The Mormons were originally of the sect known as “Latter-day
Saints,” which sect flourishes wherever Anglo-Saxon gulls are found
in sufficient numbers to swallow the egregious nonsense of fanatic
humbugs who fatten upon their credulity. In the United States they
especially abounded; but, the creed becoming “slow,” one Joe Smith, a
_smart_ man, arose from its ranks, and instilled a little life into
the decaying sect.
Joe, better known as the “Prophet Joe,” was taking his siesta one
fine day, upon hill in one of the New England States, when an angel
suddenly appeared to him, and made known the locality of a new Bible
or Testament, which contained the history of the lost tribes of
Israel; that these tribes were no other than the Indian nations which
possessed the continent of America at the time of its discovery,
and the remains of which still existed in their savage state; that,
through the agency of Joe, these were to be reclaimed, collected into
the bosom of a church to be there established, according to principles
which would be found in the wonderful book—and which church was
gradually to receive into its bosom all other churches, sects, and
persuasions, with “unanimity of belief and perfect brotherhood.”
After a certain probation, Joe was led in body and spirit to the
mountain; by the angel who first appeared to him, was pointed out the
position of the wonderful book, which was covered by a flat stone,
on which would be found two round pebbles, called Urim and Thummim,
and through the agency of which the mystic characters inscribed on
the pages of the book were to be deciphered and translated. Joe found
the spot indicated without any difficulty, cleared away the earth,
and discovered a hollow place formed by four flat stones; on removing
the topmost one of which sundry plates of brass presented themselves,
covered with quaint and antique carving; on the top lay Urim and
Thummim (commonly known to the Mormons as Mummum and Thummum, the
pebbles of wonderful virtue), through which the miracle of reading the
plates of brass was to be performed.
Joe Smith, on whom the mantle of Moses had so suddenly fallen,
carefully removed the plates and hid them, burying himself in woods
and mountains whilst engaged in the work of translation. However, he
made no secret of the important task imposed upon him, nor of the
great work to which he had been called. Numbers at once believed
him, but not a few were deaf to belief, and openly derided him.
Being persecuted (as the sect declares, at the instigation of the
authorities), and many attempts being made to steal his precious
treasure, Joe, one fine night, packed his plates in a sack of beans,
bundled them into a Jersey waggon, and made tracks for the West. Here
he completed the great work of translation, and not long after gave
to the world the “Book of Mormon,” a work as bulky as the Bible, and
called “of Mormon,” for so was the prophet named by whose hand the
history of the lost tribes had been handed down in the plates of brass
thus miraculously preserved for thousands of years, and brought to
light through the agency of Joseph Smith.
The fame of the Book of Mormon spread over all America, and even to
Great Britain and Ireland. Hundreds of proselytes flocked to Joe, to
hear from his lips the doctrine of Mormonism; and in a very brief
period the Mormons became a numerous and recognised sect, and Joe was
at once, and by universal acclamation, installed as the head of the
Mormon church, and was ever after known by the name of the “Prophet
Joseph.”
However, from certain peculiarities in their social system, the
Mormons became rather unpopular in the settled States, and at length
moved bodily into Missouri, where they purchased several tracts
of land in the neighbourhood of Independence. Here they erected a
large building, which they called the Lord's Store, where goods were
collected on the common account, and retailed to members of the
church at moderate prices. All this time their numbers increased in
a wonderful manner, and immigrants from all parts of the States, as
well as Europe, continually joined them. As they became stronger, they
grew bolder and more arrogant in their projects. They had hitherto
been considered as bad neighbours, on account of their pilfering
propensities, and their utter disregard of the conventional decencies
of society—exhibiting the greatest immorality, and endeavouring to
establish amongst their society an indiscriminate concubinage. This
was sufficient to produce an ill feeling against them on the part of
their neighbours, the honest Missourians; but they still tolerated
their presence amongst them, until the Saints openly proclaimed their
intention of seizing upon the country, and expelling by force the
present occupants—giving, as their reason, that it had been revealed
to their prophets that the “Land of Zion” was to be possessed by
themselves alone.
The sturdy Missourians began to think this was a little too strong,
and that, if they permitted such aggressions any longer, they would
be in a fair way of being despoiled of their lands by the Mormon
interlopers. At length matters came to a crisis, and the Saints,
emboldened by the impunity with which they had hitherto carried out
their plans, issued a proclamation to the effect that all in that part
of the country, who did not belong to the Mormon persuasion, must
“clear out,” and give up possession of their lands and houses. The
Missourians collected in a body, burned the printing-press from which
the proclamation had emanated, seized several of the Mormon leaders,
and, after inflicting a summary chastisement, “tarred and feathered”
them, and let them go.
To revenge this insult, the Mormons marshalled an army of Saints, and
marched upon Independence, threatening vengeance against the town
and people. Here they met, however, a band of sturdy backwoodsmen,
armed with rifles, determined to defend the town against the fanatic
mob, who, not relishing their appearance, refused the encounter, and
surrendered their leaders at the first demand. The prisoners were
afterwards released, on condition that the Mormons left that part of
the country without delay.
Accordingly, they once more “took up their beds and walked,” crossing
the Missouri to Clay County, where they established themselves, and
would finally have formed a thriving settlement but for their own
acts of wilful dishonesty. At this time their blasphemous mummery
knew no bounds. Joe Smith, and other prophets who had lately arisen,
were declared to be chosen of God; and it was the general creed that,
on the day of judgment, the former would take his stand on the right
hand of the judgment-seat, and that none would pass into the kingdom
of heaven without his seal and touch. One of their tenets was the
faith in “spiritual matrimony.” No woman, it appeared, would be
admitted into heaven unless “passed” by a saint. To qualify them for
this, it was necessary that the woman should first be received by the
guaranteeing Mormon as an “earthly wife,” in order that he did not
pass in any of whom he had no knowledge. The consequence of this state
of things may be imagined. The most debasing immorality was a precept
of the order, and an almost universal concubinage existed amongst
the sect, which at this time numbered at least forty thousand. Their
disregard to the laws of decency and morality was such as could not be
tolerated in any class of civilised society.
Again did the honest Missourians set their faces against this
pernicious example, and when the county to which the Mormons had
removed became more thickly settled, they rose to a man against the
modern Gomorrah. The Mormons, by this time, having on their part
gained considerable accession to their strength, thought to set the
laws at defiance, organised and armed large bodies of men, in order
to maintain the ascendency over the legitimate settlers, and bid fair
to constitute an “imperium in imperio” in the State, and become the
sole possessors of the public lands. This, of course, could not be
tolerated. Governor Boggs at once ordered out a large force of State
militia to put down this formidable demonstration, marched against
the Mormons, and suppressed the insurrectionary movement without
bloodshed.
From Clay County they moved still farther into the wilds, and settled
at last in Caldwell County, where they built the town of “Far West,”
and here they remained for the space of three years.
During this time they were continually receiving converts to the
faith, and many of the more ignorant country people were disposed to
join them, being only deterred by the fear of incurring ridicule from
the stronger-minded. The body of the Mormons seeing this, called upon
their prophet, Joe Smith, to perform a miracle in public before all
comers, which was to prove to those of their own people who still
doubted the doctrine, the truth of what it advanced—(the power of
performing miracles was stedfastly declared to be in their hands by
the prophets)—and to enlist those who wavered in the Mormon cause.
The prophet instantly agreed, and declared that, upon a certain day,
he would walk across the broad waters of the Missouri without wetting
the soles of his feet. On the appointed day, the river banks were
thronged by an expectant crowd. The Mormons sang hymns of praise in
honour of their prophet, and were proud of the forthcoming miracle,
which was to set finally at rest all doubt as to his power and
sanctity.
This power of performing miracles and effecting miraculous cures of
the sick, was so generally believed by the Mormons, that physic was
never used amongst them. The prophets visited the beds of the sick,
and laid hands upon them, and if, as of course was almost invariably
the case, the patient died, it was attributed to his or her want of
faith; but if, on the contrary, the patient recovered, there was
universal glorification on the miraculous cure.
Joe Smith was a tall, fine-looking man, of most plausible address,
and possessed the gift of the gab in great perfection. At the time
appointed for the performance of the walking-water miracle, he duly
attended on the river banks, and descended barefoot to the edge of the
water.
“My brethren!” he exclaimed in a loud voice, “this day is a happy one
to me, to us all, who venerate the great and only faith. The truth of
our great and blessed doctrine will now be proved before the thousands
I see around me. You have asked me to prove by a miracle that the
power of the prophets of old has been given to me. I say unto you, not
only to me, but to all who have faith. I have faith, and can perform
miracles—that faith empowers me to walk across the broad surface of
that mighty river without wetting the soles of my unworthy feet; but
if ye are to _see_ this miracle performed, it is necessary that ye
have faith also, not only in yourselves, but in me. Have ye this faith
in yourselves?”
“We have, we have!” roared the crowd.
“Have ye the faith in me, that ye believe I can perform this miracle?”
“We have, we have!” roared the crowd.
“Then,” said Joe Smith, coolly walking away, “with such faith do ye
know well that I _could_, but it boots not that I _should_, do it;
therefore, my brethren, doubt no more”—and Joe put on his boots and
disappeared.
Being again compelled to emigrate, the Mormons proceeded into the
state of Illinois, where, in a beautiful situation, they founded the
new Jerusalem, which, it had been declared by the prophet Mormon,
should rise out of the wilderness of the west, and where the chosen
people should be collected under one church, and governed by the
elders after a “spiritual fashion.”
The city of Nauvoo soon became a large and imposing settlement. An
enormous building, called the Temple of Zion, was erected, half church
half hôtel, in which Joe Smith and the other prophets resided—and
large storehouses were connected with it, in which the goods and
chattels belonging to the community were kept for the common good.
However, here, as every where else, they were continually quarrelling
with their neighbours; and as their numbers increased, so did their
audacity. A regular Mormon militia was again organised and armed,
under the command of experienced officers, who had joined the sect;
and now the authority of the state government was openly defied. In
consequence, the executive took measures to put down the nuisance,
and a regular war commenced, and was carried on for some time, with
no little bloodshed on both sides; and this armed movement is known
in the United States as the Mormon war. The Mormons, however, who,
it seemed, were much better skilled in the use of the tongue than
the rifle, succumbed: the city of Nauvoo was taken, Joe Smith and
other ringleading prophets captured; and the former, in an attempt to
escape from his place of confinement, was seized and shot. The Mormons
declare he had long foretold his own fate, and that when the rifles
of the firing party who were his executioners were levelled at the
prophet's breast, a flash of lightning struck the weapons from their
hands, and blinded for a time the eyes of the sacrilegious soldiers.
With the death of Joe Smith the prestige of the Mormon cause declined;
but still thousands of proselytes joined them annually, and at last
the state took measures to remove them altogether, as a body, from the
country.
Once again they fled, as they themselves term it, before the
persecutions of the ungodly! But this time their migration was far
beyond the reach of their enemies, and their intention was to place
between them the impassable barrier of the Rocky Mountains, and to
seek a home and resting-place in the remote regions of the Far West.
This, the most extraordinary migration of modern times, commenced
in the year 1845; but it was not till the following year that the
great body of the Mormons turned their backs upon the settlements of
the United States, and launched boldly out into the vast and barren
prairies, without any fixed destination as a goal to their endless
journey. For many months, long strings of Pittsburg and Conostaga
waggons, with herds of horses and domestic cattle, wound their way
towards the Indian frontier, with the intention of rendezvousing at
Council Bluffs on the Upper Missouri. Here thousands of waggons were
congregated, with their tens of thousands of men, women, and children,
anxiously waiting the route from the elders of the church, who on
their parts scarcely knew whither to direct the steps of the vast
crowd they had set in motion. At length the indefinite destination of
Oregon and California was proclaimed, and the long train of emigrants
took up the line of march. It was believed the Indian tribes would
immediately fraternise with the Mormons, on their approaching their
country; but the Pawnees quickly undeceived them by running off with
their stock on every opportunity. Besides these losses, at every camp,
horses, sheep, and oxen strayed away and were not recovered, and
numbers died from fatigue and want of provender; so that, before they
had been many weeks on their journey, nearly all their cattle, which
they had brought to stock their new country, were dead or missing,
and those that were left were in most miserable condition.
They had started so late in the season, that the greater part were
compelled to winter on the Platte, on Grand Island, and in the
vicinity, where they endured the greatest privations and suffering
from cold and hunger. Many who had lost their stock lived upon
roots and pig-nuts; and scurvy, in a most malignant form, and other
disorders, carried off numbers of the wretched fanatics.
Amongst them were many substantial farmers from all parts of the
United States, who had given up their valuable farms, sold off all
their property, and were dragging their irresponsible and unfortunate
families into the wilderness—carried away by their blind and fanatic
zeal in this absurd and incredible faith. There were also many poor
wretches from different parts of England, mostly of the farm-labouring
class, with wives and families, crawling along with helpless and
almost idiotic despair, but urged forward by the fanatic leaders of
the movement, who promised them a land flowing with milk and honey to
reward them for all their hardships and privations.
Their numbers were soon reduced by want and disease. When too late,
they often wished themselves back in the old country, and sighed many
a time for the beer and bacon of former days, now preferable to the
dry buffalo meat (but seldom obtainable) of the Far West.
Evil fortune pursued the Mormons, and dogged their steps. The year
following, some struggled on towards the promised land, and of these
a few reached Oregon and California. Many were killed by hostile
Indians; many perished of hunger, cold, and thirst, in passing the
great wilderness; and many returned to the States, penniless and
crestfallen, and heartily cursing the moment in which they had
listened to the counsels of the Mormon prophet. The numbers who
reached their destination of Oregon, California, and the Great Salt
Lake, are computed at 20,000, of whom the United States had an
unregretted riddance.
One party had followed the troops of the American government intended
for the conquest of New Mexico and the Californias. Of these a
battalion was formed, and part of it proceeded to Upper California;
but the way being impracticable for waggons, some seventy families
proceeded up the Arkansa, and wintered near the mountains, intending
to cross to the Platte the ensuing spring, and join the main body of
emigrants on their way by the south pass of the Rocky Mountains.
In the wide and well-timbered bottom of the Arkansa, the Mormons had
erected a street of log shanties, in which to pass the inclement
winter. These were built of rough logs of cottonwood, laid one above
the other, the interstices filled with mud, and rendered impervious to
wind or wet. At one end of the row of shanties was built the “church”
or temple—a long building of huge logs, in which the prayer-meetings
and holdings-forth took place. The band wintering on the Arkansa were
a far better class than the generality of Mormons, and comprised many
wealthy and respectable farmers from the western states, most of whom
were accustomed to the life of woodmen, and were good hunters. Thus
they were enabled to support their families upon the produce of their
rifles, frequently sallying out to the nearest point of the mountains
with a waggon, which they would bring back loaded with buffalo, deer,
and elk meat, thereby saving the necessity of killing any of their
stock of cattle, of which but few remained.
The mountain hunters found this camp a profitable market for their
meat and deer-skins, with which the Mormons were now compelled to
clothe themselves, and resorted there for that purpose—to say nothing
of the attraction of the many really beautiful Missourian girls who
sported their tall graceful figures at the frequent fandangoes.
Dancing and preaching go hand in hand in Mormon doctrine, and the
“temple” was generally cleared for a hop two or three times during
the week, a couple of fiddles doing the duty of orchestra. A party of
mountaineers came in one day, bringing some buffalo meat and dressed
deer-skins, and were invited to be present at one of these festivals.
Arrived at the temple, they were rather taken aback by finding
themselves in for a sermon, which one of the elders delivered
preparatory to the “physical exercises.” The preacher was one
Brown—called, by reason of his commanding a company of Mormon
volunteers, “Cap'en Brown”—a hard-featured, black-coated man of
five-and-forty, correctly got up in black continuations, and white
handkerchief round his neck, a costume seldom seen at the foot of
the Rocky Mountains. The Cap'en, rising, cleared his voice, and thus
commenced, first turning to an elder (with whom there was a little
rivalry in the way of preaching):—“Brother Dowdle!”—(brother Dowdle
blushed and nodded: he was a long tallow-faced man, with black hair
combed over his face)—“I feel like holding forth a little this
afternoon, before we glorify the Lord,—a—a—in the—a—holy dance. As
there are a many strange gentlemen now—a—present, it's about right to
tell 'em—a—what our doctrine just is, and so I tells 'em right off
what the Mormons is. They are the chosen of the Lord; they are the
children of glory, persecuted by the hand of man: they flies here to
the wilderness, and, amongst the _Injine_ and the buffler, they lifts
up their heads, and cries with a loud voice, Susannah, and hurray for
the promised land! Do you believe it? I _know_ it.
“They wants to know whar we're going. Whar the church goes—thar we
goes. Yes, to hell, and pull the devil off his throne—that's what
we'll do. Do you believe it? I _know_ it.
“Thar's milk and honey in that land as we're goin' to, and the lost
tribes of Israel is thar, and will jine us. They say as we'll starve
on the road, bekase thar's no game and no water; but thar's manna up
in heaven, and it 'll rain on us, and thar's prophets among us can
make the water 'come.' Can't they, brother Dowdle?”
“_Well_, they can.”
“And now, what have the Gen_tiles_ and the Philis_tines_ to say
against us Mormons? They says we're thieves, and steal hogs; yes,
d—— 'em! they say we has as many wives as we like. So we have. I've
twenty—forty, myself, and mean to have as many more as I can get. But
it's to pass unfortunate females into heaven that I has 'em—yes, to
prevent 'em going to roaring flames and damnation that I does it.
“Brother Dowdle,” he continued, in a hoarse, low voice, “I've 'give
out,' and think we'd better begin the exercises grettful to the Lord.”
Brother Dowdle rose, and, after saying that “he didn't feel like
saying much, begged to remind all hands, that dancing was solemn like,
to be done with proper devotion, and not with laughing and talking,
of which he hoped to hear little or none; that joy was to be in their
hearts, and not on their lips; that they danced for the glory of the
Lord, and not their own amusement, as did the Gen_tiles_.” After
saying thus, he called upon brother Ezra to “strike up:” sundry
couples stood forth, and the ball commenced.
Ezra of the violin was a tall, shambling Missourian, with a pair of
“homespun” pantaloons thrust into the legs of his heavy boots. Nodding
his head in time with the music, he occasionally gave instructions to
such of the dancers as were at fault, singing them to the tune he was
playing, in a dismal nasal tone,—
“Down the centre—hands across,”
“You, Jake Herring—thump it,”
“Now, you all go right ahead—
Every one of you hump it.
Every one of you—_hump it_.”
The last words being the signal that all should clap the steam on,
which they did _con amore_, and with comical seriousness.
A mountaineer, Rube Herring, whom we have more than once met in the
course of this narrative, became a convert to the Mormon creed,
and held forth its wonderful doctrines to such of the incredulous
trappers as he could induce to listen to him. Old Rube stood nearly
six feet six in height, and was spare and bony in make. He had picked
up a most extraordinary cloth coat amongst the Mormons, which had
belonged to some one his equal in stature. This coat, which was of
a snuff-brown colour, had its waist about a hand's span from the
nape of Rube's neck, or about a yard above its proper position, and
the skirts reached to his ancles. A slouching felt-hat covered his
head, from which long black hair escaped, hanging in flakes over his
lantern-jaws. His pantaloons of buckskin were shrunk with wet, and
reached midway between his knees and ancles, and his huge feet were
encased in moccasins of buffalo-cow skin.
Rube was never without the book of Mormon in his hand, and his
sonorous voice might be heard, at all hours of the day and night,
reading passages from its wonderful pages. He stood the badgering
of the hunters with most perfect good humour, and said there never
was such a book as that ever before printed; that the Mormons were
the “biggest kind” of prophets, and theirs the best faith ever man
believed in.
Rube had let out one day that he was to be hired as guide by this
party of Mormons to the Great Salt Lake; but their destination being
changed, and his services not required, a wonderful change came over
his mind. He was, as usual, book of Mormon in hand, when brother Brown
announced the change in their plans; at which the book was cast into
the Arkansa, and Rube exclaimed—“Cuss your darned Mummum and Thummum!
thar's not one among you knows 'fat cow' from 'poor bull,' and you may
go h—— for me.” And turning away, old Rube spat out a quid of tobacco
and his Mormonism together.
Amongst the Mormons was an old man, named Brand, from Memphis county,
state of Tennessee, with a family of a daughter and two sons, the
latter with their wives and children. Brand was a wiry old fellow,
nearly seventy years of age, but still stout and strong, and wielded
axe or rifle better than many a younger man. If truth be told, he was
not a very red-hot Mormon, and had joined them as much for the sake
of company to California, whither he had long resolved to emigrate,
as from any implicit credence in the faith. His sons were strapping
fellows, of the sterling stuff that the Western pioneers are made of;
his daughter Mary, a fine woman of thirty, for whose state of single
blessedness there must doubtless have been sufficient reason; for she
was not only remarkably handsome, but was well known in Memphis to be
the best-tempered and most industrious young woman in those diggings.
She was known to have received several advantageous offers, all of
which she had refused; and report said, that it was from having been
disappointed in very early life in an _affaire du cœur_, at an age
when such wounds sometimes strike strong and deep, leaving a scar
difficult to heal. Neither his daughter, nor any of his family, had
been converted to the Mormon doctrine, but had ever kept themselves
aloof, and refused to join or associate with them; and, for this
reason, the family had been very unpopular with the Mormon families
on the Arkansa; and hence, probably, one great reason why they now
started alone on their journey.
Spring had arrived, and it was time the Mormons should proceed on
their march; but whether already tired of the sample they had had of
life in the wilderness, or fearful of encountering the perils of the
Indian country, not one amongst them, with the exception of old Brand,
seemed inclined to pursue the journey farther. That old backwoodsman,
however, was not to be deterred, but declared his intention of
setting out alone, with his family, and risking all the dangers to be
anticipated.
One fine sunny evening in April of 1847, when the cottonwoods on the
banks of the Arkansa began to put forth their buds, and robins and
blue-birds—harbingers of spring—were hopping, with gaudy plumage,
through the thickets, three white-tilted Conostoga waggons emerged
from the timbered bottom of the river, and rumbled slowly over the
prairie, in the direction of the Platte's waters. Each waggon was
drawn by eight oxen, and contained a portion of the farming implements
and household utensils of the Brand family. The teams were driven by
the young boys, the men following in rear with shouldered rifles—Old
Brand himself mounted on an Indian horse, leading the advance. The
women were safely housed under the shelter of the waggon tilts, and
out of the first the mild face of Mary Brand smiled adieu to many
of her old companions who had accompanied them thus far, and now
wished them “God-speed” on their long journey. Some mountaineers, too,
galloped up, dressed in buckskin, and gave them rough greeting—warning
the men to keep their “eyes skinned,” and look out for the Arapahos,
who were out on the waters of the Platte. Presently all retired, and
then the huge waggons and the little company were rolling on their
solitary way through the deserted prairies—passing the first of the
many thousand miles which lay between them and the “setting sun,” as
the Indians style the distant regions of the Far West. And on, without
casting a look behind him, doggedly and boldly marched old Brand,
followed by his sturdy family.
They made but a few miles that evening, for the first day the _start_
is all that is effected; and nearly the whole morning is taken up in
getting fairly under weigh. The loose stock had been sent off earlier,
for they had been collected and corralled the previous night; and,
after a twelve hours' fast, it was necessary they should reach the
end of the day's journey betimes. They found the herd grazing in the
bottom of the Arkansa, at a point previously fixed upon for their
first camp. Here the oxen were unyoked, and the waggons drawn up so as
to form the three sides of a small square. The women then descended
from their seats, and prepared the evening meal. A huge fire was
kindled before the waggons, and round this the whole party collected;
whilst large kettles of coffee boiled on it, and hoe-cakes baked upon
the embers.
The women were sadly downhearted, as well they might be, with the
dreary prospect before them; and poor Mary, when she saw the Mormon
encampment shut out from her sight by the rolling bluffs, and nothing
before her but the bleak, barren prairie, could not divest herself
of the idea that she had looked for the last time on civilised
fellow-creatures, and fairly burst into tears.
In the morning the heavy waggons rolled on again across the upland
prairies, to strike the trail used by the traders in passing from the
south fork of the Platte to the Arkansa. They had for guide a Canadian
voyageur, who had been in the service of the Indian traders, and knew
the route well, and who had agreed to pilot them to Fort Lancaster, on
the north fork of the Platte. Their course led for about thirty miles
up the Boiling Spring River, whence they pursued a north-easterly
course to the dividing ridge which separates the waters of the Platte
and Arkansa. Their progress was slow, for the ground was saturated
with wet, and exceedingly heavy for the cattle, and they scarcely
advanced more than ten miles a-day.
At the camp-fire at night, Antoine, the Canadian guide, amused them
with tales of the wild life and perilous adventures of the hunters and
trappers who make the mountains their home; often extorting a scream
from the women by the description of some scene of Indian fight and
slaughter, or beguiling them of a commiserating tear by the narrative
of the sufferings and privations endured by those hardy hunters in
their arduous life.
Mary listened with the greater interest, since she remembered that
such was the life which had been led by one very dear to her—by one,
long supposed to be dead, of whom she had never but once, since
his departure, nearly fifteen years before, heard a syllable. Her
imagination pictured him as the bravest and most daring of these
adventurous hunters, and conjured up his figure charging through the
midst of whooping savages, or stretched on the ground perishing from
wounds, or cold, or famine.
Amongst the characters who figured in Antoine's stories, a hunter
named La Bonté was made conspicuous for deeds of hardiness and daring.
The first mention of the name caused the blood to rush to Mary's face:
not that she for a moment imagined it was her La Bonté, for she knew
the name was a common one; but, associated with feelings which she had
never got the better of, it recalled a sad epoch in her former life,
to which she could not look back without mingled pain and pleasure.
Once only, and about two years after his departure, had she ever
received tidings of her former lover. A mountaineer had returned from
the Far West to settle in his native State, and had found his way to
the neighbourhood of old Brand's farm. Meeting him by accident, Mary,
hearing him speak of the mountain hunters, had inquired, tremblingly,
after La Bonté. Her informant knew him well—had trapped in company
with him—and had heard at the trading fort, whence he had taken his
departure for the settlements, that La Bonté had been killed on the
Yellow Stone by Blackfeet; which report was confirmed by some Indians
of that nation. This was all she had ever learned of the lover of her
youth.
Now, upon hearing the name of La Bonté so often mentioned by Antoine,
a vague hope was raised in her breast that he was still alive, and she
took an opportunity of questioning the Canadian closely on the subject.
“Who was this La Bonté, Antoine, who you say was so brave a
mountaineer?” she asked one day.
“J'ne sais pas; he vas un beau garçon, and strong comme le
diable—enfant de garce, mais he pas not care a dam for les sauvages,
pe gar. He shoot de centare avec his carabine; and ride de cheval
comme one Comanche. He trap heap castor, (what you call beevare,)
and get plenty dollare—mais he open hand vare wide—and got none too.
Den, he hont vid de Blackfoot and avec de Cheyenne, and all round de
montaignes he hont dam sight.”
“But, Antoine, what became of him at last? and why did he not come
home, when he made so many dollars?” asked poor Mary.
“Enfant de garce, mais pourquoi he com home? Pe gar, de montaigne-man,
he love de montaigne and de prairie more better dan he love de grandes
villes—même de Saint Louis ou de Montreal. Wagh! La Bonté, well, he
one montaigne-man, wagh! He love de buffaloe and de chevreaux plus
que de bœuf and de mouton, may be. Mais on-dit dat he have autre
raison—dat de gal he lofe in Missouri not lofe him, and for dis he not
go back. Mais now he go ondare, m' on dit. He vas go to de Californe,
may be to steal de hos and de mule—pe gar, and de Espagnols rub him
out, and take his hair, so he mort.”
“But are you sure of this?” she asked, trembling with grief.
“Ah, now, j'ne suis pas sûr, mais I tink you know dis La Bonté.
Enfant de garce, maybe you de gal in Missouri he lofe, and not lofe
him. Pe gar! 'fant de garce! fort beau garçon dis La Bonté, pourquoi
you ne l'aimez pas? Maybe he not gone ondare. Maybe he turn op,
autrefois. De trappares, dey go ondare tree, four, ten times, mais
dey turn op twenty time. De sauvage not able for kill La Bonté, ni de
dam Espagnols. Ah, non! ne craignez pas; pe gar, he not gone ondare
encore.”
Spite of the good-natured attempts of the Canadian, poor Mary burst
into a flood of tears: not that the information took her unawares, for
she long had believed him dead; but because the very mention of his
name awoke the strongest feelings within her breast, and taught her
how deep was the affection she had felt for him whose loss and violent
fate she now bewailed.
As the waggons of the lone caravan roll on towards the Platte, we
return to the camp where La Bonté, Killbuck, and the stranger, were
sitting before the fire when last we saw them:—Killbuck loquitur:—
“The doins of them Mormon fools can't be beat by Spaniards, stranger.
Their mummums and thummums you speak of won't 'shine' whar Injuns are
about; nor pint out a trail, whar nothin crossed but rattler-snakes
since fust it snow'd on old Pike's Peak. If they pack along them
_profits_, as you tell of, who can make it rain hump-ribs and
marrow-guts when the crowd gets out of the buffler range, they are
'some,' now, that's a fact. But this child don't believe it. I'd
laugh to get a sight on these darned Mormonites, I would. They're 'no
account,' I guess; and it's the 'meanest' kind of action to haul their
women critters and their young 'uns to sech a starving country as the
Californys.”
“They are not all Mormons in the crowd,” said the strange hunter; “and
there's one family amongst them with some smartish boys and girls, I
tell you. Their name's Brand.”
La Bonté looked up from the lock of his rifle, which he was
cleaning—but either didn't hear, or, hearing, didn't heed, for he
continued his work.
“And they are going to part company,” continued the stranger, “and
put out alone for Platte and the South Pass.”
“They'll lose their hair, I'm thinking,” said Killbuck, “if the
Rapahos are out thar.”
“I hope not,” continued the other, “for there's a girl amongst them
worth more than that.”
“Poor beaver!” said La Bonté, looking up from his work. “I'd hate to
see any white gal in the hands of Injuns, and of Rapahos worse than
all. Where does she come from, stranger?”
“Down below St Louis, from Tennessee, I've heard them say.”
“Tennessee,” cried La Bonté,—“hurrah for the old State! What's her
name, stran——” At this moment Killbuck's old mule pricked her ears
and snuffed the air, which action catching La Bonté's eye, he rose
abruptly, without waiting a reply to his question, and exclaimed, “The
old mule smells Injuns, or I'm a Spaniard!”
The hunter did the old mule justice, and she well maintained her
reputation as the best “guard” in the mountains; for in two minutes an
Indian stalked into the camp, dressed in a cloth capote, and in odds
and ends of civilised attire.
“Rapaho,” cried Killbuck, as soon as he saw him; and the Indian
catching the word, struck his hand upon his breast, and exclaimed,
in broken Spanish and English mixed, “Si, si, me Arapaho, white man
amigo. Come to camp—eat heap _carne_—me amigo white man. Come from
Pueblo—hunt cibola—me gun break—_no puedo matar nada: mucha hambre_
(very hungry),—heap eat.”
Killbuck offered his pipe to the Indian, and spoke to him in his own
language, which both he and La Bonté well understood. They learned
that he was married to a Mexican woman, and lived with some hunters at
the Pueblo fort on the Arkansa. He volunteered the information that
a war party of his people were out on the Platte trail to intercept
the Indian traders on their return from the North Fork; and as some
“Mormones” had just started with three waggons in that direction,
he said his people would make a “roise.” Being muy amigo himself to
the whites, he cautioned his present companions from crossing to the
“divide,” as the “braves,” he said, were a “heap” mad, and their
hearts were “big,” and nothing in the shape of white skin would live
before them.
“Wagh!” exclaimed Killbuck, “the Rapahos know me, I'm thinking; and
small gain they've made against this child. I've knowed the time when
my gun-cover couldn't hold more of their scalps.”
The Indian was provided with some powder, of which he stood in need;
and, after gorging as much meat as his capacious stomach would hold,
he left the camp, and started into the mountain.
The next day our hunters started on their journey down the river,
travelling leisurely, and stopping wherever good grass presented
itself. One morning they suddenly struck a wheel trail, which left
the creek banks and pursued a course at right angles to it, in the
direction of the “divide.” Killbuck pronounced it but a few hours old,
and that of three waggons drawn by oxen.
“Wagh!” he exclaimed, “if them poor devils of Mormonites ain't going
head first into the Rapaho trap. They'll be 'gone beaver' afore long.”
“Ay,” said the strange hunter, “these are the waggons belonging to
old Brand, and he has started alone for Laramie. I hope nothing will
happen to them.”
“Brand!” muttered La Bonté. “I knowed that name mighty well once,
years agone; and should hate the worst kind that mischief happened
to any one who bore it. This trail's as fresh as paint; and it goes
against me to let these simple critters help the Rapahos to their own
hair. This child feels like helping 'em out of the scrape. What do you
say, old hos?”
“I thinks with you, boy,” answered Killbuck, “and go in for following
this waggon trail, and telling the poor critters that thar's danger
ahead of them. What's your talk, stranger?”
“I go with you,” shortly answered the latter; and both followed
quickly after La Bonté, who was already trotting smartly on the trail.
Meanwhile the three waggons, containing the household gods of the
Brand family, rumbled slowly over the rolling prairie, and towards
the upland ridge of the “divide,” which, studded with dwarf pine
and cedar thicket, rose gradually before them. They travelled with
considerable caution, for already the quick eye of Antoine had
discovered recent Indian sign upon the trail, and, with mountain
quickness, had at once made it out to be that of a war party;
for there were no horses with them, and, after one or two of the
moccasin tracks, the mark of a rope which trailed upon the ground
was sufficient to show him that the Indians were provided with the
usual lasso of skin, with which to secure the horses stolen in the
expedition. The men of the party were consequently all mounted and
thoroughly armed, the waggons moved in a line abreast, and a sharp
look-out was kept on all sides. The women and children were all
consigned to the interior of the waggons; and the latter had also guns
in readiness, to take their part in the defence, should an attack be
made.
However, they had seen no Indians, and no fresh sign, for two days
after they left the Boiling Spring River, and they began to think they
were well out of their neighbourhood. One evening they camped on a
creek called Black Horse, and, as usual, had corralled the waggons,
and forted as well as circumstances would permit, when three or four
Indians suddenly appeared on a bluff at a little distance, and, making
signals of peaceable intentions, approached the camp. Most of the
men were absent at the time, attending to the cattle or collecting
fuel, and only old Brand and one of his young grandchildren, about
fourteen years old, remained in camp. The Indians were hospitably
received, and regaled with a smoke, after which they began to evince
their curiosity by examining every article lying about, and signifying
their wishes that it should be given to them. Finding their hints were
not taken, they laid hold of several things which took their fancies,
and, amongst others, of the pot which was boiling on the fire, and
with which one of them was about very coolly to walk off, when old
Brand, who up to this moment had retained possession of his temper,
seized it out of the Indian's hand, and knocked him down. One of the
others instantly began to draw the buckskin cover from his gun, and
would no doubt have taken summary vengeance for the insult offered
to his companion, when Mary Brand courageously stepped up to him,
and, placing her left hand upon the gun which he was in the act of
uncovering, with the other pointed a pistol at his breast.
Whether daunted by the bold act of the girl, or admiring her devotion
to her father, the Indian drew himself back, exclaimed “Howgh!” and
drew the cover again on his piece, went up to old Brand, who all this
time looked him sternly in the face, and, shaking him by the hand,
motioned at the same time to the others to be peaceable.
The other whites presently coming into camp, the Indians sat quietly
down by the fire, and, when the supper was ready, joined in the
repast, after which they gathered their buffalo robes about them, and
quietly withdrew. Meanwhile Antoine, knowing the treacherous character
of the savages, advised that the greatest precaution should be taken
to secure the stock; and before dark, therefore, all the mules and
horses were hobbled and secured within the corral, the oxen being
allowed to feed at liberty—for the Indians scarcely care to trouble
themselves with such cattle. A guard was also set round the camp, and
relieved every two hours; the fire was extinguished, lest the savages
should aim, by its light, at any of the party, and all slept with
rifles ready at their sides. However, the night passed quietly, and
nothing disturbed the tranquillity of the camp. The prairie wolves
loped hungrily around, and their mournful cry was borne upon the wind
as they chased deer and antelope on the neighbouring plain; but not a
sign of lurking Indians was seen or heard.
In the morning, shortly after sunrise, they were in the act of yoking
the oxen to the waggons, and driving in the loose animals which had
been turned out to feed at daybreak, when some Indians again appeared
upon the bluff, and, descending it, confidently approached the camp.
Antoine strongly advised their not being allowed to enter; but Brand,
ignorant of Indian treachery, replied that, so long as they came as
friends, they could not be deemed enemies, and allowed no obstruction
to be offered to their approach. It was now observed that they were
all painted, armed with bows and arrows, and divested of their buffalo
robes, appearing naked to the breech-clout, their legs only being
protected by deerskin leggings, reaching to the middle of the thigh.
Six or seven first arrived, and others quickly followed, dropping
in one after the other, until a score or more were collected round
the waggons. Their demeanour, at first friendly, soon changed as
their numbers increased, and they now became urgent in their demands
for powder and lead, and bullying in their manner. A chief accosted
Brand, and, through Antoine, informed him “that, unless the demands
of his braves were acceded to, he could not be responsible for the
consequences; that they were out on the 'war-trail,' and their eyes
were red with blood, so that they could not distinguish between white
and Yuta scalps; that the party, with all their women and waggons,
were in the power of the Indian 'braves,' and therefore the white
chief's best plan was to make the best terms he could; that all they
required was that they should give up their guns and ammunition 'on
the prairie.' and all their mules and horses-retaining the 'medicine'
buffaloes (the oxen) to draw their waggons.”
By this time the oxen were yoked, and the teamsters, whip in hand,
only waited the word to start. Old Brand foamed whilst the Indian
stated his demands, but, hearing him to the end, exclaimed, “Darn the
red devil! I wouldn't give him a grain of powder to save my life. Put
out, boys!”—and, turning to his horse, which stood ready saddled, was
about to mount, when the Indians sprang at once upon the waggons, and
commenced their attack, yelling like fiends.
One jumped upon old Brand, pulled him back as he was rising in the
stirrup, and drew his bow upon him at the same moment. In an instant
the old backwoodsman pulled a pistol from his belt, and, putting
the muzzle to the Indian's heart, shot him dead. Another Indian,
flourishing his war-club, laid the old man at his feet; whilst some
dragged the women from the waggons, and others rushed upon the men,
who made brave fight in their defence.
Mary, when she saw her father struck to the ground, sprang with a
shrill cry to his assistance; for at that moment a savage, frightful
as red paint could make him, was standing over his prostrate body,
brandishing a glittering knife in the air, preparatory to thrusting it
into the old man's breast. For the rest, all was confusion: in vain
the small party of whites struggled against overpowering numbers.
Their rifles cracked but once, and they were quickly disarmed; whilst
the shrieks of the women and children, and the loud yells of the
Indians, added to the scene of horror and confusion. As Mary flew to
her father's side, an Indian threw his lasso at her, the noose falling
over her shoulders, and, jerking it tight, he uttered a delighted
yell as the poor girl was thrown back violently to the ground. As
she fell, another deliberately shot an arrow at her body, whilst the
one who had thrown the lasso rushed forward, his scalp-knife flashing
in his hand, to seize the bloody trophy of his savage deed. The girl
rose to her knees, and looked wildly towards the spot where her
father lay bathed in blood; but the Indian pulled the rope violently,
dragged her some yards upon the ground, and then rushed with a yell
of vengeance upon his victim. He paused, however, as at that moment a
shout as fierce as his own sounded at his very ear; and, looking up,
he saw La Bonté gallopping madly down the bluff, his long hair and
the fringes of his hunting-shirt and leggins flying in the wind, his
right arm supporting his trusty rifle, whilst close behind him came
Killbuck and the stranger. Dashing with loud hurrahs to the scene of
action, La Bonté, as he charged down the bluff, caught sight of the
girl struggling in the hands of the ferocious Indian. Loud was the
war-shout of the mountaineer, as he struck his heavy spurs to the
rowels in his horse's side, and bounded like lightning to the rescue.
In a single stride he was upon the Indian, and, thrusting the muzzle
of his rifle into his very breast, he pulled the trigger, driving the
savage backward by the blow itself, at the same moment that the bullet
passed through his heart, and tumbled him over stone-dead. Throwing
down his rifle, La Bonté wheeled his obedient horse, and, drawing a
pistol from his belt, again charged the enemy, among whom Killbuck and
the stranger were dealing death-giving blows. Yelling for victory,
the mountaineers rushed at the Indians; and they, panic-struck at the
sudden attack, and thinking this was but the advanced guard of a large
band, fairly turned and fled, leaving five of their number dead upon
the field.
Mary, shutting her eyes to the expected death-stroke, heard the loud
shout La Bonté gave in charging down the bluff, and, again looking
up, saw the wild-looking mountaineer rush to her rescue, and save her
from the savage by his timely blow. Her arms were still pinned by the
lasso, which prevented her from rising to her feet; and La Bonté was
the first to run to aid her, as soon as the fight was fairly over.
He jumped from his horse, cut the skin rope which bound her, raised
her from the ground, and, upon her turning up her face to thank him,
beheld his never-to-be-forgotten Mary Brand; whilst she, hardly
believing her senses, recognised in her deliverer her former lover,
and still well-beloved La Bonté.
“What, Mary! can it be you?” he asked, looking intently upon the
trembling woman.
“La Bonté, you don't forget me!” she answered, and threw herself
sobbing into the arms of the sturdy mountaineer.
There we will leave her for the present, and help Killbuck and his
companions to examine the killed and wounded. Of the former, five
Indians and two whites lay dead, grandchildren of old Brand, fine lads
of fourteen or fifteen, who had fought with the greatest bravery, and
lay pierced with arrows and lance wounds. Old Brand had received a
sore buffet, but a hatful of cold water from the creek sprinkled over
his face soon restored him. His sons had not escaped scot-free, and
Antoine was shot through the neck, and, falling, had actually been
half scalped by an Indian, whom the timely arrival of La Bonté had
caused to leave his work unfinished.
Silently, and with sad hearts, the survivors of the family saw the
bodies of the two boys buried on the river bank, and the spot marked
with a pile of loose stones, procured from the rocky bed of the creek.
The carcasses of the treacherous Indians were left to be devoured by
wolves, and their bones to bleach in the sun and wind—a warning to
their tribe, that such foul treachery as they had meditated had met
with a merited retribution.
The next day the party continued their course to the Platte. Antoine
and the stranger returned to the Arkansa, starting in the night to
avoid the Indians; but Killbuck and La Bonté lent the aid of their
rifles to the solitary caravan, and, under their experienced guidance,
no more Indian perils were encountered. Mary no longer sat perched
up in her father's Conostoga, but rode a quiet mustang by La Bonté's
side; and no doubt they found a theme with which to while away the
monotonous journey over the dreary plains. South Fork was passed, and
Laramie was reached. The Sweet Water mountains, which hang over the
“pass” to California, were long since in sight; but when the waters
of the North Fork of Platte lay before their horses' feet, and the
broad trail was pointed out which led to the great valley of Columbia
and their promised land, the heads of the oxen were turned _down_ the
stream where the shallow waters flow on to join the great Missouri—and
not _up_, towards the mountains where they leave their spring-heads,
from which springs flow several waters—some coursing their way to
the eastward, fertilising, in their route to the Atlantic, the lands
of civilised man; others westward, forcing a passage through rocky
cañons, and flowing through a barren wilderness, inhabited by fierce
and barbarous tribes.
These were the routes to choose from: and, what ever was the cause,
the oxen turned their yoked heads away from the rugged mountains;
the teamsters joyfully cracked their ponderous whips, as the waggons
rolled lightly down the Platte; and men, women, and children, waved
their hats and bonnets in the air, and cried out lustily, “Hurrah for
home!”
La Bonté looked at the dark sombre mountains ere he turned his back
upon them for the last time. He thought of the many years he had spent
beneath their rugged shadow, of the many hardships he had suffered,
of all his pains and perils in those wild regions. The most exciting
episodes of his adventurous career, his tried companions in scenes of
fierce fight and bloodshed, passed in review before him. A feeling
of regret was creeping over him, when Mary laid her hand gently on
his shoulder. One single tear rolled unbidden down his cheek, and he
answered her inquiring eyes: “I'm not sorry to leave it, Mary,” he
said; “but it's hard to turn one's back upon old friends.”
They had a hard battle with Killbuck, in endeavouring to persuade
him to accompany them to the settlements. The old mountaineer shook
his head. “The time,” he said “was gone by for that. He had often
thought of it, but, when the day arrived, he hadn't heart to leave the
mountains. Trapping now was of no account, he knew; but beaver was
bound to rise, and then the good times would come again. What could he
do in the settlements, where there wasn't room to move, and where it
was hard to breathe—there were so many people?”
He accompanied them a considerable distance down the river, ever and
anon looking cautiously back, to ascertain that he had not gone out of
sight of the mountains. Before reaching the forks, however, he finally
bade them adieu; and, turning the head of his old grizzled mule
westward, he heartily wrung the hand of his comrade La Bonté; and,
crying Yep! to his well-tried animal, disappeared behind a roll of the
prairie, and was seen no more—a thousand good wishes for the welfare
of the sturdy trapper speeding him on his solitary way.
Four months from the day when La Bonté so opportunely appeared to
rescue Brand's family from the Indians on Black Horse Creek, that
worthy and the faithful Mary were duly and lawfully united in the
township church of Brandville, Memphis county, State of Tennessee. We
cannot say, in the concluding words of nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand novels, that “numerous pledges of mutual love surrounded
and cheered them in their declining years,” &c. &c.; because it was
only on the 24th of July, in the year of our Lord 1847, that La Bonté
and Mary Brand were finally made one, after fifteen long years of
separation.
* * * * *
The fate of one of the humble characters who have figured in these
pages, we must yet tarry a little longer to describe.
During the past winter, a party of mountaineers, flying from
overpowering numbers of hostile Sioux, found themselves, one stormy
evening, in a wild and dismal cañon near the elevated mountain valley
called the “New Park.”
The rocky bed of a dry mountain torrent, whose waters were now
locked up at their spring-heads by icy fetters, was the only road
up which they could make their difficult way: for the rugged sides
of the gorge rose precipitously from the creek, scarcely affording
a foot-hold to even the active bighorn, which occasionally looked
down upon the travellers from the lofty summit. Logs of pine,
uprooted by the hurricanes which sweep incessantly through the
mountain defiles, and tossed headlong from the surrounding ridges,
continually obstructed their way; and huge rocks and boulders, fallen
from the heights and blocking up the bed of the stream, added to the
difficulty, and threatened them every instant with destruction.
Towards sundown they reached a point where the cañon opened out into a
little shelving glade or prairie, a few hundred yards in extent, the
entrance to which was almost hidden by a thicket of dwarf pine and
cedar. Here they determined to encamp for the night, in a spot secure
from Indians, and, as they imagined, untrodden by the foot of man.
What, however, was their astonishment, on breaking through the
cedar-covered entrance, to perceive a solitary horse standing
motionless in the centre of the prairie. Drawing near, they found it
to be an old grizzled mustang, or Indian pony, with cropped ears and
ragged tail, (well picked by hungry mules), standing doubled up with
cold, and at the very last gasp from extreme old age and weakness.
Its bones were nearly through the stiffened skin, the legs of the
animal were gathered under it; whilst its forlorn-looking head and
stretched-out neck hung listlessly downwards, almost overbalancing
its tottering body. The glazed and sunken eye—the protruding and
froth-covered tongue—the heaving flank and quivering tail—declared its
race was run; and the driving sleet and snow, and penetrating winter
blast, scarce made impression upon its callous and worn-out frame.
One of the band of mountaineers was Marcellin, and a single look at
the miserable beast was sufficient for him to recognise the once
renowned Nez-percé steed of old Bill Williams. That the owner himself
was not far distant he felt certain; and, searching carefully around,
the hunters presently came upon an old camp, before which lay,
protruding from the snow, the blackened remains of pine logs. Before
these, which had been the fire, and leaning with his back against a
pine trunk, and his legs crossed under him, half covered with snow,
reclined the figure of the old mountaineer, his snow-capped head bent
over his breast. His well-known hunting-coat of fringed elk-skin hung
stiff and weather-stained about him; and his rifle, packs, and traps,
were strewed around.
Awe-struck, the trappers approached the body, and found it frozen hard
as stone, in which state it had probably lain there for many days
or weeks. A jagged rent in the breast of his leather coat, and dark
stains about it, showed he had received a wound before his death; but
it was impossible to say, whether to his hurt, or to sickness, or
to the natural decay of age, was to be attributed the wretched and
solitary end of poor Bill Williams.
A friendly bullet cut short the few remaining hours of the trapper's
faithful steed; and burying, as well as they were able, the body of
the old mountaineer, the hunters next day left him in his lonely
grave, in a spot so wild and remote, that it was doubtful whether even
hungry wolves would discover and disinter his attenuated corpse.
THE END.
PRINTED BY JOHN HUGHES, 3 THISTLE STREET, EDINBURGH.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] In accordance with this suggestion, the name was changed to
Brand. The mountaineers, it seems, are more sensitive to type than to
tomahawks; and poor Ruxton, who always contemplated another expedition
among them, would sometimes jestingly speculate upon his reception,
should they learn that he had shown them up in print.
[2] Killed, } both terms adapted from the Indian figurative
}
[3] Died, } language.
[4] The Mexicans are called “Spaniards” or “Greasers” (from their
greasy appearance) by the Western people.
[5] Bent's Indian trading fort on the Arkansa.
[6] Meaning—if that's what you mean. The “stick” is tied to the beaver
trap by a string; and, floating on the water, points out its position,
should a beaver have carried it away.
[7] Scalped.
[8] Soles made of buffalo hide.
[9] The Hudson Bay Company having amalgamated with the American North
West Company, is known by the name 'North West' to the southern
trappers. Their employés usually wear Canadian capotes.
[10] A spice of the devil.
[11] “Euker,” “poker,” and “seven up,” are the fashionable games of
cards.
[12] Antelope are frequently called “goats” by the mountaineers.
[13] An Indian is always a “heap” hungry or thirsty—loves a “heap”—is
a “heap” brave—in fact, “heap” is tantamount to very much.
[14] The young untried warriors of the Indians are thus called.
[15] There is a great difference between an Indian's fire and a
white's. The former places the ends of logs to burn gradually; the
latter, the centre, besides making such a bonfire that the Indians
truly say, “The white makes a fire so hot that he cannot approach to
warm himself by it.”
[16] A pithy substance found in dead pine-trees.
[17] Saddle-blanket made of buffalo-calf skin.
[18] The French Canadians are called _wah-keitcha_—“bad medicine”—by
the Indians, who account them treacherous and vindictive, and at the
same time less daring than the American hunters.
[19] A substance obtained from a gland in the scrotum of the beaver,
and used to attract that animal to the trap.
[20] The Hudson's Bay Company is so called by the American trappers.
[21] A small lake near the head waters of the Yellow Stone, near which
are some curious thermal springs of ink-black water.
[22] The Aztecs are supposed to have built this city during their
migration to the south; there is little doubt, however, but that the
region extending from the Gila to the Great Salt Lake, and embracing
the province of New Mexico, was the locality from which they emigrated.
[23] Creoles of St Louis, and French Canadians.
[24] “On the prairie,” is the Indian term for a free gift.
[25] Hide—from _cacher_.
[26] Carrion.
[27] In Frémont's expedition to California, on a somewhat similar
occasion, two mountaineers, one the celebrated Kit Carson, the other
a St Louis Frenchman named Godey, and both old trappers, performed a
feat surpassing the one described above, inasmuch as they were but
two. They charged into an Indian village to rescue some stolen horses,
and avenge the slaughter of two New Mexicans who had been butchered by
the Indians; both which objects they effected, returning to camp with
the lost animals and a couple of propitiatory scalps.
[28] The Mexicans call the Indians living near the missions and
engaged in agriculture, _mansos_, or _mansitos_, tame.
[29] From a manuscript obtained in Santa Fé of New Mexico, describing
the labours of the missionaries Fray Augustin Ruiz, Venabides, and
Marcos, in the year 1585.
[30] From the report to the Governor of California by the Head of the
Mission, in reference to the attacks by the American mountaineers.
[31] Indian expression for a free gift.
[32] Since the time of which we speak, Kit Carson has distinguished
himself in guiding the several U. S. exploring expeditions, under
Frémont, across the Rocky Mountains, and to all parts of Oregon and
California; and for his services, the President of the United States
presented the gallant Mountaineer with the commission of lieutenant in
a newly raised regiment of mounted riflemen, of which his old leader
Frémont is appointed colonel.
[33] The word _fandango_, in New Mexico, is not applied to the
peculiar dance known in Spain by that name, but designates a ball or
dancing meeting.
[34] A nickname for the idle fellows hanging about a Mexican town,
translated into “Greasers” by the Americans.
[35] Cask-shaped gourds.
[36] The knives used by the hunters and trappers are manufactured at
the “Green River” works, and have that name stamped upon the blade.
Hence the mountain term for doing any thing effectually is “up to
Green River.”
[37] Always alluding to Mexicans, who are invariably called Spaniards
by the Western Americans.
┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ Transcriber's note: │
│ │
│ The original spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been │
│ retained, with the exception of apparent typographical errors │
│ which have been corrected. │
│ │
│ Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. │
│ │
│ Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant │
│ form was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. │
│ │
│ Footnotes were moved to the end of the book and numbered in one │
│ sequence. │
└───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘