HUNTING INDIANS
At last we had reached La Bonte’s Camp, toward which our eyes had turned
so long. Of all weary hours, those that passed between noon and sunset
of the day when we arrived there may bear away the palm of exquisite
discomfort. I lay under the tree reflecting on what course to pursue,
watching the shadows which seemed never to move, and the sun which
remained fixed in the sky, and hoping every moment to see the men and
horses of Bisonette emerging from the woods. Shaw and Henry had ridden
out on a scouting expedition, and did not return until the sun was
setting. There was nothing very cheering in their faces nor in the news
they brought.
“We have been ten miles from here,” said Shaw. “We climbed the highest
butte we could find, and could not see a buffalo or Indian; nothing but
prairie for twenty miles around us.”
Henry’s horse was quite disabled by clambering up and down the sides of
ravines, and Shaw’s was severely fatigued.
After supper that evening, as we sat around the fire, I proposed to Shaw
to wait one day longer in hopes of Bisonette’s arrival, and if he
should not come to send Delorier with the cart and baggage back to
Fort Laramie, while we ourselves followed The Whirlwind’s village and
attempted to overtake it as it passed the mountains. Shaw, not having
the same motive for hunting Indians that I had, was averse to the
plan; I therefore resolved to go alone. This design I adopted very
unwillingly, for I knew that in the present state of my health the
attempt would be extremely unpleasant, and, as I considered, hazardous.
I hoped that Bisonette would appear in the course of the following day,
and bring us some information by which to direct our course, and enable
me to accomplish my purpose by means less objectionable.
The rifle of Henry Chatillon was necessary for the subsistence of the
party in my absence; so I called Raymond, and ordered him to prepare to
set out with me. Raymond rolled his eyes vacantly about, but at length,
having succeeded in grappling with the idea, he withdrew to his bed
under the cart. He was a heavy-molded fellow, with a broad face exactly
like an owl’s, expressing the most impenetrable stupidity and entire
self-confidence. As for his good qualities, he had a sort of stubborn
fidelity, an insensibility to danger, and a kind of instinct or
sagacity, which sometimes led him right, where better heads than his
were at a loss. Besides this, he knew very well how to handle a rifle
and picket a horse.
Through the following day the sun glared down upon us with a pitiless,
penetrating heat. The distant blue prairie seemed quivering under it.
The lodge of our Indian associates was baking in the rays, and our
rifles, as they leaned against the tree, were too hot for the touch.
There was a dead silence through our camp and all around it, unbroken
except by the hum of gnats and mosquitoes. The men, resting their
foreheads on their arms, were sleeping under the cart. The Indians kept
close within their lodge except the newly married pair, who were seated
together under an awning of buffalo robes, and the old conjurer, who,
with his hard, emaciated face and gaunt ribs, was perched aloft like a
turkey-buzzard among the dead branches of an old tree, constantly on the
lookout for enemies. He would have made a capital shot. A rifle bullet,
skillfully planted, would have brought him tumbling to the ground.
Surely, I thought, there could be no more harm in shooting such a
hideous old villain, to see how ugly he would look when he was dead,
than in shooting the detestable vulture which he resembled. We dined,
and then Shaw saddled his horse.
“I will ride back,” said he, “to Horseshoe Creek, and see if Bisonette
is there.”
“I would go with you,” I answered, “but I must reserve all the strength
I have.”
The afternoon dragged away at last. I occupied myself in cleaning my
rifle and pistols, and making other preparations for the journey. After
supper, Henry Chatillon and I lay by the fire, discussing the properties
of that admirable weapon, the rifle, in the use of which he could fairly
outrival Leatherstocking himself.
It was late before I wrapped myself in my blanket and lay down for the
night, with my head on my saddle. Shaw had not returned, but this gave
no uneasiness, for we presumed that he had fallen in with Bisonette, and
was spending the night with him. For a day or two past I had gained in
strength and health, but about midnight an attack of pain awoke me, and
for some hours I felt no inclination to sleep. The moon was quivering on
the broad breast of the Platte; nothing could be heard except those low
inexplicable sounds, like whisperings and footsteps, which no one who
has spent the night alone amid deserts and forests will be at a loss to
understand. As I was falling asleep, a familiar voice, shouting from the
distance, awoke me again. A rapid step approached the camp, and Shaw on
foot, with his gun in his hand, hastily entered.
“Where’s your horse?” said I, raising myself on my elbow.
“Lost!” said Shaw. “Where’s Delorier?”
“There,” I replied, pointing to a confused mass of blankets and buffalo
robes.
Shaw touched them with the butt of his gun, and up sprang our faithful
Canadian.
“Come, Delorier; stir up the fire, and get me something to eat.”
“Where’s Bisonette?” asked I.
“The Lord knows; there’s nobody at Horseshoe Creek.”
Shaw had gone back to the spot where we had encamped two days before,
and finding nothing there but the ashes of our fires, he had tied his
horse to the tree while he bathed in the stream. Something startled his
horse, who broke loose, and for two hours Shaw tried in vain to catch
him. Sunset approached, and it was twelve miles to camp. So he abandoned
the attempt, and set out on foot to join us. The greater part of his
perilous and solitary work was performed in darkness. His moccasins were
worn to tatters and his feet severely lacerated. He sat down to eat,
however, with the usual equanimity of his temper not at all disturbed
by his misfortune, and my last recollection before falling asleep was of
Shaw, seated cross-legged before the fire, smoking his pipe. The
horse, I may as well mention here, was found the next morning by Henry
Chatillon.
When I awoke again there was a fresh damp smell in the air, a gray
twilight involved the prairie, and above its eastern verge was a streak
of cold red sky. I called to the men, and in a moment a fire was blazing
brightly in the dim morning light, and breakfast was getting ready. We
sat down together on the grass, to the last civilized meal which Raymond
and I were destined to enjoy for some time.
“Now, bring in the horses.”
My little mare Pauline was soon standing by the fire. She was a fleet,
hardy, and gentle animal, christened after Paul Dorion, from whom I had
procured her in exchange for Pontiac. She did not look as if equipped
for a morning pleasure ride. In front of the black, high-bowed mountain
saddle, holsters, with heavy pistols, were fastened. A pair of saddle
bags, a blanket tightly rolled, a small parcel of Indian presents tied
up in a buffalo skin, a leather bag of flour, and a smaller one of tea
were all secured behind, and a long trail-rope was wound round her
neck. Raymond had a strong black mule, equipped in a similar manner. We
crammed our powder-horns to the throat, and mounted.
“I will meet you at Fort Laramie on the 1st of August,” said I to Shaw.
“That is,” replied he, “if we don’t meet before that. I think I shall
follow after you in a day or two.”
This in fact he attempted, and he would have succeeded if he had not
encountered obstacles against which his resolute spirit was of no avail.
Two days after I left him he sent Delorier to the fort with the cart
and baggage, and set out for the mountains with Henry Chatillon; but a
tremendous thunderstorm had deluged the prairie, and nearly obliterated
not only our trail but that of the Indians themselves. They followed
along the base of the mountains, at a loss in which direction to go.
They encamped there, and in the morning Shaw found himself poisoned by
ivy in such a manner that it was impossible for him to travel. So they
turned back reluctantly toward Fort Laramie. Shaw’s limbs were swollen
to double their usual size, and he rode in great pain. They encamped
again within twenty miles of the fort, and reached it early on the
following morning. Shaw lay seriously ill for a week, and remained at
the fort till I rejoined him some time after.
To return to my own story. We shook hands with our friends, rode out
upon the prairie, and clambering the sandy hollows that were channeled
in the sides of the hills gained the high plains above. If a curse had
been pronounced upon the land it could not have worn an aspect of more
dreary and forlorn barrenness. There were abrupt broken hills, deep
hollows, and wide plains; but all alike glared with an insupportable
whiteness under the burning sun. The country, as if parched by the heat,
had cracked into innumerable fissures and ravines, that not a little
impeded our progress. Their steep sides were white and raw, and along
the bottom we several times discovered the broad tracks of the terrific
grizzly bear, nowhere more abundant than in this region. The ridges of
the hills were hard as rock, and strewn with pebbles of flint and coarse
red jasper; looking from them, there was nothing to relieve the desert
uniformity of the prospect, save here and there a pine-tree clinging at
the edge of a ravine, and stretching out its rough, shaggy arms. Under
the scorching heat these melancholy trees diffused their peculiar
resinous odor through the sultry air. There was something in it, as I
approached them, that recalled old associations; the pine-clad mountains
of New England, traversed in days of health and buoyancy, rose like a
reality before my fancy. In passing that arid waste I was goaded with
a morbid thirst produced by my disorder, and I thought with a longing
desire on the crystal treasure poured in such wasteful profusion from
our thousand hills. Shutting my eyes, I more than half believed that
I heard the deep plunging and gurgling of waters in the bowels of the
shaded rocks. I could see their dark ice glittering far down amid the
crevices, and the cold drops trickling from the long green mosses.
When noon came, we found a little stream, with a few trees and bushes;
and here we rested for an hour. Then we traveled on, guided by the sun,
until, just before sunset, we reached another stream, called Bitter
Cotton-wood Creek. A thick growth of bushes and old storm-beaten trees
grew at intervals along its bank. Near the foot of one of the trees we
flung down our saddles, and hobbling our horses turned them loose to
feed. The little stream was clear and swift, and ran musically on its
white sands. Small water birds were splashing in the shallows, and
filling the air with their cries and flutterings. The sun was just
sinking among gold and crimson clouds behind Mount Laramie. I well
remember how I lay upon a log by the margin of the water, and watched
the restless motions of the little fish in a deep still nook below.
Strange to say, I seemed to have gained strength since the morning, and
almost felt a sense of returning health.
We built our fire. Night came, and the wolves began to howl. One deep
voice commenced, and it was answered in awful responses from the hills,
the plains, and the woods along the stream above and below us. Such
sounds need not and do not disturb one’s sleep upon the prairie. We
picketed the mare and the mule close at our feet, and did not wake until
daylight. Then we turned them loose, still hobbled, to feed for an hour
before starting. We were getting ready our morning’s meal, when Raymond
saw an antelope at half a mile’s distance, and said he would go and
shoot it.
“Your business,” said. I, “is to look after the animals. I am too weak
to do much, if anything happens to them, and you must keep within sight
of the camp.”
Raymond promised, and set out with his rifle in his hand. The animals
had passed across the stream, and were feeding among the long grass
on the other side, much tormented by the attacks of the numerous large
green-headed flies. As I watched them, I saw them go down into a hollow,
and as several minutes elapsed without their reappearing, I waded
through the stream to look after them. To my vexation and alarm I
discovered them at a great distance, galloping away at full speed,
Pauline in advance, with her hobbles broken, and the mule, still
fettered, following with awkward leaps. I fired my rifle and shouted to
recall Raymond. In a moment he came running through the stream, with a
red handkerchief bound round his head. I pointed to the fugitives, and
ordered him to pursue them. Muttering a “Sacre!” between his teeth, he
set out at full speed, still swinging his rifle in his hand. I walked
up to the top of a hill, and looking away over the prairie, could just
distinguish the runaways, still at full gallop. Returning to the fire,
I sat down at the foot of a tree. Wearily and anxiously hour after
hour passed away. The old loose bark dangling from the trunk behind
me flapped to and fro in the wind, and the mosquitoes kept up their
incessant drowsy humming; but other than this, there was no sight nor
sound of life throughout the burning landscape. The sun rose higher and
higher, until the shadows fell almost perpendicularly, and I knew that
it must be noon. It seemed scarcely possible that the animals could be
recovered. If they were not, my situation was one of serious difficulty.
Shaw, when I left him had decided to move that morning, but whither
he had not determined. To look for him would be a vain attempt. Fort
Laramie was forty miles distant, and I could not walk a mile without
great effort. Not then having learned the sound philosophy of yielding
to disproportionate obstacles, I resolved to continue in any event the
pursuit of the Indians. Only one plan occurred to me; this was to send
Raymond to the fort with an order for more horses, while I remained on
the spot, awaiting his return, which might take place within three days.
But the adoption of this resolution did not wholly allay my anxiety, for
it involved both uncertainty and danger. To remain stationary and alone
for three days, in a country full of dangerous Indians, was not the most
flattering of prospects; and protracted as my Indian hunt must be by
such delay, it was not easy to foretell its ultimate result. Revolving
these matters, I grew hungry; and as our stock of provisions, except
four or five pounds of flour, was by this time exhausted, I left the
camp to see what game I could find. Nothing could be seen except four or
five large curlew, which, with their loud screaming, were wheeling over
my head, and now and then alighting upon the prairie. I shot two of
them, and was about returning, when a startling sight caught my eye. A
small, dark object, like a human head, suddenly appeared, and vanished
among the thick hushes along the stream below. In that country every
stranger is a suspected enemy. Instinctively I threw forward the muzzle
of my rifle. In a moment the bushes were violently shaken, two heads,
but not human heads, protruded, and to my great joy I recognized the
downcast, disconsolate countenance of the black mule and the yellow
visage of Pauline. Raymond came upon the mule, pale and haggard,
complaining of a fiery pain in his chest. I took charge of the animals
while he kneeled down by the side of the stream to drink. He had kept
the runaways in sight as far as the Side Fork of Laramie Creek, a
distance of more than ten miles; and here with great difficulty he had
succeeded in catching them. I saw that he was unarmed, and asked him
what he had done with his rifle. It had encumbered him in his pursuit,
and he had dropped it on the prairie, thinking that he could find it
on his return; but in this he had failed. The loss might prove a very
formidable one. I was too much rejoiced however at the recovery of the
animals to think much about it; and having made some tea for Raymond in
a tin vessel which we had brought with us, I told him that I would give
him two hours for resting before we set out again. He had eaten nothing
that day; but having no appetite, he lay down immediately to sleep. I
picketed the animals among the richest grass that I could find, and made
fires of green wood to protect them from the flies; then sitting down
again by the tree, I watched the slow movements of the sun, begrudging
every moment that passed.
The time I had mentioned expired, and I awoke Raymond. We saddled and
set out again, but first we went in search of the lost rifle, and in
the course of an hour Raymond was fortunate enough to find it. Then we
turned westward, and moved over the hills and hollows at a slow pace
toward the Black Hills. The heat no longer tormented us, for a cloud
was before the sun. Yet that day shall never be marked with white in my
calendar. The air began to grow fresh and cool, the distant mountains
frowned more gloomily, there was a low muttering of thunder, and dense
black masses of cloud rose heavily behind the broken peaks. At first
they were gayly fringed with silver by the afternoon sun, but soon the
thick blackness overspread the whole sky, and the desert around us
was wrapped in deep gloom. I scarcely heeded it at the time, but now
I cannot but feel that there was an awful sublimity in the hoarse
murmuring of the thunder, in the somber shadows that involved the
mountains and the plain. The storm broke. It came upon us with a zigzag
blinding flash, with a terrific crash of thunder, and with a hurricane
that howled over the prairie, dashing floods of water against us.
Raymond looked round, and cursed the merciless elements. There seemed
no shelter near, but we discerned at length a deep ravine gashed in the
level prairie, and saw half way down its side an old pine tree, whose
rough horizontal boughs formed a sort of penthouse against the tempest.
We found a practicable passage, and hastily descending, fastened our
animals to some large loose stones at the bottom; then climbing up, we
drew our blankets over our heads, and seated ourselves close beneath the
old tree. Perhaps I was no competent judge of time, but it seemed to me
that we were sitting there a full hour, while around us poured a deluge
of rain, through which the rocks on the opposite side of the gulf were
barely visible. The first burst of the tempest soon subsided, but the
rain poured steadily. At length Raymond grew impatient, and scrambling
out of the ravine, he gained the level prairie above.
“What does the weather look like?” asked I, from my seat under the tree.
“It looks bad,” he answered; “dark all around,” and again he descended
and sat down by my side. Some ten minutes elapsed.
“Go up again,” said I, “and take another look;” and he clambered up the
precipice. “Well, how is it?”
“Just the same, only I see one little bright spot over the top of the
mountain.”
The rain by this time had begun to abate; and going down to the bottom
of the ravine, we loosened the animals, who were standing up to their
knees in water. Leading them up the rocky throat of the ravine, we
reached the plain above. “Am I,” I thought to myself, “the same man who
a few months since, was seated, a quiet student of BELLES-LETTRES, in a
cushioned arm-chair by a sea-coal fire?”
All around us was obscurity; but the bright spot above the mountaintops
grew wider and ruddier, until at length the clouds drew apart, and
a flood of sunbeams poured down from heaven, streaming along the
precipices, and involving them in a thin blue haze, as soft and lovely
as that which wraps the Apennines on an evening in spring. Rapidly the
clouds were broken and scattered, like routed legions of evil spirits.
The plain lay basking in sunbeams around us; a rainbow arched the desert
from north to south, and far in front a line of woods seemed inviting
us to refreshment and repose. When we reached them, they were glistening
with prismatic dewdrops, and enlivened by the song and flutterings of
a hundred birds. Strange winged insects, benumbed by the rain, were
clinging to the leaves and the bark of the trees.
Raymond kindled a fire with great difficulty. The animals turned eagerly
to feed on the soft rich grass, while I, wrapping myself in my blanket,
lay down and gazed on the evening landscape. The mountains, whose stern
features had lowered upon us with so gloomy and awful a frown, now
seemed lighted up with a serene, benignant smile, and the green waving
undulations of the plain were gladdened with the rich sunshine. Wet,
ill, and wearied as I was, my spirit grew lighter at the view, and I
drew from it an augury of good for my future prospects.
When morning came, Raymond awoke, coughing violently, though I had
apparently received no injury. We mounted, crossed the little stream,
pushed through the trees, and began our journey over the plain beyond.
And now, as we rode slowly along, we looked anxiously on every hand
for traces of the Indians, not doubting that the village had passed
somewhere in that vicinity; but the scanty shriveled grass was not more
than three or four inches high, and the ground was of such unyielding
hardness that a host might have marched over it and left scarcely a
trace of its passage. Up hill and down hill, and clambering through
ravines, we continued our journey. As we were skirting the foot of a
hill I saw Raymond, who was some rods in advance, suddenly jerking the
reins of his mule. Sliding from his seat, and running in a crouching
posture up a hollow, he disappeared; and then in an instant I heard the
sharp quick crack of his rifle. A wounded antelope came running on three
legs over the hill. I lashed Pauline and made after him. My fleet little
mare soon brought me by his side, and after leaping and bounding for
a few moments in vain, he stood still, as if despairing of escape. His
glistening eyes turned up toward my face with so piteous a look that it
was with feelings of infinite compunction that I shot him through the
head with a pistol. Raymond skinned and cut him up, and we hung the
forequarters to our saddles, much rejoiced that our exhausted stock of
provisions was renewed in such good time.
Gaining the top of a hill, we could see along the cloudy verge of the
prairie before us lines of trees and shadowy groves that marked the
course of Laramie Creek. Some time before noon we reached its banks
and began anxiously to search them for footprints of the Indians. We
followed the stream for several miles, now on the shore and now wading
in the water, scrutinizing every sand-bar and every muddy bank. So
long was the search that we began to fear that we had left the trail
undiscovered behind us. At length I heard Raymond shouting, and saw him
jump from his mule to examine some object under the shelving bank. I
rode up to his side. It was the clear and palpable impression of an
Indian moccasin. Encouraged by this we continued our search, and at
last some appearances on a soft surface of earth not far from the shore
attracted my eye; and going to examine them I found half a dozen tracks,
some made by men and some by children. Just then Raymond observed across
the stream the mouth of a small branch entering it from the south. He
forded the water, rode in at the opening, and in a moment I heard him
shouting again, so I passed over and joined him. The little branch had a
broad sandy bed, along which the water trickled in a scanty stream; and
on either bank the bushes were so close that the view was completely
intercepted. I found Raymond stooping over the footprints of three or
four horses. Proceeding we found those of a man, then those of a child,
then those of more horses; and at last the bushes on each bank were
beaten down and broken, and the sand plowed up with a multitude of
footsteps, and scored across with the furrows made by the lodge-poles
that had been dragged through. It was now certain that we had found
the trail. I pushed through the bushes, and at a little distance on the
prairie beyond found the ashes of a hundred and fifty lodge fires, with
bones and pieces of buffalo robes scattered around them, and in some
instances the pickets to which horses had been secured still standing
in the ground. Elated by our success we selected a convenient tree, and
turning the animals loose, prepared to make a meal from the fat haunch
of our victim.
Hardship and exposure had thriven with me wonderfully. I had gained both
health and strength since leaving La Bonte’s Camp. Raymond and I made a
hearty meal together in high spirits, for we rashly presumed that having
found one end of the trail we should have little difficulty in reaching
the other. But when the animals were led in we found that our old ill
luck had not ceased to follow us close. As I was saddling Pauline I saw
that her eye was as dull as lead, and the hue of her yellow coat visibly
darkened. I placed my foot in the stirrup to mount, when instantly she
staggered and fell flat on her side. Gaining her feet with an effort she
stood by the fire with a drooping head. Whether she had been bitten by
a snake or poisoned by some noxious plant or attacked by a sudden
disorder, it was hard to say; but at all events her sickness was
sufficiently ill-timed and unfortunate. I succeeded in a second attempt
to mount her, and with a slow pace we moved forward on the trail of the
Indians. It led us up a hill and over a dreary plain; and here, to our
great mortification, the traces almost disappeared, for the ground was
hard as adamant; and if its flinty surface had ever retained the print
of a hoof, the marks had been washed away by the deluge of yesterday. An
Indian village, in its disorderly march, is scattered over the prairie,
often to the width of full half a mile; so that its trail is nowhere
clearly marked, and the task of following it is made doubly wearisome
and difficult. By good fortune plenty of large ant-hills, a yard or more
in diameter, were scattered over the plain, and these were frequently
broken by the footprints of men and horses, and marked by traces of the
lodge-poles. The succulent leaves of the prickly-pear, also bruised from
the same causes, helped a little to guide us; so inch by inch we moved
along. Often we lost the trail altogether, and then would recover it
again, but late in the afternoon we found ourselves totally at fault.
We stood alone without clew to guide us. The broken plain expanded
for league after league around us, and in front the long dark ridge of
mountains was stretching from north to south. Mount Laramie, a little
on our right, towered high above the rest and from a dark valley just
beyond one of its lower declivities, we discerned volumes of white smoke
slowly rolling up into the clear air.
“I think,” said Raymond, “some Indians must be there. Perhaps we
had better go.” But this plan was not rashly to be adopted, and we
determined still to continue our search after the lost trail. Our good
stars prompted us to this decision, for we afterward had reason to
believe, from information given us by the Indians, that the smoke was
raised as a decoy by a Crow war party.
Evening was coming on, and there was no wood or water nearer than the
foot of the mountains. So thither we turned, directing our course toward
the point where Laramie Creek issues forth upon the prairie. When we
reached it the bare tops of the mountains were still brightened with
sunshine. The little river was breaking with a vehement and angry
current from its dark prison. There was something in the near vicinity
of the mountains, in the loud surging of the rapids, wonderfully
cheering and exhilarating; for although once as familiar as home itself,
they had been for months strangers to my experience. There was a rich
grass-plot by the river’s bank, surrounded by low ridges, which would
effectually screen ourselves and our fire from the sight of wandering
Indians. Here among the grass I observed numerous circles of large
stones, which, as Raymond said, were traces of a Dakota winter
encampment. We lay down and did not awake till the sun was up. A large
rock projected from the shore, and behind it the deep water was slowly
eddying round and round. The temptation was irresistible. I threw off
my clothes, leaped in, suffered myself to be borne once round with the
current, and then, seizing the strong root of a water plant, drew myself
to the shore. The effect was so invigorating and refreshing that I
mistook it for returning health. “Pauline,” thought I, as I led the
little mare up to be saddled, “only thrive as I do, and you and I will
have sport yet among the buffalo beyond these mountains.” But scarcely
were we mounted and on our way before the momentary glow passed. Again I
hung as usual in my seat, scarcely able to hold myself erect.
“Look yonder,” said Raymond; “you see that big hollow there; the Indians
must have gone that way, if they went anywhere about here.”
We reached the gap, which was like a deep notch cut into the mountain
ridge, and here we soon discerned an ant-hill furrowed with the mark of
a lodge-pole. This was quite enough; there could be no doubt now. As we
rode on, the opening growing narrower, the Indians had been compelled to
march in closer order, and the traces became numerous and distinct. The
gap terminated in a rocky gateway, leading into a rough passage upward,
between two precipitous mountains. Here grass and weeds were bruised to
fragments by the throng that had passed through. We moved slowly over
the rocks, up the passage; and in this toilsome manner we advanced for
an hour or two, bare precipices, hundreds of feet high, shooting up on
either hand. Raymond, with his hardy mule, was a few rods before me,
when we came to the foot of an ascent steeper than the rest, and which
I trusted might prove the highest point of the defile. Pauline strained
upward for a few yards, moaning and stumbling, and then came to a dead
stop, unable to proceed further. I dismounted, and attempted to lead
her; but my own exhausted strength soon gave out; so I loosened the
trail-rope from her neck, and tying it round my arm, crawled up on my
hands and knees. I gained the top, totally exhausted, the sweat drops
trickling from my forehead. Pauline stood like a statue by my side, her
shadow falling upon the scorching rock; and in this shade, for there was
no other, I lay for some time, scarcely able to move a limb. All around
the black crags, sharp as needles at the top, stood glowing in the
sun, without a tree, or a bush, or a blade of grass, to cover their
precipitous sides. The whole scene seemed parched with a pitiless,
insufferable heat.
After a while I could mount again, and we moved on, descending the rocky
defile on its western side. Thinking of that morning’s journey, it
has sometimes seemed to me that there was something ridiculous in my
position; a man, armed to the teeth, but wholly unable to fight, and
equally so to run away, traversing a dangerous wilderness, on a sick
horse. But these thoughts were retrospective, for at the time I was in
too grave a mood to entertain a very lively sense of the ludicrous.
Raymond’s saddle-girth slipped; and while I proceeded he was stopping
behind to repair the mischief. I came to the top of a little declivity,
where a most welcome sight greeted my eye; a nook of fresh green grass
nestled among the cliffs, sunny clumps of bushes on one side, and shaggy
old pine trees leaning forward from the rocks on the other. A shrill,
familiar voice saluted me, and recalled me to days of boyhood; that of
the insect called the “locust” by New England schoolboys, which was fast
clinging among the heated boughs of the old pine trees. Then, too, as
I passed the bushes, the low sound of falling water reached my ear.
Pauline turned of her own accord, and pushing through the boughs we
found a black rock, over-arched by the cool green canopy. An icy stream
was pouring from its side into a wide basin of white sand, from whence
it had no visible outlet, but filtered through into the soil below.
While I filled a tin cup at the spring, Pauline was eagerly plunging
her head deep in the pool. Other visitors had been there before us. All
around in the soft soil were the footprints of elk, deer, and the Rocky
Mountain sheep; and the grizzly bear too had left the recent prints of
his broad foot, with its frightful array of claws. Among these mountains
was his home.
Soon after leaving the spring we found a little grassy plain, encircled
by the mountains, and marked, to our great joy, with all the traces of
an Indian camp. Raymond’s practiced eye detected certain signs by which
he recognized the spot where Reynal’s lodge had been pitched and his
horses picketed. I approached, and stood looking at the place. Reynal
and I had, I believe, hardly a feeling in common. I disliked the fellow,
and it perplexed me a good deal to understand why I should look with so
much interest on the ashes of his fire, when between him and me there
seemed no other bond of sympathy than the slender and precarious one of
a kindred race.
In half an hour from this we were clear of the mountains. There was a
plain before us, totally barren and thickly peopled in many parts with
the little prairie dogs, who sat at the mouths of their burrows and
yelped at us as we passed. The plain, as we thought, was about six miles
wide; but it cost us two hours to cross it. Then another mountain range
rose before us, grander and more wild than the last had been. Far out of
the dense shrubbery that clothed the steeps for a thousand feet shot up
black crags, all leaning one way, and shattered by storms and thunder
into grim and threatening shapes. As we entered a narrow passage on the
trail of the Indians, they impended frightfully on one side, above our
heads.
Our course was through dense woods, in the shade and twinkling sunlight
of overhanging boughs. I would I could recall to mind all the startling
combinations that presented themselves, as winding from side to side
of the passage, to avoid its obstructions, we could see, glancing at
intervals through the foliage, the awful forms of the gigantic cliffs,
that seemed at times to hem us in on the right and on the left, before
us and behind! Another scene in a few moments greeted us; a tract of
gray and sunny woods, broken into knolls and hollows, enlivened by birds
and interspersed with flowers. Among the rest I recognized the mellow
whistle of the robin, an old familiar friend whom I had scarce expected
to meet in such a place. Humble-bees too were buzzing heavily about
the flowers; and of these a species of larkspur caught my eye, more
appropriate, it should seem, to cultivated gardens than to a remote
wilderness. Instantly it recalled a multitude of dormant and delightful
recollections.
Leaving behind us this spot and its associations, a sight soon presented
itself, characteristic of that warlike region. In an open space, fenced
in by high rocks, stood two Indian forts, of a square form, rudely built
of sticks and logs. They were somewhat ruinous, having probably been
constructed the year before. Each might have contained about twenty men.
Perhaps in this gloomy spot some party had been beset by their enemies,
and those scowling rocks and blasted trees might not long since have
looked down on a conflict unchronicled and unknown. Yet if any traces
of bloodshed remained they were completely hidden by the bushes and tall
rank weeds.
Gradually the mountains drew apart, and the passage expanded into a
plain, where again we found traces of an Indian encampment. There were
trees and bushes just before us, and we stopped here for an hour’s rest
and refreshment. When we had finished our meal Raymond struck fire, and
lighting his pipe, sat down at the foot of a tree to smoke. For some
time I observed him puffing away with a face of unusual solemnity. Then
slowly taking the pipe from his lips, he looked up and remarked that we
had better not go any farther.
“Why not?” asked I.
He said that the country was becoming very dangerous, that we were
entering the range of the Snakes, Arapahoes and Grosventre Blackfeet,
and that if any of their wandering parties should meet us, it would cost
us our lives; but he added, with a blunt fidelity that nearly reconciled
me to his stupidity, that he would go anywhere I wished. I told him to
bring up the animals, and mounting them we proceeded again. I confess
that, as we moved forward, the prospect seemed but a dreary and doubtful
one. I would have given the world for my ordinary elasticity of body
and mind, and for a horse of such strength and spirit as the journey
required.
Closer and closer the rocks gathered round us, growing taller and
steeper, and pressing more and more upon our path. We entered at length
a defile which I never had seen rivaled. The mountain was cracked from
top to bottom, and we were creeping along the bottom of the fissure, in
dampness and gloom, with the clink of hoofs on the loose shingly rocks,
and the hoarse murmuring of a petulant brook which kept us company.
Sometimes the water, foaming among the stones, overspread the whole
narrow passage; sometimes, withdrawing to one side, it gave us room to
pass dry-shod. Looking up, we could see a narrow ribbon of bright blue
sky between the dark edges of the opposing cliffs. This did not last
long. The passage soon widened, and sunbeams found their way down,
flashing upon the black waters. The defile would spread out to many rods
in width; bushes, trees, and flowers would spring by the side of the
brook; the cliffs would be feathered with shrubbery, that clung in every
crevice, and fringed with trees, that grew along their sunny edges. Then
we would be moving again in the darkness. The passage seemed about four
miles long, and before we reached the end of it, the unshod hoofs of our
animals were lamentably broken, and their legs cut by the sharp stones.
Issuing from the mountain we found another plain. All around it stood a
circle of lofty precipices, that seemed the impersonation of silence and
solitude. Here again the Indians had encamped, as well they might, after
passing with their women, children and horses through the gulf behind
us. In one day we had made a journey which had cost them three to
accomplish.
The only outlet to this amphitheater lay over a hill some two hundred
feet high, up which we moved with difficulty. Looking from the top,
we saw that at last we were free of the mountains. The prairie
spread before us, but so wild and broken that the view was everywhere
obstructed. Far on our left one tall hill swelled up against the sky, on
the smooth, pale green surface of which four slowly moving black specks
were discernible. They were evidently buffalo, and we hailed the sight
as a good augury; for where the buffalo were, there too the Indians
would probably be found. We hoped on that very night to reach the
village. We were anxious to do so for a double reason, wishing to bring
our wearisome journey to an end, and knowing, moreover, that though
to enter the village in broad daylight would be a perfectly safe
experiment, yet to encamp in its vicinity would be dangerous. But as we
rode on, the sun was sinking, and soon was within half an hour of the
horizon. We ascended a hill and looked round us for a spot for our
encampment. The prairie was like a turbulent ocean, suddenly congealed
when its waves were at the highest, and it lay half in light and half in
shadow, as the rich sunshine, yellow as gold, was pouring over it. The
rough bushes of the wild sage were growing everywhere, its dull pale
green overspreading hill and hollow. Yet a little way before us, a
bright verdant line of grass was winding along the plain, and here and
there throughout its course water was glistening darkly. We went down to
it, kindled a fire, and turned our horses loose to feed. It was a little
trickling brook, that for some yards on either bank turned the barren
prairie into fertility, and here and there it spread into deep pools,
where the beaver had dammed it up.
We placed our last remaining piece of the antelope before a scanty fire,
mournfully reflecting on our exhausted stock of provisions. Just then an
enormous gray hare, peculiar to these prairies, came jumping along, and
seated himself within fifty yards to look at us. I thoughtlessly raised
my rifle to shoot him, but Raymond called out to me not to fire for
fear the report should reach the ears of the Indians. That night for the
first time we considered that the danger to which we were exposed was
of a somewhat serious character; and to those who are unacquainted with
Indians, it may seem strange that our chief apprehensions arose from
the supposed proximity of the people whom we intended to visit. Had any
straggling party of these faithful friends caught sight of us from the
hill-top, they would probably have returned in the night to plunder us
of our horses and perhaps of our scalps. But we were on the prairie,
where the GENIUS LOCI is at war with all nervous apprehensions; and
I presume that neither Raymond nor I thought twice of the matter that
evening.
While he was looking after the animals, I sat by the fire engaged in
the novel task of baking bread. The utensils were of the most simple
and primitive kind, consisting of two sticks inclining over the bed of
coals, one end thrust into the ground while the dough was twisted in a
spiral form round the other. Under such circumstances all the epicurean
in a man’s nature is apt to awaken within him. I revisited in fancy the
far distant abodes of good fare, not indeed Frascati’s, or the Trois
Freres Provencaux, for that were too extreme a flight; but no other than
the homely table of my old friend and host, Tom Crawford, of the White
Mountains. By a singular revulsion, Tom himself, whom I well remember
to have looked upon as the impersonation of all that is wild and
backwoodsman-like, now appeared before me as the ministering angel of
comfort and good living. Being fatigued and drowsy I began to doze, and
my thoughts, following the same train of association, assumed another
form. Half-dreaming, I saw myself surrounded with the mountains of
New England, alive with water-falls, their black crags tinctured with
milk-white mists. For this reverie I paid a speedy penalty; for the
bread was black on one side and soft on the other.
For eight hours Raymond and I, pillowed on our saddles, lay insensible
as logs. Pauline’s yellow head was stretched over me when I awoke. I
got up and examined her. Her feet indeed were bruised and swollen by the
accidents of yesterday, but her eye was brighter, her motions livelier,
and her mysterious malady had visibly abated. We moved on, hoping within
an hour to come in sight of the Indian village; but again disappointment
awaited us. The trail disappeared, melting away upon a hard and stony
plain. Raymond and I separating, rode from side to side, scrutinizing
every yard of ground, until at length I discerned traces of the
lodge-poles passing by the side of a ridge of rocks. We began again to
follow them.
“What is that black spot out there on the prairie?”
“It looks like a dead buffalo,” answered Raymond.
We rode out to it, and found it to be the huge carcass of a bull killed
by the Indians as they had passed. Tangled hair and scraps of hide were
scattered all around, for the wolves had been making merry over it,
and had hollowed out the entire carcass. It was covered with myriads of
large black crickets, and from its appearance must certainly have lain
there for four or five days. The sight was a most disheartening one,
and I observed to Raymond that the Indians might still be fifty or sixty
miles before us. But he shook his head, and replied that they dared not
go so far for fear of their enemies, the Snakes.
Soon after this we lost the trail again, and ascended a neighboring
ridge, totally at a loss. Before us lay a plain perfectly flat,
spreading on the right and left, without apparent limit, and bounded in
front by a long broken line of hills, ten or twelve miles distant.
All was open and exposed to view, yet not a buffalo nor an Indian was
visible.
“Do you see that?” said Raymond; “Now we had better turn round.”
But as Raymond’s bourgeois thought otherwise, we descended the hill and
began to cross the plain. We had come so far that I knew perfectly well
neither Pauline’s limbs nor my own could carry me back to Fort Laramie.
I considered that the lines of expediency and inclination tallied
exactly, and that the most prudent course was to keep forward. The
ground immediately around us was thickly strewn with the skulls and
bones of buffalo, for here a year or two before the Indians had made a
“surround”; yet no living game presented itself. At length, however, an
antelope sprang up and gazed at us. We fired together, and by a singular
fatality we both missed, although the animal stood, a fair mark, within
eighty yards. This ill success might perhaps be charged to our own
eagerness, for by this time we had no provision left except a little
flour. We could discern several small lakes, or rather extensive pools
of water, glistening in the distance. As we approached them, wolves
and antelopes bounded away through the tall grass that grew in their
vicinity, and flocks of large white plover flew screaming over their
surface. Having failed of the antelope, Raymond tried his hand at the
birds with the same ill success. The water also disappointed us. Its
muddy margin was so beaten up by the crowd of buffalo that our timorous
animals were afraid to approach. So we turned away and moved toward the
hills. The rank grass, where it was not trampled down by the buffalo,
fairly swept our horses’ necks.
Again we found the same execrable barren prairie offering no clew by
which to guide our way. As we drew near the hills an opening appeared,
through which the Indians must have gone if they had passed that way at
all. Slowly we began to ascend it. I felt the most dreary forebodings
of ill success, when on looking round I could discover neither dent of
hoof, nor footprint, nor trace of lodge-pole, though the passage was
encumbered by the ghastly skulls of buffalo. We heard thunder muttering;
a storm was coming on.
As we gained the top of the gap, the prospect beyond began to disclose
itself. First, we saw a long dark line of ragged clouds upon the
horizon, while above them rose the peak of the Medicine-Bow, the
vanguard of the Rocky Mountains; then little by little the plain came
into view, a vast green uniformity, forlorn and tenantless, though
Laramie Creek glistened in a waving line over its surface, without a
bush or a tree upon its banks. As yet, the round projecting shoulder of
a hill intercepted a part of the view. I rode in advance, when suddenly
I could distinguish a few dark spots on the prairie, along the bank of
the stream.
“Buffalo!” said I. Then a sudden hope flashed upon me, and eagerly and
anxiously I looked again.
“Horses!” exclaimed Raymond, with a tremendous oath, lashing his mule
forward as he spoke. More and more of the plain disclosed itself, and
in rapid succession more and more horses appeared, scattered along
the river bank, or feeding in bands over the prairie. Then, suddenly,
standing in a circle by the stream, swarming with their savage
inhabitants, we saw rising before us the tall lodges of the Ogallalla.
Never did the heart of wanderer more gladden at the sight of home than
did mine at the sight of those wild habitations!