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Title: The Great Salt Lake Trail
Author: Colonel Henry Inman
Release Date: May, 2004 [EBook #5718]
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[This file was first posted on August 14, 2002]
Edition: 10
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE GREAT SALT LAKE TRAIL ***
This eBook was produced by Michael Overton.
THE GREAT SALT LAKE TRAIL
By COLONEL HENRY INMAN
Late Assistant Quartermaster, United States Army
Author of _The Old Santa Fé Trail_, Etc.
And COLONEL WILLIAM F. CODY, “Buffalo Bill”
Late Chief of Scouts
Etext Edition edited by MICHAEL S. OVERTON
1898 (original edition), 2002 (Etext edition)
See PUBLICATION INFORMATION at the end of this Etext for a more
complete bibliographic listing of the original source.
PREFACE.
There are seven historic trails crossing the great plains of the
interior of the continent, all of which for a portion of their
distance traverse the geographical limits of what is now the
prosperous commonwealth of Kansas.
None of these primitive highways, however, with the exception of that
oldest of all to far-off Santa Fé, has a more stirring story than
that known as the Salt Lake Trail.
Over this historical highway the Mormons made their lonely Hegira to
the valley of that vast inland sea. On its shores they established
a city, marvellous in its conception, and a monument to the ability
of man to overcome almost insuperable obstacles—the product of a
faith equal to that which inspired the crusader to battle to the death
for the possession of the Holy Sepulchre.
Over this route, also, were made those world-renowned expeditions
by Fremont, Stansbury, Lander, and others of lesser fame, to the
heart of the Rocky Mountains, and beyond, to the blue shores of the
Pacific Ocean.
Over the same trackless waste the Pony Express executed those
marvellous feats in annihilating distance, and the once famous
Overland Stage lumbered along through the seemingly interminable
desert of sage-brush and alkali dust—avant-courières of the telegraph
and the railroad.
One of the collaborators of this volume, Colonel W. F. Cody (“Buffalo
Bill”), began his remarkable career, as a boy, on the Salt Lake Trail,
and laid the foundations of a life which has made him a conspicuous
American figure at the close of this century.
It is not the intention of the authors of this work to deal in the
slightest manner with Mormonism as a religion. An immense mass of
literature on the subject is to be found in every public library, both
in its defence and in its condemnation. The latter preponderates, and
often seems to be inspired by an inexcusable ingenuity in exaggeration.
Of the trials of the Mormons during their toilsome march and their
difficulties with the government during the Civil War, this work will
treat in a limited way, but its scope is to present the story of the
Trail in the days long before the building of a railroad was believed
to be possible. It will deal with the era of the trapper, the scout,
the savage, and the passage of emigrants to the gold fields of
California—when the only route was by the overland trail—and with
the adventures which marked the long and weary march.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. EXPLORING EXPEDITIONS. Proposed Exploring Expedition
across the Northern Part of the Continent in 1774—Sir Alexander
Mackenzie's Expedition—The Expedition of Lewis and Clarke—Hunt's
Tour in 1810—March of Robert Stuart eastwardly.
CHAPTER II. THE OLD TRAPPERS. Captain Ezekiel Williams' Expedition
to the Platte Valley in 1807—Character of the Old Trapper—The Outfit
of his Men—Crosses the River—Immense Herds of Buffalo—Death of
their Favourite Hound—A Lost Trapper—A Prairie Burial—A Wolf-chase
after a Buffalo—An Indian Lochinvar—The Crow Indians—Their Country
—Rose, the Scapegoat Refugee—The Lost Trappers—A Battle with
the Savages.
CHAPTER III. JIM BECKWOURTH. General W. H. Ashley's Trapping
Expedition—Jim Beckwourth's Story—Two Axe—Kill Fourteen Hundred
Buffaloes—The Surround—Expedition is divided—Boats are built—
Green River Suck—Indians murder Le Brache—Beckwourth meets Castenga.
CHAPTER IV. CAPTAIN SUBLETTE'S EXPEDITION. Captain William
Sublette's Expedition in 1832—They meet Nathaniel J. Wyeth's Party—
Arrive at Green River Valley—Attacked by Indians—Antoine Godin
shoots a Blackfoot Chief—Fight between Whites, Flatheads, and
Blackfeet—An Indian Heroine—Major Stephen H. Long's Scientific
Expedition in 1820—Captain Bonneville's Expedition in 1832—
Lieutenant John C. Fremont's Expedition in 1842 to the Wind River
Mountains.
CHAPTER V. TRADING-POSTS AND THEIR STORIES. Trading-posts of the
Great Fur Companies—Fort Vasquez—Fort Laramie—Fort Platte—Fort
Bridger—Incidents at Fort Platte—A Drunken Spree—Death and Burial
of Susu-Ceicha—Insult to Big Eagle—Bull Tail's Effort to sell his
Daughter for a Barrel of Whiskey—A Rare Instance of a Trader's Honour.
CHAPTER VI. THE MORMONS. The Most Desolate of Deserts made to
blossom as the Rose—The Mormon Hegira—Pilgrim's Outfit—Curious
Guide-posts—The Hand-cart Expedition—Sufferings and Hardships during
the Exodus—An Impending War—General Harney's Expedition—Mormon
Tactics—Destroy the Supplies—Privations of the United States army
—President backs down—Salt Lake City—Brigham Young's Vision—
The Temple.
CHAPTER VII. MOUNTAIN MEADOWS MASSACRE. Mountain Meadows Massacre—
Indians attack the Wagons—Lee offers Protection—Ambushed by Lee—
Lee flies to the Mountains—Mormon Church acquitted—Execution of
John D. Lee—Temporary Toll-bridges—Indian Raids on Cattle Ranches—
Stuttering Brown—Graves along the Trail.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PONY EXPRESS. The Problem of the Mails between
Atlantic and Pacific—The World-famed Pony Express—Necessity for it
—Its Originator—The Firm of Majors, Russell, & Waddell—The Route—
Organization—Its Paraphernalia—Daring Riders—J. G. Kelley's Story—
Colonel Cody's Story—Incidents and Stories—Old Whipsaw and Little
Cayuse, the Pawnee—Slade, the Desperado—The Lynching of Slade—
Establishment of the Telegraph.
CHAPTER IX. THE STAGE ROUTE TO THE PACIFIC. Discovery of Gold near
Pike's Peak—Exodus from Missouri—The Creation of the Overland Stage
Route to the Pacific Coast—Messrs. Russell and Jones' Failure—
Russell, Majors, & Waddell's Successful Establishment of a New Line—
Hockaday and Liggett's “One-horse” Affair—Advent of the First
Stage-coach into Denver—Financial Embarrassment—Ben Holliday—
Description of the Outfit of the Route—Incidents and Adventures.
CHAPTER X. SCENERY ON THE TRAIL. Scenery and Historical Localities
on the Route of the Old Trail—Loup Fork—De Smet's Account of a
Waterspout—Wood River—Brady's Island—Ash Hollow—Johnson's Creek—
Scott's Bluff—Independence Rock and its Legend—Chimney Rock—
Crazy Woman's Creek—Laramie Plains—Legends and Traditions about
the Great Salt Lake—Early Surveys.
CHAPTER XI. INDIAN TRIBES ON THE TRAIL. The Indian Tribes of the
Salt Lake Trail—The Otoes—I-e-tan—Blue-Eyes shot by I-e-tan—
The Pawnees—Their Tribal Mark—Legends and Traditions—Human
Sacrifices—Folk-lore.
CHAPTER XII. SIOUX AND THEIR TRADITIONS. The Sioux Nation—Cause of
their Hatred for the Whites—A Chief of the Brûlé Sioux tells a Story
—The Scarred-Arms—Story of the Six Sioux and the Mysterious Woman—
The Place of the Death Song—Wa-shu-pa and Ogallalla—Indian Fight at
Ash Hollow—Indian Tradition of a Flood.
CHAPTER XIII. THE CROWS. The Crows—Council at Fort Philip Kearny
in July, 1866—A-ra-poo-ash—Jim Beckwourth in a Fight between Crows
and Blackfeet—Beckwourth and the Great Medicine Kettle—The Missionary
and the Crows—The Legend of the Blind Men—The Pis-kun.
CHAPTER XIV. FOLK-LORE OF BLACKFEET. Folk-lore of Blackfeet—
The Lost Children—The Wolf-Man—The Utes—Massacre of Major
Thornburgh's Command on the White River—The Great Chief Ouray—
Piutes—Their Theories of the Heavens—The Big Medicine Springs—
Closed Hand—Man afraid of his Horses—No Knife—Sitting Bull—
Spotted Tail.
CHAPTER XV. SIOUX WAR OF 1863. Sioux War of 1863—Spotted Tail—
George P. Belden's Account—Sergeants Hiles and Rolla—Belden and
Nelson have an Adventure—Belden maps the Country—Guarding Ben
Holliday's Coaches—An Involuntary Highwayman—Capturing Sioux at
Gilman's Ranch—Morrow's Ranch—Bentz and Wise—Attack on the Ambulance
—Peace Commission—Massacre of Colonel Fetterman's Command at Fort
Phil Kearny.
CHAPTER XVI. BUFFALO BILL'S ADVENTURES. Buffalo Bill's Adventures
on the Salt Lake Trail—In Charge of a Herd of Beef Cattle—Kills an
Indian—With Lew Simpson—Held up—Attacked at Cedar Bluffs—A Brush
with Sioux—The Print of a Woman's Shoe—Capture a Village—Buffalo
Bill shoots Tall Bull.
CHAPTER XVII. MASSACRE OF CUSTER'S COMMAND. Buffalo Bill's
Adventures continued—Hunting at Fort McPherson—Indians steal his
Favourite Pony—The Chase—Scouting under General Duncan—Pawnee
Sentries—A Deserted Squaw—A Joke on McCarthy—Scouting for Captain
Meinhold—Texas Jack—Buckskin Joe—Sitting Bull and the Indian War
of 1876—Massacre of Custer and his Command—Buffalo Bill takes the
First Scalp for Custer—Yellow Hand, Son of Cut Nose—Carries
Despatches for Terry—Good-by to the General.
CHAPTER XVIII. IN A TRAPPER'S BIVOUAC. Around the Camp-fire in a
Trapper's Bivouac—Telling Stories of the Old Trail—Old Hatcher's
Trip to the Infernal Regions—Colonel Cody's Story of California Joe
—A Practical Joke.
CHAPTER XIX. KIT CARSON ON THE YELLOWSTONE. More Stories of the Trail
—Frazier and the Bear—An Indian Elopement—The Ogallallas and the
Brûlés—Chaf-fa-ly-a—Kit Carson on the Yellowstone—Battle with the
Blackfeet—Carson, Bridger, and Baker on the Platte—Jim Cockrell—
Peg Leg Smith.
CHAPTER XX. BUILDING THE UNION PACIFIC RAILROAD. The Story of the
Building of the Union Pacific Railroad—Extract from General Sherman's
Memoirs—General Dodge's Description of the Country when he first
saw it—Explorations for a Route—Conference with President Lincoln—
Location of the Military Post of D. A. Russell and the Town of Cheyenne
—Driving the Last Spike.
FOOTNOTES.
PUBLICATION INFORMATION.
CHAPTER I.
EXPLORING EXPEDITIONS.
As early as a hundred and thirty-five years ago, shortly after England
had acquired the Canadas, Captain Jonathan Carver, who had been
an officer in the British provincial army, conceived the idea of
fitting out an expedition to cross the continent between the forty-third
and forty-sixth degrees of north latitude. His intention was to
measure the breadth of North America at its widest part, and to find
some place on the Pacific coast where his government might establish
a military post to facilitate the discovery of a “northwest passage,”
or a line of communication between Hudson's Bay and the Pacific Ocean.
In 1774 he was joined in his proposed scheme by Mr. Richard Whitworth,
a member of the British Parliament, and a man of great wealth.
Their plan was to form a company of fifty or sixty men, and with them
to travel up one of the forks of the Missouri River, explore the
mountains, and find the source of the Oregon. They intended to sail
down that stream to its mouth, erect a fort, and build vessels to
enable them to continue their discoveries by sea.
Their plan was sanctioned by the English government, but the breaking
out of the American Revolution defeated the bold project. This was
the first attempt to explore the wilds of the interior of the continent.
Thirty years later Sir Alexander Mackenzie crossed the continent
on a line which nearly marks the fifty-third degree of north latitude.
Some time afterwards, when that gentleman published the memoirs of
his expedition, he suggested the policy of opening intercourse between
the two oceans. By this means, he argued, the entire command of
the fur trade of North America might be obtained from latitude
forty-eight north, to the pole, excepting in that territory held
by Russia. He also prophesied that the relatively few American
adventurers who had been enjoying a monopoly in trapping along the
Northwest Coast would instantly disappear before a well-regulated trade.
The government of the United States was attracted by the report of
the English nobleman, and the expedition of Lewis and Clarke was
fitted out. They accomplished in part what had been projected
by Carver and Whitworth. They learned something of the character
of the region heretofore regarded as a veritable terra incognita.
On the 14th of May, 1804, the expedition of Lewis and Clarke left
St. Louis, following the course of the Missouri River, and returning
by the same route two years later. There were earlier explorations,
far to the south, but none of them reached as high up as the Platte.
Lewis and Clarke themselves merely viewed its mouth.
In 1810 a Mr. Hunt, who was employed by the Northwest Fur Company,
and Mr. Donald M'Kenzie, with a number of trappers under their charge,
were to make a journey to the interior of the continent, but, hampered
by the opposition of the Missouri Fur Company, they were compelled to
abandon the enterprise, and it was not until the beginning of 1812
that their historic journey was commenced.
On the 17th of January, while their boats landed at one of the old
villages established by the original French colonists of the region
then known as the Province of Louisiana, they met the celebrated
Daniel Boone, who was then in his eighty-fifth year, and the next
morning they were visited by John Coulter, who had been with Lewis and
Clarke on their memorable expedition eight years previously.[1]
Since the return of Lewis and Clarke's expedition, Coulter had made
a wonderful journey on his own account. He floated down the whole
length of the Missouri River in a small canoe, accomplishing the
passage of three thousand miles in a month.
On the 8th of April Hunt's party came in sight of Fort Osage,[2]
where they remained for three days, and were delightfully entertained
by the officers of the garrison. On the 10th they again embarked and
ascended the Missouri. On the 28th the party landed at the mouth
of the Platte and ate their breakfast on one of the islands there.
After passing the mouth of the river Platte, they camped on its banks
a short distance above Papillion Creek. On the 10th of May they
reached the village of the Omahas, camped in its immediate neighbourhood,
and on the 15th of the same month they started for the interior of
the continent. Their route lay far north of a line drawn parallel
to the Platte Valley, but they entered it after travelling through
the Black Hills, somewhere near the headwaters of the river from which
the beautiful valley takes its name. After untold hardships and
sufferings the party arrived at Astoria on the following February,
having travelled a distance of thirty-five hundred miles. They had
taken a circuitous route, for Astoria is only eighteen hundred miles,
in a direct line, from St. Louis.
The first authentic account of an expedition through the valley of the
Platte was that of Mr. Robert Stuart, in the employ of John Jacob Astor.
He was detailed to carry despatches from the mouth of the Columbia to
New York, informing Mr. Astor of the condition of his venture on the
remote shores of the Pacific. The mission entrusted to Mr. Stuart
was filled with perils, and he was selected for the dangerous duty
on account of his nerve and strength. He was a young man, and although
he had never crossed the Rocky Mountains, he had already given proofs,
on other perilous expeditions, of his competence for the new duty.
His companions were Ben Jones and John Day,[3] both Kentuckians,
two Canadians, and some others who had become tired of the wild life,
and had determined to go back to civilization.
They all left Astoria on the 29th of June, 1812, and reached the
headwaters of the Platte, thence they travelled down the valley to
its mouth, and embarked in boats for St. Louis.
When they reached the Snake River deserts, great sandy plains
stretched out before them. Only occasionally were there intervales of
grass, and the miserable herbage was saltweed, resembling pennyroyal.
The desponding party looked in vain for some relief from the lifeless
landscape. All game had apparently shunned the dreary, sun-parched
waste, but hunger was now and then appeased by a few fish which they
caught in the streams, or some sun-dried salmon, or a dog given to them
by the kind-hearted Shoshones whose lodges they sometimes came across.
At last the party tired of this weary route. They determined to
leave the banks of the barren Snake River, so, under the guidance
of a Mr. Miller who had previously trapped in that region, they were
conducted across the mountains and out of the country of the dreaded
Blackfeet. Miller soon proved a poor guide, and again the party
became bewildered among rugged hills, unknown streams, and the burned
and grassless prairies.
Finally they arrived on the banks of a river, on which their guide
assured them he had trapped, and to which they gave the name of Miller,
but it was really the Bear River which flows into Great Salt Lake.
They continued along its banks for three days, subsisting very
precariously on fish.
They soon discovered that they were in a dangerous region. One evening,
having camped rather early in the afternoon, they took their
fishing-tackle and prepared to fish for their supper. When they
returned to their camp, they were surprised to see a number of savages
prowling round. They proved to be Crows, whose chief was a giant,
very dark, and looked the rogue that they found him to be.
He ordered some of his warriors to return to their camp, near by,
and bring buffalo meat for the starving white men. Notwithstanding
the apparent kindness of this herculean chief, there was something
about him that filled the white men with distrust. Gradually the
number of his warriors increased until there were over a score of
them in camp. They began to be inquisitive and troublesome, and
the whites felt great concern for their horses, each man keeping
a close watch upon the movements of the Indians.
As no unpleasant demonstrations had been made by the savages, and
as the party had bought all the buffalo meat they had brought,
Mr. Stuart began to make preparations in the morning for his departure.
The savages, however, were for further dealings with their newly found
pale friends, and above everything else they wanted gunpowder,
for which they offered to trade horses. Mr. Stuart declined to
accommodate them. At this they became more impudent, and demanded
the powder, but were again refused.
The gigantic chief now stepped forward with an important air, and
slapping himself upon the breast, he gave the men to understand that
he was a chief of great power. He said that it was customary for
great chiefs to exchange presents when they met. He therefore
requested Mr. Stuart to dismount and give him the horse he was riding.
Mr. Stuart valued the animal very highly, so he shook his head at
the demand of the savage. Upon this the Indian walked up, and taking
hold of Mr. Stuart, began to push him backward and forward in his
saddle, as if to impress upon him that he was in his power.
Mr. Stuart preserved his temper and again shook his head negatively.
The chief then seized the bridle, gave it a jerk that scared the
horse, and nearly brought Mr. Stuart to the ground. Mr. Stuart
immediately drew his pistol and presented it at the head of the
impudent savage. Instantly his bullying ended, and he dodged behind
the horse to get away from the intended shot. As the rest of the
Crow warriors were looking on at the movement of their chief,
Mr. Stuart ordered his men to level their rifles at them, but not
to fire. Upon this demonstration the whole band incontinently fled,
and were soon out of sight.
The chief, finding himself alone, with true savage dissimulation
began to laugh, and pretended the whole affair was intended only
as a joke. Mr. Stuart did not relish this kind of joking, but it
would not do to provoke a quarrel; so he joined the chief in his
laugh with the best grace he could affect, and to pacify the savage
for his failure to procure the horse, gave him some powder, and
they parted professedly the best of friends.
It was discovered, after the savage had cleared out, that they had
managed to steal nearly all the cooking utensils of the party.
To avoid meeting the savages again, Mr. Stuart changed his route
farther to the north, leaving Bear River, and following a large branch
of that stream which came down from the mountains. After marching
twenty-five miles from the scene of their meeting with the Crows,
they camped, and that night hobbled all their animals. They preserved
a strict guard, and every man slept with his rifle on his arm,
as they suspected the savages might attempt to stampede their horses.
Next day their course continued northward, and soon their trail began
to ascend the hills, from the top of which they had an extended view
of the surrounding country. Not the sign of an Indian was to be seen,
but they did not feel secure and kept a very vigilant watch upon
every ravine and defile as they approached it. Making twenty-one
miles that day, they encamped on the bank of another stream still
running north. While there an alarm of Indians was given, and
instantly every man was on his feet with rifle ready to sell his life
only at the greatest cost. Indians there were, but they proved to be
three miserable Snakes, who were no sooner informed that a band of
Crows were in the neighbourhood, than they ran off in great trepidation.
Six days afterward they encamped on the margin of Mud River, nearly
a hundred and fifty miles from where they had met the impudent Crows.
Now the party began to believe themselves beyond the possibility of
any further trouble from them, and foolishly relaxed their usual
vigilance. The next morning they were up at the first streak of day,
and began to prepare their breakfast, when suddenly the cry of
“Indians! Indians! to arms! to arms!” sounded through the camp.
In a few moments a mounted Crow came riding past the camp, holding
in his hand a red flag, which he waved in a furious manner, as he
halted on the top of a small divide. Immediately a most diabolical
yell broke forth from the opposite side of the camp where the horses
were picketed, and a band of paint-bedaubed savages came rushing to
where they were feeding. In a moment the animals took fright and
dashed towards the flag-bearer, who vigorously kicked the flanks of
his pony, and loped off, followed by the stampeded animals which
were hurried on by the increasing yells of the retreating savages.
When the alarm was first given, Mr. Stuart's men seized their rifles
and tried to cut off the Indians who were after their horses, but
their attention was suddenly attracted by the yells in the opposite
direction. The savages, as they supposed, intended to make a raid
on their camp equipage, and they all turned to save it. But when
the horses had been secured the reserve party of savages dashed by
the camp, whooping and yelling in triumph, and the very last one of
them was the gigantic chief who had tried to joke with Mr. Stuart.
As he passed the latter, he checked up his animal, raised himself
in the saddle, shouted some insults, and rode on.
The rifle of one of the men, Ben Jones, was instantly levelled at
the chief, and he was just about to pull the trigger, when Mr. Stuart
exclaimed, “Not for your life! not for your life, you will bring
destruction upon us all!”
It was a difficult matter to restrain Ben, when the target could be
so easily pierced, and he begged, “Oh, Mr. Stuart, only let me have
one crack at the infernal rascal, and you may keep all the pay that
is due me.”
“By heavens, if you fire, I will blow your brains out!” exclaimed
Mr. Stuart.
By that time the chief was far beyond rifle range, and the whole
daring band of savages, with all the horses, were passing out of sight
over the hills, their red flag still waving and the valley echoing
to their yells and demoniacal laughter.
The unhorsed travellers were dismayed at the situation in which they
found themselves. A long journey was still before them, over rocky
mountains and wind-swept plains, which they must now painfully
traverse on foot, carrying on their backs everything necessary for
their subsistence.
They selected from their camp equipage such articles as were absolutely
necessary for their journey, and those things which they could not
carry were cached. It required a whole day to make ready for their
wearisome march. Next morning they were up at the break of day.
They had set a beaver-trap in the river the night before, and rejoiced
to find that they had caught one of the animals, which served as a
meal for the whole party.
On his way back with the prize, the man who had gone for it, casually
looking up at a cliff several hundred feet high, saw what he thought
were a couple of wolves looking down upon him. Paying no attention
to them, he walked on toward camp, when happening to look back,
he still saw the watchful eyes peering over the edge of the precipice.
It now flashed upon him that they might not be wolves at all, but
Indian spies.
On reaching camp he called the attention of Stuart and his companions
to what he had observed, and at first they too entertained the idea
that they were wolves, but soon satisfied themselves that they
were savages. If their surmises were true, the party was satisfied
that the whereabouts of their caches were known, and determined that
their contents should not fall into the hands of the savages.
So they were opened, and everything the men could not carry away
was either burned or thrown into the river.
On account of this delay they were not able to leave the place until
about ten o'clock. They marched along the bank of the river, and
made but eighteen miles in two days, when they were obliged to stop
and build two rafts with which to cross the stream. Discovering that
their rafts were very strong and able to withstand the roughness of
the current, instead of crossing, they floated on down the river.
For three days they kept on, staying only to camp on land at night.
On the evening of the third day, as they approached a little island,
much to their joy they discovered a herd of elk. A hunter who was
put on shore wounded one, which immediately took to the water, but
being too weak to stem the current it was overtaken and drawn ashore.
As a storm was brewing, they camped on the bank where they had
drawn up the elk. They remained there all the next day, protecting
themselves as best they could from the rain, hail, and snow, which
fell heavily. Now they employed themselves by drying a part of the
meat they had secured; and when cutting up the carcass of the animal,
they discovered it had been shot at by hunters not more than a week
previously, as an arrow-head and a musket-ball were still in the
wounds. Under other circumstances such a matter would have been
regarded as trivial, but as they knew the Snake Indians had no guns,
the presence of the bullet indicated that the elk could not have been
wounded by one of them. They were aware that they were on the edge
of the Blackfeet country, and as these savages were supplied with
firearms, it was surmised that some of that hostile tribe must have
been lately in the neighbourhood. This idea ended the peace of mind
they had enjoyed while they were floating down the river.
For three more days they stuck to their rafts and drifted slowly down
the stream, until they had reached a point which in their judgment
was about a hundred miles from where they embarked.
The lofty mountains having now dwindled to mere hills, they landed
and prepared to continue their journey on foot. They spent a day
making moccasins, packing their meat in bundles of twenty pounds
for each man to carry, then leaving the river they marched toward
the northeast. It was a slow, wearisome tramp, as a part of the way
lay through the bottoms covered with cottonwood and willows, and
over rough hills and rocky prairies. Some antelope came within
rifle range, but they dared not fire, fearing the report would
betray them to the Blackfeet.
That day they came upon the trail of a horse, and in the evening
halted on the bank of a small stream which had evidently been an
Indian camping-place about three weeks ago.
In the morning when ready to leave, they again saw the Indian trail,
which after a while separated in every direction, showing that the
band had broken up into small hunting-parties. In all probability
the savages were still somewhere in the vicinity, so it behooved the
white men to move with the greatest caution. The utmost vigilance
was exercised, but not a sign was seen, and at night they camped
in a deep ravine which concealed them from the level of the
surrounding country.
The next morning at daylight the march was resumed, but before they
came out of the ravine on to the level prairie a council was held
as to the best course to pursue. It was deemed prudent to make
a bee-line across the mountains, over which the trail would be
very rugged and difficult, but more secure. One of the party named
M'Lellan, a bull-headed, impatient Scotchman, who had been rendered
more so by the condition of his feet which were terribly swollen
and sore, swore he had rather face all the Blackfeet in the country
than attempt the tedious journey over the mountains. As the others
did not agree with his opinion, they all began to climb the hills,
the younger men trying to see who would reach the top of the divide
first. M'Lellan, who was double the age of some of his companions,
began to fall in the rear for want of breath. It was his turn that
day to carry the old beaver-trap, and finding himself so far behind
the others, he suddenly stopped and declared he would carry it no
farther, at the same time throwing it as far down the hill as he
could. He was then offered a package of dried meat in its place,
but this in his rage he threw upon the ground, asserting that those
might carry it who wanted it; he could secure all the food he wanted
with his rifle. Then turning off from the party he walked along
the base of the mountain, letting those, he said, climb rocks who
were afraid to face Indians. Mr. Stuart and all his companions
attempted to impress him with the rashness of his conduct, but
M'Lellan was deaf to every remonstrance and kept on the way he had
determined to go.
As they felt they were now in a dangerous neighbourhood, and did not
dare to fire a rifle, they were compelled to depend upon the old
beaver-trap for their subsistence. The stream on which they were
encamped was filled with beaver sign, and the redoubtable Ben Jones
set out at daybreak with the hope of catching one of the sleek fur
animals. While making his way through a bunch of willows he heard
a crashing sound to his right, and looking in that direction, saw
a huge grizzly bear coming toward him with a terrible snort.
The Kentuckian was afraid of neither man nor beast, and drawing up
his rifle, let fly. The bear was wounded, but instead of rushing
upon his foe as is usually the case with a wounded grizzly, he ran
back into the thicket and thus escaped.
They were compelled to remain some days at this camp, and as the
beaver-trap failed to supply them with food, it became absolutely
necessary to take the chances of discovery by the Indians, in order
to live, and Ben Jones was permitted to make a tour with his rifle
some distance from the camp, defying both bears and Blackfeet.
He had not been absent more than two hours when he came upon a herd
of elk and killed five of them. When he reported his good news,
the party immediately moved their camp to the carcasses, about
six miles distant.
After marching a few days more, hunger again returned, the keenest
of their sufferings. The small amount of bear and elk meat which
they had been able to carry in addition to their other equipage
lasted but a short time, and in their anxiety to get ahead they had
little time to hunt. As scarcely any game crossed their trail,
they lived for three days upon nothing but a small duck and a few
miserable fish. They saw numbers of antelope, but they were very
wild and they succeeded in killing only one. It was poor in flesh
and very small, but they lived on it for several days.
After a while they came across the trail of the obstinate M'Lellan,
who was still ahead of them, and had encamped the night before on
the very stream where they now were. They saw the embers of the fire
by which he had slept, and remains of a wolf of which he had eaten.
He had evidently fared better than themselves at this encampment,
for they had not a mouthful to eat. The next day, about noon,
they arrived at the prairies where the headwaters of the stream
appeared to form, and where they expected to find buffalo in abundance.
Not even a superannuated bull was to be seen; the whole region was
deserted. They kept on for several miles farther, following the
bank of the stream and eagerly looking for beaver sign. Upon finding
some they camped, and Ben Jones set his trap. They were hardly
settled in camp when they perceived a large column of smoke rising
in the clear air some distance to the southwest. They regarded it
joyously, for they hoped it might be an Indian camp where they could
get something to eat, as their pangs of hunger had now overcome
their dread of the terrible Blackfeet.
Le Clerc, one of the Canadians, was instantly despatched by Mr. Stuart
to reconnoitre; and the travellers sat up till a late hour, watching
and listening for his return, hoping he might bring them food.
Midnight arrived, but Le Clerc did not make his appearance, and they
lay down once more supperless to sleep, hoping that their old
beaver-trap might furnish them with a breakfast.
At daybreak they hastened, eager and famishing, to the trap, but
found in it only the forepaw of a beaver, the sight of which
tantalized their hunger and added to their dejection. They resumed
their journey with flagging spirits, but had not gone far when they
perceived Le Clerc approaching at a distance. They hastened to meet
him, in hope of tidings of good cheer. He had nothing to give them
but news of that strange wanderer, M'Lellan. The smoke had arisen
from his encampment which took fire while he was fishing at some
little distance from it. Le Clerc found him in a forlorn condition.
His fishing had been unsuccessful, and during twelve days that he had
been wandering alone through the savage mountains he had found
scarcely anything to eat. He had been ill, sick at heart, and still
had pressed forward; but now his strength and his stubbornness
were exhausted. He expressed his satisfaction that Mr. Stuart and
his party were near, and said he would wait at his camp for their
arrival, hoping they would give him something to eat, for without
food he declared he should not be able to go much farther.
When the party reached the place they found the poor fellow lying
on a bunch of withered grass, wasted to a skeleton, and so feeble
that he could scarcely raise his head or speak. The presence of his
old comrades seemed to revive him; but they had no food to give him,
for they themselves were almost starving. They urged him to rise
and accompany them, but he shook his head. It was all in vain,
he said; there was no prospect of their getting speedy relief,
and without it he would perish by the way; he might as well,
therefore, stay and die where he was. At length, after much
persuasion, they got him upon his legs; his rifle and other effects
were shared among them, and he was cheered and aided forward.
In this way they proceeded for seventeen miles, over a level plain
of sand, until, seeing a few antelopes in the distance, they camped
on the margin of a small stream. All now, that were capable of
the exertion, turned out to hunt for a meal. Their efforts were
fruitless, and after dark they returned to their camp famished
almost to desperation.
As they were preparing for the third time to lie down to sleep without
a mouthful of food, Le Clerc, one of the Canadians, gaunt and wild
with hunger, approached Mr. Stuart with his gun in his hand. It was
all in vain, he said, to attempt to proceed any farther without food.
They had a barren plain before them, three or four days' journey in
extent, on which nothing was to be procured. They must all perish
before they could get to the end of it. It was better, therefore,
that one should die to save the rest. He proposed, therefore, that
they should cast lots, adding, as an inducement for Mr. Stuart to
assent to the proposition, that he, as leader of the party, should be
exempted.
Mr. Stuart shuddered at the horrible proposition, and endeavoured to
reason with the man, but his words were unavailing. At length,
snatching up his rifle, he threatened to shoot him on the spot
if he persisted. The famished wretch dropped on his knees, begged
pardon in the most abject terms, and promised never again to offend
him with such a suggestion.
Quiet being restored to the forlorn encampment, each one sought repose.
Mr. Stuart, however, was so exhausted by the agitation of the past
scene, acting upon his emaciated frame, that he could scarcely crawl
to his miserable bed, where, notwithstanding his fatigues, he passed
a sleepless night, reflecting upon their dreary situation and the
desperate prospect before them.
At daylight the next morning they were up and on their way; they had
nothing to detain them, no breakfast to prepare, and to linger was
to perish. They proceeded, however, but slowly, for all were faint
and weak. Here and there they passed the skulls and bones of buffaloes.
This showed that these animals must have been hunted there during the
past season, and the sight of the bones served only to mock their
misery. After travelling about nine miles along the plain, they
ascended a range of hills, and had scarcely gone two miles farther,
when, to their great joy, they discovered a superannuated buffalo bull
which had been driven from some herd and had been hunted and harassed
through the mountains. They all stretched themselves out to encompass
and make sure of this solitary animal, for their lives depended on
their success. After considerable trouble and infinite anxiety,
they at length succeeded in killing him. He was instantly flayed and
cut up, and so ravenous were they that they devoured some of the
flesh raw.
When they had rested they proceeded, and after crossing a mountain
ridge, and traversing a plain, they waded one of the branches of
the Spanish River. On ascending its bank, they met about a hundred
and thirty Indians of the Snake tribe. They were friendly in their
demeanour, and conducted the starving trappers to their village,
which was about three miles distant. It consisted of about forty
lodges, constructed principally of pine branches. The Snakes,
like most of their nation, were very poor. The marauding Crows,
in their late excursion through the country, had picked this unlucky
band to the bone, carrying off their horses, several of their squaws,
and most of their effects. In spite of their poverty, they were
hospitable in the extreme, and made the hungry strangers welcome to
their cabins. A few trinkets procured from them a supply of buffalo
meat, together with leather for moccasins, of which the party were
greatly in need. The most valuable prize obtained from them,
however, was a horse. It was a sorry old animal in truth, and it
was the only one which remained to the poor fellows, after the fell
swoop of the Crows. They were prevailed upon to part with it to
their guests for a pistol, an axe, a knife, and a few other trifling
articles.
By sunrise on the following morning, the travellers had loaded their
old horse with buffalo meat, sufficient for five days' provisions,
and, taking leave of their poor but hospitable friends, set forth
in somewhat better spirits, though the increasing cold weather and
the sight of the snowy mountains which they had yet to traverse were
enough to chill their very hearts. The country along the branch of
the river as far as they could see was perfectly level, bounded by
ranges of lofty mountains, both east and west. They proceeded about
three miles south, where they came again upon the large trail of the
Crow Indians, which they had crossed four days previously. It was
made, no doubt, by the same marauding band which had plundered the
Snakes; and which, according to the account of the latter, was now
camped on a stream to the eastward. The trail kept on to the southeast,
and was so well beaten by horse and foot that they supposed at least
a hundred lodges had passed along it. As it formed, therefore,
a convenient highway, and ran in a proper direction, they turned
into it, and determined to keep it as long as safety would permit,
as the Crow encampment must be some distance off, and it was not
likely those savages would return upon their steps. They travelled
forward, all that day, in the track of their dangerous predecessors,
which led them across mountain streams, and along ridges, through
narrow valleys, all tending generally to the southeast. The wind
blew cold from the northeast, with occasional flurries of snow,
which made them camp early, on the sheltered banks of a brook.
In the evening the two Canadians, Vallee and Le Clerc, killed a
young buffalo bull which was in good condition and afforded them an
excellent supply of fresh beef. They loaded their spits, therefore,
and filled their camp kettle with meat, and while the wind whistled
and the snow whirled around them, they huddled round a rousing fire,
basked in its warmth, and comforted both soul and body with a hearty
and invigorating meal. No enjoyments have greater zest than these,
snatched in the very midst of difficulty and danger; and it is
probable the poor wayworn and weather-beaten travellers relished
these creature comforts the more highly on account of the surrounding
desolation and the dangerous proximity of the Crows.
The snow which had fallen in the night made it late in the morning
before the party loaded their solitary packhorse, and resumed their
march. They had not gone far before the trail of the Crows, which
they were following, changed its direction, and bore to the north
of east. They had already begun to feel themselves on dangerous
ground, in travelling it, as they might be descried by scouts or spies
of that race of Ishmaelites, whose predatory life required them to
be constantly on the alert. On seeing the trail turn so much to
the north, therefore, they abandoned it, and kept on their course
to the southeast for eighteen miles, through a beautiful undulating
country, having the main chain of mountains on the left, and a
considerable elevated ridge on the right.
That evening they encamped on the banks of a small stream, in the
open prairie. The northeast wind was keen and cutting, and as they
had nothing but a scanty growth of sage-brush wherewith to make a fire,
they wrapped themselves in their blankets at an early hour. In the
course of the evening M'Lellan, who had now regained his strength,
killed a buffalo, but it was some distance from the camp, and they
postponed supplying themselves from its carcass until morning.
The next day the cold continued, accompanied by snow. They set
forward on their bleak and toilsome way, keeping to the northeast,
toward the lofty summit of a mountain which it was necessary for them
to cross. Before they reached its base they passed another large
trail, a little to the right of a point of the mountain. This they
supposed to have been made by another band of Crows.
The severity of the weather compelled them to encamp at the end of
fifteen miles on the skirts of the mountain, where they found
sufficient dry aspen trees to supply them with fire, but they sought
in vain about the neighbourhood for a spring or rill of water.
The next day, on arriving at the foot of the mountain, the travellers
found water oozing out of the earth, and resembling, in look and taste,
that of the Missouri. Here they encamped for the night, and supped
sumptuously upon their mountain mutton, which they found in good
condition.
For two days they kept on in an eastwardly direction, against wintry
blasts and occasional storms. They suffered, also, from scarcity
of water, having frequently to use melted snow; this, with the want
of pasturage, reduced their old packhorse sadly. They saw many tracks
of buffalo, and some few bulls, which, however, got the wind of them
and scampered off.
On the 26th of October, they changed their course to the northeast,
toward a wooded ravine in a mountain. At a small distance from its
base, to their great joy, they discovered an abundant stream,
running between willowed banks. Here they halted for the night.
Ben Jones having luckily trapped a beaver and killed two buffalo bulls,
they remained there the next day, feasting, reposing, and allowing
their jaded horse to rest from his labours.[4]
Pursuing the course of this stream for about twenty miles, they came
to where it forced a passage through a range of hills, covered with
cedars, into an extensive low country, affording excellent pasturage
to numerous herds of buffalo. Here they killed three cows, which
were the first they had been able to get, having heretofore had to
content themselves with bull-beef, which at this season of the year
is very poor. The hump meat and tongues afforded them a repast fit
for an epicure.
It was now late in the season and they were convinced it would be
suicidal to continue their journey on foot, as still many hundred
miles lay before them to the Missouri River. The absorbing question
now was where to choose a suitable wintering place; they happened
the next day to come upon a bend of the river which appeared to be
just the spot they were seeking. Here was a beautiful low point
of land, covered by cottonwood, and surrounded by a thick growth
of willow, which yielded both shelter and fuel, as well as material
for building. The river swept by in a strong current about a hundred
and fifty yards wide. To the southeast were mountains of moderate
height, the nearest about two miles off, but the whole chain ranging
to the east, south, and southwest, as far as the eye could reach.
Their summits were crowned with extensive tracts of pitch-pine,
checkered with small patches of the quivering aspen. Lower down
were thick forests of firs and red cedars, growing out in many places
from the very fissures of the rocks. The mountains were broken and
precipitous, with huge bluffs protruding from among the forests.
Their rocky recesses and beetling cliffs afforded retreats to
innumerable flocks of the bighorn, while their woody summits and
ravines abounded with bears and black-tailed deer. These, with the
numerous herds of buffalo that ranged the lower grounds along the
river, promised the travellers abundant cheer in their winter quarters.
On the 2d of November, they pitched their camp for the winter on
the woody point, and their first thought was to obtain a supply of
provisions. Ben Jones and the two Canadians accordingly sallied forth,
accompanied by two other members of the party, leaving but one to watch
the camp. Their hunting was uncommonly successful. In the course of
two days they killed thirty-two buffaloes, and collected their meat
on the margin of a small brook, about a mile distant. Fortunately
the river was frozen over, so that the meat was easily transported
to the encampment. On a succeeding day a herd of buffalo came
trampling through the woody bottom on the river banks, and fifteen
more were killed.
It was soon discovered, however, that there was game of a more
dangerous nature in their neighbourhood. On one occasion Mr. Crooks
wandered about a mile from camp, and had ascended a small hill
commanding a view of the river; he was without his rifle, a rare
circumstance, for in these wild regions, where one may at any moment
meet a wild animal or a hostile Indian, it is customary never to stir
out from the camp unarmed. The hill where he stood overlooked the
spot where the killing of the buffalo had taken place. As he was
gazing around, his eye was caught by an object below, moving directly
toward him. To his dismay he discovered it to be a she grizzly
with two cubs. There was no tree at hand into which he could climb,
and to run would only be to invite pursuit, as he would soon be
overtaken. He threw himself on the ground, therefore, and lay
motionless, watching the movements of the animal with intense anxiety.
It continued to advance until at the foot of the hill, where it turned,
and made into the woods, having probably gorged itself with buffalo
flesh. Mr. Crooks made all possible haste back to camp, rejoicing at
his escape, and determined never to stir out again without his rifle.
A few days afterwards a grizzly bear was shot at a short distance
from camp by Mr. Miller.
As the slaughter of so many buffaloes had provided the party with
beef for the winter, even if they met with no further supply, they now
set to work with heart and hand to build a comfortable shelter.
In a little while the woody promontory rang with the unwonted sound
of the axe. Some of its lofty trees were laid low, and by the second
evening the cabin was complete. It was eight feet wide, and eighteen
feet long. The walls were six feet high, and the whole was covered
with buffalo-skins. The fireplace was in the centre, and the smoke
found its way out by a hole in the roof.
The hunters were next sent out to procure deerskins for garments,
moccasins, and other purposes. They made the mountains echo with
their rifles, and, in the course of two days' hunting, killed
twenty-eight bighorn and black-tailed deer.
The party now revelled in abundance. After all they had suffered
from hunger, cold, fatigue, and watchfulness; after all their perils
from treacherous and savage men, they exulted in the snugness and
security of their isolated cabin, hidden, as they thought, even from
the prying eyes of Indian scouts, and stored with creature comforts.
They looked forward to a winter of peace and quietness; of roasting,
broiling, and boiling, feasting upon venison, mountain mutton,
bear's meat, marrow-bones, buffalo humps, and other hunters' dainties;
of dozing and reposing around their fire, gossiping over past dangers
and adventures, telling long hunting stories—until spring should
return; when they would make canoes of buffalo-skins, and float down
the river.
From such halcyon dreams they were startled one morning, at daybreak,
by a savage yell, and jumped for their rifles. The yell was repeated
by two or three voices. Cautiously peeping out, they beheld, to their
dismay, several Indian warriors among the trees, all armed and
painted in warlike style, evidently bent on some hostile purpose.
Miller changed countenance as he regarded them. “We are in trouble,”
said he, “these are some of the rascally Arapahoes that robbed me
last year.” Not a word was uttered by the rest of the party;
they silently slung their powder-horns, ball-pouches, and prepared
themselves for battle. M'Lellan, who had taken his gun to pieces
the evening before, put it together in all haste. He proposed that
they should break out the clay from between the logs, so as to be able
to fire upon the enemy.
“Not yet,” replied Stuart; “it will not do to show fear or distrust;
we must first hold a parley. Some one must go out and meet them as
a friend.”
Who was to undertake the task? It was full of peril, as the envoy
might be shot down at the threshold.
“The leader of a party,” said Miller, “always takes the advance.”
“Good!” replied Stuart; “I am ready.” He immediately went forth;
one of the Canadians followed him; the rest of the party remained
in garrison, to keep the savages in check.
Stuart advanced, holding his rifle in one hand and extending the other
to the savage who appeared to be the chief. The latter stepped forward
and took it; his men followed his example, and all shook hands with
Stuart, in token of friendship. They now explained their errand.
They were a war-party of Arapahoe braves. Their village lay on a
stream several days' journey to the eastward. It had been attacked
and ravaged during their absence by a band of Crows, who had carried off
several of their women and most of their horses. They were in quest
of vengeance. For sixteen days they had been tracking the Crows
about the mountains, but had not yet come upon them. In the meantime
they had met with scarcely any game, and were half famished.
About two days previously they had heard the report of firearms
among the mountains, and on searching in the direction of the sound,
had come to a place where a deer had been killed. They had followed
the trail and it had brought them to the cabin.
Mr. Stuart now invited the chief and another, who appeared to be his
lieutenant, into the cabin, but made signs that no one else was
to enter. The rest halted at the door and others came straggling up,
until the whole party, to the number of twenty-three, were gathered
in front. They were armed with bows and arrows, tomahawks,
scalping-knives, and a few had guns. All were painted and dressed
for war, having a savage and fierce appearance. Mr. Miller recognized
among them some of the very fellows who had robbed him the preceding
year, and put his comrades on their guard. Every man stood ready
to resist the first act of hostility, but the savages conducted
themselves peaceably, and showed none of that swaggering arrogance
which a war-party is apt to assume.
On entering the cabin, the chief and his lieutenant cast a wistful
look at the rafters, hung with venison and buffalo meat. Mr. Stuart
made a merit of necessity, and invited them to help themselves.
They did not wait to be pressed. The beams were soon eased of their
burden; venison and beef were passed out to the crew before the door,
and a scene of gormandizing commenced which few can imagine who have
not witnessed the gastronomical powers of an Indian after an interval
of fasting. This was kept up throughout the day; they paused now and
then, it is true, for a brief interval, but only to renew the charge
with fresh ardour. The chief and the lieutenant surpassed all the
rest in the vigour and perseverance of their attacks; as if, from
their station, they were bound to signalize themselves in all
onslaughts. Mr. Stuart kept them well supplied with choice bits,
for it was his policy to overfeed them, and keep them from leaving
the cabin, where they served as hostages for the good conduct of their
followers. Once only in the course of the day did the chief sally
forth. Mr. Stuart and one of the men accompanied him, armed with
their rifles, but without betraying any distrust. He soon returned,
and renewed his attack upon the larder. In a word, he and his worthy
coadjutor, the lieutenant, ate until they were both stupefied.
Toward evening the Indians made their preparations for the night
according to the practice of war-parties. Those outside of the cabin
threw up two breastworks, into which they retired at a tolerably
early hour, and slept like overfed hounds. As to the chief and his
lieutenant, they slept inside, and in the course of the night they
got up two or three times to eat. The travellers took turns, one at
a time, to mount guard until morning. Scarcely had the day dawned
when the gormandizing was renewed by the whole band, and carried on
with surprising vigour until ten o'clock, when all prepared to depart.
They had still six days' journey to make, they said, before they could
come up with the Crows, who, they understood, were encamped on a river
to the north. Their way lay through a hungry country where there
was no game; they would, moreover, have but little time to hunt;
they therefore craved a small supply of provisions for the journey.
Mr. Stuart again, invited them to help themselves. They did so with
keen forethought, taking the choicest parts of the meat, and leaving
the late plenteous larder almost bare. Their next request was for
a supply of ammunition. They had guns, but no powder and ball.
They promised to pay magnificently out of the spoils of their foray.
“We are poor now,” said they, “and are obliged to go on foot, but we
shall soon come back laden with booty, and all mounted on horseback,
with scalps hanging at our bridles. We will then give each of you
a horse to keep you from being tired on your journey.”
“Well,” said Mr. Stuart, “when you bring the horses, you shall have
the ammunition, but not before.” The Indians saw by his determined
tone that all further entreaty would be unavailing, so they desisted,
with a good-humoured laugh, and went off exceedingly well freighted,
both within and without, promising to be back again in the course of
a fortnight.
No sooner were they out of hearing than the luckless travellers held
another council. The security of their cabin was at an end, and
with it all their dreams of a quiet and cosey winter. They were
between two fires. On one side were their old enemies, the Crows;
on the other side, the Arapahoes, no less dangerous freebooters.
As to the moderation of this war-party, they considered it assumed,
to put them off their guard against some more favourable opportunity
for a surprisal. It was determined, therefore, not to await their
return, but to abandon with all speed this dangerous neighbourhood.
The interval of comfort and repose which the party had enjoyed in
their cabin rendered the renewal of their fatigues intolerable for
the first two or three days. The snow lay deep, and was slightly
frozen on the surface, but not sufficiently to bear their weight.
Their feet became sore by breaking through the crust, and their limbs
weary by floundering on without a firm foothold. So exhausted and
dispirited were they, that they began to think it would be better
to remain and run the risk of being killed by the Indians, than to
drag on thus painfully, with the probability of perishing by the way.
Their miserable horse fared no better than themselves, having for the
first day or two no other forage than the ends of willow twigs, and
the bark of the cottonwood tree.
They all, however, appeared to gain patience and hardihood as they
proceeded, and for fourteen days kept steadily on, making a distance
of about three hundred miles.
During the last three days of their fortnight's travel, however,
the face of the country changed. The timber gradually diminished,
until they could scarcely find fuel sufficient for culinary purposes.
The game grew more and more scanty, and finally none was to be seen
but a few miserable broken-down buffalo bulls, not worth killing.
The snow lay fifteen inches deep, and made the travelling grievously
painful and toilsome. At length they came to an immense plain,
where no vestige of timber was to be seen, not a single quadruped
to enliven the desolate landscape. Here, then, their hearts failed
them, and they held another consultation. The width of the river,
which was nearly a mile, its extreme shallowness, the frequency of
quicksands, and various other characteristics, had at length made
them sensible of their errors with respect to it, and they now came
to the correct conclusion that they were on the banks of the Platte.
What were they to do? Pursue its course to the Missouri? To go on
at this season of the year seemed dangerous in the extreme.
There was no prospect of obtaining either food or fuel. The country
was destitute of trees, and though there might be driftwood along
the river, it lay too deep beneath the snow for them to find it.
The weather was threatening a change, and a snow-storm on these
boundless wastes might prove as fatal as a whirlwind of sand on an
Arabian desert. After much deliberation, it was at length determined
to retrace their last three days' journey of seventy-seven miles,
to a place where they had seen a sheltering growth of forest-trees,
and where there was an abundance of game. Here they would once more
set up their winter quarters, and await the opening of navigation
to launch themselves in canoes.
Accordingly, on the 27th of December they faced about, retraced their
steps, and on the 30th regained the part of the river in question.
They encamped on the margin of the river, in a grove where there were
trees large enough for canoes. Here they put up a shed for immediate
shelter, and at once proceeded to erect a cabin. New Year's Day
dawned when but one wall of their cabin was completed; the genial and
jovial day, however, was not permitted to pass uncelebrated, even by
this weather-beaten crew of wanderers. All work was suspended, except
that of roasting and boiling. The choicest of the buffalo meat, with
tongues, humps, and marrow-bones, were devoured in quantities that
would have astonished any one who has not lived among hunters and
Indians. As an extra regale, having nothing to smoke, they cut up an
old tobacco pouch, still redolent with the potent herb, and smoked it
in honour of the day. Thus for a time, in present revelry, however
uncouth, they forgot all past troubles and anxieties about the future,
and their forlorn shelter echoed with the sound of gayety.
The next day they resumed their labours, and by the sixth of the month
the cabin was complete. They soon killed abundance of buffalo, and
again laid in a stock of winter provisions.
The party was more fortunate in this its second cantonment.
The winter passed away without any Indian visitors; and the game
continued to be plentiful in the neighbourhood. They felled two large
trees, and shaped them into canoes, and, as the spring opened, and
a thaw of several days melted the ice in the river, they made every
preparation for embarking. On the 8th of March they launched forth
in their canoes, but soon found that the river had not depth sufficient
even for such slender barks. It expanded into a wide, but extremely
shallow stream, with many sandbars, and occasionally various channels.
They got one of their canoes a few miles down it, with extreme
difficulty, sometimes wading, and dragging it over the shoals. At last
they had to abandon the attempt, and to resume their journey on foot,
aided by their faithful old packhorse, which had recruited strength
during the winter.
The weather delayed them for several days, having suddenly become more
rigorous than it had been at any time during the winter; but on the
20th of March they were again on their journey.
In two days they arrived at the vast naked prairie, the wintry aspect
of which had caused them in December to pause and turn back. It was
now clothed with the early verdure of spring, and plentifully stocked
with game. Still, when obliged to bivouac on its bare surface,
without any covering, by a scanty fire of buffalo-chips, they found
the night-blasts piercingly cold. On one occasion a herd of buffalo
having strayed near their evening camp, they killed three of them
merely for their hides, wherewith to make a shelter for the night.
They journeyed on for about a hundred miles, and the first landmark
by which they were able to conjecture their position with any degree
of confidence was an island about seventy miles in length, which they
presumed to be Le Grande Isle.[5] They now knew that they were not
a very great distance from the Missouri River, if their presumption
was correct. They went on, therefore, with renewed hope, and on the
evening of the third day met an Otoe Indian, who informed them they
were but a short distance from the Missouri. He also told them of the
war that had been progressing between the United States and England.
This was news to them indeed, for during that whole period they had
been beyond the possibility of learning anything of civilized affairs.
The Indian conducted them to his village, where they were delighted
to meet two white trappers recently arrived from St. Louis. A bargain
was now made with one of them, who agreed to furnish them with a canoe
and provisions for the voyage, in exchange for their venerable
traveller, the old horse. In a few days they started and arrived at
Fort Osage, where they were again received hospitably by the officers
of the garrison, and where they enjoyed that luxury, bread, which
they had not tasted for over a year. Reëmbarking, they arrived
in St. Louis on the 30th of April, without experiencing any further
adventure worthy of note.[6]
CHAPTER II.
THE OLD TRAPPERS.
On the return of Lewis and Clarke's expedition from the Rocky Mountains
where they had wintered with the Mandans, a celebrated chief of that
tribe, Big White, was induced to accompany Captain Lewis to Washington
in order that he might see the President, and learn something of the
power of the people of the country far to the East.
The Mandans at that time were at war with the Sioux, and Big White was
fearful that on his return to his own tribe some of the Sioux might
cut him and his party off, so he hesitated at first to accept the
invitation; but upon Captain Clarke assuring him that the government
would send a guard of armed men to protect and convoy him safely to
his own country, the chief assented, and took with him his wife and son.
In the spring of 1807, Big White set out on his return to the Mandan
country. The promised escort, comprising twenty men under the command
of Captain Ezekiel Williams, a noted frontiersman, left St. Louis to
guard him and to explore the region of the then unknown far West.
Each man of the party carried a rifle, together with powder and lead
to last him for a period of two years. They also took with them six
traps to each person, for it was the intention of the expedition,
after it had seen the brave Mandan safely to his own home, to hunt
for beaver and other fur-bearing animals in the recesses of the vast
region beyond the Missouri.
Pistols, knives, camp kettles, blankets, and other camp equipage
necessary to the success of the expedition and the comfort of the men
were carried on extra packhorses. He did not forget to take gewgaws
and trinkets valued by the savage, as presents to the chiefs of the
several tribes they might chance to meet.
It will be remembered by the student of history that the expedition
of Lewis and Clarke was confined to the Missouri River. They went up
that stream and returned by the same route, and as Lieutenant Pike
started west in 1805, it is claimed that this expedition of Captain
Williams, overland to the Rocky Mountains, was the second ever
undertaken by citizens of the United States. The difficulties which
they expected to encounter, having no knowledge of the country through
which they were to pass, as may be surmised, were numerous and trying.
When leaving the Mandan chief at his village, near the mouth of the
Yellowstone, that excellent Indian gave the party some timely advice,
and it prevented their absolute annihilation on several occasions.
Captain Williams was especially urged to exercise the greatest
vigilance day and night; to pay the strictest attention to the
position of his camps and the picketing of his animals. He was told
that, although the average Indian generally relied upon surprises on
their raids, they were not rash and careless, rarely attacking a party
that was prepared and on the lookout.
Captain Williams was a man of the most persistent perseverance,
patience, and unflinching courage, coupled with that determination of
character which has been the saving attribute of nearly all our famous
mountaineers from the earliest days. His men, too, were all used to
the privations and hardships that a life on the border demands, for
Missouri, at the time of the expedition, was a wilderness in the most
rigid definition of the term. All were splendid shots with the rifle,
and could hit the eye of a squirrel whether the animal stood still or
was running up the trunk of a tree.
The distance they travelled each day averaged about twenty-five miles.
When they were ready to camp, they selected a position where wood and
water were plentiful, and the grass good for their animals. For the
first eight or ten nights they would kindle great fires, around which
they gathered, ate the fat venison their hunters had killed through
the day, and told stories of hunting and logging back in the mighty
forests of Missouri. When they reached the region of the Platte they
were forced to abandon this careless practice, for they were now
entering a region infested by hostile savages, and they found it
necessary to act upon the suggestions of the Mandan chief, and be
constantly on their guard.
For the distance of about two hundred and fifty miles from the
Missouri they did not find game very abundant, although they never
suffered, as there was always enough to supply their wants.
The timber began to thin out too, and they were obliged to resort
for their fire to the bois de vache, or buffalo-chips.
One day, two of the hunters killed a brace of very fat deer close to
camp, and when the animals were dressed and their carcasses hung up
to a huge limb, the viscera and other offal attracted a band of hungry
wolves. Not less than twenty of the impudent, famishing brutes
battened in luxurious frenzy on the inviting entrails and feet of the
slaughtered deer. The wolves were of all sizes and colours; those
that were the largest kept their smaller congeners away from the feast
until they were themselves gorged, and then allowed the little ones to
gather up the fragments. While the latter were waiting their turn
with a constant whining and growling, the dogs of the expedition
barked an accompaniment to the howls of the impatient animals, and
soon made a break for the pack. They chased them around the trees and
out on the open prairie, when they turned upon the dogs and drove them
back to camp. One of the most plucky of the dogs made a bold stand,
but was seized by as many of the wolves as could get hold of him, and
he was torn to shreds almost instantly.
The trappers did not want to waste any lead on the worthless animals,
but in the darkness set some of their beaver-traps, which they baited
with pieces of venison suspended just above them on a projecting limb
of a tree. In the morning, when the trappers went out to look for
their supposed victims, both the meat and the traps were gone.
They had, in their inexperience, forgotten to fasten the traps to
anything, and if any of the wolves were caught, they had walked off,
traps and all!
While all were at breakfast, one of the mortified hunters, disgusted
at the loss of his trap, went off with the intention of tracking the
wolf that had carried it away, thinking perhaps if the animal had got
rid of it he would find it on its trail. Sure enough, a wolf had been
caught by this man's trap, and in dragging it along had left in the
grass a very distinct trail, by which he was easily followed.
He was tracked into a thicket of hazel, entrance to which was almost
impossible, so rank and tangled was its growth. No doubt the wolf
was alive, but how to recover his trap was an enigma to the hunter.
He called the dogs and endeavoured to get them to go in, but, after
their experience of the night before, they, with the most terrible
howls, declined to make the attempt. Then it was observed that near
the clump of hazel was a large oak-tree, from whose limbs an extended
view of the centre of the thicket could be had. One of the hunters,
at the suggestion of Captain Williams, climbed the tree, and shot the
wolf with his rifle. The danger having passed, the wolf was dragged
from his retreat, and it was discovered that one of his forefeet had
been caught in the trap. He was an immense fellow, and nearly black
in colour.
In the early days of the frontier, the following method was sometimes
employed to rid a camp of wolves. Several fishhooks were tied
together by their shanks, with a sinew, and the whole placed in the
centre of a piece of tempting fresh meat, which was dropped where the
bait was most likely to be found by the prowling beasts. The hooks
were so completely buried in the meat as to prevent their being shaken
off by the animal that seized the bait. It is an old trapper's belief
that a wolf never takes up a piece of food without shaking it well
before he attempts to eat it, so that when the unlucky animal had
swallowed the wicked morsel, he commenced at once to howl most horribly,
tear his neck, and run incontinently from the place. As wolves rarely
travel alone, but are gregarious in their habits, the moment the brute
has swallowed the bait and commenced to run, all make after him.
His fleeing is contagious, and they seldom come back to that spot
again. Sometimes the pack will run for fifty miles before stopping.
One night, while encamped on the Platte, five of their horses were
missing when daylight came. At first they thought the Indians had
run them off; but, on second thought, Captain Williams argued that
the animals could not have been stolen. If the Indians had been able
to take the five, they could as easily have taken the whole herd.
This induced the men to go out and institute a search for the missing
animals. Their trail, made very plain by the dew, was soon found in
the grass, and soon all were returned to camp. The horses had cleared
themselves of their hobbles, and were going off in the direction of
their far-away home, and it was not until dark that the camp was
reached. Thus a whole day was lost, but as they were yet within
comparatively safe distance of the river, no harm resulted from their
carelessness. Now greater caution must be observed, for their journey
was to be a long one; it led through a region occupied by hostile
tribes who would watch them with an energy possible only to the North
American savage. The Indians would waylay them in every ravine,
watch them every moment from the hilltops for the purpose of gaining
an advantage, hoping always to surprise them, steal their horses,
and take their scalps if possible.
From that day the company adopted new tactics; they travelled until
an hour before sundown, then halted, unsaddled their animals, and
picketed them out to graze. In the meantime their supper was prepared,
the fires lighted, and, after resting long enough for their horses to
have filled themselves, generally after dark, they were brought in,
saddled, the fires were renewed, and the company would start on for
another camp eight or ten miles away, before again halting for the
night. Of course, at the new camp no fires were kindled, and the men
rested in security from a possible attack by the savages.
One day the company came upon a band of friendly Kansas Indians who
were out on an annual buffalo-hunt, and Captain Williams resolved to
spend two or three days with this tribe, and indulge in a buffalo-hunt
with them. The whole country through which they were now travelling
was literally covered with the great shaggy monsters; thousands and
thousands could be seen from every point. The buffalo had not yet
been frightened. Early the next morning, a dozen of the Kansas
Indians, splendidly mounted, with spears, bows, and arrows for
weapons, with the same number of Captain Williams' men, started for
the herd grazing so unsuspiciously a few miles off. The Indians were
not only excellent hunters, but very superior horsemen, their animals
familiar with the habits of the huge beasts they were to encounter,
and well-trained in all the quick movements so necessary to a
successful hunt. But it was not so with the men of Captain Williams'
party. Many of them had never seen a buffalo before, and though
skilful hunters in their native woods on the Missouri River, they were
wholly unacquainted with the habits of the immense beasts they were
now to kill. Their horses, too, were as unused to the sight of a
buffalo as their riders, and in consequence were badly frightened
at the first sight of the ungainly animals. The men, of course,
used their rifles, which in those days were altogether too cumbersome
for hunting the buffalo.
The party soon came in view of the herd, which was quietly grazing
about a mile off. Then the men dismounted, cinched up their saddles,
and getting their arms ready for the attack, in a few moments of brisk
riding were on the edge of the vast herd. Every man picked out his
quarry and dashed after it, the Indians selecting the bulls, as they
were fatter at that time of year. The cows had calves at their sides
and were much thinner. In a moment the very earth seemed to tremble
under the sharp clatter of the hoofs of the now thoroughly alarmed
beasts, and the sound as they dashed away was like distant thunder.
The Indians and their horses seemed to understand their business
at once. Advancing up to a buffalo, the savage discharged his bow
and launched his spear with unerring aim, and the moment it was seen
that a buffalo was mortally wounded, off he would ride to another
animal, leaving the dying victim where it fell.
For more than two hours the hard work was kept up until a dozen or
more of the huge bulls were dead upon the prairie within the radius
of a couple of miles. The Indians had averaged more than a buffalo
apiece, while Captain Williams' men had signally failed to bring down
a single bull, because they were unable to handle their rifles while
riding. In fact, several of the white men were carried away by their
unmanageable animals for miles from the scene of the hunt. One was
thrown from his saddle. One horse had in his mad fright rushed upon
an infuriated bull that had been wounded, and was disembowelled and
killed in a moment. Its rider was compelled to walk to the camp,
deeply mortified at his discomfiture.
The savages invariably exercised an amount of coolness on a buffalo-hunt
that would astonish the average white man. They never let an arrow
fly until they were certain of its effect. Sometimes a single arrow
would suffice to kill the largest of bulls. Sometimes, so great was
the force given, an arrow would pass obliquely through the body, when
a bone was not struck in its passage.
Captain Williams' party had now an abundance of delicious buffalo meat,
but it was at the expense of a horse, a considerable balance on the
debtor side, considering the long and weary march yet to be made.
Providence seems to have come luckily to the relief of the party at
this juncture, for, one of the savages having taken a particular
fancy to one of the dogs of the outfit, he offered to exchange a fine
young horse for it. His offer was gladly acceded to by the captain.
The Indian was pleased with the bargain, but not more so than the
horseless hunter.
The next day Captain Williams crossed the Platte a short distance
below the junction of the North and South Forks, and just before
sundown, as usual, halted to graze the horses and prepare their
evening meal. In a few moments the dog that had been exchanged for
a horse came into camp, and appeared overjoyed to see his white
friends again. A piece of buffalo-hide was attached to his neck.
He had been tied, but had succeeded in gnawing the lariat in two,
and thus made his escape, following the trail of the party he knew
so well.
The region through which Captain Williams' party was now travelling
was dotted with the various animals which at that early period were
so numerous on the grand prairies of the Platte. Conspicuous,
of course, were vast herds of buffalo, and near the outer edge of the
nearest could be distinctly seen a pack of hungry wolves, eagerly
watching for a chance to hamstring one of the superannuated bulls
which stood alone, remote from all his companions, in all the misery
of his forlorn abandonment.
In the afternoon, as the party were riding silently along the trail
by the margin of the river, a rumbling, muffled sound was heard,
like the mutterings of thunder below the horizon. One of the Indians
whom Captain Williams had induced to accompany him for some distance
farther into the wilderness, told him that the noise was made by a
stampeded herd of buffalo, and the sound became clearer and more
distinct. He believed the frightened animals were rushing in the
direction of the company, and if his surmises were true, there was
danger in store. For more than an hour the rumbling continued,
sounding louder and louder, until at last a surging, dark-looking
mass of rapidly moving animals was visible on the horizon, seeming to
cover the entire surface of the prairie as far as the eye could see.
There was but one thing to do; either the herd must be divided by some
means, or death to all was inevitable. Accordingly the horses were
hobbled, and the men rushed toward the approaching mass of surging
animals, firing off their rifles as rapidly and shouting as loudly as
they could. Luckily for the hunters, as the vast array of frightened
buffaloes came toward them, the leaders, with bloodshot eyes, stared
for a moment at the new object of terror, divided to the right and
left, passing the now thoroughly alarmed men with only about fifty or
sixty yards between them.
For more than an hour the hard work of yelling and firing off their
rifles had to be kept up before the danger was over. The buffalo
appeared to be more badly frightened at the yells of the Indian
than at anything else that confronted them. One of the beautiful
greyhounds belonging to the company became demoralized, and, running
into the midst of the rushing herd as it passed by, was cruelly
trampled to death in an instant.
In the early days it was generally believed that, when buffalo were
seen stampeding in the manner described, they were being chased by
Indians; and the party, surmising this to be the cause of the present
onward rush of the animals, although getting short of their meat
rations, did not deem it prudent to kill any, so the vast herd of
the coveted animals was allowed to pass by without a shot being fired
at them.
The delay caused by the stampede made the party very late in making
their usual afternoon camp, and when they started on their hard march
again, three of the men were detailed to hunt for game. They were
told to join the company at a bunch of timber just visible low down
on the western horizon, apparently about six miles distant, but as
afterward proved it was much farther.
The men who were ordered out by the captain were warned to observe
the strictest vigilance, and particularly not to separate from each
other, as it was evident they were in a dangerous country, and their
safety depended upon their keeping within supporting distance.
The main body of the party arrived at the bunch of timber about
sundown, and partook of a very slight repast, as the meat, upon which
they depended almost entirely, was nearly exhausted. About dark,
however, two of the hunters who had left in the afternoon came into
camp bringing with them a fine deer. They reported that their
companion had left them to get a shot at a herd of elk a mile away,
and while going after the deer which they had killed they lost sight
of him. They also stated that they had seen three horsemen going in
the direction which the missing man had taken. This painful news
created the greatest alarm in the camp; it was too late and dark to
go out in search of their missing comrade, and if he were still alive
he would be compelled to remain entirely unprotected during the night
on the prairie. The captain at first thought of kindling a large fire,
hoping that the lost man would see the light and find his way in.
As this plan would betray the presence of the whole party to any
Indians who might be prowling about, it was wisely abandoned.
So the little camp-fires were extinguished, and a double guard posted,
for it was believed that, if the Indians had killed their comrade,
they would be likely to attack the main camp at dawn, the hour
usually selected for such raids.
The night passed slowly on; nothing disturbed the hunters except their
anxiety for their lost comrade. At the faintest intimation of the
coming dawn, ten of the party, including the two who had been with
the missing man the previous afternoon, set out on their quest for
their lost companion. They first went back to the spot where they
remembered having last seen him, but there was not a sign of him;
not even the track of his horse's hoofs could be seen. The men
fired off their rifles as they rode along, and occasionally called out
his name, but not a sound came back in response. At last they were
rewarded by the sight of a horse standing in a bunch of willows.
As they approached him, they were welcomed by his neighing. They then
halted, and continued their shouting and calling by name, but not an
answer did they get. They were now confirmed in their belief that
their comrade had been killed by the Indians, who were in possession
of his horse, and at that moment hidden in the bunch of willows
before them. They were determined to know positively, so they
approached the spot very cautiously, with their fingers on the
triggers of their rifles, ready to repel an attack. When they had
approached sufficiently near, they saw that the horse was carefully
fastened to the brush, and a short distance away was Carson[7]
lying down with his head resting on the saddle! At first the men
thought him dead, but found out that he was only in a profound sleep,
indeed, really enjoying the most delightful dreams. When they aroused
him he appeared bewildered for a moment, but soon recovered his normal
condition, and related his story to his now happy companions. He said
that in his eagerness to get the elk he lost his bearings, and
wandered about until midnight. He hoped that he might catch a glimpse
of their camp-fire, but failing in that, being tired and hungry,
he laid himself down and tried to sleep; but pondering upon his danger
he lay awake until daylight, and had just dropped into a deep slumber
when they found him, and he slept so soundly that he failed to hear
them call. He said that he saw the Indians on horseback seen by the
other men; they passed by him within a hundred yards, but did not
see him, as he was already hidden in the willows where he was found.
The lost man being found, the party returned to camp and resumed its
journey, exercising renewed caution, as the signs of Indians grew
thicker as they moved on. Tracks of the savages' horses and the
remains of their camp-fires were now of frequent occurrence, and the
game along the trail was easily frightened, another sign of the late
presence of Indians.
About noon some mounted Indians were discovered by the aid of the
captain's field-glass, on a divide, evidently watching the movements
of the party. They were supposed to be runners of some hostile tribe,
who intended that night to steal upon them and take their horses, and
possibly attempt to take their scalps. Toward night the same Indians
were again observed following the trail of the party, and they were
now satisfied the savages were dogging them. Having arrived at the
margin of a small stream of very pure water, they halted for an hour
or more, allowing the Indians, who were evidently watching every
movement, to believe their intention was to camp for the night at
that spot. As soon as the animals were sufficiently rested, however,
and had filled themselves with the nutritious grass growing so
luxuriantly all around them, they saddled up, first having added a
large amount of fresh fuel to their fires, and started on. They made
a detour to the north in order to deceive the savages as much as
possible as to their real course. The ruse had the desired effect,
for after travelling about ten miles farther, they slept soundly until
the next morning, without fires, on a delicious piece of green sod.
At the first streak of dawn the men were in their saddles again,
having outwitted the Indians completely. It was about the first
of June; and one day, soon after they had gotten rid of their savage
spies, one of the party was stricken down with a severe sickness,
and they were compelled to lie in camp and attend to the sufferings
of their unfortunate comrade. He had a high fever, grew delirious,
and as in those days bleeding was considered a panacea for all the
ills that flesh is heir to, the captain made several abortive attempts
to draw the diseased blood from the poor man, but failed completely.
He also dosed his victim with copious draughts of calomel, but the
result was far from salutary; the man grew worse, but the party
determined to remain with him until he did get better or death
relieved him of his sufferings. Accordingly, to make themselves more
secure from probable attacks of the Indians, they threw up a rude
breastwork of earth, behind which they established themselves and
felt thereafter a greater degree of security.
Some of the men were despatched on a hunt for meat, and shortly
returned with part of the carcass of a young buffalo cow, and one
antelope, which was the first they had been able to kill. The man who
killed it said that he resorted to the tactics generally adopted by
the Indians. The timid animal would not allow him to approach within
rifle-shot, until he had excited its curiosity by fastening a
handkerchief on the end of his ramrod. As soon as the antelope saw it,
it gradually walked toward him until so near that he was assured that
his piece would carry that far. It actually came within thirty yards
of him, and he shot it while lying prone on the ground, the graceful
animal noticing nothing but the white rag that had attracted its
attention.
On the afternoon of that day a band of savages, mounted on fine horses,
made their appearance near the camp, and looked upon the white men
with great curiosity. It was soon learned that they were Pawnees,
and with some little trouble they were enticed to come in, and a talk
was had with their leader. They proved to be a party out after some
Osages who had stolen a number of horses. They had been lucky enough
to overtake them, and had killed nearly all the thieves, regained
their horses, and had a number of the enemies' scalps. The Pawnees
had met Captain Lewis the year before, and having received some
presents from him were inclined to regard the whites as a friendly
people. This impression the captain further confirmed by himself
making them gifts of some tobacco and trifling trinkets. They were
shown around the camp, and seemed to sympathize deeply with the
sick man, who was lying on his blankets in a dying condition.
They gathered some roots from the prairie, and assured the captain
that if the man would take them he would certainly recover; they also
urged their manner of sweating and bathing, but the appliances were
not at hand, so the advice had to be declined.[8]
That evening the sick man died; an event that was looked for, but
not so soon. His body was immediately wrapped in his blanket and
deposited in a grave. On the bark of a tree standing near, his name,
“William Hamilton,” and the date of his death were rudely carved
with a jack-knife by one of the party.
Early in the morning the occupants of the camp were shocked at the
sight of a pack of wolves most industriously at work on the grave
trying to unearth the body of their unfortunate comrade. All the men
suddenly and almost simultaneously attempted to fire their rifles
at the pack, but were checked by the captain, who urged that the
report of their arms might bring down upon them a band of Indians
who were not so friendly as the Pawnees. With great difficulty the
wolves were driven off, and the grave was covered with heavy logs
and the largest stones that could be procured in the vicinity.
The party then continued on their journey, feeling very sad over
the loss of Hamilton, for he was beloved by all on account of his
sterling qualities.
In the afternoon a great commotion was noticed far ahead of them
on the prairie. At first they could not determine its cause, but
presently the captain, bringing his glass to bear upon the objects,
discovered it to be a small band of wolves in full chase after a
superannuated buffalo bull, which had been driven out of the herd
by the younger ones.
The frightened animal was coming directly toward the party with the
excited wolves close at his heels. There were twelve wolves, and
evidently they had had a long chase, as both they and the buffalo
were nearly exhausted. The party stopped to witness the novel fight,
a scene so foreign to anything they had witnessed before. The wolves
were close around the buffalo, snapping incessantly at his heels,
in their endeavour to hamstring him. They did not hold on like a dog,
but at every jump at the poor beast they would bring away a mouthful
of his flesh, which they gulped down as they ran. So fierce was the
chase that the famishing wolves did not observe the men until they
came within ten yards of them; even then they did not appear to be
much frightened, but scampered off a short distance, sat on their
haunches, licked their bloody chops, and appeared to be waiting with
the utmost impatience to renew the chase again. The buffalo had
suffered severely, and he was ultimately brought to the ground.
The party left him to his fate, and as they rode away they could see
the ravenous pack, with fresh impetuosity, tearing the poor beast
to pieces with true canine ferocity.
That evening, after the party had fixed their camp for the night,
two young Indians, a man and a squaw, rode up and alighted in the
midst of the company, apparently worn out from hard riding.
Their sudden appearance filled the company with amazement, and the
safety of all demanded an immediate explanation, for they all thought
that the young savage might be a runner or spy of some hostile band,
who were meditating an attack upon them. But they were rather
nonplussed upon seeing the youthful maiden; they could not believe
that their first conjectures were correct, her presence precluded
such a possibility. They had been told by Big White that war-parties
never encumbered themselves with women, and the jaded condition of
the young people's horses to some extent allayed their fears, for it
was evident the Indians had made a long and severe journey.
The captain requested the Indian who had accompanied his party thus far
to interrogate them as to what was their destination, and why they
had come so unceremoniously into the camp. It was soon learned that
the boy was a Pawnee who had been captured by a band of Sioux a year
or more ago, and was carried by them to their village far up the
Missouri, in which he had remained a prisoner until an opportunity
had offered to make his escape. The young girl with him was a Sioux,
for whom he had conceived a liking while among her tribe.
Their story, divested of the crude manner in which it was interpreted
by the Mandan and put into intelligent English, was as follows:—
The boy belonged to the Pawnee Loups, whose tribe lived on the Wolf
Fork of the Platte. One day, in company with several of his young
comrades, he had gone down to the river to indulge in the luxury
of a swim, and while they were amusing themselves in the water,
a raiding band of the Tetons came suddenly upon them, making a
prisoner of him while the others managed to make their escape.
He was instantly snatched up, tied on a horse, and hurried away.
The animal he rode was led by one of the band, and goaded on by
another who followed immediately behind. They travelled night and day
until they reached a point entirely free from the possibility of being
followed, and then he was leisurely conveyed to the main village at
the Great Bend of the Missouri. As their prisoner happened to be the
son of a grand chief of the Pawnees, he was greatly prized as a
captive, and, on that account, was placed in the family of a principal
chief of the Tetons. He was only sixteen years old according to his
statement, but he was already fully five and a half feet high, and one
of the handsomest and best proportioned Indians that Captain Williams
had ever seen.
He said that his name was Do-ran-to, and that it is frequently the
lot of Indian captives, to some extent, to occupy the relation of
servants or slaves to their captors, and to be assigned to those
menial and domestic offices which are never performed by men among
the Indians, but constitute the employment of the women. To be
compelled to fill such a position in the village was very mortifying
to the Indian pride of Do-ran-to, the heir to a chieftainship in his
own tribe; but he became somewhat reconciled to it, as it threw him
in the company of a beautiful daughter of the principal man in the
village, whose name was Ni-ar-gua.
Do-ran-to was never permitted to go to war or to hunt the buffalo,
a mode of life too tame and inactive for one of his restless spirit;
but the compensation was in the frequent opportunities it gave him
of walking and talking with the beautiful Ni-ar-gua, over whose heart
he had soon gained a complete victory.
It would not do, however, for the daughter of a distinguished chief
to be the wife of a captive slave, belonging, too, to a tribe toward
which the Tetons entertained a hereditary hostility. It would be a
flagrant violation of every rule of Indian etiquette. The mother of
the youthful Ni-ar-gua, like her white match-making sisters, soon
noticed the growing familiarity of the two lovers, and she like a good
wife reported the matter to her husband, the chief. The intelligence
was entirely unexpected, and by no means very agreeable to his feeling
of pride, so, after the savage method of disciplining refractory
daughters, Ni-ar-gua was not only roughly reproved for her temerity,
but received a good lodge-poling from her irate father, besides.
He also threatened to shoot an arrow through the heart of Do-ran-to
for his impudent pretensions. The result, however, of the attempt
to break the match, as in similar cases in civilized life, was not
only unsuccessful, but served to increase the flame it was intended
to extinguish, and to strengthen instead of dissolve the attachment
between the two.
If now their partiality for each other was not visible and open,
they were none the less determined to carry out their designs.
When the young Pawnee perceived that there were difficulties in
the way, which would ever be insuperable while he remained a prisoner
among the Tetons, he immediately conceived the idea of eloping to
his own people, and embraced the first opportunity to apprise
Ni-ar-gua of his design. The proposition met with a hearty response
on her part. She was ready to go with him wherever he went, and
to die where he died.
Now there was a young warrior of her own tribe who also desired the
hand of the Teton belle, and he greatly envied the position Do-ran-to
occupied in the eyes of Ni-ar-gua. In fact, he entertained the most
deadly hate toward the Pawnee captive, and suffered no opportunity
to show it to pass unimproved. Do-ran-to was by no means ignorant
of the young warrior's feelings of jealousy and hate, but he felt
his disability as an alien in the tribe, and pursued a course of
forbearance as most likely to ensure the accomplishment of his designs.
Still, there were bounds beyond which his code of honour would not
suffer his enemy to pass. On one occasion, the young brave offered
Do-ran-to the greatest and most intolerable insult which in the
estimation of Western tribes one man can give to another.
The person on whom this indignity is cast, by a law among the tribes,
may take away the life of the offender if he can; but it is customary,
and thought more honourable, to settle the difficulty by single
combat, in which the parties may use the kind of weapons on which
they mutually agree. Public sentiment will admit of no compromise.
If no resistance is offered to the insult, the person insulted is
thenceforth a disgraced wretch, a dog, and universally despised.
Do-ran-to forthwith demanded satisfaction of the young Sioux, who,
by the way, was only too anxious to give it, being full of game and
mettle, as well as sanguine as to the victory he would gain over the
hated young Pawnee. They agreed to settle their difficulty by single
combat, and the weapons to be used were war-clubs and short knives.
A suitable place was selected. The whole village of the Tetons
emptied itself to witness the combat. Men, women, and children
swarmed about the arena. The two youthful combatants made their
appearance, stark naked, and took their positions about thirty yards
apart. Just when the signal was given, Do-ran-to's eye caught that
of his betrothed Ni-ar-gua in the crowd. Then said his heart,
“Be strong and my arm big!” There was no fear then in Do-ran-to.
As the champions advanced toward each other, the Sioux was too
precipitate, and by the impulse of the charge was carried rather
beyond Do-ran-to, who, being more cool and deliberate, gave him,
as he passed, a blow on the back of the neck with his war-club that
perfectly stunned him and brought him to the ground. Do-ran-to then
sprang upon him and despatched him by a single thrust of his knife.
The relatives of the unfortunate Sioux raised a loud lament, and,
with that piteous kind of howling peculiar to savages, bore him away.
Do-ran-to was now regarded as a young brave, and was greatly advanced
in the general esteem of the village. He must now be an adopted son,
and no longer a woman, but go to war, and hunt the buffalo, the elk,
and the antelope.
The father of Ni-ar-gua, however, must in this matter be excepted.
In the general excitement in behalf of the lucky captive he lagged
behind, and was reserved and sullen. Having conceived a dislike
for him, he was not inclined to confer upon him the honours he had
so fairly won. And then it would not do to appear delighted with
the valour of the young Pawnee. Ni-ar-gua was his favourite child,
and she must be the wife of some distinguished personage. But the
chief was doomed, as many a father is, to be outwitted by his daughter
in matters of this kind. At a time when he was absent, holding
a council with a neighbouring tribe of the Sioux upon great national
affairs, Do-ran-to picked out two of the chief's best horses on which
to escape with the girl to his own tribe. Ni-ar-gua was ready.
When the village was sunk in a profound sleep, she met him in a
sequestered spot, bringing a supply of provisions for their intended
trip. In a moment they were in their saddles and away!
They were not less than three “sleeps” from his own people, and
would be followed by some of the Tetons as long as there was any hope
of overtaking them. By morning, however, there would be such a
wide space between them and their pursuers as to make their escape
entirely practicable, if no mishap befell them on the way. They had
good horses, good hearts, a good country to travel over, and above
all a good cause, and why not good luck?
They travelled night and day, never stopping any longer than was
absolutely necessary to rest their horses. After his story was told,
the captain tried to prevail upon the young couple to remain with
the company until morning, and enjoy that rest and refreshment which
he and the girl so much needed; but the gallant young savage said
that they had not slept since they had set out on their flight,
nor did they even dare to think of closing their eyes before they
should reach the village of the Pawnees. He knew that he would be
pursued as long as there was any hope of overtaking him; and he also
knew what his doom would be if he again fell into the hands of the
Sioux. Having remained, therefore, in the camp scarcely an hour,
the two fugitive lovers were again on the wing, flying over the green
prairie, guided by the light of a full and beautiful moon, and
animated and sustained by the purity of their motives and the hope
of soon reaching a place of safety and protection.
Captain Williams' party could not but admire the courage of the
Teton beauty, the cheerfulness, and even hilarity that she manifested
while in their camp. When ready to start off, she leaped from the
ground, unassisted, into her Indian saddle, reined up her horse,
and was instantly beside him with whom she was now ready to share
any trial and brave any danger. It was an exhibition of female
fortitude, that kind of heroism, peculiar to the sex in all races,
which elevates woman to a summit perfectly inaccessible to man.
The party moved on the next day, and the utmost caution was necessary
to prevent it from being cut off, for the region through which they
were now passing was infested with many bands of Sioux—a terror to
all other tribes on account of their superior numbers. The several
bands were scattered from the waters of the Platte to the Black Hills,
and for a number of years resisted all efforts made by various
expeditions to push forward to the upper tribes.
One day, after leaving their camp where the Indian lovers had come
so suddenly upon them, a large herd of buffaloes was observed feeding
very quietly about a quarter of a mile from their line of travel,
offering those an opportunity who desired to show their horsemanship
and skill in a hunt. Although they had an abundance of meat, and
it was the purpose of the captain that there should be no more
shooting than was absolutely necessary, the impetuous Carson asked
permission to try his hand.
The captain reluctantly granted his request, as it was nearly sundown,
and the company had come to its accustomed halt. The more experienced
of the men urged Carson not to venture too near the object of
his pursuit, nor too far from the camp, as both steps might be
accompanied with danger to all. The young man felt it to be the
safer plan to undertake the hunt on horseback, and as the heavy
rifles of those days were not so easily handled as the modern arm,
he armed himself with two braces of pistols. The buffalo very soon
observed his approach, became frightened, and incontinently put off
at full speed. This made it necessary that the hunter should increase
his speed, and immediately horse, hunter, and buffalo were out of
sight of the camp.
Having completed their evening meal and grazed their animals,
the party would have moved on, but Carson had not yet returned.
Night came on rapidly and still he did not make his appearance.
Many fears for his safety were now entertained in the camp, and
the suspicious circumstance of his prolonged absence generally
prevented the men from sleeping at all that night. Early in the
morning a party went out to hunt him, and without much difficulty
found him. He was sitting on a large rock near the stream,
perfectly lost. Some of the men while looking for him had discovered
him when about a mile away, and naturally supposed he was an Indian,
as they could see no horse, and were very near leaving him to his
fate; but the thought that they might be mistaken prompted them to
approach, and they recognized him. According to his story he chased
the buffalo for five or six miles, and for some time could not
induce his horse to go near enough to the animals for him to use
his pistols with any effect. After repeated unsuccessful attempts,
however, he was enabled to ride up to the side of an immense bull,
and commenced to fire at him as he ran. His repeated shots threw
the animal into the greatest rage, and as horse, bull, and rider
were dashing down the slope of the hill, the infuriated bull suddenly
stopped short, turned round, and began to battle. The horse, not
trained to such dangerous tactics, following immediately behind
the bull, became at the moment perfectly unmanageable, rushed upon
the horns of the buffalo, and his rider was thrown headlong to the
ground. When he had recovered himself, and got on his feet again,
he saw the buffalo running off as fast as his legs could carry him,
but found that his horse was so badly wounded as to be of no further
use to him. When he gathered his senses, he would have gladly gone
back to the camp, but in the excitement of the chase he had paid
no attention to the direction he was going, and was absolutely lost.
He wandered about, and at last coming to a willow copse crawled in
and slept until morning. At the first streak of dawn he crawled out
of his hiding-place, and very cautiously examined the prairie all
around him to learn whether any Indians had been prowling about.
Observing nothing that indicated any danger, he set out with the
intention of finding the party, and had tramped around until hunger
and fatigue had compelled him to sit down where they had found him.
As the party returned to camp they discovered Carson's horse;
he was dead, and a pack of hungry wolves had already nearly devoured
him. In fact it was the general idea that the horse had been killed
by the wolves, as the whole country was infested by them, and,
scenting the blood of the wounded animal, soon put an end to his
misery. They had commenced upon the saddle, and had so torn and
chewed it that it was perfectly useless.
Upon his arrival in camp the crestfallen Carson was asked a hundred
questions, but he did not feel like being taunted, as he had gone
without a morsel to eat for fifteen hours, had undergone great
fatigue, and was considerably bruised from his tumble off his horse.
Several nights after Carson's escapade, about an hour after dark
the party saw before them a light which they thought might indicate
the proximity of an Indian camp. As some of the men who had been
out to reconnoitre approached it, they discovered they were not
mistaken in their surmises, and upon their return to camp and
reporting what they had seen, the captain thought it a wise plan
to move out as quickly as possible. The Indians whom they had seen
numbered about a hundred, and they were seated around about fifteen
fires; some of them were women and they appeared to be very busy
drying meat; the party had evidently been out on a hunt. A large
number of horses were grazing in the vicinity of the camp, and the
majority of the warriors were smoking their pipes, while their squaws
were hard at work.
Captain Williams pushed ahead all that night and the greater portion
of the next day before he dared to go into camp. They continued on
for several days more, then made a temporary camp for the purpose of
trapping for beaver. In a short time the men and horses recovered
from the effects of their toilsome journey. The latter began to get
fat, their feet and backs, which had become sore, were healing up
rapidly, and they were soon in as fine a condition as when they left
St. Louis. The men were having a good time, securing plenty of
beaver, and the camp resounded with laughter at the jokes which were
passed around.
For several weeks they had seen no signs of Indians, but one morning
one of the men discovered that an Indian had been caught in a trap,
from which, however, he had extricated himself, as it was found near
the spot where it had been set. A day or two afterward, ten of the
party left the camp on a buffalo-hunt. At the beginning of the chase
the buffalo were not more than a mile from the camp, but they were
pursued for more than three or four miles, which led the party into
danger. A band of Blackfeet, numbering at least a hundred, suddenly
appeared over a divide, and, splendidly mounted on trained ponies,
came toward the hunters as fast as their animals could carry them.
Five of Captain Williams' men made their escape, and reached the
camp, but the remainder were cut off, and immediately killed and
scalped. The five who made their escape were chased to within a
half-mile of the camp by several of the savages, one of whom, after
his comrades had wheeled their horses on seeing the men ready for
them, persistently kept on, evidently eager to get another scalp.
He paid for his rashness with his life, as one of the hunters who had
not yet discharged his rifle sent a bullet after him, which shot him
through and through, and he tumbled from his animal stone dead.
The loss of five men from a party which originally numbered only
twenty had a very depressing effect upon those who were left, and
Captain Williams felt that his situation was very critical.
He expected every moment to see a large band of the Blackfeet
come down upon him. He was now certain of one thing; he knew that
his party had been watched by the savages for several days, as they
had noticed several times, during the past week, objects which they
believed to have been wolves, moving on the summits of the divides,
but after their unfortunate skirmish with the Indians they felt sure
that what they had taken to be wolves were in fact savages.
The fight with its disastrous results had occurred late in the
afternoon, so that it was not long before the party made their first
camp for the night. The horses were all brought in and picketed near,
the traps gathered as fast as possible, and everything made ready for
a hasty departure as soon as darkness should close in upon them.
Large fires were lighted as usual, only more than the usual number
were kindled, and at midnight the sorrowful party mounted their
animals and set off.
They travelled as fast as their horses could walk for fully twenty-four
hours before they dared make another halt, but they soon found
themselves in the country of the Crows, who were friendly with the
whites. The first village they encountered was a very large one,
and the chief induced them to remain with him for nearly a week,
during which time they went out on a buffalo-hunt with their newly
found friends. They were not satisfied, however, with the region,
it being not nearly so fruitful in beaver as the country south of
the Crows, so they made a detour to the south.
When about to leave the generous Crows, one of Captain Williams' men,
whose name was Rose, expressed his intention to abandon the party and
take up his life with the Indians. It appears that while Rose was in
the village he was not able to resist the charms of a certain Crow
maiden, whom he afterward chose as his wife, with whom he lived
happily for several years. When Rose joined Captain Williams' party,
his antecedents were entirely unknown to that grand old frontiersman.
It turned out that he was one of those desperadoes of the then remote
frontier, who had been outlawed for his crimes farther east, and whose
character was worse than any savage, with whom even now such men
sometimes consort. Rose had formerly belonged to a gang of pirates
who infested the islands of the Mississippi, plundering boats as they
travelled up and down the river. They sometimes shifted the scene of
their robberies to the shore, waylaid voyagers on their route to
New Orleans, and often perpetrated the most cold-blooded murders.
When the villanous horde of cut-throats was broken up, Rose betook
himself to the upper wilderness, and when Captain Williams was forming
his company at St. Louis, he came forward and offered himself.
Captain Williams was not at all pleased with the sinister looks of
the fellow, suspecting that his character was not good, but it was
a difficult matter to induce men to join an expedition fraught with
so much daring and danger. So the refugee was dropped among the Crows,
whose habits of life were much more congenial to the feelings of
such a man than the restraints of civilization.[9]
The Crow chief at the time of the visit of Captain Williams' party
to their nation was Ara-poo-ish, who was succeeded by the famous
Jim Beckwourth, who remained at the head of the tribe for many years.
When Captain Williams arrived at the headwaters of the Platte,
the party met with another disaster. Early one morning seven of
the men, including the captain, went out to bring in their horses
which had been turned out to graze the evening before. As they were
still in the country of the Crows, whom they regarded as their firm
friends, they had not exercised their usual precaution of securely
picketing their animals. They merely had tied their two forefeet
loosely together to prevent them from straying too far, while they
retired to the shelter of some friendly timber a short distance away,
and lying down on their buffalo-robes, went to sleep. When they
set out for their animals they could not be found. A trail, however,
plainly discernible in the deep, dewy grass, was soon discovered,
very fresh, leading across a low divide. They also came upon several
of the rawhide strips by which their horses had been hobbled.
These were not broken, but had evidently been unfastened,
a circumstance that filled the minds of the party with the most
painful anxiety. They continued on the trail of the missing animals,
to the top of a ridge, where they were suddenly confronted by a band
of about sixty Indians. The savages appeared to be busy preparing
an attack upon the party, for when the Indians observed the white men
they immediately mounted their ponies, and dashed right down the hill
toward them, at the same moment making the hills echo with their
diabolical whoops. Captain Williams urged his men to make their
escape to the timber, but before they could reach it five of them
were overtaken, killed, and scalped! The captain and one other man
succeeded in reaching the clump of trees, though very closely pursued.
The remaining men who were left in camp, seeing the savages coming,
snatched up their rifles, and each hiding himself behind the trunk
of a tree opened fire upon them. That movement caused the savages
to wheel around and dash back, but they left several of their
comrades dead and wounded upon the ground. In a few moments the
infuriated Indians made another charge, shouting and whooping as
only savages can, and launched a shower of arrows into the timber.
The underbrush was very dense, which prevented them from riding into
the timber, and also from seeing the exact whereabouts of Captain
Williams and his men. It was a most fortunate circumstance, for
they would have been cut off if they had been out on the open prairie,
but as they could plainly see the savages, they took careful aim,
and at each report of the rifle a savage was brought to the ground.
The Indians made four successive charges, and discovering they were
not able to dislodge the little band of brave white men, they finally
abandoned the fight and rode away. Nineteen of the Indians were
killed by Captain Williams' party, but it was a sad victory, for now
only ten men were left of the original twenty, and they were without
a single horse to ride or pack their equipage upon.
Certainly expecting that the savages would shortly return with
reënforcements, the sad little company hurriedly gathered up their
furs and as many traps as the ten men could carry, and travelled about
ten miles, keeping close to the timber. When darkness came on they
crept into a very dense growth of underbrush, where they passed the
greater part of the night in erecting a scaffold upon which they
cached their furs, traps, and other things which they found
inconvenient to carry.
As the prospects of the company were now gloomy in the extreme,
the spirits of the men drooped and their hearts became sad.
They were many hundreds of miles from any settlement, in the heart
of a wilderness almost boundless, and beset on every side by lurking
savages ready at any moment to dash in upon them when an opportunity
offered.
Of course, the project of crossing the Rocky Mountains and trapping
at the headwaters of the Columbia had now to be abandoned.
They wandered about, meeting with various adventures, until only
Captain Williams and two others of the party were left. At last
they agreed to separate, the two intending to attempt the difficult
passage back to St. Louis, while the brave captain remained, and
finally reached the great Arkansas Valley in safety.
CHAPTER III.
JIM BECKWOURTH.
In 1812 General William H. Ashley, the head of the Rocky Mountain
Fur Company, travelled up the Platte Valley, which a few years
previously had been traversed by Captain Ezekiel Williams, whose
routes were nearly the same. This party had a particularly hard time.
Before they reached the buffalo country the Indians had driven every
herd away.
In the company there were two Spaniards, who were one morning left
behind at camp to catch some horses that had strayed. The two men
stopped at the house of a respectable white woman, and finding her
without protection, they assaulted her. They were pursued to the
camp by a number of the settlers, who made the outrage known to the
trappers. They all regarded the crime with the utmost abhorrence,
and felt mortified that any of their party should be guilty of conduct
so revolting. The culprits were arrested, and they at once admitted
their guilt. A council was called in the presence of the settlers,
and the men were offered their choice of two punishments: either to be
hanged to the nearest tree, or to receive one hundred lashes each on
the bare back. They chose the latter, which was immediately inflicted
upon them by four of the trappers. Having no cat-o'-nine-tails in
their possession, the lashes were inflicted with hickory withes.
Their backs were terribly lacerated, and the blood flowed in streams
to the ground. The following morning the two Spaniards and two of the
best horses were missing from the camp; they were not pursued, however,
but by the tracks it was discovered they had started for New Mexico.
There were thirty-four men in the party, including the general, and
a harder-looking set for want of nourishment could hardly be imagined.
They moved forward hoping to find game, as their allowance was half
a pint of flour a day per man. This was made into a kind of gruel.
If it happened that a duck or goose was killed, it was shared as
fairly as possible.
There were no jokes, no fireside stories, no fun; each man rose in
the morning with the gloom of the preceding night filling his mind;
they built their fires without saying a word, and partook of their
scanty repast in silence.
At last an order was given for the hunters to sally out and try their
fortunes. Jim Beckwourth, who was one of the party, a mere youth
then, tells of the success in the following words:—
I seized my rifle and issued from camp alone, feeling so
reduced in strength that my mind involuntarily reverted to
the extremity I had been brought to by my youthful folly in
coming into such a desert waste. About three hundred yards
from the camp I saw two teal ducks; I levelled my rifle, and
handsomely decapitated one. This was a temptation to my
constancy; appetite and conscientiousness had a long strife
as to the disposal of the booty. I reflected that it would be
but an inconsiderable trifle to the mess of four hungry men,
while to roast and eat him myself would give me strength to
hunt for more. A strong inward feeling remonstrated against
such an invasion of the rights of my starving messmates;
but if, by fortifying myself, I gained ability to procure
something more substantial than a teal duck, my dereliction
would be sufficiently atoned for, and my overruling appetite
at the same time gratified.
Had I admitted my messmates to the argument, they might
possibly have carried it adversely. But I received the
conclusion as valid; so, roasting it without ceremony in
the bushes, I devoured the duck alone, and felt greatly
invigorated by the meal.
Passing up the stream, I pushed forward to fulfil my obligation.
At the distance of about a mile from the camp, I came across
a narrow deer-trail through some bushes, and directly across
the trail, with only the centre of his body visible (his two
extremities being hidden by the rushes), not more than fifty
yards distant, I saw a fine large buck standing. I did not
wait for a nearer shot. I fired, and broke his neck.
I despatched him by drawing my knife across his throat, and,
having partially dressed him, hung him on a tree close by.
Proceeding onward, I met a large wolf, attracted, probably,
by the scent of the deer. I shot him, and, depriving him
of his meal, devoted him for a repast to the camp. Before I
returned, I succeeded in killing three good-sized elk, which,
added to the former, afforded a pretty good display of meat.
I then returned near enough to the camp to signal them to
come to my assistance. They had heard the reports of my
rifle, and, knowing that I would not waste ammunition,
had been expecting to see me return with game. All who were
able turned out at my summons, and, when they saw the booty
awaiting them, their faces were irradiated with joy.
Each man shouldered his load, but there was not one capable
of carrying the weight of forty pounds. The game being all
brought into camp, the fame of Jim Beckwourth was celebrated
by all tongues. Amid all this gratulation, I could not
separate my thoughts from the duck which had supplied my
clandestine meal in the bushes. I suffered them to appease
their hunger before I ventured to tell my comrades of the
offence of which I had been guilty. All justified my conduct,
declaring my conclusions obvious. As it turned out, my
proceeding was right enough; but if I had failed to meet with
any game, I had been guilty of an offence which would have
haunted me ever after.
The following day we started up the river, and, after
progressing some four or five miles, came in sight of plenty
of deer sign. The general ordered a halt, and directed all
hunters out as before. We sallied out in different directions,
our general, who was a good hunter, being one of the number.
At a short distance from the camp I discovered a large buck
passing slowly between myself and the camp, at about
pistol-shot distance. As I happened to be standing against
a tree, he had not seen me. I fired, the ball passed through
his body, and whizzed past the camp. Leaving him,
I encountered a second deer within three-quarters of a mile.
I shot him and hung him on a limb. Encouraged with my success,
I climbed a tree to get a fairer view of the ground.
Looking around from my elevated position, I perceived some
large dark-coloured animal grazing on the side of a hill,
about a mile and a half distant. I was determined to have
a shot at him, whatever he might be. I knew meat was
in demand, and that fellow, well-stored, was worth a thousand
teal ducks.
I therefore approached with the greatest precaution to within
fair rifle-shot distance, scrutinizing him very closely,
and still unable to make out what he was. I could see
no horns; if it was a bear, I thought him an enormous one.
I took sight at him over my faithful rifle, which had never
failed me, and then set it down, to contemplate the huge
animal still further. Finally I resolved to let fly.
Taking good aim, I pulled the trigger, the rifle cracked,
and then I made rapid retreat toward the camp. After running
about two hundred yards, and hearing nothing of a movement
behind me, I ventured to look around, and to my great joy
I saw the animal had fallen.
Continuing my course to camp, I encountered the general,
who, perceiving blood on my hands, addressed me: “Have you
shot anything, Jim?”
I replied, “Yes, sir.”
“What have you shot?”
“Two deer and something else,” I answered.
“And what is something else?” he inquired.
“I do not know, sir.”
“What did he look like?” the general interrogated.
“Had he horns?”
“I saw no horns, sir.”
“What colour was the animal?”
“You can see him, General,” I replied, “by climbing yonder
tree.”
The general ascended the tree accordingly, and, looking
through his spy-glass, which he always carried, exclaimed,
“A buffalo, by heavens!” and coming nimbly down the tree,
he gave orders for us to take a couple of horses, and go
and dress the buffalo, and bring him to camp.
I suggested that two horses would not carry the load;
six were therefore despatched for the purpose, and they
all came back well packed with the remains.
That was the first buffalo I had ever seen though I had
travelled hundreds of miles in the buffalo country.
The conviction weighing upon my mind that it was a huge bear
I was approaching had so excited me that, although within
fair gun-shot, I actually could not see his horns.
The general and my companions had many a hearty laugh at
my expense, he often expressing wonder that my keen eye
could not, when close to the animal, perceive the horns,
while he could see them plainly nearly two miles away.
When we moved up the river again, we hoped to fall in with
game, though unfortunately found but little in our course.
When we had advanced some twenty miles we halted.
Our position looked threatening. It was midwinter, and
everything around us bore a gloomy aspect. We were without
any provisions, and we saw no means of obtaining any.
At this crisis, six or seven Indians of the Pawnee Loup band
came into our camp. Knowing them to be friendly, we were
overjoyed to see them. They informed our interpreter that
their village was only four miles distant, which at once
accounted for the absence of game. They invited us to their
lodges, where they could supply us with everything we needed,
but on representing to them our scarcity of horses, and the
quantity of peltry we had no means of packing, they
immediately started off to their village. Our interpreter
accompanied them, in quest of horses, and speedily returned
with a sufficient number. Packing our effects, we accompanied
them to the village, Two Axe and a Spaniard named Antoine
Behele, chief of the band, forming part of our escort.
Arrived at their village, we replaced our lost horses by
purchasing others in their stead, and now everything being
ready for our departure, our general informed Two Axe of
his wish to get on.
Two Axe objected: “My men are about to surround the buffalo,”
he said; “if you go now, you will frighten them. You must stay
four days more, then you may go.” His word was law, so we
stayed accordingly.
Within the four days appointed they made the “surround,” and
killed fourteen hundred buffaloes. The tongues were counted
by General Ashley himself, and thus I can guarantee the
assertion.
There were engaged in this hunt from one to two thousand
Indians, some mounted and others on foot. They encompassed
a large space where the buffalo were contained, and,
closing in around them on all sides, formed a complete circle.
The circle at first enclosed measured say six miles in
diameter, with an irregular circumference determined by
the movements of the herd. When the “surround” was formed,
the hunters radiated from the main body to the right and left,
and the ring was entire. The chief then gave the order to
charge, which was communicated along the ring with
lightning-like speed; every man then rushed to the centre,
and the work of destruction began. The unhappy victims,
finding themselves hemmed in on every side, ran this way and
that in their mad efforts to escape. Finding all chance of
escape impossible, and seeing their slaughtered fellows
drop dead at their feet, they bellowed with fright, and in
the confusion that whelmed them lost all power of resistance.
The slaughter generally lasted two or three hours, and seldom
many got clear of the weapons of their assailants.
The field over the “surround” presented the appearance of one
vast slaughter-house. He who had been the most successful in
the work of devastation was celebrated as a hero, and received
the highest honours from the fair sex, while he who had been
so unfortunate as not to have killed a single buffalo was
jeered at and ridiculed by the whole band.
The “surround” accomplished, we received permission from
Two Axe to take up our line of march. Accordingly we started
along the river, and had only proceeded five miles from the
village when we found that the Platte forked. Taking the
South Fork, we journeyed on some six miles and camped.
So we continued every day, making slow progress, some days
not advancing more than four or five miles, until we had
left the Pawnee villages three hundred miles in our rear.
We found plenty of buffalo along our route until we approached
the Rocky Mountains, when the buffalo, as well as all other
game, became scarce, and we had to resort to the beans and
corn supplied to us by the Pawnees.
Not finding any game for a number of days, we again felt
alarmed for our safety. The snow was deep on the ground,
and our poor horses could obtain no food but the boughs and
bark of the cottonwood trees. Still we pushed forward,
seeking to advance as far as possible, in order to open a
trade with the Indians, and occupy ourselves in trapping
during the finish of the season. We were again put upon
reduced rations, one pint of beans per day being the allowance
to a mess of four men, with other articles in proportion.
We travelled on till we arrived at Pilot Butte, where two
misfortunes befell us. A great portion of our horses were
stolen by the Crow Indians, and General Ashley was taken sick,
caused, beyond doubt, by exposure and insufficient fare.
Our condition was growing worse and worse; and, as a measure
best calculated to procure relief, we all resolved to go
on a general hunt, and bring home something to supply our
pressing necessities. All who were able, therefore, started
in different directions, our customary mode of hunting.
I travelled, as near as I could judge, about ten miles from
the camp, and saw no signs of game. I reached a high point
of land, and, on taking a general survey, I discovered
a river which I had never seen in this region before. It was
of considerable size, flowing four or five miles distant,
and on its banks I observed acres of land covered with moving
masses of buffalo. I hailed this as a perfect godsend, and
was overjoyed with the feeling of security infused by my
opportune discovery. However, fatigued and weak, I accelerated
my return to the camp, and communicated my success to my
companions. Their faces brightened up at the intelligence,
and all were impatient to be at them.
The general, on learning my intelligence, desired us to move
forward to the river with what horses we had left, and each
man to carry on his back a pack of the goods that remained
after loading the cattle. He farther desired us to roll up
snow to provide him with a shelter, and to return the next day
to see if he survived. The men, in their eagerness to get
to the river (which is now called Green River), loaded
themselves so heavily that three or four were left with
nothing but their rifles to carry.
We all feasted ourselves to our hearts' content upon the
delicious, coarse-grained flesh of the buffalo, of which
there was an unlimited supply. There were, besides, plenty
of wild geese and teal ducks on the river—the latter, however,
I very seldom ventured to kill. One day several of us were
out hunting buffalo, the general, who, by the way, was a very
good shot, being among the number. The snow had blown from
the level prairie, and the wind had drifted it in deep masses
over the margins of the small hills, through which the buffalo
had made trails just wide enough to admit one at a time.
These snow-trails had become quite deep—like all snow-trails
in the spring of the year—thus affording us a fine
opportunity for lurking in one trail, and shooting a buffalo
in another. The general had wounded a bull, which, smarting
with pain, made a furious plunge at his assailant, burying
him in the snow with a thrust from his savage-looking head
and horns. I, seeing the danger in which he was placed,
sent a ball into the beast just behind the shoulder, instantly
dropping him dead. The general was rescued from almost
certain death, having received only a few scratches in the
adventure.
After remaining in camp four or five days, the general
resolved upon dividing our party into detachments of four or
five men each, and sending them upon different routes,
in order the better to accomplish the object of our perilous
journey, which was the collecting of all the beaver-skins
possible while the fur was yet valuable. Accordingly we
constructed several boats of buffalo-hides for the purpose
of descending the river and proceeding along any of its
tributaries that might lie in our way.
One of our boats being finished and launched, the general
sprang into it to test its capacity. The boat was made fast
by a slender string, which snapping with a sudden jerk,
the boat was drawn into the current and drifted away,
general and all, in the direction of the opposite shore.
It will be necessary, before I proceed further, to give the
reader a description, in as concise a manner as possible,
of this “Green River Suck.”
We were camped, as we had discovered during our frequent
excursions, at the head of a great fall of Green River,
where it passes through the Utah Mountains. The current,
at a small distance from our camp, became exceedingly rapid,
and drew toward the centre from each shore. This place we
named the Suck. This fall continued for six or eight miles,
making a sheer descent, in the entire distance, of over
two hundred and fifty feet. The river was filled with rocks
and ledges, and frequent sharp curves, having high mountains
and perpendicular cliffs on either side. Below our camp,
the river passed through a cañon, which continued below
the fall to a distance of twenty-five or thirty miles.
Wherever there was an eddy or a growth of willows, there was
sure to be found a beaver lodge; the cunning creatures having
selected that secluded, and, as they doubtless considered,
inaccessible spot, to conceal themselves from the watchful
eye of the trapper.
After caching our peltry and goods by burying them in safe
places, we received instructions from our general to
rendezvous at the “Suck” by the first of July following.
Bidding each other adieu, for we could hardly expect we should
meet again, we took up our different lines of march.
Our party was led by one Clements, and consisted of six,
among whom was the boy Baptiste; he always insisted on
remaining with his brother (as he called me). Our route was
up the river—a country that none of us had ever seen before—
where the foot of the white man has seldom, if ever, left
its print. We were very successful in finding beaver as we
progressed, and we obtained plenty of game for the wants of
our small party. Wherever we hauled up a trap, we usually
found a beaver, besides a considerable number we killed with
the rifle.
In moving up the river we came to a small stream—one of the
tributaries of Green River—which we named Horse Creek,
in honour of a wild horse we found on its banks. The creek
abounded with the objects of our search, and in a very few
days we succeeded in taking over one hundred beavers,
the skins of which were worth ten dollars per pound in
St. Louis. Sixty skins, when dried, formed a pack of
one hundred pounds. After having finished our work on
Horse Creek, we returned to the main river, and proceeded on,
meeting with very good success, until we encountered another
branch, which we subsequently named Le Brache Creek, from
our comrade who was murdered by the Indians. Our success was
much greater here than at any point since leaving the Suck,
and we followed it up until we came to a deep cañon, in which
we camped.
The next day, while the men were variously engaged about
the camp, happening to be in a more elevated position than
the others, I saw a party of Indians approaching within
a few yards, evidently unaware of our being in their
neighbourhood. I immediately shouted, “Indians! Indians!
to your guns, men!” and levelled my rifle at the foremost
of them. They held up their hands, saying, “Bueno! bueno!”
meaning that they were good or friendly; at which my
companions cried out to me, “Don't fire! don't fire! they are
friendly—they speak Spanish.” But we were sorry afterward
we did not all shoot. Our horses had taken fright at the
confusion and ran up the cañon. Baptiste and myself went
in pursuit of them. When we came back with them we found
sixteen Indians sitting around our camp smoking, and jabbering
their own tongue, which none of us could understand.
They passed the night and next day with us in apparent
friendship. Thinking this conduct assumed, from the fact
that they rather overdid the thing, we deemed it prudent to
retrace our steps to the open prairie, where, if they did
intend to commence an attack upon us, we should have a fairer
chance of defending ourselves. Accordingly we packed up
and left, all the Indians following us.
The next day they continued to linger about the camp. We had
but slight suspicion of their motives, although, for security,
we kept constant guard upon them. From this they proceeded
to certain liberties (which I here strictly caution all
emigrants and mountaineers against ever permitting), such as
handling our guns, except the arms of the guard, piling them,
and then carrying them together. At length one of the Indians
shouldered all the guns, and, starting off with them ran
fifty yards from camp. Mentioning to my mates I did not like
the manœuvres of these fellows, I started after the Indian
and took my gun from him, Baptiste doing the same, and we
brought them back to camp. Our companions chided us for
doing so, saying we should anger the Indians by doubting
their friendship. I said I considered my gun as safe in my
own hands as in the hands of a strange savage; if they chose
to give up theirs, they were at liberty to do so.
When night came on, we all lay down except poor Le Brache,
who kept guard, having an Indian with him to replenish the
fire. Some of the men had fallen asleep, lying near by,
when we were all suddenly startled by a loud cry from
Le Brache and the instant report of a gun, the contents of
which passed between Baptiste and myself, who both occupied
one bed, the powder burning a hole in our upper blankets.
We were all up in an instant. An Indian had seized my rifle,
but I instantly wrenched it from him, though I acknowledge
I was too terrified to shoot. When we had in some measure
recovered from our sudden fright, I hastened to Le Brache,
and discovered that a tomahawk had been sunk in his head,
and there remained. I pulled it out, and in examining the
ghastly wound, buried all four fingers of my right hand in
his brain. We bound up his head, but he was a corpse in
a few moments.
Not an Indian was then to be seen, but we well knew they were
in the bushes close by, and that, in all probability,
we should every one share the fate of our murdered comrade.
What to do now was the universal inquiry. With the butt of
my rifle I scattered the fire, to prevent the Indians making
a sure mark of us. We then proceeded to pack up with the
utmost despatch, intending to move into the open prairie,
where, if they attacked us again, we could at least defend
ourselves, notwithstanding our disparity of numbers, we being
but five to sixteen.
On searching for Le Brache's gun, it was nowhere to be found,
the Indian who had killed him having doubtless carried it off.
While hastily packing our articles, I very luckily found five
quivers well stocked with arrows, the bows attached, together
with two Indian guns. These well supplied our missing rifle,
for I had practised so much with bow and arrow that I was
considered a good shot.
When in readiness to leave, our leader inquired in which
direction the river lay; his agitation had been so great that
his memory had failed him. I directed the way, and desired
every man to put the animals upon their utmost speed until
we were safely out of the willows, which order was complied
with. While thus running the gauntlet, the balls and arrows
whizzed around us as fast as our hidden enemies could send
them. Not a man was scratched, however, though two of our
horses were wounded, my horse having received an arrow in
the neck, and another being wounded near the hip, both
slightly. Pursuing our course we arrived soon in the open
ground, where we considered ourselves comparatively safe.
Arriving at a small rise in the prairie, I suggested to our
leader that this would be a good place to make a stand, for
if the Indians followed us we had the advantage in position.
“No,” said he, “we will proceed on to New Mexico.”
I was astonished at his answer, well knowing—though but
slightly skilled in geography—that New Mexico must be many
hundreds of miles farther south. However, I was not captain
and we proceeded. Keeping the return track, we found
ourselves, in the afternoon of the following day, about sixty
miles from the scene of the murder.
The assault had been made, as we afterward learned, by three
young Indians, who were ambitious to distinguish themselves
in the minds of their tribe by the massacre of an American
party.
We were still descending the banks of the Green River, which
is the main branch of the Colorado, when, about the time
mentioned above, I discovered horses in the skirt of the
woods on the opposite side. My companions pronounced them
buffalo, but I was confident they were horses, because I
could distinguish white ones among them. Proceeding still
farther, I discovered men with the horses, my comrades still
confident I was in error. Speedily, however, they all became
satisfied of my correctness, and we formed the conclusion that
we had come across a party of Indians. We saw by their
manœuvres that they had discovered us, for they were then
collecting all their property together.
We held a short council, which resulted in a determination
to retreat toward the mountains. I, for one, was tired of
retreating, and refused to go farther, Baptiste joining me
in my resolve. We took up a strong position in a place of
difficult approach; and having our guns and ammunition and
an abundance of arrows for defence, considering our numbers,
we felt ourselves rather a strong garrison. The other three
left us to our determination to fall together, and took to
the prairie; but, changing their minds, they returned, and
joined us in our position, deeming our means of defence better
in one body than when divided. We all, therefore, determined
to sell our lives as dearly as possible should the enemy
attack us, feeling sure that we could kill five times our
number before we were overpowered, and that we should, in all
probability, beat them off.
By this time the supposed enemy had advanced toward us, and
one of them hailed us in English as follows:—
“Who are you?”
“We are trappers.”
“What company do you belong to?”
“General Ashley's.”
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!,” they all shouted, and we, in turn,
exhausted our breath in replying.
“Is that you, Jim Beckwourth?” said a voice from the party.
“Yes. Is that you, Castenga?” I replied.
He answered in the affirmative, and there arose another
hurrah.
We inquired where their camp was. They informed us it was
two miles below, at the ford. Baptiste and myself mounted
our horses, descended the bank, plunged into the river, and
were soon exchanging salutations with another of the general's
old detachments. They also had taken us for Indians, and
had gathered in their horses while we took up our position
for defence.
That night was spent in general rejoicing, in relating our
adventures, and recounting our various successes and reverses.
There is as much heartfelt joy experienced in falling in with
a party of fellow-trappers in the mountains as is felt at sea
when, after a long voyage, a friendly vessel just from port
is spoken and boarded. In both cases a thousand questions
are asked; all have wives, sweethearts, or friends to inquire
after, and then the general news from the States is taken up
and discussed.
The party we had fallen in with consisted of sixteen men.
They had been two years out; had left Fort Yellowstone only
a short time previously, and were provided with every
necessity for a long excursion. They had not seen the
general, and did not know he was in the mountains. They had
lost some of their men, who had fallen victims to the Indians,
but in trapping had been generally successful. Our little
party also had done extremely well, and we felt great
satisfaction in displaying to them seven or eight packets of
sixty skins each. We related to them the murder of Le Brache,
and every trapper boiled with indignation at the recital.
All wanted instantly to start in pursuit, and revenge upon
the Indians the perpetration of their treachery; but there was
no probability of overtaking them, and they suffered their
anger to cool down.
The second day after our meeting, I proposed that the most
experienced mountaineers of their party should return with
Baptiste and myself to perform the burial rites of our friend.
I proposed three men, with ourselves, as sufficient for the
sixteen Indians, in case we should fall in with them, and
they would certainly be enough for the errand if we met
no one. My former comrades were too tired to return.
We started and arrived at our unfortunate camp, but the body
of our late friend was not to be found, though we discovered
some of his long black hair clotted with blood.
On raising the traps which we had set before our precipitate
departure, we found a beaver in every one except four, which
contained each a leg, the beavers having amputated them with
their teeth. We then returned to our companions, and moved
on to Willow Creek, where we were handy to the caches of
our rendezvous at the Suck. It was now about June 1, 1822.
Here we spent our time very pleasantly, occupying ourselves
with hunting, fishing, target-shooting, footracing, gymnastic
and sundry other exercises. The other detachments now
came in, bringing with them quantities of peltry, all having
met with very great success.
CHAPTER IV.
CAPTAIN SUBLETTE'S EXPEDITION.
In 1832 Captain William Sublette,[10] a partner in the Rocky Mountain
Fur Company, and one of the most active, intrepid, and renowned
leaders in the trade, started on a trapping expedition up the Platte
Valley. He was accompanied by Robert Campbell, another of the
pioneers in the fur industry, and sixty men well mounted, with their
camp equipage carried on packhorses.
At Independence, Missouri, he met a party commanded by Nathaniel J.
Wyeth of Boston, Massachusetts. Mr. Wyeth, having conceived the idea
that a profitable salmon fishery connected with the fur trade might
be established at the mouth of the Columbia River, had accordingly
invested a great deal of capital. He had calculated, as he supposed,
for the Indian trade, and had enlisted in his employ a number of
Eastern men who had never been West, and were totally unacquainted
with its dangerous travel.
Wyeth and his men found themselves completely at a loss when they
reached Independence, the then frontier post. None of them except
the leader had ever seen an Indian or handled a rifle. They had
neither guide nor interpreter, and were totally ignorant of the way
to deal with the savages, or provide food for themselves during long
marches over barren plains and wild mountains. In this predicament
Captain Sublette found them, and in the bigness of his heart kindly
took them in tow. Both parties travelled amicably together, and
they arrived without accident on the upper branches of the Platte.
Sublette, Campbell, Wyeth, and their parties pursued their march
westward unmolested, and arrived in the Green River Valley. While in
camp one night on the bank of a small stream, toward morning a band
of Indians burst upon them, yelling, whooping, and discharging
a flight of arrows. No harm was done, however, excepting the wounding
of a mule and the stampeding of several of their horses.
On the 17th of July, a small party of fourteen, led by Milton Sublette,
brother of the captain, set out with the intention of proceeding to
the southwest. They were accompanied by Sinclair and fifteen free
trappers. Wyeth, also, and his New England band of beaver hunters
and salmon fishers, now dwindled down to eleven, took this opportunity
to prosecute their cruise in the wilderness, accompanied by such
experienced pilots.
On the first day they proceeded about eight miles to the southeast,
and encamped for the night. On the following morning, just as they
were preparing to leave camp, they observed a moving mass pouring
down a defile of the mountains. They at first supposed them to be
another party of trappers, whose arrival had been daily expected.
Wyeth, however, reconnoitred them with a spy-glass, and soon perceived
they were Indians. They were divided into two bands, forming,
in the whole, about one hundred and fifty persons, men, women, and
children. Some were on horseback, fantastically painted and arrayed,
with scarlet blankets fluttering in the wind. The greater part,
however, were on foot. They had perceived the trappers before they
were themselves discovered, and came down yelling and whooping into
the plain. On nearer approach, they were ascertained to be Blackfeet.
One of the trappers of Sublette's brigade, a half-breed, named
Antoine Godin,[11] now mounted his horse, and rode forth as if to hold
a conference. In company with Antoine was a Flathead Indian,
whose once powerful tribe had been completely broken down in their
wars with the Blackfeet. Both of them, however, cherished the most
vengeful hostility against these marauders of the mountains.
The Blackfeet came to a halt. One of the chiefs advanced singly and
unarmed, bearing the pipe of peace. This overture was certainly
pacific; but Antoine and the Flathead were predisposed to hostility,
and pretended to consider it a treacherous movement.
“Is your piece charged?” said Antoine to his companion.
“It is.”
“Then cock it and follow me.”
They met the Blackfoot chief half-way. He extended his hand in
friendship. Antoine grasped it.
“Fire!” cried he.
The Flathead levelled his piece, and brought the Blackfoot to the
ground. Antoine snatched off his scarlet blanket, which was richly
ornamented, and galloped away with it as a trophy to the camp,
the bullets of the enemy whistling after him. The Indians
immediately threw themselves into the edge of a swamp, among willows
and cottonwood trees, interwoven with vines. Here they began to
fortify themselves, the women digging a trench and throwing up a
breastwork of logs and branches, deep hid in the bosom of the wood,
while the warriors skirmished at the edge to keep the trappers at bay.
The latter took their station in front, whence they kept up a
scattering fire. As to Wyeth, and his little band of “down easters,”
they were perfectly astounded by this second specimen of life in the
wilderness; the men, being especially unused to bush-fighting and
the use of the rifle, were at a loss how to act. Wyeth, however,
acted as a skilful commander. He got all the horses into camp and
secured them; then, making a breastwork of his packs of goods,
he charged his men to remain in the garrison, and not to stir out
of their fort. For himself, he mingled with the other leaders,
determined to take his share in the conflict.
In the meantime, an express had been sent off to the rendezvous for
reënforcements. Captain Sublette and his associate, Campbell,
were at their camp when the express came galloping across the plain,
waving his cap, and giving the alarm, “Blackfeet! Blackfeet!
a fight in the upper part of the valley!—to arms! to arms!”
The alarm was passed from camp to camp. It was a common cause.
Every one turned out with horse and rifle. The Nez Percés and
Flatheads joined. As fast as the trappers could arm and mount
they galloped off; the valley was soon alive with white men and
Indians scouring at full speed.
Sublette ordered his party to keep to the camp, being recruits from
St. Louis, and unused to Indian warfare, but he and his friend
Campbell prepared for action. Throwing off their coats, rolling up
their sleeves, and arming themselves with pistols and rifles, they
mounted their horses and dashed forward among the first. As they
rode along they made their wills in soldier-like style, each stating
how his effects should be disposed of in case of his death, and
appointing the other as his executor.
The Blackfeet warriors had supposed that the party of Milton Sublette
was all the foe they had to deal with, and were astonished to behold
the whole valley suddenly swarming with horsemen, galloping to the
field of action. They withdrew into their fort, which was completely
hidden from sight in the dark and tangled wood. Most of their women
and children had retreated to the mountains. The trappers now
sallied out and approached the swamp, firing into the thickets at
random. The Blackfeet had a better sight of their adversaries, who
were in the open field, and a half-breed was wounded in the shoulder.
When Captain Sublette arrived, he urged the men to penetrate the
swamp and storm the fort, but all hung back in awe of the dismal
horrors of the place, and the danger of attacking such desperadoes
in their savage den. The very Indian allies, though accustomed
to bush-fighting, regarded it as almost impenetrable, and full of
frightful danger. Sublette was not to be turned from his purpose,
but offered to lead the way into the swamp. Campbell stepped
forward to accompany him. Before entering the perilous wood,
Sublette took his brothers aside, and told them that in case he fell,
Campbell, who knew his will, was to be his executor. This done,
he grasped his rifle and pushed into the thickets, followed by
Campbell. Sinclair, the partisan from Arkansas, was at the edge of
the wood with his brother and a few of his men. Excited by the
gallant example of the two friends, he pressed forward to share
their dangers.
The swamp was produced by the labours of the beaver, which, by
damming up the stream, had inundated a portion of the valley.
The place was overgrown with woods and thickets, so closely matted
and entangled that it was impossible to see ten paces ahead, and
the three associates in peril had to crawl along, one after another,
making their way by putting the branches and vines aside, but doing
it with great caution, lest they should attract the eye of some
lurking marksman. They took the lead by turns, each advancing some
twenty yards at a time, and now and then hallooing to their men
to come on. Some of the latter gradually entered the swamp, and
followed a little distance in the rear.
They had now reached a more open part of the wood, and had glimpses of
the rude fortress from between the trees. It was a mere breastwork,
of logs and branches, with blankets, buffalo-robes, and the leather
covers of lodges extended around the top as a screen. The movement
of the leaders as they groped their way had been descried by the
sharp-sighted enemy. As Sinclair, who was in the advance, was putting
some branches aside, he was shot through the body. He fell on the
spot. “Take me to my brother,” said he to Campbell. The latter gave
him in charge of some of the men, who conveyed him out of the swamp.
Sublette now took the advance. As he was reconnoitring the fort,
he perceived an Indian peeping through an aperture. In an instant
his rifle was levelled and discharged, and the ball struck the savage
in the eye. While he was reloading he called to Campbell, and
pointed out the hole to him: “Watch that place, and you will soon
have a fair chance for a shot.” Scarce had he uttered the words
when a ball struck him in the shoulder, and almost wheeled him around.
His first thought was to take hold of his arm with his other hand,
and move it up and down. He ascertained, to his satisfaction, that
the bone was not broken. The next moment he was so faint he could
not stand. Campbell took him in his arms and carried him out of
the thicket. The same shot that struck Sublette wounded another man
in the head.
A brisk fire was now opened by the mountaineers from the wood,
answered occasionally from the fort. Unluckily, the trappers and
their allies, in searching for the fort, had got scattered, so that
Wyeth and a number of Nez Percés approached it on the northwest side,
while others did the same from the opposite quarter. A cross-fire
thus took place, which occasionally did mischief to friends as well as
foes. An Indian, close to Wyeth, was shot down by a ball which,
he was convinced, had been sped from the rifle of a trapper on the
other side of the fort.
The number of whites and their Indian allies had by this time so much
increased, by arrivals from the rendezvous, that the Blackfeet were
completely overmatched. They kept doggedly in their fort, however,
making no effort to surrender. An occasional firing into the
breastwork was kept up during the day. Now and then one of the
Indian allies, in bravado, would rush up to the fort, fire over the
ramparts, tear off a buffalo-robe or a scarlet blanket, and return
with it in triumph to his comrades. Most of the savage garrison
who fell, however, were killed in the first part of the attack.
At one time it was resolved to set fire to the fort, and the squaws
belonging to the allies were employed to collect combustibles.
This, however, was abandoned, the Nez Percés being unwilling to
destroy the robes and blankets, and other spoils of the enemy,
which they felt sure would fall into their hands.
The Indians, when fighting, are prone to taunt and revile each other.
During one of the pauses of the battle the voice of a Blackfoot was
heard.
“So long,” said he, “as we had powder and ball, we fought you in
the open field; when those were spent we retreated here to die with
our women and children. You may burn us in our fort; but stay by
our ashes, and you who are so hungry for fighting will soon have
enough. There are four hundred lodges of our brethren at hand.
They will soon be here—their arms are strong—their hearts are big—
they will avenge us!”
This speech was translated two or three times by Nez Percés and
creole interpreters. By the time it was rendered into English the
chief was made to say that four hundred lodges of his tribe were
attacking the encampment at the other end of the valley. Every one
now hurried to the defence of the rendezvous. A party was left to
watch the fort; the rest galloped off to the camp. As night came on,
the trappers drew out of the swamp, and remained about the skirts
of the wood. By morning their companions returned from the
rendezvous, with the report that all was safe. As the day opened,
they ventured within the swamp and approached the fort. All was
silent. They advanced up to it without opposition. They entered;
it had been abandoned in the night, and the Blackfeet had effected
their retreat, carrying off their wounded on litters made of branches,
leaving bloody traces on the grass. The bodies of ten Indians were
found within the fort, among them the one shot in the eye by Sublette.
The Blackfeet afterward reported that they had lost twenty-six
warriors in this battle. Thirty-two horses were likewise found killed;
among them were some of those recently carried off from Sublette's
party, which showed that these were the very savages that had attacked
him. They proved to be an advance party of the main body of Blackfeet,
which had been upon Sublette's trail for some time. Five white men
and one half-breed were killed and several wounded. Seven of the
Nez Percés were also killed, and six wounded. They had an old chief
who was reputed to be invulnerable. In the course of the action
he was hit by a spent ball, and threw up blood; but his skin was
unbroken. His people were now fully convinced that he was proof
against a rifle-shot.
A striking circumstance is related as having occurred the morning
after the battle. As some of the trappers and their Indian allies
were approaching the fort, through the woods, they beheld an Indian
woman, of noble form and features, leaning against a tree.
Their surprise at her lingering there alone, to fall into the hands
of her enemies, was dispelled when they saw the corpse of a warrior
at her feet. Either she was so lost in her grief as not to perceive
their approach, or a proud spirit kept her silent and motionless.
The Indians set up a yell on discovering her, and before the trappers
could interfere, her mangled body fell upon the corpse which she had
refused to abandon. It is an instance of female devotion, even to
the death, which is undoubtedly true.
After the battle the party of Milton Sublette, together with the free
trappers, and Wyeth's New England band, remained some days at the
rendezvous to see if the main body of Blackfeet intended to make an
attack. Nothing of the kind occurred, so they once more put
themselves in motion, and proceeded on their route toward the southwest.
Captain Sublette, having distributed his supplies, had intended to
set off on his return to St. Louis, taking with him the peltries
collected from the trappers and Indians. His wound, however, obliged
him to postpone his departure. Several who were to have accompanied
him became impatient at his delay. Among these was a young Bostonian,
Mr. Joseph More, one of the followers of Mr. Wyeth, who had seen
enough of mountain life and savage warfare, and was eager to return
to the abodes of civilization. He and six others, among whom were
a Mr. Foy of Mississippi, Mr. Alfred K. Stephens of St. Louis, and
two grandsons of the celebrated Daniel Boone, set out together,
in advance of Sublette's party, thinking they would make their own
way through the mountains.
It was just five days after the battle of the swamp that these seven
companions were making their way through Jackson's Hole, a valley not
far from the Three Tetons, when, as they were descending a hill,
a party of Blackfeet, who lay in ambush, started up with terrific
yells. The horse of the young Bostonian, who was in front, wheeled
round with affright, and threw his unskilful rider. The young man
scrambled up the side of the hill, but, unaccustomed to such wild
scenes, lost his presence of mind, and stood as if paralysed on the
edge of the bank, until the Blackfeet came up and slew him on the
spot. His comrades had fled on the first alarm; but two of them,
Foy and Stephens, seeing his danger, paused when they had got
half-way up the hill, turned back, dismounted, and hastened to his
assistance. Foy was instantly killed. Stephens was severely wounded,
but escaped, to die five days afterward. The survivors returned
to the camp of Captain Sublette, bringing tidings of this new
disaster. That hardy leader, as soon as he could bear the journey,
set out on his return to St. Louis, accompanied by Campbell.
As they had a number of packhorses, richly laden with peltries,
to convoy, they chose a different route through the mountains,
out of the way, as they hoped, of the lurking bands of Blackfeet.
They succeeded in making the frontier in safety.[12]
On the 1st of May, 1832, Captain B. E. Bonneville, of the Seventh
United States Infantry, having obtained leave of absence from
Major-General Alexander Macomb, left Fort Osage, at his own expense,
on a perilous exploration of the country to the Rocky Mountains and
beyond.
His party consisted of one hundred and ten men, the majority of whom
were experienced hunters and trappers. Their means of transportation
were twenty wagons, drawn by oxen or by four mules each, loaded with
ammunition, provisions, and some merchandise intended for trading
with the Indians. The wagons were moved in two columns, the men
marching in such a manner before and behind as to form an advance and
rear guard. This caravan of Captain Bonneville's undoubtedly
contained the first wagons that the Indians had ever seen, and as
they passed through their country, they created a novel sensation
among the savages. They examined everything about them minutely,
and asked a thousand questions, an unusual change from their
generally apathetic character.
On the march the captain invariably sent his hunters and scouts ahead,
to reconnoitre the country, as well as to procure game for the command.
On the 24th of May, as the caravan was slowly moving westward,
the scouts came rushing back, waving their caps, and shouting,
“Indians! Indians!”
A halt was immediately ordered, and it was discovered that a large
party of Crows were on the river, just above where the caravan then
was. The captain, knowing that the tribe was noted for warlike deeds
and expertness in horse-stealing, gave orders to prepare for action.
All were soon ready for any emergency, the party moved on in battle
array, and in a short time about sixty Crow warriors emerged from
the bluffs. They were painted in the most approved style of savage
art, well mounted on fine ponies, and evidently ready for a battle.
They approached the caravan in true Indian method, cavorting around
on their spirited animals, rushing on as if they intended to make
a charge, but when at the proper distance suddenly opened right and
left, wheeled around the travellers at the same instant, whooping
and yelling diabolically. Their first wild demonstration of spoiling
for a fight having cooled down, they stopped, and the chief rode up
to the captain, extended his hand, which of course he took; and after
a pipe was smoked, nothing could exceed the spirit of friendliness
that prevailed.
They were on a raid against a band of Cheyennes who had attacked
their village in the night and killed one of their tribe. They had
already been on the trail for twenty-five days, and said they were
determined never to return to their homes until they had had their
revenge.
They had been secretly hanging on the trail of Captain Bonneville's
party and were astonished at the wagons and oxen, but were especially
amazed by the appearance of a cow and calf quietly walking alongside.
They supposed them to be some kind of tame buffalo. They regarded
them as “big medicine,” but when it was told them that the white men
would trade the calf for a horse, their wonder ceased, their
estimation of its wonderful power sank to zero, and they declined
to make the exchange.
On the 2d of June the Platte River was reached, about twenty-five
miles below Grand Island. Captain Bonneville measured the stream
at that point, found it to be twenty-two hundred yards wide, and
from three to six feet deep, the bottom full of quicksand.
On the 11th of the same month the party arrived at the forks of the
Platte, but finding it impossible to cross on account of the quicksand,
they travelled for two days along the south branch, trying to discover
a safe fording-place. At last they camped, took off the bodies of
the wagons, covered them with buffalo-hides, and smearing them with
tallow and ashes, thus turned them into boats. In these they ferried
themselves and their effects across the stream, which was six hundred
yards wide, with a very swift current.
After successfully crossing the river, the line of march was toward
the North Fork, a distance of nine miles from their ford. Terribly
annoyed by swarms of gnats and mosquitoes, they followed the
meanderings of the stream, and on the evening of the 17th arrived at
a beautiful grove, resonant with the songs of birds, the first they
had heard since leaving the banks of the Missouri.
Captain Bonneville made a camp at Chimney Rock, the height of which,
according to his triangulation, was one hundred and seventy-five yards.
On the 21st he made camp amidst the high and beetling cliffs, known
a few years afterward as Scott's Bluffs.
The route of Captain Bonneville's march was generally along the bank
of the Platte River, but frequently he was compelled, because of the
steep bluffs which bounded it, to make inland detours.
In July he camped on a branch of the Sweetwater, which by measurement
was sixty feet wide and four or five deep, flowing between low banks
over a sandy soil. At that point numerous herds of buffalo were seen.
On the 12th of July, the caravan reached Laramie's Fork, and,
abandoning the Platte, made a detour to the southwest. In two days
afterward they camped on the bank of the Sweetwater. Up that stream
they moved for several days, and on the 20th of July first caught
a glimpse of the Rocky Mountains, which they crossed and then went
on to the Pacific coast.
On the 13th of July of the following year after his tour through the
Rocky Mountains, Bonneville arrived in the Green River Valley, which
he now found covered in every direction with buffalo carcasses.
It was evident that the Indians had recently been there and in great
numbers. Alarmed at what he saw, the captain halted as soon as
night came on, and sent out his scouts to the trappers' rendezvous
at Horse Creek, where he expected to meet a party. When the scouts
returned with some of the trappers, his mind was relieved by the
information that the great slaughter of the buffaloes had been made
by a band of friendly Shoshones.
The Green River Valley, at the time of Captain Bonneville's visit,
was one of the general rendezvous of the trappers, traders, and
Indians. There he got together a band of some of the most experienced
men of the mountains, and determined to continue to explore into
unknown regions farther west. His objective point was the Great
Salt Lake, of which he had heard such wonderful accounts, and on
the 24th of July he started from the Green River Valley with forty
men to explore that inland sea.
In the spring of 1835 Captain Bonneville returned to the Green River
Valley, and from there pursued his course down the Platte, reaching
the frontier settlements on the 22d of August, having been absent
over three years. During all that time he had made no report to the
War Department, which thought he had perished on his venturesome
journey, and his name was stricken from the rolls of the army.
Several months after his arrival in Washington, and a satisfactory
explanation having been rendered, he was restored to his position.[13]
On the 22d of May, 1842, Lieutenant John C. Fremont, of the
United States Corps of Army Engineers, arrived at St. Louis in
pursuance of orders from the War Department, to command an exploring
expedition westward to the Wind River Mountains. On the 10th of June
he started with the celebrated Kit Carson as his chief guide;
his route was up the Kansas River to the Blue, thence across to the
Platte, which he reached on the 25th. The principal object of his
expedition was a survey of the North Fork of that river. He found
the width of the stream, immediately below the junction of its two
principal branches, to be 5350 feet. Hunting buffalo and an
occasional Indian scare were the only important incidents of his
march up the valley. The expedition returned by the same route and
arrived at the mouth of the Platte on the 1st of October.
Before reaching Laramie's Fork, he met on the 28th of June a party
of fourteen trappers, in the employ of the American Fur Company,
making their way on foot with their blankets and light camp equipage
on their backs. Two months previously they had started from the mouth
of the Laramie River in boats loaded with furs destined for the
St. Louis market. They had taken advantage of the June freshet, and
were rapidly carried down as far as Scott's Bluffs. There the water
spread out into the valley, and the stream was so shallow they were
compelled to unload the principal part of their cargo. This they
secured as well as possible, and left a few of their men to guard it.
They continued struggling on with their boats in the sand and mud
fifteen or twenty days longer, then, farther progress being impossible,
they cached their remaining furs and property in trees on the bank of
the river, and, each man carrying what he could on his back, started
on foot for St. Louis. The party was entirely out of tobacco when
they were met by Fremont, who kindly gave them enough to last them
on their homeward journey.
During the next decade the Platte Valley witnessed a wonderful change.
From the habitat of the lonely trapper, hunting on its many streams,
it became the chosen route of a vast migration, seeking possession of
the virgin soil of far-off Oregon, or attracted by the discovery of
gold in California. The hegira of the Mormons to the sequestered
basin of the Great Salt Lake also swelled the stream, and was
followed soon after by the establishment of the overland stage,
the pony express, and the building of the Union Pacific Railroad.
CHAPTER V.
TRADING-POSTS AND THEIR STORIES.
As early as the first decade of the present century, the great fur
companies sent out expeditions up the valley of the Platte in the
charge of their agents, to trap the beaver and other animals valuable
for their beautiful skins. The hardships of these pioneers in the
beginning of a trade which in a short time assumed gigantic proportions
are a story of suffering and privation which has few parallels in the
history of the development of our mid-continent region. Until the
establishment of the several trading-posts, the lives of these men
were continuous struggles for existence, as no company could possibly
transport provisions sufficient to last beyond the most remote
settlements, and the men were compelled to depend entirely upon their
rifles for a supply of food. When posts were located at convenient
distances from each other in the desolate country where their vocation
was carried on, the chances of the trapper for regular meals every day
were materially enhanced. Before the establishment of these
rendezvous, where everything necessary for his comfort was kept,
the trapper subsisted on deer, bear-meat, buffalo, and wild turkeys
—the latter were found in abundance everywhere. In times of great
scarcity, he was frequently compelled to resort to dead horses.
His coffee, and perhaps a scant supply of flour which he had brought
from the last settlement, would rarely suffice until he reached the
foot of the mountains; and even when obtainable the price was so
exorbitant that but few of the early adventurers could indulge in
such luxuries.
The first trading-post was established at the mouth of Clear Creek,
in 1832, by Louis Vasquez, and named Fort Vasquez, after its
proprietor, but never grew into much importance and was soon abandoned.
Fort Laramie, one of the most celebrated rendezvous of the trappers,
was erected in 1834, by William Sublette and Robert Campbell of
St. Louis, agents of the American Fur Company. It was first called
Fort William, in honour of Sublette; later Fort John, and finally
christened Fort Laramie, after the river which took its name from
Joseph Laramie, a French-Canadian trapper of the earliest fur-hunting
period, who was murdered by the Indians near the mouth of the river.
It was located in the immediate region of the Ogallalla and Brule
bands of the great Sioux nation, and not very remote from that of
the Cheyennes and Arapahoes.
In 1835 the fort was sold to Milton Sublette, Jim Bridger, and others
of the American Fur Company, and the year following was by them
rebuilt at a cost of ten thousand dollars. It remained a private
establishment until 1849, the year of the discovery of gold in
California, when the government bought and transformed it into
a military post, to awe the savages who infested the trail to the
Pacific, which had then become the great highway of the immense
exodus from the Eastern states to the gold regions of that coast.
The original structure was built in the usual style of all Indian
trading-stations of that day, of adobes, or sun-dried bricks. It was
enclosed by walls twenty feet high and four feet thick, encompassing
an area two hundred and fifty feet long by two hundred wide. At the
diagonal northwest and southwest corners, adobe bastions were erected,
commanding every approach to the place.
The number of buildings were twelve in all: there were five
sleeping-rooms, kitchen, warehouse, icehouse, meat-house, blacksmith
shop, and carpenter shop. The enclosed corral had a capacity for
two hundred animals. The corral was separated from the buildings by
a partition, and the area in which the buildings were located was
a square, while the corral was a rectangle, into which, at night,
the horses and mules were secured. In the daytime, too, when the
presence of Indians indicated danger of the animals being stolen,
they were run into the enclosure.
The roofs of the buildings within the square were close against
the walls of the fort, and in case of necessity could be utilized
as a banquette from which to repulse any attack of the savages.
The main entrance to the enclosure had two gates, with an arched
passage intervening. A small window opened from an adjoining room
into this passage, so that when the gates were closed and barred
any one might still hold communication, through this narrow aperture,
with those within. Suspicious characters, especially the savages,
could do their trading without the necessity of being admitted into
the fort proper. At times when danger was apprehended from an attack
by the Indians, the gates were kept shut and all business transacted
through the window.
About thirty men were usually employed at Fort Laramie when the trade
was at its height, as that station monopolized nearly the entire
Indian trade of the whole region tributary to it. There the famous
frontiersmen, Kit Carson, Jim Bridger, Jim Baker, Jim Beckwourth,
and others, who in those remote times constituted the pioneers of
the primitive civilization of the country, made their headquarters.
The officials of the fur companies stationed at Fort Laramie ruled
with an absolute authority. They were as potent in their sway as
the veriest despot, for they had no one to dispute their right to
lord it over all. The nearest army outposts were seven hundred miles
to the east, and, like the viceroys of Spain after the conquest
of Mexico, they were a law unto themselves.
In its palmy days Fort Laramie swarmed with women and children,
whose language, like their complexions, was much mixed. All lived
almost exclusively on buffalo meat dried in the sun, and their
hunters had to go sometimes fifty miles to find a herd of buffaloes.
After a while there were a few domestic cattle introduced, and the
conditions changed somewhat.
No military frontier post in the United States was so beautifully
located as Fort Laramie. Surrounded by big bluffs at the intersection
of the Laramie and Platte rivers, forming a valley unsurpassed in
the fertility of its soil, together with the richness of its natural
vegetation, it was an oasis in the desert. The glory of the once
charming place has departed forever. It was abandoned by the
government a few years ago, as it was no longer a military necessity,
the savage tribes which it watched having either become tame or
removed to far-off reservations.
In 1826 Jim Bridger joined General Ashley's trapping expedition, and
eleven years afterward, in 1837, built Fort Bridger, for a long time
one of the most famous of the trading-posts. It was located on
the Black Fork of Green River[14] where that stream branched into
three principal channels, forming several large islands, upon one of
which the fort was erected. It was constructed of two adjoining
log houses, with sod roofs, enclosed by a fence of pickets eight feet
high, and, as was usual, the offices and sleeping-apartments opened
into a square, protected from attacks by the Indians by a massive
timber gate. Into the corral all the animals were driven at night
to guard them from being stolen, or devoured by wild beasts.
The fort was inhabited by about fifty whites, Indians, and half-breeds.
The fort was the joint property of Bridger and Vasquez. Upon the
Mormon occupation of the region the owners were obliged to abandon it,
on account of disagreements with that sect, in 1853.
Fort Platte, another trading-post belonging to the American Fur
Company, was situated about three-fourths of a mile above the mouth
of the Laramie River, on the left bank of the North Platte, and
constructed in the same general way described in the preceding
paragraphs. As it is naturally to be supposed, there existed always
a desperate rivalry between the two forts. Some of the scenes enacted
there long ago are full of blood-curdling adventure and reckless
indifference to the preservation of life. The following is a true
picture of one of the annual gatherings of the Indian trappers who
came there to dispose of their season's furs, more than fifty
years ago:—
The night of our arrival at Fort Platte was the signal for a
grand jollification by all hands, with two or three exceptions,
who soon got most gloriously drunk, and such an illustration
of the beauties of harmony as was then presented would have
rivalled Bedlam itself, or even the famous council-chamber
beyond the Styx.
Yelling, screeching, firing, fighting, swearing, drinking,
and such like interesting performances were kept up without
intermission—and woe to the poor fellow who looked for repose
that night. He might have as well thought of sleeping with
a thousand cannons booming at his ears.
The scene was prolonged till sundown the next day, and several
made their egress from this beastly carousal minus shirts and
coats, with swollen eyes, bloody noses, and empty pockets
—the latter circumstance will be understood upon the mere
mention of the fact that liquor was sold for four dollars
a pint!
The day following was ushered in by the enactment of another
scene of comico-tragical character.
The Indians camped in the vicinity, being extremely solicitous
to imitate the example of their illustrious predecessors,
commenced their demands for fire-water as soon as the first
tints of morning began to paint the east; and, before the sun
had told an hour of his course, they were pretty well advanced
in the state of “How come you so?” and seemed to exercise
their musical powers in wonderful rivalry with their white
brethren.
Men, women, and children were seen running from lodge to lodge
with vessels of liquor, inviting their friends and relatives
to drink; while whooping, singing, drunkenness, and trading
for fresh supplies to administer to the demands of
intoxication had evidently become the order of the day.
Soon individuals were seen passing from one another, with
mouths full of the coveted fire-water, drawing the lips of
favoured friends to close contact, as if to kiss, and ejecting
the contents of their own into the eager mouths of others
—thus affording the delighted recipients tests of fervent
esteem in the heat and strength of their strange draught.
At this stage of the game the American Fur Company, as was
charged, commenced to deal out to them gratuitously, strong
drugged liquor for the double purpose of preventing the sale
of the article by its competitor in trade, and of creating
sickness, or inciting contention among the Indians while
under the influence of sudden intoxication, hoping thereby
to induce the latter to charge its ill effects upon an
opposite source, and thus by destroying the credit of its
rival to monopolize the whole trade.
It is hard to predict with certainty what would have been
the result of this reckless policy, had it been continued
through the day. Already its effects became apparent, and
small knots of drunken Indians were seen in various directions,
quarreling, preparing to fight, or fighting, while others
lay stretched upon the ground in helpless impotency, or
staggered from place to place with all the revolting
attendants of intoxication.
The drama, however, was brought to a temporary close by an
incident which made a strange contrast in its immediate
results.
One of the head chiefs of the Brule village, in riding at full
speed from Fort John to Fort Platte, being a little too drunk
to navigate, plunged headlong from his horse, and broke his
neck when within a few rods of his destination. Then was
a touching display of confusion and excitement. Men and
squaws commenced squalling like children—the whites were bad,
very bad, said they, in their grief, to give Susu-Ceicha
the fire-water that caused his death. But the height of
their censure was directed against the American Fur Company,
as its liquor had done the deed.
The corpse of the deceased chief was brought to the fort by
his relatives with a request that the whites should assist
at his burial; but they were in a sorry plight for such
a service. There were found some sufficiently sober for the
task, however, and they accordingly commenced operations.
A scaffold was erected for the reception of the body, which,
in the meantime, had been fitted for its last airy tenement.
The duty was performed in the following manner: It was first
washed, then arrayed in the habiliments last worn by the
deceased during life, and sewed in several envelopes of
lodge-skin with his bows and arrows and pipe. This done,
all things were ready for the proposed burial.
The corpse was borne to its final resting-place, followed by
a throng of relatives and friends. While moving onward with
the dead, the train of mourners filled the air with
lamentations and rehearsals of the virtues and meritorious
deeds of their late chief.
Arrived at the scaffold, the corpse was carefully reposed
upon it facing the east, while beneath its head was placed
a small sack of meat, tobacco, and vermilion, with a comb,
looking-glass, and knife, and at its feet a small banner that
had been carried in the procession. A covering of scarlet
cloth was then spread over it, and the body firmly lashed
to its place by long strips of rawhide. This done, the horse
of the chieftain was produced as a sacrifice for the benefit
of his master in his long journey to the celestial
hunting-grounds.
Then first, encircling it at a respectful distance, were
seated the old men, next the young men and the warriors, and
next the squaws and children. Etespa-huska (The Long Bow),
eldest son of the deceased, thereupon commenced speaking,
while the weeping throng ceased its tumult to listen to
his words.
“O Susu-Ceicha! thy son bemourns thee, even as were wont the
fledglings of the war-eagle to cry for the one that nourished
them, when thy swift arrow had laid him in the dust. Sorrow
fills the heart of Etespa-huska; sadness crushes it to the
ground and sinks it beneath the sod upon which he treads.
“Thou hast gone, O Susu-Ceicha! Death hath conquered thee,
whom none but death could conquer; and who shall now teach
thy son to be brave as thou wast brave; to be good as thou
wast good; to fight the foe of thy people and acquaint thy
chosen ones with the war-song of triumph; to deck his lodge
with the scalps of the slain, and bid the feet of the young
move swiftly in the dance? And who shall teach Etespa-huska
to follow the chase and plunge his arrows into the yielding
sides of the tired bull?”
Thus for half an hour did the young man tell of the virtues
and great deeds of his father, and the moment he had finished,
a tremendous howl of grief burst from the whole assemblage,
men, women, and children alike. When the wailing ceased
they all returned to their respective lodges.
The sad event of the day put a stop to the dissipation of
the savages, and not long afterward they commenced to pull
down their respective lodges, and removed to the neighbourhood
of the buffalo, for the purpose of selecting their winter
quarters.
Two weeks later a band of Brules arrived in the vicinity of
the fort and opened a brisk trade in liquor by indulging in
a drunken spree.
The savages crowded the fort houses seeking articles, and
soon became a terrible nuisance. One room in particular was
constantly thronged to the exclusion of its regular occupants,
when the latter, losing all patience with the savages, adopted
the following plan to get rid of them.
After closely covering the chimney, by the aid of some
half-rotten chips a dense smoke was raised, the doors and
windows being closed at the same time to prevent its escape,
and in an instant the apartment became filled to the point of
suffocation—too much so for the Indians, who gladly made
a precipitate retreat.
They were told it was the “Long-Knife Medicine.”[15] During
the visit of the savages at the fort, a warrior called
“Big Eagle” was struck over the head by a half-drunken trader,
an incident which came very near terminating seriously, but
fortunately did not. It might have ended in the massacre of
all the whites had not some of the more level-headed promptly
interfered and with much effort succeeded in pacifying the
enraged chief by presenting him with a horse.
At first the savage would admit of no compromise short of
the offender's blood. He had been struck by the white man,
and blood alone must atone for the aggression. Unless that
should wipe out the disgrace he could never again hold up his
head among his people—they would call him a coward, and say
a white man struck the Big Eagle and he dared not resent it.
An Indian considers it the greatest indignity to receive a blow from
any one, even from his own brother; and unless the affair is settled
by the bestowal of a trespass offering on the part of the aggressor,
he is almost sure to seek revenge, either through blood or the
destruction of property. This is more an especial characteristic
of the Sioux than of any other of the savage tribes.
The liquor-traffic was a most infamous one, as an abundance of facts
could prove.
In November, 1855, the American Fur Company, from Fort John, sent
a quantity of their drugged liquor to an Indian village on the
Chugwater, as a gift, for the purpose of preventing the sale of that
article by their competitors in trade. The consequence was that
the poor creatures all got beastly drunk, and a fight ensued, in which
two chiefs, Bull Bear and Yellow Lodge, and six of their personal
friends were murdered. Fourteen others who took part in the fracas
were badly wounded. Soon afterward another affair of the same
character occurred, and resulted in the death of three of the savages.
Many were killed in like quarrels in the several Indian villages.
The liquor used in this nefarious trade was generally third or
fourth proof whiskey, which, after being diluted by a mixture of
three parts water, was sold to the savages at the exorbitant rate of
three cups for a single buffalo-robe, each cup holding about three
gills. That was not all: sometimes the cup was not more than half
filled; then again the act of measuring was also a rascally
transaction, for when the poor savage became so drunk that he could
not see, he was cheated—more water was added, the unlucky purchaser
not receiving more than one-fourth of what he paid for. There were
still other modes of cheating poor Lo.
To further show how demoralizing the traffic was I will relate an
instance: “Old Bull Tail,” a chief of the Sioux, had an only daughter,
who was named Chint-zille. She was very handsome as savage beauty
goes, and the old chief really loved her, for the North American
Indian is possessed of as much devotion to his family as is to be
found in the most cultivated of the white race; but the old fellow
was inordinately fond of getting drunk, and at one time, not having
the wherewithal to procure the necessary liquor, made up his mind
that he would trade his daughter for a sufficient quantity.
One morning he entered the store of a trader, accompanied by
Chint-zille. The following dialogue took place:
“Bull Tail is welcome to the lodge of the Long-Knife; but why is his
daughter, the pride of his heart, bathed in tears? It pains me that
one so beautiful should weep.”
The old chief answered: “Chint-zille is a foolish girl. Her father
loves her, and therefore she cries.”
“There should be greater cause for grief than that.”
“The Long-Knife speaks well.”
“How then can she sorrow? Tell her to speak to me, that I may whisper
words of comfort in her ear.”
“I will tell you, Long-Knife: Bull Tail loves his daughter very much;
he loves Long-Knife very much! he loves them both very much.
The Great Spirit has put the thought into his mind that both alike
might be his children; then would his heart leap for joy at the
twice-spoken name of father!”
“I do not understand the meaning of Bull Tail's words.”
“Sure, Long-Knife, you are slow to understand! Bull Tail would give
his daughter to the Long-Knife. Does not Long-Knife love Chint-zille?”
“If I should say no, my tongue would lie; Long-Knife has no wife,
and who, like the lovely Chint-zille, is so worthy that he should
take her to his bosom? How can I show my gratitude to her noble
father?”
“The gift is free, and Bull Tail will be too glad in its acceptance,
his friends will all be glad with him. But that they may bless the
Long-Knife, let him fill up the hollow-wood[16] with fire-water, and
Bull Tail will take it to his lodge; then Chint-zille will be yours.”
“But Chint-zille grieves, she does not love the Long-Knife.”
“Chint-zille is foolish. Let the Long-Knife measure the fire-water,
and she shall be yours.”
“No, Long-Knife will not do this; Chint-zille should never be the
wife of the man she does not love.”
The old chief pleaded for a long time with the trader to take the
girl and give him the liquid, but the trader was inexorable; he would
not form any such tangling alliance, so the old chief failed to get
the liquor, and he left the house with mortification and shame
depicted on his withered face.
CHAPTER VI.
THE MORMONS.
Utah was settled in 1847 by a religious community of people generally
known by the name of Mormons, but they style themselves,
“The Latter-day Saints of the Church of Jesus Christ.”
In the great valley of a vast inland sea, the existence of which was
unknown to the world seventy-five years ago, whose surroundings were
a desert in the most rigid definition of the term, a great
commonwealth has been established unparalleled in the history of
its origin by that of any of the civilized countries of the world.
Out of the most desolate of our vast arid interior areas, in less than
half a century has been evolved not only a magnificent garden spot,
but a great city with all the adjuncts of our most modern civilization.
Rich in its architecture, progressive in its art, with a literature
that is marvellous when the conditions from which it has sprung are
seriously considered, the Mormon community meets all the demands of
our ever advancing civilization.
Neither the love of gold, nor the cupidity of conquest, those
characteristics which have subordinated other portions of the
New World to the restless ambition of man, were the causes that have
revolutionized both the physical character and the social conditions
of the now wealthy and prosperous state of Utah. As Bancroft very
forcibly states:
Utah was settled upon an entirely new idea of God's revelation
to the world. Old faiths have been worked over and over;
colonies have been built upon those tenets, but never before
have any results comparable to those which characterize that
of the Mormon faith been attained, in founding a community,
based as it is upon an entirely new religion.
Originating east of the Mississippi, perhaps no sect in modern times
has been so persecuted as was that of the Mormons in their early days.
So great and unbearable had this persecution become that it was
determined by their leaders to seek some remote spot where they could
worship according to their own ideas, without fear of molestation.
The Mormon emigration to Utah was seriously considered by Brigham
Young years before 1847, the date of their exodus. It is claimed
that he was but carrying out the plans of Joseph Smith, who early in
1842 said that his people “would yet be driven to the Rocky Mountains,
where they would be able to build a city of their own free from all
interference.”
In confirmation of this the following extract from Heber C. Kimball's
diary shows that a migration to some point west of the Rocky Mountains
was contemplated:
Nauvoo Temple, December 31, 1845—President Young and myself
are superintending the operations of the day, examining maps
with reference to selecting a location for the Saints west of
the Rocky Mountains, and reading the various works which have
been written and published by travellers in those regions.
When it had been determined to leave for the Great Basin, winter
quarters were established on the Elk Horn River; and on the morning
of the 9th of April, 1847, the migration began, but was not fairly
inaugurated until the 14th. The party were allowed a wagon, two oxen,
two milch cows, and a tent, to every ten of their number. For each
wagon there was supplied a thousand pounds of flour, fifty pounds
of rice, sugar, and bacon, thirty of beans, twenty of dried apples
or peaches, twenty-five of salt, five of tea, a gallon of vinegar,
and ten bars of soap. Every able-bodied man was compelled to carry
a rifle or musket. His wagon served for bed and kitchen, and was
occasionally used as a boat in crossing the streams. A day's journey
averaged about thirteen miles, with a rest at noon to dine and to
allow the cattle to graze.
For the benefit of those who were following them, the first party of
Mormons adopted some curious devices to inform their friends among
the latter how they were progressing. For post-offices, they used
the bleached buffalo-skulls found on the prairie, which, after the
letters were placed inside, they suspended from the limbs of trees
along the route. For guide-posts and to indicate their camping-places,
they painted on the bald fronts of other buffalo-skulls the date and
number of miles they had made.
After over three months of hardship and suffering, this party of
pioneers reached the portals of their destination. On the 19th of
July, 1847, two of the number started from the advance camp soon after
sunrise to make a reconnoissance of the road, which left Cañon Creek
and ran along through a ravine to the west.
The ascent was gradual for about four miles, when the dividing
ridge was reached. Here the two pioneers tied their horses,
and on foot ascended a near-by mountain, Big Mountain by name,
to obtain a glimpse of the country. Previously, from the
peaks of that neighbourhood, the pathfinder of the pioneer
band had been met by a series of towering, snow-capped
mountains, piled seemingly one upon the other, ever greeting
his tired vision as he gazed eagerly westward, looking for
the Promised Land. But this time a different view was exposed.
To the southwest, through a vista of gradually-sloping
mountains, through an opening in the cañons, the light blue
and the fleecy white clouds above seemed to be sinking into
a plain of gold. Two small portions of a level prairie were
visible, and beyond rose a series of blue mountains, their
peaks tipped with snow. It was the Valley of the Great Salt
Lake!
From the summit of the Big Mountain, they gazed long and
earnestly on the glorious view. First they looked upon the
high walls surrounding their position at the time, but ever
would their eyes turn longingly to that little panorama of
life and colour which appeared through a gap in the mountains,
the yellow and green of the valley, the blue and white of the
sky, with a foreground of dark mountains clothed in darker
shrubbery. The Oquirrhs rose majestically in the centre of
the picture, and far beyond them a dim, shadowy outline of
the Onaqui range, which completed the glorious landscape.
Previous to their arrival in the valley, on the 23d of June, the
Mormons met Jim Bridger and two of his employees en route to Fort
Laramie. Bridger was told that he was the man of all men whom they
had been looking for, upon which he advised them to camp right where
they were, and he would tell them all he knew about the country and
the region around the Great Basin. Camp was accordingly made,
Bridger took supper with Brigham Young, and the information he had to
impart was given in the old trapper's usual irregular way. Learning
that the destination of the Mormons was in the Desert of the Salt Lake
Valley, Bridger offered to give one thousand dollars for the first ear
of corn raised there. “Wait a little,” said the president of the
Mormons, “and we will show you.” In describing to Brigham Young the
Great Salt Lake, which he called “Sevier Lake,” he said that some of
his men had spent three months going around it in canoes hunting
beaver, and that the distance was five hundred and fifty miles.
In 1856 thousands of European converts to the new religion emigrated
to Utah. On their arrival in this country, however, they had very
little spare cash. It was therefore decided by those in authority
that they should cross the plains with hand-carts, in which was to
be hauled their baggage. Wagons were provided for tents, provisions,
and those who were not able to walk.
In a circular published in Liverpool by the Presidency of the British
Isles, among other things it recited that “The Lord, through his
Prophet, says of the poor, let them gird up their loins, and walk
through, and nothing shall hinder them.”
Iowa City was the point where the poor emigrants were outfitted and
received their hand-carts. These were somewhat primitive in
construction:
The shafts being about five feet long, and of hickory or oak,
with crosspieces, one of them serving for a handle, forming
the bed of the cart, under the centre of which was a wooden
axletree, the wheels being also made of wood, with a light
iron band, and the entire weight of the vehicle about sixty
pounds. Better carts were provided in subsequent years.
To each one hundred persons were furnished twenty hand-carts, five
tents, three or four milch cows, and a wagon with three yoke of oxen
to convey the provisions and camp equipage. The quantity of clothing
and bedding was limited to seventeen pounds per capita, and the
freight of each cart, including cooking utensils, was about one
hundred pounds.
One of the companies reached the old winter quarters near the middle
of August, and there held a meeting to decide whether they should
continue the journey or encamp for the winter. They had yet more than
a thousand miles to travel, and with their utmost efforts could not
expect to arrive in the valley until late in November. The matter was
left with the elders, all of whom, excepting one named Levi Savage,
counselled them to go forward and trust in the Lord, who would surely
protect them. Savage declared that they should trust, also, to such
common sense as the Lord had given them. From his certain knowledge,
the company, containing as it did so large a number of the aged and
infirm, of women and children, could not cross the mountains thus late
in the season without much suffering, sickness, and death. He was
overruled and rebuked for want of faith. “Brethren and sisters,” he
replied, “what I have said I know to be true; but seeing you are going
forward, I will go with you. May God in his mercy preserve us.”
The company set forth from their camp on the 18th, and on each
hand-cart was now placed a ninety-eight pound sack of flour, as the
wagons could not carry the entire load. At first they travelled about
fifteen miles a day, although delays were caused by the breaking of
wheels and axles. The heat and aridity of the plains and mountains
speedily made many of the cart-wheels rickety and unable to sustain
their burdens without frequent repairs. Some shod the axles of their
carts with old leather, others with tin from the plates and kettles
of their mess outfit; and for grease they used their allowance of
bacon, and even their soap, of which they had but little. On reaching
Wood River the cattle stampeded, and thirty head were lost, the
remainder being only sufficient to allow one yoke to each wagon.
The beef cattle, milch cows, and heifers were used as draft animals,
but were of little service, and it was found necessary to place
another sack of flour on each hand-cart. The issue of beef was then
stopped, the cows gave no milk, and the daily ration was reduced to
a pound of flour, with a little rice, sugar, coffee, and bacon,
an allowance which only furnished breakfast for some of the men,
who fasted for the remainder of the day.
While encamped on the North Fork of the Platte the emigrants were
overtaken by another party of elders, returning from foreign missions,
who gave them what encouragement they could. “Though it might storm
on their right and on their left the Lord would keep open their way
before them, and they would reach Zion in safety.” After camping with
them for one night, the elders went on their way, promising to leave
provisions for them at Fort Laramie if possible, and to send them aid
from Salt Lake City. On reaching Laramie no provisions were found,
and rations were again reduced, men able to work receiving twelve
ounces of flour daily, women and old men nine ounces, and children
from four to eight ounces.
As the emigrants travelled along the banks of the Sweetwater,
the nights became severe, and their bed-covering was now insufficient.
Before them were the mountains clad almost to the base with snow,
where already the storms of winter were gathering. Gradually the
old and infirm began to droop, and soon deaths became frequent,
the companies seldom leaving their camping-ground without burying one
or more of the party. Then able-bodied men began to succumb, a few
of them continuing to pull their carts before they died, and one or
two even on the day of their deaths. On the morning when the first
snow-storm occurred, the last ration of flour was issued, and a march
of sixteen miles was before them to the nearest camping-ground on
the Sweetwater. The task seemed hopeless, but at noon a wagon
drove up, containing Joseph A. Young and Stephen Taylor, from Salt
Lake City, who told them that a train of supplies would reach them
in a day or two. Thus encouraged, the emigrants pushed forward.
By doubling their teams, and by the strongest of the party helping
the weak to drag their carts, all reached the camping-ground, though
some of the cattle perished, and during the night five persons died
of cold and exhaustion.
In the morning the snow was a foot deep, and there remained only two
barrels of biscuits, a few pounds of sugar and dried apples, and
a quarter of a sack of rice. Two of the disabled cattle were killed,
their carcasses issued for beef, and on this and a small dole of
biscuits the emigrants were told that they must subsist until
supplies reached them. The small remnant of provisions was reserved
for the young children and the sick. It was now decided to remain
in camp, while the captain with one of the elders went in search of
the supply-trains. The small allowance of beef and biscuit was
consumed the first day, and on the second day more cattle were killed
and eaten without biscuit. On the next day there was nothing to eat,
for no more cattle could be spared. Still the supplies came not,
being delayed by the same storm which the emigrants had encountered.
During these three days many died and numbers sickened. Some expired
in the arms of those who were themselves almost at the point of death.
Mothers wrapped with their dying hands the remnant of their tattered
clothing around the wan forms of their perishing infants. The most
pitiful sight of all was to see strong men begging for the morsel
of food that had been set apart for the sick and helpless.
It was now the evening of the third day, and the sun was sinking
behind the snow-clad ranges which could be traced far to the west
amid the clear, frosty atmosphere of the desert. There were many who,
while they gazed on this scene, did not expect to see the light of
another day, and there were many who cared for life no longer, having
lost all that makes life precious. They retired to their tents and
commanded themselves to their Maker, lay down to rest, perchance
to die. But presently a shout of joy was raised. From an eminence
near the western portion of the camp covered wagons were seen
approaching, with the captain at their head. Immediately about half
of the provisions, together with a quantity of warm clothing,
blankets, and buffalo-robes were distributed to the companies.
The remainder was sent forward under charge of Grant for the use of
another company.
But the troubles of the hand-cart emigrants were not yet at an end.
Some were already beyond all human aid, some had lost their reason,
and around others the blackness of despair had settled, all efforts
to rouse them from their stupor being unavailing. Each day the
weather grew colder, and many were frost-bitten, losing fingers,
toes, or ears, one sick man who held on to the wagon bars to avoid
jolting having all his fingers frozen. At a camping-ground at
Willow Creek, a tributary of the Sweetwater, fifteen people were
buried, thirteen of them having been frozen to death. Near South
Pass another company of the brethren met them, with supplies from
Salt Lake City, and from the trees near their camp several quarters
of fat beef were suspended—“a picture,” says Chislett, who had charge
of one of the companies, “that far surpassed the paintings of the
ancient masters.” From this point warm weather prevailed, and fresh
teams from the valley constantly met them, distributing provisions
sufficient for their needs, and then travelling eastward to meet
the other company.
On reaching Salt Lake City on the 9th of November, it was found that
sixty-seven out of a total of four hundred and twenty had died on
the journey. Of the six hundred emigrants included in Martin's
detachment, which arrived there three weeks later, a smaller
percentage perished. The storm which overtook the party on the
Sweetwater reached them on the North Platte. There they encamped
and waited about ten days for the weather to moderate. Their rations
were reduced to four ounces of flour per head a day, for a few days,
until relief came. On arriving at Salt Lake City the survivors were
received with the utmost kindness.
On their arrival at Devil's Gate on the Sweetwater, twenty men
belonging to the other company were left in charge of stock,
merchandise, and baggage, with orders to follow in the spring.
The snow fell deep, and many of the cattle were devoured by the
wolves, while others perished from cold. The rest were slaughtered,
and on their frozen carcasses the men subsisted, their small stock
of flour and salt now being exhausted. Game was scarce in the
neighbourhood, and with their utmost care the supply of food could
not hold out until spring. Two of the men, with the only horses
that remained, were sent to Platte Bridge to obtain supplies; but the
animals were lost, and they returned empty-handed. Presently the
meat was all consumed, and then their only resource was the hides,
which were cut into small pieces and soaked in hot water, after the
hair had been removed. When the last hide had been eaten, nothing
remained but their boot-tops and the scraps of leather from their
wagon. Even the neck-piece of a buffalo-skin which had served as
a door-mat was used for food. Thus they kept themselves alive until
spring, when they subsisted on thistle-roots and wild garlic, until
at length relief came from Salt Lake City.[17]
On the 5th of December, 1857, John B. Floyd, then Secretary of War,
in his report to James Buchanan, President of the United States,
states that the people of Utah implicitly obeyed their prophet, and
that from the first day of their settlement in the territory it had
been their aim to secede from the Union. He says that for years
they had not even pretended obedience to Federal authority, and that
they encouraged roaming bands of Indians to rob and massacre the
emigrants bound for the Pacific coast.
Previous to the assembling of any troops for duty in Utah to enforce
obedience to the laws of the government, an opinion was asked of
General Winfield Scott, then commanding the army, as to the feasibility
of sending an armed expedition into the territory. Scott's decision
was most emphatically against the proposition to send troops there
so late in the season. The general's advice was not heeded, however,
and in May orders were promulgated that the Fifth and Tenth Infantry,
the Second Dragoons, and a battery of the Fourth Artillery should
assemble at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, with the Valley of the Salt Lake
as their objective point.
In June, 1858, more than six thousand troops were mobilized for Utah,
and the command was given to Brigadier-General W. S. Harney.
In the whole military history of the country, before the Civil War,
no expedition had ever been better equipped and rationed than that
which was to be called “The Army of Occupation in Utah.” Thousands
of cattle and immense supply-trains were started across the plains
in advance. The price for the transportation was twenty-two cents
a pound.
These exorbitant contracts made the lucky individuals who had
secured them very wealthy. By a little political wire-pulling he who
had secured the flour contract obtained permission to provide the
troops with Utah flour. It cost him but seven cents a pound, but he
received the twenty-two cents which it would have cost to have
transported it from the States.
This large army was stationed in Utah Territory for nearly four years.
It is stated on good authority that the private soldiers asked of
each other, “Why were we sent here? Why are we kept here?” while
the common people wondered whether the authorities at Washington kept
them there to make the contractors rich.
At that time the people of the territory were in a starving condition
in consequence of the failure of crops and the unusually severe
winter of 1856-1857. There were thousands who for over a year had
never realized what a full meal meant; children by the hundreds
“endured the gnawings of hunger until hunger had become to them
a second nature”; yet despite this condition of affairs the orders
issued to General Harney from Washington display a lamentable
ignorance, or a determination to compel the Mormons to feed the
troops on the basis of the miracle of “the loaves and fishes.”
His instructions were as follows:
It is not doubted that a surplus of provisions and forage,
beyond the wants of the resident population, will be found
in the Valley of Utah, and that the inhabitants, if assured
by energy and justice, will be ready to sell them to the
troops. Hence, no instructions are given you for the extreme
event of the troops being in absolute need of such supplies,
and their being with-held by the inhabitants. The necessities
of such an occasion would furnish a law for your guidance.
Exactly the reverse of what was intended by the authorities at
Washington occurred in Utah. In another chapter it is shown how the
Mormons stampeded the cattle of the supply-trains, and robbed them
of their contents, so it will be perceived that the Mormons themselves
subsisted on the rations intended for the troops, completely
controverting what was implied in the orders to General Harney.
On the day after the departure from Salt Lake of the officers[18] sent
on a special mission to investigate the condition of affairs in Utah,
Brigham Young issued a proclamation declaring martial law in Utah,
forbidding all armed forces to enter the territory under any pretence
whatever, and ordering the Mormon militia to be in readiness to march
at a moment's notice. It is probable that the Nauvoo Legion, which
now included the entire military force of the territory, mustered at
this date from four to five thousand men.
Though imperfectly armed and equipped, and, of course, no match for
regular troops, the Mormons were not to be held in contempt. In July,
1857,[19] the Nauvoo Legion had been reorganized, the two cohorts,
now termed divisions, having each a nominal strength of two thousand.
The division consisted of two brigades; the brigades of two regiments;
the regiments of five battalions, each of a hundred men, the
battalions being divided into companies of fifty, and the companies
into platoons of ten. Each platoon was in charge of a lieutenant,
whose duty it was carefully to inspect the arms, ammunition, and
accoutrements. All able-bodied males in the territory, excepting
those exempt by law, were liable to military duty, and it is probable
that the Mormons could have put in the field not less than seven
thousand raw troops, half disciplined, indeed, but inured to hardship,
and from the very nature of their environment splendid rifle-shots.
It was not the intention of the Mormons to encounter the army of Utah
in the open field, or even behind breastworks, if it could be avoided.
In order to explain their tactics a despatch sent by the
lieutenant-general of the Nauvoo Legion to Major Joseph Taylor will
make plain what they proposed to do.
On ascertaining the locality or route of the troops, proceed
at once to annoy them in every possible way. Use every
exertion to stampede their animals and set fire to their
trains. Burn the whole country before them and on their
flanks. Keep them from sleeping by night surprises; blockade
the road by felling trees or destroying the river-fords where
you can. Watch for opportunities to set fire to the grass
on their windward, so as, if possible, to envelop their
trains. Leave no grass before them that can be burned.
Keep your men concealed as much as possible, and guard
against surprises. Save life always, when it is possible;
we do not wish to shed a drop of blood if it can be avoided.[20]
When General Harney had joined his command and heard of the state
of affairs in Utah, he said in his characteristic bluff manner:
“I am ordered there, and I will winter in the valley or in hell!”
Before he reached the portals of the territory, however, his services
again being demanded in Kansas, Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, then
at Fort Leavenworth, was appointed to the command of the army of Utah,
and during the interim Colonel Alexander assumed command of the forces.
About the middle of August, General Wells, in command of twelve
hundred and fifty men, supplied with thirty days' rations, established
headquarters at Echo Cañon. Through this cañon, the Mormons
supposed, lay the path of the invading army, the only means of
avoiding the gorge being by a circuitous route northward to Soda
Springs, and thence by way of Bear River Valley, or the Wind River
Mountains. On the western side of the cañon dams and ditches were
constructed, by means of which the road could be submerged to a depth
of several feet. At the eastern side stone heaps were collected
and bowlders loosened from the overhanging rocks, so that a slight
leverage would hurl them on the passing troops, and parapets were
built as a protection for sharp-shooters.[21]
At this juncture a letter from General Wells was delivered to
Colonel Alexander, together with copies of the organic act, the law
of Utah, the proclamation forbidding the entrance of armed forces
into the territory, and a despatch from Brigham Young. The last
was a remarkable document, and must have been somewhat of a surprise
to the colonel, who had proved himself one of the most gallant
soldiers of the Mexican War. He was informed that he, Brigham Young,
was still governor of Utah, who ordered him to withdraw by the same
route he had entered. Should he desire, however, to remain until
spring in the neighbourhood of the present encampment, he must
surrender his arms and ammunition to the Mormon quartermaster-general,
in which case he would be supplied with provisions, and would not
be molested.
Colonel Alexander replied in brief and business-like phrase.
He addressed Brigham Young as governor; stated that he would submit
his letter to the commanding officer immediately on his arrival;
that meanwhile the troops were there by order of the President, and
that their future movements and operations would depend on orders
issued by competent military authority.
In writing to brother officers en route to join their commands,
Colonel Alexander said:
No information of the position or intentions of the commanding
officer has reached me, and I am in utter ignorance of the
object of the government in sending troops here, or the
instructions given for their conduct after reaching here.
I have decided on the following points: First, the necessity
of a speedy move to winter quarters; second, the selection
of a point for wintering; third, the best method of conducting
the troops and supplies to the point selected.
A council of war was held, and the point selected was Fort Hall,
on Beaver Head Mountain, one hundred and forty miles from Fort Bridger.
So little did the colonel know about the disposition of the command,
that at the time and place when he expected to be joined by Colonel
Smith, in charge of supply-trains, that officer was still at the
South Pass, with an escort of two hundred men.
On the 11th of October the troops commenced their march. Snow was
falling heavily, and for several days they were compelled to cut
a path for their wagons through the dense brush, their trains being
still of such unwieldy length that the vanguard had reached its
camping-ground at nightfall before the rear guard had moved from
its camp of the preceding day. Meanwhile bands of Mormons, under
their nimble and ubiquitous leaders, hung on their flanks, just out
of rifle-shot, harassing them at every step, seven hundred oxen being
captured and driven to Salt Lake City on the 13th!
There was as yet no cavalry in the force. A few infantry companies
were mounted on mules and sent in pursuit of the guerillas, but the
Saints merely laughed at them, terming them jackass cavalry.
The grass had been burned along the route, and the draught animals
were so weak that they could travel only three miles a day. When the
point was reached where Smith's detachment was expected to join
the army, the commander, disappointed and sorely perplexed, called
a council of war, at which many of the officers were in favour of
cutting their way through the cañons at all hazard.
At this juncture a despatch was received from General Johnston,
who was now at South Pass, ordering the troops to proceed to
Fontenelle Creek, where pasture was abundant, and a few days later
a second despatch directed them to march to a point three miles below
the junction of Ham and Black Forks, the colonel stating that he
would join them there. On the 3d of November they reached the place
of rendezvous, where Johnston arrived the following day, with a
reënforcement of cavalry and the supply-trains in charge of Smith.
Albert Sidney Johnston was a favourite officer, and had already given
earnest of the qualities that he displayed a few years later in the
campaigns of the Civil War, on the Confederate side. The morale of
the army was at once restored, and each man put forth his utmost
energy at the touch of this excellent soldier. But their troubles
were not yet ended. The expedition was now ordered to Fort Bridger,
and at every step difficulties increased. There were only thirty-five
miles to be travelled, but excepting on the margin of a few slender
streams the country through which their route lay was the barest of
desert land. There was no shelter from the chill blasts of this
mountain solitude, where, even in November, the thermometer sometimes
sank to sixteen degrees below zero. There was no fuel but the wild
sage and willow; there was little pasture for the half-frozen cattle.
The march continued on the 6th of November, and on the previous night
five hundred of the strongest oxen had been stolen by the Mormons.
The train extended over six miles, and all day long snow and sleet
fell on the retreating column. Some of the men were frost-bitten,
and the exhausted animals were goaded by their drivers until many
fell dead in their traces. At sunset the troops encamped wherever
they could find a particle of shelter, some under bluffs, and some
in the willow copses. At daybreak the camp was surrounded by the
carcasses of frozen cattle. Several hundred beasts had perished
during the night. Still, as the trains arrived from the rear,
each one halted for a day or more, giving time for the cattle to
rest and graze on such scant herbage as they could find. To press
forward rapidly was impossible, for it would have cost the lives
of most of the draught animals; to find shelter was equally impossible,
for there was none. There was no alternative but to proceed slowly
and persistently, saving as many as possible of the horses, mules,
and oxen. Fifteen days were required for this difficult operation.
Meanwhile Colonel Philip St. George Cooke, who arrived on the 19th by
way of Fort Laramie, at the head of five hundred dragoons, had fared
no better than the main body, having lost nearly half of his cattle.
On the 5th the command of Colonel Cooke passed the Devil's Gate.
While crossing what he calls a four-mile hill, he writes as follows:—
The north wind and drifting snow became severe; the air
seemed turned to frozen fog; nothing could be seen; we were
struggling in a freezing cloud. The lofty wall at Three
Crossings was a happy relief; but the guide, who had lately
passed there, was relentless in pronouncing that there was
no grass. As he promised grass and shelter two miles farther,
we marched on, crossing twice more the rocky stream, half
choked with snow and ice; finally he led us behind a great
granite rock, but all too small for the promised shelter.
Only a part of the regiment could huddle up there in the
deep snow; whilst the long night through the storm continued,
and in fearful eddies from above, before, behind, drove the
falling and drifting snow.
Meanwhile the animals were driven once more across the stream to the
base of a granite ridge which faced the storm, but where there was
no grass. They refused to eat, the mules huddling together and
moaning piteously, while some of the horses broke away from the guard
and went back to the ford. The next day better camping-ground was
reached ten miles farther on. On the morning of the 8th the
thermometer marked forty-four degrees below freezing point; but in
this weather and through deep snow the men made eighteen miles, and
the following day nineteen miles, to the next camping-grounds on
Bitter Creek, and in the valley of Sweetwater. On the 10th matters
were still worse. Herders left to bring up the rear with stray mules
could not force them from the valley, and there three-fourths of them
were left to perish. Nine horses were also abandoned. At night the
thermometer marked twenty-five degrees below zero; nearly all the
tent-pins were broken, and nearly forty soldiers and teamsters were
on the sick list, most of them being frost-bitten. “The earth,”
writes the colonel, “has no more lifeless, treeless, grassless desert;
it contains scarcely a wolf to glut itself on the hundreds of dead
and frozen animals which for thirty miles nearly block the road.”
At length the army arrived at Fort Bridger—to find that the buildings
in and around it, together with those at Fort Supply, twelve miles
distant, had been burnt to the ground by Mormons, and the grain and
other provisions removed or destroyed. All that remained were two
enclosures surrounded by walls of cobblestone cemented with mortar,
the larger one being a hundred feet square. This was appropriated
for supplies, while on the smaller one lunettes were built and
mounted with cannon. A sufficient garrison was stationed at this
point; the cattle were sent for the winter to Henry Fork in charge
of Colonel Cooke and six companies of the Second Dragoons, and about
the end of November the remainder of the troops went into winter
quarters on Black Fork of the Green River, two or three miles beyond
Fort Bridger, and a hundred and fifteen from Salt Lake City. The site,
to which was given the name of Fort Scott, was sheltered by bluffs
rising abruptly at a few hundred yards from the bed of the stream.
Near by were clumps of cottonwood which the Mormons had attempted
to burn; but the wood being green and damp, the fire had merely
scorched the bark.
Though most of the beef cattle had been carried off by the Mormons or
Indians, a sufficient number of draught animals remained to furnish
meat for seven months during six days of the week, while of bacon
there was enough for one day in the week, and by reducing the ration
of flour, coffee, and other articles, they might also be made to last
until the first of June. Parties were at once sent to Oregon and
New Mexico to procure cattle and remounts for the cavalry. Meantime
shambles were built, to which the starved animals at Fort Henry were
driven, and butchered as soon as they had gathered a little flesh,
their meat being jerked and stored for future use.
There was not an ounce of salt in the entire camp; a supply was
proffered as a gift from Brigham Young, whom Johnston now termed,
“The great Mormon rebel,” which was rejected with contempt. Salt was
secretly brought into the camp, but the commander would eat none
of it, and the officer's mess was soon after supplied by the Indians
at the rate of five dollars a pound!
Thus did the army of Utah pass the winter of 1857-1858, amid
privations no less severe than those endured at Valley Forge
eighty-one years before.
But meanwhile events occurred which promised a peaceful solution of
the difficulty. The spirited resistance of the Saints had called
forth unfavourable comments on Buchanan's policy throughout the
United States and Europe. He had virtually made war upon the
territory before any declaration had been issued; he had sent forward
an army before the causes of offence had been fairly investigated;
and now, at this critical juncture in the nation's history when there
was a possibility of the disruption of the Union, he was about to
lock up in a distant and almost inaccessible region more than
one-third of the nation's war material, and nearly all of its best
troops. Even the soldiers themselves, though in a cheerful mood and
in excellent condition, had no heart for the approaching campaign,
accepting, as they did, the commonly received opinion that it was
merely a move on the President's political chess-board. In a word,
Buchanan and the Washington politicians and the Johnston-Harney army
must confess themselves hopelessly beaten, before a blow was struck.
The army was powerless before the people they had come to punish.
All that remained to do was to forgive the Mormons and let them go.
Through the pressure brought to bear, the President was induced to
stop the threatened war. On the 6th of April he signed a proclamation
promising amnesty to all who returned to their allegiance; and on
the 26th of June, 1858, the army of Utah entered the Valley of the
Great Salt Lake.
Thus ended this farcical demonstration on the part of the government
—a war without a battle! There was, perhaps, no genuine basis of
necessity upon which to organize the expensive and disastrous
expedition against the Mormons. The real cause, perhaps, should be
attributed to the clamour of other religious sects against what they
held to be an unorthodox belief.
The City of Salt Lake, the capital of the Mormon settlement, was
founded upon the arrival of that sect in the valley in 1847. It is
situated in latitude 40 degrees 46 minutes north, and longitude
112 degrees 6 minutes west, (from Greenwich), at the foot of the
western slope of the Wahsatch Mountains, an extensive chain of
lofty hills, forming a portion of the eastern boundary of what is
known in our geography as the Great Basin.
The growth of this delightful mountain city in its arid, desolate
environment is a monument to the patience, industry, and devotion
to a principle which has few parallels.
The corporate limits aggregate about fifty square miles; no city in
the world, perhaps, possesses streets of such an extraordinary width.
Through their whole vast length the magnificent trees which fringe
them are irrigated by streams of pure water flowing from the several
cañons in the vicinity. By this constant passage of these mountain
streams, the air is deliciously cooled, and Salt Lake City made one of
the most beautiful and charming places on the North American continent.
It is declared by the faithful that Brigham Young affirmed it was in
a vision that the place was designated to him by an angel from heaven
as the exact spot where the capital of Zion should be built.
By the requirements of an original ordinance each residence was to
be located twenty feet in the rear of the lot, the intervening space
forming a little park filled with flowers, trees, and shrubbery.
By the same system of irrigation which flows through the streets to
nourish the trees, the water runs into every garden spot, and
produces a beauty of verdure in what was once the most barren of
wastes.
Even in its infancy, Salt Lake City was the only charming spot
between the Missouri River and the Pacific Ocean, for in the early
days of the hazardous passage across the plains, the whole region
with rare exceptions was conspicuous for the entire absence of trees.
There was one monotonous blaze of sunshine, day after day, as the
caravans and overland coaches plodded through the alkali dust of the
desert. The weary traveller gazed upon nothing but seemingly
interminable prairies and naked elevations, destitute of verdure,
or as he entered the rock-ribbed Continental Divide, only rugged
mountains relieved the eternal sameness of his surroundings.
Salt Lake City, nestling in its wealth of trees and flowers, was
a second “Diamond of the Desert.” In its welcome shade, the dusty
traveller, like the solitary Sir Kenneth, reposed his jaded limbs
and dreamed of the babbling brooks and waving woodlands he had left
a thousand miles behind him.
The temple and the tabernacle, of purely Mormon conception, are the
most elaborate and attractive architectural structures in the city.
It is claimed by the faithful that the site of the temple was
announced by Brigham Young to his people on an evening in July,
1847, a very short time after the arrival of the Mormon pioneers.
The story runs that while roaming in company with some of his apostles,
about the region of the camp, discussing and declaring that where
they had halted was the very place on which to rear the new Zion,
the prophet stuck his cane in the ground and said to those who were
with him, “Here is where the temple of our God shall rise.”
Of course there was no appeal from his dictum, and from the moment
of his declaration that spot was regarded as sacred by all the people,
who firmly believed that when their leader spoke it was through
inspiration from heaven.
CHAPTER VII.
MOUNTAIN MEADOWS MASSACRE.
The most terrible fate that ever befell a caravan on the Old Trail
was that known to history as the Mountain Meadows Massacre.
The story of this damnable, outrageous, and wholesale murder is as
follows:—
In the spring of 1857 a band of emigrants numbering one hundred and
thirty-six, from Missouri and Arkansas, set out for Southern
California. The party had about six hundred head of cattle, thirty
wagons, and thirty horses and mules. At least thirty thousand
dollars worth of plunder was collected by the assassins after the
massacre.
Owing to the impending war between the United States and the Mormons,
the Saints had been ordered not to furnish any emigrant trains with
supplies. In view of this fact the leaders of the train found it
difficult to get provisions for the party after reaching the territory
occupied by that sect. The party reached Salt Lake and camped about
the end of July, but finding the Mormons in so unfriendly a mood,
decided to break camp and move on. Continuing their journey, they
proceeded to Beaver City, thence to Parowan, where they obtained
a scanty supply of provisions.
Arriving at Cedar City, they succeeded in purchasing about fifty
bushels of wheat, which was ground at a mill belonging to John D. Lee,
formerly commander of the fort at Cedar, but then Indian agent, and
in charge of an Indian farm near Harmony.
About thirty miles to the southwest of Cedar are the Mountain Meadows,
which form the divide between the waters of the Great Basin and those
which flow into the Colorado. At the south end of the Meadows, which
are four to five miles in length and one in width, but here run to
a narrow point, is a large stream, the banks of which are about ten
feet in height. Close to this stream the emigrants were encamped on
the 5th of September, almost midway between two ranges of low hills
some four hundred yards apart.
It was Saturday evening when the trains encamped at Mountain Meadows.
On the Sabbath they rested, and at the usual hour one of them
conducted divine service as had been their custom throughout the
journey.
At dawn on the following morning while the camp-fires were being
lighted, they were fired upon by Indians, or white men disguised as
savages, and more than twenty were killed or wounded, their cattle
having been driven off by the assailants who had crept on them under
cover of darkness. The men now ran for their wagons, pushed them
together so as to form a corral, and dug out the earth deep enough
to sink them to the hubs; then in the centre of the enclosure they
made a rifle-pit large enough to contain the entire company.
Thereupon the attacking party, which numbered from three to four
hundred, withdrew to the hills, on the crest of which they built
parapets, whence they shot down all who showed themselves outside
the intrenchment.
The emigrants were now in a state of siege, and had little hope of
escape as all the outlets of the valley were guarded. Their ammunition
was almost exhausted, many of their number were wounded, and their
sufferings from thirst had become intolerable. Down in the ravine
and within a few yards of the corral was the stream of water, but only
after sundown could any of the precious liquid be obtained, and then
at great risk, for this point was covered by the muskets of the
Indians, who lurked all night among the ravines waiting for their
victims.
On the morning of the fifth day of the siege, a wagon was seen
approaching, accompanied by an escort of Mormon soldiers. When near
the intrenchment the company halted, and one of them, William Bateman
by name, was sent forward with a flag of truce. In answer to this
signal a little girl, dressed in white, appeared in an open space
between the wagons. Half-way between the Mormons and the corral,
Bateman was met by one of the emigrants named Hamilton, to whom he
promised protection for his party on condition that their arms were
surrendered, assuring him that they would be conducted safely to
Cedar City. After a brief interview each returned to his comrades.
It was arranged that John D. Lee should conclude terms with the
emigrants, and he immediately went into their camp. Bidding the men
pile their arms into the wagon, to avoid provoking the Indians,
he placed in them the wounded, the small children, and a little
clothing. While thus engaged, a man rode up with orders from Major
Higbee, an officer of the Mormon army, to hasten, as the Indians
threatened to renew the attack.
The emigrants were then hurried away, the men and women following
the wagons, the latter in front. All were in single file, and on
each side of them the militia were drawn up two deep, with twenty
paces between their lines. Within two hundred yards of the camp,
the men were halted until the women approached a copse of scrub-oak,
about a mile distant, and near which, it appears, the Indians were
in ambush.
The men now resumed their march, the militia forming in single file,
each one walking by the side of an emigrant, and carrying his musket
on the left arm. As soon as the women were close to the ambuscade,
Higbee, who was in charge of the detachment, gave a signal, which
had evidently been prearranged, by saying to his command, “Do your
duty”; and the horrible butchery commenced. Most of the men were
shot down at the first fire. Three only escaped from the valley;
of these, two were quickly run down and slaughtered; the third was
slain at Muddy Creek, some fifty miles distant.
The women and those of the children who were on foot ran forward some
two or three hundred yards, when they were overtaken by Indians,
among whom were some Mormons in disguise. The women fell on their
knees, and with clasped hands sued in vain for mercy, clutching the
garments of their murderers. Children pleaded for life, but the
steady gaze of innocent childhood was met by the demoniac grin of
the savages, who brandished over them uplifted knives and tomahawks.
Their skulls were battered in, or their throats cut from ear to ear,
and, while still alive, the scalp was torn from their heads. Some of
the little ones met with a more merciful death, one, an infant in
arms, being shot through the head by the same bullet that pierced its
father's heart. Of the women none were spared, and of the children
only those who were not more than seven years of age.
To two of Lee's wagoners was assigned the duty, so called, of
slaughtering the sick and wounded. Obeying their instructions,
they stopped their teams and despatched their unfortunate victims.
Some were shot; others had their throats cut.
The massacre was now completed, and after stripping the bodies of
all articles of value, Brother Lee and his associates went to
breakfast, returning after a hearty meal to bury their dead.
It was a ghastly sight that met their eyes on their return, and one
that caused even the assassins to shudder and turn pale. The bodies
had been entirely denuded by the Indians. Some of the corpses were
horribly mangled and nearly all of them scalped. The dead were piled
in heaps in a ravine near by and a little earth thrown over them.
This was washed off by the first rains, leaving the remains to be
devoured by wolves and coyotes.
It was not until two years after the massacre that they were decently
interred, by a detachment of United States troops sent for that
purpose from Camp Floyd.
On arriving at Mountain Meadows, the soldiers found skulls and bones
scattered for the space of a mile around the ravine, where they had
been dragged by the wolves. Nearly all of the bodies had been gnawed
by those ghouls of the desert, so that few could be recognized,
as their dismembered skeletons were bleached by the sun. Many of
the skulls had been crushed by the butts of muskets, or cloven with
tomahawks; others were shattered by firearms discharged close to
the head.
A few remnants of apparel, torn from the backs of women and children
as they ran from their merciless pursuers, still fluttered among the
bushes, and near by were masses of human hair, matted and trodden
in the earth.
Over the last resting-place of the victims was erected a cone-shaped
cairn, twelve feet high. Against its northern base was a slab of
rough granite with the following inscription: “Here 120 men, women,
and children were massacred in cold blood, early in September, 1857.
They were from Arkansas.” Surmounting the cairn was a cross of cedar,
inscribed with the words: “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith
the Lord.”
The survivors of the awful slaughter were seventeen children, from
two months to seven years of age, who were carried, on the evening
of the massacre, by John D. Lee and others to the house of Jacob
Hamblin, and afterward placed in charge of Mormon families at various
points in the territory. All of them were recovered in the summer
of 1858, with the exception of one, who was rescued a few months
later, and though thinly clad, they bore no marks of ill-usage.
In 1859 they were conveyed to Arkansas, the Congress of the United
States having appropriated ten thousand dollars for their rescue and
restoration to relatives.
Those concerned in the massacre had pledged themselves by the most
solemn oaths to stand by each other, and ever to insist that the deed
was done entirely by Indians. For several months this was the
accepted theory, but when it became known that some of the children
had been spared, suspicion at once pointed elsewhere, for among all
the murders committed by the Utes, there was not a single instance
of their having shown any such mercy. Moreover, it was ascertained
that an armed party of Mormons had left Cedar City, and had returned
with spoil, and that the savages complained of having been unfairly
treated in the division of the booty.
It is claimed that when John D. Lee discovered that the United States
authorities suspected him as being the principal actor in the awful
tragedy, he left the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and hid himself
in one of the cañons of the Colorado,[22] where he remained for years
suffering that terrible anxiety which comes to all fugitives from
justice, sooner or later, and which is said by those who have
experienced it to be absolutely unbearable.
In 1874, under the provisions of what is legally known as the
“Poland Bill,” whereby the better administration of justice was
subserved, the Grand Jury was instructed to investigate the Mountain
Meadows Massacre, and find bills of indictment against John D. Lee,
William H. Dame, Isaac C. Haight, and others. Warrants were issued
for their arrest, and after a vigorous search Lee and Dame were
captured, Lee having been discovered in a hog-pen at a small
settlement on the Sevier River.
On the 23d of July, 1875, the trial was begun, at Beaver City,
in Southern Utah. Much delay ensued, however, by the absence of
witnesses, and by the fact that Lee had promised to make a full
confession, and turn state's evidence. His statement was not
accepted by the court, and the case was brought to trial on the
23d of July, with the expected result, that the jury, eight of whom
were Mormons, failed to agree.
Lee was then tried a second time, and it was proved that the Mormon
Church had nothing to do with the massacre; that Lee, in fact, had
acted in direct opposition to the officers of the Church. It was
shown that he was a villain and a murderer of the deepest dye; that
with his own hands, after inducing the emigrants to surrender and
give up their arms, he had shot two women and brained a third with
the butt-end of his musket, and had cut the throat of a wounded man
whom he had dragged from one of the wagons; that he had gathered
the property of the emigrants and disposed of it for his own benefit.
It was further proved that Lee shot two or three of the wounded, and
that when two girls, who had been hiding in the brush, were brought
into his presence by an Indian after the massacre, the latter asked
what was to be done with them, to which Lee replied, “They are too
old to be spared.” “They are too pretty to be killed,” answered
the chief. “Such are my orders,” said Lee, whereupon the Indian
shot one, and Lee, dragging the other to the ground, cut her throat.
Lee was convicted of murder in the first degree, and, having been
allowed to select his own method of execution, was sentenced to be
shot. The case was appealed to the supreme court of the territory,
but the judgment was sustained, and it was ordered that the sentence
be carried into effect on the 23d of March, 1877. The others who
had been tried were discharged from custody.
A short time before his execution Lee made a confession in which he
attempted to palliate his guilt by throwing the burden of the crime
on his accomplices, especially on Haight and Higbee, and to show that
the massacre was committed by order of Brigham Young and the High
Council, all of which was absolutely false.
On the 13th of March he wrote:
I feel as composed and as calm as a summer morning. I hope
to meet my fate with manly courage. I declare my innocence.
I have done nothing designedly wrong in that unfortunate and
lamentable affair with which I have been implicated. I used
my utmost endeavours to save them from their sad fate.
I freely would have given worlds, were they at my command,
to have averted that evil. Death to me has no terror. It is
but a struggle, and all is over. I know that I have a reward
in heaven, and my conscience does not accuse me.
Ten days later he was led to execution at the Mountain Meadows.
Over that spot the curse of the Almighty seemed to have fallen.
The luxuriant herbage that had clothed it twenty years before had
disappeared; the springs were dry and wasted, and now there was
neither grass nor any green thing, save here and there a copse of
sage-brush or scrub-oak, that served but to make its desolation still
more desolate. It is said that the phantoms of the murdered emigrants
still flit around the cairn that marks their grave, and nightly
reënact in ghastly pantomime the scene of this hideous tragedy.
About ten o'clock on the morning of the 23d a party of armed men,
alighting from their wagons, approached the site of the massacre.
Among them were the United States marshal, William Nelson, the
district attorney, a military guard, and a score of private citizens.
In their midst was John Doyle Lee. Blankets were placed over the
wheels of one of the wagons, to serve as a screen for the firing
party. Some rough boards were then nailed together in the shape of
a coffin, which was placed near the edge of the cairn, and upon it
Lee took his seat until the preparations were completed. The marshal
now read the order of the court, and, turning to the prisoner, said,
“Mr. Lee, if you have anything to say before the order of the court
is carried into effect you can do so now.”
Rising from his coffin, he looked calmly around for a moment, and
then with unfaltering voice repeated the statements already quoted
from his confession. “I have but little to say this morning,”
he added. “It seems I have to be made a victim; a victim must be had,
and I am the victim. I studied to make Brigham Young's will my
pleasure for thirty years. See now what I have come to this day!
I have been sacrificed in a cowardly, dastardly manner. I cannot
help it; it is my last word; it is so. I do not fear death; I shall
never go to a worse place than I am now in. I ask the Lord my God,
if my labours are done, to receive my spirit.”
A Methodist clergyman, who acted as his spiritual adviser, then knelt
by his side and offered a brief prayer, to which he listened
attentively. After shaking hands with those around him, he removed
a part of his clothing, handing his hat to the marshal, who bound
a handkerchief over his eyes, his hands being free at his own request.
Seating himself with his face to the firing party, and with hands
clasped over his head, he exclaimed: “Let them shoot the balls
through my heart. Don't let them mangle my body.”
The word of command was given, the report of the rifles rang forth
on the still morning air, and without a groan or quiver the body of
the criminal fell back lifeless on his coffin.
God was more merciful to him than he had been to his victims.[23]
Once one of Russell, Majors, & Waddell's trains, upon arriving at
the Little Blue River below Kearney, en route to Fort Laramie, had
a little skirmish with the Sioux. One of the party, who was going
to the Fort to erect a sawmill for the government,[24] tells about it
as follows:—
I had travelled ahead of the train a mile or more, had gotten
off my mule, laid down awhile, and I believe fell asleep.
On awaking I saw three Indians coming out of the brush on
the creek bottom; I took a glance at them, and quietly stood
where I was. After a while they approached me; I mounted
my mule and held my loaded shot-gun before me across the
saddle, with my finger on the trigger. Two formed themselves
in front of me and one behind. I paid no special attention
to them, but they immediately began to make signs in relation
to swapping their horses for my mule. I merely pointed to
the U.S. on the shoulder of the animal, indicating that it
was not my property. They quickly saw they couldn't scare me,
though I didn't know but what they were making up their minds
to kill me; finally, however, without any further
demonstration they rode off one at a time, and left me,
where I remained until my train came up.
When we made camp that afternoon a good-sized band of
Cheyennes and Arapahoes gathered around with their usual
salutations of “How? How?” I suggested to the wagon-master
to boil some old coffee-grounds after we had eaten our dinner,
and with some sugar and crackers or something of that
character, give them to the Indians, which was done. In the
afternoon we moved out on the road toward Kearney and ahead
of us was a train going unloaded to the same place. As we
strung out on the trail I noticed that the chief of the band,
I think he was known as “Hairy Bear” of the Cheyennes, and
all of his warriors were riding along, one opposite nearly
every driver. I told the wagon-master that he had better
stop the train and tell the Indians they must take either
one end of the road or the other, as it was evident they
were getting ready for a row. Upon discovering that we were
“up to” their little job, they went ahead.
At dark, after we had encamped again, the assistant
wagon-master of the train in front came to us and told of
a little scrap he had with these same Indians. One of them
at first undertook to snatch the handkerchief off his neck;
another Indian had shot two or three arrows after a teamster,
then they rode off.
Our train went on five miles, where we were going to camp,
when a messenger was sent by the commanding officer at the
fort suggesting that the two caravans camp together, which
we did. In the morning, when we started out, I rode ahead
on my mule as usual, and when I had got about half-way to
the fort I saw the white shoulder-blade of a buffalo setting
up on end about fifty yards from the road. I rode out and
picked it up; it was standing on end with a little wisp of
grass wrapped around it; on the face of it were three men
painted red. The broad end of the blade in the ground was
marked out like a fort, with little black spots, meaning
tracks of soldiers, and a man in black was there with his
rifle drawn, and resting across one of the red men's necks.
Another was shot below the shoulder-joint, and one had his
arm broken. Painted in red, right up toward the joint,
was a wolf trotting from it. This indicated that the Indians
had had a fight; three of them had been wounded, one in
the back, one in the neck, and one had his arm broken.
There were also three spears, the points of which were stuck
in the ground, indicating that three Indians were dead and
had no more use for the weapons.
I took the bone to the fort and there the interpreter told
what it all meant. I discovered it to be a valuable history
of what was going on: the Cheyennes and Arapahoes who had
been with us had separated; the Arapahoes had gone away and
tried to steal some ponies; they would be along pretty soon.
All this occurred after the Arapahoes had separated from
the Cheyennes. The latter had placed the shoulder-blade of
the buffalo on the trail, to prevent their making the mistake
of going to the fort, where, after their trouble with the
train, the soldiers would make it hot for them; but as I had
found their message first, their plan was frustrated.
Later on the Indians came to the fort, and one of the
teamsters who had been wounded happened to be there, and he
picked out the very Indian who had shot him. The commanding
officer directed the sergeant of the guard to arrest the
savage, which he did, and proceeded to put him in irons.
While fastening on a ball and chain, the Indian struck the
soldier on the head who was holding him. Upon this the
commanding officer told one of the guards to shoot him, which
the man did very promptly. The bullet went clear through
the Indian, and shot one of the interpreter's fingers off.
After this little incident, there was a general free-for-all
fight, in which the Indians were badly worsted. After this
battle the Indians went south and were not troublesome for
some time.
When the snow began to melt from the mountain peaks in the spring
the little insignificant creeks swelled up and for a few weeks were
transformed into raging torrents, too deep or too dangerous to ford.
At such seasons the few ranchmen who were in the country built
temporary bridges across them, hardly ever exceeding fifty feet in
length. While the streams were high, these bridges were a veritable
gold-mine from the revenue paid by the freighters as toll. In order,
however, to make their toll lawful, every bridge-owner was required
to possess himself of a charter from the secretary of the territory,
and approved by the governor. This official document simply
authorized the proprietor to charge such toll as he saw fit, which
was always extravagantly high—usually five dollars for each team
of six yoke of cattle and wagon. These ranchmen also kept an
assortment of groceries and barrels of whiskey, for the latter of
which the teamsters were always liberal customers.
It very often happened, through ignorance of the law or from ignoring
it, that these ranchmen took out no charter, because its possession
was so rarely questioned.
At the trail-crossing of Rock Creek was one of these frontier
toll-bridges. In the spring of 1866 two trains were travelling in
company, one in charge of a man known as Stuttering Brown, because
of an impediment in his speech. He was a man of undoubted courage,
and determined. When angry, he indulged in some of the quaintest and
wittiest original expressions imaginable; but if you laughed at him,
he became very much offended, as he was particularly sensitive about
the impediment of his speech. Still, he was a man who appreciated
a joke, and enjoyed it even if it was upon himself.
Brown's train comprised twenty teams, and the other twenty-six.
His train happened to be in the lead that day, and as they neared
the bridge, Brown rode back to the other wagon-master and said:—
“B-B-Billy, wh-what are you g-g-going to do about p-p-paying t-t-toll
on this b-b-bridge?”
He answered that if the fellow had a charter, he would be compelled
to pay; otherwise he would not, as probably the charges were
exorbitant. Brown argued they might have some trouble with the
ranchman if pay was refused, as they generally had a pretty tough
crowd around them who were ready for any kind of a skirmish.
His friend called attention to the fact that together they had
fifty-five men, well armed on account of probable Indian troubles.
They were all good fighters, and they would ask for no greater fun
than cleaning out the ranch, if it was discovered that the proprietor
had no charter.
Brown returned to the bridge, where the ranchman stood preparing
to collect his toll, which was five dollars a team in advance.
This would require one hundred dollars from Brown and a hundred and
thirty from the other train. Brown refused point blank to pay the
bill, and the ranchman asked him upon what grounds.
Brown's reply was:—
“Y-Y-You h-h-haint g-g-got no ch-ch-charter.” The ranchman answered
him that he had, and if he would go back to the ranch with him,
he would show it. The ranch was only a few hundred yards away.
Brown accompanied him, and in a short time returned to the train.
His friend asked him if the charter was all right, to which Brown
replied in the affirmative, saying that he had settled for his outfit,
and that his friend had better do the same, which he accordingly did.
After crossing the bridge, the other wagon-master noticed that Brown
was very much amused about something, occasionally indulging in loud
bursts of laughter. His friend inquired the cause of his mirth, but
he refused to tell.
When they arrived at the camping-ground that evening, and after
corralling the trains and placing out the proper guards, Brown invited
his friend to take supper with him. While eating he was asked what
had so amused him during the afternoon. He said that when he went up
to the ranch to see the bridge charter, he rode to the door, sat on
his mule, and asked the ranchman to trot out his charter and be d——d
quick about it.
The man went into a black room and pretty soon returned, shouting:—
“You stuttering thief, here it is! What do you think about it?”
Brown looked up and found that he was peering into the muzzle of
a double-barrelled gun, probably loaded with buck-shot. The ranchman
was pointing it directly at his head, with both triggers cocked.
Brown saw he was in earnest, and asked if that was the charter.
The ranchman replied that it was.
His friend then asked, “What did you do, Brown?”
“N-N-Not much. J-J-Just t-t-told him, th-th-that's good, and settled.”
Some years afterward, when Brown was part owner and superintendent
of the Black Hills stage-line, he was waylaid and killed by the
Indians, while on a return trip from Custer City. Thus ended the
career of one of the bravest and best of the men on the frontier.
One of the most famous of temporary toll-ferries was over the
trail-crossing of Green River. It was owned by Bill Hickman,
a Mormon, and as the river was seldom fordable he reaped a rich
harvest of gold from the emigrant trains. His prices for crossing
teams depended upon the ability of their owners to pay, varying from
five to twenty dollars each. The old ford may still be seen just
below the station of Green River on the Union Pacific Railroad.
During the preparation for the Mormon war the supply-trains of the
government were constantly harassed by that people. The genius of
campaigning by destroying trains was Major Lot Smith. One evening,
at the head of forty men, after riding all night, he came in sight
of a westward-bound government train. On coming up to it he ordered
the drivers to turn round and go back on their trail. They obeyed
promptly, but as soon as Smith was out of sight, they wheeled around
and travelled west again. During the day a party of Mormon troops
passed them, and taking all of the freight out of the wagons, left
them standing there.
Smith was afterward informed by his scouts that a caravan of
twenty-six wagons was approaching. Upon this information he halted
his men and, after eating, started again at dusk, approached the
train while it was in camp at a place near Simpson's Hollow, and
ambushed his party for several hours. Meanwhile, he learned that
there were two trains, each of twenty-six wagons; but in fact as was
afterward discovered there were really three of seventy-five wagons
in all.
About midnight, while only a few of the teamsters were gathered
around their camp-fire, some of them drinking, some smoking, they
suddenly saw what seemed to be an endless procession of armed and
mounted men emerge from the darkness.
Smith, quietly coming up, asked for the captain of the outfit, whose
name was Dawson. As a majority of the teamsters were asleep, their
guns fastened to the covers of the wagons, and any resistance almost
hopeless, Dawson stepped forward, surrendered, and told his men to
stack their arms and group themselves on a spot designated by Smith.
Smith dealt successively with the other trains in like manner. Then,
after lighting two torches, he handed one of them to a Gentile in
his party, known as Big James, remarking at the same time, “It is
eminently proper for a Gentile to spoil a Gentile.”
Riding from wagon to wagon, Smith's men set fire to the covers, which
rapidly caught in the crisp mountain air, and were soon all ablaze.
Dawson, meanwhile, was ordered by Smith to the rear of the trains
to take out provisions for his captors, and when everything was
fairly burning he and his party rode away, first informing his
panic-stricken captives that he would return as soon as he had
delivered the provisions to his comrades near by, and instantly shoot
any one who should make any attempt to extinguish the flames.
The destruction of these supply-trains was a severe blow to the army
of occupation; both troops and animals suffered severely in
consequence of the loss of provisions.
The year 1865 was fruitful of Indian depredations along the Old Trail,
particularly that portion which ran through the Platte Valley.
The Sioux and Cheyennes allied themselves in large bands against
the whites, and raided the beautiful region from one end to the
other. Theirs was a trail of blood like that of Attila, “The Scourge,”
and their fiendish acts rivalled those of that monster of the Old World.
On the south side of the Platte River, about a hundred and twenty-five
miles from Denver, were located, successively, three ranches, known
as the Wisconsin, the American, and Godfrey's.
On the morning of the 19th of January, of the year above mentioned,
a company of cavalry, marching from Denver, passed along by the
Wisconsin Ranch a little before nine o'clock. As the Indians were
on the war-path, and upon request of the proprietor, the captain of
the company promised to send back ten men of his troop, to help
defend the property, as they were going to their station a few miles
east of there.
The cavalry had hardly disappeared from view across the divide when
the savages began their attack. The captain of the cavalry, hearing
the continuous firing, immediately returned with his command, and
at once a fierce battle took place a short distance from the ranch.
The troops retreated and went into camp at Valley Station.
There were seven white persons living on the ranch at that time:
Mr. Mark M. Coad, P. B. Danielson, his wife and two children, besides
two hired men. They fought the Indians until five o'clock in the
afternoon without any outside assistance, and had killed several.
About noon the savages set fire to the haystack and stable, which
caused a dense smoke to settle over the house in which the besieged
were sheltered.
As the fight progressed, the Indians seemed determined to have the
building at any hazard; so they cut a large amount of wood and piled
it against the back door, with the intention of burning it down so
as to gain an entrance. The door was blockaded with sacks of grain,
to prevent the bullets from coming into the room, and while the
savages were placing the wood on the outside, the men quietly removed
the sacks of grain. When the besiegers were ready to kindle the fire,
the door was swung open, and Mr. Coad, springing to the opening as
it swung back, killed three of the Indians, and wounded several more
with his two pistols, then jumped back and the door was closed.
The daring act was performed so quickly that the savages were
instantly demoralized. They dared not return the shots for fear of
killing some of their own party who were attempting to enter the house.
After the door was again closed the Indians regained their senses,
and a perfect shower of bullets rained against the house. The savages,
now discouraged from the suddenness and effect of Mr. Coad's attack,
and the loss of so many of their number, retreated to their camp and
hostilities ceased for the time.
While this battle was in progress at the Wisconsin ranch, another
fight was going on at the American ranch, twelve miles east.
This ranch was occupied by the Messrs. Morrissey, one of whom had
his wife, two children, and six or eight hired men.
It was subsequently shown that the men must have fought very
desperately, as they were found locked arm in arm with the savages,
holding their pistols or knives in their hands. The ranch was
looted of its valuables and burned. The whites were all killed,
excepting Mrs. Morrissey and her two children, who were taken
prisoners and carried off by the Indians, but shortly afterward were
surrendered to the government. Early in the morning of the same day
the Indians attacked the Godfrey ranch. There were living there
Mr. Godfrey, better known as Old Ricket; his wife; his daughter,
a girl of fourteen years; and two other white men.
They fought the savages for several hours, and finally, seeing that
they stood no chance of capturing the place, the Indians determined
to burn it; so they set fire to the haystack which stood near the
building. After the Indians had lighted the stack, Mr. Godfrey's
little daughter rushed out of the door with a bucket of water,
extinguished the flames, and returned safely into the house,
notwithstanding the shower of bullets and arrows that rained all
around her.
The Indians just then, somehow learning that the American ranch
had been taken, and there was a chance for them in the division
of the spoils, withdrew all their force and went down there.
From there they went on to the Wisconsin ranch, which had not been
captured, for the purpose of reënforcing the besieging party at
that place. The besieged had succeeded in sending a messenger
during the day to the commanding officer of the troops at Valley
Station, asking for assistance to enable them to get away from
the ranch, well knowing that the savages would return in the morning,
with reënforcements. The captain sent up a detachment of fifteen
men, and escorted the people of the ranch down to the Station.
The next morning Mr. Coad, with a detachment of troops as escort,
and several wagons, started for the purpose of taking away the goods
to a place of safety. When approaching the ranch they found it in
the possession of the Indians; and the troops, seeing the strength
of the savage force, knew that it would be worse than useless to
attempt to drive them away; so they returned to the Station.
Thus three of the finest ranches on the trail at that time were
destroyed.
One of the most disastrous and effectual raids by the savages during
the year 1865 was the burning and sacking of Julesburg, which was
within rifle-shot of Fort Sedgwick, on the South Platte River, in
what is now Weld County, Colorado.
There the government established a military reservation, comprising
sixty-four square miles, in the exact centre of which the fort was
located. The reservation extended across the river, and included
the mouth of Pole Creek, a small tributary of the Platte, which
debouches into it from the north.
The original Julesburg, at that time,[25] was a mere hamlet of crude
frame buildings, and but for the proximity of Fort Sedgwick it would
have been destroyed long before it was.
On the morning of the 2d of February, the men at the stage station,
called Julesburg, discovered a small band of Indians in the valley
to the east of them, who were evidently out on the war-path, as they
had all their paraphernalia on, were finely mounted, hideously
painted, and profusely decorated with feathers. Possessing a fair
knowledge of the savage character and rightly conceiving the intention
of the savages, the station employees incontinently left for the fort
for safety, and to give the alarm of the presence of the Indians.
Captain O'Brien, who was in command of Fort Sedgwick, had already
had some experience in savage warfare; and, although his force was
extremely small, immediately upon receipt of the intelligence that
hostile Indians were in the vicinity and that the overland stage
station was in danger, he sounded boots and saddles. Thirty-five
soldiers reënforced by volunteer citizens were soon on the trail
of the savages, led by the gallant captain.
The government scouts had that morning reported that there were no
Indians near, and consequently no apprehension of danger entered the
minds of either soldier or civilian; little did they surmise that
just out of sight over the divide more than two thousand of the
painted devils were hiding.
The small band of savages that had entered the valley, and which had
been first seen by the station men, were pursued for some distance,
when they separated and rode out into the sand-hills. At almost the
same instant, while the soldiers were after them, swarms of savages
began to pour into the valley in the rear of the troops, about
a half a mile west of them. They soon massed in great numbers, and
rapidly closed every avenue of escape, riding in bands and giving
vent to the most horrid war-whoops and unearthly yells as they saw
their vantage.
Captain O'Brien ordered his troopers to dismount, and, enjoining his
men to keep cool, to make every shot tell, turned upon the Indians
and opened fire where they were thickest. There ensued one of the
most sanguinary struggles, considering the few soldiers engaged,
that the plains have ever witnessed.
“Load and fire at will” was the order, and the repeating rifles of
the soldiers made awful havoc; the slaughter immediately in front of
the white men was indeed terrible, and the Indians, demoralized at
the manner in which their ranks were being decimated, hurriedly
fell back. This permitted the troops to make considerable advance
in the direction of the fort before they again halted.
Pressed on each flank and in rear, the troops were compelled to
divert their fire to those points, but when the progress of the
savages was again stayed, they once more concentrated their shots
where they were densely massed in front. It appeared as if every
ball found its victim. The discharges were so rapid, and the aim
so careful, that the Indians had to give way before it, permitting
the soldiers to advance once more. Thus they fought step by step,
with great loss, but brave to the last degree.
It was a fortunate matter that the savages were armed principally
with bows and arrows, there being very few rifles among them. Had it
been otherwise, had the Indians been armed with repeating rifles,
as were the whites, it is probable that not a single soldier would
have been left to tell the story. The Indians filled the air with
flights of arrows, but woe to the Indian who came within range of
the deadly rifles! Many shafts with spent force fell harmlessly
among the soldiers. Many inflicted slight wounds, and some were
fatal. Some of the whites were killed by bullets, some by arrows.
Reënforcements from the fort finally opened an avenue of escape
for the remaining whites, and eighteen of the forty men who went out
in the morning came back; the rest were killed, scalped, and
mutilated by the savages! Their bodies, however, were recovered and
buried on the side of the bluff just south of the fort, and headboards
with appropriate inscriptions mark the final resting-place of each.
When they found that a part of their prey would escape, the Indians
began to turn their attention to pillaging at the stage station.
One house contained a general assortment of groceries and outfitting
goods. These they loaded upon their ponies and carried over the
river. They then disappeared among the hills, leaving all the
buildings on fire.
The stage company had a large amount of grain and supplies stored at
the station. These were burned, and a treasure-coach with fifty
thousand dollars in money was captured.
As soon as Captain O'Brien reached the fort, he ordered out the
field-pieces and commenced shelling the enemy. Being a very expert
gunner, he directed the fire of the guns so effectively as to kill
a large number of savages. A crowd of redskins had gathered round
some open boxes of raisins and barrels of sugar, when a shell burst
in the midst of them, killing thirteen, as was afterward admitted by
some of the Indians present. They also admitted the loss of more
than a hundred warriors during the fight.
In January, 1867, Mr. J. F. Coad, now of Omaha, had a contract with
the United States army to supply all the government military posts
between Julesburg and Laramie with wood. He left home about the 17th
of the month, and was escorted by a company of soldiers, who were
en route to Fort Laramie, as far as forty miles beyond Julesburg,
where he left them, and proceeded up Pole Creek, thence to Lawrence's
Fork, where his men and wagons were, to commence work on his contract.
On the morning after his arrival at his wagon-camp, Mr. Coad and
three of his employees, while loading wood about a mile and a half
from camp, were attacked by about forty Indians, who came charging
down the valley and prevented their retreat to the ranch. Seeing
that they were entirely cut off and without any hope of assistance,
they immediately concluded that their only escape from death was to
run for their lives, and get back into the hills, if possible,
believing that on account of the steep and rugged trail the savages
could not pursue them.
It was fearfully cold, the thermometer ranging about twenty-five
degrees below zero. Just as they started to put their plan in motion,
another band of Indians was coming up the valley. These joined the
others, and bore down on the white men.
On arriving at the base of the hill up which the white men were
climbing, the Indians dismounted and started on foot after them.
Seeing their tactics, Mr. Coad and his companions took off all their
superfluous clothing and threw it away, notwithstanding the severity
of the temperature. One of the men, in passing near a ledge of rock,
discovered a hiding-place under it, dropped down and crawled in,
filling his tracks with dirt as he backed into the cave. The Indians
in trailing the party passed by this rock, returned to it, and held
a council. They then went back to their horses. The other white men
secreted themselves in a cañon, built a fire, and there remained
until long after dark.
Left in the wagon-camp were three other men, who had a hard fight
with the Indians from about eleven o'clock in the morning until
three in the afternoon. They were inside of the cabin, and managed
to keep the savages at a safe distance by firing at them through
the crevices whenever they came within rifle-shot. The Indians kept
riding in a circle around the cabin for several hours, and, finding
they could not dislodge the three brave men, they abandoned the
attempt, after losing one of their ponies, which received a
rifle-bullet in his foreleg.
Some of the wood-choppers who had been at work a mile and a half up
the valley also had an exciting experience during the day with the
savages, but came out unharmed.
After the entire party of white men assembled in camp that night,
a council was held, and it was determined to send a messenger to the
commanding officer of the post at Julesburg, stating the condition
of affairs and the number of Indians supposed to be in the vicinity.
The next morning Mr. Coad and his men gathered what cattle they could
find, intending to leave for the fort. They started, got on top of
the divide, and camped for the night. A raging blizzard set in,
one of those terrible storms of snow and wind characteristic of the
region, and the cattle sought shelter from the fearful weather by
returning to the valley which they had left the day before, and where
there was plenty of timber. The party was able, however, to hold
a few head. So they hitched them up to the mess-wagon and returned
to their old camp, intending to wait until the messenger they had
sent to the fort should arrive with troops; but they were not sure
he had gone safely through.
The next morning Mr. Coad started east on the divide on the only
horse the Indians had left him, and about nine o'clock that night
he met Lieutenant Arms, of the Second Cavalry, in command of
Company E of that regiment.
Lieutenant Arms told him that he had met a large war-party of savages
about four o'clock that afternoon, and was detained fighting them
until after dark, when they disappeared and went south, at a point
about ten miles west of Sidney. Lieutenant Arms had captured several
head of cattle and two of Mr. Coad's horses from the Indians in this
engagement.
Mr. Coad returned with the troops to the camp on Lawrence's Fork,
arriving there at two o'clock in the morning. The temperature that
night was thirty degrees below zero, and the troops suffered terribly
from the extreme cold during their march. After arriving in the
timber and getting something to eat, all turned in in their blankets
and rested until daylight the next morning. As soon as breakfast was
disposed of, the command started on their return march, crossed the
divide which they had travelled over the previous night, and at three
o'clock in the morning reached Pole Creek, where they rested until
daylight. As soon as the day dawned they started south, endeavouring
to find the trail of the Indians. The weather was extremely cold,
the thermometer ranging about thirty degrees below zero. In the
afternoon, while on the divide, the snow being very deep, the command
was completely lost, and wandered aimlessly for several hours, not
knowing which course to take. Finally, when it was nearly dark, they
came within sight of Pole Creek, immediately recognized the locality,
and were saved.
At night, after travelling all the next day, they reached a ranch
about thirty-five miles west of Julesburg, where they stopped and
were made comfortable. It was discovered, after the command had
thawed out, that out of thirty-six men thirty were more or less
frozen; some had frozen noses, some their ears, some their toes,
and two had suffered so badly their feet had to be amputated.
On the following day an ambulance arrived from Julesburg, to bring
in the men who were in the worst condition. Those who were able
mounted their horses and reached the post all right.
During those early years, before the growth of the great states
beyond the Missouri, a mighty stream of immigration rushed onward
to the unknown, illimitable West. Its pathway was strewn with
innumerable graves of men, women, and little children. Silence and
oblivion have long since closed over them forever, and no one can
tell the sad story of their end, or even where they lay down.
Occasionally, however, the traveller comes across a spot where some
of these brave pioneers succumbed to death. One of the most noted
of these may be seen about two miles from the town of Gering, on the
Old Trail, in what is now known as Scott's Bluffs County, Nebraska.
Around the lonely grave was fixed a wagon-tire, and on it rudely
scratched the name of the occupant of the isolated sepulchre,
“Rebecca Winter,” and the date, 1852. The tire remains as it was
originally placed, and, as if to immortalize the sad fate of the
woman, many localities in the vicinity derive their names from that
on the rusty old wagon tire: “Winter Springs,” “Winter Creek Precinct,”
and the “Winter Creek Irrigation Company”!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE PONY EXPRESS.
Owing to the gold discoveries of 1849, the state of California was
born in almost a single day. The ocean route to the Pacific was
tedious and circuitous, and the impetuosity of the mining population
demanded quicker time for the delivery of its mails than was taken by
the long sea-voyage. From the terminus of telegraphic communication
in the East there intervened more than two thousand miles of a region
uninhabited, except by hostile tribes of savages. The mail from the
Atlantic seaboard, across the Isthmus of Darien to San Francisco,
took at least twenty-two days. The route across the desert by stage
occupied nearly a month.
To reduce this time was the absorbing thought of the hour.
Senator Gwinn of California, known after the Maximilian escapade in
Mexico as “Duke Gwinn,” first made the suggestion to the proprietors
of the Overland Stage Line that if they could carry the mails to the
Pacific coast in a shorter time than it then required, and would
keep the line open all the year, increased emigration and the building
of a railroad by the government would be the result.[26]
The following is an authentic history of the Pony Express, as related
to the authors of this work by Colonel Alexander Majors, the surviving
member of the once great firm of Russell, Majors, & Waddell, who were
the originators of the scheme.
In the winter of 1859, while the senior partner of the firm was in
Washington, he became intimately acquainted with Senator Gwinn of
California, who, as stated previously, was very anxious that a quicker
line for the transmission of letters should be established than that
already worked by Butterfield; the latter was outrageously circuitous.
The senator was acquainted with the fact that the firm of Russell,
Majors, & Waddell were operating a daily coach from the Missouri River
to Salt Lake City, and he urged Mr. Russell to consider seriously
the propriety of starting a pony express over the same route, and
from Salt Lake City on to Sacramento.
After a lengthy consultation, Mr. Russell consented to attempt the
thing, provided he could induce his partners to take the same view
of the proposed enterprise as himself, and he then returned to
Leavenworth, the head-quarters of the firm, to consult the other
members. On learning the proposition suggested by Senator Gwinn,
both Colonel Majors and Mr. Waddell at once decided that the expense
would be much greater than any possible revenue from the undertaking.
Mr. Russell, having, as he thought, partially at least, committed
himself to the Senator, was much chagrined at the turn the affair
had taken, and he declared that he could not abandon his promise
to Mr. Gwinn, consequently his partners must stand by him.
That urgent appeal settled the question, and work was commenced to
start the Pony Express.
On the Overland Stage Line operated by the firm, stations had been
located every ten or twelve miles, which were at once utilized for
the operation of the express; but beyond Salt Lake City new stations
must be constructed, as there were no possible stopping-places on
the proposed new route. In less then two months after the promise
of the firm had been pledged to Senator Gwinn, the first express was
ready to leave San Francisco, and St. Joseph, Missouri, simultaneously.
The fastest time ever thus far made on the “Butterfield Route” was
twenty-one days between San Francisco and New York. The Pony Express
curtailed that time at once by eleven days, which was a marvel of
rapid transit at that period.
The plant necessary to meet the heavy demand made on the originators
of the fast mail route over the barren plains and through the
dangerous mountains was nearly five hundred horses, one hundred and
ninety stations, two hundred men to take care of these stations,
and eighty experienced riders, each of whom was to make an average
of thirty-three and one-third miles. To accomplish this each man
used three ponies on his route, but in cases of great emergency
much longer distances were made.
The letters or despatches to be carried by the daring men were
required to be written on the finest tissue paper, weighing half
an ounce, five dollars being the charge for its transportation.
As suggested by two members of the firm, when they protested that
the business would not begin to meet the expenses, their prophecies
proved true; but they were not disappointed, for one of the main
objects of the institution of the express was to learn whether the
line through which the express was carried could be made a permanent
one for travel during all the seasons of the year. This was
determined in the affirmative.
One of the most important transactions of the Pony Express was the
transmittal of President Buchanan's last message, in December, 1860,
from the Missouri River to Sacramento, over two thousand miles,
in eight days and a few hours, and the next in importance was the
carrying of President Lincoln's message, his inaugural of March 4,
1861, over the same route in seven days and seventeen hours.
This was the quickest time for horseback riding, considering the
distance made, ever accomplished in this or any other country.
In the spring of 1860 Bolivar Roberts, superintendent of the western
division of the Pony Express, came to Carson City, Nevada, to engage
riders and station-agents for the Pony Express route across the
Great Plains. In a few days fifty or sixty were engaged—men noted
for their lithe, wiry physiques, bravery and coolness in moments
of great personal danger, and endurance under the most trying
circumstances of fatigue. Particularly were these requirements
necessary in those who were to ride over the lonely route. It was
no easy duty; horse and human flesh were strained to the limit of
physical tension. Day or night, in sunshine or in storm, under the
darkest skies, in the pale moonlight and with only the stars at
times to guide him, the brave rider must speed on. Rain, hail, snow,
or sleet, there was no delay; his precious burden of letters demanded
his best efforts under the stern necessities of the hazardous service;
it brooked no detention; on he must ride. Sometimes his pathway led
across level prairies, straight as the flight of an arrow. It was
oftener a zigzag trail hugging the brink of awful precipices, and
dark, narrow cañons infested with watchful savages eager for the
scalp of the daring man who had the temerity to enter their mountain
fastnesses.
At the stations the rider must be ever ready for emergencies;
frequently double duty was assigned him. He whom he was to relieve
had been murdered by the Indians perhaps, or so badly wounded, that
it was impossible for him to take his tour; then the already tired
expressman must take his place, and be off like a shot, although he
had been in the saddle for hours.
The ponies employed in the service were splendid specimens of speed
and endurance; they were fed and housed with the greatest care,
for their mettle must never fail the test to which it was put.
Ten miles at the limit of the animal's pace was exacted from him,
and he came dashing into the station flecked with foam, nostrils
dilated and every hair reeking with perspiration, while his flanks
thumped at every breath!
Nearly two thousand miles in eight days must be made; there was no
idling for man or beast. When the express rode up to the station,
both rider and pony were always ready. The only delay was a second
or two as the saddle-pouch with its precious burden was thrown on and
the rider leaped into his place, then away they rushed down the trail
and in a moment were out of sight.
Two hundred and fifty miles a day was the distance travelled by the
Pony Express, and it may be assured the rider carried no surplus
weight. Neither he nor his pony were handicapped with anything that
was not absolutely necessary. Even his case of precious letters made
a bundle no larger than an ordinary writing tablet, but there was
five dollars paid in advance for every letter transported across the
continent. Their bulk was not in the least commensurable with their
number, there were hundreds of them sometimes, for they were written
on the thinnest tissue paper to be procured. There were no silly
love missives among them nor frivolous correspondence of any kind;
business letters only, that demanded the most rapid transit possible
and warranted the immense expense attending their journey, found
their way by the Pony Express.
The mail-bags were two pouches of leather impervious to rain, sealed,
and strapped to the rider's saddle before and behind. The pouches
were never to contain over twenty pounds in weight. Inside the
pouches, to further protect their contents from the weather,
the letters and despatches were wrapped in oil-silk, then sealed.
The pockets themselves were locked and were not opened between
St. Joseph and Sacramento.
The Pony Express as a means of communication between the two remote
coasts was largely employed by the government, merchants, and traders,
and would eventually have been a paying venture had not the
construction of the telegraph across the continent usurped its
usefulness.
The arms of the Pony Express rider, in order to keep the weight at
a minimum, were, as a rule, limited to revolver and knife.
The first trip from St. Joseph to San Francisco, nineteen hundred
and sixty-six miles, was made in ten days; the second in fourteen,
the third and many succeeding trips in nine. The riders had a
division of from one hundred to one hundred and forty miles, with
relays of horses at distances varying from twenty to twenty-five miles.
In 1860 the Pony Express made one trip from St. Joseph to Denver,
six hundred and twenty-five miles, in two days and twenty-one hours.
The Pony Express riders received from one hundred and twenty to
one hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. But few men can
appreciate the danger and excitement to which those daring and plucky
men were subjected; it can never be told in all its constant variety.
They were men remarkable for their lightness of weight and energy.
Their duty demanded the most consummate vigilance and agility.
Many among their number were skilful guides, scouts, and couriers,
and had passed eventful lives on the Great Plains and in the Rocky
Mountains. They possessed strong wills and a determination that
nothing in the ordinary event could balk. Their horses were
generally half-breed California mustangs, as quick and full of
endurance as their riders, and were as sure-footed and fleet as
a mountain goat; the facility and pace at which they travelled was
a marvel. The Pony Express stations were scattered over a wild,
desolate stretch of country, two thousand miles long. The trail
was infested with “road agents,” and hostile savages who roamed in
formidable bands ready to murder and scalp with as little compunction
as they would kill a buffalo.
Some portions of the dangerous route had to be covered at the
astounding pace of twenty-five miles an hour, as the distance between
stations was determined by the physical character of the region.
The day of the first start, says Colonel Majors, on the 3d of April,
1860, at noon, Harry Roff, mounted on a spirited half-breed broncho,
left Sacramento on his perilous ride, covering the first twenty miles,
including one change, in fifty-nine minutes. On reaching Folsom
he changed again and started for Placerville at the foot of the
Sierra Nevada Mountains, fifty-five miles distant. There he connected
with “Boston,” who took the route to Friday's Station, crossing the
eastern summit of the Sierra Nevada. Sam Hamilton next fell into line
and pursued his way to Genoa, Carson City, Dayton, Reed's Station,
and Fort Churchill, seventy-five miles. The entire run was made in
fifteen hours and twenty minutes, the whole distance being one hundred
and eighty-five miles, which included the crossing of the western
summit of the Sierra Nevada through thirty feet of snow! Here Robert
Haslam took the trail from Fort Churchill to Smith's Creek,
one hundred and twenty miles through a hostile Indian country.
From that point Jay G. Kelley rode from Smith's Creek to Ruby Valley,
Utah, one hundred and sixteen miles. From Ruby Valley to Deep Creek,
H. Richardson, one hundred and five miles; from Deep Creek to Rush
Valley, old Camp Floyd, eighty miles. From Camp Floyd to Salt Lake
City, fifty miles, the end of the western division, was ridden by
George Thacher.
On the same day, and the same moment, Mr. Russell superintended the
start of the Pony Express from its eastern terminus. An arrangement
had been made with the railroads between New York and Saint Joseph
for a fast train which was scheduled to arrive with the mail at the
proper time. The Hannibal and St. Joseph Railroad also ran a special
engine, and the boat which made the crossing of the Missouri River
was detained for the purpose of instantly transferring the letters.
Mr. Russell in person adjusted the letter-pouch on the pony.
Many of the enthusiastic crowd who had congregated to witness the
inauguration of the fast mail plucked hairs from the hardy little
animal's tail as talismans of good luck. In a few seconds the rider
was mounted, the steamboat gave an encouraging whistle, and the pony
dashed away on his long journey to the next station.
The large newspapers of both New York and the Pacific coast were
ready patronizers of the express. The issues of their papers were
printed on tissue manufactured purposely for this novel way of
transmitting the news. On the arrival of the pony from the West,
the news brought from the Pacific and along the route of the trail
was telegraphed from St. Joseph to the East the moment the animal
arrived with his important budget.
To form some idea of the enthusiasm created by the inauguration of
the Pony Express, the _St. Joseph Free Democrat_ said in relation
to this novel method of carrying the news across the continent:—
Take down your map and trace the footprints of our
quadrupedantic animal: From St. Joseph, on the Missouri,
to San Francisco, on the Golden Horn—two thousand miles—
more than half the distance across our boundless continent;
through Kansas, through Nebraska, by Fort Kearney, along the
Platte, by Fort Laramie, past the Buttes, over the Rocky
Mountains, through the narrow passes and along the steep
defiles, Utah, Fort Bridger, Salt Lake City, he witches
Brigham with his swift pony-ship—through the valleys, along
the grassy slopes, into the snow, into sand, faster than
Thor's Thialfi, away they go, rider and horse—did you
see them?
They are in California, leaping over its golden sands,
treading its busy streets. The courser has unrolled to us
the great American panorama, allowed us to glance at the
home of one million people, and has put a girdle around
the earth in forty minutes. Verily the riding is like the
riding of Jehu, the son of Nimshi, for he rideth furiously.
Take out your watch. We are eight days from New York,
eighteen from London. The race is to the swift.
A whole volume might be gathered of the stirring incidents and
adventures of the hardy employees of the Pony Express in its two
years of existence. The majority of the actors in that memorable
enterprise have passed beyond the confines of time.
J. G. Kelley, one of the veteran riders, now living in Denver,
tells his story of those eventful days, when he rode over the lonely
trail carrying despatches for Russell, Majors, & Waddell.
Yes, I was a Pony Express rider in 1860, and went out with
Bolivar Roberts, and I tell you it was no picnic. No amount
of money could tempt me to repeat my experience of those days.
To begin with, we had to build willow roads, corduroy fashion,
across many places along the Carson River, carrying bundles
of willows two and three hundred yards in our arms, while
the mosquitoes were so thick that it was difficult to tell
whether the man was white or black, so thickly were they
piled on his neck, face, and arms.
Arriving at the Sink of the Carson River, we began the
erection of a fort to protect us from the Indians. As there
were no rocks or logs in that vicinity, it was built of
adobes, made from the mud on the shores of the lake. To mix
this and get it to the proper consistency to mould into
adobes, we tramped all day in our bare feet. This we did
for a week or more, and the mud being strongly impregnated
with alkali carbonate of soda, you can imagine the condition
of our feet. They were much swollen and resembled hams.
We next built a fort at Sand Springs, twenty miles from
Carson Lake, and another at Cold Springs, thirty-seven miles
east of Sand Springs. At the latter station I was assigned
to duty as assistant station-keeper, under Jim McNaughton.
The war against the Pi-Ute Indians was then at its height,
and as we were in the middle of their country, it became
necessary for us to keep a standing guard night and day.
The Indians were often skulking around, but none of them ever
came near enough for us to get a shot at him, till one dark
night when I was on guard, I noticed one of our horses prick
up his ears and stare. I looked in the direction indicated
and saw an Indian's head projecting above the wall.
My instructions were to shoot if I saw an Indian within
rifle-range, as that would wake the boys quicker than anything
else; so I fired and missed my man.
Later on we saw the Indian camp-fires on the mountain, and
in the morning many tracks. They evidently intended to
stampede our horses, and if necessary kill us. The next day
one of our riders, a Mexican, rode into camp with a bullet-hole
through him from the left to the right side, having been shot
by Indians while coming down Edwards Creek, in the Quaking
Aspen Bottom. He was tenderly cared for but died before
surgical aid could reach him.
As I was the lightest man at the station, I was ordered to
take the Mexican's place on the route. My weight was then
one hundred pounds, while I now weigh one hundred and thirty.
Two days after taking the route, on my return trip, I had to
ride through the forest of quaking aspen where the Mexican
had been shot. A trail had been cut through these little
trees, just wide enough to allow horse and rider to pass.
As the road was crooked and the branches came together from
either side, just above my head when mounted, it was
impossible for me to see ahead for more than ten or fifteen
yards, and it was two miles through the forest. I expected
to have trouble, and prepared for it by dropping my
bridle-reins on the neck of the horse, putting my Sharp's
rifle at full cock, and keeping both my spurs into the pony's
flanks, and he went through that forest “like a streak of
greased lightning.”
At the top of the hill I dismounted to rest my horse, and
looking back saw the bushes moving in several places.
As there were no cattle or game in that vicinity, I knew the
movements to be caused by Indians, and was more positive
of it, when, after firing several shots at the spot where I
saw the bushes in motion, all agitation ceased. Several days
after that two United States soldiers, who were on their way
to their command, were shot and killed from the ambush of
those bushes, and stripped of their clothing by the red devils.
One of my rides was the longest on the route. I refer to
the road between Cold Springs and Sand Springs, thirty-seven
miles, and not a drop of water. It was on this ride that
I made a trip which possibly gave to our company the contract
for carrying the mail by stage-coach across the Plains,
a contract that was largely subsidized by Congress.
One day I trotted into Sand Springs covered with dust and
perspiration. Before I reached the station I saw a number of
men running toward me, all carrying rifles, and one of them
with a wave of his hand said, “All right, you pooty good boy;
you go.” I did not need a second order, and as quickly as
possible rode out of their presence, looking back, however,
as long as they were in sight, and keeping my rifle handy.
As I look back on those times I often wonder that we were not
all killed. A short time before, Major Ormsby of Carson City,
in command of seventy-five or eighty men, went to Pyramid Lake
to give battle to the Pi-Utes, who had been killing emigrants
and prospectors by the wholesale. Nearly all of the command
were killed. Another regiment of about seven hundred men,
under the command of Colonel Daniel E. Hungerford and Jack
Hayes, the noted Texas Ranger, was raised. Hungerford was
the beau-ideal of a soldier, as he was already the hero of
three wars, and one of the best tacticians of his time.
This command drove the Indians pell-mell for three miles to
Mud Lake, killing and wounding them at every jump. Colonel
Hungerford and Jack Hayes received, and were entitled,
to great praise, for at the close of the war terms were made
which have kept the Indians peaceable ever since. Jack Hayes
died several years ago in Alameda, California. Colonel
Hungerford, at the ripe age of seventy years, is hale and
hearty, enjoying life and resting on his laurels in Italy,
where he resides with his granddaughter, the Princess Colonna.
As previously stated it is marvellous that the pony boys were
not all killed. There were only four men at each station,
and the Indians, who were then hostile, roamed over the
country in bands of from thirty to a hundred.
What I consider my most narrow escape from death was being
shot at by a lot of fool emigrants, who, when I took them to
task about it on my return trip, excused themselves by saying,
“We thought you was an Indian.”
Another of the daring riders of the Pony Express was Robert Haslam.[27]
He says:
About eight months after the Pony Express was established,
the Pi-Ute war commenced in Nevada. Virginia City, then the
principal point of interest, and hourly expecting an attack
from the hostile Indians, was only in its infancy. A stone
hotel on C street was in course of construction, and had
reached an elevation of two stories. This was hastily
transformed into a fort for the protection of the women and
children. From the city the signal-fires of the Indians could
be seen on every mountain peak, and all available men and
horses were pressed into service to repel the impending
assault of the savages.
When I reached Reed's Station, on the Carson River, I found
no change of horses, as all those at the station had been
seized by the whites to take part in the approaching battle.
I fed the animal that I rode, and started for the next
station, called Buckland's, afterward known as Fort Churchill,
fifteen miles farther down the river. It was to have been
the termination of my journey (as I had changed my old route
to this one, in which I had had many narrow escapes, and
been twice wounded by the Indians), and I had already ridden
seventy-five miles; but, to my great astonishment, the other
rider refused to go on. The superintendent, W. C. Marley,
was at the station, but all his persuasion could not prevail
on the rider, Johnson Richardson, to take the road. Turning
then to me, Marley said:—
“Bob, I will give you fifty dollars if you make this ride.”
I replied, “I will go at once.”
Within ten minutes, when I had adjusted my Spencer rifle,
which was a seven-shooter and my Colt's revolver, with two
cylinders ready for use in case of emergency, I started.
From the station onward it was a lonely and dangerous ride
of thirty-five miles, without a change, to the Sink of the
Carson. I arrived there all right, however, and pushed on
to Sand Springs, through an alkali bottom and sand-hills,
thirty miles farther, without a drop of water all along
the route. At Sand Springs I changed horses and continued
on to Cold Springs, a distance of thirty-seven miles.
Another change and a ride of thirty more miles brought me
to Smith's Creek. Here I was relieved by J. G. Kelley.
I had ridden one hundred and eighty-five miles, stopping
only to eat and change horses.
After remaining at Smith's Creek about nine hours, I started
to retrace my journey with the return express. When I
arrived at Cold Springs, to my horror I found that the
station had been attacked by Indians, the keeper killed,
and all the horses taken away. I decided in a moment what
course to pursue—I would go on. I watered my horse, having
ridden him thirty miles on time, he was pretty tired, and
started for Sand Springs, thirty-seven miles away. It was
growing dark, and my road lay through heavy sage-brush,
high enough in some places to conceal a horse. I kept a
bright lookout, and closely watched every motion of my poor
pony's ears, which is a signal for danger in an Indian
country. I was prepared for a fight, but the stillness of
the night and the howling of the wolves and coyotes made cold
chills run through me at times; but I reached Sand Springs in
safety and reported what had happened. Before leaving,
I advised the station-keeper to come with me to the Sink of
the Carson, for I was sure the Indians would be upon him the
next day. He took my advice, and so probably saved his life,
for the following morning Smith's Creek was attacked.
The whites, however, were well protected in the shelter of
a stone house, from which they fought the savages for four
days. At the end of that time they were relieved by the
appearance of about fifty volunteers from Cold Springs.
These men reported that they had buried John Williams,
the brave keeper of that station, but not before he had been
nearly devoured by the wolves.
When I arrived at the Sink of the Carson, I found the
station-men badly frightened, for they had seen some fifty
warriors, decked out in their war-paint and reconnoitring.
There were fifteen white men here, well armed and ready for
a fight. The station was built of adobe, and was large enough
for the men and ten or fifteen horses, with a fine spring
of water within a few feet of it. I rested here an hour,
and after dark started for Buckland's, where I arrived without
a mishap and only three and a half hours behind schedule time.
I found Mr. Marley at Buckland's, and when I related to him
the story of the Cold Springs tragedy and my success,
he raised his previous offer of fifty dollars for my ride to
one hundred. I was rather tired, but the excitement of the
trip had braced me up to withstand the fatigue of the journey.
After a rest of one and a half hours, I proceeded over my own
route from Buckland's to Friday's Station, crossing the
Sierra Nevada. I had travelled three hundred and eighty miles
within a few hours of schedule time, and was surrounded by
perils on every hand.
After the Pony Express was discontinued Pony Bob was employed by
Wells, Fargo, & Company as an express rider in the prosecution of
their transportation business. His route was between Virginia City,
Nevada, and Friday's Station and return, about one hundred miles,
every twenty-four hours; schedule time, ten hours. This engagement
continued for more than a year; but as the Union Pacific Railway
gradually extended its line and operations, the Pony Express business
as gradually diminished. Finally the track was completed to Reno,
Nevada, twenty-three miles from Virginia City, and over this route
Pony Bob rode for more than six months, making the run every day,
with fifteen horses, inside of one hour. When the telegraph line
was completed, the Pony Express over this route was withdrawn, and
Pony Bob was sent to Idaho, to ride the company's express route of
one hundred miles, with one horse, from Queen's River to the Owyhee
River. He was at the former station when Major McDermott was killed
at the breaking out of the Modoc War.
On one of his rides he passed the remains of ninety Chinamen who had
been killed by the Indians, only one escaping to tell the tale.
Their bodies lay bleaching in the sun for a distance of more than
ten miles from the mouth of Ives Cañon to Crooked Creek. This was
Pony Bob's last experience as Pony Express rider. His successor,
Macaulas, was killed by the Indians on his first trip.
A few daredevil fellows generally did double duty and rode eighty or
eighty-five miles. One of them was Charles Cliff, now living in
Missouri, who rode from St. Joseph to Seneca and back on alternate
days. He was attacked by Indians at Scott's Bluff, receiving three
balls in his body and twenty-seven in his clothes. He made Seneca
and back in eight hours each way.
James Moore, the first post-trader at Sidney, Nebraska, made a ride
which may well lay claim to be one of the most remarkable on record.
He was at Midway Station, in Western Nebraska, on June 8, 1860, when
a very important government despatch for the Pacific coast arrived.
Mounting his pony, he sped on to Julesburg, one hundred and forty
miles away, and he got every inch of speed out of his mounts.
At Julesburg he met another important government despatch for
Washington. The rider who should have carried the despatch east had
been killed the day before. After a rest of only seven minutes and
without eating a meal, Moore started for Midway, and he made the round
trip, two hundred and eighty miles, in fourteen hours and forty-six
minutes. The west-bound despatch reached Sacramento from St. Joseph
in eight days, nine hours, and forty minutes.
The authors of this book may be pardoned for the inevitable
introduction here of the part taken by one of them in this service.
Their old friend Colonel Majors, a well-known figure for many years
in frontier life, when speaking of “Billy” Cody, as he was called in
those days, says that while engaged in the express service, his route
lay between Red Buttes and Three Crossings,[28] a distance of one
hundred and sixteen miles. It was a most dangerous, long, and lonely
trail, including the perilous crossing of the North Platte River,
which at that place was half a mile wide and, though generally shallow,
in some places reached a depth of twelve feet, a stream often much
swollen and very turbulent. An average of fifteen miles an hour had
to be made, including change of horses, detours for safety, and time
for meals.
He passed through many a gauntlet of death in his flight from station
to station, bearing express matter that was of the greatest value.
Colonel Cody, in telling the story of his own experiences with the
Pony Express, says:—
The enterprise was just being started. The line was stocked
with horses and put into good running order. At Julesburg
I met Mr. George Chrisman, the leading wagon-master of
Russell, Majors, & Waddell, who had always been a good friend
to me. He had bought out “Old Jules,” and was then the owner
of Julesburg Ranch, and the agent of the Pony Express line.
He hired me at once as a Pony Express rider, but as I was so
young he thought I was not able to stand the fierce riding
which was required of the messengers. He knew, however, that
I had been raised in the saddle—that I felt more at home
there than in any other place—and as he saw that I was
confident that I could stand the racket, and could ride as far
and endure it as well as some of the old riders, he gave me
a short route of forty-five miles, with the stations fifteen
miles apart, and three changes of horses. I was fortunate in
getting well-broken animals, and being so light I easily made
my forty-five miles on my first trip out, and ever afterward.
As the warm days of summer approached I longed for the cool
air of the mountains; and to the mountains I determined to go.
When I returned to Leavenworth I met my old wagon-master and
friend, Lewis Simpson, who was fitting out a train at Atchison
and loading it with supplies for the Overland Stage Company,
of which Mr. Russell, my old employer, was one of the
proprietors. Simpson was going with this train to Fort Laramie
and points farther west.
“Come along with me, Billy,” said he, “I'll give you a good
lay-out. I want you with me.”
“I don't know that I would like to go as far west as that
again,” I replied, “but I do want to ride the Pony Express
once more; there's some life in that.”
“Yes, that's so; but it will soon shake the life out of you,”
said he. “However, if that's what you've got your mind set on,
you had better come to Atchison with me and see Mr. Russell,
who, I'm pretty certain, will give you a situation.”
I met Mr. Russell there and asked him for employment as a
Pony Express rider; he gave me a letter to Mr. Slade, who was
then the stage-agent for the division extending from Julesburg
to Rocky Ridge. Slade had his headquarters at Horseshoe
Station, thirty-six miles west of Fort Laramie, and I made the
trip thither in company with Simpson and his train.
Almost the first person I saw after dismounting from my horse
was Slade. I walked up to him and presented Mr. Russell's
letter, which he hastily opened and read. With a sweeping
glance of his eye he took my measure from head to foot, and
then said:—
“My boy, you are too young for a Pony Express rider. It takes
men for that business.”
“I rode two months last year on Bill Trotter's division, sir,
and filled the bill then; and I think I am better able to ride
now,” said I.
“What! are you the boy that was riding there, and was called
the youngest rider on the road?”
“I am the same boy,” I replied, confident that everything was
now all right for me.
“I have heard of you before. You are a year or so older now,
and I think you can stand it. I'll give you a trial, anyhow,
and if you weaken you can come back to Horseshoe Station and
tend stock.”
Thus ended our interview. The next day he assigned me to
duty on the road from Red Buttes on the North Platte to the
Three Crossings of the Sweetwater—a distance of seventy-six
miles—and I began riding at once. It was a long piece of
road, but I was equal to the undertaking; and soon afterward
had an opportunity to exhibit my power of endurance as a
Pony Express rider.
For some time matters progressed very smoothly, though I had
no idea that things would always continue so. I was well
aware that the portion of the trail to which I had been
assigned was not only the most desolate and lonely, but it
was more eagerly watched by the savages than elsewhere on the
long route.
Slade, the boss, whenever I arrived safely at the station,
and before I started out again, was always very earnest in
his suggestions to look out for my scalp.
“You know, Billy,” he would say, “I am satisfied yours will
not always be the peaceful route it has been with you so far.
Every time you come in I expect to hear that you have met
with some startling adventure that does not always fall to
the average express rider.”
I replied that I was always cautious, made detours whenever
I noticed anything suspicious. “You bet I look out for
number one.” The change soon came.
One day, when I galloped into Three Crossings, my home station,
I found that the rider who was expected to take the trip out
on my arrival, had gotten into a drunken row the night before
and had been killed. This left that division without a rider.
As it was very difficult to engage men for the service in that
uninhabited region, the superintendent requested me to make
the trip until another rider could be secured. The distance
to the next station, Rocky Ridge, was eighty-five miles and
through a very bad and dangerous country, but the emergency
was great and I concluded to try it. I therefore started
promptly from Three Crossings without more than a moment's
rest. I pushed on with the usual rapidity, entering every
relay station on time, and accomplished the round trip of
three hundred and twenty-two miles back to Red Buttes without
a single mishap and on time. This stands on the records as
being the longest Pony Express journey ever made.
A week after making this trip, and while passing over the
route again, I was jumped on by a band of Sioux Indians who
dashed out from a sand ravine nine miles west of Horse Creek.
They were armed with pistols, and gave me a close call with
several bullets, but it fortunately happened that I was
mounted on the fleetest horse belonging to the express company,
and one that was possessed of remarkable endurance. Being cut
off from retreat back to Horseshoe, I put spurs to my horse,
and lying flat on his back, kept straight for Sweetwater,
the next station, which I reached without accident, having
distanced my pursuers. Upon reaching that place, however,
I found a sorry condition of affairs, as the Indians had made
a raid on the station the morning of my adventure with them,
and after killing the stock-tender had driven off all the
horses, so that I was unable to get a remount. I therefore
continued on to Ploutz' Station—twelve miles farther—thus
making twenty-four miles straight run with one horse. I told
the people at Ploutz' what had happened at Sweetwater Bridge,
and went on and finished the trip without any further adventure.
About the middle of September the Indians became very
troublesome on the line of the stage-road along the Sweetwater.
Between Split Rock and Three Crossings they robbed a stage,
killed the driver and two passengers, and badly wounded
Lieutenant Flowers, the assistant division agent.
The redskinned thieves also drove off the stock from the
different stations, and were continually lying in wait for
the passing stages and Pony Express riders, so that we had to
take many desperate chances in running the gauntlet.
The Indians had now become so bad and had stolen so much stock
that it was decided to stop the Pony Express for at least six
weeks, and to run the stages only occasionally during that
period; in fact, it would have been impossible to continue
the enterprise much longer without restocking the line.
While we were thus all lying idle, a party was organized to
go out and search for stolen stock. This party was composed
of stage-drivers, express-riders, stock-tenders, and ranchmen
—forty of them all together—and they were well armed and
well mounted. They were mostly men who had undergone all
kinds of hardships and braved every danger, and they were
ready and anxious to “tackle” any number of Indians.
Wild Bill, who had been driving stage on the road and had
recently come down to our division, was elected captain of
the company. It was supposed that the stolen stock had been
taken to the head of the Powder River and vicinity, and the
party, of which I was a member, started out for that section
in high hopes of success.
Twenty miles out from Sweetwater Bridge, at the head of Horse
Creek, we found an Indian trail running north toward Powder
River, and we could see by the tracks that most of the horses
had been recently shod and were undoubtedly our stolen
stage-stock. Pushing rapidly forward, we followed this trail
to Powder River; thence down this stream to within about forty
miles of the spot where old Fort Reno now stands. Here the
trail took a more westerly course along the foot of the
mountains, leading eventually to Crazy Woman's Fork—
a tributary of Powder River. At this point we discovered that
the party whom we were trailing had been joined by another
band of Indians, and, judging from the fresh appearance of the
trail, the united body could not have left this spot more than
twenty-four hours before.
Being aware that we were now in the heart of the hostile
country and might at any moment find more Indians than we had
lost, we advanced with more caution than usual and kept a
sharp lookout. As we were approaching Clear Creek, another
tributary of Powder River, we discovered Indians on the
opposite side of the creek, some three miles distant; at least
we saw horses grazing, which was a sure sign that there were
Indians there.
The Indians, thinking themselves in comparative safety—never
before having been followed so far into their own country by
white men—had neglected to put out any scouts. They had no
idea that there were any white men in that part of the country.
We got the lay of their camp, and then held a council to
consider and mature a plan for capturing it. We knew full
well that the Indians would outnumber us at least three to one,
and perhaps more. Upon the advice and suggestion of Wild Bill,
it was finally decided that we should wait until it was nearly
dark, and then, after creeping as close to them as possible,
make a dash through their camp, open a general fire on them,
and then stampede the horses.
This plan, at the proper time, was very successfully executed.
The dash upon the enemy was a complete surprise to them.
They were so overcome with astonishment that they did not know
what to make of it. We could not have astounded them any more
had we dropped down into their camp from the clouds. They did
not recover from the surprise of this sudden charge until
after we had ridden pell-mell through their camp and got away
with our own horses as well as theirs. We at once circled the
horses around toward the south, and after getting them on the
south side of Clear Creek, some twenty of our men—just as the
darkness was coming on—rode back and gave the Indians a few
parting shots. We then took up our line of march for
Sweetwater Bridge, where we arrived four days afterward with
all our own horses and about one hundred captured Indian ponies.
The expedition had proved a grand success, and the event was
celebrated in the usual manner—by a grand spree. The only
store at Sweetwater Bridge did a rushing business for several
days. The returned stock-hunters drank and gambled and fought.
The Indian ponies, which had been distributed among the
captors, passed from hand to hand at almost every deal of
cards. There seemed to be no limit to the rioting and
carousing; revelry reigned supreme. On the third day of the
orgy, Slade, who had heard the news, came up to the bridge and
took a hand in the “fun,” as it was called. To add some
variation and excitement to the occasion, Slade got into a
quarrel with a stage-driver and shot him, killing him almost
instantly.
The boys became so elated as well as “elevated” over their
success against the Indians that most of them were in favour
of going back and cleaning out the whole Indian race. One old
driver especially, Dan Smith, was eager to open a war on all
the hostile nations, and had the drinking been continued
another week he certainly would have undertaken the job,
single-handed and alone. The spree finally came to an end;
the men sobered down and abandoned the idea of again invading
the hostile country. The recovered horses were replaced on
the road, and the stages and Pony Express again began running
on time.
Slade, having taken a great fancy to me, said, “Billy, I want
you to come down to my headquarters, and I'll make you a sort
of supernumerary rider, and send you out only when it is
necessary.”
I accepted the offer and went with him down to Horseshoe,
where I had a comparatively easy time of it. I had always
been fond of hunting, and I now had a good opportunity to
gratify my ambition in that direction, as I had plenty of
spare time on my hands. In this connection I will relate one
of my bear-hunting adventures. One day, when I had nothing
else to do, I saddled up an extra Pony Express horse, and,
arming myself with a good rifle and pair of revolvers,
struck out for the foot-hills of Laramie Peak for a bear-hunt.
Riding carelessly along, and breathing the cool and bracing
mountain air which came down from the slopes, I felt as only
a man can feel who is roaming over the prairies of the far
West, well armed and mounted on a fleet and gallant steed.
The perfect freedom which he enjoys is in itself a refreshing
stimulant to the mind as well as the body. Such indeed were
my feelings on this beautiful day as I rode up the valley of
the Horseshoe. Occasionally I scared up a flock of sage-hens
or a jack-rabbit. Antelopes and deer were almost always in
sight in any direction, but, as they were not the kind of
game I was after on that day, I passed them by and kept on
toward the mountains. The farther I rode the rougher and
wilder became the country, and I knew that I was approaching
the haunts of the bear. I did not discover any, however,
although I saw plenty of tracks in the snow.
About two o'clock in the afternoon, my horse having become
tired, and myself being rather weary, I shot a sage-hen, and,
dismounting, I unsaddled my horse and tied him to a small tree,
where he could easily feed on the mountain grass. I then
built a little fire, and broiling the chicken and seasoning it
with salt and pepper, which I had obtained from my saddle-bags,
I soon sat down to a “genuine square meal,” which I greatly
relished.
After resting for a couple of hours, I remounted and resumed
my upward trip to the mountain, having made up my mind to
camp out that night rather than go back without a bear, which
my friends knew I had gone out for. As the days were growing
short, night soon came on, and I looked around for a suitable
camping-place. While thus engaged, I scared up a flock of
sage-hens, two of which I shot, intending to have one for
supper and the other for breakfast.
By this time it was becoming quite dark and I rode down to one
of the little mountain streams, where I found an open place in
the timber suitable for a camp. I dismounted, and, after
unsaddling my horse and hitching him to a tree, I prepared to
start a fire. Just then I was startled by hearing a horse
whinnying farther up the stream. It was quite a surprise to me,
and I immediately ran to my animal to keep him from answering
as horses usually do in such cases. I thought that the strange
horse might belong to some roaming band of Indians, as I knew
of no white men being in that portion of the country at that
time. I was certain that the owner of the strange horse could
not be far distant, and I was very anxious to find out who my
neighbour was, before letting him know that I was in his
vicinity. I therefore resaddled my horse, and leaving him tied
so that I could easily reach him, I took my gun and started out
on a scouting expedition up the stream. I had gone about four
hundred yards when, in a bend of the stream, I discovered ten
or fifteen horses grazing. On the opposite side of the creek
a light was shining high up the mountain bank. Approaching
the mysterious spot as cautiously as possible, and when within
a few yards of the light—which I discovered came from a dugout
in the mountain side—I heard voices, and soon I was able to
distinguish the words, as they proved to be in my own language.
Then I knew that the occupants of the dugout were white men.
Thinking that they might be a party of trappers, I boldly
walked up to the door and knocked for admission. The voices
instantly ceased, and for a moment a deathlike silence reigned
inside. Then there seemed to follow a kind of hurried
whispering—a sort of consultation—and then some one called out:—
“Who's there?”
“A friend and a white man,” I replied.
The door opened, and a big ugly-looking fellow stepped forth
and said:—
“Come in.”
I accepted the invitation with some degree of fear and
hesitation, which I endeavoured to conceal, as I thought it
was too late to back out, and that it would never do to
weaken at that point, whether they were friends or foes.
Upon entering the dugout my eyes fell upon eight as rough and
villanous-looking men as I ever saw in my life. Two of them
I instantly recognized as teamsters who had been driving in
Lew Simpson's train, a few months before, and had been discharged.
They were charged with the murdering and robbing of a ranchman;
and, having stolen his horses, it was supposed that they had
left the country. I gave them no signs of recognition,
however, deeming it advisable to let them remain in ignorance
as to who I was. It was a hard crowd, and I concluded the
sooner I could get away from them the better it would be for
me. I felt confident that they were a band of horse-thieves.
“Where are you going, young man, and who's with you?” asked
one of the men, who appeared to be the leader of the gang.
“I am entirely alone. I left Horseshoe Station this morning
for a bear-hunt, and not finding any bears I had determined
to camp out for the night and wait till morning,” said I;
“and just as I was going into camp a few hundred yards down
the creek I heard one of your horses whinnying, and then I
came to your camp.”
I was thus explicit in my statement in order, if possible,
to satisfy the cut-throats that I was not spying upon them,
but that my intrusion was entirely accidental.
“Where's your horse?” demanded the boss thief.
“I left him down at the creek,” I answered.
They proposed going after the horse, but I thought that that
would never do, as it would leave me without any means of
escape, and I accordingly said, in hopes to throw them off
the track, “Captain, I'll leave my gun here and go down and
get my horse, and come back and stay all night.”
I said this in as cheerful and as careless a manner as
possible, so as not to arouse their suspicious in any way or
lead them to think that I was aware of their true character.
I hated to part with my gun, but my suggestion of leaving it
was a part of the plan of escape which I had arranged.
If they have the gun, thought I, they will surely believe that
I intend to come back. But this little game did not work at
all, as one of the desperadoes spoke up and said:—
“Jim and I will go down with you after your horse, and you can
leave your gun here all the same, as you'll not need it.”
“All right,” I replied, for I could certainly have done
nothing else. It became evident to me that it would be better
to trust myself with two men than with the whole party.
It was apparent from this time on I would have to be on the
alert for some good opportunity to give them the slip.
“Come along,” said one of them, and together we went down
the creek, and soon came to the spot where my horse was tied.
One of the men unhitched the animal, and said, “I'll lead
the horse.”
“Very well,” said I; “I've got a couple of sage-hens here.
Lead on.”
I picked up the sage-hens which I had killed a few hours
before, and followed the man who was leading the horse, while
his companion brought up the rear. The nearer we approached
the dugout the more I dreaded the idea of going back among
the villanous cut-throats. My first plan of escape having
failed, I now determined upon another. I had both of my
revolvers with me, the thieves not having thought it necessary
to search me. It was now quite dark, and I purposely dropped
one of the sage-hens, and asked the man behind me to pick
it up. While he was hunting for it on the ground, I quickly
pulled out one of my Colt's revolvers and struck him a
tremendous blow on the back of the head, knocking him
senseless to the ground. I then instantly wheeled around and
saw that the man ahead, who was only a few feet distant, had
heard the blow and had turned to see what was the matter,
his hand upon his revolver. We faced each other at about the
same instant, but before he could fire, as he tried to do,
I shot him dead in his tracks. Then, jumping on my horse,
I rode down the creek as fast as possible, through the
darkness and over the rough ground and rocks.
The other outlaws in the dugout, having heard the shot which
I had fired, knew there was trouble, and they all came rushing
down the creek. I suppose by the time they reached the man
whom I had knocked down that he had recovered, and hurriedly
told them of what had happened. They did not stay with the
man whom I had shot, but came on in hot pursuit of me.
They were not mounted, and were making better time down the
rough mountain than I was on horseback. From time to time
I heard them gradually gaining on me.
At last they came so near that I saw that I must abandon my
horse. So I jumped to the ground, and gave him a hard slap
with the butt of one of my revolvers, which started him on
down the valley, while I scrambled up the mountain side.
I had not ascended more than forty feet when I heard my
pursuers coming closer and closer; I quickly hid behind a
large pine-tree, and in a few moments they all rushed by me,
being led on by the rattling footsteps of my horse, which they
heard ahead of them. Soon they began firing in the direction
of the horse, as they no doubt supposed I was still seated on
his back. As soon as they had passed me I climbed further up
the steep mountain, and knowing that I had given them the slip,
and feeling certain I could keep out of their way, I at once
struck out for Horseshoe Station, which was twenty-five miles
distant. I had very hard travelling at first, but upon
reaching lower and better ground I made good headway, walking
all night and getting into the station just before daylight
—footsore, weary, and generally played out.
I immediately waked up the men of the station and told them
of my adventure. Slade himself happened to be there, and he
at once organized a party to go out in pursuit of the
horse-thieves. Shortly after daylight twenty well-armed
stage-drivers, stock-tenders, and ranchmen were galloping in
the direction of the dugout. Of course I went along with the
party, notwithstanding that I was very tired and had had
hardly any rest at all. We had a brisk ride, and arrived in
the immediate vicinity of the thieves' rendezvous at about
ten o'clock in the morning. We approached the dugout
cautiously, but upon getting in close proximity to it we could
discover no horses in sight. We could see the door of the
dugout standing wide open, and we marched up to the place.
No one was inside, and the general appearance of everything
indicated that the place had been deserted—that the birds had
flown. Such, indeed, proved to be the case.
We found a new-made grave, where they had evidently buried
the man whom I had shot. We made a thorough search of the
whole vicinity, and finally found their trail going southeast
in the direction of Denver. As it would have been useless
to follow them, we rode back to the station; and thus ended
my eventful bear-hunt. We had no trouble for some time
after that.
A friend who was once a station agent tells two more adventures of
Cody's:
It had become known in some mysterious manner, past finding
out, that there was to be a large sum of money sent through
by Pony Express, and that was what the road agents were after.
After killing the other rider, and failing to get the treasure,
Cody very naturally thought that they would make another
effort to secure it; so when he reached the next relay station
he walked about a while longer than was his wont.
This was to perfect a little plan he had decided upon, which
was to take a second pair of saddle-pouches and put something
in them and leave them in sight, while those that held the
valuable express packages he folded up in his saddle-blanket
in such a way that they could not be seen unless a search
was made for them. The truth was, Cody knew that he carried
the valuable package, and it was his duty to protect it with
his life.
So with the clever scheme to outwit the road agents,
if held up, he started once more upon his flying trip.
He carried his revolver ready for instant use and flew along
the trail with every nerve strung to meet any danger which
might confront him. He had an idea where he would be halted,
if halted at all, and it was a lonesome spot in a valley,
the very place for a deed of crime.
As he drew near the spot he was on the alert, and yet when
two men suddenly stepped out from among the shrubs and
confronted him, it gave him a start in spite of his nerve.
They had him covered with rifles and brought him to a halt
with the words: “Hold! Hands up, Pony Express Bill, for we
know yer, my boy, and what yer carries.”
“I carry the express; and it's hanging for you two if you
interfere with me,” was the plucky response.
“Ah, we don't want you, Billy, unless you force us to call in
your checks; but it's what you carry we want.”
“It won't do you any good to get the pouch, for there isn't
anything valuable in it.”
“We are to be the judges of that, so throw us the valuables
or catch a bullet. Which shall it be, Billy?”
The two men stood directly in front of the pony-rider, each
one covering him with a rifle, and to resist was certain death.
So Cody began to unfasten his pouches slowly, while he said,
“Mark my words, men, you'll hang for this.”
“We'll take chances on that, Bill.”
The pouches being unfastened now, Cody raised them with one
hand, while he said in an angry tone, “If you will have them,
take them.” With this he hurled the pouches at the head of
one of them, who quickly dodged and turned to pick them up,
just as Cody fired upon the other with his revolver in his
left hand.
The bullet shattered the man's arm while, driving the spurs
into the flanks of his mare, Cody rode directly over the man
who was stooping to pick up the pouches, his back turned to
the pony-rider.
The horse struck him a hard blow that knocked him down, while
he half fell on top of him, but was recovered by a touch of
the spurs and bounded on, while the daring pony-rider gave
a wild triumphant yell as he sped on like the wind.
The fallen man, though hurt, scrambled to his feet as soon
as he could, picked up his rifle, and fired after the
retreating youth, but without effect, and young Cody rode on,
arriving at the station on time, and reported what had happened.
He had, however, no time to rest, for he was compelled to
start back with his express pouches. He thus made the
remarkable ride of three hundred and twenty-four miles without
sleep, and stopping only to eat his meals, and resting then
but a few moments. For saving the express pouches he was
highly complimented by all, and years afterward he had the
satisfaction of seeing his prophecy regarding the two road
agents verified, for they were both captured and hanged by
vigilantes for their many crimes.
* * *
“There's Injun signs about, so keep your eyes open.” So said
the station-boss of the Pony Express, addressing young Cody,
who had dashed up to the cabin, his horse panting like a hound,
and the rider ready for the fifteen-mile flight to the next
relay. “I'll be on the watch, boss, you bet,” said the
pony-rider, and with a yell to his fresh pony he was off like
an arrow from a bow.
Down the trail ran the fleet pony like the wind, leaving the
station quickly out of sight, and dashing at once into the
solitude and dangers of the vast wilderness. Mountains were
upon either side, towering cliffs here and there overhung the
trail, and the wind sighed through the forest of pines like
the mourning of departed spirits. Gazing ahead, the piercing
eyes of the young rider saw every tree, bush, and rock, for
he knew but too well that a deadly foe, lurking in ambush,
might send an arrow or a bullet to his heart at any moment.
Gradually, far down the valley, his quick glance fell upon
a dark object above the bowlder directly in his trail.
He saw the object move and disappear from sight down behind
the rock. Without appearing to notice it, or checking his
speed in the slightest, he held steadily upon his way. But he
took in the situation at a glance, and saw that on each side
of the bowlder the valley inclined. Upon one side was a
fringe of heavy timber, upon the other a precipice, at the
base of which were massive rocks.
“There is an Indian behind that rock, for I saw his head,”
muttered the young rider, as his horse flew on. Did he intend
to take his chances, and dash along the trail directly by his
ambushed foe? It would seem so, for he still stuck to the trail.
A moment more and he would be within range of a bullet, when,
suddenly dashing his spurs into the pony's sides, Billy Cody
wheeled to the right, and in an oblique course headed for the
cliff. This proved to the foe in ambush that he was suspected,
if not known, and at once there came the crack of a rifle,
the puff of smoke rising above the rock where he was concealed.
At the same moment a yell went up from a score of throats, and
out of the timber on the other side of the valley darted a
number of Indians, and these rode to head off the rider.
Did he turn back and seek safety in a retreat to the station?
No! he was made of sterner stuff, and would run the gauntlet.
Out from behind the bowlder, where they had been lying in
ambush, sprang two braves in all the glory of their war-paint.
Their horses were in the timber with their comrades, and,
having failed to get a close shot at the pony-rider, they
sought to bring him down at long range with their rifles.
The bullets pattered under the hoofs of the flying pony, but
he was unhurt, and his rider pressed him to his full speed.
With set teeth, flashing eyes, and determined to do or die,
Will Cody rode on in the race for life, the Indians on foot
running swiftly toward him, and the mounted braves sweeping
down the valley at full speed.
The shots of the dismounted Indians failing to bring down the
flying pony or their human game, the mounted redskins saw that
their only chance was to overtake their prey by their speed.
One of the number, whose war-bonnet showed that he was a chief,
rode a horse that was much faster than the others, and he drew
quickly ahead. Below the valley narrowed to a pass not a
hundred yards in width, and if the pony-rider could get to
this wall ahead of his pursuers, he would be able to hold
his own along the trail in the ten-mile run to the next
relay station.
But, though he saw that there was no more to fear from the
two dismounted redskins, and that he would come out well
in advance of the band on horseback, there was one who was
most dangerous. That one was the chief, whose fleet horse
was bringing him on at a terrible pace, and threatening to
reach there at the same time with the pony-rider.
Nearer and nearer the two drew toward the path, the horse of
Cody slightly ahead, and the young rider knew that a
death-struggle was at hand. He did not check his horse, but
kept his eyes alternately upon the pass and the chief.
The other Indians he did not then take into consideration.
At length that happened for which he had been looking.
When the chief saw that he would come out of the race some
thirty yards behind his foe, he seized his bow and quick as
a flash had fitted an arrow for its deadly flight. But in
that instant Cody had also acted, and a revolver had sprung
from his belt and a report followed the touching of the
trigger. A wild yell burst from the lips of the chief, and
he clutched madly at the air, reeled, and fell from his
saddle, rolling over like a ball as he struck the ground.
The death-cry of the chief was echoed by the braves coming on
down the valley, and a shower of arrows was sent after the
fugitive pony-rider. An arrow slightly wounded his horse,
but the others did no damage, and in another second Cody had
dashed into the pass well ahead of his foes. It was a hot
chase from then on until the pony-rider came within sight of
the next station, when the Indians drew off and Cody dashed
in on time, and in another minute was away on his next run.
The history of all Colonel Cody's encounters with the savages during
the time he was in the service of the Pony Express would require many
pages to recite, and as there is naturally a repetition in the manner
of all attacks and escapes in his struggles with the Indians of the
Great Plains and mountains, it would perhaps be but supererogation
to tell them all without taxing the reader's interest.
Many stories of adventure are related of those terrible times, and
at the beginning of the opening of the route across the continent it
was with difficulty that the projectors of the dangerous undertaking
found men willing to take the chances that constantly menaced the
daring riders of the lonely route.
There was an old trapper whose only cognomen among the civilized men
of the border was “Whipsaw.” Of course he must have had another, but
none ever knew of it or cared to inquire.
One day, while in his lonely camp attending to his duties, a Sioux
Indian brought to him a captive Pawnee child about two years old.
The little savage was stark naked and almost frozen. The Sioux, who
was plainly marked by a horrid scar across his face, desired to
dispose of the child to the trapper, and the latter, as was every one
of that class now vanished forever, full of pity and kind-hearted to
a fault, did not hesitate a moment, but traded a knife for the
helpless baby—all the savage asked for the little burden of humanity.
The old trapper took care of the young Pawnee, clothed him in his
rough way, encased the little feet in moccasins, and with a soft
doe-skin jacket the little fellow throve admirably under the gentle
care of his rough nurse.
When the young Pawnee had reached the age of four years the old
trapper was induced to take charge of one of the overland stations
on the line of the Pony Express. The old agent began to love the
young savage with an affection that was akin to that of a mother;
and in turn the Pawnee baby loved his white father and preserver.
As the little fellow grew in stature he evinced a most intense hatred
for all members of his own dark-skinned race. He never let an
opportunity go by when he could do them an injury, however slight.
Of course at times many of the so-called friendly Indians would visit
the station and beg tobacco from the old trapper, but on every
occasion the young Pawnee would try to do them some injury. Once,
when he was only four years old, and a party of friendly Indians as
usual had ridden up to the station, the young savage quietly crept
to where their horses were picketed, cut their lariats, and stampeded
all of them! At another time he made an attempt to kill an Indian
who had stopped for a moment at the station, but he was too little to
raise properly the rifle with which he intended to shoot him.
As it is the inherent attribute of all savages to be far in advance
of the whites in the alertness and acuteness of two or three of the
senses, the baby Pawnee was wonderfully so. He could hear the
footsteps of a bear or the scratching of a panther, or even the tramp
of a horse's hoof on the soft sod, long before the old trapper could
make out the slightest sound. He could always tell when the Pony
Express rider was approaching, miles before he was in sight, if in
the daytime, and at night many minutes before the old trapper's ears,
which were very acute also, could distinguish the slightest sound.
The boy was christened “Little Cayuse” because his ears could catch
the sound of an approaching horse's foot long before any one else.
In the middle of the night, while his white father was sound asleep
on his pallet of robes, the little Pawnee would wake him hurriedly,
saying “Cayuse, cayuse!” whenever the Pony Express was due. The rider
who was to take the place of the one nearing the station, would rise,
quickly put the saddle on his broncho, and be all ready, when the pony
arrived, to snatch the saddle-bags from him whom he was to relieve,
and in another moment dash down the trail mountainward.
It was never too cold or too warm for the handsome little savage to
get up on these occasions and give a sort of rude welcome to the
tired rider, who, although nearly worn out by his arduous duty, would
take up the baby boy and pet him a moment before he threw himself down
on his bed of robes.
The young Pawnee had a very strange love for horses. He would always
hug the animals as they came off their long trip, pat their noses, and
softly murmur, “Cayuse, cayuse.”[29]
The precocious little savage was known to every rider on the trail
from St. Joe to Sacramento. Of course the Indians were always on the
alert to steal the horses that belonged to the stations, but where
Little Cayuse was living they never made a success of it, owing to his
vigilance. Often he saved the animals by giving the soundly sleeping
men warning of the approach of the savages who were stealthily
creeping up to stampede the animals.
The boy was better than an electric battery, for he never failed to
notify the men of the approach of anything that walked. So famous
did he become that his wonderful powers were at last known at the
headquarters of the great company, and the president sent Little
Cayuse a beautiful rifle just fitted to his stature, and before he had
reached the age of six he killed with it a great gray wolf that came
prowling around the station one evening.
One cold night, after twelve o'clock, Whipsaw happened to get out of
bed, and he found the little Pawnee sitting upright in his bed,
apparently listening intently to some sound which was perfectly
undistinguishable to other ears.
The station-boss whispered to him, “Horses?”
“No,” replied the little Pawnee, but continued looking up into his
father's face with an unmistakable air of seriousness.
“Better go to sleep,” said Whipsaw.
Little Cayuse only shook his head in the negative. The station-boss
then turned to the other men and said: “Wake up, all of you, something
is going wrong.”
“What is the matter?” inquired one of the riders as he rose.
“I don't exactly know,” replied the boss, “but Cayuse keeps listening
with them wonderful ears of his, and when I told him to go to sleep
he only shook his head, and that boy never makes a mistake.”
A candle was lighted, it was long after the express was due from
the east.
The little Pawnee looked at the men and said, “Long time—no cayuse—
no cayuse.”
They then realized what the Pawnee meant: it was nearly two o'clock,
and the rider from the East was more than two hours behind time.
The little Pawnee knew it better than any clock could have told him,
and both of the men sat up uneasy, fidgeting, for they felt that
something had gone wrong, as it was beyond the possibility for any
rider, if alive, to be so much behind the schedule time. They
anxiously waited by the dim light of their candle for the sound of
horses' feet, but their ears were not rewarded by the welcome sound.
Cayuse, who was still in his bed watching the countenances of the
white men, suddenly sprang from his bed, and, creeping cautiously out
of the door, carefully placed his ear to the ground, the men meanwhile
watching him. He then came back as cautiously as he had gone out,
and slowly creeping up to Whipsaw, merely said, “Heap cayuses!”
It was not the sound of the rider's horse whom they had so long been
expecting, but a band of predatory Sioux bent on some errand of
mischief; of that they were certain, now that the Pawnee had given
them the warning. Little Cayuse took his rifle from its peg over his
bed, and, walking to the door, peered out into the darkness. Then he
crept along the trail, his ears ever alert. The men seized their
rifles at the same moment, and followed the little savage to guard
being taken by surprise.
All around the rude cabin which constituted the station, the boss had
taken the precaution, when he first took charge, to dig a trench deep
enough to hide a man, to be used as a rifle-pit in case the occasion
ever offered.
It was to one of these ditches that Little Cayuse betook himself, and
the men followed the child's example, and took up a position on either
side of him. Lying there without speaking a word, even in a whisper,
the determined men and the brave little Cayuse waited for developments.
Soon the band of savage horse-thieves arrived at a kind of little
hollow in the trail, about an eighth of a mile from the door of the
station. They got off their animals and, Indian-fashion, commenced
to crawl toward the corral.
On they came, little expecting that they had been long since
discovered, and that preparation was already made for their reception.
One of them came so near the men hidden in the pit that the boss
declared he could have touched him with his rifle. The old trapper
was very much disturbed for fear that Little Cayuse would in his
childish indiscretion open fire before the proper time arrived, which
would be when the savages had entered the cabin. The child, however,
was as discreet as his elders, and although it was his initial fight
with the wily nomads of the desert, he acted as if he had thirty or
forty years of experience to back him.
The band numbered six, as brave and determined a set of cut-throats
as the great Sioux Nation ever sent out. The clouds had broken apart
a little, and the defenders of the station could count their forms
as they appeared between the diffused light of the horizon and the
roof of the cabin.
On reaching the door the Indians stopped a moment, and with their
customary caution listened for some sound to apprise them that the
inmates were sleeping. Suspecting this to be the case, they pushed
the door carefully open and entered the cabin, one after another.
Now had come the supreme moment which the boss had so patiently hoped
for! Whipsaw rose to his feet, and without saying a word to them,
his comrades, including Little Cayuse, followed him. He intended to
charge upon the savages in the cabin, although there were six to
three, for it would hardly do to count the little Pawnee in as a man.
The rider who had been waiting for the arrival of the other then
placed his rifle on the ground, and each taking their revolvers,
two apiece in their hands, ready cocked, advanced to the door.
They knew that the fight would be short and hot, so with the Pawnee
between them they arrived at the entrance. Now the Sioux evidently
heard them, and came rushing out, but it was too late! The Pony
Express men opened fire, and two of the savages bit the dust.
They returned the salute, but with such careless aim that their shots
were perfectly harmless; but as the white men fired again, two more of
the savages fell, and only two were left. The rider got a shot in
the shoulder, but he kept on with his revolver despite his pain,
while the boss, who had fired all his shots, was compelled to throw
the empty weapon into the persistent savage's face, while Little
Cayuse kept peppering the other with small shot from his rifle.
Then the Indian at whom the boss had thrown his revolver came at him
with his knife, and was getting the best of it, when Little Cayuse,
watching his chance, got up close to the savage who was about to
finish his father, and let drive into the brute's side a charge of
shot that made a hole as big as a water-bucket, and the red devil
fell without knowing what had hit him.
Both of the men were weak from loss of blood, and when they had
recovered a little, not far away in the hollow they found the horses
the savages had ridden and that of the express rider, all together.
About a mile farther down the trail they found the dead body of
the rider, shot through the head. His pony still had on the saddle
and the mail-pouch, which the Indians had not disturbed. In the
morning the men carried the remains of the unfortunate rider to the
cabin and buried it near the station, and it may be truthfully said
that if it had not been for the plucky little Pawnee, there would
have been no mourners at the funeral.
That afternoon the men dug a trench into which they threw the dead
Indians to get them out of the way, but while they were employed in
the thankless work, Little Cayuse was discovered most unmercifully
kicking and clubbing one of the dead warriors; then he took his little
rifle and cooking it emptied its contents into the prostrate body.
The boss then took the weapon away from him, but the boy cried out
to him, “See! see!”
Looking down closely into the face of the object of the boy's wrath,
he discovered by that hideous scar the fiend who had captured Little
Cayuse when a mere baby, the scar-faced Sioux from whom Whipsaw had
purchased the boy.[30]
The employees of the Pony Express were different in character from
the ordinary plainsmen of those days. The latter as a class were
usually boisterous, indulged in profanity, and were fond of whiskey.
Russell, Majors, & Waddell were God-fearing, temperate gentlemen
themselves, and tried to engage no man who did not come up to their
own standard of morality.
There was one notable exception in the person of Jack Slade, the
station-agent at Fort Kearney, who was a desperado in the strictest
definition of the term; that is, he was a coward at heart, as all of
his class are, and brave only when every advantage was in his favour.
The number of men he killed in cold blood would probably aggregate
more than a score. One of his most damnable acts was the killing of
an old French-Canadian trapper, whose name was Jules Bernard, who
lived on a ranch on the eastern border of Colorado. While he lived
there he got into a quarrel with Slade, and the latter swore he would
kill Jules on sight. Slade waited five years for his opportunity.
The story is told by an eye-witness as follows:[31]—
I was thirteen years old when Jules married me and took me
to his ranch at Cottonwood Springs. He had three log
buildings side by side; one contained our private apartments,
one was the store, and the other the kitchen and quarters
for the man and his wife who ran the ranch for us.
Slade was a Kentuckian, a very quiet man when sober, but
terribly ugly when drinking. He came to our store one day
fearfully drunk and swore he would shoot some d——d Frenchman
before night, at the same time reaching for his pistol.
Jules knew what he meant and sprang for his shot-gun, the only
weapon near; before Slade could bring his pistol to bear,
Jules levelled his gun and shot him in the stomach, filling it
full of fine shot. He fell, and Jules, going to him, said he
would take him to Denver and pay all his doctor-bills and
other expenses if he would shake hands. Slade agreed to this,
and Jules hitched up a team, hauled him clear to Denver, and
paid his bills there for four or five months. He came near
dying. Jules afterward heard that when Slade got well and
left Denver, he had sworn he would shoot him the first time
they met; so Jules was always ready for him.
One morning long after this Jules started for his old ranch
to get some horses and cattle that had been left there.
He had to pass by Slade's place, and knowing that Slade had
sworn to kill him, he took along a Frenchman living with us,
called Pete Gazzous, and an American named Smith. They rode
in a light wagon, and as they were all armed with rifles,
pistols, and knives, Jules thought he was well prepared to
defend himself.
They watched very close until they got past Slade's ranch,
but saw no signs of any one. They stopped at a spring a mile
or two beyond to water their horses, and as Jules was stooping
down to get a drink, a shot struck him in the leg and broke
it just above the knee. He called to Smith to unharness the
horses, bring him one, and help him on so that they could get
away; but the crowd was so frightened they could not stir,
and in a few moments they were surrounded by Slade and his
band of twenty-five men.
They carried Jules to the ranch, and tied him up to a
dry-goods box. Slade shot at him for a while, aiming as near
as he could without hitting him, finally shooting off one of
his ears; and then he ordered his twenty-five men to empty
the contents of their revolvers into him. They then threw his
body into a hole which they dug.
The next day a lot of Slade's men came and took away all the
goods in the trading-post; they left me about six hundred
dollars. They got three thousand dollars that Jules had when
he left, and they got the stock, I suppose. I never heard
anything about them. They said afterward that Jules had money
in the bank, but we could not find any bank-book, and if he
had one it was probably on his person. I was just a child and
did not know what to do. In a day or two a man came along who
lived on a ranch farther west; he was going to Denver for
goods; he took me, the man, and woman with him to Denver.[32]
Slade eventually drifted into Montana, and in 1865 was hanged by the
vigilantes on suspicion of being the leader of a band of road agents.
He was living on a ranch near Virginia City at the time, and every
few days came into town outrageously drunk, alarming the people by
shooting through the streets, riding into saloons, and proclaiming
himself to be the veritable “Bad man from Bitter Creek.”
The belief that he was connected with matters worse than bad whiskey
had overstrained the patience of the long-suffering citizens.
Soon the suggestive and mysterious triangular little pieces of paper
dropped upon the sidewalks of the town, surmounted with the skull and
cross-bones, called the vigilantes to a meeting at which the death of
Slade and two of his companions was determined upon. The next morning
following the evening of the meeting, Slade came to town with his two
men, actually sober, and went into a drug-store for a prescription.
While waiting for his preparation, twelve shotguns suddenly covered
them, and they were ordered to throw up their hands. Slade complied
smilingly, but proposed to reason with them as to the absurdity of
taking him for a bad man.
The only concession granted, however, was permission to send a note
to his wife at the ranch, and an hour allowed to make his peace with
the unknown.
Ropes were placed around the necks of the three men, who at the end
of the allotted time were given short shrift and were soon hanging
between heaven and earth. While their bodies were swaying in the
breeze, Slade's wife suddenly appeared mounted on a fine horse, with
a cocked pistol in each hand, determined to attempt a rescue.
On observing that it was too late, she quailed before the determined
countenances of the vigilantes. She soon left the scene of the
lynching, and in a short time moved out of the country, carrying with
her, as it was believed, a large amount of the proceeds of her
husband's robberies.
In the winter of 1860 Mr. Edward Creighton, who had for many years
been engaged in constructing telegraph lines all over the United
States, determined to inaugurate a pet project he had entertained for
a long time, to build one to the Pacific Coast.
In the year above referred to, he had many consultations with the
stockholders of the Western Union, the result of which was that a
preliminary survey was decided upon. Notwithstanding that travelling
by the Overland coach was beset with great danger from attacks by
road agents and Indians, Mr. Creighton was compelled to cross the
continent by the only means of transportation; and, stopping at Salt
Lake City, he excited the interest and enlisted the support of the
great head of the Mormon Church.
It had been arranged to invite the association of the California
Telegraph Company in the enterprise, and, notwithstanding the terrors
of a midwinter journey, Mr. Creighton pressed on on horseback for
Sacramento. It was a fearful trip, but the man who made it was stout
of heart and he braved the rigours of the mountains, accomplished
his mission, and in the spring of 1861 returned to Omaha to commence
the great work. The United States, meanwhile, had granted a subsidy
of forty thousand dollars a year to the first company who should
build a line across the continent. It may well be imagined that
a great race was immediately inaugurated for heavy wagers, between
Mr. Creighton's force and that of the Californians, who were building
eastwardly, each party trying to reach Salt Lake City before the other.
Mr. Creighton had eleven hundred miles to construct, while the
California company's distance from the objective point was only four
hundred and fifty; yet the indefatigable Mr. Creighton reached Salt
Lake City with his completed line on the 17th of October, one week
ahead of his competitors.
On the 24th of the same month, but a little more than half a year
after its commencement, Mr. Creighton had established telegraphic
communication from ocean to ocean. For his remuneration he took
one hundred thousand dollars worth of the stock of the new enterprise
at about eighteen cents on the dollar. When the project was completed,
the company trebled its amount of shares and Mr. Creighton's one
hundred thousand dollars immediately enhanced to three hundred
thousand. The stock at once rose to the value of eighty-five cents,
and he sold out his original one hundred thousand dollars for eight
hundred and fifty thousand, still retaining two hundred thousand
dollars worth of stock.[33]
With the completion of the telegraph across the continent all the
important news could be flashed from ocean to ocean in a few seconds,
so the Pony Express ceased to be necessary; the great Concord coach,
too, was limited to the mere transportation of passengers and express
matter. It was the avant courier of more rapid transit by the
palatial trains of the magnificent Union Pacific system which shod
the old trail with steel, though at the beginning of the era of the
Overland Stage such a railroad was regarded as an idle dream.
CHAPTER IX.
THE STAGE ROUTE TO THE PACIFIC.
The excitement caused in 1858 by the alleged discovery of gold in
the vicinity of Pike's Peak created a fever among the people of the
United States, and there was a mighty exodus from everywhere east
of the Missouri, similar to that to the Alaskan regions to-day.
The Missouri River was at that time the western terminal of the few
railroads then in existence, and there was very little probability
that they would make farther progress toward the setting sun.
The individual who had determined to start for the new, but delusive,
western mountainous El Dorado, must perforce make his wearisome
journey by slowly plodding ox-teams, pack-mules, or the lumbering
stage-coach. Such means of travel had just been inaugurated by
Mr. W. H. Russell (then the senior partner of the firm of Russell,
Majors, & Waddell) and a Mr. John S. Jones of Missouri, who conceived
the idea of putting on a line of coaches between the Missouri River
and Denver—the latter place a mere mushroom hamlet, just struggling
into existence, and whose future as yet no man could predict with any
degree of certainty.
It was a bold undertaking, for they had to purchase all their equipage
on credit, giving their notes payable in three months. One thousand
large Kentucky mules were bought, and a sufficient number of coaches
to supply the proposed route with a daily line each way.
There was already a semi-monthly line operated by Messrs. Hockaday
and Liggett, running from St. Joseph, Missouri, to Salt Lake City.
This line was poorly appointed. It consisted of a limited number of
light, cheap vehicles, with but few animals to draw them. The same
team was used for hundreds of miles, as no stations had been
established on the long route. The teams were turned out to graze,
and were obliged to stop often for that purpose. It sometimes
required twenty-one days to make the trip from St. Joseph to Salt Lake.
Under the new régime of Russell & Jones, the coaches made their daily
trips in six days to Denver, travelling about one hundred miles every
twenty-four hours. The first stage arrived in Denver on the 17th of
May, 1859, and its advent was regarded as a great success by those
who knew nothing of the immense expense attending the enterprise.
When the ninety-day notes given in payment for the outfit of the
new route became due, the money was not forthcoming, and it became
necessary for the wealthy firm of Russell, Majors, & Waddell[34] to
meet the outstanding obligations of the delinquent Russell & Jones.
To save the credit of their senior partner the firm had to pay the
debts of the defunct concern, and take possession of all the mules,
coaches, and other belongings of the stage-line to secure themselves
for the amount they had advanced in establishing the Denver route.
In a few months the firm bought out the semi-monthly line of Hockaday
and Liggett, believing that by uniting the two companies the business
might be brought up to a paying standard, at least meet the expenses
if nothing more.
As soon as Russell, Majors, & Waddell took hold of the line, the time
between St. Joseph and Salt Lake, a distance of twelve hundred miles,
was reduced to ten days. The coach ran daily both ways, and stations
were established at distances varying from ten to fifteen miles along
the whole route.
The original trail ran up the valley of the Smoky Hill, or the Smoky
Hill Fork of the Republican,[35] but was shortly after changed to the
valley of the Platte, and starting from St. Joseph,[36] went on to
Fort Kearney, thence following the river to Julesburg, where it
crossed the stream. From there to Fort Laramie, to Fort Bridger,
thence to Salt Lake, through Camp Floyd, Ruby Valley, Carson City,
Placerville, and Folsom to Sacramento.[37]
The old-line coach was a grand swinging and swaying vehicle, an
imposing cradle on wheels, and hung on thoroughbraces instead of
springs. It was drawn by six handsome horses or mules, which were
changed every ten miles on the average; and they fairly flew over the
level road. Baggage was limited to twenty-five pounds, which, with
the care of the passengers, mail, and express, was in charge of the
conductor, who was the legitimate captain of the strange craft in its
long journey across the continent. He sat beside the driver on the
box, and both of them used to sleep in their places thirty or forty
minutes at a time, while spinning along on good roads at the rate of
eight or ten miles an hour.
Over each two hundred and fifty miles of road an agent was installed,
and was invested with great authority. His geographical jurisdiction
was known as a “division,” and his duty consisted in purchasing
horses, mules, harness, and the food for both men and animals.
He distributed these things at the different stage-stations when,
according to his judgment, they needed them. He also had charge of
the erection of all buildings and the water-supply, usually wells.
He also paid the station-keepers, hostlers, drivers, and blacksmiths,
and he engaged and discharged whomsoever he pleased; in fact, he was
a great man in his division, and generally a man of more than average
intelligence.
The conductor's tour of duty was about the same length as the agent's,
or about two hundred and fifty miles. He sat with the driver, and
often, when necessary, rode that great distance all night and all day
without other rest or sleep than that he could obtain while in his
seat on top of the flying coach. Drivers went back over the same
route—over exactly the same length of road, and naturally became
so familiar with it that the darkest night had no terrors for them.
The distance from St. Joseph to Sacramento by the stage-coach route
was nearly nineteen hundred miles. The trip was often made in fifteen
days, but the time specified by the mail contracts, and required by
the government schedule, was limited to nineteen days. This was to
give ample allowance for possible winter storms and snows, or other
causes of detention.
The stage company had everything in their charge under the most rigid
discipline, and the system was as nearly perfect as possible.
The enterprise, financially, was a losing one for the great firm which
organized and operated it, the entire expense exceeding the receipts
by many hundreds of thousands of dollars. Messrs. Russell, Majors, &
Waddell, however, continued its operation until March, 1862, when the
whole concern was transferred to Ben Holliday.[38]
When Holliday took charge, the United States mail was given to it and
immediately the line became a paying institution. The government
expended, in quarterly payments, eight hundred thousand dollars a year
for transporting the mails from the Missouri River to San Francisco.
It was very fortunate for the government and the people generally that
the stage-line was organized at the time it was, and kept in such
perfect condition on the Middle Route, as it was called, when the
Civil War commenced, for it would have been impossible to transport
mails on the Southern Route, previously patronized by the government.
This route ran from San Francisco via Los Angeles, El Paso, and Fort
Smith to St. Louis, and the Confederate government would not have
allowed it to run through that portion of their country during the war.
During the war there was a vast amount of business, both in mail,
express, and passengers, as it was the only practicable line between
California and the great states east of the Missouri River.
Under the indefatigable Ben Holliday his stage-coaches penetrated
every considerable mining camp in the mountains, and as the government
would not, or could not, establish post-offices at these remote points,
the stage company became their own postmasters. They conveyed letters
in their own official envelopes, first placing thereon a United States
stamp. Twenty-five cents was charged for every letter, consequently
the revenue from this source was enormous.
Occasionally on the remote plains, or in the fastnesses of the
mountains, the proprietor of a little store, where he kept a
heterogeneous assortment of such goods as were required by the hardy
miners, would constitute himself the postmaster. Of course he charged
exorbitant rates for the transmission of the mail to the nearest
regular station. It is recorded of one of these self-appointed
officials that, although he transported the mail but once a month,
he still charged twenty-five cents for each letter. He used an empty
barrel for the reception of mail. He cut a hole in the top, and
posted above it the following suggestive warning, to all who sent
letters from his place: “This is the Post-Office. Shove a quarter
through the hole with your letter. We have no use for stamps as
I carry the mail.”
The business of the old line coach increased with startling rapidity.
It aggregated an enormous sum every year. For carrying the mails
alone over the whole route, the government paid twelve hundred and
fifty thousand dollars.
The drivers of the Overland coaches received from one hundred and
fifty to two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and their keep.
Their wages were graduated by their ability and length of service.
Such large salaries were paid because of the great risk run by the
brave men, for their duty was a continuously hazardous one.
All classes of men were to be found among these drivers, from the
graduate of Yale and Harvard to the desperado deep-dyed in his
villainy. The latter sometimes enlisted in the work for the sole
purpose of robbery. The stage with its valuable load of riches and
the wealth of its passengers excited his cupidity.
It is told in the annals of those troublous times on the Old Trail,
how once, in July, 1865, a coach loaded with seven passengers and an
immense amount of gold bullion and other treasure was sacrificed to
these robbers. The passengers were all frontier men, well used to
the contingencies of that trying era; they were also aware of the
strong probability of the coach being attacked before it reached its
destination, and were prepared to repel any premeditated attempt of
that character. All were fully armed, principally with double-barrelled
guns loaded with twenty-six buckshot, a formidable charge with which
to plug a man. They were determined that their hard-earned wealth
should not be taken from them without a struggle. They watched
in turns for the first demonstration of the road agents, having
made up their minds to get the first crack at the thieves.
The driver was known as Frank Williams, and the man who occupied the
post of honour, sitting at his right on the box, was one of the
would-be robbers. On arriving at a very lonely spot on the trail,
this individual on top cried out that the robbers were upon them,
and a hurried shot was fired from the outside. At the same moment
the men inside discharged their pieces. A regular volley was then
shot at the passengers from an ambush alongside the trail, four fell
dead, another was severely wounded in three places, and one saved
his life by lying perfectly still and feigning death as the thieves
emerged from the brush to fire a second time. One of the other
passengers was mortally wounded and the other escaped uninjured by
secreting himself in the brush which fringed the trail.
It seems that the driver had purposely engaged in the service of the
company for just such an opportunity as this, and he deliberately
drove his coach into this sequestered spot where the robbers were to
attack it by appointment. It is alleged that he received his share
of the spoils, and then left the service incontinently. His ill-gotten
wealth, however, did him very little good; for he was tracked to
Denver, and hanged with that sudden promptness for which “Judge
Lynch's Court” is noted, a court that brooks no delay in the execution
of its decisions, and from which there is no appeal.
Over seventy thousand dollars was the harvest of this raid, but none
of the robbers were ever caught excepting the driver, upon whom, as
stated, a well-merited punishment was inflicted.
During the Civil War his route passed through the Sioux country, a
tribe that was at war with the whites, and as there were not enough
troops to protect the line, it was changed from South Pass to
Bridger's Pass on the Bitter Creek route, or as it was then known,
“The Cherokee Trail.”
The mail-line was often attacked by Indians, who killed the employees
and passengers, robbed and burnt the stations, and stole the stock.
Early in the year 1862 the Indians made continuous raids on the
coaches and stations between Fort Laramie and the South Pass.
In April of that year a terrible battle occurred between the
mail-stage and the Indians on the Sweetwater River near Split Rock,
or Devil's Creek. The white party consisted of nine men with two
coaches loaded with mail. They were in charge of Lem Flowers,
the division agent, and Jimmie Brown, the conductor. The Indians
began the attack at early dawn and the white men were so harassed that
they were compelled to run the two coaches alongside of each other,
pile the mail-sacks between the wheels, and throw sand over them for
breastworks. From this barricade they fought the savages the whole
day, but they lost all the stock, and six of the men were wounded.
Several Indians were killed during the fight, and when night came on
they withdrew. Under cover of the darkness the men took the front
wheels of the running-gear of the coaches, put the wounded upon them,
and, drawing it themselves, made their escape to the station of the
Three Crossings of the Sweetwater River.
One of the employees who passed over the route shortly after the fight
and visited the scene of the battle in company with the notorious
Slade, who was then division agent, says: “The coaches were still
standing as they were placed by the party in the fight, completely
riddled with bullets and arrows. Every vestige of leather straps and
cushions was stripped off, the mail-sacks cut open, their contents
thrown out, and the sacks themselves carried off. Valuable letters,
drafts, and bills for large amounts were scattered all over the ground.
This mail was gathered up by the employees, put in gunny sacks, hauled
to Julesburg, and from there forwarded to the Post-Office Department
at Washington.”
Another memorable raid was made by the savages on the old line
mail-route on Sunday, the 7th of August, 1864. It was a simultaneous
attack on that portion of the line extending over two hundred miles
from Julesburg eastwardly to Liberty Farm, at the head of the Little
Blue River. The mail-coaches, the stations, travelling freight
caravans, ranches, and parties putting up hay were alike attacked.
Forty people were killed, many ranches and trains burned, much stock
and other property stolen and destroyed in that eventful raid.
At last the raids of the savages along the North Platte had become so
frequent, and the duty so hazardous, that it was almost impossible for
the Overland Stage Company to find drivers, although the highest wages
were offered. At this juncture W. F. Cody decided to turn stage-driver
and his services were gladly accepted.
While driving a stage between Split Rock and Three Crossings, he was
set upon by a band of several hundred Sioux. Lieutenant Flowers,
assistant division agent, sat on the box beside Cody, and there were
half a dozen passengers well armed inside. Cody gave the reins to
Flowers, applied the whip, and the passengers defended the stage in
a running fight. Arrows fell around and struck the stage like hail,
wounding the horses and dealing destruction generally, for two of the
passengers were killed and Flowers badly wounded. Cody seized the
whip from the wounded officer, applied it savagely, shouting defiance,
and drove on to Three Crossings, thus saving the stage.
The only period when the long route up the Platte Valley enjoyed an
immunity from the continuous trouble with the savages, before the
completion of the Union Pacific Railroad, was when General Albert
Sidney Johnston's army, in 1857, had been mobilized for the impending
Mormon war. More than five thousand regular soldiers, with its
large commissary trains and their complement of teamsters, all well
armed, together with batteries of artillery, in passing through the
country so intimidated the Indians, who had never before seen such an
array of their enemies, that they remained at a respectful distance
from the trail.
In the spring of 1865 the Indians seemed more determined than ever
to wage a relentless war along the line of the Overland Stage.
A regular army officer in his journal says:—
During the time when we were guarding Ben Holliday's
stage-coaches, and when attacks on them were of frequent
occurrence, I had an adventure which I think is worth relating.
I was out at one of the lower ranches, and the Indians were
very troublesome. Our guards were nearly all sick or wounded,
and the coaches had to go out insufficiently protected.
One evening the coach was late, and, as to be behind time was
a sure sign that something was wrong, we all felt very uneasy.
The drivers made it a rule to get from one station to another
on time, and if they did not arrive, parties were immediately
started out to the next ranch, ten miles below, to see what
the matter was, the stations being eight, ten, and twelve
miles apart.
On the particular evening in question I had got tired of
waiting, and gone over to the stable-keeper to see if we had
not better take the change horses, go down the road, and try
if we could not find the coach. It was due at the station at
eight-thirty in the evening, and it was now ten, so I was
confident it had been attacked or broken down. While we were
talking, the sentinel on the outpost, whose business it was
to look out for the stage and give notice of its approach,
signalled that the coach was coming. We all ran down the
road to meet it, and soon saw it coming slowly along with
three horses instead of four, and the driver driving very
slowly, as if he were going to a funeral, or hauling wounded.
When we came up to the coach we learned that he was indeed
both conveying a corpse and wounded. On the arrival of the
party at the ranch, Captain Hancock, who was a passenger,
related to me all that had happened, and I repeat the story
as it fell from his lips.
“We were,” said the captain, “driving along smartly in the
bottom, about four miles below, when, just as we crossed
a little ravine, some twenty Indians jumped out of the long
grass and fired on us. The first volley killed Mr. Cinnamon,
a telegraph operator, who was a passenger, on his way from
Plum Creek to some point up the river. He was riding on the
box with the driver when he received the fatal shot, and the
driver caught his body just as it was falling forward off the
coach on the rear horses. He put Cinnamon's corpse in the
front boot among the mail bags, where it now is.
“The first fire had also killed our nigh wheeler, and, as the
coach was going pretty fast at the time, the horse was dragged
a considerable distance, and his hind leg becoming fast
between the spokes of the fore wheel, his body was drawn up
against the bed of the coach and all further progress
completely blocked.
“The driver took it very coolly, first swearing fearfully at
the Indians, toward whom he cracked his whip repeatedly,
as if flaying their naked backs, and then, having vented his
spleen, he quietly descended from his box and stripped the
harness off the dead horse.
“Meanwhile the Indians had been circling around us, firing
into the coach every few minutes, and I had got under the
wagon with my clerks, the better to be protected and to fire
at the Indians, who could be seen best from the ground as
they moved against the horizon.
“The driver tried in vain to extricate the leg of the dead
horse from the wheel, but it was firmly wedged in, and after
uniting my strength to his, I found it necessary to take my
knife and amputate the leg at the knee-joint. The body was
at length removed, and mounting the box, the driver bid us
get in, and we were off once more. One of the clerks had been
severely wounded, and, as his wound was quite painful, we had
to drive very slowly; so we were late in getting in.”
While the captain was talking, the driver came to the door
to say the coach was waiting, for on the Plains stages stop
not for accidents or dead men. I bade my friend good-night,
hoping he would not again be interrupted on his journey by
the redskins, and, the driver cracking his whip, the four
fresh bays bounded forward at a gallop, and soon carried the
coach out of sight of the valley.
Next day we buried poor Cinnamon, and sent the wounded man to
McPherson, where he could have medical attendance, and we were
pleased to learn he speedily recovered.
I rode down to where the coach had been attacked, and saw the
dead horse and the ravine from which the Indians had sprung.
The fight had evidently been a sharp one, and I could see by
the trail that the savages had followed the coach nearly to
the ranch, and then struck across toward the Republican,
never stopping, in all probability, until they reached it,
ninety miles distant.
An idea may be formed of the immense proportions to which the old
mail-line service had grown, when in November, 1866, Ben Holliday
sold out his interest to Wells, Fargo, & Company. The main line and
its branches were transferred for one million five hundred thousand
dollars in cash, and three hundred thousand dollars in the stock of
the Express Company. This vast sum only covered the animals, rolling
stock, stations, etc., but in addition to this, the Express Company
was to pay the full value of the grain, hay, and provisions on hand
at the time of the transfer, and this amounted to nearly six hundred
thousand dollars.
The old line of mail-service continued until its usefulness was
gradually usurped by the completion of the Union and Central Pacific
railroads. The coaches started daily from the eastern and western
terminals of the rapidly approaching iron trail, the gap between
them lessening until on the day of driving the last spike with the
junction of the rails the old stage-line through the Platte Valley
had vanished forever.
CHAPTER X.
SCENERY ON THE TRAIL.
From the earliest westward march of civilization, the beautiful valley
of the Platte, through which the Salt Lake Trail coursed its way,
has been a grand pathway to the mountains, and thence over their
snow-capped summits to the golden shores of the Pacific Ocean.
In a little more than a third of a century, through the agency of
that grandest of civilizers, the locomotive, the charming and fertile
valley has been carved into prosperous commonwealths, whose development
from an almost desert waste is a marvellous monument to the restless
energy of the American people, and of their power to conquer the
wilderness.
In 1842 Lieutenant John C. Fremont travelled up the Blue, on his
first exploring expedition, and arrived in the Platte at Grand Island,
where the party separated, a portion proceeding up the North Fork
of the river, toward Laramie, and another up the South Fork.
The following year the great pathfinder ventured on a second
expedition by the way of the Kansas and Republican rivers, reaching
the Platte at the mouth of Beaver Creek.
In 1847 the Platte Valley became the highway of the Mormons in their
wonderful exodus from Illinois to Utah, and ten years later the
trails made by that remarkable sect were followed by the rush of
pioneers to the newly discovered gold fields of California.
Twelve years later, the beautiful valley was traversed by a greater
rush of adventurers than ever before in its history. In the summer
of 1850 Mr. Green Russell and his adventurous companions discovered
gold on a tributary of the Platte. The report spread so rapidly that
the greatest excitement at once developed on the frontier of Missouri,
which was then the boundary between civilization and the unknown
Far West. In the following spring the exodus to the gold fields began.
The old overland route was famed for its picturesque scenery, but as
the weary traveller slowly trod the dangerous trail, he was too often
in constant dread of attacks by the blood-thirsty savages to allow
his mind to dwell upon the details of the magnificent landscape.
To-day, however, as the same route is practically shod with iron,
the tourist, from the windows of his car on the Union Pacific,
may safely contemplate the historic valley. Its beautiful towns and
hamlets, its cultivated plains, its watercourses, its skyward-reaching
peaks, may be seen in a security which would have passed the very
dreams of a pioneer fifty years ago.
The scenery is sufficiently wild to please the most exacting, even
to-day; for its isolated buttes, rocky bluffs, lightning-splintered
gorges, foaming torrents, fantastically formed bowlders, and towering
mountains brook no change at the hands of puny man, and are as firm
as the rock itself. Under a sky that nowhere else seems to be of
such an intensely cerulean hue, the charm of the region is intensified.
Before a European ever looked upon it, the Platte Valley was for
centuries, in all probability, a gateway to the mountains.
The prehistoric mound-builders, perhaps, travelled its lonely course,
and on through the portals of the great Continental Divide, to the
southern sea. The rude, primitive savage of North America, with whom
the hairy mammoth and primeval elephant were contemporary, in a
geological epoch, whose distance in the misty past appalls, traversed
the silent trail across the continent. He packed on his back the
furs of the colder regions, where he lived. He carried copper from
the mines on the shores of Lake Superior; the horns of the moose, elk,
and deer; robes of the buffalo, the wolf, and kindred animals.
Among his merchandise were masses of red pipestone from the sacred
quarries east of the Missouri. He journeyed with these treasures to
the people of the southwest and exchanged them for what to him were
equally precious: brilliant feathers of tropical birds; valuable gems,
like the revered turquoise; rare metals; woven fabrics, and other
commodities foreign to his own wind-swept and snow-bound plains.
The Platte Valley, for untold ages, was a beautiful, awful wilderness,
thronged by stately headed elk, and the resort of vast herds of
buffalo, deer, and antelope. Until a few years ago their skulls and
bones could still be seen in some localities, scattered thick upon
the ground between the bluffs and the river. Now all the game has
vanished, excepting, perhaps, a few antelope and deer in some favoured
mountain recess, where the white man has not invaded the rocky soil
with his plough.
Until fifty years ago the whole region watered by the Platte was
regarded as a veritable desert, never to be brought under the domain
of agriculture, but forever doomed to a hopeless sterility. Its
inhabitants were a wild, merciless horde of savages, whose only aim
was murder, and an unceasing warfare against any encroachment upon
their domain by the hated palefaces.
The river is very shallow, and for that reason was called by the Otoes,
whose country embraced the region at its mouth, the Ne-bras-ka, and
re-christened the Platte by the French trappers, a term synonymous to
that given by the Indians.
The Platte River, nearly three-quarters of a century ago, was called
by Washington Irving,
The most magnificent and most useless of streams. Abstraction
made of its defects, nothing can be more pleasing than the
perspective which it presents to the eye. Its islands have
the appearance of a labyrinth of groves floating on the waters.
Their extraordinary position gives an air of youth and
loveliness to the whole scene. If to this be added the
undulations of the river, the waving of the verdure, the
alternations of light and shade, the succession of these
islands varying in form and beauty, and the purity of the
atmosphere, some idea may be formed of the pleasing sensations
which the traveller experiences on beholding a scene that
seems to have started fresh from the hands of the Creator.
The valley is wide, and once was covered with luxuriant grass and
dotted with many-coloured flowers. For a great distance along its
lower portions, the banks were fringed with a heavy growth of
cottonwood, willow, and other varieties of timber.
In its solitude at the beginning of the present century, it might
properly be claimed as the arena of the tornado and the race course
of the winds. Climatic changes, which follow the empire of the plough,
have dissipated such atmospheric phenomena as characterized the vast
wilderness in its days of absolute isolation from the march of
civilization, as they have elsewhere in the central regions of the
continent.
The revered Father De Smet, who traversed the then dreary wilderness
of the Platte Valley, as long ago as fifty-seven years, thus writes
in his letters to the bishop of St. Louis, of a tornado he witnessed:—
However, it happens sometimes, though but seldom, that the
clouds, floating with great rapidity, open currents of air
so violent as suddenly to chill the atmosphere and produce
the most destructive hailstorms. I have seen some hailstones
the size of an egg. It is dangerous to be abroad during these
storms. A Cheyenne Indian was lately struck by a hailstone,
and remained senseless for an hour.
Once as the storm raged near us, we witnessed a sublime sight.
A spiral abyss seemed to be suddenly formed in the air.
The clouds followed each other into it with great velocity,
till they attracted all objects around them, whilst such
clouds as were too large and too far distant to feel its
influence turned in an opposite direction. The noise we heard
in the air was like that of a tempest. On beholding the
conflict, we fancied that all the winds had been let loose
from the four points of the compass. It is very probable
that if it had approached nearer, the whole caravan would
have made an ascension into the clouds. The spiral column
moved majestically toward the north, and lighted on the
surface of the Platte. Then another scene was exhibited to
view. The waters, agitated by its powerful function, began
to turn round with frightful noise, and were suddenly drawn
up to the clouds in a spiral form. The column appeared to
measure a mile in height; and such was the violence of the
winds, which came down in a perpendicular direction, that in
the twinkling of an eye the trees were torn and uprooted,
and their boughs scattered in every direction. But what is
violent does not last. After a few minutes the frightful
visitation ceased. The column, not being able to sustain
the weight at its base, was dissolved almost as quickly
as it had been formed.
In proportion as we proceeded toward the source of this
wonderful river, the shades of vegetation became more gloomy,
and the brows of the mountain more craggy. Everything seemed
to wear the aspect not of decay, but of age, or rather of
venerable antiquity.
The broad old Salt Lake Trail to the Rocky Mountains coincided with
the Platte River about twenty miles below the head of Grand Island.
The island used to be densely wooded, and extended for sixty or
seventy miles. The valley at that point is about seven miles wide,
and the stream itself, between one and two from bank to bank.
The South Platte was a muddy stream, and with its low banks, scattered
flat sand-bars, and pigmy islands, a melancholy river, straggling
through the centre of vast prairies, and only saved from being
impossible to find with the naked eye by its sentinel trees standing
at long distances from each other, on either side.
The Platte of the mountain region scarcely retains one characteristic
of the stream far below. Here, it is confined to a bed of rock and
sand, not more than two hundred yards wide, and its water is of
unwonted clearness and transparency. Its banks are steep and the
attrition caused at the time of spring freshets shows a deep vegetable
mould reaching far back, making the soil highly fertile. Here, too,
the river forces its way through a barrier of tablelands, forming one
of those striking peculiarities incident to mountain streams, called
by the Spaniards a cañon; that is, a narrow passage between high and
precipitous banks, formed by mountains; a common term in the language
of the mountaineers describing one of these picturesque breaks through
the range.
The scenery of the upper Platte is constantly changing, the river
presenting more the appearance of a genuine mountain stream.
Its banks are here and there heavily fringed with timber, rich grass
grows luxuriantly in the flat bottoms, and the dark bluffs which
bound them form a beautiful background, interspersed occasionally
by snow-capped peaks.
In little more than the third of a century the vast area of desert-waste
comprising the valley of the Platte, and beyond, has been transmuted
by that most effective of civilizers the railroad, into great states.
On the terra incognita there have appeared large cities and towns,
whose genesis is a marvel in the history of nations. Peace has
spread her white wings over the bloody sands of the trail, whose
sublime silence but a short time since was so often broken by the
diabolical whoop of the savage, as he wretched the reeking scalp from
the head of his enemy. Where it required many weeks of dangerous,
tedious travel to cross the weary pathway to the mountains, now, in
all the luxuriance of modern American railway service, the traveller
is whirled along at the rate of fifty miles all hour, and where it
required many days for the transmission of news, the events of the
whole civilized world, as they hourly occur, are flashed from ocean
to ocean in a few seconds.
The islands, bluffs, and isolated peaks of the trail have clustering
around them many thrilling legends, stories, and events; some of them
reaching far backward into the dim light of tradition; others having
happened within the memory of men now living. All are strangely
characteristic of the region, and are as full of poetry and pathos
as the epics of ancient Greece, whose stories are the basis of the
literature of the world to-day.
Some traveller, who has visited every picturesque spot on both
continents, has truthfully said: “No! Never need an American look
beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural
scenery.” Nowhere else on the continent is the landscape for such a
distance so varied, so distinctly picturesque, beautiful, and sublime,
as that which may be viewed from the car windows of the magnificent
trains of the Union Pacific Railway. They swiftly course over almost
the identical pathway once followed by the overland stage-coach,
the pony express, and the slowly plodding ox caravans in the days
when the possibility of a transcontinental trail of steel was regarded
as a chimera.
Less than a hundred miles from the Missouri River is the famous
Loup Fork of the Platte, once celebrated for the great Pawnee Indian
village on its south bank, where, long before the white man encroached
upon the beautiful region, that once powerful tribe lived in a sort
of barbaric splendour. This affluent was so named by the early
French-Canadian trappers because of the numerous packs of wolves that
haunted the region. Game, consisting of deer, buffalo, antelope,
turkeys, and prairie chickens, abounded, while the stream itself was
covered with ducks and geese. During the days of travel by the old
trail, at the crossing-place was a primitive ferry. The current was
always very strong, and when the fork was much swollen, dangerous.
The region watered by the Loup Fork is unsurpassed in fertility by
any other portion of the valley of the Platte. After crossing the
stream, the Union Pacific's track is a perfectly straight line, and
when the fields are golden with the harvests, the view from the train
is the most marvellous agricultural landscape to be found anywhere
on the continent.
A few miles westward, beyond Grand Island, is Wood River, a noted
landmark and camping-place for those who followed the tide of
immigration to Utah, and to the gold fields of California, in 1849.
It was always a pleasant spot, and is now a station on the Union
Pacific Railway. As the tourist crosses the bridge over the stream
in a palace car, he may look down from his window, and meditate on
the brilliancy of the present, and the misty past, with all its
adventures and suffering. The march of civilization has made
wonderful changes in fifty years. It has forced the Indians, the
buffaloes, and the antelopes away from the prairies, and in their
places comfortable homes may now be seen on the sites of old camps.
The pretty little stream still runs its race to the Platte, and
lingering near the bank at the old ford, murmurs its story of the
long ago, as the train rushes by.
After passing Grand Island, the next place of importance between the
flourishing town of Columbus and North Platte is that known as Brady's.
Brady's Island honours the memory of an old-time trapper, who was
brutally murdered by one of his partners in 1847. They were engaged
in their vocation as employees of the American Fur Company, on the
many tributaries of the Platte, and their camp at the time was on the
island that bears the unfortunate man's name. The tradition says
that the little coterie of trappers had landed there to pack their
accumulation of the season's furs for the market of St. Louis, then
the only place where they could be disposed of in the whole West.
The day when everything was about ready for embarkation down the
river to the Missouri, in a rude boat which they had constructed of
buffalo-hides drawn over a framework of poles, Brady and one of the
men were in the camp alone—the others were at work on the bank of
the stream. Brady and the one who was left in the camp that morning
were ever on bad terms with each other, and more than once had
indulged in some severe quarrels.
When the rest of their party returned to the camp preparatory to
starting, they found Brady dead, lying in a pool of his own blood.
His partner, when questioned as to the cause of his death, affirmed
that he was accidentally killed by the premature discharge of his
own rifle, which he had been carelessly handling.
The story was not believed by the men, and the cold-blooded murderer
escaped lynching by his companions only by the better judgment of the
cooler heads of some, who insisted that possibly the tale might be
true. The body of the unlucky trapper was buried near the spot where
he fell, but was soon dug up by the wolves, and his bones left to
bleach in the wintry sun. Portions of them were found eight or ten
years afterward by another party of trappers, and when they recognized
them as those of a human being, they carefully reinterred them.
The party of trappers, sad at the loss of one of their number, started
down the Platte, with their boat-load of furs, but finding the river
too shallow to navigate their frail craft, they were compelled to
abandon it. They themselves carried what they could of its contents
and made the best of their way on foot, two hundred and fifty miles,
to the nearest settlement. In a few days their provisions began to
run short, and as game became scarce, they separated, after making
about one hundred miles of their lonesome journey, each man taking
his own trail toward the Missouri. The murderer of Brady happened
to be a very indifferent walker, and was soon left many miles behind
his comrades.
When the foremost of the party arrived at the Pawnee village, on the
Loup Fork of the Platte, they sent back two members of that tribe to
bring in the lost man, while they continued on their journey toward
the Missouri. A week or more later a small party of trappers
belonging to the same fur company, happening to go near the Indian
village, were stopped by the head chief, who requested them to go
with him, to see a white man who was lying very sick in his teepee.
They complied with the Indian's request, and found the murderer of
Brady at the point of death. He confessed to them how Brady came to
his end; told of his own sufferings, and believed them to be the
justice that was dealt out to him for the unwarranted killing of his
partner. He told them, further, that when his companions left him on
the road, he had tried to light a fire at night with his pistol, and
the charge accidentally entered his thigh bone, tearing it into
splinters. In that deplorable condition he was absolutely helpless;
to walk was an impossibility. He could hardly move at all, far less
dress his wound properly. He managed, by tying a piece of cloth to
a stick, to let any passing trapper know where he was lying.
He remained there for six days and nights, when at last his ear
caught the sound of human voices, and waking up from the stupor which
had overcome him from his weakness, to his great delight he discovered
two friendly Pawnees leaning over him, their countenances filled with
compassion. They gave him some nourishment, tenderly conveyed him
to their village, and had kindly cared for him ever since.
He expired while the trappers were conversing with him.
One of the historic places on the left bank of the North Fork of the
Platte is Ash Hollow,[39] twelve miles distant from the main stream,
famous for a battle between Little Thunder, chief of the Brule Sioux,
and the Second Regiment of United States Dragoons, under command of
Brevet Brigadier William S. Harney; in which some eighty Indians were
slain, and the lives of twelve of our own soldiers lost.
Johnson's Creek was named for a foolish missionary a great many years
ago, who was on his way to Oregon, in company with a party of
emigrants in charge of John Gray.
As they were breaking camp one morning, a band of Sioux suddenly
charged out of the hills, and preparations were immediately made by
Mr. Gray and his men to repel them. Against such a course as this
Mr. Johnson loudly protested. He declared that it would be a terrible
outrage to shed innocent blood, and as the savages neared the camp,
he marched out to meet them and have a talk, notwithstanding that
he was told by his companions that the Indians would not listen to
him for a moment, but would take his scalp.
The deluded fool really believed that the savages would not harm him,
because he was a missionary, and had ventured out among them to do
their race good. Of course he fell a victim to his own ridiculous
credulity; for the moment the Indians came close enough, they
incontinently murdered him, and his hair was dangling at the belt of
one of the warriors before Johnson had a chance to put in a word.
In the fight which ensued three of the Indians were killed, and were,
with the mangled remains of the unfortunate missionary, buried in
one grave.
Independence Rock is an isolated mass of clear granite, located a few
hundred yards from the right bank of the Sweetwater. Its base covers
an area of nearly five acres, and rises to a height of about three
hundred feet. There is a slight depression on its summit, otherwise
the rock would be nearly oval in shape. In the early days of the
trail, a little soil, which had probably been drifted into the
depression mentioned, supported a few sickly shrubs and one dwarf
tree.
The front face of this ancient landmark, like that of Pawnee Rock,
on the old Santa Fé Trail, is covered with the names of trappers,
traders, emigrants, and other men who supposed that their rude
carvings would immortalize them.
The rock derives its patriotic name from the fact that many years ago
one of the first party of Americans who crossed the continent by the
way of the Platte Valley, under the leadership of a man named Thorp,
celebrated their Fourth of July at the foot of the now historic mass
of granite.
The most prominent inscription on the face of the rock is Independence.
Father De Smet, the celebrated Jesuit priest, says of it in his
letters to the bishop of St. Louis, in 1841:
The first rock which we saw, and which truly deserves the name,
was the famous rock Independence. At first I was led to
believe that it had received this pompous name from its
isolated situation and the solidity of its basis; but I was
afterward told that it was called so because the first
travellers who thought of giving it a name arrived at it on
the very day when the people of the United States celebrate
the anniversary of their separation from Great Britain.
We reached this spot on the day that immediately succeeds this
celebration. We had in our company a young Englishman,
as jealous of the honour of his nation as the Americans;
hence we had a double reason not to cry hurrah, for
Independence. Still, on the following day, lest it might be
said that we passed this lofty monument of the desert with
indifference, we cut our names on the south side of the rock,
under initials (I. H. S.) which we would wish to see engraved
on every spot. On account of all these names, and of the
dates that accompany them, as well as of the hieroglyphics
of Indian warriors, I have surnamed this rock “The Great
Record of the Desert.”
As is the case with nearly all of the prominent bluffs, mountains,
and isolated peaks in the romantic valley, Independence Rock has its
Indian legend. The story as told by an old warrior is this:—
A great many years ago, long before any white man had looked
upon the valley of the Upper Platte, the chief of the Pawnees,
whose big villages extended for some distance along that
river, was known as the Crouching Panther. He was one of the
bravest warriors that the famous Pawnee nation had ever
produced; large in stature, powerful in his strength, yet as
lithe and quick as the animal from which he derived his name.
He was beloved by his tribe, and none of his many warriors
could compete with him for an instant in all the manly games
which afford the amusements of the savages, nor with him in
the chase after the buffalo or the more fleet antelope.
His prowess, too, in battle was far beyond that of any of the
great warriors which tradition had handed down; yet he was not
envied by any, for he was of a loving and kind disposition.
He was equal in feats of horsemanship to the Comanches, which
nation excels in that particular over all other Plains tribes.
In the village there lived a superannuated chief, who
possessed a daughter considered the handsomest maiden in all
the region which was watered by the great Platte. She was as
graceful as an antelope in all her movements, and, as is usual
in the strange nomenclature of the savages who take their
cognomens from some characteristic of their nature, she was
known as the Antelope, because she more resembled that
graceful animal than any other of the young maidens in her
tribe. She would flit from rock to rock, when out gathering
berries, or float down the stream in her birch-bark canoe,
catching fish for her aged father's meals. Crouching Panther
had for a long time had his eyes riveted upon the Antelope,
and would often lie for hours on some high point of rock
watching the youthful girl as she attended to the cares of
her lodge. He never returned from a successful hunt without
sending some choice portion of the buffalo or other animal
he had killed to the lodge of the Antelope.
The arrangements, according to the customs of the tribe, had
already been made for a wedding of the favourite young savages,
when on the night preceding the ceremony a party of Sioux,
the deadly hereditary enemies of the Pawnees, made a night
assault upon the village, and after a terrible fight carried
off a number of scalps, and many prisoners, among whom was
the Antelope.
The prisoners were hurried off to one of the remote fastnesses
of the Sioux up in the mountains, in the vicinity of
Medicine Bow River, where, as was the custom of the Indians,
they intended to sacrifice their prisoners by the worst
methods of torture as ingeniously cruel as they could possibly
make it.
In two days after the return of the warriors to the Sioux
village was the sacrifice to be made. The friends and
relatives of the Sioux who had been killed in the assault
upon the Pawnees were drawn up around the unfortunate captives,
who were about to be fastened to stakes and stand the terrible
ordeal of death by fire, when suddenly, like a clap of thunder
out of a clear sky, the terrible war-whoop of the Pawnees
sounded in the ears of the now thoroughly frightened Sioux,
who saw, to their dismay, a band of the dreaded Pawnees led
by the intrepid Crouching Panther. Dashing down upon them,
they fought their way to where the prisoners were already
stoically awaiting their terrible fate, and the Crouching
Panther, rushing to where the Antelope was standing, after
killing half a dozen of his foes, caught her up, and throwing
her before him on his saddle, dashed off with his brave
little band of followers before the astonished Sioux could
recover. It was not long before they recovered their presence
of mind, however, and, enraged by the loss of their prisoners,
immediately mounted their horses and quickly followed the
daring Pawnees on the trail.
The Sioux outnumbered the Pawnees ten to one, but Crouching
Panther had just that amount of courage in his nature that
numbers did not stop him when bent on such a mission, and he
had proceeded a great way on the trail with his warriors and
the Antelope toward their native village when they were
overtaken by a vastly superior force, and a terrible fight
took place. Many a Sioux did the Crouching Panther send to
the happy hunting-grounds, notwithstanding that he was
handicapped by the living burden in front of him on his horse.
He was near the rock, when he found that all his warriors,
though having fought bravely, were cut down, and himself alone,
death staring him in the face, or what was worse, the torture
for himself and the girl with him. He jumped from his animal
with the now fainting maiden in his arms, and, rushing up the
mountain, followed by a dozen of his foes, sprang to the edge
of the dizzy height, and stood for a moment confronting his
enemies. The sun was just setting; the valley was flooded
with a golden light, and he stood there with the Antelope in
his arms at bay for a moment, gazing in disdain upon his
pursuers. As one of the Sioux was foremost in his attempt to
seize the Crouching Panther, the latter hurled his hatchet
with terrible, unerring force, and buried it deep into the
presumptuous savage's brain. At the same moment crying out
“The spirits of a hundred Pawnee braves will accompany their
great chief to the happy hunting-grounds of their fathers,”
he pressed close to his bosom the beautiful form of the
Antelope, sprang out into the clear air, and bounding from
rock to rock, the two lovers were dashed to pieces on the
stony ground below.
Chimney Rock, on the Platte, was once a famous landmark in the early
days of the trail. When he reached it, the pioneer traveller knew
that nearly one-half of the journey from the Missouri River and the
Great Salt Lake was over. For miles on either side of it, it was
plainly visible to the lonely trapper, the hunter, and the
western-bound emigrant.
Erosion has worn it to an insignificant pillar, but it at one time
was a portion of the main chain of bluffs bounding the valley of the
Platte. Denudation through countless ages separated it from them.
Fifty years ago it was a conical elevation, about a hundred feet high,
from the apex of which another shaft arose forty feet. Its strange
formation was caused by disintegration of the softer portions of its
mass. It is located on the south side of the river, not far from the
boundary line between Nebraska and Wyoming. It looked like a factory
chimney, hence its name.
The origin of “Crazy Woman's Creek,” according to a legend of the
Crows, told by an aged chief to George P. Belden, is as follows:—
Years ago, when my father was a little boy, there came among
us a man who was half white. He said he wished to trade with
our people for buffalo-robes, beaver, elk, and deerskins, and
that he would give us much paint, and many blankets and pieces
of cloth in exchange for furs. We liked him, and believed him
very good, for he was rich, having many thousands of beads and
hundreds of yards of ribbons. Our village was then built on
the river, about twenty miles above where we now are, and game
was very plentiful. This river did not at that time have the
name of Crazy Woman, but was called Big Beard, because a
curious grass grows along its banks that has a big beard.
What I am about to relate caused the name of the river to be
changed.
The trader built a lodge of wood and stones, and near it a
great, strong house, in which he kept all his immense wealth.
It was not long until he had bought all the robes and furs
for sale in the village, and then he packed them on ponies,
and bidding us good-by, said he was going far to the east
where the paleface lives, but that he would soon come back,
bring us many presents and plenty of blankets, beads, and
ribbons, which he would exchange as before for robes and furs.
We were sorry to see him go, but, as he promised to return
in a few moons, we were much consoled. It was not long until
our spies reported something they could not understand coming
into our country, and the whole village was in a great state
of alarm. Some of the boldest ventured out, and returned with
the joyful intelligence that the strange objects our young men
had seen was the trader and his people. All the village ran
to meet him, and the sight was strange enough indeed.
The Crows had in those days never seen a wagon, horse, or ox,
and the trader had brought all these things. The wagons they
called teepees on rollers; the horses were giants beside the
little ponies, and the oxen, all believed were tame buffaloes.
There, also, was a squaw, who was perfectly white, and who
could not understand anything that was said to her. She wore
dresses down to her feet, of which she seemed to be ashamed,
and our women said she tied cords tightly about her waist,
so as to make it small. She had very long hair, and did not
plait but rolled it, and, instead of letting it hang down,
wrapped it tightly about her head.
It was not long until the trader had all his wagons unloaded
and his store open. He had brought all the women beads and
ribbons, and the men brass rings. Besides what he sold, he
made many presents; so everybody loved him, for no one had
ever before seen so rich and generous a man.
One day he told the Big Chief to come into the back part of
the store and he would show him something wonderful.
The chief went, wondering what it could be, and when they
were alone, the trader drew out a very little barrel and,
taking a wooden cup, poured out some black-looking water,
which he told the chief to drink. The chief did as desired
and immediately felt so jolly he asked for more. The trader
promised, if he would never tell any one where he got the
black water, he would give him all he wanted. The chief
promised, and the trader gave him another cupful. Now the
chief danced and sang, and went to his lodge, where he fell
down in a deep sleep, and no one could wake him. He slept
so long the warriors gathered about the lodge wondering what
could ail him, and they were about to go to the trader and
demand to know what kind of medicine he had given the chief
to make him behave so strangely when the chief woke up and
ordered them all to their lodges, and to ask no questions.
Next day the chief went to the trader and said he had had
great dreams; that he thought he had slain many of his
enemies, and that the black medicine must be very good to
make him have such pleasant visions. He begged the trader
to give him some more, and he did so. Thus the chief did
every day, and all the village wondered; for they believed
the trader had bewitched him. In former times the chief had
been a very quiet and dignified man, but now he sang, danced
in the streets, and publicly hugged the women, so every one
thought him crazy. The Crows disliked the conduct of their
chief very much, and began to grumble against the trader;
for they thought he was to blame for the great change that
had come over their chief. Some said he was bewitched,
others that the trader had an evil spirit in one of his boxes,
and thus they talked, some believing one thing, and some
another, but all blaming him. One of the young warriors
called a secret council, and the matter was discussed, and
it was finally decided that the trader must leave or they
would put him to death. A warrior, who was a great friend
of the trader, was sent to tell him of the decision of the
council, and when he did so, the trader laughed and said if
he would come into the back of the store, and never tell
anybody, he would show him what ailed the chief. The warrior
went, and the trader gave him a ladleful of the black water
to drink. Presently he began to sing and dance about, and
then went out into the street and sang, which greatly
surprised every one, for he had never done so before.
The young men gathered about him and asked him what ailed him,
but he only said, “Oh, go to the trader and get some of the
black water!” So they went to the trader and inquired what
kind of black water he had that affected people so strangely;
and the trader told them he had only the same kind of water
they drank, and brought out his pail, that they all might
drink. Each warrior took up the ladle and drank some, and
made the trader drink some, and then they sat down to wait
and see if it would affect them like the chief and their
brother-warrior; but it did not, and they rose up and said,
“The trader or our brother lies, and we will see who is the
liar.” They went to the warrior's lodge and found him sound
asleep, nor could they wake him. Two remained to watch by
him, and the others went to their teepees. When the sun
was up, the warriors rose, and, seeing the others sitting
in his tent, said, “Why are you here, my brothers?” And the
eldest of the two warriors replied, “You have lied to us,
for the trader has no black water.” The warrior, recollecting
his promise not to tell, said, “It is true that the trader has
no black water, and who said he had?” They explained to him
his conduct of the day before, at which he was greatly
astonished, and he declared if such was the case he must have
been very sick in his head and not known what he said.
Thereupon the warriors withdrew and reported all to their
brethren. The warriors were greatly perplexed, and knew not
what to do or think, but decided to wait and see.
The chief and warrior were now drunk every day, and the young
chief called another council. It was long and stormy in its
debate, all the wise men speaking, but no one giving such
counsel as the others would accept. At last a young warrior
rose and said that he had watched, and that it was true that
the trader had a black water which he gave the chief and
warrior to drink; for he had made a hole in the wall of the
trader's store and through it saw them drinking the black
water. He advised them to bring the trader and warrior
before them, and he would accuse them to their face of what
he had seen, and if they denied the truth he would fight them.
This speech was received with great satisfaction, and the
young chief at once sent some warriors to fetch the trader
and their brother.
When they were come into the council and seated, the young
warrior repeated all he had said, and asked if it were not
true that they would fight him.
The warrior who was first asked rose up and said the young
warrior lied, and that he was ready to fight him; but when
the trader was told to stand up and answer, he, seeing there
was no use in denying the matter, confessed all. He said the
black water was given him by the white people, a great many
of whom drank it, and it made them behave as they had seen
the chief and the warrior do. He also told them that after
a man drank of it he felt happy, laughed and sang, and when
he lay down he dreamed pleasant dreams and slew his enemies.
The curiosity of the warriors was greatly excited and the
young chief bade the trader go and bring some of his black
water, that they might taste it. He was about to depart when
the young warrior who had before spoken rose and desired him
to be seated, when he said: “The warriors heard my speech,
and it was good. The brother, however, when I asked him if
he would tell the council the truth, said I lied, and he
would fight me. Let us now go out of the village and fight.”
The young chief asked the drunkard if he had anything to say,
when he rose and addressed the council as follows:—
“Oh, my brethren, it is true that I have drunk of the black
water, and that I have lied. When the trader first gave it
to me to drink, he made me promise that I would never tell
what it was, or where I got it, and he has many times since
said if I told any one he would never give me any more to
drink. Oh, my brethren, the black water is most wonderful,
and I have come to love it better than my life, or the truth.
The fear of never having any more of it to drink made me lie,
and I have nothing more to say but that I am ready to fight.”
Then the council adjourned, and every one went out to see
the warriors fight. They were both men of great skill and
bravery, and the whole village came to see the battle.
He who drank the black water was the best spears-man in the
tribe, and every one expected to see the other warrior killed.
The spears were brought, and when they were given to the
combatants it was seen that the hand of him who had lied
shook so he could hardly hold his spear. At this his friends
rallied him, and asked him if he was afraid. He replied that
his heart was brave, but that his hand trembled, though not
with fear, for it had shook so for many days.
Then the battle began, and at the second throw of the spears
he with the trembling hand was clove through the heart, and
killed instantly, while the other warrior did not receive a
wound.
After the fight was over, the warriors all went to the trader's
lodge, and he brought in a pail more than a quart of the
black water, which he gave in small quantities to each warrior.
When they had swallowed it, they began to dance and sing, and
many lay down on the ground and slept as though they were dead.
Next day they came again and asked for more black water; and
so they came each day, dancing and singing, for more than
a week.
One morning the trader said he would give them no more black
water unless they paid him for it, and this they did.
The price was at first one robe for each sup sufficient to
make them sleep, but, as the black water became scarce,
two robes, and finally three were paid for a sleep. Then the
trader said he had no more except a little for himself, and
this he would not sell; but the warriors begged so hard for
some he gave them a sleep for many robes. Even the body-robes
were soon in the hands of the trader, and the warriors were
very poor, but still they begged for more black water, giving
a pony in exchange for each sleep. The trader took all the
ponies, and then the warriors offered their squaws, but there
was no more black water, and the trader said he would go and
fetch some.
He packed all the robes on the ponies and was about to set out,
when a warrior made a speech, saying that now that he had all
their robes and ponies, and they were very poor, the trader
was going away and would never return, for they had nothing
more to give him. So the warriors said he should not depart,
and ordered him to unpack the ponies. The trader told them
he would soon return with plenty of black water, and give it
to them as he did at first. Many of the warriors were willing
that he should depart, but others said no, and one declared
that he had plenty of black water still left and was going off
to trade with their enemies, the Sioux. This created great
excitement, and the trader's store and all his packs were
searched, but no black water found. Still the warriors
asserted that he had it, and that it was hidden away.
The warriors declared that they would kill him unless he
instantly told them where he had hid it, and upon his not
being able to do so, they rushed into his lodge and murdered
him before the eyes of his squaw, tearing off his scalp and
stamping upon his body. This so alarmed the white squaw that
she attempted to run out of the lodge, and, as she came to
the door, a warrior struck her on the head with his tomahawk
and she fell down as though she were dead.
The chief made a great speech, saying that now, as the trader
was dead, they would burn his lodge and take back all their
robes and ponies. So the lodge was fired, and as it burned
a Crow squaw saw by its light the white squaw lying before
the door, and that she was not dead, and she took her to her
lodge, sewed up her wounds, and gave her something to eat.
The squaw lived and got well, but she was crazy and could not
bear the sight of a warrior, believing that every one who
came near her was going to kill her.
One day the white squaw was missing, and the whole village
turned out to look for her. They followed her tracks far
down the river, but could not find her. Some women out
gathering berries a few days afterward said the white squaw
came to them and asked for food, showing them at the same
time where she was hiding in the bluffs near by. She begged
them not to tell the warriors where she was, or they would
come and kill her. The squaws tried to dissuade her from
a notion so foolish, but they could not get her to return
to the village.
Every day the squaws went and took her food, and she lived
for many months, no one knowing where she was but the women.
When the warriors came about she hid away, and would not stir
out until they were gone. One day, however, a warrior out
hunting antelope came suddenly upon her and she fled away,
but he followed her, wishing to bring her to the village.
All day she ran over the hills, and at night the warrior came
back, being unable to catch her. She was never seen again,
and what became of her is not known, although it is likely
she died of hunger, or that the wild beasts destroyed her.
Ever after, when the Indians came here to camp, they told
the story of the crazy woman, and the place became known as
the “place of the crazy woman,” and the name of Big Beard
was almost entirely forgotten.
Laramie Plains present a broad bottom on both sides of the river,
comprising about twelve hundred square miles, bounded on the north
and east by the Black Hills, on the south by a “divide” of arenaceous
rock, embedded in marl and white clay, almost barren of verdure, while
on the west are the beautiful Medicine Bow Mountains. The southern
portion of these plains is watered by a succession of streams which
rise in the mountains, some of them discharging their volume into the
Laramie River, others sinking in the sand—a characteristic of many
creeks and so-called rivers of the central region of the continent.
The northern portion of these vast prairies is a high tableland,
devoid of water, its soil mixed with clay and sand, but producing the
grass peculiar to the other plains region. Toward the southeastern
extremity, at the foot of an isolated mountain, is a salt lake of
considerable dimensions, several other sheets of water are also to
be seen in the vicinity of the Medicine Bow Mountains, all of which
are strongly impregnated with mineral salts. The Laramie River
traces its course through the whole extent, rising in the southern
extremity of the Medicine Bow Mountains, and empties into the
North Platte, at Fort Laramie.
Laramie Peak was the guiding hill that emigrants first saw of the
far-famed western mountains—especially its snow-covered crest,
a veritable beacon, its summit glistening in the morning sun as its
rays fell upon it, the majestic hill ever pointing out the direction
which the earnest pilgrims should travel.
The existence of a large lake of salt water somewhere amid the wilds
west of the Rocky Mountains seems to have been vaguely known as long
ago as two hundred years. As early as May, 1689, the Baron
La Hontan,[40] lord-lieutenant of the French colony at Placentia,
in New Foundland, wrote an account of discoveries in this region,
which was published in the English language in 1735.
In the letter, which is dated at “Missilimakinac,” he gives “an
account of the author's departure from and return to Missilimakinac;
a description of the Bay of Puants and its villages; an ample
description of the beavers, followed by the journal of a remarkable
voyage upon Long River, and a map of the adjacent country.”
Leaving Mackinaw, he passed into Green Bay, which he calls
“the Bay of Pouteoutamois,” and arrived at the mouth of Fox
River, which he describes as “a little, deep sort of a river,
which disembogues at a place where the water of the lake
swells three feet high in twelve hours, and decreases as much
in the same compass of time.”
The villages of the Sakis, Pouteouatamis, and some Malominis
are seated on the side of that river, and the Jesuits have
a house, or college, built upon it. Ascending the Fox River,
called “the river of Puants,” he came to a village of Kikapous,
which stands on the brink of a little lake, in which the
savages fish great quantities of pikes and gudgeons.
[Lake Winnebago?]
Still ascending the river, he passed through the “little lake
of the Malominis,” the sides of which “are covered with a sort
of oats, which grow in tufts, with a small stalk, and of which
the savages reap plentiful crops,” and at length arrived at
the land carriage of Ouisconsinc, which “we finished in two
days; that is, we left the river Puants, and transported our
canoes and baggage to the river Ouisconsinc, which is not
above three-quarters of a league distant, or thereabouts.”
Descending the Wisconsin, in four days he reached its mouth,
and landed on an island in the river Mississippi.
So far, the journey of the Baron La Hontan is plain enough;
but beyond this point it is rather apocryphal. He states that
he ascended the Mississippi for nine days, when he “entered
the mouth of the Long River, which looks like a lake full of
bulrushes.” He sailed up this river for six weeks, passing
through various nations of savages, of which a most fanciful
description is given. At length, determined by the advance
of the season, he abandoned the intention of reaching the
head of the river, and returned to Canada, having at the
termination of his voyage first “fixed a long pole, with the
arms of France done upon a plate of lead.” The following
is his description of the “Long River”: “You must know that
the stream of the Long River is all along very slack and easy,
abating for about three leagues between the fourteenth and
fifteenth villages; for there, indeed, its current may be
called rapid. The channel is so straight that it scarce winds
at all from the head of the lake. 'Tis true 'tis not very
pleasant, for most of its banks have a dismal prospect, and
the water itself has an ugly taste; but then its usefulness
atones for such inconveniences, for 'tis navigable with the
greatest ease, and will bear barks of fifty tons, till you
come to that place which is marked with a flower-de-luce in
the map, and where I put up the post that my soldiers
christened La Hontan's Limit.”
A detailed map accompanies this imaginative voyage up this
most imaginary river. It is represented as flowing east
through twenty-five degrees of longitude, numerous streams
putting into it on either side, with mountains, islands,
villages, and domains of Indian tribes, whose very names have
at this day sunk into oblivion. The map was afterward
published, in 1710, by John Senex, F.R.S., as a part of North
America, corrected from the observations communicated to the
Royal Society at London and the Royal Academy at Paris.
This discovery of Baron La Hontan excited, even at that early
day, the spirit of enterprise and speculation which has proved
so marked a feature in the national character. In a work
published in 1772, and entitled “A description of the Province
of Carolina, by the Spaniards called Florida, and by the
French La Louisiane, by Daniel Cox,” the then proprietary,
the first part of the fifth chapter is devoted to “A new and
curious discovery and relation of an easy communication
between the river Meschacebe (Mississippi) and the South Sea,
which separates America from China, by means of several
large rivers and lakes.”
The existence of the Great Salt Lake of Utah was known to the early
Spanish voyageurs under the intrepid Coronado, through stories told
them by the Indians, but there is no trustworthy account of any of
them having seen it. To Jim Bridger, the famous mountaineer and
scout, must be accorded the honour of having been the first white man
to look upon its brackish waters. He discovered it in the winter of
1824-25, accidentally, in deciding a bet. The story of this visit to
the Great Salt Lake comes down to us by the most reliable testimony.
It appears that a party of trappers, under the command of William H.
Ashley, one day found themselves on Bear River, in what is known as
Willow Valley, and while lying in camp a discussion arose in relation
to the probable course of the river. A wager was made, and Bridger
sent out to determine the question. He paddled a long distance and
came out on the Great Salt Lake, whose water he tasted and found it
salt. Having made the discovery as to where the Bear River emptied,
he retraced his lonely journey and reported the result to his companions.
Upon his report of the vast dimensions of the strange inland body of
salt water, they all became anxious to learn whether other streams
did not flow into the lake, and if so, there were new fields in which
to try their luck in trapping beaver. To learn the fact four of them
constructed boats of skins, and paddling into the lake, explored it.
Of course, it cannot be clearly proven that Old Jim Bridger was the
first white man who saw the Great Salt Lake, but all others who have
made claim to its discovery have not satisfied the demands of truth
in their particulars, so the honour must and does rest upon Bridger;
for no more authentic account of its discovery can be found.
His statement is corroborated by such men as Robert Campbell,
of St. Louis, and other famous mountaineers of the time.
There is a pretty piece of fiction connected with one of the claimants
to its discovery, by the celebrated Jim Beckwourth, that famous
Afro-American, who was chief of the Crow Nation. It says:
One day in June, 1822, a beautiful Indian maiden offered him
a pair of moccasins if he would procure for her an antelope
skin, and bring the animal's brains with it, in order that
she might dress a deerskin. Beckwourth started out in his
mission, but failed to see any antelope. He did see an
Indian coming toward him, whose brains he proposed to himself
to take to the savage maiden after he had killed the buck,
believing that she would never discover the difference, and
had pulled up his rifle to fire when he happily saw that his
supposed savage was William H. Ashley, of the American Fur
Company, and who told him that he had sailed through Green
River into the Great Salt Lake.
It may be true that Ashley did sail upon the Great Salt Lake before
Bridger; but the story lacks confirmation; it has not that reliable
endorsement which Bridger's claim possesses.
Jedediah Smith, another of the famous coterie of old trappers, called
the lake Utah, and the river which flows into it from the south after
the celebrated Ashley.
Much has been given to the world in relation to the vicinity of the
Great Salt Lake and the contiguous part of Utah by the famous author,
Washington Irving, in his adventures of Captain Bonneville, but it
should be taken cum grano salis; for, as Bancroft truthfully observes:
Irving humoured the captain, whose vanity prompted him to give
his own name to the lake, although he had not a shadow of
title to that distinction. Yet on Bonneville's map of the
region, the lake is plainly lettered “Bonneville's Lake.”
Many old maps, dating from 1795 to 1826, have laid down upon
them an inland sea, or lake, together with many other strange
rivers and creeks, which never had any existence except in
the minds of their progenitors, taken from the legendary tales
of the old trappers, who in turn got them from the savages.
The early emigrants to Oregon and California did not travel
within many miles of the Great Salt Lake, so but very scanty
reports are to be found in relation to the country. General
Fremont, too, like a great many explorers, got puffed up with
his own importance, and when, on the 6th of September, 1846,
he saw for the first time the Great Salt Lake, he compares
himself to Balboa, when that famous Spaniard gazed upon the
Pacific. Fremont, too, says that he was the first to sail
upon its saline waters, but again, as in many of his statements,
he commits an unpardonable error; for Bridger's truthful story
of the old trappers who explored it in search of streams
flowing into it, in the hopes of enlarging their field of
beaver trapping, antedates Fremont's many years.[41]
Captain Stansbury, of the United States army, made the first survey
of the lake in 1849-50. Stansbury Island was named after him;
Gunnison Island after Lieutenant Gunnison, of his command; Fremont's
Island, after that explorer, who first saw it in 1843, and called it
Disappointment Island.
Members of Captain Bonneville's company first looked upon the lake
from near the mouth of the Ogden River, in 1833. His name has been
given to a great fossil lake, whose shore line may now be seen
throughout the neighbouring valleys, and of which the Great Salt Lake
is but the bitter fragment.
The outlet to this vast ancient body of water has been shown by
Professor Gilbert to have been at a place now called Red Rock Pass.
CHAPTER XI.
INDIAN TRIBES ON THE TRAIL.
The Otoes, once occupying the region at the mouth of the Platte, were
a very brave and interesting tribe. When first known to the whites,
in the early part of the century, the chief of the nation was I-e-tan,
a man of great courage, excellent judgment, and crafty, as are always
the most intelligent of the North American savages. His leading
attributes were penetration of character, close observation of
everything that occurred, and a determination to carry out his ideas,
which were remarkable in their development. An old regular army
officer, long since dead, who knew I-e-tan well and spoke his language,
said that he had known him to form estimates of men, judicious, if not
accurate, from half an hour's acquaintance, and without understanding
a word that was spoken. But beneath his calm exterior there burned
a lava of impetuous passions, which, when strongly moved, burst forth
with a fierce and blind violence.
I-e-tan had the advantage of a fine and commanding figure,
so remarkable, indeed, that once at a dinner, on a public occasion,
at Jefferson Barracks, his health was drunk, with a complimentary
allusion to the lines from Shakespeare:
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal
To give the world assurance of a man.
In a deep carousal which took place one night in the village, in 1822,
his brother, a fine fellow, named Blue-eyes (that colour being rare[42]
among the Indians), had the misfortune to bite off a small piece of
I-e-tan's nose. So soon as he became sensible of this irreparable
injury, to which, as an Indian, he was, perhaps, even more sensitive
than a white man, I-e-tan burned with a mortal resentment. He retired,
telling his brother that he would kill him. He got a rifle, returned,
and deliberately shot him through the heart. He had found Blue-eyes
leaning with folded arms against a pillar of his lodge, and thus,
with a heroic stoicism, which has been rightly attributed as a
characteristic of the race, without a murmur, or the quiver of a
muscle, he submitted to his cruel fate.
Then was I-e-tan seized with a violent remorse, and exhibited the
redeeming traits of repentance and inconsolable grief, and of
greatness, in the very constancy of the absorbing sentiment.
He retired from all intercourse with his race, abstaining wholly from
drink, for which he had a propensity, and, as if under a vow, he went
naked for nearly two years. He also meditated suicide, and was
probably only prevented from committing it by the influence of a white
friend. He sought honourable death in desperate encounters with all
the enemies he could find, and in this period acquired his name, or
title, from a very destructive attack he made upon a party of another
tribe. He lived a year or two with the Pawnees, acquiring perfectly
their difficult language, and attaining a great influence over them,
which he never lost. After several years of such penance, I-e-tan
revisited the villages of his nation, and, in 1830, on the death of
La Criniere, his elder brother, succeeded him as principal chief.
I-e-tan married many of the finest girls of his own and neighbouring
tribes, but never had any children. Latterly one of his wives
presented him with a male child, which was born with teeth.
I-e-tan pronounced it a special interposition of the Great Spirit,
of which this extraordinary sign was proof.
I-e-tan was the last chief who could so far resist the ruinous
influence of the increasing communication of his tribe with the
villanous, the worse than barbarous, whites of the extreme frontier
as to keep the young men under a tolerable control, but his death
proved a signal for license and disorder.
Intemperance was the great fault in I-e-tan's character, and the cause
of his greatest misfortune and crime. It led to his violent death.
The circumstances of this tragedy are worthy of record, if only that
they develop some strong traits of aboriginal character. They are as
follows: In April, 1837, accompanied by his two youngest wives, at a
trading-house at the mouth of the Platte, he indulged in one of his
most violent fits of drunkenness, and in this condition, on a dark
and inclement night, drove his wives out of doors. Two men of his
tribe, who witnessed these circumstances, persuaded the women to fly
in their company. One of these men had formerly been dangerously
stabbed by I-e-tan. Actuated by hatred, calculating the chief's power
was on the decline, and depending on the strength of their connections,
which were influential, the seducers became tired of living out in
hunting-camps and elsewhere, and determined to return to the village
and face it out. Such cases of elopement are not very frequent;
but after a much longer absence the parties generally become silently
reconciled, if necessary, through the arrangement of friends.
I-e-tan said, however, that it was not only a personal insult and
injury, but an evidence of defiance of his power, and that he would
live or die the chief of the Otoes. His enemies had prepared their
friends for resistance, and I-e-tan armed himself for the conflict.
He sought and found the young men in the skirts of the village, near
some trees where their supporters were concealed. I-e-tan addressed
the man whom he had formerly wounded: “Stand aside! I do not wish to
kill you; I have perhaps injured you enough.” The fellow immediately
fled. He then fired upon the other, and missed him. As the white
man was about to return the fire, he was shot down by a nephew of
I-e-tan's from a great distance. I-e-tan then drew a pistol, jumped
astride his fallen enemy, and was about to blow out his brains, when
the interpreter, Dorian, hoping even then to stop bloodshed, struck up
his pistol, which was discharged in the air, and seized him around the
body and arms. At this instant the wounded man, writhing in the agony
of death, discharged his rifle at random. The ball shattered Dorian's
arm and broke both of I-e-tan's, but the latter, being then unloosened,
sprang and stamped upon the body, and called upon his sister, an old
woman, to beat out his brains. This she did with an axe, with which
she had come running with his friends and nephews from the village.
At this instant—Dorian being out of the way—a volley was fired at
I-e-tan, and five balls penetrated his body. Then his nephews, coming
too late to his support, took swift vengeance. They fired at his now
flying enemies, and, although they were in motion, nearly two hundred
yards distant, three of them fell dead.
I-e-tan was conveyed to his lodge in the village, where being
surrounded by many relations and friends, he deplored the condition
of the nation, and warned them against the dangers to which it was
exposed. He assured them most positively that if he willed it,
he could continue to live, but that many of the Otoes had become
such dogs that he was weary of governing them, and that his arms
being broken, he could no longer be a great warrior. He gave some
messages for his friend, the agent, who was expected at the village,
and then turning to a bystander, told him he had heard that day that
he had a bottle of whiskey, and ordered him to bring it. This being
done, he caused it to be poured down his throat, and when drunk he
sang his death song and died.
The Pawnees were the next considerable tribe on the Salt Lake Trail,
west of the Otoes. The Pawnee territory, as late as sixty years ago,
extended from the Niobrara, south to the Arkansas. This territory
embraced a large portion of what is now Kansas and Nebraska, but it
must not be supposed for a moment that they held undisputed possession
of this territory. On their north a constant war was waged against
them by the Dakotas, or Sioux, while on the south every tribe,
comprising the Osages, the Comanches, the Arapahoes, and the Kiowas,
were equally relentless in their hostility. In fact, as far back as
their history and traditions date, the Pawnees were constantly on the
defensive against the almost numberless hereditary enemies by which
they were surrounded. No greater proof of their prowess is needed
than the statement that during all the years of their continual
warfare, they held possession of their vast and phenomenally rich
hunting-grounds. In 1833, by treaty they surrendered to the United
States all of their territory south of the Platte River. In 1858 they
gave up their remaining territory, excepting a strip thirty miles long
and fifteen miles wide upon the Loup Fork of the Platte. In 1874 they
sold this last of their original possessions to the United States and
were placed upon a Reservation in the Indian Territory.
In the traditions of the several bands it is related that the Pawnees
originally came from the south.
The tribal mark of the Pawnee is a scalp-lock, nearly erect, having
the appearance of a horn. In order to keep it in its upright position,
it was filled with vermilion or some other pigment. It is claimed by
those who have made a special study of this tribe that the name Pawnee
is derived from pa-rik-i, a horn.
Lewis and Clarke found them above the mouth of the Cheyenne River.
Both these early explorers state in their _Itinerary_ that the Pawnee
women were very handsome. At that date they were very friendly
toward the United States, and remained so for a great many years.
Seventeen or eighteen years afterward they became fearfully hostile.
This remarkable change in their attitude toward the government has
been attributed to the action of the Northwestern Fur Company, which
spared no efforts to divert the trade of the Pawnee region from the
Missouri Fur Company. Their first outbreak was in 1823, when they
made a raid upon some boats of the last-mentioned company, killing
and wounding a number of their men. In consequence of this overt act,
an expedition under Colonel Leavenworth, in conjunction with six
hundred friendly Dakotas, was organized at Council Bluffs, and sent
against them. In August of that same year a treaty of peace was made
with them, but nine years afterward Catlin found them so hostile that
it was dangerous to attempt any intercourse with them.[43]
All of the early French writers have much to say of the Pawnees, but
there is not space in this book to quote the many interesting facts
contained in their writings. Their number in the early years of the
century, according to various authors, differs materially, one
enumerating them as high as twenty-five thousand, another as low as
six thousand. In 1838 the tribe suffered terribly from smallpox,
which it is alleged was communicated to it by Dakota women they had
taken as prisoners. The mortality among the grown persons was not
very great, but that of the children was enormous. In 1879, according
to the official census of the Indian Bureau, the tribe had been
reduced to one thousand four hundred and forty.
One eminent author, Mr. John B. Dunbar, very correctly says:
The causes of this continual decrease are several. The most
constantly acting influence has been the deadly warfare with
surrounding tribes. Probably not a year in this century has
been without losses from this source, though only occasionally
have they been marked with considerable disasters. In 1832
the Ski-di band suffered a severe defeat on the Arkansas from
the Comanches. In 1847 a Dakota war-party, numbering over
seven hundred, attacked a village occupied by two hundred and
sixteen Pawnees, and succeeded in killing eighty-three.
In 1854 a party of one hundred and thirteen were cut off by
an overwhelming body of Cheyennes and Kiowas, and killed
almost to a man. In 1873 a hunting party of about four
hundred, two hundred and thirteen of whom were men, on the
Republican, while in the act of killing a herd of buffalo,
were attacked by nearly six hundred Dakota warriors, and
eighty-six were killed. But the usual policy of their
enemies has been to cut off individuals, or small scattered
parties, while engaged in the chase or in tilling isolated
corn patches. Losses of this kind, trifling when taken
singly, have in the aggregate borne heavily on the tribe.
It would seem that such losses, annually recurring, should
have taught them to be more on their guard. But let it be
remembered that the struggle has not been in one direction,
against one enemy. The Dakotas, Crows, Kiowas, Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, Comanches, Osages, and Kansans have faithfully
aided each other, though undesignedly in the main, in this
crusade of extermination against the Pawnees. It has been,
in the most emphatic sense, a struggle of the one against
the many. With the possible exception of the Dakotas, there
is much reason to believe that the animosity of these tribes
has been acerbated by the galling tradition of disastrous
defeats which Pawnee prowess had inflicted upon themselves
in past generations. To them the last seventy years have
been a carnival of revenge.
The Pawnees once were a great people. They had everything that
heart could wish. Their corn and buffalo gave them food, clothing,
and shelter. They were very light-hearted and contented when at
peace; in war they were cunning, fierce, and generally successful.
Their very name was a terror to their enemies.
When the Pawnees of the Platte were sorely afflicted with smallpox,
and when they were visited by their agent, he depicts in his report
the most horrible scenes. The poor wretches were utterly ignorant of
any remedy or alleviation. Some sank themselves to the mouth in the
river, and awaited death which was thus hastened. The living could
not always protect the dying and dead from the wolves. Their chief,
Capote Bleu, once exclaimed to an American officer: “Oh my father, how
many glorious battles we might have fought, and not lost so many men!”
The Pawnees were probably the most degraded, in point of morals,
of all the Western tribes; they were held in such contempt by the
other tribes that none would make treaties with them. They were
populous at one time, and were the most inveterate enemies of the
whites, killing them wherever they met.
The Pawnees in reality comprised five bands, which constituted the
entire nation: The Grand Pawnee Band; the Republican Pawnee Band;
Pawnee Loups, or Wolf Pawnees; Pawnee Picts, or Tattooed Pawnees; and
Black Pawnees. Each land was independent and under its own chief,
but for mutual defence, or in other cases of urgent necessity, they
united in one body, and in the early days on the plains could raise
from thirty to forty thousand warriors.
They were, perhaps, the most cruel of all Indian nations. They evinced
a demoniacal delight in inflicting the most exquisite tortures upon
their captives. They were impure, both in their ordinary conversation
and in their daily conduct. Still, they had some redeeming qualities.
The recognition of the claims of their relations might be emulated by
our higher civilization; so impressed upon their natures was the duty
to those who were related to them, that their language contains a
proverb: “Ca-si-ri pi-rus, he wi-ti ti-ruk-ta-pi-di-hu-ru—Why, even
the worms, they love each other—much more should men.” They were
also very hospitable, very sociable, and fond of telling stories.
They really had a literature of stories and songs, which, if they
could be gathered in their entirety, would make a large volume.
One form of sacrifice formerly practised in the tribe, or
rather in one band—for the other bands emphatically
disclaimed any share in the barbarous rite—stood apart in
unhappy prominence. This was the offering of human sacrifices
(their captives); not burning them as an expression of
embittered revenge, but sacrificing them as a religious
ordinance. What the origin of this terrible practice was the
Pawnees could never definitely explain. The rite was of long
standing evidently. The sacrifice was made to the morning
star, “O-pir-i-kut,” which, with the Ski-di, especially,
was an object of superstitious veneration. It was always
about corn-planting time, and the design of the bloody ordeal
was to conciliate that being and secure a good crop; hence it
has been supposed that the morning star was regarded by them
as presiding over agriculture, but it was not so. They
sacrificed to that star simply because they feared it,
imagining that it exerted a malign influence if not well
disposed. The sacrifice, however, was not an annual one;
it was only made when special occurrences were interpreted
as calling for it. The victim was usually a girl, or young
woman, taken from their enemies. The more beautiful the
unfortunate was, the more acceptable the offering. When it
had been determined in a council of the band to make the
sacrifice, the person was selected, if possible, some months
beforehand, and placed in charge of the medicine-men, who
treated her with the utmost kindness. She was fed plentifully
that she might become fleshy, and kept in entire ignorance
of her impending doom. During this time she was made to eat
alone, lest having by chance eaten with any one of the band,
she would by the law of hospitality become that person's guest,
and he be bound to protect her. On the morning of the day
finally fixed for the ordeal, she was led from lodge to lodge
throughout the village, begging wood and paint, not knowing
that these articles were for her own immolation. Whenever a
stick of wood or portion of red or black paint was given her,
it was taken by the medicine-men attending, and sent to the
spot selected for the final rite. A sufficient quantity of
these materials having been collected, the ceremony was begun
by a solemn conclave of all the medicine-men. Smoking the
great medicine pipe, displaying the contents of the medicine
bundle, dancing, praying, etc., were repeated at different
stages of the proceedings. A framework of two posts, about
four and a half feet apart, was set in the ground, and to
them two horizontal crosspieces, at a height of two and seven
feet, were firmly fastened. Between the posts a slow fire
was built. At nightfall the victim was disrobed and the
torture began. After the sickening sight had continued long
enough, an old man, previously appointed, discharged an arrow
at the heart of the unfortunate, and freed her from further
torture. The medicine-men forthwith cut open the chest, took
out the heart, and burned it. The smoke rising from the fire
in which it was burning was supposed to possess wonderful
virtues, and implements of war, hunting, and agriculture were
passed through it to insure success in their use. The flesh
was hacked from the body, buried in the corn patches, thrown
to the dogs, or disposed of in any way that caprice might
direct. The skeleton was allowed to remain in position till,
loosened by decay, it fell to the ground.[44]
The last time this sacrifice was made, according to official reports,
was sixty years ago (April, 1838). Dunbar relates this last reported
sacrifice as follows:
The winter previous to the date given, the Ski-di, soon after
starting on their hunt, had a successful fight with a band of
Ogallalla Sioux, killed several men and took over twenty
children. Fearing that the Sioux, according to their tactics,
would retaliate by coming upon them in overwhelming force,
they returned for safety to their village before taking
a sufficient number of buffalo. With little to eat, they
lived miserably, lost many of their ponies from scarcity of
forage, and, worst of all, one of the captives proved to have
the smallpox, which rapidly spread through the band, and in
the spring was communicated to the rest of the tribe.
All these accumulated misfortunes the Ski-di attributed to
the anger of the morning star, and accordingly they resolved
to propitiate its favour by a repetition of the sacrifice,
though in direct violation of a stipulation made two years
before that the sacrifice should not occur again.
In connection with its abolition, the oft-told story of
Pit-a-le-shar-u is recalled. Sa-re-cer-ish, second chief of
the Cau-i band, was a man of unusually humane disposition,
and had strenuously endeavoured to secure the suppression of
the practice. In the spring of 1817 the Ski-di arranged to
sacrifice a Comanche girl. After Sa-re-cer-ish had essayed
in vain to dissuade them, Pit-a-le-shar-u, a young man about
twenty years of age, of almost giant stature, and already
famed as a great brave, conceived the bold design of rescuing
her. On the day set for the rite he actually cut the girl
loose, after she had been tied to the stakes, placed her upon
a horse that he had in readiness, and hurried her away across
the prairies till they were come within a day's journey of
her people's village. There, after giving necessary
directions as to her course, he dismissed her, himself
returning to the Pawnees. The suddenness and intrepidity of
his movements, and his known prowess, were no doubt all that
saved him from death at the moment of the rescue and after
his return. Twice afterward he presumed to interfere.
In one instance, soon after the foregoing, he assisted in
securing by purchase the ransom of a Spanish boy, who had
been set apart for sacrifice. Several years later, about
1831, he aided in the attempted rescue of a girl.
The resistance on this occasion was so determined that even
after the girl had been bought and was mounted upon a horse
behind Major Daugherty, at that time general agent, to be
taken from the Ski-di village, she was shot by one of the
medicine-men. The magnanimous conduct of Sa-re-cer-ish and
Pit-a-le-shar-u in this matter stands almost unexampled in
Indian annals.
The Pawnees were essentially a religious people, if one may be allowed
to use the term in connection with a tribe whose morals were at such
a low ebb. They worshipped Ti-ra-wa, who is in and of everything.
Differing from many tribes, who adore material things, the Pawnees
simply regarded certain localities as sacred—they became so only
because they were blessed by the Divine presence. Ti-ra-wa was not
personified; he was as intangible as the God of the Christian.
The sacred nature of the Pawnee deity extended to all animal nature
—the fish that swim in the rivers, the birds that fly in the air,
and all the beasts which roam over the prairie were believed by the
Pawnee to possess intelligence, knowledge, and power far beyond that
of man. They were not, however, considered as gods; their miraculous
attributes were given to them by their ruler, whose servants they
were, and who often made them the medium of his communications to man.
They were his messengers, his angels, and their powers were always
used for good. Prayers were made to them in time of need, but rather
pleading for their intercession with Ti-ra-wa than directly to them.
All important undertakings were preceded by a prayer for help, and
success in their undertakings was acknowledged by grateful offerings
to the ruler. The victorious warrior frequently sacrificed the scalp
torn from the head of his enemy, which was burned with much elaborate
mummery by the medicine-men, and he who brought back from a raid many
horses always gave one to the chief medicine-man as a thank-offering
to Ti-ra-wa.
The Pawnees entertained feelings of reverence and humility only toward
their god; they really did not love him, but looked to him for help
at all times. The young braves were particularly exhorted to humble
themselves before Ti-ra-wa, to pray to him, and to look to One Above,
to ask help from him.
During Monroe's administration, a very influential and physically
powerful Indian named Two Axe, chief counsellor of the Pawnee Loups,
went to pay a visit to the “Great Father,” the President of the
United States. Two Axe was over six feet high and well proportioned,
of athletic build, and as straight as an arrow. He had been delegated
to go to Washington by his tribe to make a treaty with the government.
Having been introduced to the President, the latter made known to him,
through the interpreter, the substance of a proposal. The keen-witted
Indian, perceiving that the treaty taught “all Turkey” to the white
man, and “all Crow” to his tribe, sat patiently during the reading of
the document. When it was finished, he rose with all his native
dignity, and in a vein of true Indian eloquence, in which he was
unsurpassed, declared that the treaty had been conceived in injustice
and born in duplicity; that many treaties had been signed by Indians
of their “Great Father's” concoction, wherein they had bartered away
the graves of their ancestors for a few worthless trinkets, and
afterward their hearts cried out for their folly; that such Indians
were fools and women. He expressed very freely his opinion of the
President and the whites generally, and concluded by declaring that
he would sign no paper which would ever cause his own breast or those
of his people to sorrow.
Accordingly, Two Axe broke up the council abruptly, and returned to
his home without making any treaty with his “Great Father” at all.
The folk-lore stories and songs of the Pawnees are full of pathos,
humour, and thrilling incidents. The legend of the Dun Horse is
comparable in its enchantment to the stories of Aladdin and his
wonderful lamp.
Many years ago there lived in the Pawnee tribe an old woman
and her grandson, a boy about sixteen years old. These people
had no relations, and were very poor. Indeed, they were so
miserably poor that they were despised by the rest of the
tribe. They had nothing of their own, and always, after the
village started to move the camp from one place to another,
these two would stay behind the rest, to look over the old
ground and pick up anything that the other Indians had thrown
away as worn out or useless. In this way they would sometimes
get pieces of robes, worn-out moccasins with holes in them,
and bits of meat.
Now it happened one day, after the tribe had moved away from
the camp, that this old woman and her boy were following
along the trail behind the rest, when they came to a miserable,
old, worn-out horse, which they supposed had been abandoned
by some Indians. He was thin and exhausted, was blind of one
eye, had a sore back, and one of his fore legs was very much
swollen. In fact, he was so worthless that none of the
Pawnees had been willing to take the trouble to try to drive
him along with them. But when the old woman and her boy came
along, the boy said: “Come now, we will take this old horse,
for we can make him carry our pack.” So the old woman put
her pack on the horse and drove him along, but he limped and
could only go very slowly.
The tribe moved up on the North Platte, until they came to
Court-house Rock. The two poor Indians followed them, and
camped with the others. One day while they were here,
the young men who had been sent out for buffalo came hurrying
into camp and told the chiefs that a large herd of buffalo
were near, and that among them was a spotted calf.
The head chief of the Pawnees had a very beautiful daughter,
and when he heard about the spotted calf, he ordered his old
crier to go about through the village, and call out that the
man who should kill the spotted calf should have his daughter
for wife. For a spotted robe is “Ti-war-uks-ti” (Big Medicine).
The buffalo were feeding about four miles from the village,
and the chiefs decided that the charge should be made from
there. In this way the man who had the fastest horse would
be the most likely to kill the calf. Then all the warriors
and men picked out their best and fastest horses, and made
ready to start. Among those who prepared for the charge was
the poor boy, on the old dun horse. But when they saw him,
all the rich young braves on their fast horses pointed at him
and said: “Oh, see; there is the horse that is going to catch
the spotted calf”; and they laughed at him so that the poor
boy was ashamed, and rode off to one side of the crowd, where
he could not hear their jokes and laughter.
When he had ridden off some little way, the horse stopped,
and turned his head around and spoke to the boy. He said:
“Take me down to the creek, and plaster me all over with mud.
Cover my head, and neck, and body, and legs.” When the boy
heard the horse speak, he was afraid; but he did as he was
told. Then the horse said: “Now mount, but do not ride back
to the warriors who laugh at you because you have such a poor
horse. Stay right here, until the word is given to charge.”
So the boy stayed there.
And presently all the fine horses were drawn up in line and
pranced about, and were so eager to go that their riders could
hardly hold them in. At last the old crier gave the word,
“Loo-ah” (go). Then the Pawnees all leaned forward on their
horses and yelled, and away they went. Suddenly, away off to
the right, was seen the old dun horse. He did not seem to
run. He seemed to sail along like a bird. He passed all the
fastest horses, and in a moment he was among the buffalo.
First he picked out the spotted calf, and charging up
alongside of it, straight flew the arrow. The calf fell.
The boy drew another arrow and killed a fat cow that was
running by. Then he dismounted and began to skin the spotted
calf before any of the other warriors came up. But when
the rider got off the old dun horse, how changed he was!
He pranced about and could hardly stand still near the dead
buffalo. His back was all right again; his legs were well
and fine; and both his eyes were clear and bright.
The boy skinned the calf and cow that he had killed, and then
he packed the meat on the horse and put the spotted robe on
top of the load, and started back to camp on foot, leading
the dun horse. But even with his heavy load the horse pranced
all the while, and was scared at everything he saw. On the
way to camp, one of the rich young chiefs of the tribe rode
up to the boy, and offered him twelve good horses for the
spotted robe, so that he could marry the head chief's daughter,
but the boy laughed at him and would not sell the robe.
Now, while the boy walked to the camp leading the dun horse,
most of the warriors rode back, and one of those that came
first to the village went to the old woman and said to her:
“Your grandson has killed the spotted calf.” And the old
woman said: “Why do you come to tell me this? You ought
to be ashamed to make fun of my boy because he is poor.”
The warrior rode away, saying, “What I have told you is true.”
After a while another brave rode up to the old woman, and
said to her: “Your grandson has killed the spotted calf.”
Then the old woman began to cry, she felt so badly because
every one made fun of her boy because he was poor.
Pretty soon the boy came along, leading the horse up to the
lodge where he and his grandmother lived. It was a little
lodge, just big enough for two, and was made of old pieces
of skin that the old woman had picked up, and was tied
together with strings of rawhide and sinew. It was the
meanest and worst lodge in the village. When the old woman
saw her boy leading the dun horse with a load of meat and
the robes on it, she was very much surprised. The boy said
to her: “Here, I have brought you plenty of meat to eat, and
here is a robe that you may have for yourself. Take the meat
off the horse.” Then the old woman laughed, for her heart
was glad. But when she went to take the meat from the horse's
back, he snorted and jumped about, and acted like a wild horse.
The old woman looked at him and wondered, and could hardly
believe that it was the same horse. So the boy had to take
off the meat, for the horse would not let the old woman come
near him.
That night the horse again spoke to the boy, and said:
“Wa-ti-hes Chah-ra-rat-wa-ta.” To-morrow the Sioux are
coming in a large war-party. They will attack the village,
and you will have a great battle. Now, when the Sioux are
drawn up in line of battle, and are all ready to fight, you
jump on me, and ride as hard as you can, right into the
middle of the Sioux, and up to their head chief, their
greatest warrior, and count coup on him, and kill him, and
then ride back. Do this four times, and count coup on four
of the bravest Sioux, and kill them, but don't go again.
If you go the fifth time, maybe you will be killed, or else
you will lose me. “La-ku-ta-chix” (remember). The boy promised.
The next day it happened as the horse had said, and the Sioux
came down and formed in line of battle. Then the boy took
his bow and arrows, and jumped on the dun horse, and charged
into the midst of them. And when the Sioux saw that he was
going to strike their head chief, they all shot their arrows
at him, and the arrows flew so thickly across each other that
they darkened the sky, but none of them hit the boy, and he
counted coup on the chief and killed him, and then rode back.
After that he charged again among the Sioux, where they were
gathered the thickest, and counted coup on their bravest
warrior and killed him. And then twice more, until he had
gone four times as the horse had told him.
But the Sioux and the Pawnees kept on fighting, and the boy
stood around and watched the battle. At last he said to
himself, “I have been four times and have killed four Sioux;
why may I not go again?” So he jumped on the dun horse and
charged again. But when he got among the Sioux, one Sioux
warrior drew an arrow and shot. The arrow struck the dun
horse behind the fore legs and pierced him through. And the
horse fell down dead. But the boy jumped off and fought his
way through the Sioux and ran away as fast as he could to the
Pawnees. Now, as soon as the horse was killed, the Sioux
said to each other, “This horse was like a man. He was brave.
He was not like a horse.” And they took their knives and
hatchets and hacked the dun horse and gashed his flesh, and
cut him into small pieces.
The Pawnees and Sioux fought all day long, but toward night
the Sioux broke and fled.
The boy felt very badly that he had lost his horse, and after
the fight was over he went out from the village to where it
had taken place to mourn for his horse. He went to the spot
where the horse lay, and gathered up all the pieces of flesh
which the Sioux had cut off, and the legs and hoofs, and put
them all together in a pile. Then he went off to the top of
a hill near by and sat down and drew his robe over his head,
and began to mourn for his horse.
As he sat there, he heard a great wind storm coming up, and
it passed over him with a loud rushing sound, and after the
wind came a rain. The boy looked down from where he sat to
the pile of flesh and bones, which was all that was left of
the horse, and he could just see it through the rain.
And the rain passed by, and his heart was very heavy and he
kept on mourning.
And pretty soon came another rushing wind, and after it a rain;
and as he looked through the driving rain toward the spot
where the pieces lay, he thought that they seemed to come
together and take shape, and that the pile looked like a horse
lying down, but he could not see very well for the thick rain.
After this came a third storm like the others; and now when
he looked toward the horse he thought he saw its tail move
from side to side two or three times, and that it lifted its
head from the ground. The boy was afraid and wanted to run
away, but he stayed. And as he waited, there came another
storm. And while the rain fell, looking through the rain,
the boy saw the horse raise himself up on his fore legs and
look about. Then the dun horse stood up.
The boy left the place where he had been sitting on the
hilltop, and went down to him. When the boy had come near to
him the horse spoke and said, “You have seen how it has been
this day; and from this you will know how it will be after
this. But Ti-ra-wa has been good, and he let me come to life
back to you. After this do what I tell you; not any more,
not any less.” Then the horse said, “Now lead me far off,
far away from the camp, behind that big hill, and leave me
there to-night, and in the morning come for me”; and the boy
did as he was told.
And when he went for the horse in the morning, he found with
him a beautiful white gelding, much more handsome than any
horse in the tribe. That night the dun horse told the boy to
take him again to the place behind the big hill and to come
for him the next morning; and when the boy went for him again,
he found a beautiful black gelding. And so for ten nights he
left the horse among the hills, and each morning he found
a different-coloured horse, a bay, a roan, a gray, a blue,
a spotted horse, and all of them finer than any horses that
the Pawnees had ever had in the tribe before.
Now the boy was rich, and he married the beautiful daughter
of the head chief, and when he became older he was made head
chief himself. He had many children by his beautiful wife,
and one day, when his oldest boy died, he wrapped him in his
spotted calf robe and buried him in it. He always took good
care of his old grandmother, and kept her in his own lodge
until she died. The dun horse was never ridden except at
feasts and when they were going to have a doctors' dance,
but he was always led about with the chief wherever he went.
The horse lived in the village for many years, until he became
very old, and at last he died.
CHAPTER XII.
SIOUX AND THEIR TRADITIONS.
A little more than half a century ago the many bands of the great
Sioux nation[45] hardly knew anything of the civilization of the
whites in any part of the continent; none of their chiefs had ever
visited the capital of the nation, or, for that matter, any American
settlement. They knew nothing of the English language. The few
whites they had ever met were those employed by the great fur
companies. They regarded them to be a wise sort of a people, a little
inferior, however, to themselves, living in lodges like their own and
subsisting on the buffalo and other wild game constituting the food
of the Indians.
When that relatively great exodus from the States commenced, beginning
with the Mormon hegira, closely followed by emigrants on their way to
Oregon, this tide, with its great number of oxen, wagons, and other
means of transportation, at first so astonished the Sioux, who had
never believed for a moment that the world contained so many white men,
that they were completely dumbfounded. When, however, they saw the
wanton slaughter of buffalo by this army of men, their amazement
turned to hatred and a desire for revenge, and then commenced that
series of wars and skirmishes, with their attendant horrible massacres,
ending with the battle of Wounded Knee.
In the summer of 1846 there was a pall of sorrow and disaster hovering
over all of the bands of the western Dakotas; the year previous they
had met with great reverses. Many large war-parties had been sent out
from the various villages, the majority of which were either badly
whipped or entirely cut off. The few warriors who returned to their
h 
The Great Salt Lake Trail / Inman, Henry, 1837-1899