THE FRONTIER.
Bottineau is our guide. Take a look at him as he sits by the camp-fire
cleaning his rifle. He is tall and well formed, with features which
show both his French and Indian parentage. He has dark whiskers, a
broad, flat nose, a wrinkled forehead, and is in the full prime of
life. His name is known throughout the Northwest,--among Americans,
Canadians, and Indians. The Chippewa is his mother-tongue, though he
can speak several Indian dialects, and is fluent in French and English.
He was born not far from Fort Garry, and has traversed the vast region
of the Northwest in every direction. He was Governor Stevens's guide
when he made the first explorations for the Northern Pacific Railroad,
and has guided a great many government trains to the forts on the
Missouri since then. He was with General Sully in his campaign against
the Indians. He has the instinct of locality. Like the honey-bee,
which flies straight from the flower to its hive, over fields, through
forests, across ravines or intervening hills, so Pierre Bottineau knows
just where to go when out upon the boundless prairie with no landmark
to guide him. He is never lost, even in the darkest night or foggiest
day.
There is no man living, probably, who has more enemies than he, for the
whole Sioux nation of Indians are his sworn foes. They would take his
scalp instantly if they could only get a chance. He has been in many
fights with them,--has killed six of them, has had narrow escapes, and
to hear him tell of his adventures makes your hair stand on end. He
is going to conduct a portion of our party through the Sioux country.
The Indians are friendly now, and the party will not be troubled; but
if a Sioux buffalo-hunter comes across this guide there will be quick
shooting on both sides, and ten to one the Indian will go down,--for
Bottineau is keen-sighted, has a steady hand, and is quick to act.
The westward-bound members of our party, guided by Bottineau, will be
accompanied by an escort consisting of nineteen soldiers commanded by
Lieutenant Kelton. Four Indian scouts, mounted on ponies, are engaged
to scour the country in advance, and give timely notice of the presence
of Sioux, who are always on the alert to steal horses or plunder a
train.
Bidding our friends good by, we watch their train winding over the
prairie till we can only see the white canvas of the wagons on the
edge of the horizon; then, turning eastward, we cross the river into
Minnesota, and strike out upon the pathless plain. We see no landmarks
ahead, and, like navigators upon the ocean, pursue our way over this
sea of verdure by the compass.
After a few hours' ride, we catch, through the glimmering haze, the
faint outlines of islands rising above the unruffled waters of a
distant lake. We approach its shores, but only to see islands and lake
alike vanish into thin air. It was the mirage lifting above the horizon
the far-off groves of Buffalo Creek, a branch of the Red River.
Far away to the east are the Leaf Hills, which are only the elevations
of the rolling prairie that forms the divide between the waters flowing
into the Gulf of Mexico and into Hudson Bay.
Wishing to see the hills, to ascertain what obstacles there are to the
construction of a railroad, two of us break away from the main party
and strike out over the plains, promising to be in camp at nightfall.
How exhilarating to gallop over the pathless expanse, amid a sea of
flowers, plunging now and then through grass so high that horse and
rider are almost lost to sight! The meadow-lark greets us with his
cheerful song; the plover hovers around us; sand-hill cranes, flying
always in pairs, rise from the ground and wing their way beyond the
reach of harm. The gophers chatter like children amid the flowers, as
we ride over their subterranean towns.
They are in peaceful possession of the solitude. Five years ago
buffaloes were roaming here. We see their bones bleaching in the sun.
Here the Sioux and Chippewas hunted them down. Here the old bulls
fought out their battles, and the countless herds cropped the succulent
grasses and drank the clear running water of the stream which bears
their name. They are gone forever. The ox and cow of the farm are
coming to take their place. Sheep and horses will soon fatten on the
rich pasturage of these hills. We of the East would hardly call them
hills, much less mountains, the slopes are so gentle and the altitudes
so low. The highest grade of a railroad would not exceed thirty feet to
the mile in crossing them.
Here we find granite and limestone bowlders, and in some places beds of
gravel, brought, so the geologists inform us, from the far North and
deposited here when the primeval ocean currents set southward over this
then submerged region. They are in the right place for the railroad.
The stone will be needed for abutments to bridges, and the gravel will
be wanted for ballast,--provided the road is located in this vicinity.
On our second day's march we come to what might with propriety be
called the park region of Minnesota. It lies amid the high lands of the
divide. It is more beautiful even than the country around White Bear
Lake and in the vicinity of Glenwood. Throughout the day we behold
such rural scenery as can only be found amid the most lovely spots in
England.
Think of rounded hills, with green slopes,--of parks and countless
lakes,--skirted by forests, fringed with rushes, perfumed by
tiger-lilies--the waves rippling on gravelled beaches; wild geese,
ducks, loons, pelicans, and innumerable water-fowl building their nests
amid the reeds and rushes,--think of lawns blooming with flowers, elk
and deer browsing in the verdant meadows. This is their haunt. We see
their tracks along the sandy shores, but they keep beyond the range of
our rifles.
So wonderfully has nature adorned this section, that it seems as if we
were riding through a country that has been long under cultivation, and
that behind yonder hillock we shall find an old castle, a mansion, or,
at least, a farm-house, as we find them in Great Britain.
I do not forget that I am seeing Minnesota at its best season, that it
is midsummer, that the winters are as long as in New England; but I can
say without reservation, that nowhere in the wide world--not even in
old England, the most finished of all lands; not in _la belle France_,
or sunny Italy, or in the valley of the Ganges or the Yangtse, or on
the slopes of the Sierra Nevadas--have I beheld anything approaching
this in natural beauty.
How it would look in winter I cannot say, but the members of our
party are unanimous in their praises of this portion of Minnesota. The
nearest pioneer is forty miles distant; but land so inviting will soon
be taken up by settlers.
It was a pleasure, after three days' travel over the trackless wild,
to come suddenly and unexpectedly upon a hay-field. There were the
swaths newly mown. There was no farm-house in sight, no fenced area or
upturned furrow, but the hay-makers had been there. We were approaching
civilization once more. Ascending a hill, we came in sight of a
settler, a pioneer who is always on the move; who, when a neighbor
comes within six or eight miles of him, abandons his home and moves on
to some spot where he can have more elbow-room,--to a region not so
thickly peopled.
He informed us that we should find the old trail we were searching
for about a mile ahead. He had long matted hair, beard hanging upon
his breast, a wrinkled countenance, wore a slouched felt hat, an
old checked-cotton shirt, and pantaloons so patched and darned, so
variegated in color, that it would require much study to determine what
was original texture and what patch and darn. He came from Ohio in
his youth, and has always been a skirmisher on the advancing line of
civilization,--a few miles ahead of the main body. He was thinking now
of going into the "bush," as he phrased it.
Settlers farther down the trail informed us that he was a little
flighty and queer; that he could not be induced to stay long in one
place, but was always on the move for a more quiet neighborhood!
The road that we reached at this point was formerly traversed by the
French and Indian traders between Pembina and the Mississippi, but has
not been used much of late years. Striking that, we should have no
difficulty in reaching the settlements of the Otter-Tail, forty miles
south.
Emigration travels fast. As fires blown by winds sweep through the
dried grass of the prairies, so civilization spreads along the frontier.
We reached the settlement on Saturday night, and pitched our tents
for the Sabbath. It was a rare treat to these people to come into
our camp and hear a sermon from Rev. Dr. Lord. The oldest member of
the colony is a woman, now in her eightieth year, with eye undimmed
and a countenance remarkably free from the marks of age, who walks
with a firm step after fourscore years of labor. Sixty years ago she
moved from Lebanon, New Hampshire, a young wife, leaving the valley
of the Connecticut for a home in the State of New York, then moving
with the great army of emigrants to Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, and Iowa
in succession, and now beginning again in Minnesota. Last year her
hair, which had been as white as the purest snow, began to take on its
original color, and is now quite dark! There are but few instances on
record of such a renewal of youth.
The party have come from central Iowa to make this their future home,
preferring the climate of this region, where the changes of temperature
are not so sudden and variable. The women and children of the four
families lived here alone for six weeks, while the men were away after
their stock. Their nearest neighbors are twelve miles distant. On the
4th of July all hands--men, women, and children--travelled forty-five
miles to celebrate the day.
"We felt," said one of the women, "that we couldn't get through the
year without going somewhere or seeing somebody. It is kinder lonely so
far away from folks, and so we went down country to a picnic."
Store, church, and school are all forty miles away, and till recently
the nearest saw-mill was sixty miles distant. Now they can get their
wheat ground by going forty miles.
The settlement is already blooming with half a dozen children. Other
emigrants are coming, and these people are looking forward to next year
with hope and confidence, for then they will have a school of their own.
In our march south from Detroit Lake we meet a large number of Chippewa
Indians going to the Reservation recently assigned them by the
government in one of the fairest sections of Minnesota. Among them we
see several women with blue eyes and light hair and fair complexions,
who have French blood in their veins, and possibly some of them may
have had American fathers. Nearly all of the Indians wear pantaloons
and jackets; but here and there we see a brave who is true to his
ancestry, who is proud of his lineage and race, and is in all respects
a savage, in moccasons, blanket, skunk-skin head-dress, and painted
eagle's feathers.
They are friendly, inoffensive, and indolent, and took no part in the
late war. They have been in close contact with the whites for a long
time, but they do not advance in civilization. All efforts for their
elevation are like rain-drops falling on a cabbage-leaf, that roll off
and leave it dry. There is little absorption on the part of the Indians
except of whiskey, and in that respect their powers are great,--equal
to those of the driest toper in Boston or anywhere else devoting all
his energies to getting round the Prohibitory Law.
Our halting-place for Monday night is on the bank of the Otter-Tail,
near Rush Lake. The tents are pitched, the camp-fire kindled, supper
eaten, and we are sitting before a pile of blazing logs. The dew is
falling, and the fire is comfortable and social. We look into the
glowing coals and think of old times, and of friends far away. We
dream of home. Then the jest and the story go round. The song would
follow if we had the singers. But music is not wanting. We hear
martial strains,--of cornets, trombones, ophicleides, and horns, and
the beating of a drum. Torches gleam upon the horizon, and by their
flickering light we see a band advancing over the prairie. It is a
march of welcome to the Northern Pacific Exploring Party.
Not an hour ago these musicians heard of our arrival, and here they
are, twelve of them, in our camp, doing their best to express their
joy. They are Germans,--all young men. Three years ago several families
came here from Ohio. They reported the soil so fertile, the situation
so attractive, the prospects so flattering, that others came; and now
they have a dozen families, and more are coming to this land of promise.
Take a good long look at these men as they stand before our camp-fire,
with their bright new instruments in their hands. They received them
only three weeks ago from Cincinnati.
"We can't play much yet," says the leader, Mr. Bertenheimer, "but we do
the best we can. We have sent to Toledo for a teacher who will spend
the winter with us. You will pardon our poor playing, but we felt so
good when we heard you were here looking out a route for a railroad,
that we felt like doing something to show our good-will. You see we
are just getting started, and have to work hard, but we wanted some
recreation, and we concluded to get up a band. We thought it would be
better than to be hanging round a grocery. We haven't any grocery yet,
and if we keep sober, and give our attention to other things, perhaps
we sha'n't have one,--which, I reckon, will be all the better for us."
Plain and simple the words, but there is more in them than in many a
windy speech made on the rostrum or in legislative halls. Just getting
started! Yet here upon the frontier Art has planted herself. The
flowers of civilization are blooming on the border.
As we listen to the parting strains, and watch the receding forms, and
look into the coals of our camp-fire after their departure, we feel
that there must be a bright future for a commonwealth that can grow
such fruit on the borders of the uncultivated wilderness.
Now just ride out and see what has been done by these emigrants.
Here is a field containing thirty acres of as fine wheat as grows in
Minnesota. It is just taking on the golden hue, and will be ready for
the reaper next week. Beside it are twenty acres of oats, several acres
of corn, an acre or two of potatoes. This is one farm only. On yonder
slope there stands a two-storied house, of hewn logs and shingled
roof. See what adornment the wife or daughter has given to the front
yard,--verbenas, petunias, and nasturtiums, and round the door a living
wreath of morning-glories.
Cows chew their cud in the stable-yard, while
"Drowsy tinklings lull the distant field"
where the sheep are herded.
We shall find the scene repeated on the adjoining farm. Sheltered
beneath the grand old forest-trees stands the little log church with
a cross upon its roof, and here we see coming down the road the
venerable father and teacher of the community, in long black gown and
broad-brimmed hat, with a crucifix at his girdle. It is a Catholic
community, and they brought their priest with them.
In the morning we ride over smiling prairies, through groves of oak and
maple, and behold in the distance a large territory covered with the
lithe foliage of the tamarack. Here and there are groves of pine rising
like islands above the wide level of the forest.
At times our horses walk on pebbly beaches and splash their hoofs in
the limpid waters of the lakes. We pick up agates, carnelians, and
bits of bright red porphyry, washed and worn by the waves. Wild swans
rear their young in the reeds and marshes bordering the streams. They
gracefully glide over the still waters. They are beyond the reach of
our rifles, and we would not harm them if we could. There is a good
deal of the savage left in a man who, under the plea of sport, can
wound or kill a harmless bird or beast that cannot be made to serve his
wants. It gives me pleasure to say that our party are not bloodthirsty.
Ducks, plover, snipe, wild geese, and sand-hill cranes are served at
our table, but they are never shot in wanton sport.
The stream which we have crossed several times is the Otter-Tail
and flows southward into Otter-Tail Lake; issuing from that it runs
southwest, then west, then northward, taking the name of the Red River,
and pours its waters into Lake Winnipeg. From that great northern
reservoir the waters of this western region of Minnesota reach Hudson
Bay through Nelson River.
Looking eastward we see gleaming in the morning sunlight the Leaf
Lakes, the head-waters of the Crow-Wing, one of the largest western
tributaries of the Upper Mississippi.
The neck of land between these lakes and the Otter-Tail is only one
mile wide. Here, from time out of mind among the Indians, the transit
has been made between the waters flowing into the Gulf of Mexico and
into Hudson Bay. When the Jesuit missionaries came here, they found it
the great Indian carrying-place.
Mackenzie, Lord Selkirk, and all the early adventurers, came by this
route on their way to British America. For a long time it has been a
trading-post. The French Jesuit fathers were here a century ago and are
here to-day,--not spiritual fathers alone, but according to the flesh
as well! The settlement is composed wholly of French Canadians, their
Indian wives and copper-colored children. There are ten or a dozen
houses, but they are very dilapidated. A little old man with twinkling
gray eyes, wearing a battered white hat, comes out to welcome us,
while crowds of swarthy children and Indian women gaze at us from the
doorways. Another little old man, in a black gown and broad-brimmed
hat, with a long chain and crucifix dangling from his girdle, salutes
us with true French politeness. He is the priest, and is as seedy as
the village itself.
Around the place are several birch-bark Indian huts, and a few lodges
of tanned buffalo-hides. Filth, squalor, and degradation are the
characteristics of the lodge, and the civilization of the log-houses is
but little removed from that of the wigwams.
The French Canadian takes about as readily to the Indian maiden as to
one of his own race. He is kinder than the Indian brave, and when he
wants a wife he will find the fairest of the maidens ready to listen to
his words of love.