we called the Chinaman’s Hat, and which I knew was twelve miles from
Soda Springs. The butte was about four miles ahead of us, which would
make it sixteen miles from where we were to Soda. Jimmy said his feet
were frozen, and that he was too tired to go much farther. I was about
worn out, too, so we were in a pretty bad fix. The fog soon settled
again, and was so thick that we could not see fifty yards, and we were
all so tired out that I knew we could not reach the Chinaman’s Hat
before ten o’clock that night.
We decided that we must not stop to rest more than ten minutes at any
time, and that at least one of us must keep awake, for we knew that if
all went to sleep at the same time we would never again wake up.
It was a bitter cold night. There was no wind blowing, and it was very
still, not even a bird, rabbit, or coyote was to be seen or heard--not
a sound but the ringing in our ears. By this time I had gotten over
my being hungry, but I was very thirsty, and I had eaten so much snow
to satisfy my thirst that my mouth and tongue had become so sore and
swollen that I could scarcely speak. Jimmy was so used up by this time
that we could hardly get him to move after we had stopped to rest, and
Mike would sometimes carry him a little way; but Jimmy said it hurt
him, so Mike would have to put him down again.
Well, night was coming on again, and I do not think we had traveled
over three or four miles that day, but we were doing the best we could.
About four o’clock in the afternoon we stopped for a minute’s rest;
I settled back in the snow and put one foot out for Jimmy to lay his
head on. Soon it was time to start again and I shook Jimmy, but he did
not stir. Mike had already started, so I pulled my foot out from under
Jimmy’s head, and as I did so his head sank in the snow. Then I took
hold of him and tried to raise him, but I could not. I called for Mike,
and when he came back, we raised Jimmy up, and I saw that he was dead.
I cannot tell you what happened in the next half hour, but from what
he said in his sorrow over Jimmy’s death, I learned for the first time
that Jimmy had married Mike’s sister. After a while I scraped the snow
away clear to the ground, and while doing this, I found a dry thistle
stalk about fourteen inches long. I took the dead man’s coat off, laid
him in the hole, spread the coat over his face, and covered him with
snow, making a little mound like a grave. I tore some of the lining
from my coat, tied it to the thistle, and stuck it over the grave.
[Illustration: Shoshone tepee. Brush across entrance means “No one at
home.”]
It was hard work to get Mike started again. He said we were all going
to die anyway, and he would rather stay there with Jimmy. I told him
we were nearly to Soda Springs, and if he would try, we could get
there; but he said I had told him that so much that he didn’t believe
I knew where Soda Springs was. He said I had told him when we first
started from the buggy that it was only thirty miles and he knew we
had traveled over seventy miles by this time. I told him I knew if we
traveled as fast as we could that we would be in Soda Springs in two
hours.
We talked there a long time, and I began to think that Mike had really
made up his mind not to try to go on any more, when just before dark
he seemed to take fresh courage. He jumped up and started out so fast
that I could not keep up with him. After a while he stopped and sat
down again in the snow, and when I caught up to him I found him sound
asleep. I let the poor fellow sleep a few minutes, and then I found it
almost impossible to wake him. After pulling and shaking him, I finally
got him on his feet, but he would start off the wrong way. Then I would
get hold of him and start him off right, but he would turn around and
go the wrong way. He did not know what he was doing, so I had to take
the lead. Then he would stop and I would have to go back and get him.
After a little time he seemed to come to himself, and took the lead
again for about a mile, and then he sat down in the snow and said he
was done for, and that he would not go another step. I did all I could
to rouse him, but he would not stir. He gave me a small memorandum
book and a little buckskin bag full of gold dust, and told me he had a
sister living in Mississippi, and that I would find her address in the
book. I talked to him a long time to try to get him to come with me,
but he would not move.
I saw that it was of no use, and that I would have to leave him or lie
down in the snow and die with him. This I felt like doing, but for the
sake of my mother and sisters, I thought I would make one more effort
to reach the town, so I left him and had gone about seventy-five
yards, when I stumbled over something and fell headlong into the snow.
I cleared the snow away from my face, and sat there thinking about home
and how badly my mother would feel if she knew where I was, and how
easy it would be to lie there in the snow and go to sleep.
Drowsiness had nearly overcome me when, suddenly, I heard the far-away
tinkle of a bell. I knew then that I was not far from Soda Springs. I
jumped up and ran back to Mike as fast as I could go, and when I got to
him, I found him stretched out on the snow with his hands folded over
his breast and sound asleep. It was all but impossible to wake him. I
am certain he would have died if he had been left ten minutes longer.
When I got him awake enough to tell him about the bell, the sound had
ceased. He would not believe what I told him about it, so I could not
get him to come with me.
I went back to the place where I first heard the bell and sat down
again. In a few minutes I heard it louder than before. Then I rushed
back to Mike and found him awake, and when I got him to listen he
heard the bell this time, too. He jumped up and started so fast in the
direction of the sound that I could not keep up with him. When he would
see me falling behind, he would come back and take hold of my hands and
pull me along. I begged him to let me alone and told him it hurt me to
be jerked over the snow in that way. Then he would kick the snow and
say that he would make a good road for me if I would only come.
We had traveled this way for about half an hour, when the fog rose a
little and we saw, a short distance ahead of us, a faint light. He then
left me and started for the light as fast as he could go. I tried to
follow, but slipped and fell, and found that I could not get up again.
Many times I tried to rise, but fell back every time. I thought if I
lay there a while and rested, then perhaps I could get up and go on. I
guess I must have fallen asleep, for the first thing I knew, two men
had hold of me and were carrying me to the hotel where we had seen the
light. Mike had reached there and had told the men in the hotel that
one of his companions was dead and another was out there just a little
way dying in the snow.
When we got to the door, Mike was standing there with a big glass of
whiskey in his hand. “Down this, old boy,” he said, “and it will be the
making of you,” but I could not bear the smell of this liquor, to say
nothing of drinking it.
They set me down in a chair near the stove, but the heat soon made me
feel sick, and I had to move as far from the fire as I could get. The
cook brought something for us to eat, but my mouth and tongue hurt me
so that I could hardly eat anything. Then the light began to grow dim
and I could feel them shaking me and could hear them talking to me, but
I could not answer, for my tongue was so swollen. Then I seemed to go
away off.
The next thing I remember, they were telling me that the doctors had
come, and I saw that the house was full of people. They told me that
Mike’s feet were frozen and that two men were holding them in a tub
of cold water to try to draw the frost out. The doctor was pulling my
moccasins off and I heard him say that my feet were all right. It seems
that they were giving me hot soup or something every minute, but I was
so sleepy that I hardly knew what was going on. I soon found myself in
bed with two doctors standing over me. One of them was the faithful
Doctor Palmer who, years afterwards, became a dear friend and neighbor
of mine. He told me they had just brought in the dead man, and that
they did not know what to do with him until either Mike or I was able
to talk. They were going to hold an inquest over the body and wanted
witnesses to tell how he died. I tried to ask if they had sent for Mr.
Smith, but they could not understand what I said.
I don’t know how much time had passed, when an army officer came in and
began talking to Doctor Palmer. I heard Doctor Palmer say, “Is that
so?” The officer said it was. Then Doctor Palmer said, “I did not know
he was that bad.” I rose to ask what was the matter, but Doctor Palmer
told me to lie still. The officer said, “Shall I tell him?” Doctor
Palmer said, “Not now, let the other doctor tell him.” The officer
went out and soon the old doctor came in. He told me that the man who
came with me had his feet so badly frozen that he could not save them
and they would have to be taken off. He said he would leave Sergeant
Chauncey with me while Doctor Palmer assisted him in cutting off Mike’s
feet. He told me to keep very quiet and in a few days I would be all
right.
About two hours after Mike and I reached the hotel, a company of men
started out to find Mr. Smith; and when they reached the buggy, they
found Mr. Smith and the driver all right. They had the meat of two
horses cut up and hanging in the trees. When they told Mr. Smith that
Mike and I had reached Soda Springs but that Jimmy was dead, he said he
was surprised that we were not all dead, for he was certain that I was
leading them right away from the town.
The party that went out for Mr. Smith got back the day the doctors
were going to cut Mike’s feet off. Mr. Smith came in to see me, and he
almost cried when he saw the fix I was in. He said he would take me
right to Salt Lake City, where I would get better care than I could in
Soda Springs. They would not allow him to move me, however, though he
tried his hardest to take me.
[Illustration: Winter scene near Uncle Nick’s home in Jackson’s Hole.
Thousands of elk come into this valley during the “snowy moons.”
_S. N. Leek, Jackson, Wyoming_]
Owing to the skill of Doctor Palmer I got along pretty well, but it
was several weeks before I was able to get around very much. Poor Mike
suffered terribly after his feet were taken off, but he got well and
strong as ever, except for the loss of his feet.
When I got well, I drove the mail from Soda Springs to Franklin
during the rest of the winter. That June Jimmy’s wife came out from
Mississippi. She was Mike’s sister, and a most beautiful woman.
She and Mike induced me to stop driving the mail for a while and take
them back over the road we traveled those awful days to reach Soda
Springs. I secured a buggy for us to ride in, a small spring wagon to
carry the camp outfit, and a good cook to go with us to do the cooking
and drive the mess wagon.
We first stopped where Jimmy died. The spot was still marked by the
pieces of my coat lining that were lying around. Then we went to where
we had left Mr. Smith and his driver. When we reached the place where
Mr. Smith wanted to turn north and follow the old trail in the wrong
direction, Mike told his sister that if it had not been for me that
day, they would all have gone the wrong way and there, somewhere on
that lonely trail, have perished in the snow. From there we went to the
Snake River, where we had eaten our last meal on that awful trip.
We found here a large band of Indians, and among them were several that
I was acquainted with. We could not get away from them, they were so
glad to see me, so we stayed here four days. They wanted to know why I
didn’t come back in those days and live with them all the time. Then I
had to tell them all about where I had been ever since I went away from
them and what I had been doing all that time. They took turns asking me
questions until I thought they would talk me to death.
These were the first Indians this woman had ever seen, and she was
frightened of them until she noticed how glad they were to see me and
how kind they were; then she felt better towards them. She said she was
delighted to hear me talk to them, that they were certainly a queer
people, and that I must have been a strange boy to leave my home and go
to live with them.
After I had finished my visit with the Indians we turned back over the
same road. When we got to mother’s home, Mike and his sister stayed
with us three weeks. They kept trying all the time to induce me to
go with them to her home in Mississippi, but my mother objected so
strongly that I would not go, although I wanted to very much. They
would have treated me very kindly, I am sure. They even offered to
share their property with me; but I thought more of my mother than I
did of anybody else in the world and I could not leave her to make my
home among strangers.
[Illustration: “Finally she came to my white mother’s home.”]
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MY OLD SHOSHONE FRIENDS
“What became of your old Indian mother, Washakie, Hanabi, and the
rest?” This question has been asked me again and again. “Did you
ever see them again?” “What other experiences did you have with the
Indians?” Such queries as these have been sent to me from even far-off
France by people who have read the first edition of my little book.
To satisfy my readers on these points and others that may be of
interest, I have added a few more chapters to my story.
When I left my dear old Indian mother up north on “Pohogoy,” or Ross
Fork,--a place near the Snake River,--I promised her I would come back
to her. That promise I intended to keep; but I was prevented from doing
so by other pressing duties, till it was too late.
She waited a year for her “Yagaki” to return, then her sorrow became
so great she couldn’t bear it longer and she started out to hunt me
up. The Indians told me later that after I had been gone a few months
my old mother would roam off in the mountains and lonely places
and stay until hunger would drive her home. Finally she came to my
white mother’s home in Grantsville to find her boy. My mother made
her welcome, taking my Indian mother into her home, feeding her, and
providing her with a room as one of the family.
Then she wrote me that my two mothers wanted me to come home. I wished
with all my heart to do so, but at that time I was about five hundred
miles away, out on the mail line, badly wounded in the head by an
Indian arrow. When I recovered enough to travel, I had to go to work
again. The Indians at this time were burning stations and killing men
every chance they got. Riders became so scarce and hard to get that I
could not well leave, no matter how I felt.
When I finally did get away, I found that my own mother, as I have
said before, had moved into Cache Valley, and my old Indian mother had
left her, broken-hearted because she had not found her papoose. She
had stayed with my white mother for more than two months. When I did
not return as she expected, she grew suspicious that my white mother
had hidden me away; and no words could comfort her or change her mind.
Finally she went off with some Indians who came there.
My mother urged me to hunt her up. She had taken quite a fancy to the
Indian woman. She thought it my duty to find and care for her the rest
of her life. I felt so too. She had been a dear friend to me. She had
cared for me and protected me from harm, even saving my life several
times.
The next word I got of my Indian mother was that she was dead. This sad
news came from a band of Shoshones I found in the Bear Lake Valley.
Hearing they were there, I had gone to see them, thinking to meet
some of my old Indian friends. But those I wished most to see were not
among the band. My dear old mother, they told me, had died about three
years after I left. Washakie was then out in the Wind River country. As
these Indians were going there, I decided to go with them.
[Illustration: Washakie’s encampment at South Pass, Wyoming, 1861.
South Pass is a pass through the Rocky Mountains, where the Oregon and
Salt Lake trails crossed the Continental Divide.
_Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution_]
We found Washakie at South Pass. He was very glad to see me, and
treated me like a brother. But he could not tell me just where our
mother was buried, as he had happened to be away from her when she
died. He only knew that her grave was somewhere on Ham’s Fork[7] in
Wyoming. He found an Indian who said he knew where it was. I offered to
give him a pony if he would guide me to it. He agreed, and we went back
to the head of Ham’s Fork. We found the camping place they were at when
she died, but not the grave, though we hunted for three days together,
and I stayed another day after he left. Since then I have passed the
place many times and have searched again and again; for I did desire to
carry out my old Indian mother’s wish to be buried like the whites, but
I have never found her grave.
[7] A branch of the Green River.
It was the custom of the Indians to bury their dead in some cleft of
rocks or wash. They left no mark over the grave, but they usually
buried with the body articles the deceased had treasured in life, as
weapons, clothing, etc. In the grave with my dear old mother they
placed the beaded and tasseled quiver she had made of the skin of the
antelope I had killed, the auger I had sent to Salt Lake for, and
other things of mine she had kept after I went away. There are those
who think an Indian has no heart. This dear old woman certainly had
one that was tender and true. Her soul was good and pure. Peace to her
memory.
Washakie’s wife Hanabi was another good woman. She, too, had died
before I returned to the Indians. Her little girl papoose, the baby
when I was with them, grew up, I have been told, and married.
Washakie married another squaw by whom he had several children. One of
them, Dick Washakie, is still living in the Wind River country. He is a
wealthy Indian, and has considerable influence.
When these Shoshone Indians made their treaty with the government there
were three reservations set apart for the Shoshone tribe--Fort Hall,
Lemhi, and Wind River. Washakie was given his choice. He took the
Wind River reserve because, as he told me afterwards, it had been his
boyhood home, and his father was buried there. Here Washakie spent the
rest of his life, honored by his tribe and respected for his goodness
and his wisdom by all the whites who knew him. During the early
nineties he passed to the Happy Hunting Grounds.
I saw Washakie many times before he died. We were always brothers. When
I lived in Bloomington, Bear Lake County, Idaho, the chief often came
and stayed with me. He was always made welcome in my home, and his
lodge was always open to me. During the time of Chief Joseph’s War,
Washakie brought his band and camped for some months near my ranch on
Bear River; and every day he would come to get the news of the war. My
wife would read the paper and I would interpret it for the Indians.
While this war was on, the whites would not sell ammunition to the
Indians without a letter of recommendation, or “Tabop,” as they called
it. The Indians all came to me for these letters. My home for years was
their headquarters. They would have eaten me out of house and home if
the ward authorities had not come to my rescue and helped to feed these
Red Brethren.
[Illustration: “I would ... ride the round of the traps.”]
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
TRAPPING WITH AN INDIAN
But the Indians were not always a burden. They sometimes gave me good
help. At one time in particular I found an Indian who proved a friend
in need. It was during the winter of 1866-7, the year after I had
brought my wife from Oxford, Idaho, to Bloomington.
“Hogitsi,” a Shoshone Indian, with his family, was wintering in the
town at the time. The whites called him “Hog,” but he hadn’t a bit of
the hog in his nature. I found him to be one of the best Indians I ever
knew.
After I had got well acquainted with him, he proposed that we try
trapping to make some money. I was hard up; my family was destitute of
food and clothing, for I had hard luck that summer, so I was ready to
try anything.
We set to work over in Nounan Valley on a little stream about fifteen
miles from home. The results were very encouraging. At the end of the
first week we came back with sixty dollars’ worth of furs. It was the
easiest money I ever made in my life. Such success made us ready to try
again.
[Illustration: A mink.
_New York Zoölogical Society_]
“Hog” proposed that we go down to the Portneuf country and spend the
winter at the trapping business. He said he knew of a stream there that
was full of beaver and mink and other fur animals. I was anxious to go,
but my wife protested that she could not think of my going off for a
whole winter with an Indian. She was sure I would be scalped. It was
hard work for me to persuade her that under our circumstances it was
the right thing to do. She finally consented, however, and we set to
work to get ready.
With “Hog” to help we soon had enough winter’s wood chopped up to last
my family through the winter. I did all I could otherwise to leave them
comfortable; but the best I could do was not enough to keep them from
having a hard time of it while I was away.
I had three horses. “Hog” got two more from Thomas Rich; and Joseph
Rich, who kept a store in Paris, supplied us with provisions and camp
outfit upon our agreeing to sell to him what furs we should get.
[Illustration: Beaver and beaver lodge.
_New York Zoölogical Society_]
It was about a week after New Year’s that we struck out northward
through the cold and snow. The snow got deeper and deeper as we went on
towards Soda Springs. It seemed impossible to make our destination. I
suggested that we turn back, but “Hog” wouldn’t listen to me. He said
that we would find the snow lighter from there on, and it would be only
a day or two more before we got to the Portneuf. So I yielded and we
pushed on till we reached Dempsey Creek, a branch of the Portneuf. Here
we made our winter camp at the base of the lava cliffs that border the
stream near where it empties into the Portneuf. We chose a good place
on the sunny side of the rock, and built our quarters. A cleft up the
face of the cliff served us well. By building up a fourth side to this
cleft, we made a fine chimney and fireplace. Around this we made our
shack--of quaking aspen poles and willows, and long grass to thatch it.
For a door we used the skins of two white-tailed deer stretched over a
quaking aspen frame. Our house was a cosy shelter from the storms, and
roomy enough to store our bales of furs. For wood we used cedar, which
grew near by.
Within the cedars we found plenty of black-tail deer, while in the
willows the white-tail were so numerous that we had little trouble to
get all we needed. Trout we could catch at any time; so we had food in
abundance.
When it came to trapping, we found beaver and mink so thick that it was
no trick at all to catch them. Otter were not so plentiful, but we did
land several of these beautiful animals.
I tended the traps and did the cooking. Hogitsi skinned the animals,
stretched the fur, and kept watch of the horses. He was a good
worker--not a lazy thing about him. Usually he was in bed an hour
before me, and up an hour earlier. By the time I was ready to tumble
out, he had the fire roaring, and was at work on the skins. While I got
breakfast, he would look after the horses, and bring my old buckskin
mare to camp. After breakfast I would get on her and ride the rounds of
the traps to see what luck the night had brought. Usually I found the
traps all sprung and a beaver or mink or sometimes an otter in them,
tail up, and drowned in the stream. For we weighted the traps with a
rock to hold the animal, when caught, under water. If the animal is not
drowned, he will often gnaw off his foot and get away. After taking out
the game, I would reset the traps, and return to camp with my load.
To keep the traps going kept me busy all day. We caught animals so
fast that I had sometimes to stop and help Hogitsi catch up with his
skinning and stretching. We would sit up at times late at night at this
work. Evidently little trapping, if any, had ever been done on this
stream, for the animals seemed not to know what a trap meant.
If it hadn’t been for the worry I had for my dear ones at home, the
winter would have been a pleasant one in every way. It was one of the
easiest I ever spent, and most profitable. I never have made money
faster than I did that winter. When springtime came, we had about seven
hundred pounds of fur. At that time mink and beaver skins sold at two
dollars per pound; otter was worth one dollar a foot. A stretched otter
skin would often bring nine dollars or more.