothing breaks the
uninterrupted solitude of the view. Not a tree or atom of foliage
relieves the eye; for the lines of scattered timber which belt the
streams running from the mountains, are lost in the shadow of their
stupendous height, and beyond this nothing is seen but the bare
surface of the rolling prairie. In no other part of the chain are the
grand characteristics of the Far West more strikingly displayed than
from this pass. The mountains here rise, on the eastern side, abruptly
from the plain, and the view over the great prairies is not therefore
obstructed by intervening ridges. To the westward the eye sweeps over
the broken spurs which stretch from the main range in every direction;
whilst distant peaks, for the most part snow-covered, are seen at
intervals rising isolated above the range. On all sides the scene is
wild and dismal.
Crossing by this pass, the trappers followed the Yuta trail over a
plain, skirting a pine-covered ridge, in which countless herds of
antelope, tame as sheep, were pasturing. Numerous creeks intersect it,
well timbered with oak, pine, and cedar, and well stocked with game of
all kinds. On the eleventh day from leaving the Huerfano, they struck
the Taos valley settlement on Arroyo Hondo, and pushed on at once to
the village of Fernandez—sometimes, but improperly, called Taos. As
the dashing band clattered through the village, the dark eyes of the
reboso-wrapped muchachas peered from the doors of the adobe houses,
each mouth armed with cigarito, which was at intervals removed to
allow utterance to the salutation to each hunter as he trotted past of
_Adios Americanos_,—“Welcome to Fernandez!” and then they hurried off
to prepare for the fandango, which invariably followed the advent of
the mountaineers. The men, however, seemed scarcely so well pleased;
but leaned sulkily against the walls, their sarapes turned over the
left shoulder, and concealing the lower part of the face, the hand
appearing from its upper folds only to remove the eternal cigarro from
their lips. They, from under their broad-brimmed sombreros, scowled
with little affection upon the stalwart hunters, who clattered past
them, scarcely deigning to glance at the sullen Peládos, but paying
incomprehensible compliments to the buxom wenches who smiled at them
from the doors. Thus exchanging salutations, they rode up to the house
of an old mountaineer, who had long been settled here with a New
Mexican wife, and who was the recognised entertainer of the hunters
when they visited Taos valley, receiving in exchange such peltry as
they brought with them.
No sooner was it known that Los Americanos had arrived, than nearly
all the householders of Fernandez presented themselves to offer the
use of their “salas” for the fandango which invariably celebrated
their arrival. This was always a profitable event; for as the
mountaineers were generally pretty well “flush” of cash when on
their “spree,” and as open-handed as an Indian could wish, the sale
of whisky, with which they regaled all comers, produced a handsome
return to the fortunate individual whose room was selected for the
fandango. On this occasion the sala of the Alcalde Don Cornelio Vegil
was selected and put in order; a general invitation was distributed;
and all the dusky beauties of Fernandez were soon engaged in arraying
themselves for the fête. Off came the coats of dirt and “alegnía”
which had bedaubed their faces since the last “funcion,” leaving
their cheeks clear and clean. Water was profusely used, and their
cuerpos were doubtless astonished by the unusual lavation. Their long
black hair was washed and combed, plastered behind their ears, and
plaited into a long queue, which hung down their backs. _Enaguas_
of gaudy colour (red most affected) were donned, fastened round the
waist with ornamented belts, and above this a snow-white _camisita_
of fine linen was the only covering, allowing a prodigal display
of their charms. Gold and silver ornaments, of antiquated pattern,
decorate their ears and necks; and massive crosses of the precious
metals, wrought from the gold or silver of their own placeres, hang
pendant on their breasts. The enagua or petticoat, reaching about
halfway between the knee and ancle, displays their well-turned limbs,
destitute of stockings, and their tiny feet, thrust into quaint little
shoes (_zapatitos_) of Cinderellan dimensions. Thus equipped, with the
reboso drawn over their heads and faces, out of the folds of which
their brilliant eyes flash like lightning, and each pretty mouth
armed with its cigarito, they coquettishly enter the fandango.[33]
Here, at one end of a long room, are seated the musicians, their
instruments being generally a species of guitar, called heaca, a
_bandolin_, and an Indian drum, called _tombé_—one of each. Round the
room groups of New Mexicans lounge, wrapped in the eternal sarape, and
smoking of course, scowling with jealous eyes at the more favoured
mountaineers. These, divested of their hunting-coats of buckskins,
appear in their bran-new shirts of gaudy calico, and close fitting
buckskin pantaloons, with long fringes down the outside seam from the
hip to the ancle; with moccasins, ornamented with bright beads and
porcupine quills. Each, round his waist, wears his mountain-belt and
scalp-knife, ominous of the company he is in, and some have pistols
sticking in their belt.
The dances—save the mark!—are without form or figure, at least
those in which the white hunters sport the “fantastic toe.” Seizing
his partner round the waist with the gripe of a grisly bear, each
mountaineer whirls and twirls, jumps and stamps; introduces Indian
steps used in the “scalp” or “buffalo” dances, whooping occasionally
with unearthly cry, and then subsiding into the jerking step, raising
each foot alternately from the ground, so much in vogue in Indian
ballets. The hunters have the floor all to themselves. The Mexicans
have no chance in such physical force dancing; and if a dancing
Peládo[34] steps into the ring, a lead-like thump from a galloping
mountaineer quickly sends him sprawling, with the considerate
remark—“Quit, you darned Spaniard! you can't 'shine' in this crowd.”
During a lull, guagés[35] filled with whisky go the rounds—offered to
and seldom refused by the ladies—sturdily quaffed by the mountaineers,
and freely swallowed by the Peládos, who drown their jealousy and
envious hate of their entertainers in potent aguardiente. Now, as the
guagés are oft refilled and as often drained, and as night advances,
so do the spirits of the mountaineers become more boisterous, while
their attentions to their partners become warmer—the jealousy of
the natives waxes hotter thereat—and they begin to show symptoms
of resenting the endearments which the mountaineers bestow upon
their wives and sweethearts. And now, when the room is filled to
crowding,—with two hundred people, swearing, drinking, dancing, and
shouting—the half-dozen Americans monopolising the fair, to the
evident disadvantage of at least threescore scowling Peládos, it
happens that one of these, maddened by whisky and the green-eyed
monster, suddenly seizes a fair one from the waist-encircling arm of
a mountaineer, and pulls her from her partner. Wagh!—La Bonté—it is
he—stands erect as a pillar for a moment, then raises his hand to
his mouth, and gives a ringing war-whoop—jumps upon the rash Peládo,
seizes him by the body as if he were a child, lifts him over his head,
and dashes him with the force of a giant against the wall.
The war, long threatened, has commenced; twenty Mexicans draw their
knives and rush upon La Bonté, who stands his ground, and sweeps them
down with his ponderous fist, one after another, as they throng around
him. “Howgh-owgh-owgh-owgh-h!” the well-known warhoop, bursts from the
throats of his companions, and on they rush to the rescue. The women
scream, and block the door in their eagerness to escape; and thus
the Mexicans are compelled to stand their ground and fight. Knives
glitter in the light, and quick thrusts are given and parried. In the
centre of the room the whites stand shoulder to shoulder—covering the
floor with Mexicans by their stalwart blows; but the odds are fearful
against them, and other assailants crowd up to supply the place of
those who fall.
The alarm being given by the shrieking women, reinforcements of
Peládos rushed to the scene of action, but could not enter the
room, which was already full. The odds began to tell against the
mountaineers, when Kit Carson's quick eye caught sight of a high
stool or stone, supported by three long heavy legs. In a moment he had
cleared his way to this, and in another the three legs were broken off
and in the hands of himself, Dick Wooton, and La Bonté. Sweeping them
round their heads, down came the heavy weapons amongst the Mexicans
with wonderful effect—each blow, dealt by the nervous arms of Wooton
and La Bonté, mowing down a good half-dozen of the assailants. At this
the mountaineers gave a hearty whoop, and charged the wavering enemy
with such resistless vigour, that they gave way and bolted through the
door, leaving the floor strewed with wounded, many most dangerously;
for, as may be imagined, a thrust from the keen scalp-knife by the
nervous arm of a mountaineer was no baby blow, and seldom failed to
strike home—up to the “Green River”[36] on the blade.
The field being won, the whites, too, beat a quick retreat to the
house where they were domiciled, and where they had left their rifles.
Without their trusty weapons they felt, indeed, unarmed; and not
knowing how the affair just over would be followed up, lost no time in
making preparations for defence. However, after great blustering on
the part of the prefecto, who, accompanied by a _posse comitatus_ of
“Greasers,” proceeded to the house, and demanded the surrender of all
concerned in the affair—which proposition was received with a yell of
derision—the business was compounded by the mountaineers promising to
give sundry dollars to the friends of two of the Mexicans, who died
during the night of their wounds, and to pay for a certain amount of
masses to be sung for the repose of their souls in purgatory. Thus the
affair blew over; but for several days the mountaineers never showed
themselves in the streets of Fernandez without their rifles on their
shoulders, and refrained from attending fandangos for the present, and
until the excitement had cooled down.
A bitter feeling, however, existed on the part of the men; and one
or two offers of a matrimonial nature were rejected by the papas of
certain ladies who had been wooed by some of the white hunters, and
their hands formally demanded from the respective padres.
La Bonté had been rather smitten with the charms of one Dolores
Salazar—a buxom lass, more than three parts Indian in her blood, but
confessedly the “beauty” of the Vale of Taos. She, by dint of eye,
and of nameless acts of elaborate coquetry, with which the sex so
universally bait their traps, whether in the salons of Belgravia, or
the rancherias of New Mexico, contrived to make considerable havoc in
the heart of our mountaineer; and when once Dolores saw she had made
an impression, she followed up her advantage with all the arts the
most civilised of her sex could use when fishing for a husband.
La Bonté, however, was too old a hunter to be easily caught; and
before committing himself, he sought the advice of his tried companion
Killbuck. Taking him to a retired spot without the village, he drew
out his pipe and charged it—seated himself cross-legged on the ground,
and, with Indian gravity, composed himself for a “talk.”
“Ho, Killbuck!” he began, touching the ground with the bowl of his
pipe, and then turning the stem upwards for “_medicine_”—“Hyar's
a child feels squamptious like, and nigh upon 'gone beaver,' _he_
is—Wagh!”
“Wagh!” exclaimed Killbuck, all attention.
“Old hos,” continued the other, “thar's no use câching anyhow what a
niggur feels—so hyar's to 'put out.' You're good for beaver _I_ know;
at deer or buffler, or darned red Injun either, you're 'some.' Now
that's a fact. 'Off-hand,' or 'with a rest,' you make 'em 'come.'
You knows the 'sign' of Injuns slick—Blackfoot or Sioux, Pawnee or
Burnt-wood, Zeton, Rapaho, Shian, or Shoshonée, Yutah, Piyutah, or
Yamhareek—their trail's a plain as writin', old hos, to you.”
“Wagh!” grunted Killbuck, blushing bronze at all these compliments.
“Your sight ain't bad. Elks is elk; black-tail deer ain't white-tails;
and b'ar is b'ar to you, and nothin' else, a long mile off and more.”
“Wa-agh!”
“Thar ain't a track as leaves its mark upon the plains or mountains
but you can read off-hand; that I've see'd myself. But tell me, old
hos, can you make understand the 'sign' as shows itself in a woman's
breast?”
Killbuck removed the pipe from his mouth, raised his head, and puffed
a rolling cloud of smoke into the air,—knocked the ashes from the
bowl, likewise made his “medicine”—and answered thus:—
“From Red River, away up north amongst the Britishers, to Heely (Gila)
in the Spanish country—from old Missoura to the Sea of Californy,
I've trapped and hunted. I knows the Injuns and thar 'sign,' and they
knows _me_, I'm thinkin. Thirty winters has snowed on me in these
hyar mountains, and a niggur or a Spaniard[37] would larn 'some' in
that time. This old tool” (tapping his rifle) “shoots 'center' _she_
does; and if thar's game afoot, this child knows 'bull' from 'cow,'
and ought to could. That deer is deer, and goats is goats, is plain
as paint to any but a greenhorn. Beaver's a cunning crittur, but I've
trapped a 'heap;' and at killing meat when meat's a-running, I'll
'shine' in the biggest kind of crowd. For twenty year I packed a squaw
along. Not one, but a many. First I had a Blackfoot—the darndest slut
as ever cried for fofarrow. I lodge-poled her on Colter's Creek, and
made her quit. My buffler hos, and as good as four packs of beaver, I
gave for old Bull-tail's daughter. He was head chief of the Ricaree,
and 'came' nicely 'round' me. Thar was'nt enough scarlet cloth, nor
beads, nor vermilion in Sublette's packs for her. Traps wouldn't buy
her all the fofarrow she wanted; and in two years I'd sold her to
Cross-Eagle for one of Jake Hawkin's guns—this very one I hold in my
hands. Then I tried the Sioux, the Shian, and a Digger from the other
side, who made the best moccasin as ever _I_ wore. She was the best of
all, and was rubbed out by the Yutas in the Bayou Salade. Bad was the
best; and after she was gone under I tried no more.
“Afore I left the settlements I know'd a white gal, and she was some
punkins. I have never seed nothing as 'ould beat her. Red blood won't
'shine' any ways you fix it; and though I'm h— for 'sign,' a woman's
breast is the hardest kind of rock to me, and leaves no trail that
I can see of. I've hearn you talk of a gal in Memphis county; Mary
Brand you called her oncest. The gal I said _I_ know'd, her name I
disremember, but she stands before me as plain as Chimley Rock on
Platte, and thirty year and more har'nt changed a feature in her face,
to me.
“If you ask this child, he'll tell you to leave the Spanish slut to
her Greasers, and hold on till you take the trail to old Missoura,
whar white and Christian gals are to be had for axing. Wagh!”
La Bonté rose to his feet. The mention of Mary Brand's name decided
him; and he said—
“Darn the Spaniard! she can't shine with me; come, old hos! let's
move.”
And, shouldering their rifles, the two compañeros returned to the
Ranch. More than one of the mountaineers had fulfilled the object of
their journey, and had taken to themselves a partner from amongst
the belles of Taos, and now they were preparing for their return
to the mountains. Dick Wooton was the only unfortunate one. He had
wooed a damsel whose parents peremptorily forbade their daughter to
wed the hunter, and he therefore made ready for his departure with
considerable regret.
The day came, however. The band of mountaineers were already mounted,
and those with wives in charge were some hours on the road, leaving
the remainder quaffing many a stirrup-cup before they left. Dick
Wooton was as melancholy as a buffalo bull in spring; and as he rode
down the village, and approached the house of his lady-love, who stood
wrapped in reboso, and cigarito in mouth, on the sill of the door, he
turned away his head as if dreading to say adios. La Bonté rode beside
him, and a thought struck him.
“Ho, Dick!” he said, “thar's the gal, and thar's the mountains: shoot
sharp's the word.”
Dick instantly understood him, and was “himself again.” He rode up to
the girl as if to bid her adieu, and she came to meet him. Whispering
one word, she put her foot upon his, was instantly seized round the
waist, and placed upon the horn of his saddle. He struck spurs into
his horse, and in a minute was out of sight, his three companions
covering his retreat, and menacing with their rifles the crowd which
was soon drawn to the spot by the cries of the girl's parents, who had
been astonished spectators of the daring rape.
The trapper and his bride, however, escaped scatheless, and the whole
party effected a safe passage of the mountains, and reached the
Arkansa, where the band was broken up,—some proceeding to Bent's Fort,
and others to the Platte, amongst whom were Killbuck and La Bonté,
still in company.
These two once more betook themselves to trapping, the Yellow Stone
being their chief hunting-ground. But we must again leap over months
and years, rather than conduct the reader through all their perilous
wanderings, and at last bring him back to the camp on Bijou, where
we first introduced him to our mountaineers; and as we have already
followed them on the Arapaho trail, which they pursued to recover
their stolen animals from a band of that nation, we will once again
seat ourselves at the camp on Boiling Spring, where they had met a
strange hunter on a solitary expedition to the Bayou Salade, whose
double-barrelled rifle had excited their wonder and curiosity.
From him they learned also that a large band of Mormons were
wintering on the Arkansa, _en route_ to the Great Salt Lake and Upper
California; and as our hunters had before fallen in with the advanced
guard of these fanatic emigrants, and felt no little wonder that
such helpless people should undertake so long a journey through the
wilderness, the stranger narrated to them the history of the sect,
which we shall shortly transcribe for the benefit of the reader.