THE LONELY JOURNEY
On the day of my arrival at Fort Laramie, Shaw and I were lounging on
two buffalo robes in the large apartment hospitably assigned to us;
Henry Chatillon also was present, busy about the harness and weapons,
which had been brought into the room, and two or three Indians were
crouching on the floor, eyeing us with their fixed, unwavering gaze.
“I have been well off here,” said Shaw, “in all respects but one; there
is no good shongsasha to be had for love or money.”
I gave him a small leather bag containing some of excellent quality,
which I had brought from the Black Hills.
“Now, Henry,” said he, “hand me Papin’s chopping-board, or give it to
that Indian, and let him cut the mixture; they understand it better than
any white man.”
The Indian, without saying a word, mixed the bark and the tobacco in due
proportions, filled the pipe and lighted it. This done, my companion
and I proceeded to deliberate on our future course of proceeding; first,
however, Shaw acquainted me with some incidents which had occurred at
the fort during my absence.
About a week previous four men had arrived from beyond the mountains;
Sublette, Reddick, and two others. Just before reaching the Fort
they had met a large party of Indians, chiefly young men. All of them
belonged to the village of our old friend Smoke, who, with his whole
band of adherents, professed the greatest friendship for the whites. The
travelers therefore approached, and began to converse without the least
suspicion. Suddenly, however, their bridles were violently seized and
they were ordered to dismount. Instead of complying, they struck
their horses with full force, and broke away from the Indians. As
they galloped off they heard a yell behind them, mixed with a burst of
derisive laughter, and the reports of several guns. None of them were
hurt though Reddick’s bridle rein was cut by a bullet within an inch of
his hand. After this taste of Indian hostility they felt for the moment
no disposition to encounter further risks. They intended to pursue the
route southward along the foot of the mountains to Bent’s Fort; and as
our plans coincided with theirs, they proposed to join forces. Finding,
however, that I did not return, they grew impatient of inaction, forgot
their late escape, and set out without us, promising to wait our arrival
at Bent’s Fort. From thence we were to make the long journey to the
settlements in company, as the path was not a little dangerous, being
infested by hostile Pawnees and Comanches.
We expected, on reaching Bent’s Fort, to find there still another
re-enforcement. A young Kentuckian of the true Kentucky blood, generous,
impetuous, and a gentleman withal, had come out to the mountains with
Russel’s party of California emigrants. One of his chief objects, as
he gave out, was to kill an Indian; an exploit which he afterwards
succeeded in achieving, much to the jeopardy of ourselves and others who
had to pass through the country of the dead Pawnee’s enraged relatives.
Having become disgusted with his emigrant associates he left them, and
had some time before set out with a party of companions for the head of
the Arkansas. He sent us previously a letter, intimating that he would
wait until we arrived at Bent’s Fort, and accompany us thence to the
settlements. When, however, he came to the Fort, he found there a party
of forty men about to make the homeward journey. He wisely preferred to
avail himself of so strong an escort. Mr. Sublette and his companions
also set out, in order to overtake this company; so that on reaching
Bent’s Fort, some six weeks after, we found ourselves deserted by our
allies and thrown once more upon our own resources.
But I am anticipating. When, before leaving the settlement we had made
inquiries concerning this part of the country of General Kearny, Mr.
Mackenzie, Captain Wyeth, and others well acquainted with it, they had
all advised us by no means to attempt this southward journey with
fewer than fifteen or twenty men. The danger consists in the chance of
encountering Indian war parties. Sometimes throughout the whole length
of the journey (a distance of 350 miles) one does not meet a single
human being; frequently, however, the route is beset by Arapahoes and
other unfriendly tribes; in which case the scalp of the adventurer is in
imminent peril. As to the escort of fifteen or twenty men, such a force
of whites could at that time scarcely be collected by the whole country;
and had the case been otherwise, the expense of securing them, together
with the necessary number of horses, would have been extremely heavy. We
had resolved, however, upon pursuing this southward course. There were,
indeed, two other routes from Fort Laramie; but both of these were less
interesting, and neither was free from danger. Being unable therefore to
procure the fifteen or twenty men recommended, we determined to set out
with those we had already in our employ, Henry Chatillon, Delorier, and
Raymond. The men themselves made no objection, nor would they have made
any had the journey been more dangerous; for Henry was without fear, and
the other two without thought.
Shaw and I were much better fitted for this mode of traveling than we
had been on betaking ourselves to the prairies for the first time a few
months before. The daily routine had ceased to be a novelty. All the
details of the journey and the camp had become familiar to us. We had
seen life under a new aspect; the human biped had been reduced to his
primitive condition. We had lived without law to protect, a roof to
shelter, or garment of cloth to cover us. One of us at least had been
without bread, and without salt to season his food. Our idea of what
is indispensable to human existence and enjoyment had been wonderfully
curtailed, and a horse, a rifle, and a knife seemed to make up the whole
of life’s necessaries. For these once obtained, together with the skill
to use them, all else that is essential would follow in their train,
and a host of luxuries besides. One other lesson our short prairie
experience had taught us; that of profound contentment in the present,
and utter contempt for what the future might bring forth.
These principles established, we prepared to leave Fort Laramie. On the
fourth day of August, early in the afternoon, we bade a final adieu to
its hospitable gateway. Again Shaw and I were riding side by side on the
prairie. For the first fifty miles we had companions with us; Troche,
a little trapper, and Rouville, a nondescript in the employ of the Fur
Company, who were going to join the trader Bisonette at his encampment
near the head of Horse Creek. We rode only six or eight miles that
afternoon before we came to a little brook traversing the barren
prairie. All along its course grew copses of young wild-cherry trees,
loaded with ripe fruit, and almost concealing the gliding thread of
water with their dense growth, while on each side rose swells of rich
green grass. Here we encamped; and being much too indolent to pitch
our tent, we flung our saddles on the ground, spread a pair of buffalo
robes, lay down upon them, and began to smoke. Meanwhile, Delorier
busied himself with his hissing frying-pan, and Raymond stood guard
over the band of grazing horses. Delorier had an active assistant in
Rouville, who professed great skill in the culinary art, and seizing
upon a fork, began to lend his zealous aid in making ready supper.
Indeed, according to his own belief, Rouville was a man of universal
knowledge, and he lost no opportunity to display his manifold
accomplishments. He had been a circus-rider at St. Louis, and once he
rode round Fort Laramie on his head, to the utter bewilderment of all
the Indians. He was also noted as the wit of the Fort; and as he had
considerable humor and abundant vivacity, he contributed more that
night to the liveliness of the camp than all the rest of the party put
together. At one instant he would be kneeling by Delorier, instructing
him in the true method of frying antelope steaks, then he would come and
seat himself at our side, dilating upon the orthodox fashion of braiding
up a horse’s tail, telling apocryphal stories how he had killed a
buffalo bull with a knife, having first cut off his tail when at full
speed, or relating whimsical anecdotes of the bourgeois Papin. At last
he snatched up a volume of Shakespeare that was lying on the grass, and
halted and stumbled through a line or two to prove that he could read.
He went gamboling about the camp, chattering like some frolicsome ape;
and whatever he was doing at one moment, the presumption was a sure
one that he would not be doing it the next. His companion Troche sat
silently on the grass, not speaking a word, but keeping a vigilant eye
on a very ugly little Utah squaw, of whom he was extremely jealous.
On the next day we traveled farther, crossing the wide sterile basin
called Goche’s Hole. Toward night we became involved among deep ravines;
and being also unable to find water, our journey was protracted to
a very late hour. On the next morning we had to pass a long line of
bluffs, whose raw sides, wrought upon by rains and storms, were of a
ghastly whiteness most oppressive to the sight. As we ascended a gap
in these hills, the way was marked by huge foot-prints, like those of
a human giant. They were the track of the grizzly bear; and on the
previous day also we had seen abundance of them along the dry channels
of the streams we had passed. Immediately after this we were crossing a
barren plain, spreading in long and gentle undulations to the horizon.
Though the sun was bright, there was a light haze in the atmosphere.
The distant hills assumed strange, distorted forms, and the edge of
the horizon was continually changing its aspect. Shaw and I were riding
together, and Henry Chatillon was alone, a few rods before us; he
stopped his horse suddenly, and turning round with the peculiar eager
and earnest expression which he always wore when excited, he called
to us to come forward. We galloped to his side. Henry pointed toward a
black speck on the gray swell of the prairie, apparently about a mile
off. “It must be a bear,” said he; “come, now, we shall all have some
sport. Better fun to fight him than to fight an old buffalo bull;
grizzly bear so strong and smart.”
So we all galloped forward together, prepared for a hard fight; for
these bears, though clumsy in appearance and extremely large, are
incredibly fierce and active. The swell of the prairie concealed the
black object from our view. Immediately after it appeared again. But now
it seemed quite near to us; and as we looked at it in astonishment,
it suddenly separated into two parts, each of which took wing and
flew away. We stopped our horses and looked round at Henry, whose face
exhibited a curious mixture of mirth and mortification. His hawk’s eye
had been so completely deceived by the peculiar atmosphere that he had
mistaken two large crows at the distance of fifty rods for a grizzly
bear a mile off. To the journey’s end Henry never heard the last of the
grizzly bear with wings.
In the afternoon we came to the foot of a considerable hill. As we
ascended it Rouville began to ask questions concerning our conditions
and prospects at home, and Shaw was edifying him with a minute account
of an imaginary wife and child, to which he listened with implicit
faith. Reaching the top of the hill we saw the windings of Horse Creek
on the plains below us, and a little on the left we could distinguish
the camp of Bisonette among the trees and copses along the course of
the stream. Rouville’s face assumed just then a most ludicrously blank
expression. We inquired what was the matter, when it appeared that
Bisonette had sent him from this place to Fort Laramie with the sole
object of bringing back a supply of tobacco. Our rattle-brain friend,
from the time of his reaching the Fort up to the present moment, had
entirely forgotten the object of his journey, and had ridden a dangerous
hundred miles for nothing. Descending to Horse Creek we forded it, and
on the opposite bank a solitary Indian sat on horseback under a tree. He
said nothing, but turned and led the way toward the camp. Bisonette had
made choice of an admirable position. The stream, with its thick growth
of trees, inclosed on three sides a wide green meadow, where about forty
Dakota lodges were pitched in a circle, and beyond them half a dozen
lodges of the friendly Cheyenne. Bisonette himself lived in the Indian
manner. Riding up to his lodge, we found him seated at the head of it,
surrounded by various appliances of comfort not common on the prairie.
His squaw was near him, and rosy children were scrambling about in
printed-calico gowns; Paul Dorion also, with his leathery face and old
white capote, was seated in the lodge, together with Antoine Le Rouge, a
half-breed Pawnee, Sibille, a trader, and several other white men.
“It will do you no harm,” said Bisonette, “to stay here with us for a
day or two, before you start for the Pueblo.”
We accepted the invitation, and pitched our tent on a rising ground
above the camp and close to the edge of the trees. Bisonette soon
invited us to a feast, and we suffered abundance of the same sort of
attention from his Indian associates. The reader may possibly recollect
that when I joined the Indian village, beyond the Black Hills, I found
that a few families were absent, having declined to pass the mountains
along with the rest. The Indians in Bisonette’s camp consisted of these
very families, and many of them came to me that evening to inquire after
their relatives and friends. They were not a little mortified to learn
that while they, from their own timidity and indolence, were almost in
a starving condition, the rest of the village had provided their lodges
for the next season, laid in a great stock of provisions, and were
living in abundance and luxury. Bisonette’s companions had been
sustaining themselves for some time on wild cherries, which the squaws
pounded up, stones and all, and spread on buffalo robes, to dry in the
sun; they were then eaten without further preparation, or used as an
ingredient in various delectable compounds.
On the next day the camp was in commotion with a new arrival. A single
Indian had come with his family the whole way from the Arkansas. As he
passed among the lodges he put on an expression of unusual dignity and
importance, and gave out that he had brought great news to tell the
whites. Soon after the squaws had erected his lodge, he sent his little
son to invite all the white men, and all the most distinguished Indians,
to a feast. The guests arrived and sat wedged together, shoulder to
shoulder, within the hot and suffocating lodge. The Stabber, for that
was our entertainer’s name, had killed an old buffalo bull on his way.
This veteran’s boiled tripe, tougher than leather, formed the main item
of the repast. For the rest, it consisted of wild cherries and grease
boiled together in a large copper kettle. The feast was distributed, and
for a moment all was silent, strenuous exertion; then each guest, with
one or two exceptions, however, turned his wooden dish bottom upward to
prove that he had done full justice to his entertainer’s hospitality.
The Stabber next produced his chopping board, on which he prepared the
mixture for smoking, and filled several pipes, which circulated among
the company. This done, he seated himself upright on his couch, and
began with much gesticulation to tell his story. I will not repeat
his childish jargon. It was so entangled, like the greater part of an
Indian’s stories, with absurd and contradictory details, that it was
almost impossible to disengage from it a single particle of truth. All
that we could gather was the following:
He had been on the Arkansas, and there he had seen six great war parties
of whites. He had never believed before that the whole world contained
half so many white men. They all had large horses, long knives, and
short rifles, and some of them were attired alike in the most splendid
war dresses he had ever seen. From this account it was clear that bodies
of dragoons and perhaps also of volunteer cavalry had been passing up
the Arkansas. The Stabber had also seen a great many of the white lodges
of the Meneaska, drawn by their long-horned buffalo. These could be
nothing else than covered ox-wagons used no doubt in transporting stores
for the troops. Soon after seeing this, our host had met an Indian who
had lately come from among the Comanches. The latter had told him
that all the Mexicans had gone out to a great buffalo hunt. That the
Americans had hid themselves in a ravine. When the Mexicans had shot
away all their arrows, the Americans had fired their guns, raised their
war-whoop, rushed out, and killed them all. We could only infer from
this that war had been declared with Mexico, and a battle fought in
which the Americans were victorious. When, some weeks after, we arrived
at the Pueblo, we heard of General Kearny’s march up the Arkansas and of
General Taylor’s victories at Matamoras.
As the sun was setting that evening a great crowd gathered on the plain
by the side of our tent, to try the speed of their horses. These were of
every shape, size, and color. Some came from California, some from the
States, some from among the mountains, and some from the wild bands of
the prairie. They were of every hue--white, black, red, and gray, or
mottled and clouded with a strange variety of colors. They all had a
wild and startled look, very different from the staid and sober aspect
of a well-bred city steed. Those most noted for swiftness and spirit
were decorated with eagle-feathers dangling from their manes and tails.
Fifty or sixty Dakotas were present, wrapped from head to foot in their
heavy robes of whitened hide. There were also a considerable number of
the Cheyenne, many of whom wore gaudy Mexican ponchos swathed around
their shoulders, but leaving the right arm bare. Mingled among the
crowd of Indians were a number of Canadians, chiefly in the employ of
Bisonette; men, whose home is in the wilderness, and who love the camp
fire better than the domestic hearth. They are contented and happy in
the midst of hardship, privation, and danger. Their cheerfulness and
gayety is irrepressible, and no people on earth understand better how
“to daff the world aside and bid it pass.” Besides these, were two or
three half-breeds, a race of rather extraordinary composition, being
according to the common saying half Indian, half white man, and half
devil. Antoine Le Rouge was the most conspicuous among them, with his
loose pantaloons and his fluttering calico skirt. A handkerchief was
bound round his head to confine his black snaky hair, and his small
eyes twinkled beneath it, with a mischievous luster. He had a fine
cream-colored horse whose speed he must needs try along with the rest.
So he threw off the rude high-peaked saddle, and substituting a piece of
buffalo robe, leaped lightly into his seat. The space was cleared, the
word was given, and he and his Indian rival darted out like lightning
from among the crowd, each stretching forward over his horse’s neck and
plying his heavy Indian whip with might and main. A moment, and both
were lost in the gloom; but Antoine soon came riding back victorious,
exultingly patting the neck of his quivering and panting horse.
About midnight, as I lay asleep, wrapped in a buffalo robe on the ground
by the side of our cart, Raymond came up and woke me. Something he said,
was going forward which I would like to see. Looking down into camp
I saw, on the farther side of it, a great number of Indians gathered
around a fire, the bright glare of which made them visible through the
thick darkness; while from the midst of them proceeded a loud, measured
chant which would have killed Paganini outright, broken occasionally by
a burst of sharp yells. I gathered the robe around me, for the night
was cold, and walked down to the spot. The dark throng of Indians was
so dense that they almost intercepted the light of the flame. As I was
pushing among them with but little ceremony, a chief interposed himself,
and I was given to understand that a white man must not approach the
scene of their solemnities too closely. By passing round to the other
side, where there was a little opening in the crowd, I could see clearly
what was going forward, without intruding my unhallowed presence into
the inner circle. The society of the “Strong Hearts” were engaged in one
of their dances. The Strong Hearts are a warlike association, comprising
men of both the Dakota and Cheyenne nations, and entirely composed,
or supposed to be so, of young braves of the highest mettle. Its
fundamental principle is the admirable one of never retreating from any
enterprise once commenced. All these Indian associations have a tutelary
spirit. That of the Strong Hearts is embodied in the fox, an animal
which a white man would hardly have selected for a similar purpose,
though his subtle and cautious character agrees well enough with an
Indian’s notions of what is honorable in warfare. The dancers were
circling round and round the fire, each figure brightly illumined at one
moment by the yellow light, and at the next drawn in blackest shadow as
it passed between the flame and the spectator. They would imitate with
the most ludicrous exactness the motions and the voice of their sly
patron the fox. Then a startling yell would be given. Many other
warriors would leap into the ring, and with faces upturned toward
the starless sky, they would all stamp, and whoop, and brandish their
weapons like so many frantic devils.
Until the next afternoon we were still remaining with Bisonette. My
companion and I with our three attendants then left his camp for the
Pueblo, a distance of three hundred miles, and we supposed the journey
would occupy about a fortnight. During this time we all earnestly hoped
that we might not meet a single human being, for should we encounter
any, they would in all probability be enemies, ferocious robbers and
murderers, in whose eyes our rifles would be our only passports. For
the first two days nothing worth mentioning took place. On the third
morning, however, an untoward incident occurred. We were encamped by the
side of a little brook in an extensive hollow of the plain. Delorier
was up long before daylight, and before he began to prepare breakfast
he turned loose all the horses, as in duty bound. There was a cold mist
clinging close to the ground, and by the time the rest of us were awake
the animals were invisible. It was only after a long and anxious search
that we could discover by their tracks the direction they had taken.
They had all set off for Fort Laramie, following the guidance of a
mutinous old mule, and though many of them were hobbled they had driven
three miles before they could be overtaken and driven back.
For the following two or three days we were passing over an arid desert.
The only vegetation was a few tufts of short grass, dried and shriveled
by the heat. There was an abundance of strange insects and reptiles.
Huge crickets, black and bottle green, and wingless grasshoppers of the
most extravagant dimensions, were tumbling about our horses’ feet, and
lizards without numbers were darting like lightning among the tufts of
grass. The most curious animal, however, was that commonly called the
horned frog. I caught one of them and consigned him to the care of
Delorier, who tied him up in a moccasin. About a month after this I
examined the prisoner’s condition, and finding him still lively and
active, I provided him with a cage of buffalo hide, which was hung up
in the cart. In this manner he arrived safely at the settlements. From
thence he traveled the whole way to Boston packed closely in a trunk,
being regaled with fresh air regularly every night. When he reached his
destination he was deposited under a glass case, where he sat for some
months in great tranquillity and composure, alternately dilating and
contracting his white throat to the admiration of his visitors. At
length, one morning, about the middle of winter, he gave up the ghost.
His death was attributed to starvation, a very probable conclusion,
since for six months he had taken no food whatever, though the sympathy
of his juvenile admirers had tempted his palate with a great variety
of delicacies. We found also animals of a somewhat larger growth. The
number of prairie dogs was absolutely astounding. Frequently the hard
and dry prairie would be thickly covered, for many miles together, with
the little mounds which they make around the mouth of their burrows, and
small squeaking voices yelping at us as we passed along. The noses of
the inhabitants would be just visible at the mouth of their holes,
but no sooner was their curiosity satisfied than they would instantly
vanish. Some of the bolder dogs--though in fact they are no dogs at all,
but little marmots rather smaller than a rabbit--would sit yelping at us
on the top of their mounds, jerking their tails emphatically with every
shrill cry they uttered. As the danger grew nearer they would wheel
about, toss their heels into the air, and dive in a twinkling down into
their burrows. Toward sunset, and especially if rain were threatening,
the whole community would make their appearance above ground. We would
see them gathered in large knots around the burrow of some favorite
citizen. There they would all sit erect, their tails spread out on
the ground, and their paws hanging down before their white breasts,
chattering and squeaking with the utmost vivacity upon some topic of
common interest, while the proprietor of the burrow, with his head
just visible on the top of his mound, would sit looking down with a
complacent countenance on the enjoyment of his guests. Meanwhile, others
would be running about from burrow to burrow, as if on some errand of
the last importance to their subterranean commonwealth. The snakes were
apparently the prairie dog’s worst enemies, at least I think too well of
the latter to suppose that they associate on friendly terms with these
slimy intruders, who may be seen at all times basking among their holes,
into which they always retreat when disturbed. Small owls, with wise and
grave countenances, also make their abode with the prairie dogs, though
on what terms they live together I could never ascertain. The manners
and customs, the political and domestic economy of these little marmots
is worthy of closer attention than one is able to give when pushing by
forced marches through their country, with his thoughts engrossed by
objects of greater moment.
On the fifth day after leaving Bisonette’s camp we saw late in the
afternoon what we supposed to be a considerable stream, but on our
approaching it we found to our mortification nothing but a dry bed of
sand into which all the water had sunk and disappeared. We separated,
some riding in one direction and some in another along its course. Still
we found no traces of water, not even so much as a wet spot in the sand.
The old cotton-wood trees that grew along the bank, lamentably abused by
lightning and tempest, were withering with the drought, and on the dead
limbs, at the summit of the tallest, half a dozen crows were hoarsely
cawing like birds of evil omen as they were. We had no alternative but
to keep on. There was no water nearer than the South Fork of the Platte,
about ten miles distant. We moved forward, angry and silent, over a
desert as flat as the outspread ocean.
The sky had been obscured since the morning by thin mists and vapors,
but now vast piles of clouds were gathered together in the west. They
rose to a great height above the horizon, and looking up toward them I
distinguished one mass darker than the rest and of a peculiar conical
form. I happened to look again and still could see it as before. At some
moments it was dimly seen, at others its outline was sharp and distinct;
but while the clouds around it were shifting, changing, and dissolving
away, it still towered aloft in the midst of them, fixed and immovable.
It must, thought I, be the summit of a mountain, and yet its heights
staggered me. My conclusion was right, however. It was Long’s Peak, once
believed to be one of the highest of the Rocky Mountain chain, though
more recent discoveries have proved the contrary. The thickening gloom
soon hid it from view and we never saw it again, for on the following
day and for some time after, the air was so full of mist that the view
of distant objects was entirely intercepted.
It grew very late. Turning from our direct course we made for the river
at its nearest point, though in the utter darkness it was not easy to
direct our way with much precision. Raymond rode on one side and Henry
on the other. We could hear each of them shouting that he had come upon
a deep ravine. We steered at random between Scylla and Charybdis, and
soon after became, as it seemed, inextricably involved with deep chasms
all around us, while the darkness was such that we could not see a rod
in any direction. We partially extricated ourselves by scrambling, cart
and all, through a shallow ravine. We came next to a steep descent down
which we plunged without well knowing what was at the bottom. There was
a great crackling of sticks and dry twigs. Over our heads were certain
large shadowy objects, and in front something like the faint gleaming
of a dark sheet of water. Raymond ran his horse against a tree; Henry
alighted, and feeling on the ground declared that there was grass enough
for the horses. Before taking off his saddle each man led his own horses
down to the water in the best way he could. Then picketing two or three
of the evil-disposed we turned the rest loose and lay down among the dry
sticks to sleep. In the morning we found ourselves close to the South
Fork of the Platte on a spot surrounded by bushes and rank grass.
Compensating ourselves with a hearty breakfast for the ill fare of the
previous night, we set forward again on our journey. When only two or
three rods from the camp I saw Shaw stop his mule, level his gun, and
after a long aim fire at some object in the grass. Delorier next jumped
forward and began to dance about, belaboring the unseen enemy with a
whip. Then he stooped down and drew out of the grass by the neck an
enormous rattlesnake, with his head completely shattered by Shaw’s
bullet. As Delorier held him out at arm’s length with an exulting grin
his tail, which still kept slowly writhing about, almost touched the
ground, and the body in the largest part was as thick as a stout man’s
arm. He had fourteen rattles, but the end of his tail was blunted, as if
he could once have boasted of many more. From this time till we reached
the Pueblo we killed at least four or five of these snakes every day as
they lay coiled and rattling on the hot sand. Shaw was the St. Patrick
of the party, and whenever he or any one else killed a snake he always
pulled off his tail and stored it away in his bullet-pouch, which was
soon crammed with an edifying collection of rattles, great and small.
Delorier, with his whip, also came in for a share of the praise. A day
or two after this he triumphantly produced a small snake about a span
and a half long, with one infant rattle at the end of his tail.
We forded the South Fork of the Platte. On its farther bank were the
traces of a very large camp of Arapahoes. The ashes of some three
hundred fires were visible among the scattered trees, together with
the remains of sweating lodges, and all the other appurtenances of a
permanent camp. The place however had been for some months deserted. A
few miles farther on we found more recent signs of Indians; the trail
of two or three lodges, which had evidently passed the day before,
where every foot-print was perfectly distinct in the dry, dusty soil. We
noticed in particular the track of one moccasin, upon the sole of which
its economical proprietor had placed a large patch. These signs gave us
but little uneasiness, as the number of the warriors scarcely exceeded
that of our own party. At noon we rested under the walls of a large
fort, built in these solitudes some years since by M. St. Vrain. It was
now abandoned and fast falling into ruin. The walls of unbaked bricks
were cracked from top to bottom. Our horses recoiled in terror from the
neglected entrance, where the heavy gates were torn from their hinges
and flung down. The area within was overgrown with weeds, and the long
ranges of apartments, once occupied by the motley concourse of traders,
Canadians, and squaws, were now miserably dilapidated. Twelve miles
further on, near the spot where we encamped, were the remains of still
another fort, standing in melancholy desertion and neglect.
Early on the following morning we made a startling discovery. We passed
close by a large deserted encampment of Arapahoes. There were about
fifty fires still smouldering on the ground, and it was evident from
numerous signs that the Indians must have left the place within two
hours of our reaching it. Their trail crossed our own at right angles,
and led in the direction of a line of hills half a mile on our left.
There were women and children in the party, which would have greatly
diminished the danger of encountering them. Henry Chatillon examined the
encampment and the trail with a very professional and businesslike air.
“Supposing we had met them, Henry?” said I.
“Why,” said he, “we hold out our hands to them, and give them all we’ve
got; they take away everything, and then I believe they no kill us.
Perhaps,” added he, looking up with a quiet, unchanged face, “perhaps we
no let them rob us. Maybe before they come near, we have a chance to get
into a ravine, or under the bank of the river; then, you know, we fight
them.”
About noon on that day we reached Cherry Creek. Here was a great
abundance of wild cherries, plums, gooseberries, and currants. The
stream, however, like most of the others which we passed, was dried up
with the heat, and we had to dig holes in the sand to find water for
ourselves and our horses. Two days after, we left the banks of the creek
which we had been following for some time, and began to cross the high
dividing ridge which separates the waters of the Platte from those
of the Arkansas. The scenery was altogether changed. In place of the
burning plains we were passing now through rough and savage glens and
among hills crowned with a dreary growth of pines. We encamped among
these solitudes on the night of the 16th of August. A tempest was
threatening. The sun went down among volumes of jet-black cloud, edged
with a bloody red. But in spite of these portentous signs, we neglected
to put up the tent, and being extremely fatigued, lay down on the ground
and fell asleep. The storm broke about midnight, and we erected the
tent amid darkness and confusion. In the morning all was fair again,
and Pike’s Peak, white with snow, was towering above the wilderness afar
off.
We pushed through an extensive tract of pine woods. Large black
squirrels were leaping among the branches. From the farther edge of
this forest we saw the prairie again, hollowed out before us into a vast
basin, and about a mile in front we could discern a little black speck
moving upon its surface. It could be nothing but a buffalo. Henry primed
his rifle afresh and galloped forward. To the left of the animal was a
low rocky mound, of which Henry availed himself in making his approach.
After a short time we heard the faint report of the rifle. The bull,
mortally wounded from a distance of nearly three hundred yards, ran
wildly round and round in a circle. Shaw and I then galloped forward,
and passing him as he ran, foaming with rage and pain, we discharged our
pistols into his side. Once or twice he rushed furiously upon us, but
his strength was rapidly exhausted. Down he fell on his knees. For one
instant he glared up at his enemies with burning eyes through his black
tangled mane, and then rolled over on his side. Though gaunt and thin,
he was larger and heavier than the largest ox. Foam and blood flew
together from his nostrils as he lay bellowing and pawing the ground,
tearing up grass and earth with his hoofs. His sides rose and fell
like a vast pair of bellows, the blood spouting up in jets from the
bullet-holes. Suddenly his glaring eyes became like a lifeless jelly.
He lay motionless on the ground. Henry stooped over him, and making an
incision with his knife, pronounced the meat too rank and tough for use;
so, disappointed in our hopes of an addition to our stock of provisions,
we rode away and left the carcass to the wolves.
In the afternoon we saw the mountains rising like a gigantic wall at
no great distance on our right. “Des sauvages! des sauvages!” exclaimed
Delorier, looking round with a frightened face, and pointing with
his whip toward the foot of the mountains. In fact, we could see at a
distance a number of little black specks, like horsemen in rapid
motion. Henry Chatillon, with Shaw and myself, galloped toward them
to reconnoiter, when to our amusement we saw the supposed Arapahoes
resolved into the black tops of some pine trees which grew along a
ravine. The summits of these pines, just visible above the verge of
the prairie, and seeming to move as we ourselves were advancing, looked
exactly like a line of horsemen.
We encamped among ravines and hollows, through which a little brook
was foaming angrily. Before sunrise in the morning the snow-covered
mountains were beautifully tinged with a delicate rose color. A noble
spectacle awaited us as we moved forward. Six or eight miles on our
right, Pike’s Peak and his giant brethren rose out of the level prairie,
as if springing from the bed of the ocean. From their summits down to
the plain below they were involved in a mantle of clouds, in restless
motion, as if urged by strong winds. For one instant some snowy peak,
towering in awful solitude, would be disclosed to view. As the
clouds broke along the mountain, we could see the dreary forests, the
tremendous precipices, the white patches of snow, the gulfs and chasms
as black as night, all revealed for an instant, and then disappearing
from the view. One could not but recall the stanza of “Childe Harold”:
Morn dawns, and with it stern Albania’s hills,
Dark Suli’s rocks, and Pindus’ inland peak,
Robed half in mist, bedewed with snowy rills,
Array’d in many a dun and purple streak,
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break,
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer:
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak,
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear,
And gathering storms around convulse the closing year.
Every line save one of this description was more than verified here.
There were no “dwellings of the mountaineer” among these heights. Fierce
savages, restlessly wandering through summer and winter, alone invade
them. “Their hand is against every man, and every man’s hand against
them.”
On the day after, we had left the mountains at some distance. A black
cloud descended upon them, and a tremendous explosion of thunder
followed, reverberating among the precipices. In a few moments
everything grew black and the rain poured down like a cataract. We got
under an old cotton-wood tree which stood by the side of a stream, and
waited there till the rage of the torrent had passed.
The clouds opened at the point where they first had gathered, and the
whole sublime congregation of mountains was bathed at once in warm
sunshine. They seemed more like some luxurious vision of Eastern romance
than like a reality of that wilderness; all were melted together into
a soft delicious blue, as voluptuous as the sky of Naples or the
transparent sea that washes the sunny cliffs of Capri. On the left the
whole sky was still of an inky blackness; but two concentric rainbows
stood in brilliant relief against it, while far in front the ragged
cloud still streamed before the wind, and the retreating thunder
muttered angrily.
Through that afternoon and the next morning we were passing down the
banks of the stream called La Fontaine qui Bouille, from the boiling
spring whose waters flow into it. When we stopped at noon, we were
within six or eight miles of the Pueblo. Setting out again, we found by
the fresh tracks that a horseman had just been out to reconnoiter us; he
had circled half round the camp, and then galloped back full speed for
the Pueblo. What made him so shy of us we could not conceive. After an
hour’s ride we reached the edge of a hill, from which a welcome sight
greeted us. The Arkansas ran along the valley below, among woods and
groves, and closely nestled in the midst of wide cornfields and green
meadows where cattle were grazing rose the low mud walls of the Pueblo.