ILL LUCK
A Canadian came from Fort Laramie, and brought a curious piece of
intelligence. A trapper, fresh from the mountains, had become enamored
of a Missouri damsel belonging to a family who with other emigrants had
been for some days encamped in the neighborhood of the fort. If bravery
be the most potent charm to win the favor of the fair, then no wooer
could be more irresistible than a Rocky Mountain trapper. In the present
instance, the suit was not urged in vain. The lovers concerted a scheme,
which they proceeded to carry into effect with all possible dispatch.
The emigrant party left the fort, and on the next succeeding night but
one encamped as usual, and placed a guard. A little after midnight
the enamored trapper drew near, mounted on a strong horse and leading
another by the bridle. Fastening both animals to a tree, he stealthily
moved toward the wagons, as if he were approaching a band of buffalo.
Eluding the vigilance of the guard, who was probably half asleep, he met
his mistress by appointment at the outskirts of the camp, mounted her on
his spare horse, and made off with her through the darkness. The sequel
of the adventure did not reach our ears, and we never learned how the
imprudent fair one liked an Indian lodge for a dwelling, and a reckless
trapper for a bridegroom.
At length The Whirlwind and his warriors determined to move. They had
resolved after all their preparations not to go to the rendezvous at La
Bonte’s Camp, but to pass through the Black Hills and spend a few weeks
in hunting the buffalo on the other side, until they had killed enough
to furnish them with a stock of provisions and with hides to make their
lodges for the next season. This done, they were to send out a small
independent war party against the enemy. Their final determination left
us in some embarrassment. Should we go to La Bonte’s Camp, it was
not impossible that the other villages would prove as vacillating and
indecisive as The Whirlwinds, and that no assembly whatever would take
place. Our old companion Reynal had conceived a liking for us, or rather
for our biscuit and coffee, and for the occasional small presents which
we made him. He was very anxious that we should go with the village
which he himself intended to accompany. He declared he was certain that
no Indians would meet at the rendezvous, and said moreover that it
would be easy to convey our cart and baggage through the Black Hills. In
saying this, he told as usual an egregious falsehood. Neither he nor
any white man with us had ever seen the difficult and obscure defiles
through which the Indians intended to make their way. I passed them
afterward, and had much ado to force my distressed horse along the
narrow ravines, and through chasms where daylight could scarcely
penetrate. Our cart might as easily have been conveyed over the summit
of Pike’s Peak. Anticipating the difficulties and uncertainties of an
attempt to visit the rendezvous, we recalled the old proverb about “A
bird in the hand,” and decided to follow the village.
Both camps, the Indians’ and our own, broke up on the morning of the 1st
of July. I was so weak that the aid of a potent auxiliary, a spoonful of
whisky swallowed at short intervals, alone enabled me to sit on my hardy
little mare Pauline through the short journey of that day. For half a
mile before us and half a mile behind, the prairie was covered far
and wide with the moving throng of savages. The barren, broken plain
stretched away to the right and left, and far in front rose the gloomy
precipitous ridge of the Black Hills. We pushed forward to the head of
the scattered column, passing the burdened travaux, the heavily laden
pack horses, the gaunt old women on foot, the gay young squaws on
horseback, the restless children running among the crowd, old men
striding along in their white buffalo robes, and groups of young
warriors mounted on their best horses. Henry Chatillon, looking backward
over the distant prairie, exclaimed suddenly that a horseman was
approaching, and in truth we could just discern a small black speck
slowly moving over the face of a distant swell, like a fly creeping on a
wall. It rapidly grew larger as it approached.
“White man, I b’lieve,” said Henry; “look how he ride! Indian never ride
that way. Yes; he got rifle on the saddle before him.”
The horseman disappeared in a hollow of the prairie, but we soon saw him
again, and as he came riding at a gallop toward us through the crowd of
Indians, his long hair streaming in the wind behind him, we recognized
the ruddy face and old buckskin frock of Jean Gras the trapper. He was
just arrived from Fort Laramie, where he had been on a visit, and
said he had a message for us. A trader named Bisonette, one of Henry’s
friends, was lately come from the settlements, and intended to go with a
party of men to La Bonte’s Camp, where, as Jean Gras assured us, ten or
twelve villages of Indians would certainly assemble. Bisonette desired
that we would cross over and meet him there, and promised that his men
should protect our horses and baggage while we went among the Indians.
Shaw and I stopped our horses and held a council, and in an evil hour
resolved to go.
For the rest of that day’s journey our course and that of the Indians
was the same. In less than an hour we came to where the high barren
prairie terminated, sinking down abruptly in steep descent; and standing
on these heights, we saw below us a great level meadow. Laramie Creek
bounded it on the left, sweeping along in the shadow of the declivities,
and passing with its shallow and rapid current just below us. We sat
on horseback, waiting and looking on, while the whole savage array went
pouring past us, hurrying down the descent and spreading themselves
over the meadow below. In a few moments the plain was swarming with the
moving multitude, some just visible, like specks in the distance, others
still passing on, pressing down, and fording the stream with bustle
and confusion. On the edge of the heights sat half a dozen of the elder
warriors, gravely smoking and looking down with unmoved faces on the
wild and striking spectacle.
Up went the lodges in a circle on the margin of the stream. For the sake
of quiet we pitched our tent among some trees at half a mile’s distance.
In the afternoon we were in the village. The day was a glorious one,
and the whole camp seemed lively and animated in sympathy. Groups of
children and young girls were laughing gayly on the outside of the
lodges. The shields, the lances, and the bows were removed from the tall
tripods on which they usually hung before the dwellings of their owners.
The warriors were mounting their horses, and one by one riding away over
the prairie toward the neighboring hills.
Shaw and I sat on the grass near the lodge of Reynal. An old woman, with
true Indian hospitality, brought a bowl of boiled venison and placed it
before us. We amused ourselves with watching half a dozen young squaws
who were playing together and chasing each other in and out of one of
the lodges. Suddenly the wild yell of the war-whoop came pealing from
the hills. A crowd of horsemen appeared, rushing down their sides and
riding at full speed toward the village, each warrior’s long hair flying
behind him in the wind like a ship’s streamer. As they approached, the
confused throng assumed a regular order, and entering two by two, they
circled round the area at full gallop, each warrior singing his war song
as he rode. Some of their dresses were splendid. They wore superb
crests of feathers and close tunics of antelope skins, fringed with the
scalp-locks of their enemies; their shields too were often fluttering
with the war eagle’s feathers. All had bows and arrows at their back;
some carried long lances, and a few were armed with guns. The White
Shield, their partisan, rode in gorgeous attire at their head, mounted
on a black-and-white horse. Mahto-Tatonka and his brothers took no part
in this parade, for they were in mourning for their sister, and were all
sitting in their lodges, their bodies bedaubed from head to foot with
white clay, and a lock of hair cut from each of their foreheads.
The warriors circled three times round the village; and as each
distinguished champion passed, the old women would scream out his name
in honor of his bravery, and to incite the emulation of the younger
warriors. Little urchins, not two years old, followed the warlike
pageant with glittering eyes, and looked with eager wonder and
admiration at those whose honors were proclaimed by the public voice of
the village. Thus early is the lesson of war instilled into the mind
of an Indian, and such are the stimulants which incite his thirst for
martial renown.
The procession rode out of the village as it had entered it, and in half
an hour all the warriors had returned again, dropping quietly in, singly
or in parties of two or three.
As the sun rose next morning we looked across the meadow, and could see
the lodges leveled and the Indians gathering together in preparation to
leave the camp. Their course lay to the westward. We turned toward the
north with our men, the four trappers following us, with the Indian
family of Moran. We traveled until night. I suffered not a little from
pain and weakness. We encamped among some trees by the side of a little
brook, and here during the whole of the next day we lay waiting for
Bisonette, but no Bisonette appeared. Here also two of our trapper
friends left us, and set out for the Rocky Mountains. On the second
morning, despairing of Bisonette’s arrival we resumed our journey,
traversing a forlorn and dreary monotony of sun-scorched plains, where
no living thing appeared save here and there an antelope flying before
us like the wind. When noon came we saw an unwonted and most welcome
sight; a rich and luxuriant growth of trees, marking the course of a
little stream called Horseshoe Creek. We turned gladly toward it. There
were lofty and spreading trees, standing widely asunder, and supporting
a thick canopy of leaves, above a surface of rich, tall grass. The
stream ran swiftly, as clear as crystal, through the bosom of the wood,
sparkling over its bed of white sand and darkening again as it entered a
deep cavern of leaves and boughs. I was thoroughly exhausted, and flung
myself on the ground, scarcely able to move. All that afternoon I lay
in the shade by the side of the stream, and those bright woods and
sparkling waters are associated in my mind with recollections of
lassitude and utter prostration. When night came I sat down by the
fire, longing, with an intensity of which at this moment I can hardly
conceive, for some powerful stimulant.
In the morning as glorious a sun rose upon us as ever animated that
desolate wilderness. We advanced and soon were surrounded by tall bare
hills, overspread from top to bottom with prickly-pears and other cacti,
that seemed like clinging reptiles. A plain, flat and hard, and with
scarcely the vestige of grass, lay before us, and a line of tall
misshapen trees bounded the onward view. There was no sight or sound of
man or beast, or any living thing, although behind those trees was the
long-looked-for place of rendezvous, where we fondly hoped to have found
the Indians congregated by thousands. We looked and listened anxiously.
We pushed forward with our best speed, and forced our horses through
the trees. There were copses of some extent beyond, with a scanty stream
creeping through their midst; and as we pressed through the yielding
branches, deer sprang up to the right and left. At length we caught a
glimpse of the prairie beyond. Soon we emerged upon it, and saw, not
a plain covered with encampments and swarming with life, but a vast
unbroken desert stretching away before us league upon league, without a
bush or a tree or anything that had life. We drew rein and gave to the
winds our sentiments concerning the whole aboriginal race of America.
Our journey was in vain and much worse than in vain. For myself, I was
vexed and disappointed beyond measure; as I well knew that a slight
aggravation of my disorder would render this false step irrevocable, and
make it quite impossible to accomplish effectively the design which had
led me an arduous journey of between three and four thousand miles. To
fortify myself as well as I could against such a contingency, I resolved
that I would not under any circumstances attempt to leave the country
until my object was completely gained.
And where were the Indians? They were assembled in great numbers at a
spot about twenty miles distant, and there at that very moment they
were engaged in their warlike ceremonies. The scarcity of buffalo in
the vicinity of La Bonte’s Camp, which would render their supply of
provisions scanty and precarious, had probably prevented them from
assembling there; but of all this we knew nothing until some weeks
after.
Shaw lashed his horse and galloped forward, I, though much more vexed
than he, was not strong enough to adopt this convenient vent to my
feelings; so I followed at a quiet pace, but in no quiet mood. We
rode up to a solitary old tree, which seemed the only place fit for
encampment. Half its branches were dead, and the rest were so scantily
furnished with leaves that they cast but a meager and wretched shade,
and the old twisted trunk alone furnished sufficient protection from the
sun. We threw down our saddles in the strip of shadow that it cast, and
sat down upon them. In silent indignation we remained smoking for an
hour or more, shifting our saddles with the shifting shadow, for the sun
was intolerably hot.