THE SETTLEMENTS
The next day was extremely hot, and we rode from morning till night
without seeing a tree or a bush or a drop of water. Our horses and mules
suffered much more than we, but as sunset approached they pricked up
their ears and mended their pace. Water was not far off. When we came to
the descent of the broad shallowy valley where it lay, an unlooked-for
sight awaited us. The stream glistened at the bottom, and along its
banks were pitched a multitude of tents, while hundreds of cattle were
feeding over the meadows. Bodies of troops, both horse and foot, and
long trains of wagons with men, women, and children, were moving over
the opposite ridge and descending the broad declivity in front. These
were the Mormon battalion in the service of government, together with a
considerable number of Missouri volunteers. The Mormons were to be
paid off in California, and they were allowed to bring with them
their families and property. There was something very striking in the
half-military, half-patriarchal appearance of these armed fanatics, thus
on their way with their wives and children, to found, if might be, a
Mormon empire in California. We were much more astonished than pleased
at the sight before us. In order to find an unoccupied camping ground,
we were obliged to pass a quarter of a mile up the stream, and here we
were soon beset by a swarm of Mormons and Missourians. The United States
officer in command of the whole came also to visit us, and remained some
time at our camp.
In the morning the country was covered with mist. We were always early
risers, but before we were ready the voices of men driving in the cattle
sounded all around us. As we passed above their camp, we saw through the
obscurity that the tents were falling and the ranks rapidly forming; and
mingled with the cries of women and children, the rolling of the Mormon
drums and the clear blast of their trumpets sounded through the mist.
From that time to the journey’s end, we met almost every day long trains
of government wagons, laden with stores for the troops and crawling at a
snail’s pace toward Santa Fe.
Tete Rouge had a mortal antipathy to danger, but on a foraging
expedition one evening, he achieved an adventure more perilous than
had yet befallen any man in the party. The night after we left the
Ridge-path we encamped close to the river. At sunset we saw a train of
wagons encamping on the trail about three miles off; and though we
saw them distinctly, our little cart, as it afterward proved, entirely
escaped their view. For some days Tete Rouge had been longing
eagerly after a dram of whisky. So, resolving to improve the present
opportunity, he mounted his horse James, slung his canteen over his
shoulder, and set forth in search of his favorite liquor. Some hours
passed without his returning. We thought that he was lost, or perhaps
that some stray Indian had snapped him up. While the rest fell asleep I
remained on guard. Late at night a tremulous voice saluted me from the
darkness, and Tete Rouge and James soon became visible, advancing toward
the camp. Tete Rouge was in much agitation and big with some important
tidings. Sitting down on the shaft of the cart, he told the following
story:
When he left the camp he had no idea, he said, how late it was. By the
time he approached the wagoners it was perfectly dark; and as he saw
them all sitting around their fires within the circle of wagons, their
guns laid by their sides, he thought he might as well give warning of
his approach, in order to prevent a disagreeable mistake. Raising his
voice to the highest pitch, he screamed out in prolonged accents, “Camp,
ahoy!” This eccentric salutation produced anything but the desired
result. Hearing such hideous sounds proceeding from the outer darkness,
the wagoners thought that the whole Pawnee nation were about to break
in and take their scalps. Up they sprang staring with terror. Each man
snatched his gun; some stood behind the wagons; some threw themselves
flat on the ground, and in an instant twenty cocked muskets were leveled
full at the horrified Tete Rouge, who just then began to be visible
through the darkness.
“Thar they come,” cried the master wagoner, “fire, fire! shoot that
feller.”
“No, no!” screamed Tete Rouge, in an ecstasy of fright; “don’t fire,
don’t! I’m a friend, I’m an American citizen!”
“You’re a friend, be you?” cried a gruff voice from the wagons; “then
what are you yelling out thar for, like a wild Injun. Come along up here
if you’re a man.”
“Keep your guns p’inted at him,” added the master wagoner, “maybe he’s a
decoy, like.”
Tete Rouge in utter bewilderment made his approach, with the gaping
muzzles of the muskets still before his eyes. He succeeded at last in
explaining his character and situation, and the Missourians admitted him
into camp. He got no whisky; but as he represented himself as a
great invalid, and suffering much from coarse fare, they made up a
contribution for him of rice, biscuit, and sugar from their own rations.
In the morning at breakfast, Tete Rouge once more related this story.
We hardly knew how much of it to believe, though after some
cross-questioning we failed to discover any flaw in the narrative.
Passing by the wagoner’s camp, they confirmed Tete Rouge’s account in
every particular.
“I wouldn’t have been in that feller’s place,” said one of them, “for
the biggest heap of money in Missouri.”
To Tete Rouge’s great wrath they expressed a firm conviction that he
was crazy. We left them after giving them the advice not to trouble
themselves about war-whoops in future, since they would be apt to feel
an Indian’s arrow before they heard his voice.
A day or two after, we had an adventure of another sort with a party of
wagoners. Henry and I rode forward to hunt. After that day there was
no probability that we should meet with buffalo, and we were anxious to
kill one for the sake of fresh meat. They were so wild that we hunted
all the morning in vain, but at noon as we approached Cow Creek we saw
a large band feeding near its margin. Cow Creek is densely lined with
trees which intercept the view beyond, and it runs, as we afterward
found, at the bottom of a deep trench. We approached by riding along the
bottom of a ravine. When we were near enough, I held the horses while
Henry crept toward the buffalo. I saw him take his seat within shooting
distance, prepare his rifle, and look about to select his victim. The
death of a fat cow was certain, when suddenly a great smoke arose from
the bed of the Creek with a rattling volley of musketry. A score of
long-legged Missourians leaped out from among the trees and ran after
the buffalo, who one and all took to their heels and vanished. These
fellows had crawled up the bed of the Creek to within a hundred yards of
the buffalo. Never was there a fairer chance for a shot. They were good
marksmen; all cracked away at once, and yet not a buffalo fell. In fact,
the animal is so tenacious of life that it requires no little knowledge
of anatomy to kill it, and it is very seldom that a novice succeeds
in his first attempt at approaching. The balked Missourians were
excessively mortified, especially when Henry told them if they had kept
quiet he would have killed meat enough in ten minutes to feed their
whole party. Our friends, who were at no great distance, hearing such a
formidable fusillade, thought the Indians had fired the volley for our
benefit. Shaw came galloping on to reconnoiter and learn if we were yet
in the land of the living.
At Cow Creek we found the very welcome novelty of ripe grapes and plums,
which grew there in abundance. At the Little Arkansas, not much farther
on, we saw the last buffalo, a miserable old bull, roaming over the
prairie alone and melancholy.
From this time forward the character of the country was changing every
day. We had left behind us the great arid deserts, meagerly covered
by the tufted buffalo grass, with its pale green hue, and its short
shriveled blades. The plains before us were carpeted with rich and
verdant herbage sprinkled with flowers. In place of buffalo we found
plenty of prairie hens, and we bagged them by dozens without leaving the
trail. In three or four days we saw before us the broad woods and the
emerald meadows of Council Grove, a scene of striking luxuriance and
beauty. It seemed like a new sensation as we rode beneath the resounding
archs of these noble woods. The trees were ash, oak, elm, maple,
and hickory, their mighty limbs deeply overshadowing the path, while
enormous grape vines were entwined among them, purple with fruit. The
shouts of our scattered party, and now and then a report of a rifle,
rang amid the breathing stillness of the forest. We rode forth again
with regret into the broad light of the open prairie. Little more than a
hundred miles now separated us from the frontier settlements. The whole
intervening country was a succession of verdant prairies, rising in
broad swells and relieved by trees clustering like an oasis around some
spring, or following the course of a stream along some fertile hollow.
These are the prairies of the poet and the novelist. We had left danger
behind us. Nothing was to be feared from the Indians of this region, the
Sacs and Foxes, the Kansas and the Osages. We had met with signal
good fortune. Although for five months we had been traveling with an
insufficient force through a country where we were at any moment liable
to depredation, not a single animal had been stolen from us, and our
only loss had been one old mule bitten to death by a rattlesnake. Three
weeks after we reached the frontier the Pawnees and the Comanches began
a regular series of hostilities on the Arkansas trail, killing men and
driving off horses. They attacked, without exception, every party, large
or small, that passed during the next six months.
Diamond Spring, Rock Creek, Elder Grove, and other camping places
besides, were passed all in quick succession. At Rock Creek we found a
train of government provision wagons, under the charge of an emaciated
old man in his seventy-first year. Some restless American devil had
driven him into the wilderness at a time when he should have been seated
at his fireside with his grandchildren on his knees. I am convinced
that he never returned; he was complaining that night of a disease, the
wasting effects of which upon a younger and stronger man, I myself had
proved from severe experience. Long ere this no doubt the wolves have
howled their moonlight carnival over the old man’s attenuated remains.
Not long after we came to a small trail leading to Fort Leavenworth,
distant but one day’s journey. Tete Rouge here took leave of us. He was
anxious to go to the fort in order to receive payment for his valuable
military services. So he and his horse James, after bidding an
affectionate farewell, set out together, taking with them as much
provision as they could conveniently carry, including a large quantity
of brown sugar. On a cheerless rainy evening we came to our last
encamping ground. Some pigs belonging to a Shawnee farmer were grunting
and rooting at the edge of the grove.
“I wonder how fresh pork tastes,” murmured one of the party, and more
than one voice murmured in response. The fiat went forth, “That pig
must die,” and a rifle was leveled forthwith at the countenance of the
plumpest porker. Just then a wagon train, with some twenty Missourians,
came out from among the trees. The marksman suspended his aim, deeming
it inexpedient under the circumstances to consummate the deed of blood.
In the morning we made our toilet as well as circumstances would permit,
and that is saying but very little. In spite of the dreary rain of
yesterday, there never was a brighter and gayer autumnal morning than
that on which we returned to the settlements. We were passing through
the country of the half-civilized Shawanoes. It was a beautiful
alternation of fertile plains and groves, whose foliage was just tinged
with the hues of autumn, while close beneath them rested the neat
log-houses of the Indian farmers. Every field and meadow bespoke the
exuberant fertility of the soil. The maize stood rustling in the wind,
matured and dry, its shining yellow ears thrust out between the gaping
husks. Squashes and enormous yellow pumpkins lay basking in the sun in
the midst of their brown and shriveled leaves. Robins and blackbirds
flew about the fences; and everything in short betokened our near
approach to home and civilization. The forests that border on the
Missouri soon rose before us, and we entered the wide tract of shrubbery
which forms their outskirts. We had passed the same road on our outward
journey in the spring, but its aspect was totally changed. The young
wild apple trees, then flushed with their fragrant blossoms, were now
hung thickly with ruddy fruit. Tall grass flourished by the roadside in
place of the tender shoots just peeping from the warm and oozy soil. The
vines were laden with dark purple grapes, and the slender twigs of the
maple, then tasseled with their clusters of small red flowers, now
hung out a gorgeous display of leaves stained by the frost with burning
crimson. On every side we saw the tokens of maturity and decay where
all had before been fresh and beautiful. We entered the forest, and
ourselves and our horses were checkered, as we passed along, by the
bright spots of sunlight that fell between the opening boughs. On either
side the dark rich masses of foliage almost excluded the sun, though
here and there its rays could find their way down, striking through the
broad leaves and lighting them with a pure transparent green. Squirrels
barked at us from the trees; coveys of young partridges ran rustling
over the leaves below, and the golden oriole, the blue jay, and the
flaming red-bird darted among the shadowy branches. We hailed these
sights and sounds of beauty by no means with an unmingled pleasure.
Many and powerful as were the attractions which drew us toward the
settlements, we looked back even at that moment with an eager longing
toward the wilderness of prairies and mountains behind us. For myself I
had suffered more that summer from illness than ever before in my life,
and yet to this hour I cannot recall those savage scenes and savage men
without a strong desire again to visit them.
At length, for the first time during about half a year, we saw the roof
of a white man’s dwelling between the opening trees. A few moments after
we were riding over the miserable log bridge that leads into the center
of Westport. Westport had beheld strange scenes, but a rougher looking
troop than ours, with our worn equipments and broken-down horses, was
never seen even there. We passed the well-remembered tavern, Boone’s
grocery and old Vogel’s dram shop, and encamped on a meadow beyond.
Here we were soon visited by a number of people who came to purchase our
horses and equipage. This matter disposed of, we hired a wagon and drove
on to Kansas Landing. Here we were again received under the hospitable
roof of our old friend Colonel Chick, and seated on his porch we looked
down once more on the eddies of the Missouri.
Delorier made his appearance in the morning, strangely transformed by
the assistance of a hat, a coat, and a razor. His little log-house was
among the woods not far off. It seemed he had meditated giving a ball
on the occasion of his return, and had consulted Henry Chatillon as to
whether it would do to invite his bourgeois. Henry expressed his entire
conviction that we would not take it amiss, and the invitation was now
proffered, accordingly, Delorier adding as a special inducement
that Antoine Lejeunesse was to play the fiddle. We told him we would
certainly come, but before the evening arrived a steamboat, which came
down from Fort Leavenworth, prevented our being present at the expected
festivities. Delorier was on the rock at the landing place, waiting to
take leave of us.
“Adieu! mes bourgeois; adieu! adieu!” he cried out as the boat pulled
off; “when you go another time to de Rocky Montagnes I will go with you;
yes, I will go!”
He accompanied this patronizing assurance by jumping about swinging his
hat, and grinning from ear to ear. As the boat rounded a distant point,
the last object that met our eyes was Delorier still lifting his hat and
skipping about the rock. We had taken leave of Munroe and Jim Gurney at
Westport, and Henry Chatillon went down in the boat with us.
The passage to St. Louis occupied eight days, during about a third of
which we were fast aground on sand-bars. We passed the steamer Amelia
crowded with a roaring crew of disbanded volunteers, swearing, drinking,
gambling, and fighting. At length one evening we reached the crowded
levee of St. Louis. Repairing to the Planters’ House, we caused diligent
search to be made for our trunks, which after some time were discovered
stowed away in the farthest corner of the storeroom. In the morning we
hardly recognized each other; a frock of broadcloth had supplanted the
frock of buckskin; well-fitted pantaloons took the place of the Indian
leggings, and polished boots were substituted for the gaudy moccasins.
After we had been several days at St. Louis we heard news of Tete Rouge.
He had contrived to reach Fort Leavenworth, where he had found the
paymaster and received his money. As a boat was just ready to start
for St. Louis, he went on board and engaged his passage. This done, he
immediately got drunk on shore, and the boat went off without him. It
was some days before another opportunity occurred, and meanwhile the
sutler’s stores furnished him with abundant means of keeping up his
spirits. Another steamboat came at last, the clerk of which happened to
be a friend of his, and by the advice of some charitable person on shore
he persuaded Tete Rouge to remain on board, intending to detain him
there until the boat should leave the fort. At first Tete Rouge was
well contented with this arrangement, but on applying for a dram, the
barkeeper, at the clerk’s instigation, refused to let him have it.
Finding them both inflexible in spite of his entreaties, he became
desperate and made his escape from the boat. The clerk found him after
a long search in one of the barracks; a circle of dragoons stood
contemplating him as he lay on the floor, maudlin drunk and crying
dismally. With the help of one of them the clerk pushed him on board,
and our informant, who came down in the same boat, declares that he
remained in great despondency during the whole passage. As we left St.
Louis soon after his arrival, we did not see the worthless, good-natured
little vagabond again.
On the evening before our departure Henry Chatillon came to our rooms
at the Planters’ House to take leave of us. No one who met him in the
streets of St. Louis would have taken him for a hunter fresh from the
Rocky Mountains. He was very neatly and simply dressed in a suit of dark
cloth; for although, since his sixteenth year, he had scarcely been for
a month together among the abodes of men, he had a native good taste and
a sense of propriety which always led him to pay great attention to his
personal appearance. His tall athletic figure, with its easy flexible
motions, appeared to advantage in his present dress; and his fine face,
though roughened by a thousand storms, was not at all out of keeping
with it. We took leave of him with much regret; and unless his changing
features, as he shook us by the hand, belied him, the feeling on his
part was no less than on ours. Shaw had given him a horse at Westport.
My rifle, which he had always been fond of using, as it was an excellent
piece, much better than his own, is now in his hands, and perhaps
at this moment its sharp voice is startling the echoes of the Rocky
Mountains. On the next morning we left town, and after a fortnight of
railroads and steamboat we saw once more the familiar features of home.
End of Project Gutenberg’s The Oregon Trail, by Francis Parkman, Jr.