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Title: The pioneer West
        Narratives of the westward march of empire

Editor: Joseph Lewis French

Author of introduction, etc.: Hamlin Garland

Illustrator: Remington Schuyler

Release date: August 17, 2023 [eBook #71422]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Little, Brown and Company

Credits: Peter Becker, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIONEER WEST ***





THE PIONEER WEST


[Illustration: Dr. Steele, president of the gulch, acted as judge.

FRONTISPIECE. _See page 234._]




  THE PIONEER WEST

  _NARRATIVES OF THE WESTWARD
  MARCH OF EMPIRE_

  SELECTED AND EDITED BY
  JOSEPH LEWIS FRENCH

  WITH A FOREWORD BY
  HAMLIN GARLAND

  ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY
  REMINGTON SCHUYLER

  [Illustration]

  BOSTON
  LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
  1924




  _Copyright, 1923_,
  BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.

  _All rights reserved_

  Published October, 1923

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  Westward the course of empire takes its way;
    The four first acts already past,
  A fifth shall close the drama with the day:
    Time’s noblest offspring is the last.

                              BISHOP BERKELEY.




VITAL PAGES IN AMERICAN HISTORY


The history of America is the story of trail-makers, pioneers in every
sense of the word. Our forefathers had trails to make in new fields
of government, of invention and in city building, but before all,
smoothing the way for all, came the men and women who explored and
ploughed and planted the wilderness. Their story will grow in interest
as the years pass. Their deeds have already taken on something of the
dim quality of heroic myths. They form the most distinctive of our
contributions to history and poetry.

Many of the most stark and stirring of these chronicles of the
border have passed out of print and are now inaccessible even to the
painstaking student. It is from among these almost forgotten, yet
vital records that Mr. French has selected the chapters of his book of
narratives of the PIONEER WEST. I am personally grateful to him for
rescuing for me several of these chronicles of which I had heard but
which I had not been able to read until they came to me in this volume.
I perceive in this collection another link in the lengthening chain
of our traditional story. The Great War has thrown the events of our
early settlement suddenly into remote distance. It is as if an extra
half-century had been abruptly interposed, and this added perspective
has given us a new and keener interest in the beginnings of our nation.

No one who has spent a recent summer in Europe can fail to perceive
the change of sentiment which has come, since the war, to the peoples
of the Old World. To them America is admittedly the dominating
economic force of to-day. No well-informed European writer or speaker
now pretends to patronize the United States as a young and unformed
colony. The foundation stages of American history have acquired new
value in the minds of many English and French readers, and such
students this book which Mr. French has built up of scattered and
neglected chronicles will stimulate to wider research. I commend it
to all Americans who have neither time nor opportunity to read in
their entirety the volumes from which these notable and representative
chapters have been lifted. Broadly chronological in arrangement, they
suggest a panorama of the rigorous Westward march of the hunters,
woodsmen, planters and gold-miners who were chief actors of the century
which ended with the outbreak of the Spanish War in 1898.

With regard to the inclusion of a section from one of my own books I
can only say that when approached for a grant of copyright I suggested
something to offset the many chapters of life in the mining camps and
on the trail, something which should tell of the homely methods of
settling the plains. Beyond this suggestion, I did not care to go.
The excerpt which the editor has used is a leaf out of my personal
experiences in Brown and MacPherson counties in Dakota, in the spring
of 1883, and is a faithful picture of the life we led while holding
down our homestead claims.

                                                         HAMLIN GARLAND.




PREFACE


Oh, that glorious West! The magic and the memory of it! How it thrilled
us in our boyhood, how it held us in our youth, how the dream of it
filled our young pulsing manhood, till there was none other! “O, to
be in England now that April’s there!” once sang Browning, but the
song in the heart of young America, forty years ago and more, was the
great glorious, boundless West! I crossed the bare Kansas and Colorado
plains in the month of March, 1880,--when the Great West was still a
vision, yet largely a dream; when scarce small clumps of buffalo could
still be seen from the car windows. I shook hands at the bar of the St.
James Hotel in Denver with Buffalo Bill and Texas Jack in full buckskin
regalia,--still to be seen and known in their habit as they lived.

Yet it was the dawning of a new day for the West and all men knew it.
The old order passeth, and so it was here; a new West was coming in,
and the great pioneer heroes of an earlier day shook hands with the
derby-hatted tenderfoot from the East and tilted glasses in friendly
companionship. But the old West--the great, the never-to-be-forgotten
epic of our newer civilization--still lingered; and happy, yes, a hero
of sorts was he of the East who still sniffed the footprints. Railroads
were still largely a dream; the Union Pacific had cut the boundless
wastes of the great desert and made travel to California an actuality;
but a second great transcontinental iron path was still largely a
possibility. The footprints of the pioneers were everywhere; echoes of
the pathfinder were yet in the air; gold and silver were being found
every day in the wilderness of the Rockies; new camps--reachable only
by the primitive stagecoach, whose final departure in an older realm
had been magniloquently signed over by old Sir Walter--were springing
up overnight; Leadville had a population of thirty thousand and not a
score of streets named; Buena Vista, at eleven thousand feet above sea
level, was a dream of the gods! Away to the South were Silver Cliff and
Rosita, with their hitherto uncombed rocks pouring out fortunes. Ouray
was an acknowledged bonanza; and into the Gunnison country poured a
steady stream of prairie-wagons over mountain trails that the Indian
himself did not know. The plains held unlimited resources in the golden
imagination of the pioneer! Was there ever such a dream as his--of
sheep and cattle by the thousands--such flocks as Abraham never dreamed
of; and away to the South, boundless, unconceived-of possibilities,
an absolute Eldorado! Such was the great, the Golden West--to make no
concrete mention of California--when the compiler of these pages first
felt the urge and the surge toward it. Horace Greeley’s pæan was in the
air: “Go West, young man.” And most of us did; and whether fortune or
its reverse came, there is not a man of us in whom the red blood flows
still that can ever forget that splendid scene. If to the survivor, as
to the more or less belated traveler, some echo of it lives in these
pages, he has done his work faithfully.

This, then, is an outdoor book. The breath of the prairie, the
mountain, the desert, the lake, the sea blows through its pages. It
describes for the most part an outdoor life,--a life that in its main
aspects and features is the most stirring and eventful chapter in the
history of any new civilization. All the elements of romance were
crowded into the making of our great West; not a single one is lacking.
It was the last great scene in the history of world-pioneering, and
contains episodes, like the discovery of gold in California, that are
epic. The tale in its infinite variety has been told by many writers;
some of whom have passed into oblivion, but have left us living
pages; others of them belong to our best literary tradition; a few
are among our immortals. It is impossible in a volume of this size to
give more than a vivid glance at the scope and importance of this vast
literature. The compiler has endeavored to convey an impression of
the general scene inspired by the men who were themselves its living
actors. “All of which I saw, and part of which I was” has been his
motto in gathering his material. He has therefore some hope that he has
presented, at least in degree, a living picture of a great drama, now
vanished forever, and which undoubtedly can never be paralleled in the
annals of world civilization.

                                                     JOSEPH LEWIS FRENCH




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE

  VITAL PAGES IN AMERICAN HISTORY                                    vii

  PREFACE                                                             ix

  THE UNBROKEN WILD (1804)                                             1
      From Lewis and Clark’s Journals

  JIM BECKWOURTH’S NARRATIVE (1824)                                   15
      From “Autobiography of James P. Beckwourth”

  THE PATHFINDER: IN THE HIGH ROCKIES (1842), _By John C. Frémont_    37
      From Frémont’s Journal of the First Expedition

  THE WILDERNESS HUNTER (1845), _By J. B. Ruxton_                     56
      From “Adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains”

  AT FORT LARAMIE (1846), _By Francis Parkman_                        72
      From “The Oregon Trail”

  GOLD! GOLD! SUTTER’S FORT (1848-1849), _By Charles Pettigrew_       86
      From the _Caledonian_

  A FRONTIER DUEL (1848), _By Emerson Hough_                         115
      From “The Covered Wagon”

  EL DORADO, _By Bayard Taylor_                                      124
      From “Eldorado”

  FRÉMONT’S GREAT RIDE (1849), _By Frederick S. Dellenbaugh_         158
      From “Frémont and ’49”

  THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, _By Bret Harte_                          161
      From “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches”

  THE CITY OF THE SAINTS, _By Sir Richard Burton_                    174
      From “The City of the Saints and Across the Rocky
        Mountains to California”

  ON THE COMSTOCK (1860), _By J. Ross Browne_                        202
      From “A Peep at Washoe” and “Washoe Revisited”

  ALDER GULCH (1863), _By Nathaniel P. Langford_                     231
      From “Vigilante Days and Ways”

  CHEYENNES AND SIOUX (1867), _By General George A. Custer_          245
      From “My Life on the Plains”

  THE PONY EXPRESS, _By Mark Twain_                                  268
      From “Roughing It”

  SLADE, _By Mark Twain_                                             270
      From “Roughing It”

  GENERAL SHERIDAN HUNTS THE BUFFALO, _By De B. R. Keim_             284
      From “On the Border with Sheridan’s Troopers”

  AT TUCSON (1870), _By Capt. John G. Bourke_                        296
      From “On the Border with Cook”

  TOLD AT TRINIDAD (1879), _By A. A. Hayes, Jr._                     310
      From “New Colorado and the Santa Fé Trail”

  SPECIMEN JONES, _By Owen Wister_                                   319
      From “Red Men and White”

  THE LAND OF THE STRADDLE-BUG--DAKOTA (1883), _By Hamlin Garland_   343
      From “The Moccasin Ranch”

  OLD EPHRAIM THE GRIZZLY, _By Theodore Roosevelt_                   357
      From “Hunting-Trips of a Ranchman”

  THE VANISHED SCENE, _By Hal G. Evarts_                             378
      From “The Passing of the Old West”




ILLUSTRATIONS


  DR. STEELE, PRESIDENT OF THE GULCH, ACTED AS JUDGE      _Frontispiece_

  ONCE MORE THE TRAIN FACED THE DESERT                          PAGE 115

  MAN AND HORSE BURST PAST OUR EXCITED FACES, AND GO
    WINGING AWAY LIKE A BELATED FRAGMENT OF A STORM!             “   270

  THE MILK-CANS CLASHED, AND JONES THOUGHT HE FELT
    THE BOY’S STROKES WEAKENING                                  “   339




THE PIONEER WEST




THE UNBROKEN WILD

LEWIS AND CLARK

1804

Reprinted from Lewis and Clark’s Journals. July 22, 1804.


Our camp is by observation in latitude 41° 3′ 11″.[1] Immediately
behind it is a plain about five miles wide, one half covered with
wood, the other dry and elevated. The low grounds on the south near
the junction of the two rivers are rich but subject to be overflowed.
Farther up the banks are higher and opposite our camp the first hills
approach the river, and are covered with timber such as oak, walnut
and elm. The immediate country is watered by the Papillon (Butterfly)
Creek, of about 18 yards wide and three miles from the Platte; on the
north are high open plains and prairies and at nine miles from the
Platte the Moscheto Creek and two or three small willow islands. We
stayed here several days during which we dried our provisions, made
new oars, and prepared our despatches and maps of the country we
passed for the President of the United States to whom we intend to
send them by a pirogue from this place. The hunters have found game
scarce in this neighborhood; they have seen deer, turkeys and grouse;
we have also an abundance of ripe grapes, and one of our men caught a
white catfish, the eyes of which were small and its tail resembling
that of a dolphin. The present season is that in which the Indians go
out into the prairies to hunt the buffalo; but as we discovered some
hunters’ tracks, and observed the plains on fire in the direction of
their villages, we hoped that they might have returned to gather the
green Indian corn, and therefore despatched two men to the Pawnee
villages with a present of tobacco and an invitation to the chief to
visit us. They returned in two days. Their first course was through an
open prairie to the south. They then reached a small beautiful river
called the Elkhorn or Corne de Ceri. (These natural features have brush
names in some instances.) About 100 yards wide with clear water and a
gravelly channel. It empties a little below the Pawnee village into the
Platte which they crossed and came to the village, about forty-five
miles from our camp. They found no Indians though there were fresh
tracks of a small party. The Ottoes were once a powerful nation and
live about 20 miles above the Platte on the south bank of the Missouri.
Being reduced they migrated to the neighborhood of the Pawnees under
whose protection they now live. Their village is on the south side
of the Platte about 30 miles from its mouth; and their number is 200
including about 30 families of Missouri Indians who are incorporated
with them.

Five leagues above them on the same side of the river, resides the
nation of Pawnees. This people were among the most numerous of the
Missouri Indians, but have been gradually broken and dispersed and even
within the past ten years have undergone some sensible changes. They
now consist of four bands; the first of about 500 men, to whom of late
years have been added a second band called the Republican Pawnees from
their having lived on the Republican branch of the River Kanzas--they
amount to nearly 250 men. The third are the Pawnees Loups or Wolf
Pawnees, who live on the Wolf fork of the Platte, about 90 miles from
the principal village and number 280 men. The fourth band originally
resided on the Kanzas and Arkansaw but in their wars with the Osages
they were so often defeated that they at last retired to their present
home on the Red River where they form a tribe of 400 men. All these
tribes live in villages and subsist chiefly on corn; but during the
intervals of farming rove the plains in quest of buffalo.

Beyond them on the river and westward of the Black Mountains are the
Kaninaviesch consisting of about 400 men. They are supposed to have
been originally Pawnees--but they have degenerated and now no longer
live in villages but rove the plains. Still farther to the westward
are several tribes who wander and hunt to the sources of the River
Platte and thence to Rock Mountain. Of these tribes little is known
more than the names and the numbers, as first the Straitan or Kite
Indians, a small tribe of one hundred men. They have acquired the name
of Kites from their flying; that is their being always on horseback;
and the smallness of their numbers is to be attributed to their extreme
ferocity; they are the most warlike of all the western Indians;
they never yield in battle; they never spare their enemies; and the
retaliation of this barbarity has almost extinguished the nation. Then
come the Wetapahato and Kiowa tribes associated together and amounting
to two hundred men; the Castahana of three hundred men, to which are to
be added the Cataka, seventy-five men, and the Dotami. These wandering
tribes are conjectured to be the remnants of the great Padouca nation
who occupied the country between the upper parts of the River Platte
and the River Kanzas. They were visited by Bourgemont in 1724, and
then lived on the Kanzas River. The Seats which he described as their
residences are now occupied by the Kanzas nation; and of the Padoucas
there does not now exist even the name.

It being vital to the success of further progress to hold council
with the Indians messengers were sent with presents and a few days
afterwards: in the afternoon the party arrived with the Indians
consisting of Little Thief and Big Horse, together with six other
chiefs and a French interpreter. We met them under a shade and after
they had finished a repast we supplied them we inquired into the origin
of the late war between their tribe and the Mahas, which they related
with great frankness. * * * The evening was closed by a dance; and the
next day the chiefs and warriors being assembled at ten o’clock we
explained the speech we had already sent from the Council Bluffs[2] and
renewed its advices. They all replied in turn and the presents were
then distributed. We gave large medals to Big Horse and Little Thief,
and a small medal to a third chief. We also gave a kind of certificate
or letter of acknowledgment to five of the warriors expressive of our
favor and their good intentions. One of them dissatisfied returned us
the certificate, but the chief fearful of our being offended begged it
might be restored to him; this we declined and rebuked them severely
for having in view mere traffic instead of peace with their neighbors.
This displeased them at first, but at length all petitioned that it
should be given to the warrior who came forward and made an apology.
We then handed it to the chief to be given to the most worthy among
them and he bestowed it on the same warrior whose name was Great Blue
Eyes. After a more substantial present of small articles and tobacco
the council was ended with a dram to the Indians. In the evening
we exhibited different objects of curiosity and particularly the
air-gun which gave them great surprise. Those people are almost naked,
having no covering except a sort of breech cloth around the middle
with a loose blanket or buffalo-robe painted, thrown over them. This
delegation was from the Missouris and Ottoes who speak very nearly the
same language. They all begged us to give them whiskey.

The next morning the Indians mounted their horses and received from us
a canister of whiskey at parting. We then set sail and after passing
two islands on the north came to one on that side under some bluffs.
Here we had the misfortune to lose one of our sergeants Charles
Floyd.[3] He was yesterday seized with a bilious colic, and all our
care and attention could not save him. A little before his death he
said to Captain Clark “I am going to leave you”; and he died with
a composure which justified the high opinion we had formed of his
firmness and good conduct. He was buried on the top of a bluff with the
honors due to a brave soldier, and the place of his interment marked
by a cedar post on which we put his name and the date of his death. We
named this place after him and also a small river about a mile to the
north where we encamped.

We shortly after passed the mouth of the great Sioux River--this river
comes in from the north and is about one hundred and ten yards wide.
M. Durion our Sioux interpreter says that it is navigable upwards of
two hundred miles to the falls and even beyond them. That below the
falls a creek falls in from the Eastward after passing through cliffs
of red rock. Of this the Indians make their pipes: and the necessity of
procuring them has introduced a sort of law of nations, by which the
banks of the creek are sacred, so that even tribes at war meet at these
quarries without hostility. Thus we find even among savages certain
things held sacred which mitigate the rigours of their merciless
warfare.

A few days following we had a violent storm of wind and rain in the
evening and had to repair our pirogues the next day. At four o’clock
Sergeant Pryor and his men came back with five chiefs of the Sioux
and about seventy warriors and boys. Sergeant Pryor reported that on
reaching their village twelve miles from our camp he was met by a party
with a buffalo-robe on which they desired to carry their visitors: an
honour which they declined informing the Indians that they were not the
commanders of the party. As a mark of respect they were then presented
with a fat dog, already cooked of which they partook heartily and found
it well flavored. The camps of the Sioux are of a conical form covered
with buffalo-robes painted with various figures and colours, with an
aperture in the top for the smoke to pass through. The lodges contain
from ten to fifteen persons and the interior arrangement is compact and
handsome, each lodge having a place for cooking detached from it. The
next day we prepared a speech and some presents and then sent for the
chiefs and warriors whom we received under a large oak-tree near to
which the flag of the United States was flying. Captain Lewis delivered
the speech and we gave to the grand chief a flag, a medal, and a
certificate, to which we added a chief’s coat; that is a richly-laced
uniform of the United States Artillery Corps, and a cocked hat and
red feather. A second chief and three inferior ones were given medals
and a present of tobacco and articles of clothing. We then smoked the
pipe of peace, and the chiefs retired to a bower formed of bushes by
their young men, where they divided the presents among each other and
ate and smoked and held a council on their answer to us to-morrow. The
young people exercised their bows and arrows in shooting at marks for
beads as prizes; and in the evening the whole party danced until a late
hour. In the course of their amusement we threw among them some knives,
tobacco, bells, tape and binding with which they were much pleased.
Their musical instruments were the drum, and a sort of little bag made
of buffalo-hide dressed white with small shot or pebbles in it and a
bunch of hair tied to it for a handle. This produces a sort of rattling
music with which the party was annoyed by four musicians during the
council this morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

These Indians are the Yanktons a tribe of the great nation of the
Sioux. They are stout and well proportioned and have a certain air of
dignity and boldness. They are very fond of decorations and use paint
freely and porcupine quills and feathers. Some of them wear necklaces
of brass chains three inches long and close strung. They have only a
few fowling-pieces among them. What struck us most was an institution
peculiar to them and to the Kite Indians--from whom it is copied we
were told. This is an association of the bravest and most active
young men who are bound to each other by attachment and secured by a
vow never to retreat before danger or give way to their enemies. In
war they go forward openly and without any effort at shelter. This
determination became heroic--or ridiculous--a short time since when
these young Yanktons were crossing the Missouri on the ice. A hole lay
immediately in their course but the leader went straight ahead and was
drowned. Others would have followed but were forcibly stopped by the
rest of them. These young men sit and encamp and dance apart from the
rest; their seats in council are superior to those even of the chiefs
and their persons more respected. But their boldness diminishes their
numbers; so that the band is now reduced to four warriors who were
among our visitors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Early in the morning of September 16th having reached a convenient
spot on the south side of the river, we encamped just above a small
creek which we called Corvus having killed an animal of that genus near
it. Our camp is in a beautiful plain with timber thinly scattered
for three-quarters of a mile, consisting chiefly of elm, cottonwood,
some ash of an indifferent quality, and a considerable quantity of a
small species of white oak. This tree seldom rises higher than thirty
feet and branches very much,--the bark is rough, thick and of a light
colour; the leaves small, deeply indented, and of a pale green; the
cup which contains the acorn is fringed on the edges; the acorn itself
which grows in great profusion is of an excellent flavor and has none
of the roughness which most other acorns possess: they are now falling
and have probably attracted the number of deer which we have seen at
this place. The ground having been recently burned by the Indians is
covered with young green grass and in the neighbourhood are great
quantities of fine plums. We killed a few deer for the sake of their
skins which we wanted to cover the pirogues, the meat being too poor
for food. About a quarter of a mile behind our camp, at an elevation
of twenty feet a plain extends parallel with the river for three
miles. Here we saw a grove of plum trees loaded with fruit, now ripe
and differing in nothing from those of the Atlantic States except that
the tree is smaller and more thickly set. The ground of the plain is
occupied by the burrows of multitudes of barking squirrels, who entice
hither the wolves of a small kind, hawks and polecats. This plain
is intersected nearly in its whole extent by deep ravines and steep
irregular rising grounds of from one to two hundred feet. On ascending
one of these we saw a second high level plain stretching to the south
as far as the eye could reach. To the westward a high range of hills
about twenty miles distant. All around the country had been recently
burned and a young green grass about four inches high covered the
ground which was enlivened by herds of antelopes and buffalo; the last
of which were in such multitudes that we cannot exaggerate in saying
that at a single glance we saw three thousand of them before us. Of
all the animals we had seen the antelope seems to possess the most
wonderful fleetness. Shy and timorous they generally repose only on the
ridges which command a view of all the approaches of an enemy;--the
acuteness of their sight distinguishes the most distant danger: the
delicate sensibility of their smell defeats concealment; and when
alarmed their rapid career seems more like the flight of birds than
the movements of a quadruped. After many unsuccessful attempts Captain
Lewis at last by winding around the ridges approached a party of seven
which were on an eminence towards which the wind was unfortunately
blowing. The only male of the party frequently encircled the summit of
the hill as if to announce any danger to the females which formed a
group at the top. Although they did not see Captain Lewis, the smell
alarmed them and they fled when he was still at the distance of two
hundred yards: he immediately ran to the spot where they had been; a
ravine concealed him from them; but the next moment they appeared on
a second ridge at a distance of three miles. He doubted whether they
could be the same; but the number and the extreme rapidity with which
they continued their course convinced him.

The following day we reached an island in the middle of the river
nearly a mile in length and crossed with red cedar: at its extremity a
small creek comes in from the north: we there met with some sand-bars
and the wind being very high and ahead, we encamped having made only
seven miles. In addition to the common deer which were in great
abundance we saw goats, elk, buffalo, and the black-tailed deer; the
large wolves too are very numerous, and have long hair with coarse fur
of a light color. A small species of wolf about the size of a gray fox
was also killed and proved to be the animal we had hitherto mistaken
for a fox. There were also many porcupines, rabbits and barking
squirrels in the neighbourhood.

In the morning we observed a man riding on horseback down towards
the boat and we were much pleased to find that it was George Shannon,
one of our party for whose safety we had been very uneasy. Our two
horses having strayed from us on the 26th August he was sent to search
for them. After he had found them he started to rejoin us, but seeing
some other tracks which must have been those of Indians, and which he
mistook for our own, he concluded that we were ahead, and had been
for sixteen days following the bank of the river above us. During the
first four days he exhausted his bullets, being obliged to subsist for
twelve days on a few grapes, and a rabbit which he had killed by making
use of a hard piece of stick for a ball. One of his horses gave out
and was left behind; the other he kept as a last resource for food.
Despairing of overtaking us, he was returning down the river in the
hope of meeting some boat with Indians, and was on the point of killing
his horse when he discovered us. September 25. The morning was fine and
the wind continued from the southeast. We raised a flagstaff and an
awning under which we assembled at twelve o’clock with all our party[4]
parading under arms. The chiefs and warriors from the camp two miles
up the river met us, to the number of fifty or sixty and after smoking
we delivered them a speech, and gave the chiefs presents. We then
invited them on board, and showed them the boat, the air-gun and such
curiosities as we thought might amuse them. In this we succeeded too
well for after giving them a quarter of a glass of whiskey, which they
seemed to like very much, and sucked the bottle it was with difficulty
we got rid of them. Captain Clark at last started for the shore with
them in a pirogue with five of our own men; but it seems they had
formed a design to stop us. No sooner had the party landed than three
of the Indians seized the boat’s cable, and one of the soldiers of the
chief put his arms around the mast--in token of possession. The second
chief then said that we should not go on; that they had not received
enough presents. Captain Clark told him that we were not squaws but
warriors--that we could not be stopped from going on; that we were sent
by our Great Father who could in a moment exterminate them. The chief
replied he too had warriors and started to attack Captain Clark who
immediately drew his sword, and signaled the men in the main boat to
prepare for action.

The Indians surrounding him drew arrows and were just bending their
bows when the swivel gun[5] was instantly trained on them--and twelve
of our best men who had at once rowed over jumped ashore to help
Captain Clark.

Those movements took them aback--the great chief ordered the young men
away from our pirogue and they withdrew for council. Captain Clark went
forward and offered his hand to the first and second chiefs but was
refused. He retired and boarded the pirogue but had not got more than
ten paces when both the chiefs and two of the warriors waded in after
the boat and were taken on board.

September 26. Our conduct yesterday seemed to have inspired the Indians
with fear of us, and as we wanted to be well with them we complied with
their wish that their squaws and children also should see us and our
boat--which would be a great curiosity to them.

We finally anchored on the south side of the river where a crowd of
them were waiting for us. Captain Lewis went on shore and remained
several hours: and finding their disposition friendly this time,
we resolved to remain during the night to a dance which they were
preparing for us. Captains Lewis and Clark who went on shore one
after the other were met on landing by ten well-dressed young men who
took them up in a robe highly decorated, and carried them to a large
council-house, where they were placed on a dressed buffalo-skin by
the side of the grand chief. The hall or council-room was in the shape
of three-quarters of a circle, covered at the top and sides with skins
well-dressed and sewed together. Under this shelter sat about seventy
men forming a circle round the chief, before whom were placed a Spanish
flag and the one we had given them yesterday. This left a vacant circle
of about six feet diameter, in which the pipe of peace was raised on
two forked sticks, about six or eight inches from the ground, and
under it the down of the swan was scattered; a large fire in which
they were cooking provisions burned near, and in the centre about four
hundred pounds of excellent buffalo-meat as a present for us. As soon
as we were seated an old man got up and after approving what we had
done in our own defense, begged us to take pity on their unfortunate
situation. The great chief rose after and made an harangue to the same
effect; then with great solemnity he took some of the most delicate
parts of the dog which was cooked for the festival and held it to the
flag by way of sacrifice. This done he held up the pipe of peace, and
first pointing it to the heavens, then to the four quarters of the
globe and then to the earth, he made a short speech, lighted it and
presented it to us. As we smoked in turn he harangued his people, and
then the repast was served. It consisted of the dog which they had just
been cooking, this being a great dish among the Sioux and used on all
festivals; to which were added pemitigon, a dish made of buffalo-meat
dried or jerked; pounded and mixed raw with grease and a kind of ground
potato dressed like the preparation of Indian corn called hominy to
which it is little inferior. Of all their luxuries, which were placed
before us in platters with horn-spoons, we took the latter, but we
could as yet partake but sparingly of the dog.

We ate and smoked for an hour when it became dark; everything was then
cleared away for the dance, a large fire being made in the centre
of the house, giving at once light and warmth to the ball-room.
The orchestra was composed of about ten men, who played on a sort
of tambourine formed of skin stretched across a hoop, and made a
jingling noise with a long stick to which the hoofs of deer and goats
were hung. The third instrument was a small skin bag with pebbles
in it; these with five or six young men for the vocal part made up
the band. The women then came forward highly decorated; some with
poles in their hands on which were hung the scalps of their enemies;
others with guns, spears or different trophies taken in war by
their husbands or brothers. They arranged themselves in two columns
and danced toward each other till they met in the center, when the
rattles were shaken, and they all shouted and returned to do it over
again. They have no step, but shuffle along the ground. The music is
no more than a confusion of noises, pointed by hard or gentle blows
on the buffalo-skin. The song is perfectly extemporaneous. In the
pauses a man comes forward and recites in a low guttural some story
or incident--martial or ludicrous--or as was the case this evening
voluptuous and indecent. Sometimes they alternate, the orchestra first
and then the women raise their voices in chorus making a music more
agreeable, that is, less intolerable than the musicians. The men dance
always separate from the women and about the same except they jump up
and down instead of shuffling; in their war dances the recitations are
always of a military cast.

In person these Tetons are rather ugly and ill-made--their legs
and arms are too small, their cheek bones are high and their eyes
projecting. The females are the handsomer. Both sexes appear cheerful
and sprightly; but in our intercourse we discovered they were cunning
and vicious. The men shave their heads except a small tuft on top
which they only sacrifice on the death of a near relation. In full
dress they fasten to this a hawk’s feather or calumet feather worked
with porcupine quills. They paint the face and body with a mixture
of grease and coal. The chief garment is a buffalo-robe dressed white
and adorned with loose porcupine quills to make a jingling noise when
they move--and painted with uncouth symbols. The leg from the hip to
the ankle is covered by leggins of dressed antelope with two inch
side-seams ornamented by tufts of hair from scalps won in war. Their
winter moccasins are dressed buffalo-skin soled with thick elk-skin.
On great occasions or in full dress the young men drag after them the
entire skin of a polecat fixed to the heel of a moccasin. Another such
skin serves as a tobacco-pouch tucked into the girdle. They smoke red
willow bark either alone or mixed with tobacco when they have any. The
pipe is of red clay, with an ash stem of three or four feet, highly
ornamented with feathers, hair, and porcupine quills. The hair of the
women grows long and is parted from the forehead across the head, at
the back of which it is either collected into a kind of bag or hangs
down over the shoulders.

They wear the same kind of moccasins and leggins as the men but the
latter do not reach below the knee where they are met by a long loose
shift of skins which reaches nearly to the ankles. This is fastened
over the shoulders by a string, and has no sleeves, but a few pieces
of the skin hang a short distance around the arms. Sometimes a girdle
fastens this skin round the waist and over is thrown a robe like that
worn by the men. They seem fond of dress. They have among them officers
to keep the peace--like civilized peoples--whose distinguishing mark is
a collection of two or three raven skins fastened to the girdle behind
the back in such a way that the tails stick out horizontally from the
body. On the head too is a raven skin split into two parts and tied so
as to let the beak project from the forehead.




JIM BECKWOURTH’S NARRATIVE

1824

From “Autobiography of James P. Beckwourth.”


After we had rested we departed for Snake River, Idaho, making the
Black Foot Buttes on our way, in order to pass through the buffalo
region. The second day of our march, one of our men, while fishing,
detected a party of Black Feet in the act of stealing our horses in the
open day. But for the man, they would have succeeded in making off with
a great number. The alarm was given, and we mounted and gave immediate
chase. The Indians were forty-four in number, and on foot; therefore
they became an easy prey. We ran them into a thicket of dry bush, which
we surrounded, and then fired in several places. It was quite dry,
and, there being a good breeze at the time, it burned like chaff. This
driving the Indians out, as fast as they made their appearance we shot
them with our rifles. Every one of them was killed; those who escaped
our bullets were consumed in the fire; and as they were all more or
less roasted, we took no scalps. None of our party were hurt, except
one, who was wounded by one of our men.

On the third day we found buffalo, and killed great numbers of them by
a “surround.” At this place we lost six horses, three of them belonging
to myself, two to a Swiss, and one to Baptiste. Not relishing the idea
of losing them (for they were splendid animals), and seeing no signs
of Indians, I and the Swiss started along the back track in pursuit,
with the understanding that we would rejoin our company at the Buttes.
We followed them to the last place of rendezvous; their tracks were
fresh and plain, but we could gain no sight of our horses. We then gave
up the chase, and encamped in a thicket. In the morning we started to
return, and had not proceeded far, when, hearing a noise in our rear,
I looked round, and saw between two and three hundred Indians within
a few hundred yards of us. They soon discovered us, and, from their
not making immediate pursuit, I inferred that they mistook us for two
of their own party. However, they soon gave chase. They being also on
foot, I said to my companion, “Now we have as good a chance of escaping
as they have of overtaking us.”

The Swiss (named Alexander) said, “It is of no use for me to try to get
away: I cannot run; save yourself, and never mind me.”

“No,” I replied, “I will not leave you; run as fast as you can until
you reach the creek; there you can secrete yourself, for they will
pursue me.”

He followed my advice, and saved himself. I crossed the stream, and
when I again appeared in sight of the Indians I was on the summit of a
small hill two miles in advance. Giving a general yell, they came in
pursuit of me. On I ran, not daring to indulge the hope that they would
give up the chase, for some of the Indians are great runners, and would
rather die than incur the ridicule of their brethren. On, on we tore;
I to save my scalp, and my pursuers to win it. At length I reached the
Buttes, where I had expected to find the camp, but, to my inconceivable
horror and dismay, my comrades were not there. They had found no water
on their route, and had proceeded to the river, forty-five miles
distant.

My feelings at this disappointment transcended expression. A thousand
ideas peopled my feverish brain at once. Home, friends, and my loved
one presented themselves with one lightning-flash. The Indians were
close at my heels; their bullets were whizzing past me; their yells
sounded painfully in my ears; and I could almost feel the knife making
a circuit round my skull. On I bounded, however, following the road
which our whole company had made. I was scorching with thirst, having
tasted neither sup nor bit since we commenced the race. Still on I went
with the speed of an antelope. I kept safely in advance of the range
of their bullets, when suddenly the glorious sight of the camp-smoke
caught my eye. My companions perceived me at a mile from the camp,
as well as my pursuers; and, mounting their horses to meet me, soon
turned the tables on my pursuers. It was now the Indians’ turn to be
chased. They must have suffered as badly with thirst as I did, and our
men cut them off from the river. Night had begun to close in, under
the protection of which the Indians escaped; our men returned with
only five scalps. According to the closest calculation, I ran that day
ninety-five miles.[6]

My heels thus deprived the rascally Indians of their anticipated
pleasure of dancing over my scalp. My limbs were so much swollen the
next morning, that for two or three days ensuing it was with great
difficulty I got about. My whole system was also in great pain. In
a few days, however, I was as well as ever, and ready to repay the
Indians for their trouble.

The third day after my escape, my companion Aleck found his way into
camp. He entered the lodge with dejection on his features.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I thank God for my escape, but the Indians have
killed poor Jim. I saw his bones a few miles back. I will give anything
I have if a party will go with me and bury him. The wolves have almost
picked his bones, but it must be he. Poor, poor Jim! gone at last!”

“Ha!” said some one present, “is Jim killed, then? Poor fellow! Well,
Aleck, let us go back and give him a Christian burial.”

He had seen a body nearly devoured on the way, most likely that of the
wounded Indian who had chased me in his retreat from our camp.

I came limping into the crowd at this moment, and addressed him before
he had perceived me: “Halloo, Aleck, are you safe?”

He looked at me for a moment in astonishment, and then embraced me so
tight that I thought he would suffocate me. He burst into a flood of
tears, which for a time prevented his articulation. He looked at me
again and again, as if in doubt of my identity.

At length he said, “Oh, Jim, you are safe! And how did you escape? I
made sure that you were killed, and that the body I saw on the road was
yours. Pshaw! I stopped and shed tears on a confounded dead Indian’s
carcass!”

Aleck stated that the enemy had passed within ten feet without
perceiving him; that his gun was cocked and well primed, so that if he
had been discovered there would have been at least one red skin less to
chase me. He had seen no Indians on his way to camp.

I was satisfied that some (if not all) of my pursuers knew me, for they
were Black Feet, or they would not have taken such extraordinary pains
to run me down. If they had succeeded in their endeavor, they would, in
subsequent years, have saved their tribe many scalps.

From this encampment we moved on to Lewis’s Fork, on the Columbia
River, where we made a final halt to prepare for the fall trapping
season. Some small parties, getting tired of inaction, would
occasionally sally out to the small mountain streams, all of which
contained plenty of beaver, and would frequently come in with several
skins.

I prepared my traps one day, thinking to go out alone, and see what my
luck might be. I mounted my horse, and, on approaching a small stream,
dismounted to take a careful survey, to see if there were any signs
of beaver. Carefully ascending the bank of the stream, I peered over,
and saw, not a beaver, but an Indian. He had his robe spread on the
grass, and was engaged in freeing himself from vermin, with which all
Indians abound. He had not seen nor heard me; his face was toward me,
but inclined, and he was intently pursuing his occupation.

“Here,” thought I, “are a gun, a bow, a quiver full of arrows, a good
robe and a scalp.”

I fired my rifle; the Indian fell over without uttering a sound. I
not only took his scalp, but his head. I tied two locks of his long
hair together, hung his head on the horn of my saddle, and, taking the
spoils of the enemy, hurried back to camp.

The next morning our camp was invested by two thousand five hundred
warriors of the Black Foot tribe. We had now something on our hands
which demanded attention. We were encamped in the bend of a river--in
the “horseshoe.” Our lodges were pitched at the entrance, or narrowest
part of the shoe, while our animals were driven back into the bend. The
lodges, four deep, extended nearly across the land, forming a kind of
barricade in front; not a very safe one for the inmates, since, being
covered with buffalo-hides, they were penetrable to bullet and arrow.

The Indians made a furious charge. We immediately placed the women
and children in the rear, sending them down the bend, where they were
safe unless we were defeated. We suffered the Indians for a long time
to act on the offensive, being content with defending ourselves and
the camp. I advised Captain Sublet to let them weary themselves with
charging, by which time we would mount and charge them with greater
prospect of victory; whereas, should we tire ourselves while they were
fresh, we should be overwhelmed by their numbers, and, if not defeated,
inevitably lose a great many men.

All the mountaineers approved of my advice, and our plans were taken
accordingly. They drove us from our first position twice, so that our
lodges were between the contending ranks, but they never broke our
lines. When they approached us very near we resorted to our arrows,
which all our half-breeds used as skillfully as the Indians. Finally,
perceiving they began to tire, I went and ordered the women to saddle
the horses in haste. A horse was soon ready for each man, four hundred
in number. Taking one hundred and thirty men, I passed out through
the timber, keeping near the river until we could all emerge and form
a line to charge them, unobserved, in the rear. While executing this
diversion, the main body was to charge them in front. Defiling through
the timber we came suddenly upon ten Indians who were resting from
the fight, and were sitting on the ground unconcernedly smoking their
pipes. We killed nine of them, the tenth one making good his retreat.

Our manœuvre succeeded admirably. The Indians were unconscious of our
approach in their rear until they began to fall from their horses. Then
charging on their main body simultaneously with Captain Sublet’s charge
in front, their whole force was thrown into irretrievable confusion,
and they fled without farther resistance. We did not pursue them,
feeling very well satisfied to have got rid of them as we had. They
left one hundred and sixty-seven dead on the field. Our loss was also
very severe; sixteen killed, mostly half-breeds, and fifty or sixty
wounded. In this action I received a wound in my left side, although I
did not perceive it until the battle was over.

As usual, there was a scalp-dance after the victory, in which I really
feared that the fair sex would dance themselves to death. They had a
crying spell afterward for the dead. After all, it was a victory rather
dearly purchased.

A few days after our battle, one of our old trappers, named Le Blueux,
who had spent twenty years in the mountains, came to me, and telling me
he knew of a small stream full of beaver which ran into Lewis’s Fork,
about thirty miles from camp, wished me to accompany him there. We
being free trappers at that time, the chance of obtaining a pack or
two of beaver was rather a powerful incentive. Gain being my object, I
readily acceded to his proposal. We put out from camp during the night,
and traveled up Lewis’s Fork, leisurely discussing our prospects and
confidently enumerating our unhatched chickens, when suddenly a large
party of Indians came in sight in our rear.

The banks of the river we were traveling along were precipitous and
rocky, and skirted with a thick bush. We entered the bush without a
moment’s hesitation, for the Indians advanced on us as soon as they had
caught sight of us. Le Blueux had a small bell attached to his horse’s
neck, which he took off, and, creeping to a large bush, fastened it
with the end of his lariat, and returned holding the other end in
his hand. This stratagem caused the Indians to expend a great amount
of powder and shot in their effort to kill the bell; for, of course,
they supposed the bell indicated the position of ourselves. When they
approached near enough to be seen through the bushes, we fired one gun
at a time, always keeping the other loaded. When we fired the bell
would ring, as if the horse was started by the close proximity of the
gun, but the smoke would not rise in the right place. They continued
to shoot at random into the bushes without injuring us or our faithful
animals, who were close by us, but entirely concealed from the sight of
the Indians. My companion filled his pipe and commenced smoking with as
much sang froid as if he had been in camp.

“This is the last smoke I expect to have between here and camp,” said
he.

“What are we to do?” I inquired, not feeling our position very secure
in a brush fort manned with a company of two, and beleaguered by scores
of Black Foot warriors.

In an instant, before I had time to think, crack went his rifle, and
down came an Indian, who, more bold than the rest, had approached too
near to our garrison.

“Now,” said Le Blueux, “bind your leggins and moccasins around your
head.”

I did so, while he obeyed the same order.

“Now follow me.”

Wondering what bold project he was about to execute, I quietly obeyed
him. He went noiselessly to the edge of the bluff, looked narrowly
up and down the river, and then commenced to slide down the almost
perpendicular bank, I closely following him. We safely reached the
river, into which we dropped ourselves. We swam close under the bank
for more than a mile, until they discovered us.

“Now,” said my comrade, “strike across the stream in double quick time.”

We soon reached the opposite bank, and found ourselves a good mile and
a half ahead of the Indians. They commenced plunging into the river in
pursuit, but they were too late. We ran across the open ground until we
reached a mountain, where we could safely look back and laugh at our
pursuers. We had lost our horses and guns, while they had sacrificed
six or eight of their warriors, besides missing the two scalps they
made so certain of getting hold of.

I had thought myself a pretty good match for the Indians, but I at
once resigned all claims to merit. Le Blueux, in addition to all the
acquired wiles of the Red Man, possessed his own superior art and
cunning. He could be surrounded with no difficulties for which his
inexhaustible brain could not devise some secure mode of escape.

We arrived safe at camp before the first guard was relieved. The
following morning we received a severe reprimand from Captain Sublet
for exposing ourselves on so hazardous an adventure.

As soon as the wounded were sufficiently recovered to be able to
travel, we moved down the river to the junction of Salt River with
Guy’s Fork, about a mile from Snake River. The next day the captain
resolved to pass up to Guy’s Fork to a convenient camping-ground, where
we were to spend the interval until it was time to separate into small
parties, and commence trapping in good earnest for the season.

One day, while moving leisurely along, two men and myself proposed to
the captain to proceed ahead of the main party to ascertain the best
road, to reconnoitre the various streams--in short, to make it a trip
of discovery. We were to encamp one night, and rejoin the main body the
next morning. The captain consented, but gave us strict caution to take
good care of ourselves.

Nothing of importance occurred that day; but the next morning, about
sunrise, we were all thunderstruck at being roused from our sleep by
the discharge of guns close at hand. Two of us rose in an instant, and
gave the war-hoop as a challenge for them to come on. Poor Cotton,
the third of our party, was killed at the first fire. When they saw
us arise, rifle in hand, they drew back; whereas, had they rushed on
with their battle-axes, they could have killed us in an instant. One of
our horses was also killed, which, with the body of our dead comrade,
we used for a breastwork, throwing up, at the same time, all the dirt
we could to protect ourselves as far as we were able. The Indians,
five hundred in number, showered their balls on us, but, being careful
to keep at a safe distance, they did us no damage for some time. At
length my companion received a shot through the heel, while carelessly
throwing up his feet in crawling to get a sight at the Indians without
exposing his body. I received some slight scratches, but no injury that
occasioned me any real inconvenience.

Providence at last came to our relief. Our camp was moving along
slowly, shooting buffalo occasionally, when some of the women, hearing
our guns, ran to the captain, exclaiming, “There is a fight. Hark! hear
the guns!”

He, concluding that there was more distant fighting than is common in
killing buffalo, dispatched sixty men in all possible haste in the
direction of the reports. We saw them as they appeared in sight on the
brow of a hill not far distant, and sent up a shout of triumph. The
Indians also caught sight of them, and immediately retreated, leaving
seventeen warriors dead in front of our little fort, whom we relieved
of their scalps.

We returned to camp after burying our companion, whose body was
literally riddled with bullets. The next day we made a very successful
_surround_ of buffalo, killing great numbers of them. In the evening,
several of our friends, the Snakes, came to us and told us their
village was only five miles farther up, wishing us to move up near
them to open a trade. After curing our meat, we moved on and encamped
near the friendly Snakes. We learned that there were one hundred and
eighty-five lodges of Pun-naks encamped only two miles distant, a
discarded band of the Snakes, very bad Indians, and very great thieves.
Captain Sublet informed the Snakes that if the Pun-naks should steal
any of his horses or anything belonging to his camp, he would _rub them
all out_, and he wished the friendly Snakes to tell them so.

Two of our men and one of the Snakes having strolled down to the
Pun-nak lodges one evening, they were set upon, and the Snake was
killed, and the two of our camp came home wounded. The next morning
volunteers were called to punish the Pun-naks for their outrage. Two
hundred and fifteen immediately presented themselves at the call, and
our captain appointed Bridger leader of the troop.

We started to inflict vengeance, but when we arrived at the site of the
village, behold! there was no village there. They had packed up and
left immediately after the perpetration of the outrage, they fearing,
no doubt, that ample vengeance would be taken upon them.

We followed their trail forty-five miles, and came up with them on
Green River. Seeing our approach, they all made across to a small
island in the river.

“What shall we do now, Jim?” inquired our leader.

“I will cross to the other side with one half the men,” I suggested,
“and get abreast of the island. Their retreat will be thus cut off, and
we can exterminate them in their trap.”

“Go,” said he; “I will take them if they attempt to make this shore.”

I was soon in position, and the enfilading commenced, and was continued
until there was not one left of either sex or any age. We carried
back four hundred and eighty-eight scalps, and, as we then supposed,
annihilated the Pun-nak band. On our return, however, we found six or
eight of their squaws, who had been left behind in the flight, whom we
carried back and gave to the Snakes.

On informing the Snakes of what had taken place, they expressed great
delight. “Right!” they said. “Pun-naks very bad Indians”; and they
joined in the scalp-dance.

We afterward learned that the Pun-naks, when they fled from our
vengeance, had previously sent their old men, and a great proportion of
their women and children, to the mountains, at which we were greatly
pleased, as it spared the effusion of much unnecessary blood. They
had a great “medicine chief” slain with the others on the island; his
_medicine_ was not good this time, at least.

We proceeded thence to a small creek, called Black Foot Creek, in the
heart of the Black Foot country.

It was always our custom, before turning out our horses in the morning,
to send out spies to reconnoitre around, and see if any Indians were
lurking about to steal them. When preparing to move one morning from
the last-named creek, we sent out two men; but they had not proceeded
twenty yards from our _corral_ before a dozen shots were fired at them
by a party of Black Feet, bringing them from their horses severely
wounded. In a moment the whole camp was in motion. The savages made a
bold and desperate attempt to rush upon the wounded men and get their
scalps, but we were on the ground in time to prevent them, and drove
them back, killing four of their number.

The next day we were overtaken by the Snakes, who, hearing of our
skirmish, expressed great regret that they were not present to have
followed them and given them battle again. We seldom followed the
Indians after having defeated them, unless they had stolen our horses.
It was our policy always to act on the defensive, even to tribes that
were known enemies.

When the Snakes were ready, we all moved on together for the head of
Green River. The Indians numbered six or seven thousand, including
women and children; our number was nearly eight hundred altogether,
forming quite a formidable little army, or, more properly, a moving
city. The number of horses belonging to the whole camp was immense.

We had no farther difficulty in reaching Green River, where we remained
six days. During this short stay our numberless horses exhausted the
grass in our vicinity, and it was imperative to change position.

It was now early in September, and it was time to break up our general
encampment, and spread in all directions, as the hunting and trapping
season was upon us. Before we formed our dispersing parties, a number
of the Crows came to our camp, and were rejoiced to see us again. The
Snakes and Crows were extremely amicable.

The Crows were questioning the Snakes about some scalps hanging on our
lodge-poles. They gave them the particulars of our encounter with the
Black Feet, how valiantly we had fought them, and how we had defeated
them. The Crows were highly gratified to see so many scalps taken
from their old and inveterate foes. They wished to see the braves who
had fought so nobly. I was pointed out as the one who had taken the
greatest number of scalps; they told them they had seen me fight,
and that I was a very great brave. Upon this I became the object of
the Crows’ admiration; they were very anxious to talk to me and to
cultivate my acquaintance; but I could speak very little of their
language.

One of our men (named Greenwood), whose wife was a Crow, could speak
their language fluently; he and his wife were generally resorted
to by the Crows to afford full details of our recent victory.
Greenwood, becoming tired of so much questioning, invented a fiction,
which greatly amused me for its ingenuity. He informed them that
White-handled Knife (as the Snakes called me) was a Crow.

They all started in astonishment at this information, and asked how
that could be.

Said Greenwood in reply, “You know that so many winters ago the
Cheyennes defeated the Crows, killing many hundreds of their warriors,
and carrying off a great many of their women and children.”

“Yes, we know it,” they all exclaimed.

“Well, he was a little boy at that time, and the whites bought him of
the Cheyennes, with whom he has staid ever since. He has become a great
brave among them, and all your enemies fear him.”

On hearing this astonishing revelation, they said that I must be given
to them. Placing implicit faith in every word that they had heard, they
hastened to their village to disseminate the joyful news that they had
found one of their own people who had been taken by the Shi-ans when
a _bar-car-ta_ (child), who had been sold to the whites, and who had
now become a great white chief, with his lodge-pole full of the scalps
of the Black Feet, who had fallen beneath his gun and battle-axe. This
excited a great commotion throughout their whole village. All the old
women who remembered the defeat, when the Crows lost two thousand
warriors and a host of women and children, with the ensuing captivity,
were wondering if the great brave was not their own child; thereupon
ensued the greatest anxiety to see me and claim me as a son.

I did not say a word impugning the authenticity of Greenwood’s romance.
I was greatly edified at the inordinate gullibility of the red man, and
when they had gone to spread their tale of wonderment, we had a hearty
laugh at their expense.

Our party now broke up; detachments were formed and leaders chosen.
We issued from the camp, and started in all directions, receiving
instructions to return within a certain day. There were a great many
fur trappers with us, who hunted for their own profit, and disposed of
their peltry to the mountain traders. The trappers were accompanied by
a certain number of hired men, selected according to their individual
preferences, the strength of their party being regulated by the danger
of the country they were going to. If a party was going to the Black
Foot country, it needed to be numerous and well armed. If going among
the Crows or Snakes, where no danger was apprehended, there would go
few or many, just as was agreed upon among themselves. But each party
was in strict obedience to the will of its captain or leader: his word
was supreme law.

My party started for the Crow country, at which I was well content;
for, being a supposed Crow myself, I expected to fare well among them.
It seemed a relief, also, to be in a place where we could rest from our
unsleeping vigilance, and to feel, when we rose in the morning, there
was some probability of our living till night.

I now parted with very many of my friends for the last time. Most of
the members of that large company now sleep in death, their waking
ears no longer to be filled with the death-telling yell of the savage.
The manly hearts that shrunk from no danger have ceased to beat; their
bones whiten in the gloomy fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains, or
moulder on the ever-flowering prairies of the far West. A cloven skull
is all that remains of my once gallant friends to tell the bloody death
that they died, and invoke vengeance on the merciless hand that struck
them down in their ruddy youth.

Here I parted from the boy Baptiste, who had been my faithful companion
so long. I never saw him again.

The party that I started with consisted of thirty-one men, most of them
skillful trappers (Captain Bridger[7] was in our party), and commanded
by Robert Campbell. We started for Powder River, a fork of the Yellow
Stone, and, arriving there without accident, were soon busied in our
occupation.

A circumstance occurred in our encampment on this stream, trivial
in itself (for trivial events sometimes determine the course of a
man’s life), but which led to unexpected results. I had set my six
traps overnight, and on going to them the following morning I found
four beavers, but one of my traps was missing. I sought it in every
direction, but without success, and on my return to camp mentioned the
mystery. Captain Bridger (as skillful a hunter as ever lived in the
mountains) offered to renew the search with me, expressing confidence
that the trap could be found. We searched diligently along the river
and the bank for a considerable distance, but the trap was among the
missing. The float-pole also was gone--a pole ten or twelve feet long
and four inches thick. We at length gave it up as lost.

The next morning the whole party moved farther up the river. To shorten
our route, Bridger and myself crossed the stream at the spot where I
had set my missing trap. It was a buffalo-crossing, and there was a
good trail worn in the banks, so that we could easily cross with our
horses. After passing and traveling on some two miles, I discovered
what I supposed to be a badger, and we both made a rush for him. On
closer inspection, however, it proved to be my beaver, with trap,
chain, and float-pole. It was apparent that some buffalo, in crossing
the river, had become entangled in the chain, and, as we conceived,
had carried the trap on his shoulder, with the beaver pendent on one
side and the pole on the other. We inferred that he had in some way got
his head under the chain, between the trap and the pole, and, in his
endeavors to extricate himself, had pushed his head through. The hump
on his back would prevent it passing over his body, and away he would
speed with his burden, probably urged forward by the four sharp teeth
of the beaver, which would doubtless object to his sudden equestrian
(or rather bovine) journey. We killed the beaver and took his skin,
feeling much satisfaction at the solution of the mystery. When we
arrived at camp we asked our companions to guess how and where we had
found the trap. They all gave various guesses, but, failing to hit the
truth, gave up the attempt.

“Well, gentlemen,” said I, “it was stolen.”

“Stolen!” exclaimed a dozen voice at once.

“Yes, it was stolen by a buffalo.”

“Oh, come now,” said one of the party, “what is the use of coming here
and telling such a lie?”

I saw in a moment that he was angry and in earnest, and I replied, “If
you deny that a buffalo stole my trap, _you_ tell the lie.”

He rose and struck me a blow with his fist. It was my turn now, and the
first pass I made brought my antagonist to the ground. On rising, he
sprang for his gun; I assumed mine as quickly. The bystanders rushed
between us, and, seizing our weapons, compelled us to discontinue our
strife, which would have infallibly resulted in the death of one.
My opponent mounted his horse and left the camp. I never saw him
afterward. I could have taken his expression in jest, for we were very
free in our sallies upon one another; but in this particular instance
I saw his intention was to insult me, and I allowed my passion to
overcome my reflection. My companions counseled me to leave camp for a
few days until the ill feeling should have subsided.

The same evening Captain Bridger and myself started out with our traps,
intending to be gone three or four days. We followed up a small stream
until it forked, when Bridger proposed that I should take one fork and
he the other, and the one who had set his traps first should cross the
hill which separated the two streams and rejoin the other. Thus we
parted, expecting to meet again in a few hours. I continued my course
up the stream in pursuit of beaver villages until I found myself among
an innumerable drove of horses, and I could plainly see they were not
wild ones.

The horses were guarded by several of their Indian owners, or
horse-guards, as they term them, who had discovered me long before
I saw them. I could hear their signals to each other, and in a few
moments I was surrounded by them, and escape was impossible. I resigned
myself to my fate: if they were enemies, I knew they could kill me but
once, and to attempt to defend myself would entail inevitable death. I
took the chances between death and mercy; I surrendered my gun, traps,
and what else I had, and was marched to camp under a strong escort of
_horse-guards_. I felt very sure that my guards were Crows, therefore
I did not feel greatly alarmed at my situation. On arriving at their
village, I was ushered into the chief’s lodge, where there were several
old men and women, whom I conceived to be members of the family. My
capture was known throughout the village in five minutes, and hundreds
gathered around the lodge to get a sight of the prisoner. In the crowd
were some who had talked to Greenwood a few weeks before. They at once
exclaimed, “That is the lost Crow, the great brave who has killed so
many of our enemies. He is our brother.”[8]

This threw the whole village into commotion; old and young were
impatient to obtain a sight of the “great brave.” Orders were
immediately given to summon all the old women taken by the Shi-ans at
the time of their captivity so many winters past, who had suffered the
loss of a son at that time. The lodge was cleared for the _examining
committee_, and the old women, breathless with excitement, their eyes
wild and protruding, and their nostrils dilated, arrived in squads,
until the lodge was filled to overflowing. I believe never was mortal
gazed at with such intense and sustained interest as I was on that
occasion. Arms and legs were critically scrutinized. My face next
passed the ordeal; then my neck, back, breast, and all parts of my
body, even down to my feet, which did not escape the examinations of
these anxious matrons, in their endeavors to discover some mark or
peculiarity whereby to recognize their brave son.

At length one old woman, after having scanned my visage with the utmost
intentness, came forward and said, “If this is my son, he has a mole
over one of his eyes.”

My eyelids were immediately pulled down to the utmost stretch of their
elasticity, when, sure enough, she discovered a mole just over my left
eye!

Then, and oh then! such shouts of joy as were uttered by that
honest-hearted woman were seldom before heard, while all in the crowd
took part in her rejoicing. It was uncultivated joy, but not the less
heartfelt and intense. It was a joy which a mother can only experience
when she recovers a son whom she had supposed dead in his earliest
days. She has mourned him silently through weary nights and busy days
for the long space of twenty years; suddenly he presents himself before
her in robust manhood, and graced with the highest name an Indian can
appreciate. It is but nature, either in the savage breast or civilized,
that hails such a return with overwhelming joy, and feels the mother’s
undying affection awakened beyond all control.

All the other claimants resigning their pretensions, I was fairly
carried along by the excited crowd to the lodge of the “Big Bowl,”
who was my father. The news of my having proved to be the son of Mrs.
Big Bowl flew through the village with the speed of lightning, and, on
my arrival at the paternal lodge, I found it filled with all degrees
of my newly-discovered relatives, who welcomed me nearly to death.
They seized me in their arms and hugged me, and my face positively
burned with the enraptured kisses of my numerous fair sisters, with a
long host of cousins, aunts, and other more remote kindred. All these
welcoming ladies as firmly believed in my identity with the lost one as
they believed in the existence of the Great Spirit.

My father knew me to be his son; told all the Crows that the dead was
alive again, and the lost one was found. He knew it was fact; Greenwood
had said so, and the words of Greenwood were true; his tongue was not
crooked--he would not lie. He also had told him that his son was a
great brave among the white men; that his arm was strong; that the
Black Feet quailed before his rifle and battle-axe; that his lodge was
full of their scalps which his knife had taken; that they must rally
around me to support and protect me; and that his long-lost son would
be a strong breastwork to their nation, and he would teach them how to
defeat their enemies.

They all promised that they would do as his words had indicated.

My unmarried sisters were four in number, very pretty, intelligent
young women. They, as soon as the departure of the crowd would
admit, took off my old leggins, and moccasins, and other garments,
and supplied their place with new ones, most beautifully ornamented
according to their very last fashion. My sisters were very ingenious
in such work, and they well-nigh quarreled among themselves for
the privilege of dressing me. When my toilet was finished to their
satisfaction, I could compare in elegance with the most popular warrior
of the tribe when in full costume. They also prepared me a bed, not so
high as Haman’s gallows certainly, but just as high as the lodge would
admit. This was also a token of their esteem and sisterly affection.

While conversing to the extent of my ability with my father in the
evening, and affording him full information respecting the white
people, their great cities, their numbers, their power, their opulence,
he suddenly demanded of me if I wanted a wife; thinking, no doubt,
that, if he got me married, I should lose all discontent, and forego
any wish of returning to the whites.

I assented, of course.

“Very well,” said he, “you shall have a pretty wife and a good one.”

Away he strode to the lodge of one of the greatest braves, and asked
one of his daughters of him to bestow upon his son, who the chief
must have heard was also a great brave. The consent of the parent
was readily given. The name of my prospective father-in-law was
Black-lodge. He had three very pretty daughters, whose names were
Still-water, Black-fish, and Three-roads.

Even the untutored daughters of the wild woods need a little time to
prepare for such an important event, but long and tedious courtships
are unknown among them.

The ensuing day the three daughters were brought to my father’s lodge
by their father, and I was requested to take my choice. “Still-water”
was the eldest, and I liked her name; if it was emblematic of her
disposition, she was the woman I should prefer. “Still-water,”
accordingly, was my choice. They were all superbly attired in garments
which must have cost them months of labor, which garments the young
women ever keep in readiness against such an interesting occasion as
the present.

The acceptance of my wife was the completion of the ceremony, and I was
again a married man, as sacredly in their eyes as if the Holy Christian
Church had fastened the irrevocable knot upon us.

Among the Indians, the daughter receives no patrimony on her
wedding-day, and her mother and father never pass a word with the
son-in-law after--a custom religiously observed among them, though for
what reason I never learned. The other relatives are under no such
restraint.

My brothers made me a present of twenty as fine horses as any in the
nation--all trained war-horses. I was also presented with all the arms
and instruments requisite for an Indian campaign.

My wife’s deportment coincided with her name; she would have reflected
honor upon many a civilized household. She was affectionate,
obedient, gentle, cheerful, and, apparently, quite happy. No domestic
thunder-storms, no curtain-lectures ever disturbed the serenity of our
connubial lodge. I speedily formed acquaintance with all my immediate
neighbors, and the Morning Star (which was the name conferred upon me
on my recognition as the lost son) was soon a companion to all the
young warriors in the village. No power on earth could have shaken
their faith in my positive identity with the lost son. Nature seemed
to prompt the old woman to recognize me as her missing child, and
all my new relatives placed implicit faith in the genuineness of her
discovery. Greenwood had spoken it, “and his tongue was not crooked.”
What could I do under the circumstances? Even if I should deny my Crow
origin, they would not believe me. How could I dash with an unwelcome
and incredible explanation all the joy that had been manifested on my
return--the cordial welcome, the rapturous embraces of those who hailed
me as a son and a brother, the exuberant joy of the whole nation for
the return of a long-lost Crow, who, stolen when a child, had returned
in the strength of maturity, graced with the name of a great brave, and
the generous strife I had occasioned in their endeavors to accord me
the warmest welcome? I could not find it in my heart to undeceive these
unsuspecting people and tear myself away from their untutored caresses.

Thus I commenced my Indian life with the Crows. I said to myself, “I
can trap in their streams unmolested, and derive more profit under
their protection than if among my own men, exposed incessantly to
assassination and alarm.” I therefore resolved to abide with them, to
guard my secret, to do my best in their company, and in assisting them
to subdue their enemies.[9]




THE PATHFINDER IN THE HIGH ROCKIES

JOHN C. FRÉMONT

1842

From Frémont’s Journal of the First Expedition.


_August 10._--The air at sunrise is clear and pure, and the morning
extremely cold, but beautiful. A lofty snow peak of the mountain is
glittering in the first rays of the sun, which has not yet reached us.
The long mountain wall to the east, rising two thousand feet abruptly
from the plain, behind which we see the peaks, is still dark, and
cuts clear against the glowing sky. A fog, just risen from the river,
lies along the base of the mountain. A little before sunrise, the
thermometer was at 35°, and at sunrise 33°. Water froze last night, and
fires are very comfortable. The scenery becomes hourly more interesting
and grand, and the view here is truly magnificent; but, indeed, it
needs something to repay the long prairie journey of a thousand miles.
The sun has just shot above the wall, and makes a magical change. The
whole valley is glowing and bright, and all the mountain peaks are
gleaming like silver. Though these snow mountains are not the Alps,
they have their own character of grandeur and magnificence, and will
doubtless find pens and pencils to do them justice. In the scene
before us, we feel how much wood improves a view. The pines on the
mountain seemed to give it much additional beauty. I was agreeably
disappointed in the character of the streams on this side the ridge.
Instead of the creeks, which description had led me to expect, I find
bold, broad streams, with three or four feet of water, and a rapid
current. The fork on which we are encamped is upwards of a hundred
feet wide, timbered with groves or thickets of the low willow. We
were now approaching the loftiest part of the Wind River chain; and
I left the valley a few miles from our encampment, intending to
penetrate the mountains, as far as possible, with the whole party. We
were soon involved in very broken ground, among long ridges covered
with fragments of granite. Winding our way up a long ravine, we came
unexpectedly in view of a most beautiful lake, set like a gem in the
mountains. The sheet of water lay transversely across the direction we
had been pursuing; and, descending the steep, rocky ridge, where it was
necessary to lead our horses, we followed its banks to the southern
extremity. Here a view of the utmost magnificence and grandeur burst
upon our eyes. With nothing between us and their feet to lessen the
effect of the whole height, a grand bed of snow-capped mountains rose
before us, pile upon pile, glowing in the bright light of an August
day. Immediately below them lay the lake, between two ridges, covered
with dark pines, which swept down from the main chain to the spot where
we stood. Here, where the lake glittered in the open sunlight, its
banks of yellow sand and the light foliage of aspen groves contrasted
well with the gloomy pines. “Never before,” said Mr. Preuss, “in this
country or in Europe, have I seen such magnificent, grand rocks.” I was
so much pleased with the beauty of the place that I determined to make
the main camp here, where our animals would find good pasturage, and
explore the mountains with a small party of men. Proceeding a little
further, we came suddenly upon the outlet of the lake, where it found
its way through a narrow passage between low hills. Dark pines, which
overhung the stream, and masses of rock, where the water foamed along,
gave it much romantic beauty. Where we crossed, which was immediately
at the outlet, it is two hundred and fifty feet wide, and so deep that
with difficulty we were able to ford it. Its bed was an accumulation
of rocks, boulders, and broad slabs, and large angular fragments, among
which the animals fell repeatedly.

The current was very swift, and the water cold and of a crystal purity.
In crossing this stream, I met with a great misfortune in having my
barometer broken. It was the only one. A great part of the interest
of the journey for me was in the exploration of these mountains, of
which so much had been said that was doubtful and contradictory; and
now their snowy peaks rose majestically before me, and the only means
of giving them authentically to science, the object of my anxious
solicitude by night and day, was destroyed. We had brought this
barometer in safety a thousand miles, and broke it almost among the
snow of the mountains. The loss was felt by the whole camp. All had
seen my anxiety, and aided me in preserving it. The height of these
mountains, considered by the hunters and traders the highest in the
whole range, had been a theme of constant discussion among them; and
all had looked forward with pleasure to the moment when the instrument,
which they believed to be true as the sun, should stand upon the
summits and decide their disputes. Their grief was only inferior to my
own.

This lake is about three miles long and of very irregular width and
apparently great depth, and is the head-water of the third New Fork, a
tributary to Green River, the Colorado of the West. On the map and in
the narrative I have called it Mountain Lake. I encamped on the north
side, about three hundred and fifty yards from the outlet. This was the
most western point at which I obtained astronomical observations, by
which this place, called Bernier’s encampment, is made in 110° 08′ 03″
west longitude from Greenwich, and latitude 43° 49′ 49″. The mountain
peaks, as laid down, were fixed by bearings from this and other
astronomical points. We had no other compass than the small ones used
in sketching the country; but from an azimuth, in which one of them
was used, the variation of the compass is 18° east. The correction made
in our field work by the astronomical observations indicates that this
is a very correct observation.

As soon as the camp was formed, I set about endeavoring to repair
my barometer. As I have already said, this was a standard cistern
barometer, of Troughton’s construction. The glass cistern had been
broken about midway; but, as the instrument had been kept in a proper
position, no air had found its way into the tube, the end of which had
always remained covered. I had with me a number of vials of tolerably
thick glass, some of which were of the same diameter as the cistern,
and I spent the day in slowly working on these, endeavoring to cut them
of the requisite length; but, as my instrument was a very rough file,
I invariably broke them. A groove was cut in one of the trees, where
the barometer was placed during the night, to be out of the way of any
possible danger; and in the morning I commenced again. Among the powder
horns in the camp, I found one which was very transparent, so that
its contents could be almost as plainly seen as through glass. This
I boiled and stretched on a piece of wood to the requisite diameter,
and scraped it very thin, in order to increase to the utmost its
transparency. I then secured it firmly in its place on the instrument
with strong glue made from a buffalo, and filled it with mercury
properly heated. A piece of skin, which had covered one of the vials,
furnished a good pocket, which was well secured with strong thread and
glue; and then the brass cover was screwed to its place. The instrument
was left some time to dry; and, when I reversed it, a few hours after,
I had the satisfaction to find it in perfect order, its indications
being about the same as on the other side of the lake before it had
been broken. Our success in this little incident diffused pleasure
throughout the camp; and we immediately set about our preparations for
ascending the mountains.

As will be seen, on reference to a map, on this short mountain chain
are the head-waters of four great rivers of the continent,--namely,
the Colorado, Columbia, Missouri, and Platte Rivers. It had been my
design, after having ascended the mountains, to continue our route
on the western side of the range, and, crossing through a pass at
the northwestern end of the chain, about thirty miles from our
present camp, return along the eastern slope across the heads of the
Yellowstone River, and join on the line to our station of August 7,
immediately at the foot of the ridge. In this way, I should be enabled
to include the whole chain and its numerous waters in my survey; but
various considerations induced me, very reluctantly, to abandon this
plan.

I was desirous to keep strictly within the scope of my instructions;
and it would have required ten or fifteen additional days for the
accomplishment of this object. Our animals had become very much worn
out with the length of the journey; game was very scarce; and, though
it does not appear in the course of the narrative (as I have avoided
dwelling upon trifling incidents not connected with the objects of
the expedition), the spirits of the men had been much exhausted by
the hardships and privations to which they had been subjected. Our
provisions had well-nigh all disappeared. Bread had been long out
of the question; and of all our stock we had remaining two or three
pounds of coffee and a small quantity of macaroni, which had been
husbanded with great care for the mountain expedition we were about
to undertake. Our daily meal consisted of dry buffalo-meat cooked in
tallow; and, as we had not dried this with Indian skill, part of it was
spoiled, and what remained of good was as hard as wood, having much
the taste and appearance of so many pieces of bark. Even of this, our
stock was rapidly diminishing in a camp which was capable of consuming
two buffaloes in every twenty-four hours. These animals had entirely
disappeared, and it was not probable that we should fall in with them
again until we returned to the Sweet Water.

Our arrangements for the ascent were rapidly completed. We were
in a hostile country, which rendered the greatest vigilance and
circumspection necessary. The pass at the north end of the mountain was
generally infested by Blackfeet; and immediately opposite was one of
their forts, on the edge of a little thicket, two or three hundred feet
from our encampment. We were posted in a grove of beech, on the margin
of the lake, and a few hundred feet long, with a narrow _prairillon_
on the inner side, bordered by the rocky ridge. In the upper end of
this grove we cleared a circular space about forty feet in diameter,
and with the felled timber and interwoven branches surrounded it with a
breastwork five feet in height. A gap was left for a gate on the inner
side, by which the animals were to be driven in and secured, while the
men slept around the little work. It was half hidden by the foliage,
and, garrisoned by twelve resolute men, would have set at defiance any
band of savages which might chance to discover them in the interval
of our absence. Fifteen of the best mules, with fourteen men, were
selected for the mountain party. Our provisions consisted of dried meat
for two days, with our little stock of coffee and some macaroni. In
addition to the barometer and a thermometer I took with me a sextant
and spyglass, and we had, of course, our compasses. In charge of the
camp I left Brenier, one of my most trustworthy men, who possessed the
most determined courage.

_August 12._--Early in the morning we left the camp, fifteen in number,
well armed, of course, and mounted on our best mules. A pack animal
carried our provisions, with a coffee-pot and kettle and three or
four tin cups. Every man had a blanket strapped over his saddle, to
serve for his bed, and the instruments were carried by turns on their
backs. We entered directly on rough and rocky ground, and, just after
crossing the ridge, had the good fortune to shoot an antelope. We
heard the roar, and had a glimpse of a waterfall as we rode along; and,
crossing in our way two fine streams, tributary to the Colorado, in
about two hours’ ride we reached the top of the first row or range of
the mountains. Here, again, a view of the most romantic beauty met our
eyes. It seemed as if, from the vast expanse of uninteresting prairie
we had passed over, Nature had collected all her beauties together in
one chosen place. We were overlooking a deep valley, which was entirely
occupied by three lakes, and from the brink the surrounding ridges
rose precipitously five hundred and a thousand feet, covered with the
dark green of the balsam pine, relieved on the border of the lake
with the light foliage of the aspen. They all communicated with each
other; and the green of the waters, common to mountain lakes of great
depth, showed that it would be impossible to cross them. The surprise
manifested by our guides when these impassable obstacles suddenly
barred our progress proved that they were among the hidden treasures
of the place, unknown even to the wandering trappers of the region.
Descending the hill, we proceeded to make our way along the margin to
the southern extremity. A narrow strip of angular fragments of rock
sometimes afforded a rough pathway for our mules; but generally we rode
along the shelving side, occasionally scrambling up, at a considerable
risk of tumbling back into the lake.

The slope was frequently 60°. The pines grew densely together, and the
ground was covered with the branches and trunks of trees. The air was
fragrant with the odor of the pines; and I realized this delightful
morning the pleasure of breathing that mountain air which makes a
constant theme of the hunter’s praise, and which now made us feel as
if we had all been drinking some exhilarating gas. The depths of this
unexplored forest were a place to delight the heart of a botanist.
There was a rich undergrowth of plants and numerous gay-colored flowers
in brilliant bloom. We reached the outlet at length, where some
freshly barked willows that lay in the water showed that beaver had
been recently at work. There were some small brown squirrels jumping
about in the pines and a couple of large mallard ducks swimming about
in the stream.

The hills on this southern end were low, and the lake looked like a
mimic sea as the waves broke on the sandy beach in the force of a
strong breeze. There was a pretty open spot, with fine grass for our
mules; and we made our noon halt on the beach, under the shade of some
large hemlocks. We resumed our journey after a halt of about an hour,
making our way up the ridge on the western side of the lake. In search
of smoother ground, we rode a little inland, and, passing through
groves of aspen, soon found ourselves again among the pines. Emerging
from these, we struck the summit of the ridge above the upper end of
the lake.

We had reached a very elevated point; and in the valley below and
among the hills were a number of lakes at different levels, some two
or three hundred feet above others, with which they communicated by
foaming torrents. Even to our great height, the roar of the cataracts
came up; and we could see them leaping down in lines of snowy foam.
From this scene of busy waters, we turned abruptly into the stillness
of a forest, where we rode among the open bolls of the pines over a
lawn of verdant grass, having strikingly the air of cultivated grounds.
This led us, after a time, among masses of rock, which had no vegetable
earth but in hollows and crevices, though still the pine forest
continued. Toward evening we reached a defile, or rather a hole in the
mountains, entirely shut in by dark pine-covered rocks.

A small stream, with a scarcely perceptible current, flowed through
a level bottom of perhaps eighty yards’ width, where the grass was
saturated with water. Into this the mules were turned, and were neither
hobbled nor picketed during the night, as the fine pasturage took
away all temptation to stray; and we made our bivouac in the pines.
The surrounding masses were all of granite. While supper was being
prepared, I set out on an excursion in the neighborhood, accompanied
by one of my men. We wandered about among the crags and ravines until
dark, richly repaid for our walk by a fine collection of plants, many
of them in full bloom. Ascending a peak to find the place of our
camp, we saw that the little defile in which we lay communicated with
the long green valley of some stream, which, here locked up in the
mountains, far away to the south, found its way in a dense forest to
the plains.

Looking along its upward course, it seemed to conduct by a smooth
gradual slope directly toward the peak, which, from long consultation
as we approached the mountain, we had decided to be the highest of the
range. Pleased with the discovery of so fine a road for the next day,
we hastened down to the camp, where we arrived just in time for supper.
Our table service was rather scant; and we held the meat in our hands,
and clean rocks made good plates on which we spread our macaroni. Among
all the strange places on which we had occasion to encamp during our
long journey, none have left so vivid an impression on my mind as the
camp of this evening. The disorder of the masses which surrounded us,
the little hole through which we saw the stars overhead, the dark pines
where we slept, and the rocks lit up with the glow of our fires made a
night picture of very wild beauty.

_August 13._--The morning was bright and pleasant, just cool enough to
make exercise agreeable; and we soon entered the defile I had seen the
preceding day. It was smoothly carpeted with a soft grass and scattered
over with groups of flowers, of which yellow was the predominant color.
Sometimes we were forced by an occasional difficult pass to pick our
way on a narrow ledge along the side of the defile, and the mules
were frequently on their knees; but these obstructions were rare,
and we journeyed on in the sweet morning air, delighted at our good
fortune in having found such a beautiful entrance to the mountains.
This road continued for about three miles, when we suddenly reached
its termination in one of the grand views which at every turn meet the
traveller in this magnificent region. Here the defile up which we had
travelled opened out into a small lawn, where, in a little lake, the
stream had its source.

There were some fine _asters_ in bloom, but all the flowering plants
appeared to seek the shelter of the rocks and to be of lower growth
than below, as if they loved the warmth of the soil, and kept out of
the way of the winds. Immediately at our feet a precipitous descent
led to a confusion of defiles, and before us rose the mountains. It
is not by the splendor of far-off views, which have lent such a glory
to the Alps, that these impress the mind, but by a gigantic disorder
of enormous masses and a savage sublimity of naked rock in wonderful
contrast with innumerable green spots of a rich floral beauty shut
up in their stern recesses. Their wildness seems well suited to the
character of the people who inhabit the country.

I determined to leave our animals here and make the rest of our way
on foot. The peak appeared so near that there was no doubt of our
returning before night; and a few men were left in charge of the mules,
with our provisions and blankets. We took with us nothing but our arms
and instruments, and, as the day had become warm, the greater part
left our coats. Having made an early dinner, we started again. We were
soon involved in the most ragged precipices, nearing the central chain
very slowly, and rising but little. The first ridge hid a succession
of others; and when, with great fatigue and difficulty, we had climbed
up five hundred feet, it was but to make an equal descent on the other
side. All these intervening places were filled with small deep lakes,
which met the eye in every direction, descending from one level to
another, sometimes under bridges formed by huge fragments of granite,
beneath which was heard the roar of the water. These constantly
obstructed our path, forcing us to make long _détours_, frequently
obliged to retrace our steps, and frequently falling among the rocks.
Maxwell was precipitated toward the face of a precipice, and saved
himself from going over by throwing himself flat on the ground. We
clambered on, always expecting with every ridge that we crossed to
reach the foot of the peaks, and always disappointed, until about four
o’clock, when, pretty well worn out, we reached the shore of a little
lake in which there was a rocky island. We remained here a short time
to rest, and continued on around the lake, which had in some places a
beach of white sand, and in others was bound with rocks, over which the
way was difficult and dangerous, as the water from innumerable springs
made them very slippery.

By the time we had reached the further side of the lake, we found
ourselves all exceedingly fatigued, and, much to the satisfaction of
the whole party, we encamped. The spot we had chosen was a broad, flat
rock, in some measure protected from the winds by the surrounding
crags, and the trunks of fallen pines afforded us bright fires. Near
by was a foaming torrent which tumbled into the little lake about one
hundred and fifty feet below us, and which, by way of distinction, we
have called Island Lake. We had reached the upper limit of the piney
region; as above this point no tree was to be seen, and patches of snow
lay everywhere around us on the cold sides of the rocks. The flora
of the region we had traversed since leaving our mules was extremely
rich, and among the characteristic plants the scarlet flowers of the
_Dodecatheon dentatum_ everywhere met the eye in great abundance.
A small green ravine, on the edge of which we were encamped, was
filled with a profusion of alpine plants in brilliant bloom. From
barometrical observations made during our three days’ sojourn at this
place, its elevation above the Gulf of Mexico is 10,000 feet. During
the day we had seen no sign of animal life; but among the rocks here
we heard what was supposed to be the bleat of a young goat, which we
searched for with hungry activity, and found to proceed from a small
animal of a gray color, with short ears and no tail,--probably the
Siberian squirrel. We saw a considerable number of them, and, with the
exception of a small bird like a sparrow, it is the only inhabitant
of this elevated part of the mountains. On our return we saw below
this lake large flocks of the mountain goat. We had nothing to eat
to-night. Lajeunesse with several others took their guns and sallied
out in search of a goat, but returned unsuccessful. At sunset the
barometer stood at 20.522, the attached thermometer 50°. Here we had
the misfortune to break our thermometer, having now only that attached
to the barometer. I was taken ill shortly after we had encamped,
and continued so until late in the night, with violent headache and
vomiting. This was probably caused by the excessive fatigue I had
undergone and want of food, and perhaps also in some measure by the
rarity of the air. The night was cold, as a violent gale from the north
had sprung up at sunset, which entirely blew away the heat of the
fires. The cold and our granite beds had not been favorable to sleep,
and we were glad to see the face of the sun in the morning. Not being
delayed by any preparation for breakfast, we set out immediately.

On every side as we advanced was heard the roar of waters and of a
torrent, which we followed up a short distance until it expanded into a
lake about one mile in length. On the northern side of the lake was a
bank of ice, or rather of snow covered with a crust of ice. Carson[10]
had been our guide into the mountains, and agreeably to his advice we
left this little valley and took to the ridges again, which we found
extremely broken and where we were again involved among precipices.
Here were ice fields; among which we were all dispersed, seeking each
the best path to ascend the peak. Mr. Preuss attempted to walk along
the upper edge of one of these fields, which sloped away at an angle
of about twenty degrees; but his feet slipped from under him, and he
went plunging down the plane. A few hundred feet below, at the bottom,
were some fragments of sharp rock, on which he landed, and, though he
turned a couple of somersets, fortunately received no injury beyond a
few bruises. Two of the men, Clément Lambert and Descoteaux, had been
taken ill, and lay down on the rocks a short distance below; and at
this point I was attacked with headache and giddiness, accompanied by
vomiting, as on the day before. Finding myself unable to proceed, I
sent the barometer over to Mr. Preuss, who was in a gap two or three
hundred yards distant, desiring him to reach the peak, if possible, and
take an observation there. He found himself unable to proceed further
in that direction, and took an observation where the barometer stood
at 19.401, attached thermometer 50° in the gap. Carson, who had gone
over to him, succeeded in reaching one of the snowy summits of the main
ridge, whence he saw the peak towards which all our efforts had been
directed towering eight or ten hundred feet into the air above him.
In the meantime, finding myself grow rather worse than better, and
doubtful how far my strength would carry me, I sent Basil Lajeunesse
with four men back to the place where the mules had been left.

We were now better acquainted with the topography of the country; and
I directed him to bring back with him, if it were in any way possible,
four or five mules, with provisions and blankets. With me were Maxwell
and Ayer; and, after we had remained nearly an hour on the rock, it
became so unpleasantly cold, though the day was bright, that we set out
on our return to the camp, at which we all arrived safely, straggling
in one after the other. I continued ill during the afternoon, but
became better towards sundown, when my recovery was completed by the
appearance of Basil and four men, all mounted. The men who had gone
with him had been too much fatigued to return, and were relieved by
those in charge of the horses; but in his powers of endurance Basil
resembled more a mountain goat than a man. They brought blankets and
provisions, and we enjoyed well our dried meat and a cup of good
coffee. We rolled ourselves up in our blankets, and, with our feet
turned to a blazing fire, slept soundly until morning.

_August 15._--It had been supposed that we had finished with the
mountains; and the evening before it had been arranged that Carson
should set out at daylight, and return to breakfast at the Camp of
the Mules, taking with him all but four or five men, who were to stay
with me and bring back the mules and instruments. Accordingly, at the
break of day they set out. With Mr. Preuss and myself remained Basil
Lajeunesse, Clément Lambert, Janisse, and Descoteaux. When we had
secured strength for the day by a hearty breakfast, we covered what
remained, which was enough for one meal, with rocks, in order that
it might be safe from any marauding bird, and, saddling our mules,
turned our faces once more towards the peaks. This time we determined
to proceed quietly and cautiously, deliberately resolved to accomplish
our object, if it were within the compass of human means. We were
of opinion that a long defile which lay to the left of yesterday’s
route would lead us to the foot of the main peak. Our mules had been
refreshed by the fine grass in the little ravine at the island camp,
and we intended to ride up the defile as far as possible, in order
to husband our strength for the main ascent. Though this was a fine
passage, still it was a defile of the most rugged mountains known,
and we had many a rough and steep slippery place to cross before
reaching the end. In this place the sun rarely shone. Snow lay along
the border of the small stream which flowed through it, and occasional
icy passages made the footing of the mules very insecure; and the rocks
and ground were moist with the trickling waters in this spring of
mighty rivers. We soon had the satisfaction to find ourselves riding
along the huge wall which forms the central summits of the chain. There
at last it rose by our sides, a nearly perpendicular wall of granite,
terminating 2,000 to 3,000 feet above our heads in a serrated line
of broken, jagged cones. We rode on until we came almost immediately
below the main peak, which I denominated the Snow Peak, as it exhibited
more snow to the eye than any of the neighboring summits. Here were
three small lakes of a green color, each of perhaps a thousand yards
in diameter, and apparently very deep. These lay in a kind of chasm;
and, according to the barometer, we had attained but a few hundred feet
above the Island Lake. The barometer here stood at 20.450, attached
thermometer 70°.

We managed to get our mules up to a little bench about a hundred feet
above the lakes, where there was a patch of good grass, and turned
them loose to graze. During our rough ride to this place, they had
exhibited a wonderful surefootedness. Parts of the defile were filled
with angular, sharp fragments of rock,--three or four and eight or ten
feet cube,--and among these they had worked their way, leaping from one
narrow point to another, rarely making a false step, and giving us no
occasion to dismount. Having divested ourselves of every unnecessary
encumbrance, we commenced the ascent. This time, like experienced
travellers, we did not press ourselves, but climbed leisurely, sitting
down as soon as we found breath beginning to fail. At intervals we
reached places where a number of springs gushed from the rocks, and
about 1,800 feet above the lakes came to the snow line. From this point
our progress was uninterrupted climbing. Hitherto I had worn a pair of
thick moccasins, with soles of _par flêche;_ but here I put on a light
thin pair, which I had brought for the purpose, as now the use of our
toes became necessary to a further advance. I availed myself of a sort
of comb of the mountain, which stood against the wall like a buttress,
and which the wind and the solar radiation, joined to the steepness of
the smooth rock, had kept almost entirely free from snow. Up this I
made my way rapidly. Our cautious method of advancing in the outset had
spared my strength; and, with the exception of a slight disposition to
headache, I felt no remains of yesterday’s illness. In a few minutes we
reached a point where the buttress was overhanging, and there was no
other way of surmounting the difficulty than by passing around one side
of it, which was the face of a vertical precipice of several hundred
feet.

Putting hands and feet in the crevices between the blocks, I succeeded
in getting over it, and, when I reached the top, found my companions
in a small valley below. Descending to them, we continued climbing,
and in a short time reached the crest. I sprang upon the summit, and
another step would have precipitated me into an immense snow field
five hundred feet below. To the edge of this field was a sheer icy
precipice; and then, with a gradual fall, the field sloped off for
about a mile, until it struck the foot of another lower ridge. I stood
on a narrow crest, about three feet in width, with an inclination of
about 20° N. 51° E. As soon as I had gratified the first feelings of
curiosity, I descended, and each man ascended in his turn; for I would
only allow one at a time to mount the unstable and precarious slab,
which it seemed a breath would hurl into the abyss below. We mounted
the barometer in the snow of the summit, and, fixing a ramrod in a
crevice, unfurled the national flag to wave in the breeze where never
flag waved before. During our morning’s ascent we had met no sign of
animal life except the small, sparrow-like bird already mentioned. A
stillness the most profound and a terrible solitude forced themselves
constantly on the mind as the great features of the place. Here on the
summit where the stillness was absolute, unbroken by any sound, and the
solitude complete, we thought ourselves beyond the region of animated
life; but, while we were sitting on the rock, a solitary bee (_bromus,
the humble bee_) came winging his flight from the eastern valley, and
lit on the knee of one of the men.

It was a strange place--the icy rock and the highest peak of the Rocky
Mountains--for a lover of warm sunshine and flowers; and we pleased
ourselves with the idea that he was the first of his species to cross
the mountain barrier, a solitary pioneer to foretell the advance of
civilization. I believe that a moment’s thought would have made us
let him continue his way unharmed; but we carried out the law of
this country, where all animated nature seems at war, and, seizing
him immediately, put him in at least a fit place,--in the leaves of
a large book, among the flowers we had collected on our way. The
barometer stood at 18.293, the attached thermometer at 44°, giving for
the elevation of this summit 13,570 feet above the Gulf of Mexico,
which may be called the highest flight of the bee. It is certainly the
highest known flight of that insect. From the description given by
Mackenzie of the mountains where he crossed them with that of a French
officer still farther to the north and Colonel Long’s measurements to
the south, joined to the opinion of the oldest traders of the country,
it is presumed that this is the highest peak of the Rocky Mountains.
The day was sunny and bright, but a slight shining mist hung over
the lower plains, which interfered with our view of the surrounding
country. On one side we overlooked innumerable lakes and streams, the
spring of the Colorado of the Gulf of California; and on the other was
the Wind River Valley, where were the heads of the Yellowstone branch
of the Missouri. Far to the north we just could discover the snowy
heads of the _Trois Tetons_, where were the sources of the Missouri
and Columbia Rivers; and at the southern extremity of the ridge the
peaks were plainly visible, among which were some of the springs of
the Nebraska or Platte River. Around us the whole scene had one main
striking feature, which was that of terrible convulsion. Parallel
to its length, the ridge was split into chasms and fissures, between
which rose the thin, lofty walls, terminated with slender minarets
and columns, which could be clearly discerned from the camp on Island
Lake. According to the barometer, the little crest of the wall on
which we stood was three thousand five hundred and seventy feet above
that place and two thousand seven hundred and eighty above the little
lakes at the bottom, immediately at our feet. Our camp at the Two Hills
(an astronomical station) bore south 3° east, which with a bearing
afterward obtained from a fixed position enabled us to locate the
peak. The bearing of the _Trois Tetons_ was north 50° west, and the
direction of the central ridge of the Wind River Mountains south 39°
east. The summit rock was gneiss, succeeded by sienitic gneiss. Sienite
and feldspar succeeded in our descent to the snow line, where we found
a feldspathic granite. I had remarked that the noise produced by the
explosion of our pistols had the usual degree of loudness, but was not
in the least prolonged, expiring almost instantaneously. Having now
made what observations our means afforded, we proceeded to descend.
We had accomplished an object of laudable ambition, and beyond the
strict order of our instructions. We had climbed the loftiest peak of
the Rocky Mountains, and looked down upon the snow a thousand feet
below, and, standing where never human foot had stood before, felt the
exultation of first explorers. It was about two o’clock when we left
the summit; and, when we reached the bottom, the sun had already sunk
behind the wall, and the day was drawing to a close. It would have been
pleasant to have lingered here and on the summit longer; but we hurried
away as rapidly as the ground would permit, for it was an object to
regain our party as soon as possible, not knowing what accident the
next hour might bring forth.

We reached our deposit of provisions at nightfall. Here was not the
inn which awaits the tired traveller on his return from Mont Blanc, or
the orange groves of South America, with their refreshing juices and
soft, fragrant air; but we found our little _cache_ of dried meat and
coffee undisturbed. Though the moon was bright, the road was full of
precipices, and the fatigue of the day had been great. We therefore
abandoned the idea of rejoining our friends, and lay down on the rock,
and in spite of the cold slept soundly.




THE WILDERNESS HUNTER

J. B. RUXTON

1845

From “Adventures in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains.” John Murray,
London, 1847.


The grizzly bear is the fiercest of the feræ naturæ of the mountains.
His great strength and wonderful tenacity of life render an encounter
with him anything but desirable, and therefore it is a rule with the
Indians and white hunters never to attack him unless backed by a strong
party. Although, like every other wild animal, he usually flees from
man, yet at certain seasons, when maddened by love or hunger, he not
unfrequently charges at first sight of a foe; when, unless killed dead,
a hug at close quarters is anything but a pleasant embrace, his strong
hooked claws stripping the flesh from the bones as easily as a cook
peels an onion. Many are the tales of bloody encounters with these
animals which the trappers delight to recount to the “greenhorn,” to
enforce their caution as to the fool-hardiness of ever attacking the
grizzly bear.

Some years ago a trapping party was on their way to the mountains, led,
I believe, by old Sublette, a well-known captain of the West. Amongst
the band was one John Glass, a trapper who had been all his life in the
mountains, and had seen, probably, more exciting adventures, and had
had more wonderful and hair-breadth escapes, than any of the rough and
hardy fellows who make the West their home, and whose lives are spent
in a succession of perils and privations. On one of the streams running
from the “Black Hills,” a range of mountains northward of the Platte,
Glass and a companion were one day setting their traps, when, on
passing through a cherry-thicket which skirted the stream, the former,
who was in advance, descried a large grizzly bear quietly turning up
the turf with his nose, searching for yampa-roots or pig-nuts, which
there abounded. Glass immediately called his companion, and both,
proceeding cautiously, crept to the skirt of the thicket, and, taking
steady aim at the animal, whose broadside was fairly exposed at the
distance of twenty yards, discharged their rifles at the same instant,
both balls taking effect, but not inflicting a mortal wound. The bear,
giving a groan of pain, jumped with all four legs from the ground, and,
seeing the wreaths of smoke hanging at the edge of the brush, charged
at once in that direction, snorting with pain and fury.

“Hurraw, Bill!” roared out Glass, as he saw the animal rushing towards
them, “we’ll be made ‘meat’ of as sure as shootin’!” and, leaving the
tree behind which he had concealed himself, he bolted through the
thicket, followed closely by his companion. The brush was so thick,
that they could scarcely make their way through, whereas the weight and
strength of the bear carried him through all obstructions, and he was
soon close upon them.

About a hundred yards from the thicket was a steep bluff, and between
these points was a level piece of prairie; Glass saw that his only
chance was to reach this bluff, and, shouting to his companion to make
for it, they both broke from the cover and flew like lightning across
the open space. When more than half-way across, the bear being about
fifty yards behind them, Glass, who was leading, tripped over a stone,
and fell to the ground, and just as he rose to his feet, the beast,
rising on his hind feet, confronted him. As he closed, Glass, never
losing his presence of mind, cried to his companion to load up quickly,
and discharged his pistol full into the body of the animal, at the same
moment that the bear, with blood streaming from its nose and mouth,
knocked the pistol from his hand with one blow of its paw, and, fixing
his claws deep into his flesh, rolled with him to the ground.

The hunter, notwithstanding his hopeless situation, struggled manfully,
drawing his knife and plunging it several times into the body of the
beast, which, furious with pain, tore with tooth and claw the body of
the wretched victim, actually baring the ribs of the flesh and exposing
the very bones. Weak with loss of blood, and with eyes blinded with the
blood which streamed from his lacerated scalp, the knife at length fell
from his hand, and Glass sank down insensible, and to all appearance
dead.

His companion, who, up to this moment, had watched the conflict, which,
however, lasted but a few seconds, thinking that his turn would come
next, and not having had presence of mind even to load his rifle, fled
with might and main back to camp, where he narrated the miserable
fate of poor Glass. The captain of the band of trappers, however,
despatched the man with a companion back to the spot where he lay, with
instructions to remain by him if still alive, or to bury him if, as
all supposed he was, defunct, promising them at the same time a sum of
money for so doing.

On reaching the spot, which was red with blood, they found Glass still
breathing, and the bear, dead and stiff, actually lying upon his body.
Poor Glass presented a horrifying spectacle: the flesh was torn in
strips from his chest and limbs, and large flaps strewed the ground;
his scalp hung bleeding over his face, which was also lacerated in a
shocking manner.

The bear, besides the three bullets which had pierced its body, bore
the marks of the fierce nature of Glass’s final struggle, no less than
twenty gaping wounds in the breast and belly testifying to the gallant
defence of the mountaineer.

Imagining that, if not already dead, the poor fellow could not possibly
survive more than a few moments, the men collected his arms, stripped
him even of his hunting-shirt and moccasins, and, merely pulling the
dead bear off the body, mounted their horses, and slowly followed the
remainder of the party, saying, when they reached it, that Glass was
dead, as probably they thought, and that they had buried him.

In a few days the gloom which pervaded the trappers’ camp, occasioned
by the loss of a favourite companion, disappeared, and Glass’s
misfortune, although frequently mentioned over the camp-fire, at length
was almost entirely forgotten in the excitement of the hunt and Indian
perils which surrounded them.

Months elapsed, the hunt was over, and the party of trappers were on
their way to the trading-fort with their packs of beaver. It was nearly
sundown, and the round adobe bastions of the mud-built fort were just
in sight, when a horseman was seen slowly approaching them along the
banks of the river. When near enough to discern his figure, they saw
a lank cadaverous form with a face so scarred and disfigured that
scarcely a feature was discernible. Approaching the leading horsemen,
one of whom happened to be the companion of the defunct Glass in his
memorable bear scrape, the stranger, in a hollow voice, reining in his
horse before them, exclaimed, “Hurraw, Bill, my boy! you thought I was
‘gone under’ that time, did you? but hand me over my horse and gun, my
lad; I ain’t dead yet by a dam sight!”

What was the astonishment of the whole party, and the genuine horror
of Bill and his worthy companion in the burial story, to hear the
well-known, though now much altered, voice of John Glass, who had been
killed by a grizzly bear months before, and comfortably interred, as
the two men had reported, and all had believed!

There he was, however, and no mistake about it; and all crowded
round to hear from his lips, how, after the lapse of he knew not how
long, he had gradually recovered, and being without arms, or even a
butcher-knife, he had fed upon the almost putrid carcase of the bear
for several days, until he had regained sufficient strength to crawl,
when, tearing off as much of the bear’s-meat as he could carry in his
enfeebled state, he crept down the river; and suffering excessive
torture from his wounds, and hunger, and cold, he made the best of his
way to the fort, which was some eighty or ninety miles from the place
of his encounter with the bear, and, living the greater part of the
way upon roots and berries, he after many, many days, arrived in a
pitiable state, from which he had now recovered, and was, to use his
own expression, “as slick as a peeled onion.”

A trapper on Arkansa, named Valentine Herring, but better known as
“Old Rube,” told me that once, when visiting his traps one morning
on a stream beyond the mountains, he found one missing, at the same
time that he discovered fresh bear “sign” about the banks. Proceeding
down the river in search of the lost, trap, he heard the noise of some
large body breaking through the thicket of plum-bushes which belted
the stream. Ensconcing himself behind a rock, he presently observed a
huge grizzly bear emerge from the bush and limp on three legs to a flat
rock, which he mounted, and then, quietly seating himself, he raised
one of his fore paws, on which Rube, to his amazement, discovered his
trap tight and fast.

The bear, lifting his iron-gloved foot close to his face, gravely
examined it, turning his paw round and round, and quaintly bending
his head from side to side, looking at the trap from the corners of
his eyes, and with an air of mystery and puzzled curiosity, for he
evidently could not make out what the novel and painful appendage could
be; and every now and then smelt it and tapped it lightly on the rock.
This, however, only paining the animal the more, he would lick the
trap, as if deprecating its anger, and wishing to conciliate it.

After watching these curious antics for some time, as the bear
seemed inclined to resume his travels, Rube, to regain his trap,
was necessitated to bring the bear’s cogitations to a close, and,
levelling his rifle, shot him dead, cutting off his paw and returning
with it to camp, where the trappers were highly amused at the idea of
trapping a b’ar.

Near the same spot where Glass encountered his “scrape,” some score of
Sioux squaws were one day engaged in gathering cherries in a thicket
near their village, and had already nearly filled their baskets, when a
bear suddenly appeared in the midst, and, with a savage growl, charged
amongst them. Away ran the terrified squaws, yelling and shrieking,
out of the shrubbery, nor stopped until safely ensconced within their
lodges. Bruin, however, preferring fruit to meat, albeit of tender
squaws, after routing the petticoats, quietly betook himself to the
baskets, which he quickly emptied, and then quietly retired.

Bears are exceedingly fond of plums and cherries, and a thicket of this
fruit in the vicinity of the mountains is, at the season when they are
ripe, a sure “find” for Mr. Bruin. When they can get fruit they prefer
such food to meat, but are, nevertheless, carnivorous animals.

The game, _par excellence_, of the Rocky Mountains, and that which
takes precedence in a comestible point of view, is the carnero cimmaron
of the Mexicans, the Bighorn or Mountain sheep of the Canadian hunters.
This animal, which partakes both of the nature of the deer and
goat, resembles the latter more particularly in its habits, and its
characteristic liking to lofty, inaccessible points of the mountains,
whence it seldom descends to the upland valleys excepting in very
severe weather. In size the mountain-sheep is between the domestic
animal and the common red deer of America, but more strongly made than
the latter. Its colour is a brownish dun (the hair being tipped with
a darker tinge as the animal’s age increases), with a whitish streak
on the hind-quarters, the tail being shorter than a deer’s, and tipped
with black. The horns of the male are enormous, curved backwards, and
often three feet in length with a circumference of twenty inches near
the head. The hunters assert that, in descending the precipitous sides
of the mountains, the sheep frequently leap from a height of twenty or
thirty feet, invariably alighting on their horns, and thereby saving
their bones from certain dislocation.

They are even more acute in the organs of sight and smell than the
deer; and as they love to resort to the highest and most inaccessible
spots, whence a view can readily be had of approaching danger, and
particularly as one of the band is always stationed on the most
commanding pinnacle of rock as sentinel, whilst the others are feeding,
it is no easy matter to get within rifle-shot of the cautious animals.
When alarmed they ascend still higher up the mountain: halting now and
then on some overhanging crag, and looking down at the object which
may have frightened them, they again commence their ascent, leaping
from point to point, and throwing down an avalanche of rocks and stones
as they bound up the steep sides of the mountain. They are generally
very abundant in all parts of the main chain of the Rocky Mountains,
but particularly so in the vicinity of the “Parks” and the Bayou
Salado, as well as in the range between the upper waters of the Del
Norte and Arkansa, called the “Wet Mountain” by the trappers. On the
Sierra Madre, or Cordillera of New Mexico and Chihuahua, they are also
numerous.

The first mountain-sheep I killed, I got within shot of in rather a
curious manner. I had undertaken several unsuccessful hunts for the
purpose of procuring a pair of horns of this animal, as well as some
skins, which are of excellent quality when dressed, but had almost
given up any hope of approaching them, when one day, having killed
and butchered a black-tail deer in the mountains, I sat down with my
back to a small rock and fell asleep. On awaking, feeling inclined for
a smoke, I drew from my pouch a pipe, and flint and steel, and began
leisurely to cut a charge of tobacco. Whilst thus engaged I became
sensible of a peculiar odour which was wafted right into my face by
the breeze, and which, on snuffing it once or twice, I immediately
recognised as that which emanates from sheep and goats. Still I never
thought that one of the former animals could be in the neighbourhood,
for my mule was picketed on the little plateau where I sat, and was
leisurely cropping the buffalo-grass which thickly covered it.

Looking up carelessly from my work, as a whiff stronger than before
reached my nose, what was my astonishment at seeing five mountain-sheep
within ten paces, and regarding me with a curious and astonished
gaze! Without drawing a breath, I put out my hand and grasped the
rifle, which was lying within reach; but the motion, slight as it was,
sufficed to alarm them, and with a loud bleat the old ram bounded up
the mountain, followed by the band, and at so rapid a pace that all my
attempts to “draw a bead” upon them were ineffectual. When, however,
they reached a little plateau about one hundred and fifty yards from
where I stood, they suddenly stopped, and, approaching the edge,
looked down at me, shaking their heads, and bleating their displeasure
at the intrusion. No sooner did I see them stop than my rifle was at
my shoulder, and covering the broadside of the one nearest to me. An
instant after and I pulled the trigger, and at the report the sheep
jumped convulsively from the rock, and made one attempt to follow its
flying companions; but its strength failed, and, circling round once
or twice at the edge of the plateau, it fell over on its side, and,
rolling down the steep rock, tumbled dead very near me. My prize proved
a very fine young male, but had not a large pair of horns. It was,
however, “seal” fat, and afforded me a choice supply of meat, which
was certainly the best I had eaten in the mountains, being fat and
juicy, and in flavour somewhat partaking both of the domestic sheep and
buffalo.

Several attempts have been made to secure the young of these animals
and transport them to the States; and, for this purpose, an old
mountaineer, one Billy Williams, took with him a troop of milch-goats,
by which to bring up the young sheep; but although he managed to take
several fine lambs, I believe that he did not succeed in reaching the
frontier with one living specimen out of some half-score. The hunters
frequently rear them in the mountains; and they become greatly attached
to their masters, enlivening the camp with their merry gambols.

The elk, in point of size, ranks next to the buffalo. It is found in
all parts of the mountains, and descends not unfrequently far down into
the plains in the vicinity of the larger streams. A full-grown elk is
as large as a mule, with rather a heavy neck and body, and stout limbs,
its feet leaving a track as large as that of a two-year-old steer.
They are dull, sluggish animals, at least in comparison with others
of the deer tribe, and are easily approached and killed. In winter
they congregate in large herds, often numbering several hundreds; and
at that season are fond of travelling, their track through the snow
having the appearance of a broad beaten road. The elk requires less
killing than any other of the deer tribe (whose tenacity of life is
remarkable); a shot anywhere in the fore part of the animal brings
it to the ground. On one occasion I killed two with one ball, which
passed through the neck of the first, and struck the second, which was
standing a few paces distant, through the heart: both fell dead. A
deer, on the contrary, often runs a considerable distance, strike it
where you will. The meat of the elk is strong flavoured, and more like
“poor bull” than venison: it is only eatable when the animal is fat and
in good condition; at other times it is strong tasted and stringy.

The antelope, the smallest of the deer tribe, affords the hunter a
sweet and nutritious meat, when that of nearly every other description
of game, from the poorness and scarcity of the grass during the winter,
is barely eatable. They are seldom seen now in very large bands on
the grand prairies, having been driven from their old pastures by
the Indians and white hunters. The former, by means of “surrounds,”
an enclosed space formed in one of the passes used by these animals,
very often drive into the toils an entire band of antelope of several
hundreds, when not one escapes slaughter.

I have seen them on the western sides of the mountains, and in the
mountain valleys, in herds of several thousands. They are exceedingly
timid animals, but at the same time wonderfully curious; and their
curiosity very often proves their death, for the hunter, taking
advantage of this weakness, plants his wiping-stick in the ground, with
a cap or red handkerchief on the point, and, concealing himself in
the long grass, waits, rifle in hand, the approach of the inquisitive
antelope, who, seeing an unusual object in the plain, trots up to
it, and, coming within range of the deadly tube, pays dearly for his
temerity. An antelope, when alone, is one of the stupidest of beasts,
and becomes so confused and frightened at sight of a travelling party,
that it frequently runs right into the midst of the danger it seeks to
avoid.

I had heard most wonderful accounts from the trappers of an animal, the
existence of which was beyond all doubt, which, although exceedingly
rare, was occasionally met with in the mountains, but, from its
supposed dangerous ferocity, and the fact of its being a cross between
the devil and a bear, was never molested by the Indians or white
hunters, and a wide berth given whenever the animal made its dreaded
appearance. Most wonderful stories were told of its audacity and
fearlessness; how it sometimes jumps from an overhanging rock on a deer
or buffalo, and, fastening on its neck, soon brings it to the ground;
how it has been known to leap upon a hunter when passing near its place
of concealment, and devour him in a twinkling--often charging furiously
into a camp, and playing all sorts of pranks on the goods and chattels
of the mountaineers. The general belief was that the animal owes its
paternity to the old gentleman himself; but the most reasonable
declare it to be a cross between the bear and wolf.

Hunting one day with an old Canadian trapper, he told me that, in a
part of the mountains which we were about to visit on the morrow, he
once had a battle with a “carcagieu,” which lasted upwards of two
hours, during which he fired a pouchful of balls into the animal’s
body, which spat them out as fast as they were shot in. To the truth
of this probable [improbable] story he called all the saints to bear
witness.

Two days after, as we were toiling up a steep ridge after a band of
mountain-sheep, my companion, who was in advance, suddenly threw
himself flat behind a rock, and exclaimed in a smothered tone,
signalling me with his hand to keep down and conceal myself, “Sacré
enfant de Gârce, mais here’s von dam carcagieu!”

I immediately cocked my rifle, and, advancing to the rock, and peeping
over it, saw an animal, about the size of a large badger, engaged in
scraping up the earth about a dozen paces from where we were concealed.
Its colour was dark, almost black; its body long, and apparently
tailless; and I at once recognised the mysterious beast to be a
“glutton.” After I had sufficiently examined the animal, I raised my
rifle to shoot, when a louder than common “Enfant de Gârce” from my
companion alarmed the animal, and it immediately ran off, when I stood
up and fired both barrels after it, but without effect; the attempt
exciting a derisive laugh from the Canadian, who exclaimed, “Pe gar,
may be you got fifty balls; vel, shoot ’em all at de dam carcagieu, and
he not care a dam!”

The skins of these animals are considered “great medicine” by the
Indians, and will fetch almost any price. They are very rarely met
with on the plains, preferring the upland valleys and broken ground
of the mountains, which afford them a better field for their method
of securing game, which is by lying in wait behind a rock, or on the
steep bank of a ravine, concealed by a tree or shrub, until a deer or
antelope passes underneath, when they spring upon the animal’s back,
and, holding on with their strong and sharp claws, which they bury in
the flesh, soon bring it bleeding to the ground. The Indians say they
are purely carnivorous; but I imagine that, like the bear, they not
unfrequently eat fruit and roots, when animal food is not to be had.

I have said that the mountain wolves, and, still more so, the coyote
of the plains, are less frightened at the sight of man than any other
beast. One night, when encamped on an affluent of the Platte, a heavy
snow-storm falling at the time, I lay down in my blanket, after first
heaping on the fire a vast pile of wood, to burn till morning. In the
middle of the night I was awakened by the excessive cold, and, turning
towards the fire, which was burning bright and cheerfully, what was
my astonishment to see a large grey wolf sitting quietly before it,
his eyes closed, and his head nodding in sheer drowsiness! Although I
had frequently seen wolves evince their disregard to fires, by coming
within a few feet of them to seize upon any scraps of meat which might
be left exposed, I had never seen or heard of one approaching so close
as to warm his body, and for that purpose alone. However, I looked at
him for some moments without disturbing the beast, and closed my eyes
and went to sleep, leaving him to the quiet enjoyment of the blaze.

This is not very wonderful when I mention that it is a very common
thing for these animals to gnaw the straps of a saddle on which your
head is reposing for a pillow.

When I turned my horse’s head from Pike’s Peak I quite regretted the
abandonment of my mountain life, solitary as it was, and more than once
thought of again taking the trail to the Bayou Salado, where I had
enjoyed such good sport.

Apart from the feeling of loneliness which any one in my situation must
naturally have experienced, surrounded by stupendous works of nature,
which in all their solitary grandeur frowned upon me, and sinking into
utter insignificance the miserable mortal who crept beneath their
shadow; still there was something inexpressibly exhilarating in the
sensation of positive freedom from all worldly care, and a consequent
expansion of the sinews, as it were, of mind and body, which made
me feel elastic as a ball of Indian rubber, and in a state of such
perfect _insouciance_ that no more dread of scalping Indians entered
my mind than if I had been sitting in Broadway, in one of the windows
of Astor House. A citizen of the world, I never found any difficulty
in investing my resting-place, wherever it might be, with all the
attributes of a home; and hailed, with delight equal to that which the
artificial comforts of a civilized home would have caused, the, to
me, domestic appearance of my hobbled animals, as they grazed around
the camp, when I returned after a hard day’s hunt. By the way, I may
here remark that my _sporting_ feeling underwent a great change when I
was necessitated to follow and kill game for the support of life, and
as a means of subsistence; and the slaughter of deer and buffalo no
longer became _sport_ when the object was to fill the larder, and the
excitement of the hunt was occasioned by the alternative of a plentiful
feast or a banyan; and, although ranking under the head of the most
red-hot of sportsmen, I can safely acquit myself of ever wantonly
destroying a deer or buffalo unless I was in need of meat; and such
consideration for the feræ naturæ is common to all the mountaineers who
look to game alone for their support. Although liable to an accusation
of barbarism, I must confess that the very happiest moments of my
life have been spent in the wilderness of the far West; and I never
recall but with pleasure the remembrance of my solitary camp in the
Bayou Salado, with no friend near me more faithful than my rifle,
and no companions more sociable than my good horse and mules, or the
attendant coyote which nightly serenaded us. With a plentiful supply
of dry pine logs on the fire, and its cheerful blaze streaming far up
into the sky, illuminating the valley far and near, and exhibiting
the animals, with well-filled bellies, standing contentedly at rest
over their picket-pins, I would sit cross-legged enjoying the genial
warmth, and, pipe in mouth, watch the blue smoke as it curled upwards,
building castles in its vapoury wreaths, and, in the fantastic shapes
it assumed, peopling the solitude with figures of those far away.
Scarcely, however, did I ever wish to change such hours of freedom for
all the luxuries of civilized life, and, unnatural and extraordinary as
it may appear, yet such is the fascination of the life of the mountain
hunter, that I believe not one instance could be adduced of even the
most polished and civilized of men, who had once tasted the sweets
of its attendant liberty and freedom from every worldly care, not
regretting the moment when he exchanged it for the monotonous life of
the settlements, nor sighing, and sighing again, once more to partake
of its pleasures and allurements.

Nothing can be more social and cheering than the welcome blaze of
the camp-fire on a cold winter’s night, and nothing more amusing or
entertaining, if not instructive, than the rough conversation of the
single-minded mountaineers, whose simple daily talk is all of exciting
adventure, since their whole existence is spent in scenes of peril and
privation; and consequently the narration of their every-day life is
a tale of thrilling accidents and hair-breadth ’scapes, which, though
simple matter-of-fact to them, appear a startling romance to those who
are not acquainted with the nature of the lives led by these men, who,
with the sky for a roof and their rifles to supply them with food and
clothing, call no man lord or master, and are free as the game they
follow.

A hunter’s camp in the Rocky Mountains is quite a picture. He does
not always take the trouble to build any shelter unless it is in the
snow-season, when a couple of deerskins stretched over a willow frame
shelter him from the storm. At other seasons he is content with a mere
breakwind. Near at hand are two upright poles, with another supported
on the top of these, on which is displayed, out of reach of hungry
wolf or coyote, meat of every variety the mountains afford. Buffalo
dépouillés, hams of deer and mountain-sheep, beaver-tails, &c., stock
the larder. Under the shelter of the skins hang his powder-horn and
bullet-pouch; while his rifle, carefully defended from the damp, is
always within reach of his arm. Round the blazing fire the hunters
congregate at night, and whilst cleaning their rifles, making or
mending moccasins, or running bullets, spin long yarns of their hunting
exploits, &c.

Some hunters, who have married Indian squaws, carry about with them
the Indian lodge of buffalo-skins, which are stretched in a conical
form round a frame of poles. Near the camp is always seen the
“graining-block,” a log of wood with the bark stripped and perfectly
smooth, which is planted obliquely in the ground, and on which the hair
is removed from the skins to prepare them for being dressed. There are
also “stretching-frames,” on which the skins are placed to undergo
the process of dubbing, which is the removal of the flesh and fatty
particles adhering to the skin, by means of the _dubber_, an instrument
made of the stock of an elk’s horn. The last process is the “smoking,”
which is effected by digging a round hole in the ground and lighting
in it an armful of rotten wood or punk. Three sticks are then planted
round the hole, and their tops brought together and tied. The skin is
then placed on this frame, and all the holes by which the smoke might
escape carefully stopped: in ten or twelve hours the skin is thoroughly
smoked and ready for immediate use.

The camp is invariably made in a picturesque locality, for, like the
Indian, the white hunter has ever an eye to the beautiful. The broken
ground of the mountains, with their numerous tumbling and babbling
rivulets, and groves and thickets of shrubs and timber, always afford
shelter from the boisterous winds of winter, and abundance of fuel and
water. Facing the rising sun the hunter invariably erects his shanty,
with a wall of precipitous rock in rear to defend it from the gusts
which often sweep down the gorges of the mountains. Round the camp his
animals, well hobbled at night, feed within sight, for nothing does a
hunter dread more than a visit from the horse-stealing Indians; and to
be “afoot” is the acme of his misery.




AT FORT LARAMIE

FRANCIS PARKMAN

1846

From “The Oregon Trail.” Reprinted by permission of the publishers,
Little. Brown, and Company.[11]


Looking back, after the expiration of a year, upon Fort Laramie and
its inmates, they seem less like a reality than like some fanciful
picture of the olden time; so different was the scene from any which
this tamer side of the world can present. Tall Indians, enveloped in
their white buffalo-robes, were striding across the area or reclining
at full length on the low roofs of the buildings which enclosed it.
Numerous squaws, gayly bedizened, sat grouped in front of the rooms
they occupied; their mongrel offspring, restless and vociferous,
rambled in every direction through the fort; and the trappers, traders
and _engagés_ of the establishment were busy at their labor or their
amusements.

We were met at the gate, but by no means cordially welcomed. Indeed we
seemed objects of some distrust and suspicion, until Henry Chatillon
explained that we were not traders, and we, in confirmation, handed
to the _bourgeois_ a letter of introduction from his principals. He
took it, turned it upside down, and tried hard to read it; but his
literary attainments not being adequate to the task, he applied for
relief to the clerk, a sleek, smiling Frenchman, named Monthalon.
The letter read, Bordeaux (the bourgeois) seemed gradually to awaken
to a sense of what was expected of him. Though not deficient in
hospitable intentions, he was wholly unaccustomed to act as master
of ceremonies. Discarding all formalities of reception, he did not
honor us with a single word, but walked swiftly across the area, while
we followed in some admiration to a railing and a flight of steps
opposite the entrance. He signed to us that we had better fasten our
horses to the railing; then he walked up the steps, tramped along a
rude balcony, and, kicking open a door, displayed a large room, rather
more elaborately furnished than a barn. For furniture it had a rough
bedstead, but no bed, two chairs, a chest of drawers, a tin pail to
hold water, and a board to cut tobacco upon. A brass crucifix hung on
the wall, and close at hand a recent scalp, with hair full a yard long,
was suspended from a nail. I shall again have occasion to mention this
dismal trophy, its history being connected with that of our subsequent
proceedings.

This apartment, the best in Fort Laramie, was that usually occupied
by the legitimate _bourgeois_, Papin, in whose absence the command
devolved upon Bordeaux. The latter, a stout, bluff little fellow,
much inflated by a sense of his new authority, began to roar for
buffalo-robes. These being brought and spread upon the floor formed
our beds,--much better ones than we had of late been accustomed
to. Our arrangements made, we stepped out to the balcony to take a
more leisurely survey of the long looked-for haven at which we had
arrived at last. Beneath us was the square area surrounded by little
rooms, or rather cells, which opened upon it. These were devoted to
various purposes, but served chiefly for the accommodation of the men
employed at the fort, or of the equally numerous squaws whom they were
allowed to maintain in it. Opposite to us rose the blockhouse above
the gateway; it was adorned with the figure of a horse at full speed,
daubed upon the boards with red paint, and exhibiting a degree of skill
which might rival that displayed by the Indians in executing similar
designs upon their robes and lodges. A busy scene was enacting in the
area. The wagons of Vaskiss, an old trader, were about to set out for
a remote post in the mountains, and the Canadians were going through
their preparations with all possible bustle, while here and there an
Indian stood looking on with imperturbable gravity.

Fort Laramie is one of the posts established by the “American Fur
Company,” which well-nigh monopolizes the Indian trade of this region.
Here its officials rule with an absolute sway; the arm of the United
States has little force; for when we were there, the extreme outposts
of her troops were about seven hundred miles to the eastward. The
little fort is built of bricks dried in the sun, and externally is
of an oblong form, with bastions of clay, in the form of ordinary
blockhouses, at two of the corners. The walls are about fifteen feet
high, and surmounted by a slender palisade. The roofs of the apartments
within, which are built close against the walls, serve the purpose of a
banquette. Within, the fort is divided by a partition: on one side is
the square area, surrounded by the store-rooms, offices, and apartments
of the inmates; on the other is the _corral_, a narrow place,
encompassed by the high clay walls, where at night, or in presence of
dangerous Indians, the horses and mules of the fort are crowded for
safe keeping. The main entrance has two gates, with an arched passage
intervening. A little square window, high above the ground, opens
laterally from an adjoining chamber into this passage; so that when
the inner gate is closed and barred, a person without may still hold
communication with those within, through this narrow aperture. This
obviates the necessity of admitting suspicious Indians, for purposes
of trading, into the body of the fort; for when danger is apprehended,
the inner gate is shut fast, and all traffic is carried on by means of
the window. This precaution, though necessary at some of the Company’s
posts, is seldom resorted to at Fort Laramie; where, though men are
frequently killed in the neighborhood, no apprehensions are felt of
any general designs of hostility from the Indians.

We did not long enjoy our new quarters undisturbed. The door was
silently pushed open, and two eyeballs and a visage as black as night
looked in upon us; then a red arm and shoulder intruded themselves,
and a tall Indian, gliding in, shook us by the hand, grunted his
salutation, and sat down on the floor. Others followed, with faces
of the natural hue, and letting fall their heavy robes from their
shoulders, took their seats, quite at ease, in a semicircle before us.
The pipe was now to be lighted and passed from one to another; and
this was the only entertainment that at present they expected from us.
These visitors were fathers, brothers, or other relatives of the squaws
in the fort, where they were permitted to remain, loitering about in
perfect idleness. All those who smoked with us were men of standing and
repute. Two or three others dropped in also; young fellows who neither
by their years nor their exploits were entitled to rank with the old
men and warriors, and who, abashed in the presence of their superiors,
stood aloof, never withdrawing their eyes from us. Their cheeks were
adorned with vermilion, their ears with pendants of shell, and their
necks with beads. Never yet having signalized themselves as hunters,
or performed the honorable exploit of killing a man, they were held in
slight esteem, and were diffident and bashful in proportion. Certain
formidable inconveniences attended this influx of visitors. They were
bent on inspecting everything in the room; our equipments and our
dress alike underwent their scrutiny, for though the contrary has been
asserted, few beings have more curiosity than Indians in regard to
subjects within their ordinary range of thought. As to other matters,
indeed, they seem utterly indifferent. They will not trouble themselves
to inquire into what they cannot comprehend, but are quite contented
to place their hands over their mouths in token of wonder, and exclaim
that it is “great medicine.” With this comprehensive solution, an
Indian never is at a loss. He never launches into speculation and
conjecture; his reason moves in its beaten track. His soul is dormant;
and no exertions of the missionaries, Jesuit or Puritan, of the old
world or of the new, have as yet availed to arouse it.

As we were looking, at sunset, from the wall, upon the desolate plains
that surround the fort, we observed a cluster of strange objects like
scaffolds, rising in the distance against the red western sky. They
bore aloft some singular-looking burdens; and at their foot glimmered
something white, like bones. This was the place of sepulture of some
Dakota chiefs, whose remains their people are fond of placing in the
vicinity of the fort, in the hope that they may thus be protected from
violation at the hands of their enemies. Yet it has happened more than
once, and quite recently, that war parties of the Crow Indians, ranging
through the country, have thrown the bodies from the scaffolds, and
broken them to pieces, amid the yells of the Dakota, who remained pent
up in the fort, too few to defend the honored relics from insult. The
white objects upon the ground were buffalo-skulls, arranged in the
mystic circle commonly seen at Indian places of sepulture upon the
prairie.

We soon discovered, in the twilight, a band of fifty or sixty horses
approaching the fort. These were the animals belonging to the
establishment; who, having been sent out to feed, under the care of
armed guards, in the meadows below, were now being driven into the
_corral_ for the night. A gate opened into this inclosure; by the
side of it stood one of the guards, an old Canadian, with gray bushy
eyebrows, and a dragoon pistol stuck into his belt; while his comrade,
mounted on horseback, his rifle laid across the saddle in front, and
his long hair blowing before his swarthy face, rode at the rear of the
disorderly troop, urging them up the ascent. In a moment the narrow
_corral_ was thronged with the half-wild horses, kicking, biting, and
crowding restlessly together.

The discordant jingling of a bell, rung by a Canadian in the area,
summoned us to supper. The repast was served on a rough table in one
of the lower apartments of the fort, and consisted of cakes of bread
and dried buffalo-meat, an excellent thing for strengthening the teeth.
At this meal were seated the _bourgeois_ and superior dignitaries of
the establishment, among whom Henry Chatillon was worthily included.
No sooner was it finished than the table was spread a second time
(the luxury of bread being now, however, omitted), for the benefit
of certain hunters and trappers of an inferior standing; while the
ordinary Canadian _engagés_ were regaled on dried meat in one of their
lodging rooms. By way of illustrating the domestic economy of Fort
Laramie, it may not be amiss to introduce in this place a story current
among the men when we were there.

There was an old man named Pierre, whose duty it was to bring the
meat from the store-room for the men. Old Pierre, in the kindness
of his heart, used to select the fattest and the best pieces for
his companions. This did not long escape the keen-eyed _bourgeois_,
who was greatly disturbed at such improvidence, and cast about for
some means to stop it. At last he hit on a plan that exactly suited
him. At the side of the meat-room, and separated from it by a clay
partition, was another apartment, used for the storage of furs. It
had no communication with the fort, except through a square hole in
the partition; and of course it was perfectly dark. One evening the
_bourgeois_, watching for a moment when no one observed him, dodged
into the meat-room, clambered through the hole, and ensconced himself
among the furs and buffalo-robes. Soon after, old Pierre came in with
his lantern, and muttering to himself, began to pull over the bales
of meat and select the best pieces, as usual. But suddenly a hollow
and sepulchral voice proceeded from the inner room: “Pierre, Pierre!
Let that fat meat alone. Take nothing but lean.” Pierre dropped
his lantern, and bolted out into the fort, screaming, in an agony
of terror, that the devil was in the store-room; but tripping on
the threshold, he pitched over upon the gravel, and lay senseless,
stunned by the fall. The Canadians ran out to the rescue. Some lifted
the unlucky Pierre; and others, making an extempore crucifix of two
sticks, were proceeding to attack the devil in his stronghold, when the
_bourgeois_, with a crestfallen countenance, appeared at the door. To
add to his mortification, he was obliged to explain the whole stratagem
to Pierre, in order to bring him to his senses.

We were sitting, on the following morning, in the passage-way between
the gates, conversing with the traders Vaskiss and May. These two
men, together with our sleek friend, the clerk Monthalon, were, I
believe, the only persons then in the fort who could read and write.
May was telling a curious story about the traveller Catlin, when an
ugly, diminutive Indian, wretchedly mounted, came up at a gallop, and
rode by us into the fort. On being questioned, he said that Smoke’s
village was close at hand. Accordingly only a few minutes elapsed
before the hills beyond the river were covered with a disorderly swarm
of savages, on horseback and on foot. May finished his story; and by
that time the whole array had descended to Laramie Creek, and begun
to cross it in a mass. I walked down to the bank. The stream is wide,
and was then between three and four feet deep, with a swift current.
For several rods the water was alive with dogs, horses, and Indians.
The long poles used in pitching the lodges are carried by the horses,
fastened by the heavier end, two or three on each side, to a rude
sort of pack-saddle, while the other end drags on the ground. About a
foot behind the horse, a kind of large basket or pannier is suspended
between the poles, and firmly lashed in its place. On the back of the
horse are piled various articles of luggage; the basket also is well
filled with domestic utensils, or, quite as often, with a litter of
puppies, a brood of small children, or a superannuated old man. Numbers
of these curious vehicles, _traineaux_, or, as the Canadians called
them, _travois_, were now splashing together through the stream. Among
them swam countless dogs, often burdened with miniature _traineaux_;
and dashing forward on horseback through the throng came the warriors,
the slender figure of some lynx-eyed boy clinging fast behind them.
The women sat perched on the pack-saddles, adding not a little to the
load of the already overburdened horses. The confusion was prodigious.
The dogs yelled and howled in chorus; the puppies in the _travois_ set
up a dismal whine as the water invaded their comfortable retreat; the
little black-eyed children, from one year of age upward, clung fast
with both hands to the edge of their basket, and looked over in alarm
at the water rushing so near them, sputtering and making wry mouths as
it splashed against their faces. Some of the dogs, encumbered by their
load, were carried down by the current, yelping piteously; and the old
squaws would rush into the water, seize their favorites by the neck,
and drag them out. As each horse gained the bank, he scrambled up as he
could. Stray horses and colts came among the rest, often breaking away
at full speed through the crowd, followed by the old hags, screaming
after their fashion on all occasions of excitement. Buxom young squaws,
blooming in all the charms of vermilion, stood here and there on the
bank, holding aloft their master’s lance, as a signal to collect the
scattered portions of his household. In a few moments the crowd melted
away; each family with its horses and equipage, filing off to the plain
at the rear of the fort; and here, in the space of half an hour, arose
sixty or seventy of their tapering lodges. Their horses were feeding
by hundreds over the surrounding prairie, and their dogs were roaming
everywhere. The fort was full of warriors, and the children were
whooping and yelling incessantly under the walls.

These new-comers were scarcely arrived, when Bordeaux ran across
the fort, shouting to his squaw to bring him his spyglass. The
obedient Marie, the very model of a squaw, produced the instrument,
and Bordeaux hurried with it to the wall. Pointing it eastward, he
exclaimed, with an oath, that the families were coming. But a few
moments elapsed before the heavy caravan of the emigrant wagons could
be seen, steadily advancing from the hills. They gained the river, and,
without turning or pausing, plunged in, passed through, and slowly
ascending the opposing bank, kept directly on their way by the fort
and the Indian village, until, gaining a spot a quarter of a mile
distant, they wheeled into a circle. For some time our tranquillity
was undisturbed. The emigrants were preparing their encampment; but no
sooner was this accomplished than Fort Laramie was taken by storm. A
crowd of broad-brimmed hats, thin visages, and staring eyes, appeared
suddenly at the gate. Tall, awkward men, in brown homespun, women, with
cadaverous faces and long lank figures, came thronging in together,
and, as if inspired by the very demon of curiosity, ransacked every
nook and corner of the fort. Dismayed at this invasion we withdrew
in all speed to our chamber, vainly hoping that it might prove a
sanctuary. The emigrants prosecuted their investigations with untiring
vigor. They penetrated the rooms, or rather dens, inhabited by the
astonished squaws. Resolved to search every mystery to the bottom, they
explored the apartments of the men, and even that of Marie and the
_bourgeois_. At last a numerous deputation appeared at our door, but
found no encouragement to remain.

Having at length satisfied their curiosity, they next proceeded to
business. Their men occupied themselves in procuring supplies for their
onward journey,--either buying them, or giving in exchange superfluous
articles of their own.

The emigrants felt a violent prejudice against the French Indians,
as they called the trappers and traders. They thought, and with some
reason, that these men bore them no good-will. Many of them were firmly
persuaded that the French were instigating the Indians to attack
and cut them off. On visiting the encampment we were at once struck
with the extraordinary perplexity and indecision that prevailed among
them. They seemed like men totally out of their element,--bewildered
and amazed, like a troop of schoolboys lost in the woods. It was
impossible to be long among them without being conscious of the bold
spirit with which most of them were animated. But the _forest_ is the
home of the backwoodsman. On the remote prairie he is totally at a
loss. He differs as much from the genuine “mountain-man” as a Canadian
voyageur, paddling his canoe on the rapids of the Ottawa, differs from
an American sailor among the storms of Cape Horn. Still my companion
and I were somewhat at a loss to account for this perturbed state of
mind. It could not be cowardice; these men were of the same stock with
the volunteers of Monterey and Buena Vista. Yet, for the most part,
they were the rudest and most ignorant of the frontier population; they
knew absolutely nothing of the country and its inhabitants; they had
already experienced much misfortune, and apprehended more; they had
seen nothing of mankind, and had never put their own resources to the
test.

A full share of suspicion fell upon us. Being strangers, we were
looked upon as enemies. Having occasion for a supply of lead and a few
other necessary articles, we used to go over to the emigrant camps to
obtain them. After some hesitation, some dubious glances, and fumbling
of the hands in the pockets, the terms would be agreed upon, the
price tendered, and the emigrant would go off to bring the article in
question. After waiting until our patience gave out, we would go in
search of him, and find him seated on the tongue of his wagon.

“Well, stranger,” he would observe, as he saw us approach, “I reckon I
won’t trade.”

Some friend of his had followed him from the scene of the bargain, and
whispered in his ear that clearly we meant to cheat him, and he had
better have nothing to do with us.

This timorous mood of the emigrants was doubly unfortunate, as it
exposed them to real danger. Assume, in the presence of Indians, a bold
bearing, self-confident yet vigilant, and you will find them tolerably
safe neighbors. But your safety depends on the respect and fear you
are able to inspire. If you betray timidity or indecision, you convert
them from that moment into insidious and dangerous enemies. The Dakota
saw clearly enough the perturbation of the emigrants, and instantly
availed themselves of it. They became extremely insolent and exacting
in their demands. It has become an established custom with them to go
to the camp of every party, as it arrives in succession at the fort,
and demand a feast. Smoke’s village had come with this express design,
having made several days’ journey with no other object than that of
enjoying a cup of coffee and two or three biscuit. So the “feast” was
demanded, and the emigrants dared not refuse it.

One evening about sunset the village was deserted. We met old men,
warriors, squaws, and children in gay attire, trooping off to the
encampment with faces of anticipation; and, arriving here, they seated
themselves in a semicircle. Smoke occupied the centre, with his
warriors on either hand; the young men and boys came next, and the
squaws and children formed the horns of the crescent. The biscuit and
coffee were promptly despatched, the emigrants staring open-mouthed
at their savage guests. With each emigrant party that arrived at Fort
Laramie this scene was renewed; and every day the Indians grew more
rapacious and presumptuous. One evening they broke in pieces, out of
mere wantonness, the cups from which they had been feasted; and this
so exasperated the emigrants that many of them seized their rifles
and could scarcely be restrained from firing on the insolent mob of
Indians. Before we left the country this dangerous spirit on the part
of the Dakota had mounted to a yet higher pitch. They began openly to
threaten the emigrants with destruction, and actually fired upon one
or two parties of them. A military force and military law are urgently
called for in that perilous region; and unless troops are speedily
stationed at Fort Laramie, or elsewhere in the neighborhood, both
emigrants and other travellers will be exposed to most imminent risks.

The Ogillallah, the Brulé, and the other western bands of the Dakota
or Sioux, are thorough savages, unchanged by any contact with
civilization. Not one of them can speak a European tongue, or has ever
visited an American settlement. Until within a year or two, when the
emigrants began to pass through their country on the way to Oregon,
they had seen no whites, except a few employed about the Fur Company’s
posts. They thought them a wise people, inferior only to themselves,
living in leather lodges, like their own, and subsisting on buffalo.
But when the swarm of _Meneaska_, with their oxen and wagons, began
to invade them, their astonishment was unbounded. They could scarcely
believe that the earth contained such a multitude of white men. Their
wonder is now giving way to indignation; and the result, unless
vigilantly guarded against, may be lamentable in the extreme.

But to glance at the interior of a lodge. Shaw and I used often to
visit them. Indeed we spent most of our evenings in the Indian village,
Shaw’s assumption of the medical character giving us a fair pretext.
As a sample of the rest I will describe one of these visits. The
sun had just set, and the horses were driven into the _corral_. The
Prairie Cock, a noted beau, came in at the gate with a bevy of young
girls, with whom he began a dance in the area, leading them round and
round in a circle, while he jerked up from his chest a succession of
monotonous sounds, to which they kept time in a rueful chant. Outside
the gate boys and young men were idly frolicking; and close by, looking
grimly upon them, stood a warrior in his robe, with his face painted
jet-black, in token that he had lately taken a Pawnee scalp. Passing
these, the tall dark lodges rose between us and the red western sky.
We repaired at once to the lodge of Old Smoke himself. It was by no
means better than the others; indeed, it was rather shabby; for in this
democratic community the chief never assumes superior state. Smoke
sat cross-legged on a buffalo-robe, and his grunt of salutation as we
entered was unusually cordial, out of respect, no doubt, to Shaw’s
medical character. Seated around the lodge were several squaws, and an
abundance of children. The complaint of Shaw’s patients was, for the
most part, a severe inflammation of the eyes, occasioned by exposure
to the sun, a species of disorder which he treated with some success.
He had brought with him a homœopathic medicine-chest, and was, I
presume, the first who introduced that harmless system of treatment
among the Ogillallah. No sooner had a robe been spread at the head of
the lodge for our accommodation, and we had seated ourselves upon it,
than a patient made her appearance,--the chief’s daughter herself, who,
to do her justice, was the best-looking girl in the village. Being
on excellent terms with the physician, she placed herself readily
under his hands, and submitted with a good grace to his applications,
laughing in his face during the whole process, for a squaw hardly
knows how to smile. This case despatched, another of a different kind
succeeded. A hideous, emaciated old woman sat in the darkest corner of
the lodge, rocking to and fro with pain, and hiding her eyes from the
light by pressing the palms of both hands against her face. At Smoke’s
command she came forward, very unwillingly, and exhibited a pair of
eyes that had nearly disappeared from excess of inflammation. No sooner
had the doctor fastened his grip upon her, than she set up a dismal
moaning, and writhed so in his grasp that he lost all patience; but
being resolved to carry his point, he succeeded at last in applying his
favorite remedies.

“It is strange,” he said when the operation was finished, “that I
forgot to bring any Spanish flies with me; we must have something here
to answer for a counter-irritant.”

So, in the absence of better, he seized upon a red-hot brand from the
fire, and clapped it against the temple of the old squaw, who set up an
unearthly howl, at which the rest of the family broke into a laugh.

During these medical operations Smoke’s eldest squaw entered the lodge,
with a mallet in her hand, the stone head of which, precisely like
those sometimes ploughed up in the fields of New England, was made
fast to the handle by a covering of raw hide. I had observed some time
before a litter of well-grown black puppies, comfortably nestled among
some buffalo-robes at one side; but this new-comer speedily disturbed
their enjoyment; for seizing one of them by the hind paw, she dragged
him out and carrying him to the entrance of the lodge, hammered him on
the head till she killed him. Aware to what this preparation tended, I
looked through a hole in the back of the lodge to see the next steps
of the process. The squaw, holding the puppy by the legs, was swinging
him to and fro through the blaze of a fire, until the hair was singed
off. This done, she unsheathed her knife and cut him into small pieces,
which she dropped into a kettle to boil. In a few moments a large
wooden dish was set before us filled with this delicate preparation. A
dog-feast is the greatest compliment a Dakota can offer to his guest;
and, knowing that to refuse eating would be an affront, we attacked the
little dog, and devoured him before the eyes of his unconscious parent.
Smoke in the meantime was preparing his great pipe. It was lighted
when we had finished our repast, and we passed it from one to another
till the bowl was empty. This done, we took our leave without further
ceremony, knocked at the gate of the fort, and after making ourselves
known, were admitted.




GOLD! GOLD!

SUTTER’S FORT

CHARLES PETTIGREW

1848-1849

From _The Caledonian_. Reprinted by permission of the publishers,
Caledonian Publishing Company, New York.


In the year 1839, while California was still a part of the Mexican
Republic, there appeared before the Governor at Monterey, a man named
Johann August Sutter, asking for a grant of land on which he proposed
to found a colony. Though born in Baden, Germany, his parents were
Swiss, and when a young man he served as captain in the Swiss army,
and later was in business, but failed. He then came to America, and
crossing to the Pacific Coast on the Oregon trail, he rambled about the
Northwest, went to Honolulu, and finally landed at Yerba Buena (San
Francisco), going from there to Monterey. Governor Alvarado, in answer
to his request for a grant of land, told him that he must first become
a citizen of Mexico, then select the land for which he wished a grant,
and come back to him in a year, when perhaps his naturalization papers
would be issued, and a grant of the land given him.

Sutter acted as directed, and was not only made a Mexican citizen and
given a grant of the land he had selected but was also made an official
of the government, an alcalde (mayor with judicial powers), with
jurisdiction over a territory running eighty-five miles northward along
the Sacramento river from near the place where the American river joins
it, and eastward from the Sacramento a distance varying from ten to
twelve miles, Sutter’s grant being eleven square leagues (48,000 acres)
within that territory. Having previously selected his location, he at
once began to build a fort with adobe brick (bricks of sun dried clay),
with walls three feet thick and eighteen feet high, enclosing a space
five hundred feet long, by a hundred feet wide. The walls were pierced
at suitable places with loopholes for muskets, and at the southeast and
northwest corners of the enclosure were towers or bastions in which
small cannon were mounted, so that they commanded the four sides of the
enclosure. In this fort Sutter’s house, together with quarters for his
people, and all necessary storehouses and workshops were located. The
fort stood on high ground, on the south bank of the American river,
about a quarter of a mile from the water’s edge, and about a mile from
the Sacramento river. His original company of colonists consisted of
five white men, ten Indians, two of whom were squaws, and a large
bulldog. That Captain Sutter chose his location wisely was strongly
confirmed in 1854, when the site of his fort was chosen as the capital
of the newly organized State of California; and now the great city of
Sacramento, with its population of 75,000, has risen on the place of
his selection. He named the place New Helvetta, to remind him of his
native Switzerland; but somehow that name did not stick, and it was
popularly known as Sutter’s Fort, the site of which has long since been
absorbed by the great city. But the grateful citizens of Sacramento
have preserved and restored the ruins of the old fort in one of their
parks, so that its memory may be forever cherished.

During the five years that intervened between the time he became a
citizen of the Mexican Republic and the ceding of the whole territory
of Alta California by Mexico to the United States, Sutter was lord of
all he surveyed. He had studied Dr. McLaughlin’s (the agent of the
Hudson Bay Company) method of handling the Indians, and he followed
it strictly. He treated them kindly, without fear, paying them exactly
as agreed for their services, and punishing them when they stole or
disturbed the peace and order of the camp; and if they showed any
disposition to act against him in force, he easily frightened them by
the use of his three cannon, which always terrified them.

Sutter’s Fort soon became the rendezvous for all the trappers, hunters
and wandering people of all sorts in the surrounding territory, besides
the emigrants that all the time came from the East over the Oregon
trail, the fort being its terminal.

When the territory came under the Stars and Stripes, Sutter swore
allegiance to the flag and anglicized his name, becoming John Augustus
Sutter. By 1847 his colony had developed wonderfully. He had a thousand
acres of land growing wheat; he owned 8,000 head of cattle, 2,000
horses and mules, 2,000 sheep and 1,000 hogs.

Commodore Stockton had confirmed him as alcalde, or justice of the
peace, and General Kearney later made him Indian Agent. He had now come
to the point where it became necessary to have a flour mill for the
colony, and that a flour mill might be built, a saw-mill was necessary,
to prepare timbers, planks and boards. The machinery for these mills
had been recently brought to the fort in 1844 by the ship _Lexington_.

Among the immigrants that came to the fort in 1844 was a man from New
Jersey named James Wilson Marshall, a millwright by trade. He worked
for Sutter for a time, but being taken with an attack of land-hunger,
he undertook to work land of his own. Tiring of that, he came back to
Sutter in 1847, when the necessity for the mills became so urgent. They
formed a partnership in the saw-mill, and Marshall, with two white
men and an Indian guide, left the fort on May 16, 1847, to search for
a site and build the saw-mill. He found a place on the south fork of
the American river, about forty-five miles from the fort, adjacent
to timber, that he thought suitable. This place now bears the name of
Coloma. Work on the mill and dam was at once begun, and in January of
the following year the mill and dam had been constructed, and they were
at work on the tail-race that was to lead the water, after it had done
its work on the wheel, back to the river.

Marshall found conditions such that considerable time and labor could
be saved by simply loosening up the earth with a pick and by turning on
the water washing it out into the river.

On the afternoon of January 24, while directing this operation and
walking along on the bank of the tail-race, his eye was attracted by
some yellow specks that glittered in the sunlight. At first he took
little notice of them, till seeing still more of them, the thought
flashed through his mind--“Can these be gold?” He picked up a piece
larger than the rest and examined it. He had never seen gold in its
native state, but understood in a general way that it was heavier than
lead and that it was a soft, not a brittle metal. He weighed it in his
hands, bit it with his teeth, then laid it on a rock and pounded it
with a smaller stone, and found that he could mash it a little. Being
of a morose disposition, he became very thoughtful, and as he sat at
supper with his mates he scarcely spoke a word; but at last he quietly
remarked: “Boys, I think I have found a gold mine.” One of the men
spoke up and said, “I reckon not--no such luck for us.”

He could not dismiss it from his mind, and was up betimes in the
morning, again looking over the tail-race, and found more of the yellow
particles. The thought that it might be gold thrilled him. He and his
men picked up about four ounces of the yellow stuff, and Mrs. Wimmer,
the camp cook, boiled them, which only made them brighter. This more
and more convinced Marshall that they were gold. He begged his men
to go on with the work and say nothing about it. On the morning of
January 28 he mounted his horse and started for the fort, where he
arrived early in the afternoon. He was covered with mud, for he had
ridden hard, and it was raining so that he was wet to the skin, and he
was very much excited. Walking into Sutter’s office, he at once asked
for a private interview. Whispering that the doors must be locked,
this rather alarmed Sutter. Marshall then announced that he was sure
he had found gold, and taking a little bag from his pocket he dumped
his few ounces of nuggets on the table. Incredulous at first, Sutter
soon became convinced that this was gold, especially after he had
tested them with acid, and bringing from his drug store a small pair of
scales, he put some silver coins in one of the saucers, and balancing
them with gold in the other, he lowered them into a basin of water.
When the yellow metal dropped lower than the silver coins, he knew for
sure that they were gold.

So excited was Marshall that though Sutter urged him to stay at the
fort till the next morning, cold and wet as he was, he returned to the
mill the same night, hardly taking time to eat a bit of supper. The
next morning he was back on the road to meet Sutter, who had agreed to
come then. They spent two days together looking the ground over and
trying to decide what was the best thing to do.

Gold they found everywhere they looked for it, along the river.
Marshall’s chief anxiety was to secure for themselves all the rights
to the gold in the ground to which they might be entitled. Sutter’s
viewpoint was somewhat different. He had developed a very valuable
agricultural property, and at this time owned 12,000 head of cattle,
2,000 horses and mules, 10,000 to 15,000 sheep, and 1,000 hogs; he had
grown during the past year 20,000 bushels of wheat, and had several
thousand hides in process of tanning or waiting to be tanned. Then
there were the two unfinished mills. He at once saw that if his men
once broke away from him and went after the gold his mills would never
be finished, and they were now more than ever absolutely necessary. So
he decided to try and keep the whole matter secret, at least until the
mills were finished, and he pledged his men to stay on the job and say
nothing about the gold for the next six weeks. He thought that he could
easily keep them isolated for that time. He also took the precaution of
obtaining from the Indians living in the district the exclusive use of
their lands for all or any purpose, for himself and Marshall, for the
next three years, the tract consisting of twelve miles square.

The excitement within the camp increased daily. One of the men, Bilger
by name, had been assigned the duty of occasionally going along the
river and its tributaries, to shoot deer and ducks, to give variety to
the bill of fare. He always brought back with him specimens of gold
that he easily found wherever he searched for it in the streams. Sutter
himself became more and more uneasy as the weeks passed. His title
to the land grant given him by the Mexican Government had not been
confirmed by the United States authorities, that had so recently come
into control of the new territory. There had not been time for such
detail. At last he decided to send one of his trusted assistants, one
Charles Bennett, to Monterey, to see the Acting Governor, Mason, and
ask him to make a special grant, or at least give him and his partner
exclusive milling and mining rights and privileges on the land they
were developing. Mason had no power or authority to make such a grant.
Bennett, though strictly enjoined to say nothing about the gold find,
let the secret slip.

About the same time, supplies were needed at the saw-mill, and a
teamster whom Sutter thought he could trust was sent with them. He,
of course, heard from the workmen at the mill about the finding of
gold, and being very incredulous, was given a few small nuggets to
convince him. Returning to the fort, and still doubtful of the value
of the yellow stuff he had gotten from the men at the saw-mill, the
idea occurred to him that a good way to test the matter was to try to
trade it for whiskey, so he offered his few pieces of yellow metal at
the store that had been recently opened at New Helvetta by Smith &
Brannan. Smith, to whom he offered the gold, though distrustful of its
being gold, made the trade. The whiskey loosened the teamster’s tongue,
and the secret was out. This was about a week before the six weeks of
agreed secrecy had expired.

Unaware that they stood at the threshold of a great era, at the
birthplace, one might say, of a mighty empire, Sutter and Marshall
were reluctant to change the future of peaceful plodding pursuits that
they had marked out for themselves, for they knew not what, nor did
they dream that they would be the first to suffer disaster from this
discovery.

The news that had been let loose by the trusted assistant and the
drunken teamster spread like fire when touched to a pile of straw, to
San Francisco, Monterey, Los Angeles and San Diego, almost to every
settlement in California and up into Oregon, going almost like a flash.
The men at the saw-mill and at the fort at once traded the particles of
yellow metal they had found for picks, shovels, pans, blankets, boots,
bacon, beef and flour, on the basis of eight dollars an ounce; this the
traders were willing to risk as the value.

People poured in by the hundred from everywhere. The wheat in Sutter’s
fields was never harvested; his mills were never completed; no man
now wanted to do his work. His sheep, cattle and hogs were stolen and
devoured by hungry men who squatted on his lands, dug over and wasted
them, till little by little his vast properties melted away. He spent
his money in litigation that was fruitless, trying to reclaim the title
to his lands, and was saved from dire poverty by a pension from the
State. He died in Washington, D. C., in 1880.

Marshall fared no better. The squatters took possession of the land,
dividing it into mining claims; he wandered about the district, a
broken, homeless man, till finally in 1865 he obtained a grant to a
piece of land due him for services in the Mexican War, on which he
lived, growing grapes, till death called him. A simple monument now
marks the spot where Marshall first found the gold, and Sutter’s Fort
has been reproduced in one of Sacramento’s parks to keep their memories
green.

The news of the gold find spread the world over, to wherever news
could be carried, and California, like a great lodestone, attracted
the attention of all peoples, and became a Mecca for many. A great
human tide flowed to it in three great streams; one of these being by
sailing vessels around Cape Horn, that might take from six to nine
months or longer, depending on the weather. Another stream went by the
Isthmus of Panama; the very best time that could be made across was
five days, which was made chiefly by mule-back, though often on foot,
baggage being carried on mules, or on the shoulders of peons. The road
was nothing more than a trail, a very poor one, at that. Arriving at
Panama, the trip was continued up the coast by sailing vessel, or by
the one steamer that had recently been put on by the Pacific Mail
Steamship Company.

The third stream went overland across the plains and mountains by the
Oregon or the Santa Fé trail, by wagons or pack trains. Either of these
routes brought untold hardships, toil and suffering to the gold-seeker;
tales of these experiences of many are truly heart-rending, and we may
relate some of these later.

The ships that left ports on the Atlantic coast late in December,
1848, for the trip around the Horn bound for San Francisco, began
to arrive early in July, and by the end of that month fifty-four of
them had anchored in the bay. Each succeeding month brought more and
more, and besides there came from ports all over the world, ships that
altogether, by the end of 1849, made up a total of 540, all of them
laden to full capacity with a human cargo of all sorts and conditions,
bankers, merchants, manufacturers, ship owners, mechanics, farmers,
laborers, professional men, students, artists, and even women who
had caught the vision of great riches, braved the dangers of ocean,
mountain and desert to reach the land of gold.

Arriving at San Francisco, everybody, including the officers and crews
of the ships, headed for the diggings. This went on during the next
five years, until there were more deserted ships rotting at their
anchor cables in San Francisco Bay than ever before or since in the
history of the world. The city itself became almost deserted; at the
time of the discovery it had a population of 800 that speedily shrunk
to 150.

Food and miners’ supplies of all kinds became very scarce; flour sold
at $400 a barrel, and sugar at $4 a pound, and a very poor grade of
coffee at the same price. In many cases flour brought $2 a pound and
whiskey $20 a quart. Rowboats that ordinarily sold for $50 or less,
by the end of May, 1849, had jumped to $500, for people could go to
Sutter’s Fort by rowboat. A shovel that formerly sold for a dollar now
cost ten; picks, crowbars, pans and knives all advanced in the same
ratio. In like manner, clothing of all kinds, especially that of the
coarser quality, advanced in price, and was hard to get.

The first news of the discovery reached Monterey (then the capital
of the territory) on May 20, Colonel of Dragoons R. B. Mason being
governor of the new territory, and the Rev. Walter Cotton, alcalde of
the City of Monterey. At first the news was considered very doubtful,
till on June 5th, what seemed more reliable information was received,
and the day following Cotton despatched a messenger to the American
River, to ascertain, as he wrote, “whether the reported gold was a
tangible reality on the earth or a fanciful treasure at the base of
some rainbow.”

On the 12th of June a straggler wandered into the town with a nugget
weighing an ounce, and a few days later a man who had worked for
Cotton as a body servant, after being absent for a short time,
returned with $2,000 worth of native gold. A rough-looking man who did
not appear to have enough about him to buy a loaf of bread, came to
Monterey with a sack on his shoulder, from which he shook $15,000 worth
of gold-dust. Four citizens of Monterey who had employed some Indians
on the Feather River, collected $76,844 worth of gold in seven weeks
and three days; a man who had worked sixty-four days on the Yuba River
brought back $5,356 in gold; another resident of Monterey, who worked
fifty-seven days on the North Fork of the American River, brought back
$4,534; a party of fourteen who worked fifty-four days on the Mokelumne
River, had $3,467; a woman who had worked with pan and shovel in dry
diggings forty-six days cleaned up $2,125. All these incidents did not
seem to satisfy either the Governor or the Alcalde, and in order that
absolute proof of the truth of the whole matter might be had, it was
decided in September that the Alcalde should visit the mines in person,
a party of responsible citizens accompanying him. Let us take the trip
with them and note what they saw.

As they neared the mines, they met returning gold-hunters, of whom
Cotton wrote: “A more forlorn looking group never knocked at the gate
of a pauper asylum. Most of them were on foot, with rags tied on
their blistered feet.” They asked for bread and meat; Cotton’s party
gave them some, supposing that they were giving in charity, and were
surprised when one of the party passed out a pound or two of nuggets in
payment. Cotton afterwards learned that the ragged travelers had with
them over a hundred thousand dollars in virgin gold. On arrival at the
mines, the eager Alcalde borrowed a pick, and in five minutes found
enough gold to make a seal ring. He found seventy people at work in a
small ravine, each of them getting an ounce a day. A sailor whom he had
known when he was chaplain on the _Savannah_ had found a nugget that
weighed three ounces. He found another man picking at a spot on the
canyon side who presently uncovered a pocket from which he took nearly
two pounds of nuggets, all shaped like water-melon seeds, and near to
this spot, on the following day, he uncovered a pound and a half.

A Welshman whom the Alcalde had a short time before fined for being
drunk, and disturbing the peace, met him with a hearty greeting,
assuring him that he held no grudge against him, and turning to resume
his work, uncovered a nugget that weighed an ounce or more; picking
it up, he handed it to Mr. Cotton, saying: “Señor Alcalde, accept
that, and when you reach home, have a bracelet made of it for your
good lady.” A German picked up a piece weighing three ounces, from the
ground in front of Cotton’s tent, and later in the same day Cotton
himself took half an ounce from a crevice in a rock. A little girl
playing in a ravine near her mother’s tent, picked up a curious-looking
stone that proved to be nearly pure gold; it weighed over six pounds. A
much larger lump, twenty-three pounds in weight, was later found near
by.

Two men invited Cotton to come and see their claim. He found them
working in a hole up to their waists in water; they were getting from
fifteen to twenty dollars out of every pan they washed, and the day
that he was with them they took $1,000 for their day’s work. He found
at a place about three miles from his camp a woman working alone. He
had known her in San José; she was washing gravel in a wooden bowl, and
had averaged an ounce a day for three weeks.

Just before leaving the mines at the end of his stay of six weeks, he
found seated on a stone under a tree, in rather a dejected condition,
an old man, who bewailed the fact that he had worked for many days and
gotten little or nothing, and that he would move to another place.
Cotton said to him, “Why not turn over the stone you are sitting on?”
He replied, “It ain’t worth while, but I will do it if you say so.” He
turned it over, and clearing away a little dirt, found a lot of nuggets
that weighed nearly a half a pound.

On the way home, his party overtook another old man with his grandson;
they had been in the mines and collected twenty pounds of nuggets, of
which they had been robbed, and were poorer than when they began.

Governor Mason also visited the mines, and made a report of his trip to
the Adjutant-General of the United States. The report was dated August
17, 1848. With his report he sent two hundred and twenty-eight ounces
of nuggets as specimens of the product of the mines. He had visited
mines on all the rivers in the gold-bearing territory; his report
relates many interesting incidents, among them the following: He was
shown a trench about a hundred yards long, four feet wide and three
feet deep, from which there had been taken in one week $17,000; a small
ravine near to it had yielded $12,000; men were picking gold out of the
crevices of the rocks with butcher knives, in pieces weighing from one
to six ounces. At Weber’s store in Helvetta, a man had given an ounce
and a half of gold worth $24 for a box of seidlitz powders; another man
had paid one dollar for a drop of laudanum.

He estimated the whole output of the mines at that time from thirty to
fifty thousand dollars a day, and stated that he thought that the mines
in the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valleys would easily repay the cost
of the late war with Mexico, together with all that the Government had
paid for lands ceded. All this gold was being taken from land which now
belonged to the Government, and he thought something should be paid for
the privilege of mining, but he saw no way to collect it, having but
few soldiers, not enough to cover the large territory that was being
worked over. He had considerable trouble holding enlisted men to the
performance of their duties, so concluded not to make any rules that
he could not enforce. The gold-bearing region known at that time was
about two hundred miles long, averaging about thirty miles wide.

This report he despatched by special messenger by way of Panama; it
reached Washington in time for President Polk to mention the discovery
in his message to Congress in December, thus transmitting it to
the people. It attracted wide attention, creating great interest
everywhere, so that every newspaper in the country, nay, in the world,
was daily scanned for news from the California gold diggings.

Enough has been said, and the many instances related will give readers
a fair idea of the magnitude and importance of Marshall’s discovery. It
will be of interest to add further that from the time of the discovery
in 1848 to January 1st, 1903, California had produced $1,379,275,408 in
gold. There were two periods of intense excitement, the first ending
in 1854. From 1850 to 1853, the greatest yield from washings was
probably not less than $65,000,000 a year. The average production per
year for the years 1851 to 1854, inclusive, was $75,570,087, reaching
$81,294,270 in 1852; this was the banner year, and from 1850 to 1862
the average production was $55,882,861, never falling below $50,000,000.

The ardent hope that ever lured the plodding miner and the prospector
as well, was that they would come upon some rich deposits of dust, or
a big nugget, that would make them rich at once. Let me quote from
Eldridge’s history: “Some nuggets of surprising size were found in
the early years, the largest recorded being one of one hundred and
forty-one pounds four ounces of almost pure gold, found in 1854. One of
perhaps equal value was found by some Chinamen, who cut it to pieces
with cold chisels, and sold it bit by bit with their gold-dust, fearing
that it would be taken away from them if shown to any one in the shape
in which they found it. A single lump weighing one hundred and six
pounds was found in Baltimore ravine, near Auburn, and another of
one hundred and three pounds, and still another of ninety-six pounds
near Downieville. A seventy-two pound chunk was found near Columbia,
one worth $10,000 at Ophir, in Sutter County; one of fifty pounds on
the Yuba; one of forty-four pounds near Dogtown, Butte County; one
of fifty-one pounds near French ravine, in Sierra County, and one of
eighty pounds from the American River.

“Pieces weighing from ten to forty pounds have been found in many
places, and sometimes in the most casual manner. A farmer strolling
through his pasture on or near the lower Mokelumne River, one Sunday
morning, kicked at what appeared to be a stone lying in his path,
but which proved to be so heavy that he examined it more carefully.
It proved to be a lump of almost pure gold worth several thousand
dollars. Many lucky miners made their fortunes within a few months
after arriving at the mines in 1849 and 1850. Many were more easily
satisfied, and returned east after they had found enough to buy a
farm near the old homestead, or to pay off a mortgage, or start in
some business for which they had long striven. Many lost their health
and even their lives. The number of those who died in their tents or
cabins, or under the open sky, during the fierce struggle of the first
years after the discovery, will never be known.

“Of the thousands that were attracted to the West by the gold
discovery, few, if any, ever thought that gold digging would be a
permanent occupation for them, and so it proved. It was only a stepping
stone to the acquiring of a farm and a home. It took but a few years
to find and pick up all the yellow metal that Nature had so profusely
scattered on or near the surface of California’s lovely valleys and
foothills. That done, large numbers of the gold-seekers remained to
help develop and cultivate her soil that was to produce still greater
riches than the combined efforts of the vast crowd who came to search
her soil for the yellow metal.”

Those who made the trip across the plains usually began the long
journey at Independence or Westport, Missouri, for at that time the
Missouri River was considered the western boundary of all civilization,
and as these gold-hunters launched out on the almost trackless prairies
that lay west of that mighty stream, many considered themselves as
entering a country of peculiar freedom, and it was often said that “law
and morality never crossed the Missouri River.”

Many parties came to this starting place by steamer via the Mississippi
and Missouri rivers. There trains or companies, sometimes consisting
of several hundred people, organized for the trip; this they did for
mutual protection from the Indians. The usual outfit was a stout wagon
with a cover of white canvas or sheeting that was oiled or painted,
stretched over hickory or oak, the same prairie schooner that had
brought thousands to the Middle West.

I have read many books that tell the stories of many parties who
crossed, all of them filled with thrilling incidents of hardships and
heroisms that are almost unbelievable. The book entitled _Death Valley
in ’49_, by William Lewis Manley, is perhaps the most striking, being a
story of personal experiences.

At the age of twenty, W. L. Manley left his father’s home on the
frontiers of civilization, near Jackson, Michigan, that was then, in
1840, still a territory. He was starting in life for himself with seven
dollars in his pocket. He and a companion together bought enough pine
boards with which to build a boat, on which they paddled down Grand
River to the place where the city of Grand Rapids now is. There they
found a schooner, loaded with lumber, about to sail across the lake
to Wisconsin, and for a dollar each they were permitted to cross on
her. They were put ashore at Southport. At that time Wisconsin was
practically a wild waste, but they tramped clear across it to Mineral
Point, arriving there with blistered feet, Manley having thirty-five
cents in his pocket. They found it hard to obtain employment, but
finally did so, receiving the sum of thirteen dollars a month; a little
later he went to work digging lead ore in the summer, and in the winter
hunted fur-bearing animals.

In the spring of 1849 he caught the gold fever, and arranged to go
to California with a man named Bennett, who with his wife and two
children was about to go there. Through a misunderstanding as to the
time of starting, the Bennetts started two weeks before Manley knew
that they had gone. They had taken his outfit with them, thinking that
he would overtake them. This he tried to do, but did not find them for
many months after, when he accidentally met them at Salt Lake City.
At Council Bluffs, he found himself with nothing but the clothes he
wore, an extra shirt, a light gun, a small light tent, a frying-pan,
a tin cup, his mules, but no money. He had come to the conclusion to
return to Michigan, when he met a man named Charles Dallas, from Iowa,
who was preparing to join a train of wagons bound for California.
Dallas offered to feed Manley if he would drive one of his teams clear
through; this he very reluctantly agreed to do.

The train was made up of a number of ox teams; the one Manley drove
consisted of two oxen and two cows. After much hardship and many
hair-breadth escapes, they reached a point near the Mormon settlement
at Salt Lake City, where they found a band of emigrants, camped among
them being Manley’s friends, the Bennetts, from whom he received
his complete outfit just as he had left it with them months before
in Wisconsin. He at once decided to join the Bennetts, and as Mr.
Dallas had decided to stay at Salt Lake City until spring, he had no
compunction in doing so. This other train consisted of one hundred and
seven wagons, with about 500 horses and cattle. The company had a
semblance of military organization, being made up of seven divisions,
each having its own captain, whom they elected; one Captain Hunt was
engaged to act as guide and commander (he called himself Dictator),
acting under rules that had been framed by the whole body. These rules,
it was understood, could be amended by a majority of the whole; each
member was to pay Captain Hunt ten dollars for acting as their pilot.
Hunt was a Mormon, and pretended to know the best routes to California.
It was planned that they should move with military precision, division
number one taking the lead the first day, division number two the
second day, and so on in regular routine.

The route chosen was a new one for a wagon train, though there was a
trail over which the Mormons traveled to their settlement or colony at
San Bernardino, located about sixty miles east of Los Angeles.

A few days after starting, they met with another party of emigrants,
spoken of in the histories as the Smith party, its leader’s name being
Smith. Captain Smith had a map procured at Salt Lake City, from an
engineer named Williams, that showed a route still different from the
one Hunt was taking; this map pretended to show every place on the
route where grass and water could be found. Hunt had no map, and many
of his party who had lost confidence in him, were inclined to go with
the Smith party. There was much discussion on the subject, and finally,
when they reached the place where the two trails diverged, many of the
Hunt party joined Smith’s, among them the Bennetts, and, of course,
Manley. About three days after the breaking up of the Hunt party, the
Smith train discovered that they had made a mistake. They came to a
place beyond which it seemed the wagons could not go. Many in the train
then turned back to go by the Hunt trail, so that the Smith party was
reduced to twenty-seven wagons, among them the Bennetts.

Parties that had been sent out to find a pass shortly returned,
reporting that they had found one, so on the twenty-seven wagons went.
Soon they found a broad, well-defined trail that became known as the
Jay-Hawker’s trail; at this point it ran over rolling hills covered
with juniper trees, and through grassy valleys, with plenty of water,
and all went very well. It was now November.

They plodded on, ever westward, but day after day getting farther away
from game that was now the only source of food for themselves, and from
water and grass so necessary for their animals as well as themselves.
The party to which the Bennetts clung had been reduced to seven wagons,
for dissensions due to difference of opinion had sprung up, so that a
large number had broken away. Each day their supply of food diminished,
so that at last they had to kill one of their steers to keep them
supplied with food.

Manley spent all his time on scouting expeditions, searching for water
and game, climbing to high points on the hills to spy out the land and
decide what route should be taken, using a field glass owned by one of
the party. Out on one of these expeditions, far ahead of the party,
he came upon a dead ox that had fallen by the way. With his knife he
cut into one of its hams and found that, on account of the dryness and
purity of the atmosphere, the meat was fresh and sweet, though probably
dead for many days. He was glad to eat it raw as he walked along.

All around, as far as the eye could reach, was dry desolation, not a
spear of grass, not a drop nor sign of water anywhere. Night came on;
he crept under a projecting rock to try to sleep, being afraid to make
a fire, for he had seen signs of Indians, whom he feared. When he awoke
it was Christmas day. They were now in what a little later came to be
known as Death Valley, because so many of those who entered it never
came out.

One day their eyes were gladdened by the sight of water. It was far
ahead of them, but it gleamed in the sunlight and cheered them on. But
alas! it proved to be salt water. Soon they reached a condition where
it was decided that all the provisions of civilized life should be
pooled, and served only to the women and children and that, as occasion
required, an ox should be killed, the meat dried and served to the men;
every scrap of the ox, the hide and horns excepted, was used for food,
every drop of blood was as precious to them as the grains of gold they
were in search of. Four of the teamsters now decided to take their
share of the provisions, together with their blankets and guns, leave
the party and push on to try to save themselves.

The party crawled along, the oxen hardly able to stand, having had no
food or water for many days, and as far as Manley could see, there was
no prospect of any being found. A solemn council was held, at which it
was agreed that they could only live till the last of their cattle had
been eaten up. It was then agreed that they should turn back to the
place where they had last found a spring of water and grass, and that
there the party should camp, while two of the youngest men, taking some
of the food, should push on till they found a settlement where they
could get help and food, and return as fast as possible; they hoped
that in ten days they might be able to return with the needed relief.

The next morning the oxen were hitched up and started back to the
spring. Shortly after they had started, one of them became so feeble
that he lay down and never rose again, and when they were within two
miles of the spring, another one could travel no further, and also lay
down. Arriving at the spring, they carried water back to him, so that
he recovered and came on to the spring.

Manley and a man named Rodgers, from Tennessee, were selected, and
agreed to undertake the hazardous journey. Preparations were at once
made for their departure; the weakest of the oxen was slaughtered,
and the meat dried; the women made rawhide moccasins and knapsacks,
and packed as much of the dried meat as could be comfortably carried.
Manley and Rodgers started off with the expressed hopes and blessings
of each member of the party.

Manley writes: “I wore no coat or vest, but took half a light blanket,
while Rodgers wore a thin summer coat, and took no blanket; we each had
a small tin cup and a small camp-kettle that held a quart. Bennett had
me take his seven-shooter rifle, and Rodgers had a good double-barreled
shotgun; we each had a sheath-knife, and our hats were small-brimmed
affairs, fitting close to the head, and not very conspicuous to the
enemy, as we might rise up from behind a hill, or a hiding-place, into
view. We tried on our packs and fitted the straps a little, so that
they would carry easy, and started off.”

The party they left in camp consisted of thirteen adults and six
children; there was very little civilized food, the oxen that might be
killed when necessary being their chief reliance.

Manley and Rodgers took a course due west as nearly as the mountains
would permit. Days passed, but they found no water. A big snow-capped
mountain in the distance lured them on, and not till they came within
its influence did they find relief. In order not to miss a possible
chance of finding water, they separated, agreeing on a general course
each would take, and that if either found water he should fire his
gun as a signal. In a little while Rodgers fired his gun, and going
to him, Manley saw that he had found a little ice as thick as window
glass; eagerly they put some of it into their mouths and gathered all
they could. It just filled their quart kettle; this they melted, and
thus saved their lives. They had become so thirsty and their mouths and
tongues became so dry that they could not chew their dried beef; the
saliva would not flow. On they went again; in a few days they found a
well developed trail leading toward the west. This they followed and
came up with a party written of in the histories as the Jay-Hawkers.
They were camped at some water holes where they had killed an ox and
were drying the meat.

From them they received some fresh meat, and were also much refreshed
by the water; they filled their canteens and pressed on, every moment
being precious. When they parted, tears flowed freely from all eyes.
Many of the larger company, being men past middle life, had about
concluded that their chances of surviving the hardships through which
they were passing were rather slim. They gave Manley and Rodgers the
names and addresses of the friends they had left in the old home,
asking them to tell their friends where and how they had found them,
provided that they themselves were fortunate enough to reach a post
office.

Soon after leaving the camp of the Jay-Hawkers, Manley and Rodgers
realized that they had crossed the divide and that every step they
took was down the Pacific slope; soon they began to see signs of life;
a crow came in sight and perched within gunshot, and very promptly he
was shot and bagged in Rodgers’ knapsack. A little later a hawk hove in
sight, and it was very promptly taken care of in the same way; then a
little further along they spied a quail; it also they shot.

Trees began to appear, and stumbling into a narrow ravine and following
it for many miles, it led them to a much larger one, and O joy! there
was a babbling brook of clear, sparkling water that literally sang
them welcome as it wimpled over the stones in its course. They drank
liberally of its life-giving stream, then dressed and cooked their
three birds, and began to feel that life still held something for them.
Soon a broad, grassy meadow opened before them. I will quote Manley’s
words describing this incident.

“Before us was a spur from the hills that reached nearly across the
valley and shut out further sight in that direction, and when we came
to it we climbed up over it to shorten the distance. When the summit
was reached, a most pleasing sight filled our sick hearts with a most
indescribable joy.

“I shall never have the ability to adequately describe the beauty of
the scene as it appeared to us, and so long as I live that landscape
will be impressed on my mind. There before us was a beautiful meadow of
a thousand acres, green as a thick carpet of grass could make it, and
shaded with oaks, wide-branching and symmetrical, equal to those of an
old English park. While all over the low mountains that bordered it on
the south, and over the broad acres of luxuriant grass was a herd of
cattle numbering many hundreds, if not thousands. All seemed happiness
and contentment, and such a scene of abundance and rich plenty and
comfort, bursting thus upon our eyes, which for months had seen only
the desolation and sadness of the desert, was like getting a glimpse of
Paradise, and tears of joy ran down our faces. The day was bright with
sunshine as well as with hope, and it was the first day of January,
1850.”

Not a human being was in sight, and they were very hungry; down in a
deep gully cut out by the rains, a yearling steer was feeding; Manley,
gun in hand, crawled near to him and fired two shots, and as quickly
as possible they were enjoying some of his meat that they roasted at
once. They ate till they were satisfied, the first time in many long,
dreary weeks. They then dried the balance of the meat, one of them
sleeping while the other worked, relieving each other every few hours.
The miserable dried meat that had been so long in their knapsacks they
threw away, and refilled them with this good, fresh meat store.

They also made for themselves moccasins from the hide of the steer, and
then continued their journey, though not very sure that they might not
be pounced on at any moment for shooting the yearling steer. Soon they
came to a strange-looking house of the adobe Mexican type, that proved
to be the home of a farmer. There they found the woman of the house,
but she could not speak or understand a word of English.

They had come out from the Sierra Madre Mountains into the San Fernando
Valley at a point not far from the mission of that name. They went
there and were entertained for the night, sleeping on the floor, but
indoors. Here they met an American, with whom they talked over their
troubles, and concluded, under his advice, that they would save time
by returning to the settler’s house at which they had stopped on the
previous day, and get the provisions they wanted. They might go on to
Los Angeles, some thirty miles away, and fare no better, that place
being very badly demoralized on account of the rush to the gold mines.

Their new found friend agreed to go with them and act as interpreter.
There they procured three horses, a little mule, a sack of beans, a
sack of unbolted flour, and one of wheat, which they would have to
grind themselves; also some dried meat. This food their friends showed
them how to pack on the backs of the horses, and as quickly as possible
they started on the return journey, to try and save the other members
of the party.

About the fourth day out the horses got so worn out and feeble for the
want of food and water that they could hardly crawl along; their heads
flung low, almost touching the ground. They then concluded to bury
the sack of wheat, hoping to find it on their return; this they did,
and loaded the other sacks on the mule, which seemed to be in better
condition.

The next day the ground became so rough and the grade so steep that
the horses were unable to get over it, and had to be abandoned. Then,
too, they found the bodies of two men who had traveled with them in
the Jay-Hawkers’ party. They had died by the side of the trail and had
to be left there. This, of course, was all very disconcerting to our
brave fellows, and only the thought that many other lives depended on
their efforts urged them on.

At last, on the twenty-sixth day after leaving their friends camped
at the spring, they were again in its vicinity. Their first sight or
sign of their fellow-travelers was to find the dead body of one of
them--Captain Culverwell--lying on the trail. He lay on his back, his
arms extended, his little canteen, made of two powder flasks, lying
by his side. Manley writes: “This looked, indeed, as if some of our
saddest forebodings were coming true. How many more bodies should we
find?--or should we find the camp deserted, and never find a trace of
the former occupants?

“We marched toward camp like two Indians, silent and alert, looking out
for dead bodies and live Indians, for really we expected to find the
camp devastated by those rascals, rather than to find that it still
contained our friends. About noon we came in sight of the wagons, still
a long way off, but in the clear air we could make them out.

“No signs of life were anywhere about, and the thought of our hard
struggles between life and death, to go out and return with the
fruitless results that now seemed apparent, was almost more than human
heart could bear. When should we know their fate? Where should we find
their remains, and how learn their sad history, if we ourselves should
live to get back again to settlements and life? If ever two men were
troubled, Rodgers and I surely passed through the furnace. One hundred
yards to the wagons, and still no sign of life; we fear that perhaps
there are Indians in ambush, and with nervous, irregular breathing, we
counsel what to do. Finally Rodgers suggested that he had two charges
in his shotgun, and I seven in the Colts rifle, and that I fire one of
mine and await results before we ventured any nearer. I fired, and in
a moment a man came from under one of the wagons and stood up. Then he
threw up his arms and shouted, ‘The boys have come!’ Then other bare
heads appeared, and Mr. Bennett and wife and Mr. Arcane came running
toward us. They caught us in their arms and embraced us with all their
strength. Mrs. Bennett fell on her knees and clung to me like a maniac
in the great emotion that came to her, and not a word was spoken.”

They estimated that they had traveled five hundred miles since they
had left the camp, and found on their return that the party had been
reduced till only Mr. and Mrs. Bennett and their four children and Mr.
and Mrs. Arcane and their boy remained; the others had pressed forward
from time to time to try to escape from the desert. Immediately they
began to prepare for the long journey. There were five oxen still left.
It was at once decided that everything should be left behind, only
things absolutely necessary for the sustaining of life to be taken
along--a kettle, a tin cup for each, a few knives, forks and spoons,
and all the blankets and the clothes they wore. It was planned that
the two women should each ride on an ox; though they had never known
or heard of such a thing being done, they thought it practicable. The
cloth in the wagon covers and in bed ticks was made into harness, the
blankets being used for saddles, and one of the oxen, old Crump, the
gentlest of them, was rigged out with saddle bags made from two of the
men’s hickory shirts, in which the two youngest children were to be
carried; the older ones were to ride like the women. Manley and Rodgers
made new moccasins for themselves, and in a very few days they were
ready to start.

It was very soon found that riding an ox was impracticable, and the
women and older children had to walk. In a few days they were out of
the valley, to which they had given the gruesome name, “Death Valley.”
Their food consisted of soup made from the beans and flour boiled with
some of the dried beef, some of which they also ate. When five days
out, their stock of beans became entirely exhausted, but at the place
where they were to camp for the night was the sack of whole wheat that
Manley and Rodgers had buried. This they had hidden so well that they
had considerable trouble locating it. When found, although it had been
buried in the dry desert sand, it had absorbed enough moisture from it
that it had swollen so that the bag was nearly at the bursting point.
But it was sweet and quite fit for food. At this camp they had to kill
an ox.

They had had no water all day. Manley and Rodgers had gone on ahead
and started a fire, and made what preparations they could to ease the
hardship of the situation, selecting the best spots on which to sleep,
spreading the blankets, and having the soup ready to serve, so that
when the weary, bedraggled women and children arrived, they could at
once lie down and be served with their share.

The women declared that but for the children they would cheerfully lie
down and die, rather than endure another such day. The distance from
the last camp to this spring was longer and the trail much rougher than
on any of the previous days. Near to this camp, too, they had to pass
the place where the bodies of Mr. Fish and Mr. Isham lay, and which
Manley and Rodgers had covered with sand.

At this camp they had to make moccasins for themselves and also for the
oxen, whose feet had become so lacerated and tender from tramping over
knife-edged stones, it was feared that they might give out altogether.
These moccasins they made from the hide of the ox they had just
slaughtered.

It was four days’ travel to the next water hole, and all the water
they could have during that time was what they could carry in their
canteens. This they did not dare use during the day, but must save for
their soup; none but the children could have any water, and they only
at long intervals, and after they had cried hard for it.

The third night they had to make their soup with salt water which
they found in a water hole; the next day they had no water at all for
themselves or the oxen, only a little for the children, till they
arrived at water holes at the base of a snow mountain. The oxen had to
subsist on greasewood, a shrub resembling a currant bush.

They were nine days from camp, their beans, flour and wheat all used
up. They must now subsist on the beef obtained by killing their
oxen. An ox yielded very little meat, and it was of the very poorest
quality, giving very little nutrition; always they had to kill the
poorest-conditioned one, so as to make sure the others could travel on,
for they were now reduced to skin and bone.

The moccasins of the entire party were again completely worn out, so
that, as one of the women expressed it, their feet ached like the
tooth-ache; not only were their feet blistered and sore, but their
dresses were worn off nearly to their knees by being draggled through
the chaparral of the desert. But they could not stop long enough to
kill an ox or make moccasins, but must plod on that the lives of the
whole party might be saved. Their camp would be at a spring, and they
must reach it that day, but they were caught by darkness four hours
short of it, and did not reach it till four hours after daylight the
next day; and to make matters worse, a rain-storm, the second they had
encountered since leaving Wisconsin, came up that turned to snow, and
at sunrise there were two inches of snow on the ground. Their condition
was truly miserable. They rested long enough at the next spring to kill
an ox and make moccasins. The amount of meat procured from the ox when
dried was easily carried in the mule’s pack, it was so very small.

The next morning, after their meal of soup made from the meat of the
ox, they felt somewhat refreshed, and in better spirits. It was a two
days’ journey to the next water hole. They were now in what later came
to be called the Mojave Desert, a waterless, barren plain, on which
nothing grew with which they could make a fire, nothing to which they
could even tie their animals, and when they camped that night, they
simply tied them together. They could not make a fire; they had to
content themselves with a little dried meat, and a little sip of water,
for they were still another day from water, that they reached late the
following afternoon, and also found a little grass for the cattle.

The next day, a few hours after starting, they lost the trail; the
ground was of such a nature it could not retain marks of a trail. It
was plenteously covered with the bones of animals, however, showing
that many had passed that way, all of which so depressed the women
that they had to go into camp until the next morning. That night they
came to the water hole they had planned to reach the night before; all
that the cattle could have for food was a few sage-bushes at which
they nibbled. The next day they were in a hilly country, and the day
following they came to the little babbling brook that had so delighted
Manley and Rodgers the first time they saw it.

Here Manley writes in his journal, “New life seemed to come to the dear
women. ‘O what a beautiful stream!’ they cried, and they dip in a tin
cup and drink, and drink again, then watch the rollicking brook as if
it was the most entertaining thing in the whole wide earth.”

It was now the seventh day of March, 1850, twenty-two days since they
left their wagons, and four months since they entered Death Valley, and
about a year since they left Wisconsin. It had been for them a year
of wandering, struggle and terrible hardship. They took a long rest,
the cattle eating their fill, and then slowly traveled to the home of
the settler where Manley and Rodgers had obtained their supplies. The
woman recognized them, and when the men came home they were handsomely
treated.

None of our travelers had a cent of money. Mr. Arcane sold his two
steers, all the property he had in the world, to the Mexicans, and with
the money obtained started for San Pedro, the post of Los Angeles;
there he hoped to obtain a passage on a sailing vessel to San
Francisco. The Bennetts, Manley and Rodgers leisurely went on to Los
Angeles, some thirty miles away, and from there found their way to the
mines.

[Illustration: Once more the train faced the desert. _Page 115._]




A FRONTIER DUEL

EMERSON HOUGH

1848

From “The Covered Wagon.” Reprinted by permission of the publishers, D.
Appleton and Company, New York.[12]


Once more the train, now permanently divided into two, faced the
desert, all the men and many women now afoot, the kine low-headed,
stepping gingerly in their new rawhide shoes. Gray, grim work,
toiling over the dust and sand. But at the head wagon, taking over
an empire foot by foot, flew the great flag. Half fanatics? That may
be. Fanatics, so called, also had prayed and sung and taught their
children, all the way across to the Great Salt Lake. They, too, carried
books. And within one hour after their halt near the Salt Lake they
began to plow, began to build, began to work, began to grow, and made a
country.

The men at the trading post saw the Missouri wagons pull out ahead.
Two hours later the Wingate train followed, as the lot had determined.
Woodhull remained with his friends in the Wingate group, regarded now
with an increasing indifference, but biding his time.

Bridger held back his old friend Jackson even after the last train
pulled out. It was midafternoon when the start was made.

“Don’t go just yet, Bill,” said he. “Ride on an’ overtake ’em. Nothin’
but rattlers an’ jack-rabbits now fer a while. The Shoshones won’t hurt
’em none. I’m powerful lonesome, somehow. Let’s you an’ me have one
more drink.”

“That sounds reas’nable,” said Jackson. “Shore that sounds reas’nable
to me.”

They drank of a keg which the master of the post had hidden in his
lodge, back of his blankets; drank again of high wines diluted but
uncolored--the “likker” of the fur trade.

They drank from tin cups, until Bridger began to chant, a deepening
sense of his old melancholy on him.

“Good-by!” he said again and again, waving his hand in general
vagueness to the mountains.

“We was friends, wasn’t we, Bill?” he demanded again and again; and
Jackson, drunk as he, nodded in like maudlin gravity. He himself began
to chant. The two were savages again.

“Well, we got to part, Bill. This is Jim Bridger’s last rendyvous. I’ve
rid around an’ said good-by to the mountings. Why don’t we do it the
way the big partisans allus done when the rendyvous was over? ’Twas old
Mike Fink an’ his friend Carpenter begun hit fifty year ago. Keel-boat
men on the river, they was. There’s as good shots left to-day as then,
and as good friends. You an’ me has seed hit; we seed hit at the very
last meetin’ o’ the Rocky Mountain Company men, before the families
come. An’ nary a man spilled the whisky on his partner’s head.”

“That’s the truth,” assented Jackson, “though some I wouldn’t trust
now.”

“Would ye trust me, Bill, like I do you, fer sake o’ the old times,
when friends was friends?”

“Shore I would, no matter how come, Jim. My hand’s stiddy as a rock,
even though my shootin’ shoulder’s a leetle stiff from that Crow arrer.”

Each man held out his firing arm, steady as a bar.

“I kin still see the nail heads on the door yan. Kin ye, Bill?”

“Plain! It’s a waste o’ likker, Jim, fer we’d both drill the cups.”

“Are ye a-skeered?”

“I told ye not.”

“Chardon!” roared Bridger to his clerk. “You, Chardon, come here!”

The clerk obeyed, though he and others had been discreet about
remaining visible as this bout of old-timers at their cups went on.
Liquor and gunpowder usually went together.

“Chardon, ye git two fresh tin cups an’ bring ’em here. Bring a piece
o’ charcoal to spot the cups. We’re goin’ to shoot ’em off each other’s
heads, in the old way. You know what I mean.”

Chardon, trembling, brought the two tin cups, and Bridger with a burnt
ember sought to mark plainly on each a black bull’s-eye. Silence fell
on the few observers, for all the emigrants had now gone and the open
space before the rude trading building was vacant, although a few faces
peered around corners. At the door of the tallest tepee two native
women sat, a young and an old, their blankets drawn across their eyes,
accepting fate, and not daring to make a protest.

“How!” exclaimed Bridger as he filled both cups and put them on the
ground. “Have ye wiped yer barrel?”

“Shore I have. Let’s wipe again.”

Each drew his ramrod from the pipes and attached the cleaning worm with
its twist of tow, kept handy in belt pouch in muzzle-loading days.

“Clean as a whistle!” said Jackson, holding out the end of the rod.

“So’s mine, pardner. Old Jim Bridger never disgraced hisself with a
rifle.”

“Ner me,” commented Jackson. “Hold a hair full, Jim, an’ cut high the
top o’ the tin. That’ll be safer fer my skelp, an’ hit’ll let less
whisky out’n the hole. We got to drink what’s left. S’pose’n’ we have a
snort now?”

“Atter we both shoot we kin drink,” rejoined his friend, with a
remaining trace of judgment. “Go take stand whar we marked the scratch.
Chardon, damn ye, carry the cup down an’ set hit on his head, an’ ef
you spill a drop I’ll drill ye, d’ye hear?”

The _engagé’s_ face went pale.

“But Monsieur Jim----” he began.

“Don’t ‘Monsieur Jim’ me or I’ll drill a hole in ye anyways! Do-ee-do
what I tell ye, boy! Then if ye crave fer to see some ol’-time shootin’
come on out, the hull o’ ye, an’ take a lesson, damn ye!”

“Do-ee ye shoot first, Bill,” demanded Bridger. “The light’s soft, an’
we’ll swap atter the fust fire, to git hit squar for the hindsight, an’
no shine on the side o’ the front sight.”

“No, we’ll toss fer fust,” said Jackson, and drew out a Spanish dollar.
“Tails fer me last!” he called as it fell. “An’ I win! You go fust,
Jim.”

“Shore I will ef the toss-up says so,” rejoined his friend. “Step off
the fifty yard. What sort o’ iron ye carryin’, Bill?”

“Why do ye ask? Ye know ol’ Mike Sheets in Virginia never bored a
better. I’ve never changed.”

“Ner I from my old Hawken. Two good guns, an’ two good men, Bill, o’
the ol’ times--the ol’ times! We kain’t say fairer’n this, can we,
at our time o’ life, fer favor o’ the old times, Bill? We got to do
somethin’, so’s to kind o’ git rested up.”

“No man kin say fairer,” said his friend.

They shook hands solemnly and went onward with their devil-may-care
test, devised in a historic keel-boat man’s brain, as inflamed then by
alcohol as their own were now.

Followed by the terrified clerk, Bill Jackson, tall, thin and grizzled,
stoical as an Indian, and too drunk to care much for consequences,
so only he proved his skill and his courage, walked steadily down
to the chosen spot and stood, his arms folded, after leaning his own
rifle against the door of the trading room. He faced Bridger without a
tremor, his head bare, and cursed Chardon for a coward when his hand
trembled as he balanced the cup on Jackson’s head.

“Damn ye,” he exclaimed, “there’ll be plenty lost without any o’ your
spillin’!”

“Air ye all ready, Bill?” called Bridger from his station, his rifle
cocked and the delicate triggers set, so perfect in their mechanism
that the lightest touch against the trigger edge would loose the hammer.

“All ready!” answered Jackson.

The two, jealous still of the ancient art of the rifle, which nowhere
in the world obtained nicer development than among men such as these,
faced each other in what always was considered the supreme test of
nerve and skill; for naturally a man’s hand might tremble, sighting
three inches above his friend’s eyes, when it would not move a hair
sighting center between the eyes of an enemy.

Bridger spat out his tobacco chew and steadily raised his rifle. The
man opposite him stood steady as a pillar, and did not close his eyes.
The silence that fell on those who saw became so intense that it seemed
veritably to radiate, reaching out over the valley to the mountains as
in a hush of leagues.

For an instant, which to the few observers seemed an hour, these two
figures, from which motion seemed to have passed forever, stood frozen.
Then there came a spurt of whitish-blue smoke and the thin dry crack of
the border rifle.

The hand and eye of Jim Bridger, in spite of advancing years, remained
true to their long training. At the rifle crack the tin cup on the head
of the statuelike figure opposite him was flung behind as though by the
blow of an invisible hand. The spin of the bullet, acting on the liquid
contents, ripped apart the seams of the cup and flung the fluid wide.
Then and not till then did Jackson move.

He picked up the empty cup, bored center directly through the black
spot, and turning walked with it in his hand toward Bridger, who was
wiping out his rifle once more.

“I call hit mighty careless shootin’,” said he, irritated. “Now look
what ye done to the likker! If ye’d held a leetle higher, above the
level o’ the likker, like I told ye, she wouldn’t have busted open
thataway. It’s nacherl, thar warn’t room in the cup fer both the likker
an’ the ball. That’s wastin’ likker, Jim, an’ my mother told me when I
was a boy, ‘Willful waste makes woeful want!’”

“I call hit a plumb-center shot,” grumbled Bridger. “Do-ee look now!
Maybe ye think ye kin do better shootin’ yerself than old Jim Bridger!”

“Shore I kin, an’ I’ll show ye! I’ll bet my rifle aginst yourn--ef I
wanted so sorry a piece as yourn--I kin shoot that close to the mark
an’ not spill no likker a-tall! An’ ye can fill her two-thirds full an’
put yer thumb in fer the balance ef ye like.”

“I’ll just bet ye a new mule agin yer pony ye kain’t do nothin’ o’ the
sort!” retorted Bridger.

“All right, I’ll show ye. O’ course, ye got to hold still.”

“Who said I wouldn’t hold still?”

“Nobody. Now you watch me.”

He stooped at the little water ditch which had been led in among the
buildings from the stream and kneaded up a little ball of mud. This he
forced into the handle of the tin cup, entirely filling it, then washed
off the body of the cup.

“I’ll shoot the fillin’ out’n the handle an’ not out’n the cup!” said
he. “Mud’s cheap, an’ all the diff’runce in holdin’ is, ef I nicked the
side o’ yer haid it’d hurt ye ’bout the same as ef what I nicked the
center of hit. Ain’t that so? We’d orto practice inderstry an’ ’conomy,
Jim. Like my mother said, ‘Penny saved is er penny yearned.’ ‘Little
drops o’ water, little grains o’ sand,’ says she, ‘a-makes the mighty
o-o-ocean an’ the plea-ea-sant land.’”

“I never seed it tried,” said Bridger, with interest, “but I don’t
see why hit hain’t practical. Whang away, an’ ef ye spill the whisky
shootin’ to one side, or cut ha’r shootin’ too low, your _caballo_ is
mine--an’ he ain’t much!”

With no more argument, he in turn took up his place, the two changing
positions so that the light would favor the rifleman. Again the
fear-smitten Chardon adjusted the filled cup, this time on his master’s
bared head.

“Do-ee turn her sideways now, boy,” cautioned Bridger. “Set the han’le
sideways squar’, so she looks wide. Give him a fa’r shot now, fer I’m
interested in this yere thing, either way she goes. Either I lose ha’r
er a mule.”

But folding his arms he faced the rifle without batting an eye, as
steady as had been the other in his turn.

Jackson extended his long left arm, slowly and steadily raising the
silver bead up from the chest, the throat, the chin, the forehead of
his friend, then lowered it, rubbing his sore shoulder.

“Tell him to turn that han’le squar’ to me, Jim!” he called. “The damn
fool has got her all squegeed around to one side.”

Bridger reached up a hand and straightened the cup himself.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“All right! Now hold stiddy a minute.”

Again the Indian women covered their faces, sitting motionless. And at
last came again the puff of smoke, the faint crack of the rifle, never
loud in the high, rarefied air.

The straight figure of the scout never wavered. The cup still rested on
his head. The rifleman calmly blew the smoke from his barrel, his eye
on Bridger as the latter now raised a careful hand to his head. Chardon
hastened to aid, with many ejaculations.

The cup still was full, but the mud was gone from inside the handle as
though poked out with a finger!

“That’s what I call shootin’, Jim,” said Jackson, “an’ reas’nable
shootin’ too. Now spill half o’ her where she’ll do some good, an’ give
me the rest. I got to be goin’ now. I don’t want yer mule. I fust come
away from Missoury to git shet o’ mules!”

Chardon, cupbearer, stood regarding the two wild souls whom he never in
his own more timid nature was to understand. The two mountain-men shook
hands. The alcohol had no more than steadied them in their rifle work,
but the old exultation of their wild life came to them now once more.
Bridger clapped hand to mouth and uttered his old war-cry before he
drained his share of the fiery fluid.

“To the ol’ days, friend!” said he once more; “the days that’s gone,
when men was men, an’ a friend could trust a friend!”

“To the ol’ days!” said Jackson in turn. “An’ I’ll bet two better shots
don’t stand to-day on the soil o’ Oregon! But I got to be goin’, Jim.
I’m goin’ on to the Columby. I may not see ye soon. It’s far.”

He swung into his saddle, the rifle in its loop at the horn. But
Bridger came to him, a hand on his knee.

“I hate to see ye go, Bill.”

“Shore!” said Jackson. “I hate to go. Take keer yerself, Jim.”

The two Indian women had uncovered their faces and, gone inside the
lodge. But old Jim Bridger sat down, back against a cottonwood, and
watched the lopping figure of his friend jog slowly out into the
desert. He himself was singing now, chanting monotonously an old Indian
refrain that lingered in his soul from the days of the last rendezvous.

At length he arose and, animated by a sudden thought, sought out his
tepee once more. Dang Yore Eyes greeted him with shy smiles of pride.

“Heap shoot, Jeem!” said she. “No kill-um. Why?”

She was decked now in her finest, ready to use all her blandishments on
her lord and master. Her cheeks were painted red, her wrists were heavy
with copper. On a thong at her neck hung a piece of yellow stone which
she had bored through with an awl, or rather with three or four awls,
after much labor, that very day.

Bridger picked up the ornament between thumb and finger. He said no
word, but his fingers spoke.

“Other pieces. Where?”

“White man. Gone--out there.” She answered in the same fashion.

“How, cola!” she spoke aloud. “Him say, ‘How, cola,’ me.” She smiled
with much pride over her conquest, and showed two silver dollars.
“Swap!”

In silence Bridger went into the tepee and pulled the door flaps.




EL DORADO

BAYARD TAYLOR

From “Eldorado.” Reprinted by permission of the authorized publishers,
G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.


I

ACROSS THE ISTHMUS

I left the Falcon at day-break in the ship’s boat. We rounded the high
bluff on which the castle stands and found beyond it a shallow little
bay, on the eastern side of which, on low ground, stand the cane huts
of Chagres. Piling up our luggage on the shore, each one set about
searching for the canoes which had been engaged the night previous,
but, without a single exception, the natives were not to be found,
or when found, had broken their bargains. The canoes were beached on
the mud, and their owners engaged in rethatching their covers with
split leaves of the palm. The doors of the huts were filled with men
and women, each in a single cotton garment, composedly smoking their
cigars, while numbers of children, in Nature’s own clothing, tumbled
about in the sun. Having started without breakfast, I went to the
“Crescent City” Hotel, a hut with a floor to it, but could get nothing.
Some of my friends had fared better at one of the native huts, and I
sat down to the remains of their meal, which was spread on a hencoop
beside the door. The pigs of the vicinity and several lean dogs
surrounded me to offer their services, but maintained a respectful
silence, which is more than could be said of pigs at home. Some pieces
of pork fat, with fresh bread and a draught of sweet spring water from
a cocoa shell, made me a delicious repast.

A returning Californian had just reached the place, with a box
containing $22,000 in gold-dust, and a four-pound lump in one hand.
The impatience and excitement of the passengers, already at a high
pitch, was greatly increased by his appearance. Men ran up and down the
beach, shouting, gesticulating, and getting feverishly impatient at the
deliberate habits of the natives; as if their arrival in California
would thereby be at all hastened. The boatmen, knowing very well that
two more steamers were due the next day, remained provokingly cool
and unconcerned. They had not seen six months of emigration without
learning something of the American habit of going at full speed.
Captain C---- and Mr. M----, of Baltimore, and myself, were obliged
to pay $15 each, for a canoe to Cruces. We chose a broad, trimly-cut
craft, which the boatmen were covering with fresh thatch. We stayed
with them until all was ready, and they had pushed it through the mud
and shoal water to the bank before Ramos’s house. Our luggage was
stowed away, we took our seats and raised our umbrellas, but the men
had gone off for provisions and were not to be found. The sun blazed
down on the swampy shores, and visions of yellow fever came into the
minds of the more timid travelers. The native boys brought to us
bottles of fresh water, biscuits and fruit, presenting them with the
words: “bit!” “picayune!” “Your bread is not good,” I said to one of
the shirtless traders. “Si, _Señor_!” was his decided answer, while he
tossed back his childish head with a look of offended dignity which
charmed me. Our own men appeared towards noon, with a bag of rice and
dried pork, and an armful of sugar-cane. A few strokes of their broad
paddles took us from the excitement and noise of the landing-place to
the seclusion and beauty of the river scenery.

Our chief boatman, named Ambrosio Mendez, was of the mixed Indian and
Spanish race. The second, Juan Crispin Bega, belonged to the lowest
class, almost entirely of negro blood. He was a strong, jovial fellow,
and took such good care of some of our small articles as to relieve
us from all further trouble about them. This propensity is common to
all of his caste on the Isthmus. In addition to these, a third man was
given to us, with the assurance that he would work his passage; but
just as we were leaving, we learned that he was a runaway soldier, who
had been taken up for theft and was released on paying some sub-alcalde
three bottles of liquor, promising to quit the place at once. We were
scarcely out of sight of the town before he demanded five dollars a day
for his labor. We refused, and he stopped working. Upon our threatening
to set him ashore in the jungle, he took up the paddle, but used it
so awkwardly and perversely that our other men lost all patience. We
were obliged, however, to wait until we could reach Gatun, ten miles
distant, before settling matters. Juan struck up “Oh Susanna!” which he
sang to a most ludicrous imitation of the words, and I lay back under
the palm-leaves, looking out of the stern of the canoe on the forests
of the Chagres River.

There is nothing in the world comparable to these forests. The river,
broad, and with a swift current of the sweetest water I ever drank,
winds between walls of foliage that rise from its very surface. From
the rank jungle of canes and gigantic lilies, and the thickets of
strange shrubs that line the water, rise the trunks of the mango, the
ceiba, the cocoa, the sycamore and the superb palm. Plantains take root
in the banks, hiding the soil with their leaves, shaken and split into
immense plumes by the wind and rain. The zapote, with a fruit the size
of a man’s head, the gourd tree, and other vegetable wonders, attract
the eye on all sides. Blossoms of crimson, purple and yellow, of a
form and magnitude unknown in the North, are mingled with the leaves,
and flocks of paroquets and brilliant butterflies circle through the
air like blossoms blown away. Every turn of the stream only disclosed
another and more magnificent vista of leaf, bough and blossom. All
outline of the landscape is lost under this deluge of vegetation. No
trace of the soil is to be seen; lowland and highland are the same; a
mountain is but a higher swell of the mass of verdure. As on the ocean,
you have a sense rather than a perception of beauty. The sharp, clear
lines of our scenery at home are here wanting. What shape the land
would be if cleared, you cannot tell.

In the afternoon we reached Gatun, a small village of bamboo huts,
thatched with palm-leaves, on the right bank of the river. We ejected
our worthless passenger on landing, notwithstanding his passive
resistance, and engaged a new boatman in his place, at $8. I shall
never forget the forlorn look of the man as he sat on the bank beside
his bag of rice, as the rain began to fall. Ambrosio took us to one
of the huts and engaged hammocks for the night. Two wooden drums,
beaten by boys, in another part of the village, gave signs of a coming
fandango, and, as it was Sunday night, all the natives were out in
their best dresses. They are a very cleanly people, bathing daily, and
changing their dresses as often as they are soiled. The children have
their heads shaved from the crown to the neck, and as they go about
naked, with abdomens unnaturally distended, from an exclusive vegetable
diet, are odd figures enough. They have bright black eyes, and are
quick and intelligent in their speech and motions.

The inside of our hut was but a single room, in which all the household
operations were carried on. A notched pole, serving as a ladder, led
to a sleeping loft, under the pyramidal roof of thatch. Here a number
of the emigrants who arrived late were stowed away on a rattling floor
of cane, covered with hides. After a supper of pork and coffee, I made
my day’s notes by the light of a miserable starveling candle, stuck in
an empty bottle, but had not written far before my paper was covered
with fleas. The owner of the hut swung my hammock meanwhile, and I
turned in, to secure it for the night. To lie there was one thing, to
sleep another. A dozen natives crowded round the table, drinking their
aguardiente and disputing vehemently; the cooking fire was on one side
of me, and everyone that passed to and fro was sure to give me a thump,
while my weight swung the hammock so low, that all the dogs on the
premises were constantly rubbing their backs under me.

Our men were to have started at midnight, but it was two hours later
before we could rouse and muster them together. We went silently and
rapidly up the river till sunrise, when we reached a cluster of huts
called Dos Hermanos (Two Brothers). There had been only a slight shower
since we started; but the clouds began to gather heavily, and by the
time we had gained the ranche of Palo Matida a sudden cold wind came
over the forests, and the air was at once darkened. We sprang ashore
and barely reached the hut, a few paces off, when the rain broke over
us, as if the sky had caved in. The rain drove into one side of the
cabin and out the other, but we wrapped ourselves in India-rubber cloth
and kept out the wet and chilling air. During the whole day the river
rose rapidly and we were obliged to hug the bank closely, running under
the boughs of trees and drawing ourselves up the rapids by those that
hung low.

I crept out of the snug nest where we were all stowed as closely as
three unfledged sparrows, and took my seat between Juan and Ambrosio,
protected from the rain by an India-rubber poncho. The clothing of
our men was likewise waterproof, but without seam or fold. It gave no
hindrance to the free play of their muscles, as they deftly and rapidly
plied the broad paddles. Juan kept time to the Ethiopian melodies he
had picked up from the emigrants, looking round from time to time with
a grin of satisfaction at his skill. I preferred, however, hearing
the native songs, which the boatmen sing with a melancholy drawl
on the final syllable of every line, giving the music a peculiar
but not unpleasant effect, when heard at a little distance. Singing
begets thirst, and perhaps Juan sang the more that he might have a
more frequent claim on the brandy. The bottle was then produced and
each swallowed a mouthful, after which he dipped his cocoa shell in
the river and took a long draught. This is a universal custom among
the boatmen, and the traveler is obliged to supply them. As a class,
they are faithful, hard-working and grateful for kindness. They have
faults, the worst of which are tardiness, and a propensity to filch
small articles; but good treatment wins upon them in almost every case.
Juan said to me in the beginning “_soy tu amigo yo_,” (_Americanice_:
I am thy friend, _well_ I am,) but when he asked me, in turn, for
every article of clothing I wore, I began to think his friendship not
the most disinterested. Ambrosio told me that they would serve no one
well who treated them badly. “If the Americans are good, we are good;
if they abuse us, we are bad. We are black, but _muchos caballeros_”
(very much of gentlemen), said he. Many blustering fellows, with their
belts stuck full of pistols and bowie-knives, which they draw on all
occasions, but take good care not to use, have brought reproach on the
country by their silly conduct. It is no bravery to put a revolver to
the head of an unarmed and ignorant native, and the boatmen have sense
enough to be no longer terrified by it.

We stopped the second night at Peña Blanca (the White Rock), where I
slept in the loft of a hut, on the floor, in the midst of the family
and six other travelers. We started at sunrise, hoping to reach Gorgona
the same night, but ran upon a sunken log and were detained some time.
Ambrosio finally released us by jumping into the river and swimming
ashore with a rope in his teeth. We passed the ranches of Agua Salud,
Varro Colorado and Palanquilla, and shortly after were overtaken by a
storm on the river. We could hear the rush and roar of the rain, as
it came towards us like the trampling of myriad feet on the leaves.
Shooting under a broad sycamore we made fast to the boughs, covered
ourselves with India-rubber, and lay under our cool, rustling thatch of
palm, until the storm had passed over.

The character of the scenery changed somewhat as we advanced. The air
was purer, and the banks more bold and steep. The country showed more
signs of cultivation, and in many places the forest had been lopped
away to make room for fields of maize, plantain and rice. But the
vegetation was still that of the tropics and many were the long and
lonely reaches of the river, where we glided between piled masses of
bloom and greenery.

We stopped four hours short of Gorgona, at the hacienda of San Pablo,
the residence of Padre Dutaris, curé of all the interior. Ambrosio
took us to his house by a path across a rolling, open savanna, dotted
by palms and acacias of immense size. Herds of cattle and horses
were grazing on the short, thick-leaved grass, and appeared to be
in excellent condition. The padre owns a large tract of land, with
a thousand head of stock, and his ranche commands a beautiful view
up and down the river. Ambrosio was acquainted with his wife, and by
recommending us as _buenos caballeros_, procured us a splendid supper
of fowls, eggs, rice boiled in cocoa milk, and chocolate, with baked
plantains for bread. The padre was absent at the time, but his son
Felipe, a boy of twelve years old, assisted in doing the honors with
wonderful grace and self-possession. His tawny skin was as soft as
velvet, and his black eyes sparkled like jewels. He sat in the hammock
with me, leaning over my shoulder as I noted down the day’s doings, and
when I had done, wrote his name in my book, in an elegant hand. I slept
soundly in the midst of an uproar, and only awoke at four o’clock next
morning, to hurry our men in leaving for Gorgona.

The current was very strong and in some places it was almost impossible
to make headway. Our boatmen worked hard, and by dint of strong poling
managed to jump through most difficult places. Their naked, sinewy
forms, bathed in sweat, shone like polished bronze. Ambrosio was soon
exhausted, and lay down; but Miguel, our _corps de reserve_, put his
agile spirit into the work and flung himself upon the pole with such
vigor that all the muscles of his body quivered as the boat shot ahead
and relaxed them. About half-way to Gorgona we rounded the foot of
Monte Carabali, a bold peak clothed with forests and crowned with a
single splendid palm. This hill is the only one in the province from
which both oceans may be seen at once.

As we neared Gorgona, our men began repeating the ominous words:
“_Cruces--mucha colera_.” We had, in fact, already heard of the
prevalence of cholera there, but doubted, none the less, their wish
to shorten the journey. On climbing the bank to the village, I called
immediately at the store of Mr. Miller, the only American resident,
who informed me that several passengers by the Falcon had already
left for Panama, the route being reported passable. In the door of
the alcalde’s house, near at hand, I met Mr. Powers, who had left New
York a short time previous to my departure, and was about starting for
Panama on foot, mules being very scarce. While we were deliberating
whether to go on to Cruces, Ambrosio beckoned me into an adjoining hut.
The owner, a very venerable and dignified native, received me swinging
in his hammock. He had six horses which he would furnish us the next
morning, at $10 the head for riding animals, and $6 for each 100 lbs.
of freight. The bargain was instantly concluded.

As we were leaving Gorgona, our party was joined by a long
Mississippian, whose face struck me at the first glance as being
peculiarly cadaverous. He attached himself to us without the least
ceremony, leaving his own party behind. We had not ridden far before
he told us he had felt symptoms of cholera during the night, and was
growing worse. We insisted on his returning to Gorgona at once, but
he refused, saying he was “bound to go through.” At the first ranche
on the road we found another traveler, lying on the ground in a state
of entire prostration. He was attended by a friend, who seemed on the
point of taking the epidemic, from his very fears. The sight of this
case no doubt operated on the Mississippian, for he soon became so
racked with pain as to keep his seat with great difficulty. We were
alarmed; it was impossible to stop in the swampy forest, and equally
impossible to leave him, now that all his dependence was on us. The
only thing resembling medicine in our possession, was a bottle of
claret. It was an unusual remedy for cholera, but he insisted on
drinking it.

After urging forward our weary beasts till late in the afternoon,
we were told that Panama was four hours further. We pitied the poor
horses, but ourselves more, and determined to push ahead. After a
repetition of all our worst experience, we finally struck the remains
of the paved road constructed by the buccaneers when they held Panama.
I now looked eagerly forward for the Pacific, but every ridge showed
another in advance, and it grew dark with a rain coming up. Our horses
avoided the hard pavement and took by-paths through thickets higher
than our heads. The cholera-stricken emigrant, nothing helped by the
claret he drank, implored us, amid his groans, to hasten forward. We
were far in advance of our Indian guide and lost the way more than
once in the darkness. At last he overtook us, washed his feet in a
mudhole, and put on a pair of pantaloons. This was a welcome sign to
us, and in fact, we soon after smelt the salt air of the Pacific, and
could distinguish huts on either side of the road. These gave place to
stone houses and massive ruined edifices, overgrown with vegetation. We
passed a plaza and magnificent church, rode down an open space fronting
the bay, under a heavy gateway, across another plaza and through two
or three narrow streets, hailed by Americans all the way with: “Are
you the Falcon’s passengers?” “From Gorgona?” “From Cruces?” till our
guide brought us up at the Hotel Americano.

Thus terminated my five days’ journey across the Isthmus--decidedly
more novel, grotesque and adventurous than any trip of similar length
in the world. It was rough enough, but had nothing that I could exactly
call hardship, so much was the fatigue balanced by the enjoyment of
unsurpassed scenery and a continual sensation of novelty. In spite of
the many dolorous accounts which have been sent from the Isthmus, there
is nothing, at the worst season, to deter any one from the journey.


II

HO! FOR SAN FRANCISCO

There were about seven hundred emigrants waiting for passage, when I
reached Panama. All the tickets the steamer could possibly receive had
been issued and so great was the anxiety to get on, that double price,
$600, was frequently paid for a ticket to San Francisco. A few days
before we came, there was a most violent excitement on the subject,
and as the only way to terminate the dispute, it was finally agreed
to dispose by lot of all the tickets for sale. The emigrants were all
numbered, and those with tickets for sailing vessels or other steamers
excluded. The remainder then drew, there being fifty-two tickets to
near three hundred passengers. The disappointed candidates, for the
most part, took passage in sailing vessels, with a prospect of seventy
days’ voyage before them. A few months previous, when three thousand
persons were waiting on the Isthmus, several small companies started
in the log canoes of the natives, thinking to reach San Francisco in
them! After a voyage of forty days, during which they went no further
than the Island of Quibo, at the mouth of the Gulf, nearly all of them
returned; the rest have not since been heard of.

The passengers were engaged in embarking all the afternoon of the
second day after my arrival. The steamer came up to within a mile and
a half of the town, and numbers of canoes plied between her and the
sea-gateway. Native porters crowded about the hotels, clamoring for
luggage, which they carried down to the shore under so fervent a heat
that I was obliged to hoist my umbrella. One of the boatmen lifted
me over the swells for the sake of a _medio_, and I was soon gliding
out along the edge of the breakers, startling the pelicans that flew
in long lines over the water. I was well satisfied to leave Panama at
the time; the cholera, which had already carried off one-fourth of the
native population, was making havoc among the Americans, and several of
the Falcon’s passengers lay at the point of death.

A voyage from Panama to San Francisco in the year 1849 can hardly
be compared to sea-life in any other part of the world or at any
previous period. Our vessel was crowded fore and aft: exercise was
rendered quite impossible and sleep was each night a new experiment,
for the success of which we were truly grateful. We were roused at
daylight by the movements on deck, if not earlier, by the breaking of
a hammock-rope and the thump and yell of the unlucky sleeper. Coffee
was served in the cabin; but, as many of the passengers imagined
that, because they had paid a high price for their tickets, they were
conscientiously obligated to drink three cups, the late-comers got a
very scanty allowance. The breakfast hour was nine, and the table was
obliged to be fully set twice. At the first tingle of the bell, all
hands started as if a shot had exploded among them; conversation was
broken off in the middle of a word; the deck was instantly cleared,
and the passengers, tumbling pell-mell down the cabin-stairs, found
every seat taken by others who had probably been sitting in them for
half an hour. The bell, however, had an equally convulsive effect upon
these. There was a confused grabbing motion for a few seconds, and
lo! the plates were cleared. While about half the passengers had all
their breakfast piled at once upon their plates, the other half were
regaled by a “plentiful lack.” The second table was but a repetition
of these scenes, which dinner--our only additional meal--renewed in
the afternoon. Among our company of two hundred and fifty, there were,
of course, many gentlemen of marked refinement and intelligence from
various parts of the Union. I believe the controlling portion of the
California emigration is intelligent, orderly and peaceable; yet I
never witnessed so many disgusting exhibitions of the lowest passions
of humanity, as during the voyage. At sea or among the mountains, men
completely lose the little arts of dissimulation they practise in
society. They show in their true light, and very often, alas! in a
light little calculated to encourage the enthusiastic believer in the
speedy perfection of our race.

       *       *       *       *       *

“There is California!” was the cry next morning at sunrise. “Where?”
“Off the starboard bow.” I rose on my bunk in one of the deck
state-rooms, and looking out of the window, watched the purple
mountains of the Peninsula, as they rose in the fresh, inspiring air.
We were opposite its southern extremity, and I scanned the brown and
sterile coast with a glass, searching for anything like vegetation. The
whole country appeared to be a mass of nearly naked rock, nourishing
only a few cacti and some stunted shrubs. At the extreme end of the
Peninsula the valley of San José opens inland between two ranges of
lofty granite mountains. Its beautiful green level, several miles in
width, stretched back as far as the eye could reach. The town lies near
the sea; it is noted for the siege sustained by Lieut. Haywood and a
small body of American troops during the war. Lying deep amid the most
frightfully barren and rugged mountains I ever saw, the valley of San
José which is watered by a small river, might be made a paradise. In
spite of the forbidding appearance of the coast, a more peculiar and
interesting picture than it gave can hardly be found on the Pacific.
Cape San Lucas, which we passed toward evening, is a bold bluff of
native granite, broken into isolated rocks at its points, which present
the appearance of three distinct and perfectly-formed pyramids. The
white, glistening rock is pierced at its base by hollow caverns and
arches, some of which are fifteen or twenty feet high, giving glimpses
of the ocean beyond.... In a few minutes after our gun was fired, we
could see horsemen coming down from San Diego at full gallop, one of
whom carried behind him a lady in graceful riding costume. In the first
boat were Colonel Weller, U. S. Boundary Commissioner, and Major Hill,
of the Army. Then followed a number of men, lank and brown “as is the
ribbed sea-sand”--men with long hair and beards, and faces from which
the rigid expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed. They were the
first of the overland emigrants by the Gila route, who had reached San
Diego a few days before. Their clothes were in tatters, their boots,
in many cases, replaced by moccasins, and, except their rifles and
some small packages rolled in deerskin, they had nothing left of the
abundant stores with which they left home.

We hove anchor in half an hour, and again rounded Point Loma, our
number increased by more than fifty passengers.

The emigrants we took on board at San Diego were objects of general
interest. The stories of their adventures by the way sounded more
marvellous than anything I had heard or read since my boyish
acquaintance with Robinson Crusoe, Captain Cook and John Ledyard.
Taking them as the average experience of the thirty thousand emigrants
who last year crossed the Plains, this California Crusade will more
than equal the great military expeditions of the Middle Ages in
magnitude, peril and adventure. The amount of suffering which must have
been endured in the savage mountain passes and herbless deserts of the
interior, cannot be told in words. Some had come by way of Santa Fé and
along the savage hills of the Gila; some, starting from Red River, had
crossed the Great Stake Desert and taken the road from Paso del Norte
to Tucson in Arizona; some had passed through Mexico and after spending
one hundred and four days at sea, run into San Diego and given up their
vessel; some had landed, weary with a seven months’ passage around Cape
Horn, and some, finally, had reached the place on foot, after walking
the whole length of the Californian Peninsula.

We were within sight of the Coast Range of California all day, after
passing Cape Conception. Their sides are spotted with timber, which
in the narrow valleys sloping down to the sea appeared to be of large
growth. From their unvarying yellow hue, we took them to be mountains
of sand, but they were in reality covered with natural harvests of wild
oats, as I afterwards learned, on traveling into the interior. A keen,
bracing wind at night kept down the fog, and although the thermometer
fell to 52°, causing a general shiver on board, I walked the deck a
long time, noting the extraordinary brilliancy of the stars in the pure
air. The mood of our passengers changed very visibly as we approached
the close of the voyage; their exhilarant anticipations left them,
and were succeeded by a reaction of feeling that almost amounted to
despondency. The return to laborious life after a short exemption from
its cares, as in the case of travel, is always attended with some such
feeling, but among the California emigrants it was intensified by the
uncertainty of their venture in a region where all the ordinary rules
of trade and enterprise would be at fault.

When I went on deck in the clear dawn we were rounding Point Pinos
into the harbor of Monterey. As we drew near, the white, scattered
dwellings of the town, situated on a gentle slope, behind which
extended on all sides the celebrated Pine Forest, became visible in the
grey light. A handsome fort, on an eminence near the sea, returned our
salute. The town is larger than I expected to find it, and from the
water has the air of a large New-England village, barring the _adobe_
houses. As we were preparing to leave, the sun rose over the mountains,
covering the air with gold brighter than ever was scratched up on the
Sacramento. The picturesque houses of Monterey, the pine woods behind
and the hills above them, glowed like an illuminated painting, till a
fog-curtain which met us at the mouth of the harbor dropped down upon
the water and hid them all from sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

At last the voyage is drawing to a close. Fifty-one days have elapsed
since leaving New York, in which time we have, in a manner, coasted
both sides of the North-American Continent, from the parallel of 40°
N. to its termination, within a few degrees of the Equator, over seas
once ploughed by the keels of Columbus and Balboa, of Grijalva and
Sebastian Viscaino. All is excitement on board; the Captain has just
taken his noon observation. We are running along the shore, within six
or eight miles’ distance; the hills are bare and sandy, but loom up
finely through the deep blue haze. The coast trends somewhat more to
the westward and a notch or gap is at last visible in its lofty outline.

An hour later; we are in front of the entrance to San Francisco Bay.
As the view opens through the splendid strait, three or four miles
in width, the island rock of Alcatraz appears, gleaming white in the
distance.

At last we are through the Golden Gate--fit name for such a magnificent
portal to the commerce of the Pacific! Yerba Buena Island is in front;
southward and westward opens the renowned harbor, crowded with the
shipping of the world, mast behind mast and vessel behind vessel, the
flags of all nations fluttering in the breeze! Around the curving shore
of the Bay and upon the sides of three hills which rise steeply from
the water, the middle one receding so as to form a bold amphitheatre,
the town is planted and seems scarcely yet to have taken root, for
tents, canvas, plank, mud and adobe houses are mingled together with
the least apparent attempt at order and durability. But I am not yet
on shore. The gun of the Panama has just announced our arrival to the
people on land. We glide on with the tide, past the U. S. ship Ohio
and opposite the main landing, outside of the forest of masts. A dozen
boats are creeping out to us over the water; the signal is given--the
anchor drops--our voyage is over.


III

SAN FRANCISCO

After a prolonged search on the first day of my arrival I obtained a
room with two beds at $25 per week, meals being in addition $20 per
week. I asked the landlord whether he could send a porter for our
trunks. “There is none belonging to the house,” said he; “every man is
his own porter here.” I returned to the Parker House,[13] shouldered a
heavy trunk, took a valise in my hand and carried them to my quarters,
in the teeth of the wind. Our room was in a sort of garret over the
only story of the hotel; two cots, evidently of California manufacture,
and covered only with a pair of blankets, two chairs, a rough table and
a small looking-glass, constituted the furniture. There was not space
enough between the bed and the bare rafters overhead, to sit upright,
and I gave myself a severe blow in rising the next morning without the
proper heed. Through a small roof-window of dim glass, I could see the
opposite shore of the bay, then partly hidden by the evening fogs. The
wind whistled around the eaves and rattled the tiles with a cold, gusty
sound, that would have imparted a dreary character to the place, had I
been in a mood to listen.

Many of the passengers began speculation at the moment of landing.
The most ingenious and successful operation was made by a gentleman
of New York, who took out fifteen hundred copies of The Tribune and
other papers, which he disposed of in two hours, at one dollar apiece!
Hearing of this I bethought me of about a dozen papers which I had
used to fill up crevices in packing my valise. There was a newspaper
merchant at the corner of the City Hotel, and to him I proposed the
sale of them, asking him to name a price. “I shall want to make a good
profit on the retail price,” said he, “and can’t give more than ten
dollars for the lot.” I was satisfied with the wholesale price, which
was a gain of just four thousand per cent!

I set out for a walk before dark and climbed a hill back of the town,
passing a number of tents pitched in the hollows. The scattered houses
spread out below me and the crowded shipping in the harbor, backed by
a lofty line of mountains, made an imposing picture. The restless,
feverish tide of life in that little spot, and the thought that what
I then saw and was yet to see will hereafter fill one of the most
marvellous pages of all history, rendered it singularly impressive.

I was forced to believe many things, which in my communications to The
Tribune I was almost afraid to write, with any hope of their obtaining
credence. It may be interesting to give here a few instances of the
enormous and unnatural value put upon property at the time of my
arrival. The Parker House rented for $110,000 yearly, at least $60,000
of which was paid by gamblers, who held nearly all the second story.
Adjoining it on the right was a canvas-tent fifteen by twenty-five
feet, called “Eldorado,” and occupied likewise by gamblers, which
brought $40,000. On the opposite corner of the plaza, a building
called the “Miner’s Bank,” used by Wright & Co., brokers, about half
the size of a fire-engine house in New York, was held at a rent of
$75,000. A mercantile house paid $40,000 rent for a one-story building
of twenty feet front; the United States Hotel, $36,000; the Post
Office, $7,000, and so on to the end of the chapter. A friend of mine,
who wished to find a place for a law-office, was shown a cellar in the
earth, about twelve feet square and six deep, which he could have at
$250 a month. One of the common soldiers at the battle of San Pasquale
was reputed to be among the millionaires of the place, with an income
of $50,000 _monthly_. A citizen of San Francisco died insolvent to the
amount of $41,000 the previous Autumn. His administrators were delayed
in settling his affairs, and his real estate advanced so rapidly in
value meantime, that after his debts were paid his heirs had a yearly
income of $40,000. These facts were indubitably attested; everyone
believed them, yet hearing them talked of daily, as matters of course,
one at first could not help feeling as if he had been eating of “the
insane root.”

The prices paid for labor were in proportion to everything else. The
carman of Mellus, Howard & Co. had a salary of $6,000 a year, and
many others made from $15 to $20 daily. Servants were paid from $100
to $200 a month, but the wages of the rougher kinds of labor had
fallen to about $80. Yet, notwithstanding the number of gold-seekers
who were returning enfeebled and disheartened from the mines, it was
difficult to obtain as many workmen as the forced growth of the city
demanded. A gentleman who arrived in April told me he then found but
thirty or forty houses; the population was then so scant that not
more than twenty-five persons would be seen in the streets at any one
time. Now, there were probably five hundred houses, tents and sheds,
with a population, fixed and floating, of six thousand. People who
had been absent six weeks came back and could scarcely recognize the
place. Streets were regularly laid out, and already there were three
piers, at which small vessels could discharge. It was calculated that
the town increased daily by from fifteen to thirty houses; its skirts
were rapidly approaching the summits of the three hills on which it is
located.

A curious result of the extraordinary abundance of gold and the
facility with which fortunes were acquired, struck me at the first
glance. All business was transacted on so extensive a scale that the
ordinary habits of solicitation and compliance on the one hand and
stubborn cheapening on the other, seemed to be entirely forgotten.
You enter a shop to buy something; the owner eyes you with perfect
indifference, waiting for you to state your want; if you object to the
price, you are at liberty to leave, for you need not expect to get it
cheaper; he evidently cares little whether you buy it or not. One who
has been some time in the country will lay down the money, without
wasting words. This disregard for all the petty arts of money-making
was really a refreshing feature of society. Another equally agreeable
trait was the punctuality with which debts were paid and the general
confidence which men were obliged to place, perforce, in each
other’s honesty. Perhaps this latter fact was owing, in part, to the
impossibility of protecting wealth, and consequent dependence on an
honorable regard for the rights of others.

About the hour of twilight the wind fell; the sound of a gong called
us to tea, which was served in the largest room of the hotel. The fare
was abundant and of much better quality than we expected--better, in
fact, than I was able to find there two months later. The fresh milk,
butter and excellent beef of the country were real luxuries after our
sea-fare. Thus braced against the fog and raw temperature, we sallied
out for a night-view of San Francisco, then even more peculiar than its
daylight look. Business was over about the usual hour, and then the
harvest-time of the gamblers commenced. Every “hell” in the place, and
I did not pretend to number them, was crowded, and immense sums were
staked at the monte and faro tables. A boy of fifteen, in one place,
won about $500, which he coolly pocketed and carried off. One of the
gang we brought in the Panama won $1,500 in the course of the evening,
and another lost $2,400. A fortunate miner made himself conspicuous
by betting large piles of ounces on a single throw. His last stake of
100 oz. was lost, and I saw him the following morning dashing through
the streets, trying to break his own neck or that of the magnificent
_garañon_ he bestrode.

Walking through the town the next day, I was quite amazed to find a
dozen persons busily employed in the street before the United States
Hotel, digging up the earth with knives and crumbling it in their
hands. They were actual gold-hunters, who obtained in this way about
$5 a day. After blowing the fine dirt carefully in their hands, a few
specks of gold were left, which they placed in a piece of white paper.
A number of children were engaged in the same business, picking out the
fine grains by applying to them the head of a pin, moistened in their
mouths. I was told of a small boy having taken home $14 as the result
of one day’s labor. On climbing the hill to the Post Office I observed
in places, where the wind had swept away the sand, several glittering
dots of the real metal, but, like the Irishman who kicked the dollar
out of his way, concluded to wait till I should reach the heap. The
presence of gold in the streets was probably occasioned by the leakings
from the miners’ bags and the sweepings of stores; though it may also
be, to a slight extent, native in the earth, particles having been
found in the clay thrown up from a deep well.

The arrival of a steamer with a mail ran the usual excitement and
activity of the town up to its highest possible notch. The little Post
Office, half-way up the hill, was almost hidden from sight by the
crowds that clustered around it. Mr. Moore, the new Postmaster, who was
my fellow-traveler from New York, barred every door and window from
the moment of his entrance, and with his sons and a few clerks, worked
steadily for two days and two nights, till the distribution of twenty
thousand letters was completed.

       *       *       *       *       *

As early as half-past six the bells begin to sound to breakfast, and
for an hour thenceforth, their incessant clang and the braying of
immense gongs drown all the hammers that are busy on a hundred roofs.
The hotels, restaurants and refectories of all kinds are already as
numerous as gaming-tables, and equally various in kind. The tables
d’hôte of the first class (which charge $2 and upwards the meal) are
abundantly supplied. There are others, with more simple and solid fare,
frequented by the large class who have their fortunes yet to make. At
the United States and California restaurants, on the plaza, you may get
an excellent beef-steak, scantily garnished with potatoes, and a cup of
good coffee or chocolate for $1. Fresh beef, bread, potatoes, and all
provisions which will bear importation, are plenty; but milk, fruit and
vegetables are classed as luxuries, and fresh butter is rarely heard of.

By nine o’clock the town is in the full flow of business. The streets
running down to the water, and Montgomery street which fronts the
Bay, are crowded with people, all in hurried motion. The variety of
characters and costumes is remarkable. Our own countrymen seem to lose
their local peculiarities in such a crowd, and it is by chance epithets
rather than by manner, that the New Yorker is distinguished from the
Kentuckian, the Carolinian from the Down-Easter, the Virginian from the
Texan. The German and Frenchman are more easily recognized. Peruvians
and Chilians go by in their brown ponchos, and the sober Chinese, cool
and impassive in the midst of excitement, look out of the oblique
corners of their long eyes at the bustle, but are never tempted to
venture from their own line of business. The eastern side of the plaza,
in front of the Parker House and a canvas hell called the Eldorado,
are the general rendezvous of business and amusement--combining
’change, park, club-room and promenade all in one. There, everybody not
constantly employed in one spot, may be seen at some time of the day.
The character of the groups scattered along the plaza is oftentimes
very interesting. In one place are three or four speculators bargaining
for lots, buying and selling “fifty varas square” in towns, some of
which are canvas and some only paper; in another, a company of miners,
brown as leather, and rugged in features as in dress; in a third,
perhaps, three or four naval officers speculating on the next cruise,
or a knot of genteel gamblers, talking over the last night’s operations.

The day advances. The mist which after sunrise hung low and heavy for
an hour or two, has risen above the hills, and there will be two hours
of pleasant sunshine before the wind sets in from the sea. The crowd
in the streets is now wholly alive. Men dart hither and thither, as if
possessed with a never-resting spirit. You speak to an acquaintance--a
merchant, perhaps. He utters a few hurried words of greeting, while his
eyes send keen glances on all sides of you; suddenly he catches sight
of somebody in the crowd; he is off, and in the next five minutes has
bought up half a cargo, sold a town lot at treble the sum he gave, and
taken a share in some new and imposing speculation. The very air is
pregnant with the magnetism of bold, spirited, unwearied action, and he
who but ventures into the outer circle of the whirlpool, is spinning,
ere he has time for thought, in its dizzy vortex.

About twelve o’clock, a wind begins to blow from the northwest,
sweeping with most violence through a gap between the hills, opening
towards the Golden Gate. The bells and gongs begin to sound for dinner,
and these two causes tend to lessen the crowd in the streets for
an hour or two. Two o’clock is the usual dinner-time for business
men, but some of the old and successful merchants have adopted the
fashionable hour of five. Where shall we dine to-day? the restaurants
display their signs invitingly on all sides; we have choice of the
United States, Tortoni’s, the Alhambra, and many other equally classic
resorts, but Delmonico’s, like its distinguished original in New York,
has the highest prices and the greatest variety of dishes. We go down
Kearney street to a two-story wooden house on the corner of Jackson.
The lower story is a market. We enter a little door at the end of the
building, ascend a dark, narrow flight of steps and find ourselves in
a long, low room, with ceiling and walls of white muslin and a floor
covered with oil-cloth.

There are about twenty tables disposed in two rows, all of them so well
filled that we have some difficulty in finding places. Taking up the
written bill of fare, we find such items as the following:

                   SOUPS.

  Mock Turtle                         $0.75
  St. Julien                           1.00

                   FISH.

  Boiled Salmon Trout, Anchovy sauce   1.75

                  BOILED.

  Leg Mutton, caper sauce              1.00
  Corned Beef, Cabbage                 1.00
  Ham and Tongues                      0.75

                 ENTREES.

  Filet of Beef, mushroom sauce        1.75
  Veal Cutlets, breaded                1.00
  Mutton Chop                          1.00
  Lobster Salad                        2.00
  Sirloin of Venison                   1.50
  Baked Macaroni                       0.75
  Beef Tongue, sauce piquante          1.00

So that, with but a moderate appetite, the dinner will cost us $5, if
we are at all epicurean in our tastes. There are cries of “steward!”
from all parts of the room--the word “waiter” is not considered
sufficiently respectful, seeing that the waiter may have been a lawyer
or merchant’s clerk a few months before. The dishes look very small as
they are placed on the table, but they are skilfully cooked and very
palatable to men that have ridden in from the diggings. The appetite
one acquires in California is something remarkable. For two months
after my arrival, my sensations were like those of a famished wolf.

The afternoon is less noisy and active than the forenoon. Merchants
keep within-doors, and the gambling-rooms are crowded with persons who
step in to escape the wind and dust. The sky takes a cold gray cast,
and the hills over the bay are barely visible in the dense, dusty air.
Towards sunset, the plaza is nearly deserted; the wind is merciless in
its force, and a heavy overcoat is not found unpleasantly warm. As it
grows dark, there is a lull, though occasional gusts blow down the hill
and carry the dust of the city out among the shipping.

The appearance of San Francisco at night, from the water, is unlike
anything I ever beheld. The houses are mostly of canvas, which is made
transparent by the lamps within, and transforms them, in the darkness,
to dwellings of solid light. Seated on the slopes of its three hills,
the tents pitched among the chaparral to the very summits, it gleams
like an amphitheatre of fire. Here and there shine out brilliant
points, from the decoy-lamps of the gaming-houses; and through the
indistinct murmur of the streets comes by fits the sound of music from
their hot and crowded precincts.

The only objects left for us to visit are the gaming-tables, whose
day has just fairly dawned. We need not wander far in search of one.
Denison’s Exchange, the Parker House and Eldorado stand side by side;
across the way are the Verandah and Aguila de Oro; higher up the
plaza the St. Charles and Bella Union; while dozens of second-rate
establishments are scattered through the less frequented streets. The
greatest crowd is about the Eldorado; we find it difficult to effect an
entrance. There are about eight tables in the room, all of which are
thronged; copper-hued Kanakas, Mexicans rolled in their sarapes and
Peruvians thrust through their ponchos, stand shoulder to shoulder with
the brown and bearded American miners. The stakes are generally small,
though when the bettor gets into “a streak of luck,” as it is called,
they are allowed to double until all is lost or the bank breaks. Along
the end of the room is a spacious bar, supplied with all kinds of bad
liquors, and in a sort of gallery, suspended under the ceiling, a
female violinist tasks her talent and strength of muscle to minister to
the excitement of play.

The Verandah, opposite, is smaller, but boasts an equal attraction in
a musician who has a set of Pandean pipes fastened at his chin, a drum
on his back, which he beats with sticks at his elbows, and cymbals in
his hands. The piles of coin on the monte tables clink merrily to his
playing, and the throng of spectators, jammed together in a sweltering
mass, walk up to the bar between the tunes and drink out of sympathy
with his dry and breathless throat. At the Aguila de Oro there is a
full band of Ethiopian serenaders, and at the other hells, violins,
guitars or wheezy accordeons, as the case may be. The atmosphere of
these places is rank with tobacco-smoke, and filled with a feverish,
stifling heat, which communicates an unhealthy glow to the faces of the
players.

There are rare chances here for seeing human nature in one of its
most dark and existing phases. They are playing monte, the favorite
game in California, since the chances are considered more equal and
the opportunity of false play very slight. The dealer throws out his
cards with a cool, nonchalant air; indeed, the gradual increase of the
hollow square of dollars at his left hand is not calculated to disturb
his equanimity. The two Mexicans in front, muffled in their dirty
sarapes, put down their half-dollars and dollars and see them lost,
without changing a muscle. Gambling is a born habit with them, and
they would lose thousands with the same indifference. Very different
is the demeanor of the Americans who are playing; their good or ill
luck is betrayed at once by involuntary exclamations and changes of
countenance, unless the stake should be very large and absorbing, when
their anxiety, though silent, may be read with no less certainty. They
have no power to resist the fascination of the game. Now counting their
winnings by thousands, now dependent on the kindness of a friend for a
few dollars to commence anew, they pass hour after hour in those hot,
unwholesome dens. There is no appearance of arms, but let one of the
players, impatient with his losses and maddened by the poisonous fluids
he has drunk, threaten one of the profession, and there will be no
scarcity of knives and revolvers.

There are other places, where gaming is carried on privately and to
a more ruinous extent--rooms in the rear of the Parker House, in the
City Hotel and other places, frequented only by the initiated. Here
the stakes are almost unlimited, the players being men of wealth and
apparent respectability. Frequently, in the absorbing interest of some
desperate game the night goes by unheeded and morning breaks upon
haggard faces and reckless hearts. Here are lost, in a few turns of a
card or rolls of a ball, the product of fortunate ventures by sea or
months of racking labor on land.


IV

AT THE DIGGINGS

MOKELUMNE

In the evening of the day of our arrival we sat down to a supper
prepared by Baptiste and his partner, Mr. Fisher, which completed my
astonishment at the resources of that wonderful land. There, in the
rough depth of the hills, where three weeks before there was scarcely
a tent, and where we expected to live on jerked beef and bread, we saw
on the table green corn, green peas and beans, fresh oysters, roast
turkey, fine Goshen butter and excellent coffee. I will not pretend to
say what they cost, but I began to think that the fable of Aladdin was
nothing very remarkable, after all.

I slept soundly that night on the dining-table, and went down early to
the river, where I found the party of ten bailing out the water which
had leaked into the river-bed during the night. They were standing in
the sun, and had two hours’ hard work before they could begin to wash
for gold. The prospect looked uninviting, but when I went there again
towards noon, one of them was scraping up the sand from the bed with
his knife, and throwing it into a basin, the bottom of which glittered
with gold. Every knifeful brought out a quantity of grains and scales,
some of which were as large as the finger-nail. At last a two-ounce
lump fell plump into the pan, and the diggers, now in the best possible
humor, went on with their work with great alacrity. Their forenoon’s
digging amounted to nearly six pounds. It is only by such operations
as these, through associated labor, that great profits are to be made
in those districts which have been visited by the first eager horde of
gold-hunters. The deposits most easily reached are soon exhausted by
the crowd, and the labor required to carry on further work successfully
deters single individuals from attempting it. Those who, retaining
their health, return home disappointed, say they have been humbugged
about the gold, when in fact, they have humbugged themselves about
the _work_. If any one expects to dig treasures out of the earth,
in California, without severe labor, he is wofully mistaken. Of all
classes of men, those who pave streets and quarry limestone are best
adapted for gold diggers.

Dr. Gillette, to whom we were indebted for many kind attentions,
related to me the manner of his finding the rich gulch which attracted
so many to the Mokelumne Diggings. About two months previous to our
arrival, Dr. Gillette came down from the Upper Bar with a companion,
to “prospect” for gold among the ravines in the neighborhood. There
were no persons there at the time, except some Indians belonging
to the tribe of José Jesus. One day at noon, while resting in the
shade of a tree, Dr. G. took a pick and began carelessly turning up
the ground. Almost on the surface, he struck and threw out a lump of
gold of about two pounds weight. Inspired by this unexpected result,
they both went to work, laboring all that day and the next, and even
using part of the night to quarry out the heavy pieces of rock. At the
end of the second day they went to the village on the Upper Bar and
weighed their profits, which amounted to fourteen pounds! They started
again the third morning under pretence of hunting, but were suspected
and followed by the other diggers, who came upon them just as they
commenced work. The news rapidly spread, and there was soon a large
number of men on the spot, some of whom obtained several pounds per
day, at the start. The gulch had been well dug up for the large lumps,
but there was still great wealth in the earth and sand, and several
operators only waited for the wet season to work it in a systematic
manner.

The next day Col. Lyons, Dr. Gillette and myself set out on a visit to
the scene of these rich discoveries. Climbing up the rocky bottom of
the gulch, as by a staircase, for four miles, we found nearly every
part of it dug up and turned over by the picks of the miners. Deep
holes, sunk between the solid strata or into the precipitous sides of
the mountains, showed where veins of the metal had been struck and
followed as long as they yielded lumps large enough to pay for the
labor. The loose earth, which they had excavated, was full of fine
gold, and only needed washing out. A number of Sonorians were engaged
in dry washing this refuse sand--a work which requires no little
skill, and would soon kill any other men than these lank and skinny
Arabs of the West. Their mode of work is as follows:--Gathering the
loose dry sand in bowls, they raise it to their heads and slowly pour
it upon a blanket spread at their feet. Repeating this several times,
and throwing out the worthless pieces of rock, they reduce the dust
to about half its bulk; then, balancing the bowl on one hand, by a
quick, dexterous motion of the other they cause it to revolve, at the
same time throwing its contents into the air and catching them as they
fall. In this manner everything is finally winnowed away except the
heavier grains of sand mixed with gold, which is carefully separated by
the breath. It is a laborious occupation, and one which, fortunately,
the American diggers have not attempted. This breathing the fine dust
from day to day, under a more than torrid sun, would soon impair the
strongest lungs.

We found many persons at work in the higher part of the gulch,
searching for veins and pockets of gold, in the holes which had already
produced their first harvest. Some of these gleaners, following the
lodes abandoned by others as exhausted, into the sides of the mountain,
were well repaid for their perseverance. Others, again, had been
working for days without finding anything. Those who understood the
business obtained from one to four ounces daily. Their only tools were
the crowbar, pick and knife, and many of them, following the veins
under strata of rock which lay deep below the surface, were obliged
to work while lying flat on their backs, in cramped and narrow holes,
sometimes kept moist by springs. They were shielded, however, from the
burning heats, and preserved their health better than those who worked
on the bars of the river.

There are thousands of similar gulches among the mountains, nearly
all of which undoubtedly contain gold. Those who are familiar with
geology, or by carefully noting the character of the soil and strata
where gold is already found, have learned its indications, rarely fail
in the selection of new spots for digging. There is no such thing as
accident in Nature, and in proportion as men understand her, the more
sure a clue they have to her buried treasures. There is more gold in
California than ever was said or imagined: ages will not exhaust the
supply.

I went up in the ravines one morning, for about two miles, looking for
game. It was too late in the day for deer, and I saw but one antelope,
which fled like the wind over the top of the mountain. I started a
fine hare, similar in appearance to the European, but of larger size.
A man riding down the trail, from the Double Spring, told us he had
counted seven deer early in the morning, beside numbers of antelopes
and partridges. The grizzly bear and large mountain wolf are frequently
seen in the more thickly timbered ravines. The principal growth of the
mountains is oak and the California pine, which rises like a spire to
the height of two hundred feet. The _piñons_, or cones, are much larger
and of finer flavor, than those of the Italian stonepine. As far as I
could see from the ridges which I climbed, the mountains were as well
timbered as the soil and climate will allow. A little more rain would
support as fine forests as the world can produce. The earth was baked
to a cinder, and from 11 A. M. to 4 P. M. the mercury ranged between
98° and 110°.

The largest piece found in the rich gulch weighed eleven pounds. Mr.
James, who had been on the river since April, showed me a lump weighing
sixty-two ounces--pure, unadulterated gold.

From all I saw and heard, while at the Mokelumne Diggings, I judged
there was as much order and security as could be attained without a
civil organization. The inhabitants had elected one of their own number
Alcalde, before whom all culprits were tried by a jury selected for
the purpose. Several thefts had occurred, and the offending parties
been severely punished after a fair trial. Some had been whipped and
cropped, or maimed in some other way, and one or two of them hung.
Two or three who had stolen largely had been shot down by the injured
party, the general feeling among the miners justifying such a course
when no other seemed available. We met near Livermore’s Ranche, on the
way to Stockton, a man whose head had been shaved and his ears cut
off, after receiving one hundred lashes, for stealing ninety-eight
pounds of gold. It may conflict with popular ideas of morality, but,
nevertheless, this extreme course appeared to have produced good
results. In fact, in a country without not only bolts and bars, but
any effective system of law and government, this Spartan severity
of discipline seemed the only security against the most frightful
disorder. The result was that, except some petty acts of larceny,
thefts were rare. Horses and mules were sometimes taken, but the risk
was so great that such plunder could not be carried on to any extent.
The camp or tent was held inviolate, and like the patriarchal times
of old, its cover protected all it enclosed. Among all well-disposed
persons there was a tacit disposition to make the canvas or pavilion of
rough oak-boughs as sacred as once were the portals of a church.

The history of law and society in California, from the period of
the golden discoveries, would furnish many instructive lessons to
the philosopher and the statesman. The first consequence of the
unprecedented rush of emigration from all parts of the world into
a country almost unknown, and but half reclaimed from its original
barbarism was to render all law virtually null, and bring the
established authorities to depend entirely on the humor of the
population for the observance of their orders. The countries which were
nearest the golden coast--Mexico, Peru, Chili, China and the Sandwich
Islands--sent forth their thousands of ignorant adventurers, who
speedily outnumbered the American population. Another fact, which none
the less threatened serious consequences, was the readiness with which
the worthless and depraved class of our own country came to the Pacific
Coast. From the beginning, a state of things little short of anarchy
might have been reasonably awaited.

Instead of this, a disposition to maintain order and secure the rights
of all, was shown throughout the mining districts. In the absence of
all law or available protection, the people met and adopted rules for
their mutual security--rules adapted to their situation, where they
had neither guards nor prisons, and where the slightest license given
to crime or trespass of any kind must inevitably have led to terrible
disorders. Small thefts were punished by banishment from the placers,
while for those of large amount or for more serious crimes, there was
the single alternative of hanging. These regulations, with slight
change, had been continued up to the time of my visit to the country.
In proportion as the emigration from our own States increased, and
the digging community assumed a more orderly and intelligent aspect,
their severity had been relaxed, though punishment was still strictly
administered for all offences. There had been, as nearly as I could
learn, not more than twelve or fifteen executions in all, about half of
which were inflicted for the crime of murder. This awful responsibility
had not been assumed lightly, but after a fair trial and a full and
clear conviction, to which was added, I believe in every instance, the
confession of the criminal.

In all the large digging districts, which had been worked for some
time, there were established regulations, which were faithfully
observed. Alcaldes were elected, who decided on all disputes of right
or complaints of trespass, and who had power to summon juries for
criminal trials. When a new placer or gulch was discovered, the first
thing done was to elect officers and extend the area of order. The
result was, that in a district five hundred miles long, and inhabited
by 100,000 people, who had neither government, regular laws, rules,
military or civil protection, nor even locks or bolts, and a great part
of whom possessed wealth enough to tempt the vicious and depraved,
there was as much security to life and property as in any part of the
Union, and as small a proportion of crime. The capacity of a people for
self-government was never so triumphantly illustrated. Never, perhaps,
was there a community formed of more unpropitious elements; yet from
all this seeming chaos grew a harmony beyond what the most sanguine
apostle of Progress could have expected.

The rights of the diggers were no less definitely marked and strictly
observed. Among the hundreds I saw on the Mokelumne and among the
gulches, I did not see a single dispute nor hear a word of complaint.
A company of men might mark out a race of any length and turn the
current of the river to get at the bed, possessing the exclusive right
to that part of it, so long as their undertaking lasted. A man might
dig a hole in the dry ravines, and so long as he left a shovel, pick
or crowbar to show that he still intended working it, he was safe
from trespass. His tools might remain there for months without being
disturbed. I have seen many such places, miles away from any camp or
tent, which the digger had left in perfect confidence that he should
find all right on his return. There were of course exceptions to these
rules--the diggings would be a Utopia if it were not so--but they were
not frequent.

The treatment of the Sonorians by the American diggers was one of the
exciting subjects of the summer. These people came into the country in
armed bands, to the number of ten thousand in all, and took possession
of the best points on the Tuolumne, Stanislaus and Mokelumne Rivers.
At the Sonorian camp on the Stanislaus there were, during the summer,
several thousands of them, and the amount of ground they dug up and
turned over is almost incredible. For a long time they were suffered to
work peaceably, but the opposition finally became so strong that they
were ordered to leave. They made no resistance, but quietly backed out
and took refuge in other diggings. In one or two places, I was told,
the Americans, finding there was no chance of having a fight, coolly
invited them back again! At the time of my visit, however, they were
leaving the country in large numbers, and there were probably not more
than five thousand in all scattered along the various rivers. Several
parties of them, in revenge for the treatment they experienced,
committed outrages on their way home, stripping small parties of the
emigrants by the Gila route of all they possessed. It is not likely
that the country will be troubled with them in future.

Abundance of gold does not always beget, as moralists tell us, a
grasping and avaricious spirit. The principles of hospitality were as
faithfully observed in the rude tents of the diggers as they could be
by the thrifty farmers of the North and West. The cosmopolitan cast of
society in California, resulting from the commingling of so many races
and the primitive mode of life, gave a character of good-fellowship
to all its members; and in no part of the world have I ever seen help
more freely given to the needy, or more ready coöperation in any humane
proposition. Personally, I can safely say that I never met with such
unvarying kindness from comparative strangers.




FRÉMONT’S GREAT RIDE

FREDERICK S. DELLENBAUGH

1849

From “Frémont and ’49.” Reprinted by permission of the publishers, G.
P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.[14]


For a period of about fifty days, from January 16, 1847, Colonel
Frémont was recognised everywhere in California as Governor, under
Stockton’s appointment. Kearny went up to Monterey, and in March
Frémont thought he had discovered signs of another outbreak which he
believed should be immediately reported to the General. H. H. Bancroft
declares: “These alarms were invented later as an excuse for disobeying
Kearny’s orders.” But it seems somewhat unreasonable to suppose that
Frémont would make such a tremendous effort as he did in the long ride
to be described, merely to inaugurate, or cover up, insubordination.
At the same time one may ask, “Why was it necessary for him to carry
the news in person?” He writes, “I made a most extraordinary ride to
give information to prevent an insurrection. The only thing, it would
seem, that I came for in that interview, was to insult General Kearny,
and to offer my resignation; and he [pretends he] does not even know
what I went for. Certainly the public service, to say nothing of myself
as an officer, required a different kind of reception from the one I
received.”

The immediate trouble seems partly to have arisen from General Kearny’s
insisting that Colonel Mason should remain through the interview, on
the ground that he was the officer appointed to succeed to command
in California after the approaching departure of General Kearny. The
situation was antagonistic. Kearny finally gave Frémont a limited time
in which to declare himself as to obeying the General’s orders, and
after an hour’s consideration he returned agreeing to obey. He was then
directed to report at Monterey at the earliest possible moment. Of the
impending insurrection at Los Angeles nothing more is heard.

The great ride which culminated at Monterey in this unsatisfactory
interview was one of the most remarkable on record for speed and
distance. Few men would have the endurance necessary to accomplish such
a feat, but Frémont was a man of iron. At dawn, March 22, 1847, he rode
out of Los Angeles accompanied by his devoted friend Don Jesus Pico,
like all Californians of that day a superb horseman full of endurance,
and by the equally devoted coloured man Jacob Dodson, now, by his long
experience, the equal of a Californian in riding and lasso-throwing.
Besides their three mounts they drove before them six other horses in
good condition, all unshod, and from time to time (about every twenty
miles), Dodson or Pico would rope fresh horses from the free band to
relieve the tired mounts. Changing saddles was but the work of a few
seconds, and off they sped again. By night of this first day they had
made 120 miles, over mountains and valleys, part of the way by the
Rincon, the precarious path along the coast, possible only at low tide,
and they slept beyond Santa Barbara at the ranch of Señor Robberis. The
second day the distance covered was 135 miles, over the mountains where
the Battalion had been so furiously beaten down by the terrible storm
described by Bryant, and they counted the skeletons of fifty horses
that had succumbed on that day of exposure and suffering.

Sunset found them at Captain Dana’s place taking supper; and the home
of Pico, San Luis Obispo, was reached by nine in the night. Here a
warm welcome met Frémont for his clemency to Pico in the matter of
the parole, and it was eleven o’clock the next morning before they
were again in the saddle, with eight fresh horses and a Spanish boy
for herder, and riding for Monterey. Seventy miles to their credit
brought them to a halt for the night in the valley of the Salinas,
where they were barred from sleep by a number of grizzly bears prowling
near and frightening the horses. Frémont was for shooting them but
Pico said no, and he shouted at them something in Spanish when they
forthwith retired! But a large fire was then built, breakfast was
prepared, and at break of day the last stretch of the road to Monterey
was taken at a fine pace, the ninety miles being covered by three in
the afternoon (March 25th) making a grand total in _four days of 420
miles_. Frémont, that evening, had the interview, with General Kearny,
above referred to, which H. H. Bancroft regards as the “turning point”
in the Kearny-Frémont affair. The next day, at four in the afternoon,
the party started on the return to Los Angeles and they made 40 miles.
The following day 120 miles more were put between them and Monterey,
and with 130 miles then on each of the two succeeding days, the Colonel
and his companions rode into Los Angeles on the ninth day after his
start from there; a total journey of 840 miles over rough country in
76 actual riding hours by the use of 17 horses. To test one of them
Frémont rode him without change for 130 miles in 24 hours. The famous
ride from Ghent to Aix, immortalised by Browning, was barely more
than the least one of these eight days of Frémont. Browning missed an
opportunity. Riding with a herd of loose horses running ahead from
which the lasso any moment can bring one a fresh mount is highly
exhilarating. I tried it once, with 25 horses, for some 300 miles
across Utah, but I was not bent on saving Aix or even Los Angeles.




THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP

BRET HARTE

From “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches.” Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin Company, Boston.[15]


There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight,
for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the
entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted,
but “Tuttle’s grocery” had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be
remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and
Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front-room. The
whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the
clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of
a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the
camp,--“Cherokee Sal.”

Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse, and, it is
to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only
woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity,
when she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute,
abandoned and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard
enough to bear even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now
terrible in her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that
original isolation which must have made the punishment of the first
transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of
her sin, that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex’s intuitive
tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of
her masculine associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I think,
touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was “rough on Sal,”
and, in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose superior
to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve.

It will be seen, also, that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no
means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People
had been dismissed from the camp effectively, finally, and with no
possibility of return; but this was the first time that anybody had
been introduced _ab initio_. Hence the excitement.

“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a prominent citizen known as “Kentuck,”
addressing one of the loungers. “Go in there, and see what you kin do.
You’ve had experience in them things.”

Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes,
had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to
some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp--a city
of refuge--was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice,
and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on
the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside,
smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.

The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these
were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were
reckless. Physically, they exhibited no indication of their past lives
and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion
of blond hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and
intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous
man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an
embarrassed, timid manner. The term “roughs” applied to them was a
distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details
of fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but
these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The
strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot
had but one eye.

Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around
the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley, between two hills and
a river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill
that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering
woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,--seen it
winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.

A fire of withered pine-boughs added sociability to the gathering. By
degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely
offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that “Sal would
get through with it”; even, that the child would survive; side bets as
to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an
excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and
the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines,
the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire, rose a
sharp, querulous cry,--a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp.
The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to
cackle. It seem as if Nature had stopped to listen too.

The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a
barrel of gunpowder, but, in consideration of the situation of the
mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were
discharged; for, whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or
some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she
had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and
so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame forever. I do not
think that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation
as to the fate of the child. “Can he live now?” was asked of Stumpy.
The answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal’s sex
and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some
conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less
problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and
apparently as successful.

When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the
door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men who had already formed
themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk
or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below
the blankets stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed,
and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival
at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was
soon indicated. “Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of
authority and _ex officio_ complacency,--“Gentlemen will please pass
in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them
as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat
handy.” The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however,
as he looked about him, and so, unconsciously, set an example to the
next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the
procession filed in, comments were audible,--criticisms addressed,
perhaps, rather to Stumpy, in the character of showman,--“Is that
him?” “mighty small specimen”; “hasn’t mor’n got the color”; “ain’t
bigger nor a derringer.” The contributions were as characteristic: A
silver tobacco-box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold
specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady’s handkerchief (from
Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested
by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he “saw that pin and
went two diamonds better”); a slung shot; a Bible (contributor not
detected); a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to
say, were not the giver’s); a pair of surgeon’s shears; a lancet; a
Bank of England note for £5; and about $200 in loose gold and silver
coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive
as the dead on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly
born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony
of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half
curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at his
groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish
and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his
weather-beaten cheek. “The d--d little cuss!” he said, as he extricated
his finger, with, perhaps, more tenderness and care than he might have
been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from
its fellows as he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination
provoked the same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he
seemed to enjoy repeating it. “He rastled with my finger,” he remarked
to Tipton, holding up the member, “the d--d little cuss!”

It was four o’clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the
cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night.
Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto
his experience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation
of the new-comer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication
of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When
everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river, and
whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch, past the cabin,
still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood tree
he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Half-way
down to the river’s bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked
at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. “How goes it?” said Kentuck,
looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. “All serene,” replied
Stumpy. “Anything up?” “Nothing.” There was a pause--an embarrassing
one--Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his
finger, which he held up to Stumpy. “Rastled with it,--the d--d little
cuss,” he said, and retired.

The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp
afforded. After her body had been committed to the hill-side, there
was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with
her infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic.
But an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility
of providing for its wants at once sprung up. It was remarkable that
the argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which
discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed
that they should send the child to Red Dog,--a distance of forty
miles,--where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky
suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident
that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would
for a moment be entertained. “Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “them fellows
at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us.” A disbelief
in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp as in other
places.

The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection.
It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring
Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that “they didn’t want any more
of the other kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh
as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,--the first symptom
of the camp’s regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt
a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible
successor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he
and “Jinny”--the mammal before alluded to--could manage to rear the
child. There was something original, independent, and heroic about the
plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were
sent for to Sacramento. “Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a
bag of gold-dust into the expressman’s hand, “the best that can be
got,--lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,--d--m the cost!”

Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of
the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature
took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere
of the Sierra foothills,--that air pungent with balsamic odor, that
ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,--he may have found
food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted asses’ milk
to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the
latter and good nursing. “Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been
father and mother to him. Don’t you,” he would add, apostrophizing the
helpless bundle before him, “never go back on us.”

By the time he was a month old, the necessity of giving him a name
became apparent. He had generally been known as “the Kid,” “Stumpy’s
boy,” “the Cayote” (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by
Kentuck’s endearing diminutive of “the d--d little cuss.” But these
were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed
under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally
superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought
“the luck” to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been
successful. “Luck” was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy
for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the
father was unknown. “It’s better,” said the philosophical Oakhurst,
“to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair.”
A day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant
by this ceremony the reader may imagine, who has already gathered
some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of
ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to
promise the greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent
two days in preparing a burlesque of the church service, with pointed
local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was
to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove
with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock
altar, Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. “It ain’t my style
to spoil fun, boys,” said the little man, stoutly, eyeing the faces
around him, “but it strikes me that this thing ain’t exactly on the
squar. It’s playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in
fun on him that he ain’t going to understand. And ef there’s going to
be any godfathers round, I’d like to see who’s got any better rights
than me.” A silence followed Stumpy’s speech. To the credit of all
humorists be it said, that the first man to acknowledge its justice was
the satirist, thus stopped of his fun. “But,” said Stumpy, quickly,
following up his advantage, “we’re here for a christening, and we’ll
have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the
United States and the State of California, so help me God.” It was
the first time that the name of the Deity had been uttered otherwise
than profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even
more ludicrous than the satirist had conceived; but, strangely enough,
nobody saw it and nobody laughed. “Tommy” was christened as seriously
as he would have been under a Christian roof, and cried and was
comforted in as orthodox fashion.

And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost
imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to
“Tommy Luck”--or “The Luck,” as he was more frequently called--first
showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and
white-washed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rosewood
cradle--packed eighty miles by mule--had, in Stumpy’s way of putting
it, “sorter killed the rest of the furniture.” So the rehabilitation
of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of
lounging in at Stumpy’s to see “how The Luck got on” seemed to
appreciate the change, and, in self-defence, the rival establishment
of “Tuttle’s grocery” bestirred itself, and imported a carpet and
mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring
Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again,
Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor
and privilege of holding “The Luck.” It was a cruel mortification to
Kentuck--who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of
frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle,
which, like a snake’s, only sloughed off through decay--to be debarred
this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle
influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every
afternoon in a clean shirt, and face still shining from his ablutions.
Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. “Tommy,” who was
supposed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt to
repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling which
had gained the camp its infelicitous title were not permitted within
hearing distance of Stumpy’s. The men conversed in whispers, or smoked
with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred
precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known
as “D--n the luck!” and “Curse the luck!” was abandoned, as having a
new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed
to have a soothing, tranquillizing quality, and one song, sung by
“Man-o’ War Jack,” an English sailor, from her Majesty’s Australian
colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital
of the exploits of “the Arethusa, Seventy-four,” in a muffled minor,
ending with a prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse,
“On b-o-o-o-ard of the Arethusa.” It was a fine sight to see Jack
holding The Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion
of a ship, and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the
peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his song,--it contained
ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious deliberation to
the bitter end,--the lullaby generally had the desired effect. At such
times the men would lie at full length under the trees, in the soft
summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking in the melodious
utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral happiness
pervaded the camp. “This ’ere kind o’ think,” said the Cockney Simmons,
meditatively reclining on his elbow, “is ’evingly.” It reminded him of
Greenwich.

On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch, from
whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket
spread over pine-boughs, he would lie while the men were working in
the ditches below. Latterly, there was a rude attempt to decorate
this bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some
one would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the
painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to
the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles,
which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake
of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble
from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and
strengthened, and were invariably put aside for “The Luck.” It was
wonderful how many treasures the woods and hill-sides yielded that
“would do for Tommy.” Surrounded by playthings such as never child out
of fairy-land had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He
appeared to be securely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity
about him, a contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes
worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded
that once, having crept beyond his “corral,”--a hedge of tessellated
pine-boughs, which surrounded his bed,--he dropped over the bank on
his head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in
the air in that position for at least five minutes with unflinching
gravity. He was extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the
many other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon
the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a
tinge of superstition. “I crep’ up the bank just now,” said Kentuck
one day, in a breathless state of excitement, “and dern my skin if he
wasn’t a talking to a jaybird as was a sittin’ on his lap. There they
was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a jawin’ at each
other just like two cherry-bums.” Howbeit, whether creeping over the
pine-boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above
him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers
bloomed. Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let
slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within
his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm
of bay and resinous gums; to him the tall red-woods nodded familiarly
and sleepily, the bumble-bees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumbrous
accompaniment.

Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were “flush
times,”--and the Luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously.
The camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on
strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make
their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain
wall that surrounded the camp they duly pre-empted. This, and a
reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve
of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman--their only connecting link
with the surrounding world--sometimes told wonderful stories of the
camp. He would say, “They’ve a street up there in ‘Roaring,’ that would
lay over any street in Red Dog. They’ve got vines and flowers round
their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. But they’re mighty
rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby.”

With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement.
It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to
invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of “The
Luck,”--who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice
that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely
sceptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be
accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But
the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the
minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to
prevent it. And it did.

The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow
lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river,
and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a
tumultuous water-course that descended the hill-sides, tearing down
giant trees and scattering its drift and débris along the plain. Red
Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned.
“Water put the gold into them gulches,” said Stumpy. “It’s been here
once and will be here again!” And that night the North Fork suddenly
leaped over its banks, and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring
Camp.

In the confusion of rushing water, crushing trees, and crackling
timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and
blot out the fair valley, but little could be done to collect the
scattered camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy nearest the
river-bank was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its
unlucky owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, the Luck, of Roaring
Camp had disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts, when a shout
from the bank recalled them.

It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they
said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did
anybody know them, and did they belong here?

It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly
crushed and bruised, but still holding the Luck of Roaring Camp in his
arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that
the child was cold and pulseless. “He is dead,” said one. Kentuck
opened his eyes. “Dead?” he repeated feebly. “Yes, my man, and you are
dying too.” A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. “Dying,”
he repeated, “he’s a taking me with him,--tell the boys I’ve got the
Luck with me now”; and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a
drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy
river that flows forever to the unknown sea.




THE CITY OF THE SAINTS

SIR RICHARD BURTON

From “The City of the Saints and Across the Rocky Mountains to
California.” Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Harper and
Brothers, New York.


I

On the road we saw for the first time a train of Mormon wagons,
twenty-four in number, slowly wending their way toward the Promised
Land. The “Captain”--those who fill the dignified office of guides are
so designated, and once a captain always a captain is the Far-Western
rule--was young Brigham Young, a nephew of the Prophet; a _blondin_,
with yellow hair and beard, an intelligent countenance, a six-shooter
by his right, and a bowie-knife by his left side. It was impossible
to mistake, even through the veil of freckles and sun-burn with which
a two months’ journey had invested them, the nationality of the
emigrants; “British-English” was written in capital letters upon the
white eyelashes and tow-colored curls of the children, and upon the
sandy brown hair and staring eyes, heavy bodies, and ample extremities
of the adults. One young person concealed her facial attractions under
a manner of mask. I thought that perhaps she might be a sultana,
reserved for the establishment of some very magnificent Mormon bashaw;
but the driver, when appealed to, responded with contempt, “Guess old
Briggy won’t stampede many o’ that ’ere lot!” Though thus homely in
appearance, few showed any symptoms of sickness or starvation; in fact,
their condition first impressed us most favorably with the excellence
of the Perpetual Emigration Funds’ traveling arrangements.

The Mormons who can afford such luxury generally purchase for the
transit of the plains an emigrant’s wagon, which in the West seldom
costs more than $185. They take a full week before well _en route_, and
endeavor to leave the Mississippi in early May, when “long forage” is
plentiful upon the prairies. Those prospecting parties who are bound
for California set out in March or April, feeding their animals with
grain till the new grass appears; after November the road over the
Sierra Nevada being almost impassable to way-worn oxen. The ground in
the low parts of the Mississippi Valley becomes heavy and muddy after
the first spring rains, and by starting in good time the worst parts of
the country will be passed before the travel becomes very laborious.
Moreover, grass soon disappears from the higher and less productive
tracts; between Scott’s Bluffs and Great Salt Lake City we were seldom
out of sight of starved cattle, and on one spot I counted fifteen
skeletons. Travelers, however, should not push forward early, unless
their animals are in good condition and are well supplied with grain;
the last year’s grass is not quite useless, but cattle cannot thrive
upon it as they will upon the grammas, festucas, and buffalo-clover
(_Trifolium reflexum_) of Utah and New Mexico. The journey between St.
Jo and the Mormon capital usually occupies from two to three months.
The Latter-Day Saints march with a quasi-military organization. Other
emigrants form companies of fifty to seventy armed men--a single
wagon would be in imminent danger from rascals like the Pawnees,
who, though fonder of bullying than of fighting, are ever ready to
cut off a straggler--elect their “Cap.,” who holds the office only
during good conduct, sign and seal themselves to certain obligations,
and bind themselves to stated penalties in case of disobedience or
defection. The “Prairie Traveler” strongly recommends this systematic
organization, without which, indeed, no expedition, whether emigrant,
commercial, or exploratory, ought ever or in any part of the world
to begin its labors; justly observing that, without it, discords and
dissensions sooner or later arise which invariably result in breaking
up the company.

In this train I looked to no purpose for the hand-carts with which the
poorer Saints add to the toils of earthly travel a semi-devotional work
of supererogation expected to win a proportionate reward in heaven.

Near the Pine-Tree Stream we met a horse-thief driving four bullocks:
he was known to Macarthy, and did not look over comfortable. We had
now fallen into the regular track of Mormon emigration, and saw the
wayfarers in their worst plight, near the end of the journey. We passed
several families, and parties of women and children trudging wearily
along: most of the children were in rags or half nude, and all showed
gratitude when we threw them provisions. The greater part of the men
were armed, but their weapons were far more dangerous to themselves
and their fellows than to the enemy. There is not on earth a race of
men more ignorant of arms as a rule than the lower grades of English;
becoming an emigrant, the mechanic hears that it may be necessary
to beat off Indians, so he buys the first old fire-arm he sees, and
probably does damage with it. Only last night a father crossed Green
River to beg for a piece of cloth; it was intended to shroud the body
of his child, which during the evening had been accidentally shot, and
the station people seemed to think nothing of the accident, as if it
were of daily recurrence. I was told of three, more or less severe,
that happened in the course of a month. The Western Americans, who are
mostly accustomed to the use of weapons, look upon these awkwardnesses
with a profound contempt. We were now in a region of graves, and their
presence in this wild was not a little suggestive.

Presently we entered a valley in which green grass, low and dense
willows, and small but shady trees, an unusually vigorous vegetation,
refreshed, as though with living water, our eyes, parched and dazed by
the burning glare. Stock strayed over the pasture, and a few Indian
tents rose at the farther side; the view was probably _pas grand
chose_, but we thought it splendidly beautiful. At midday we reached
Ham’s Fork, the northwestern influent of Green River, and there we
found a station. The pleasant little stream is called by the Indians
Turugempa, the “Blackfoot Water.”

Again we advanced. The air was like the breath of a furnace; the sun
was a blaze of fire--accounting, by-the-by, for the fact that the human
nose in these parts seems invariably to become cherry-red--all the
nullahs were dried up, and the dust-pillars and mirage were the only
moving objects on the plain. Three times we forded Black’s Fork, and
then debouched once more upon a long flat. The ground was scattered
over with pebbles of granite, obsidian, flint, and white, yellow, and
smoky quartz, all water-rolled. After twelve miles we passed Church
Butte, one of many curious formations lying to the left hand or south
of the road. This isolated mass of still clay has been cut and ground
by wind and rain into folds and hollow channels which from a distance
perfectly simulate the pillars, groins, and massive buttresses of a
ruinous Gothic cathedral. The foundation is level, except where masses
have been swept down by the rain, and not a blade of grass grows upon
any part. An architect of genius might profitably study this work of
Nature: upon that subject, however, I shall presently have more to
say. The Butte is highly interesting in a geological point of view;
it shows the elevation of the adjoining plains in past ages, before
partial deluges and the rains of centuries had effected the great work
of degradation.

Again we sighted the pretty valley of Black’s Fork, whose cool clear
stream flowed merrily over its pebbly bed. The road was now populous
with Mormon emigrants; some had good teams, others hand-carts, which
looked like a cross between a wheel-barrow and a tax-cart. There was
nothing repugnant in the demeanor of the party; they had been civilized
by traveling, and the younger women, who walked together and apart
from the men, were not too surly to exchange a greeting. The excessive
barrenness of the land presently diminished; gentian and other
odoriferous herbs appeared, and the greasewood, which somewhat reminded
me of the Sindhian camel-thorn, was of a lighter green than elsewhere,
and presented a favorable contrast with the dull glaucous hues of the
eternal prairie sage. We passed a dwarf copse so strewed with the bones
of cattle as to excite our astonishment: Macarthy told us that it was
the place where the 2d Dragoons encamped in 1857, and lost a number of
their horses by cold and starvation. The wolves and coyotes seemed to
have retained a predilection for the spot; we saw troops of them in
their favorite “location”--the crest of some little rise, whence they
could keep a sharp look-out upon any likely addition to their scanty
larder.

An American artist might extract from such scenery as Church Butte and
Echo Kanyon a system of architecture as original and national as Egypt
ever borrowed from her sandstone ledges, or the North of Europe from
the solemn depths of her fir forests. But Art does not at present exist
in America; as among their forefathers farther east, of artists they
have plenty, of Art nothing.

After a few minutes’ delay to stand and gaze, we resumed the foot-path
way, while the mail-wagon, with wheels rough-locked, descended what
appeared to be an impracticable slope. The summit of the Pass was
well-nigh cleared of timber; the woodman’s song informed us that the
evil work was still going on, and that we are nearly approaching a
large settlement. Thus stripped of their protecting fringes, the
mountains are exposed to the heat of summer, that sends forth
countless swarms of devastating crickets, grasshoppers, and blue-worms;
and to the wintry cold, that piles up, four to six feet high--the
mountain-men speak of thirty and forty--the snows drifted by the
unbroken force of the winds. The Pass from November to February can be
traversed by nothing heavier than “sleighs,” and during the snow-storms
even these are stopped. Falling into the gorge of Big Kanyon Creek,
after a total of twelve hard miles from Bauchmin’s Fork, we reached
at 11:30 the station that bears the name of the water near which it
is built. We were received by the wife of the proprietor, who was
absent at the time of our arrival; and half stifled by the thick dust
and the sun, which had raised the glass to 103°, we enjoyed copious
draughts--_tant soit peu_ qualified--of the cool but rather hard water
that trickled down the hill into a trough by the house side. Presently
the station-master, springing from his light “sulky,” entered, and
was formally introduced to us by Mr. Macarthy as Mr. Ephe Hanks. I
had often heard of this individual as one of the old triumvirate of
Mormon desperadoes, the other two being Orrin Porter Rockwell and Bill
Hickman--as the leader of the dreaded Danite band, and, in short, as a
model ruffian. The ear often teaches the eye to form its pictures: I
had eliminated a kind of mental sketch of those assassin faces which
one sees on the Apennines and Pyrenees, and was struck by what met the
eye of sense. The “vile villain,” as he has been called by anti-Mormon
writers, who verily do not try to _ménager_ their epithets, was a
middle-sized, light-haired, good-looking man, with regular features, a
pleasant and humorous countenance, and the manly manner of his early
sailor life, touched with the rough cordiality of the mountaineer.
“Frank as a bear-hunter” is a proverb in these lands. He had, like
the rest of the triumvirate, and like most men (Anglo-Americans) of
desperate courage and fiery, excitable temper, a clear, pale blue eye,
verging upon gray, and looking as if it wanted nothing better than to
light up, together with a cool and quiet glance that seemed to shun
neither friend nor foe.

The terrible Ephe began with a facetious allusion to all our new
dangers under the roof of a Danite, to which, in similar strain, I
made answer that Danite or Damnite was pretty much the same to me.
After dining, we proceeded to make trial of the air-cane, to which he
took, as I could see by the way he handled it, and by the nod with
which he acknowledged the observation, “almighty convenient sometimes
not to make a noise, Mister,” a great fancy. He asked me whether I
had a mind to “have a slap” at his namesake,[16] an offer which was
gratefully accepted, under the promise that “cuffy” should previously
be marked down so as to save a long ride and a troublesome trudge over
the mountains. His battery of “kill-b’ars” was heavy and in good order,
so that on this score there would have been no trouble, and the only
tool he bade me bring was a Colt’s revolver, dragoon size. He told me
that he was likely to be in England next year, when he had set the “ole
woman” to her work. I suppose my look was somewhat puzzled, for Mrs.
Dana graciously explained that every Western wife, even when still, as
Mrs. Ephe was, in her teens, commands that venerable title, venerable,
though somehow not generally coveted.

From Big Kanyon Creek Station to the city, the driver “reckoned,” was
a distance of seventeen miles. We waited till the bright and glaring
day had somewhat burned itself out; at noon heavy clouds came up from
the south and southwest, casting a grateful shade and shedding a few
drops of rain. After taking friendly leave of the “Danite” chief--whose
cordiality of manner had prepossessed me strongly in his favor--we
entered the mail-wagon, and prepared ourselves for the finale over the
westernmost ridge of the stern Wasach.

After advancing about 1.50 mile over the bench ground, the city by
slow degrees broke upon our sight. It showed, one may readily believe,
to special advantage after the succession of Indian lodges, Canadian
ranchos, and log-hut mail-stations of the prairies and the mountains.
The site has been admirably chosen for drainage and irrigation--so
well, indeed, that a “Deus ex machinâ” must be brought to account for
it.[17] About two miles north, and overlooking the settlements from
a height of 400 feet, a detached cone, called Ensign Peak or Ensign
Mount, rises at the end of a chain which, projected westward from the
main range of the heights, overhangs and shelters the northeastern
corner of the valley. Upon this “big toe of the Wasach range,” as
it is called by a local writer, the spirit of the martyred prophet,
Mr. Joseph Smith, appeared to his successor, Mr. Brigham Young, and
pointed out to him the position of the New Temple, which, after Zion
had “got up into the high mountain,” was to console the Saints for
the loss of Nauvoo the Beautiful. The city--it is about two miles
broad--runs parallel with the right bank of the Jordan, which forms its
western limit. It is twelve to fifteen miles distant from the western
range, ten from the debouchure of the river, and eight to nine from
the nearest point of the lake--a respectful distance, which is not
the least of the position’s merits. It occupies the rolling brow of a
slight decline at the western base of the Wasach--in fact, the lower,
but not the lowest level of the eastern valley-bench; it has thus a
compound slope from north to south, on the line of its water supplies,
and from east to west, thus enabling it to drain off into the river.

The city revealed itself, as we approached, from behind its screen,
the inclined terraces of the upper table-land, and at last it lay
stretched before us as upon a map. The fields were large and numerous,
but the Saints have too many and various occupations to keep them,
Moravian-like, neat and trim; weeds overspread the ground; often the
wild sunflower-tops outnumbered the heads of maize. The fruit had
suffered from an unusually nipping frost in May; the peach-trees were
barren; the vines bore no produce; only a few good apples were in Mr.
Brigham Young’s garden, and the watermelons were poor, yellow, and
tasteless, like the African. On the other hand, potatoes, onions,
cabbages, and cucumbers were good and plentiful, the tomato was
ripening everywhere, fat full-eared wheat rose in stacks, and crops
of excellent hay were scattered about near the houses. The people
came to their doors to see the mail-coach, as if it were the “Derby
dilly” of old, go by. I could not but be struck by the modified
English appearance of the colony, and by the prodigious numbers of the
white-headed children.

Presently we debouched upon the main thoroughfare, the centre of
population and business, where the houses of the principal Mormon
dignitaries and the stores of the Gentile merchants combine to form the
city’s only street which can be properly so called. It is, indeed, both
street and market, for, curious to say, New Zion has not yet built for
herself a bazar or market-place. Nearly opposite the Post Office, in a
block on the eastern side, with a long veranda, supported by trimmed
and painted posts, was a two-storied, pent-roofed building, whose
sign-board, swinging to a tall, gibbet-like flagstaff, dressed for the
occasion, announced it to be the Salt Lake House, the principal if not
the only establishment of the kind in New Zion. In the Far West, one
learns not to expect much of the hostelry;[18] I had not seen aught
so grand for many a day. Its depth is greater than its frontage, and
behind it, secured by a _porte cochère_, is a large yard for corralling
cattle. A rough-looking crowd of drivers, drivers’ friends, and idlers,
almost every man openly armed with revolver and bowie-knife, gathered
round the doorway to greet Jim, and “prospect” the “new lot”; and the
host came out to assist us in transporting our scattered effects. We
looked vainly for a bar on the ground floor; a bureau for registering
names was there, but (temperance, in public at least, being the order
of the day) the usual tempting array of bottles and decanters was
not forthcoming; up stairs we found a Gentile ball-room, a tolerably
furnished sitting-room, and bedchambers, apparently made out of a
single apartment by partitions too thin to be strictly agreeable. The
household had its deficiencies; blacking, for instance, had run out,
and servants could not be engaged till the expected arrival of the
hand-cart train. However, the proprietor, Mr. Townsend, a Mormon, from
the State of Maine--when expelled from Nauvoo, he had parted with land,
house, and furniture for $50--who had married an Englishwoman, was
in the highest degree civil and obliging, and he attended personally
to our wants, offered his wife’s services to Mrs. Dana, and put us
all in the best of humors, despite the closeness of the atmosphere,
the sadness ever attending one’s first entrance into a new place,
the swarms of “emigration flies”--so called because they appear in
September with the emigrants, and, after living for a month, die off
with the first snow--and a certain populousness of bedstead, concerning
which the less said the better. Such, gentle reader, are the results of
my first glance at Zion on the tops of the mountains, in the Holy City
of the Far West.

Our journey had occupied nineteen days, from the 7th to the 25th of
August, both included; and in that time we had accomplished not less
than 1136 statute miles.

Walking in a northward direction up Main, otherwise called Whisky
Street, we could not but observe the “magnificent distances” of the
settlement, which, containing 9000-12,000 souls, covers an area of
three miles. This broadway is 132 feet wide, including the side-walks,
which are each twenty, and, like the rest of the principal avenues, is
planted with locust and other trees. There are twenty or twenty-one
wards or cantons, numbered from the S.E. “boustrophedon” to the N.W.
corner. They have a common fence and a bishop apiece. They are called
after the creeks, trees, people, or positions, as Mill-Creek Ward,
Little Cotton-wood, Denmark, and South Ward. Every ward contains about
nine blocks, each of which is forty rods square. The area of ten acres
is divided into four to eight lots, of two and a half to one and a
quarter acres each, 264 feet by 132. A city ordinance places the houses
twenty feet behind the front line of the lot, leaving an intermediate
place for shrubbery or trees. This rule, however, is not observed in
Main Street.

The streets are named from their direction to the Temple Block. Thus
Main Street is East Temple Street No. 1; that behind it is State Road,
or East Temple Street 2, and so forth, the ward being also generally
specified. Temple Block is also the point to which latitude and
longitude are referred. It lies in N. lat. 40° 45′ 44″, W. long. (G.)
112° 6′ 8″, and 4300 feet above sea level.

Main Street is rapidly becoming crowded. The western block, opposite
the hotel, contains about twenty houses of irregular shape and
size. The buildings are intended to supply the principal wants of
a far-Western settlement, as bakery, butchery, and blacksmithery,
hardware and crockery, paint and whip warehouse, a “fashionable
tailor”--and “fashionable” in one point, that his works are more
expensive than Poole’s[19]--shoe-stores, tannery and curriery; the
Pantechnicon, on a more pretentious style than its neighbors, kept
by Mr. Gilbert Clements, Irishman and orator; dry-goods, groceries,
liquors, and furniture shops, Walker’s agency, and a kind of restaurant
for ice-cream, a luxury which costs 25 cents a glass; saddlers, dealers
in “food, flour, and provisions,” hats, shoes, clothing, sash laths,
shingles, timber, copper, tin, crockery-ware, carpenters’ tools, and
mouse-traps.... The Tabernacle is 126 feet long from N. to S., and
64 wide from E. to W.; its interior, ceilinged with an elliptical
arch--the width being its span--can accommodate 2000-3000 souls. It
urgently requires enlarging. Over the entrances at the gable ends,
which open to the N. and S., is a wood-work representing the sun,
with his usual coiffure of yellow beams, like a Somali’s wig, or the
symbol of the Persian empire. The roof is of shingles: it shelters
under its projecting eaves a whole colony of swallows, and there are
four chimneys--a number insufficient for warmth at one season, or
for ventilation at the other. The speaker or preacher stands on the
west side of the building, which is reserved for the three highest
dignities, viz., the First Presidency, the “Twelve” (Apostles), and
the President of the State of Zion: distinguished strangers are also
admitted. Of late, as in the old Quaker meeting-houses at Philadelphia,
the brethren in the Tabernacle have been separated from the “sistern,”
who sit on the side opposite the preacher’s left; and, according to
Gentiles, it is proposed to separate the Christians from the Faithful,
that the “goats” may no longer mingle with the sheep.

Immediately north of the Tabernacle is the Bowery--in early spring a
canopy of green leafy branches, which are left to wither with the year,
supported on wooden posts.

In the extreme northwest angle of the block is the Endowment, here
pronounced _On-dewment House_, separated from the Tabernacle by a high
wooden paling. The building, of which I made a pen and ink sketch
from the west, is of adobe, with a pent roof and four windows, one
blocked up: the central and higher portion is flanked by two wings,
smaller erections of the same shape. The Endowment House is the place
of great medicine, and all appertaining to it is carefully concealed
from Gentile eyes and ears: the result is that human sacrifices are
said to be performed within its walls. Mrs. Smith and Mr. Hyde have
described the mysterious rites performed within these humble walls,
but, for reasons given before, there is reason to doubt the truth of
their descriptions; such orgies as they describe could not coexist with
the respectability which is the law of the land. M. Remy has detailed
the programme with all the exactitude of an eye-witness, which he was
not. The public declare that the ceremonies consist of some show,
which in the Middle Ages would be called a comedy or mystery--possibly
Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained--and connect it with the working
of a mason’s lodge. The respectable Judge Phelps, because supposed
to take the place of the Father of Sin when tempting Adam and Eve,
is popularly known as “the Devil.” The two small wings are said to
contain fonts for the two sexes, where baptism by total immersion is
performed. According to Gentiles, the ceremony occupies eleven or
twelve hours. The neophyte, after bathing, is anointed with oil, and
dressed in clean white cotton garments, cap and shirt, of which the
latter is rarely removed--Dr. Richards saved his life at the Carthage
massacre by wearing it--and a small square masonic apron, with worked
or painted fig-leaves: he receives a new name and a distinguishing
grip, and is bound to secrecy by dreadful oaths. Moreover, it is said
that, as in all such societies, there are several successive degrees,
all of which are not laid open to initiation till the Temple shall
be finished. But--as every mason knows--the “red-hot poker” and other
ideas concerning masonic institutions have prevailed when juster
disclosures have been rejected. Similarly in the Mormonic mystery, it
is highly probable that, in consequence of the conscientious reserve of
the people upon a subject which it would be indelicate to broach, the
veriest fancies have taken the deepest root.

After dining with the governor, we sat under the stoop enjoying, as we
might in India, the cool of the evening. Several visitors dropped in,
among them Mr. and Mrs. Stenhouse. He--Elder T. B. H. Stenhouse--is a
Scotchman by birth, and has passed through the usual stages of neophyte
(larva), missionary (pupa), and elder or fully-developed Saint (imago).
Madame was from Jersey, spoke excellent French, talked English without
nasalization or cantalenation, and showed a highly cultivated mind. She
had traveled with her husband on a propagandist tour to Switzerland
and Italy, where, as president of the missions for three years, he
was a “diligent and faithful laborer in the great work of the last
dispensation.”

He became a Saint in 1846, at the age of 21; lived the usual life
of poverty and privation, founded the Southampton Conference,
converted a lawyer among other great achievements, and propagated
the Faith successfully in Scotland as in England. The conversation
turned--somehow in Great Salt Lake City it generally does--upon
polygamy, or rather plurality, which here is the polite word, and
for the first time I heard that phase of the family tie sensibly,
nay, learnedly advocated on religious grounds by fair lips. Mr.
Stenhouse kindly offered to accompany me on the morrow, as the first
hand-cart train was expected to enter, and to point out what might be
interesting. I saw Elder and High-Priest Stenhouse almost every day
during my stay at Great Salt Lake City, and found in his society both
pleasure and profit. We of course avoided those mysterious points,
into which, as an outsider, I had no right to enter; the elder was
communicative enough upon all others, and freely gave me leave to use
his information. The reader, however, will kindly bear in mind that,
being a strict Mormon, Mr. Stenhouse could enlighten me only upon one
side of the subject; his statements were therefore carefully referred
to the “other part”; moreover, as he could never see any but the
perfections of his system, the blame of having pointed out what I deem
its imperfections is not to be charged upon him. His power of faith
struck me much. I had once asked him what became of the Mormon Tables
of the Law, the Golden Plates which, according to the Gentiles, were
removed by an angel after they had done their work. He replied that he
knew not; that his belief was independent of all such accidents; that
Mormonism is and must be true to the exclusion of all other systems.
I saw before me an instance how the brain or mind of man can, by mere
force of habit and application, imbue itself with any idea.

Long after dark I walked home alone. There were no lamps in any but
Main Street, yet the city is as safe as at St. James’s Square, London.
There are perhaps not more than twenty-five or thirty constables or
policemen in the whole place, under their captain, a Scotchman, Mr.
Sharp, “by name as well as nature so”; and the guard on public works
is merely nominal. Its excellent order must be referred to the perfect
system of private police, resulting from the constitution of Mormon
society, which in this point resembles the caste system of Hindooism.
There is no secret from the head of the Church and State; everything,
from the highest to the lowest detail of private and public life,
must be brought to the ear and submitted to the judgment of the
father-confessor-in-chief. Gentiles often declare that the Prophet
is acquainted with their every word half an hour after it is spoken;
and from certain indices, into which I hardly need enter, my opinion
is that, allowing something for exaggeration, they are not very far
wrong. In London and Paris the foreigner is subjected, though perhaps
he may not know it, to the same surveillance, and till lately his
letters were liable to be opened at the Post Office. We cannot, then,
wonder that at Great Salt Lake City, a stranger, before proving himself
at least to be harmless, should begin by being an object of suspicion.

Mr. Stenhouse circulated freely among the crowd, and introduced me
to many whose names I do not remember; in almost every case the
introduction was followed by some invitation. He now exchanged a word
with this “brother,” then a few sentences with that “sister,” carefully
suppressing the Mr. and Madam of the Eastern States. The fraternal
address gives a patriarchal and somewhat Oriental flavor to Mormon
converse; like other things, however, it is apt to run into extremes.
If a boy in the streets be asked, “What’s your name?” he will reply--if
he condescends to do so--“I’m brother such-and-such’s son.” In order
to distinguish children of different mothers, it is usual to prefix
the maternal to the paternal parent’s name, suppressing the given or
Christian name of monogamic lands. Thus, for instance, my sons by Miss
Brown, Miss Jones, and Miss Robinson, would call themselves Brother
Brown Burton, Brother Jones Burton, and so on. The Saints--even the
highest dignitaries--waive the Reverend; and the ridiculous Esquire,
that “title much in use among vulgar people,” which in Old and New
England applies to everybody, gentle or simple, has not yet extended
to Great Salt Lake City. The Mormon pontiff and the eminences around
him are simply Brother or Mister--they have the substance, and they
disdain the shadow of power. _En revanche_, among the crowd there
are as many colonels and majors--about ten being the proportion to
one captain--as in the days when Mrs. Trollope set the Mississippi
on fire. Sister is applied to women of all ages, thus avoiding the
difficulty of addressing a dowager, as in the Eastern States, Madam, in
contradistinction to Mrs., her daughter-in-law, or, what is worse, of
calling her after the English way, old Mrs. A., or, _Scotticè_, Mrs. A.
senior.

The dress of the fair sex has, I observed, already become peculiar.
The article called in Cornwall a “gowk,” in other parts of England a
“cottage bonnet,” and in the United States a “sun-bonnet,” is here
universally used, with the difference, however that the Mormons provide
it with a long thick veil behind, which acts like a cape or shawl. A
loose jacket and a petticoat, mostly of calico or of some inexpensive
stuff, compose the _tout visible_. The wealthier affect silks,
especially black. The merchants are careful to keep on hand a large
stock of fancy goods, and millinery.

       *       *       *       *       *

About noon, after a preliminary visit to Mr. Gilbert--and a visit
in these lands always entails a certain amount of “smiling”--I met
Governor Cumming in Main Street, and we proceeded together to our visit
to the Prophet. After a slight scrutiny we passed the guard--which is
dressed in plain clothes, and to the eye unarmed--and walking down
the veranda, entered the Prophet’s private office. Several people who
were sitting there rose at Mr. Cumming’s entrance. At a few words of
introduction, Mr. Brigham Young advanced, shook hands with complete
simplicity of manner, asked me to be seated on a sofa at one side of
the room, and presented me to those present.

Under ordinary circumstances it would be unfair in a visitor to draw
the portrait of one visited. But this is no common case. I have
violated no rites of hospitality. Mr. Brigham Young is a “seer,
revelator, and prophet, having all the gifts of God which he bestows
upon the Head of the Church”: his memoirs, lithographs, photographs,
and portraits have been published again and again; I add but one more
likeness; and, finally, I have nothing to say except in his favor.

The Prophet was born at Whittingham, Vermont, on the 1st of June,
1801; he was consequently, in 1860, fifty-nine years of age; he looks
about forty-five. _La célébrité vieillit_--I had expected to see a
venerable-looking old man. Scarcely a gray thread appears in his hair,
which is parted on the side, light colored, rather thick, and reaches
below the ears with a half curl. He formerly wore it long, after the
Western style; now it is cut level with the ear-lobes. The forehead is
somewhat narrow, the eyebrows are thin, the eyes between gray and blue,
with a calm, composed, and somewhat reserved expression: a slight droop
in the left lid made me think that he had suffered from paralysis; I
afterward heard that the ptosis is the result of a neuralgia which has
long tormented him. For this reason he usually covers his head, except
in his own house or in the Tabernacle. Mrs. Ward, who is followed by
the “Revue des Deux-Mondes,” therefore errs again in asserting that
“his Mormon majesty never removes his hat in public.” The nose, which
is fine and somewhat sharp-pointed, is bent a little to the left. The
lips are close like the New Englander’s, and the teeth, especially
those of the under jaw, are imperfect. The cheeks are rather fleshy,
and the line between the alæ of the nose and the mouth is broken;
the chin is somewhat peaked, and the face clean-shaven, except under
the jaws, where the beard is allowed to grow. The hands are well
made, and not disfigured by rings. The figure is somewhat large,
broad-shouldered, and stooping a little when standing.

The Prophet’s dress was neat and plain as a Quaker’s, all gray homespun
except the cravat and waistcoat. His coat was of antique cut, and,
like the pantaloons, baggy, and the buttons were black. A neck-tie of
dark silk, with a large bow, was loosely passed round a starchless
collar, which turned down of its own accord. The waistcoat was of black
satin--once an article of almost national dress--single-breasted, and
buttoned nearly to the neck, and a plain gold chain was passed into
the pocket. The boots were Wellingtons, apparently of American make.

Altogether the Prophet’s appearance was that of a gentleman
farmer in New England--in fact, such as he is: his father was an
agriculturist and revolutionary soldier, who settled “down East.” He
is a well-preserved man; a fact which some attribute to his habit of
sleeping as the Citizen Proudhon so strongly advises, in solitude. His
manner is at once affable and impressive, simple and courteous: his
want of pretension contrasts favorably with certain pseudo-prophets
that I have seen, each and every one of whom holds himself to be a
“Logos,” without other claim save a semi-maniacal self-esteem. He
shows no signs of dogmatism, bigotry, or fanaticism, and never once
entered--with me at least--upon the subject of religion. He impresses a
stranger with a certain sense of power; his followers are, of course,
wholly fascinated by his superior strength of brain. It is commonly
said there is only one chief in Great Salt Lake City, and that is
“Brigham.” His temper is even and placid; his manner is cold--in
fact, like his face, somewhat bloodless; but he is neither morose nor
methodistic, and, where occasion requires, he can use all the weapons
of ridicule to direful effect, and “speak a bit of his mind” in a
style which no one forgets. He often reproves his erring followers
in purposely violent language, making the terrors of a scolding the
punishment in lieu of hanging for a stolen horse or cow. His powers of
observation are intuitively strong, and his friends declare him to be
gifted with an excellent memory and a perfect judgment of character.
If he dislikes a stranger at the first interview, he never sees him
again. Of his temperance and sobriety there is but one opinion. His
life is ascetic: his favorite food is baked potatoes with a little
buttermilk, and his drink water; he disapproves, as do all strict
Mormons, of spirituous liquors, and never touches anything stronger
than a glass of thin Lager-bier; moreover, he abstains from tobacco.
Mr. Hyde has accused him of habitual intemperance: he is, as his
appearance shows, rather disposed to abstinence than to the reverse.
Of his education I cannot speak: “men, not books--deeds, not words,”
has ever been his motto; he probably has, as Mr. Randolph said of Mr.
Johnston, “a mind uncorrupted by books.” In the only discourse which
I heard him deliver, he pronounced impĕtus, impētus. Yet he converses
with ease and correctness, has neither snuffle nor pompousness, and
speaks as an authority upon certain subjects, such as agriculture and
stock-breeding. He assumes no airs of extra sanctimoniousness, and has
the plain, simple manners of honesty. His followers deem him an angel
of light, his foes a goblin damned: he is, I presume, neither one nor
the other. I cannot pronounce about his scrupulousness: all the world
over, the sincerest religious belief and the practice of devotion are
sometimes compatible not only with the most disorderly life, but with
the most terrible crimes; for mankind mostly believes that

  “Il est avec le ciel des accommodements.”

He has been called hypocrite, swindler, forger, murderer. No one looks
it less. The best authorities--from those who accuse Mr. Joseph Smith
of the most heartless deception, to those who believe that he began
as an impostor and ended as a prophet--find in Mr. Brigham Young “an
earnest, obstinate egotistic enthusiasm, fanned by persecution and
inflamed by bloodshed.” He is the St. Paul of the new Dispensation:
true and sincere, he gave point, and energy, and consistency to the
somewhat disjointed turbulent, and unforeseeing fanaticism of Mr.
Joseph Smith; and if he has not been able to create, he has shown
himself great in controlling circumstances. Finally, there is a total
absence of pretension in his manner, and he has been so long used to
power that he cares nothing for its display. The arts by which he
rules the heterogeneous mass of conflicting elements are indomitable
will, profound secrecy, and uncommon astuteness.

Such is His Excellency President Brigham Young, “painter and
glazier”--his earliest craft--prophet, revelator, translator, and seer;
the man who is revered as king or kaiser, pope or pontiff never was;
who, like the Old Man of the Mountain, by holding up his hand could
cause the death of any one within his reach; who, governing as well as
reigning, long stood up to fight with the sword of the Lord, and with
his few hundred guerrillas, against the then mighty power of the United
States; who has outwitted all diplomacy opposed to him; and, finally,
who made a treaty of peace with the President of the Great Republic as
though he had wielded the combined power of France, Russia, and England.

Remembering the frequent query, “What shall be done with the Mormons?”
I often asked the Saints, Who will or can succeed Mr. Brigham Young? No
one knows, and no one cares. They reply, with a singular disdain for
the usual course of history, with a perfect faith that their Cromwell
will know no Richard as his successor, that, as when the crisis came
the Lord raised up in him, then unknown and little valued, a fitting
successor to Mr. Joseph Smith--of whom, by-the-by, they now speak with
a respectful reverential _sotto voce_, as Christians name the Founder
of their faith--so, when the time for deciding the succession shall
arrive, the chosen Saints will not be left without a suitable leader.

The conversation, which lasted about an hour, ended by the Prophet
asking me the line of my last African exploration, and whether it was
the same country traversed by Dr. Livingstone. I replied that it was
about ten degrees north of the Zambezi. Mr. A. Carrington rose to point
out the place upon a map which hung against the wall, and placed his
finger too near the equator, when Mr. Brigham Young said, “A little
lower down.” There are many educated men in England who could not
have corrected the mistake as well: witness the “London Review,” in
which the gentleman who “does the geography”--not having the fear of a
certain society in Whitehall Place before his eyes--confounds, in all
the pomp of criticism upon the said exploration, lakes which are not
less than 200 miles apart.

When conversation began to flag, we rose up, shook hands, as is the
custom here, all round, and took leave. The first impression left upon
my mind by this short _séance_, and it was subsequently confirmed,
was, that the Prophet is no common man, and that he has none of the
weakness and vanity which characterize the common uncommon man.
A desultory conversation cannot be expected to draw out a master
spirit, but a truly distinguished character exercises most often an
instinctive--some would call it a mesmeric--effect upon those who come
in contact with it; and as we hate or despise at first sight, and
love or like at first sight, so Nature teaches us at first sight what
to respect. It is observable that, although every Gentile writer has
represented Mr. Joseph Smith as a heartless impostor, few have ventured
to apply the term to Mr. Brigham Young. I also remarked an instance
of the veneration shown by his followers, whose affection for him is
equaled only by the confidence with which they intrust to him their
dearest interests in this world and in the next. After my visit many
congratulated me, as would the followers of the Tien Wong, or heavenly
King, upon having at last seen what they consider “a per se” the most
remarkable man in the world.

I was unwilling to add to the number of those who had annoyed the
Prophet by domestic allusions, and therefore have no direct knowledge
of the extent to which he carries polygamy; some Gentiles allow him
seventeen, others thirty-six, out of a household of seventy members;
others an indefinite number of wives scattered through the different
settlements. Of these, doubtless, many are but wives by name, such,
for instance, as the widows of the late Prophet; and others are married
more for the purpose of building up for themselves spiritual kingdoms
than for the normal purpose of matrimony. I should judge the Prophet’s
progeny to be numerous from the following circumstance: On one
occasion, when standing with him on the belvidere, my eye fell upon a
new erection: it could be compared externally to nothing but an English
gentleman’s hunting stables, with their little clock-tower, and I asked
him what it was intended for. “A private school for my children,” he
replied, “directed by Brother E. B. Kelsey.” The harem is said to have
cost $30,000.

On the extreme west of this block, backed by a pound for estrays,
which is no longer used, lies the Tithing House and Deserét Store,
a long, narrow, upper-storied building, with cellars, store-rooms,
receiving-rooms, pay-rooms, and writing offices. At this time of the
year it chiefly contains linseed, and rags for paper-making; after
the harvest it is well stuffed with grains and cereals, which are
taken instead of money payment. There is nothing more unpopular among
the American Gentiles, or, indeed, more unintelligible to them, than
these Mosaic tithes, which the English converts pay, from habit,
without a murmur. They serve for scandalous insinuations, viz., that
the chiefs are leeches that draw the people’s golden blood; that the
imposts are compulsory, and that they are embezzled and peculated by
the principal dignitaries. I have reason to believe that the contrary
is the case. The tithes which are paid into the “Treasury of the Lord”
upon the property of a Saint on profession, and afterward upon his
annual income, or his time, or by substitute, are wholly voluntary.
It sometimes happens that a man casts his all into the bosom of the
Church; in this case the all is not refused, but--may I ask--by what
Church body, Islamitic, Christian, or pagan, would it be? If the
Prophet takes anything from the Tithing House, he pays for it like
other men. The writers receive stipends like other writers, and no
more; of course, if any one--clerk or lawyer--wishes to do the business
of the Church gratis, he is graciously allowed to.

       *       *       *       *       *

I was eager to attend the services at the Tabernacle on my first
Sunday in Zion and found it, as I expected, overcrowded. All wore
their hats till the address began, and then all uncovered. By my side
was the face of a blear-eyed English servant-girl; _en revanche_ in
front was a charming American mother and child: she had, what I have
remarked in Mormon meetings at Saville House and other places in
Europe, an unusual development of the organ which phrenologists call
veneration. I did not see any Bloomers “displaying a serviceable pair
of brogues,” or “pictures of Grant Thorburn in petticoats.” There were
a few specimens of the “Yankee woman,” formerly wondrous grim, with a
shrewd, thrifty gray eye, at once cold and eager, angular in body and
mind, tall, bony, and square-shouldered, now softened and humanized by
transplantation and transposition to her proper place. The number of
old people astonished me; half a dozen were sitting on the same bench;
these broken-down men and decrepit crones had come to lay their bones
in the Holy City; their presence speaks equally well for their faith
and for the kind-heartedness of those who had brought the encumbrance.
I remarked some Gentiles in the Bowery; many, however, do not care to
risk what they may hear there touching themselves.

At 10 A. M. the meeting opened with a spiritual song. Then Mr.
Wallace--a civilized-looking man lately returned from foreign
travel--being called upon by the presiding elder for the day, opened
the meeting with prayer, of which the two short-hand writers in the
tribune proceeded to take notes. The matter, as is generally the case
with returned missionaries delivering their budget, was good; the
manner was somewhat Hibernian; the “valleys of the mountains”--a stock
phrase, appeared and reappeared like the speechifying Patlander’s
eternal “emerald green hills and beautiful pretty valleys.” He ended
by imploring a blessing upon the (Mormon) President, and all those
in authority; Gentiles of course were included. The conclusion was
an amen, in which all hands joined: it reminded me of the historical
practice of “humming” in the seventeenth century, which caused the
universities to be called “_Hum et Hissimi auditores_.”

Next arose Bishop Abraham O. Smoot, second mayor of Zion, and
successor to the late Jedediah M. Grant, who began with “Brethering,”
and proceeded at first in a low and methody tone of voice, “hardly
audible in the gallery,” to praise the Saints, and to pitch into the
apostates. His delivery was by no means fluent, even when he warmed.
He made undue use of the regular Wesleyan organ--the nose; but he
appeared to speak excellent sense in execrable English. He recalled
past persecutions without over-asperity, and promised future prosperity
without over-prophecy. As he was in the midst of an allusion to the
President, entered Mr. Brigham Young, and all turned their faces, even
the old lady--who, dear soul! from Hanover Square to far San Francisco,
placidly reposes through the discourse.

The Prophet was dressed, as usual, in gray homespun and homewoven:
he wore, like most of the elders, a tall, steeple-crowned straw hat,
with a broad black ribbon, and he had the rare refinement of black
kid gloves. He entered the tribune covered and sat down, apparently
greeting those near him. A man in a fit was carried out pumpward.
Bishop Smoot concluded with informing us that we should live for
God. Another hymn was sung. Then a great silence, which told us that
something was about to happen: _that_ old man held his cough; _that_
old lady awoke with a start; _that_ child ceased to squall. Mr.
Brigham Young removed his hat, advanced to the end of the tribune,
expectorated stooping over the spittoon, which was concealed from sight
by the boarding, restored the balance of fluid by a glass of water from
a well-filled decanter on the stand, and, leaning slightly forward upon
both hands propped on the green baize of the tribune, addressed his
followers.

The discourse began slowly; word crept titubantly after word, and the
opening phrases were hardly audible; but as the orator warmed, his
voice rose high and sonorous, and a fluency so remarkable succeeded
falter and hesitation, that--although the phenomenon is not rare in
strong speakers--the latter seemed almost to have been a work of art.
The manner was pleasing and animated, and the matter fluent, impromptu,
and well turned, spoken rather than preached: if it had a fault it was
rather rambling and unconnected. Of course, colloquialisms of all kinds
were introduced, such as “he become,” “for you and I,” and so forth.
The gestures were easy and rounded, not without a certain grace, though
evidently untaught; one, however, must be excepted, namely, that of
raising and shaking the forefinger; this is often done in the Eastern
States, but the rest of the world over it is considered threatening
and bullying. The address was long. God is a mechanic. Mormonism is a
great fact. Religion had made him (the speaker) the happiest of men.
He was ready to dance like a Shaker. At this sentence the Prophet, who
is a good mimic, and has much of the old New English quaint humor,
raised his right arm, and gave, to the amusement of the congregation, a
droll imitation of Anne Lee’s followers. The Gentiles had sent an army
to lay waste Zion, and what had they done? Why hung one of their own
tribe! and that, too, on the Lord’s day![20] The Saints have a glorious
destiny before them, and their morality is remarkable as the beauty
of the Promised Land: the soft breeze blowing over the Bowery, and the
glorious sunshine outside, made the allusion highly appropriate. The
Lamanites, or Indians, are a religious people. All races know a God and
may be saved. After a somewhat lengthy string of sentences concerning
the great tribulation coming on earth--it has been coming for the last
1800 years--he concluded with good wishes to visitors and Gentiles
generally, with a solemn blessing upon the President of the United
States, the territorial governor, and all such as be in authority over
us, and, with an amen which was loudly re-echoed by all around, he
restored his hat and resumed his seat.

Having heard much of the practical good sense which characterizes the
Prophet’s discourse, I was somewhat disappointed: probably the occasion
had not been propitious. During the discourse, a Saint, in whose family
some accident had occurred, was called out, but the accident failed to
affect the riveted attention of the audience.

Then arose Mr. Heber C. Kimball, the second President. He is the model
of a Methodist, a tall and powerful man, a “gentleman in black,” with
small, dark, piercing eyes, and clean-shaven blue face. He affects the
Boanerges style, and does not at times disdain the part of Thersites:
from a certain dislike to the Nonconformist rant and whine, he prefers
an every-day manner of speech, which savors rather of familiarity than
of reverence. The people look more amused when he speaks than when
others harangue them, and they laugh readily, as almost all crowds
will, at the thinnest phantom of a joke. Mr. Kimball’s movements
contrasted strongly with those of his predecessors; they consisted now
of a stone-throwing gesture delivered on tiptoe, then of a descending
movement, as

  “When pulpit, drum ecclesiastic,
  Was beat with fist and not with stick.”

He began with generalisms about humility, faithfulness, obeying
counsel, and not beggaring one’s neighbor. Addressing the hand-cart
emigrants, newly arrived from the “sectarian world,” he warned them to
be on the look-out, or that every soul of them would be taken in and
shaved (a laugh). Agreeing with the Prophet--Mr. Kimball is said to be
his echo--in a promiscuous way concerning the morality of the Saints,
he felt it notwithstanding his duty to say that among them were “some
of the greatest rascals in the world” (a louder laugh, and N.B., the
Mormons are never spared by their own preachers). After a long suit of
advice, _à propos de rien_, to missionaries, he blessed, amen’d, and
sat down.

After Mr. Kimball’s address, a list of names for whom letters were
lying unclaimed was called from the platform. Mr. Eldridge, a
missionary lately returned from foreign travel, adjourned the meeting
till 2 P. M., delivered the prayer of dismissal, during which all
stood up, and ended with the benediction and amen. The Sacrament was
not administered on this occasion. It is often given, and reduced to
the very elements of a ceremony; even water is used instead of wine,
because the latter is of Gentile manufacture. Two elders walk up and
down the rows, one carrying a pitcher, the other a plate of broken
bread, and each Saint partakes of both.




ON THE COMSTOCK

J. ROSS BROWNE

“A Peep at Washoe,” and “Washoe Revisited.” Reprinted by permission
of _Harper’s New Monthly Magazine_, Vol. XXII, No. 123 and Vol. XXXI,
No. 181. Harper and Brothers, New York.


I

1860

I was desirous of seeing as much of the mining region as possible, and
with this view took the stage for Virginia City. The most remarkable
peculiarity on the road was the driver, whose likeness I struck in a
happy moment of inspiration. At Silver City, eight miles from Carson,
I dismounted, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. The road
here becomes rough and hilly, and but little is to be seen of the
city except a few tents and board shanties. Half a mile beyond is
a remarkable gap cut by Nature through the mountain, as if for the
express purpose of giving the road an opportunity to visit Virginia
City.

As I passed through the Devil’s Gate it struck no indecorous sense. I
was simply about to ask where he lived, when, looking up the road, I
saw amidst the smoke and din of shivered rocks, where grimy imps were
at work blasting for ore, a string of adventurers laden with picks,
shovels, and crowbars; kegs of powder, frying-pans, pitch-forks,
and other instruments of torture--all wearily toiling in the same
direction; decrepit old men, with avarice imprinted upon their furrowed
brows; Jews and Gentiles, foot-weary and haggard; the young and the
old, the strong and the weak, all alike burning with an unhallowed
lust for lucre; and then I shuddered as the truth flashed upon me that
they were going straight to--Virginia City.

Every foot of the cañon was claimed, and gangs of miners were at work
all along the road, digging and delving into the earth like so many
infatuated gophers. Many of these unfortunate creatures lived in holes
dug into the side of the hill, and here and there a blanket thrown over
a few stakes served as a domicile to shield them from the weather.

At Gold Hill, two miles beyond the Gate, the excitement was quite
pitiable to behold. Those who were not at work, burrowing holes into
the mountain, were gathered in gangs around the whisky saloons, pouring
liquid fire down their throats and swearing all the time in a manner so
utterly reckless as to satisfy me they had long since bid farewell to
hope.

This district is said to be exceedingly rich in gold, and I fancy
it may well be so, for it is certainly rich in nothing else. A more
barren-looking and forbidding spot could scarcely be found elsewhere on
the face of the earth. The whole aspect of the country indicates that
it must have been burned up in hot fires many years ago and reduced
to a mass of cinders; or scraped up from all the desolate spots in
the known world, and thrown over the Sierra Nevada Mountains in a
confused mass to be out of the way. I do not wish to be understood as
speaking disrespectfully of any of the works of creation; but it is
inconceivable that this region should ever have been designed as an
abode for man.

A short distance beyond Gold Hill we came in sight of the great mining
capital of Washoe, the far famed Virginia City. In the course of a
varied existence it had been my fortune to visit the city of Jerusalem,
the city of Constantinople, the city of the Sea, the City of the Dead,
the Seven Cities, and others of historical celebrity in the Old World;
and many famous cities in the New, including Port Townsend, Crescent
City, Benicia, and the New York of the Pacific; but I had never yet
beheld such a city as that which now burst upon my distended organs of
vision.

On a slope of mountains speckled with snow, sage-bushes, and mounds of
upturned earth, without any apparent beginning or end, congruity or
regard for the eternal fitness of things, lay outspread the wondrous
city of Virginia.

Frame shanties, pitched together as if by accident; tents of canvas, of
blankets, of brush, of potato-sacks and old shirts, with empty whisky
barrels for chimneys; smoky hovels of mud and stone; coyote holes in
the mountainside forcibly seized and held by men; pits and shafts
with smoke issuing from every crevice; piles of goods and rubbish on
craggy points, in the hollows, on the rocks, in the mud, in the snow,
everywhere, scattered broadcast in pell-mell confusion, as if the
clouds had suddenly burst overhead and rained down the dregs of all the
flimsy, rickety, filthy little hovels and rubbish of merchandise that
had ever undergone the process of evaporation from the earth since the
days of Noah. The intervals of space, which may or may not have been
streets, were dotted over with human beings of such sort, variety, and
numbers that the famous ant-hills of Africa were as nothing in the
comparison. To say that they were rough, muddy, unkempt and unwashed,
would be but faintly expressive of their actual appearance; they were
all this by reason of exposure to the weather; but they seemed to have
caught the very diabolical tint and grime of the whole place. Here and
there, to be sure, a San Francisco dandy of the “boiled shirt” and
“stove-pipe” pattern loomed up in proud consciousness of the triumphs
of art under adverse circumstances; but they were merely peacocks in
the barn-yard.

A fraction of the crowd, as we entered the precincts of the town, were
engaged in a lawsuit relative to a question of title. The arguments
used on both sides were empty whisky-bottles, after the fashion of the
_Basilinum_, or club law, which, according to Addison, prevailed in
the colleges of learned men in former times. Several of the disputants
had already been knocked down and convinced, and various others
were freely shedding their blood in the cause of justice. Even the
bull-terriers took an active part--or, at least, a very prominent part.
The difficulty was about the ownership of a lot, which had been staked
out by one party and “jumped” by another. Some two or three hundred
disinterested observers stood by, enjoying the spectacle, several of
them with their hands on their revolvers, to be ready in case of any
serious issue; but these dangerous weapons are only used on great
occasions--a refusal to drink, or some illegitimate trick at monte.

Upon fairly reaching what might be considered the centre of the
town, it was interesting to observe the manners and customs of the
place. Groups of keen speculators were huddled around the corners,
in earnest consultation about the rise and fall of stocks; rough
customers, with red and blue flannel shirts, were straggling in from
the Flowery Diggings, the Desert, and other rich points, with specimens
of croppings in their hands, or offering bargains in the “Rogers,”
the “Lady Bryant,” the “Mammoth,” the “Woolly Horse,” and Heaven
knows how many other valuable _leads_, at prices varying from ten to
seventy-five dollars a foot. Small knots of the knowing ones were in
confidential interchange of thought on the subject of every other man’s
business; here and there a loose man was caught by the button, and
led aside behind a shanty to be “stuffed”; everybody had some grand
secret, which nobody else could find out; and the game of “dodge”
and “pump” was universally played. Jew clothing-men were setting out
their goods and chattels in front of wretched-looking tenements;
monte-dealers, gamblers, thieves, cut-throats, and murderers were
mingling miscellaneously in the dense crowds gathered around the bars
of the drinking saloons. Now and then a half-starved Pah-Ute or Washoe
Indian came tottering along under a heavy press of fagots and whisky.
On the main street, where the mass of the population were gathered,
a jaunty fellow who had “made a good thing of it” dashed through the
crowds on horseback, accoutred in genuine Mexican style, swinging his
_reata_ over his head, and yelling like a devil let loose. All this
time the wind blew in terrific gusts from the four quarters of the
compass, tearing away signs, capsizing tents, scattering the grit from
the gravel-banks with blinding force in everybody’s eyes, and sweeping
furiously around every crook and corner in search of some sinner to
smite. Never was such a wind as this--so scathing, so searching, so
given to penetrate the very core of suffering humanity; disdaining
overcoats, and utterly scornful of shawls and blankets. It actually
seemed to double up, twist, pull, push, and screw the unfortunate biped
till his muscles cracked and his bones rattled--following him wherever
he sought refuge, pursuing him down the back of the neck, up the
coat-sleeves, through the legs of his pantaloons, into his boots--in
short, it was the most villainous and persecuting wind that ever blew,
and I boldly protest that it did nobody good.

Yet, in the midst of the general wreck and crash of matter, the
business of trading in claims, “bucking,” and “bearing” went on as
if the zephyrs of Virginia were as soft and balmy as those of San
Francisco.

This was surely--No matter; nothing on earth could aspire to
competition with such a place. It was essentially infernal in every
aspect, whether viewed from the Comstock Ledge or the summit of Gold
Hill. Nobody seemed to own the lots except by right of possession;
yet there was trading in lots to an unlimited extent. Nobody had any
money; yet everybody was a millionaire in silver claims. Nobody had
any credit, yet everybody bought thousands of feet of glittering ore.
Sales were made in the “Mammoth,” the “Lady Bryant,” the “Sacramento,”
the “Winnebunk,” and the innumerable other “outside claims,” at the
most astounding figures--but not a dime passed hands. All was silver
underground, and deeds and mortgages on top; silver, silver everywhere,
but scarce a dollar in coin. The small change had somehow gotten out of
the hands of the public into the gambling-saloons.

Every speck of ground covered by canvas, boards, baked mud, brush, or
other architectural material, was jammed to suffocation; there were
sleeping houses, twenty feet by thirty, in which from one hundred
and fifty to two hundred solid sleepers sought slumber at night, at
a dollar a head; tents, eight by ten, offering accommodations to the
multitude; any thing or any place, even a stall in a stable, would have
been a luxury.

The chief hotel, called, if I remember, the “Indication,” or the “Hotel
de Haystack,” or some such euphonious name, professed to accommodate
three hundred live men, and it doubtless did so, for the floors were
covered from the attic to the solid earth--three hundred human beings
in a tinder-box not bigger than a first-class hencoop! But they were
sorry-looking sleepers as they came forth each morning, swearing at the
evil genius who had directed them to this miserable spot--every man a
dollar and a pound of flesh poorer. I saw some, who perhaps were short
of means, take surreptitious naps against the posts and walls in the
bar-room, while they ostensibly professed to be mere spectators.

In truth, wherever I turned there was much to confirm the forebodings
with which I had entered the Devil’s Gate. The deep pits on the
hill-sides; the blasted and barren appearance of the whole country; the
unsightly hodge-podge of a town; the horrible confusion of tongues;
the roaring, raving drunkards at the bar-rooms, swilling fiery liquids
from morning till night; the flaring and flaunting gambling-saloons,
filled with desperadoes of the vilest sort; the ceaseless torrent of
imprecations that shocked the ear on every side; the mad speculations
and feverish thirst for gain--all combined to give me a forcible
impression of the unhallowed character of the place.

What dreadful savage is that? I asked, as a ferocious-looking monster
in human shape stalked through the crowd. Is it--can it be the--No;
that’s only a murderer. He shot three men a few weeks ago, and will
probably shoot another before night. And this aged and decrepit man,
his thin locks floating around his haggard and unshaved face, and
matted with filth? That’s a speculator from San Francisco. See how
wildly he grasps at every “indication,” as if he had a lease of life
for a thousand years! And this bulldog fellow, with a mutilated face,
button-holing every by-passer? That fellow? Oh, he’s only a “bummer”
in search of a cocktail. And this--and this--all these crazy-looking
wretches, running hither and thither with hammers and stones in their
hands, calling one another aside, hurrying to the assay-offices,
pulling out papers, exchanging mysterious signals--who and what
are all these? Oh, these are Washoe millionaires. They are deep in
“outside claims.” The little fragments of rock they carry in their
hands are “croppings” and “indications” from the “Wake-up-Jake,”
“Root-Hog-or-Die,” “Wild-Cat,” “Grizzly Hill,” “Dry-up,” “Same Horse,”
“Let-her-Rip,” “You Bet,” “Gouge-Eye,” and other famous ledges and
companies, in which they own some thousands of feet. Hold, good
friend; I am convinced there is no rest for the wicked. All night
long these dreadful noises continue; the ears are distracted with an
unintelligible jargon of “croppings,” “ledges,” “lodes,” “leads,”
“indications,” “feet,” and “strikes,” and the nostrils offended with
foul odors of boots, old pipes, and dirty blankets--who can doubt the
locality? If the climate is more rigorous than Dante describes it--if
Calypso might search in vain for Ulysses in such a motley crowd--these
apparent differences are not inconsistent with the general theory of
changes produced by American emigration and the sudden conglomeration
of such incongruous elements.

I slept, or rather tried to sleep, at one “Zip’s,” where there were
only twenty “bunks” in the room, and was fortunate in securing a bunk
even there. But the great Macbeth himself, laboring under the stings
of an evil conscience, could have made a better hand of sleeping than
I did at Zip’s. It proved to be a general meeting-place for my San
Francisco friends, and as they were all very rich in mining claims,
and bent on getting still richer, they were continually making out
deeds, examining titles, trading and transferring claims, discussing
the purchases and prospects of the day, and exhibiting the most
extraordinary “indications” yet discovered, in which one or other
of them held an interest of fifty or a hundred feet, worth, say, a
thousand dollars a foot. Between the cat-naps of oblivion that visited
my eyes there was a constant din of “croppings”--“feet”--“fifty
thousand dollars”--“struck it rich!”--“the Comstock Ledge!”--“the Billy
Choller!”--“Miller on the rise!”--“Mammoth!”--“Sacramento!”--“Lady
Bryant!”--“a thousand feet more!”--“great bargain”--“forty dollars a
foot!”--crash! rip! bang!--“an earthquake!”--“run for your lives!”

What the deuce is the matter?

It happened thus one night. The wind was blowing in terrific gusts.
In the midst of the general clatter on the subject of croppings,
bargains, and indications, down came our next neighbor’s house on the
top of us with a terrific crash. For a moment it was difficult to tell
which house was the ruin. Amidst projecting and shivered planks, the
flapping of canvas, and the howling of the wind, it really seemed as
if chaos had come again. But “Zip’s” was well braced, and stood the
shock without much damage, a slight heel and lurch to leeward being the
chief result. I could not help thinking, as I turned in again after the
alarm, that there could no longer be a doubt on the subject which had
already occasioned me so many unpleasant reflections. It even seemed as
if I smelled something like brimstone; but upon calling to Zip to know
what was the matter, he informed me that he was “only dryin’ the boots
on the stove.”

Notwithstanding the number of physicians who had already hoisted
their “shingles,” there was much sickness in Virginia, owing chiefly
to exposure and dissipation, but in some measure to the deleterious
quality of the water. Nothing more was wanting to confirm my original
impressions. The water was certainly the worst ever used by man.
Filtered through the Comstock Lead, it carried with it much of the
plumbago, arsenic, copperas, and other poisonous minerals alleged to
exist in that vein. The citizens of Virginia had discovered what they
conceived to be an infallible way of “correcting it”; that is to say,
it was their practice to mix a spoonful of water in half a tumbler of
whisky, and then drink it. The whisky was supposed to neutralize the
bad effects of the water. Sometimes it was considered good to mix it
with gin. I was unable to see how any advantage could be gained in this
way. The whisky contained strychnine, oil of tobacco, tarantula juice,
and various effective poisons of the same general nature, including
a dash of corrosive sublimate; and the gin was manufactured out of
turpentine and whisky, with a sprinkling of Prussic acid to give it
flavor. For my part, I preferred taking poison in its least complicated
form, and therefore adhered to the water. With hot saleratus bread,
beans fried in grease, and such drink as this, it was no wonder that
scores were taken down sick from day to day.

Sickness is bad enough at the best of times; but here the condition
of the sick was truly pitiable. There was scarcely a tenement in the
place that could be regarded as affording shelter against the piercing
wind; and crowded as every tent and hovel was to its utmost capacity,
it was hard even to find a vacant spot to lie down, much less sleep or
rest in comfort. Many had come with barely means sufficient to defray
their expenses to the diggings, in the confident belief that they
would immediately strike “something rich.” Or, if they failed in that,
they could work a while on wages. But the highest wages here for common
labor were three dollars a day, while meals were a dollar each, and
lodgings the same. It was a favor to get work for “grub.” Under such
circumstances, when a poor fellow fell sick, his recovery could only
be regarded as a matter of luck. No record of the deaths was kept. The
mass of the emigration were strangers to each other, and it concerned
nobody in particular when a man “pegged out,” except to put him in a
hole somewhere out of the way.

I soon felt the bad effects of the water. Possibly I had committed
an error in not mixing it with the other poisons; but it was quite
poisonous enough alone to give me violent pains in the stomach and a
very severe diarrhea. At the same time, I was seized with an acute
attack of rheumatism in the shoulder and neuralgic pains in the head.
The complication of miseries which I now suffered was beyond all my
calculations of the hardships of mining life. As yet I had struck
nothing better than “Winn’s Restaurant,” where I took my meals. The
Comstock Ledge was all very fine; but a THOUSAND DOLLARS A FOOT! Who
ever had a thousand dollars to put in a running foot of ground, when
not even the great Comstock himself could tell where it was running to.
On the whole, I did not consider the prospect cheering.

At this period there were no laws of any kind in the district for
the preservation of order. Some regulations had been established to
secure the right of discovery to claimants; but they were loose and
indefinite, differing in each district according to the caprice of the
miners, and subject to no enforcement except that of the revolver. In
some localities the original discoverer of a vein was entitled to 400
running feet; he could put down the names of as many friends as he
chose at 200 feet each. Notice had to be recorded at certain places
of record, designating the date and location of discovery. All “leads”
were taken up with their “dips, spurs, and angles.” But who was to
judge of the “dips, spurs, and angles”? That was the difficulty. Every
man ran them to suit himself. The Comstock Ledge was in a mess of
confusion. The shareholders had the most enlarged views of its “dips,
spurs, and angles”; but those who struck croppings above and below
were equally liberal in their notions; so that, in fine, everybody’s
spurs were running into everybody else’s angles. The Cedar Hill Company
were spurring the Miller Company; the Virginia Ledge was spurring the
Continuation; the Dow Company were spurring the Billy Choller, and so
on. It was a free fight all round, in which the dips, spurs, and angles
might be represented after the pattern of a bunch of snakes.

The contention was very lively. Great hopes were entertained that when
Judge Cradlebaugh arrived he would hold Court, and then there would be
some hope of settling these conflicting claims. I must confess I did
not share in the opinion that law would settle any dispute in which
silver was concerned. The Almaden Mine case is not yet settled, and
never will be as long as there are judges and juries to sit upon it,
and lawyers to argue it, and silver to pay expenses. Already Virginia
City was infested with gentlemen of the bar, thirsting and hungering
for chances at the Comstock. If it could only be brought into Court,
what a picking of bones there would be!

When the snow began to clear away there was no end to the discoveries
alleged to be made every day. The Flowery Diggings, six miles below
Virginia, were represented to be wonderfully rich--so rich, indeed,
that the language of every speculator who held a claim there partook of
the flowery character of the diggings. The whole country was staked off
to the distance of twenty or thirty miles. Every hill-side was grubbed
open, and even the Desert was pegged, like the sole of a boot, with
stakes designating claims. Those who could not spare time to go out
“prospecting” hired others, or furnished provisions and pack-mules, and
went shares. If the prospecting party struck “anything rich,” it was
expected they would share it honestly; but I always fancied they would
find it more profitable to hold on to that, and find some other rich
lead for the resident partners.

In Virginia City a man who had been at work digging a cellar found rich
indications. He immediately laid claim to a whole street covered with
houses. The excitement produced by this “streak of luck” was perfectly
frantic. Hundreds went to work grubbing up the ground under their own
and their neighbors’ tents; and it was not long before the whole city
seemed in a fair way of being undermined. The famous _Winn_, as I was
told, struck the richest lead of all directly under his restaurant,
and was next day considered worth a million of dollars. The dips,
spurs, and angles of these various discoveries covered every foot of
ground within an area of six miles. It was utterly impossible that a
fraction of the city could be left. Owners of lots protested in vain.
The mining laws were paramount where there was no law at all. There
was no security to personal property, or even to persons. He who
turned in to sleep at night might find himself in a pit of silver by
morning. At least it was thus when I made up my mind to escape from
that delectable region; and now, four months later, I really don’t know
whether the great City of Virginia is still in existence, or whether
the inhabitants have not found a “deeper deep, still threatening to
devour.”

It must not be supposed, from the general character of the population,
that Virginia City was altogether destitute of men skilled in
scientific pursuits. There were few, indeed, who did not profess to
know something of geology; and as for assayers and assay-offices,
they were almost as numerous as bar-keepers and groggeries. A tent,
a furnace, half a dozen crucibles, a bottle of acid, and a hammer,
generally comprised the entire establishment; but it is worthy of
remark that the assays were always satisfactory. Silver, or indications
of silver, were sure to be found in every specimen. I am confident some
of these learned gentlemen in the assay business could have detected
the precious metals in an Irish potato or a round of cheese for a
reasonable consideration.

It was also a remarkable peculiarity of the country that the great
“Comstock Lead” was discovered to exist in almost every locality,
however remote or divergent from the original direction of the vein.
I know a gentleman who certainly discovered a continuation of the
Comstock forty miles from the Ophir mines, and at an angle of more
than sixty degrees. But how could the enterprising adventurer fail to
hit upon something rich, when every clod of earth and fragment of rock
contained, according to the assays, both silver and gold? There was
not a coyote hole in the ground that did not develop “indications.” I
heard of one lucky fellow who struck upon a rich vein, and organized
an extensive company on the strength of having stumped his toe. Claims
were even staked out and companies organized on “indications” rooted up
by the squirrels and gophers. If they were not always indications of
gold or silver, they were sure to contain copper, lead, or some other
valuable mineral--plumbago or iridium, for instance. One man actually
professed to have discovered “ambergris”; but I think he must have been
an old whaler.

The complications of ills which had befallen me soon became so serious
that I resolved to get away by hook or crook, if it was possible to
cheat the----corporate authorities of their dues. I had not come there
to enlist in the service of Mammon at such wages.

Bundling up my pack one dark morning, I paid “Zip” the customary
dollar, and while the evil powers were roistering about the grog-shops,
taking their early bitters, made good my escape from the accursed
place. Weak as I was, the hope of never seeing it again gave me nerve;
and when I ascended the first elevation on the way to Gold Hill, and
cast a look back over the confused mass of tents and hovels, and
thought of all I had suffered there in the brief space of a few days,
I involuntarily exclaimed, “If ever I put foot in that hole again, may
the--”

But perhaps I had better not use strong language till I once more get
clear of the Devil’s Gate.


II

1864

I was prepared to find great changes on the route from Carson to
Virginia City. At Empire City--which was nothing but a sage-desert
inhabited by Dutch Nick on the occasion of my early explorations--I
was quite bewildered with the busy scenes of life and industry.
Quartz-mills and sawmills had completely usurped the valley along the
head of the Carson River; and now the hammering of stamps, the hissing
of steam, the whirling clouds of smoke from tall chimneys, and the
confused clamor of voices from a busy multitude, reminded one of a
manufacturing city. Here, indeed, was progress of a substantial kind.

Further beyond, at Silver City, there were similar evidences of
prosperity. From the descent into the cañon through the Devil’s Gate,
and up the grade to Gold Hill, it is almost a continuous line of
quartz-mills, tunnels, dumps, sluices, water-wheels, frame shanties,
and grog-shops.

Gold Hill itself has swelled into the proportions of a city. It is now
practically a continuation of Virginia. Here the evidences of busy
enterprise are peculiarly striking. The whole hill is riddled and
honey-combed with shafts and tunnels. Engine-houses for hoisting are
perched on points apparently inaccessible; quartz-mills of various
capacities line the sides of the cañon; the main street is well
flanked by brick stores, hotels, express-offices, saloons, restaurants,
groggeries, and all those attractive places of resort which go to make
up a flourishing mining town. Even a newspaper is printed here, which
I know to be a spirited and popular institution, having been viciously
assailed by the same. A runaway team of horses, charging full tilt
down the street, greeted our arrival in a lively and characteristic
manner, and came very near capsizing our stage. One man was run over
some distance below, and partially crushed; but as somebody was killed
nearly every day, such a meagre result afforded no general satisfaction.

Descending the slope of the ridge that divides Gold Hill from Virginia
City a strange scene attracts the eye. He who gazes upon it for the
first time is apt to doubt if it be real. Perhaps there is not another
spot upon the face of the globe that presents a scene so weird and
desolate in its natural aspect, yet so replete with busy life, so
animate with human interest. It is as if a wondrous battle raged, in
which the combatants were man and earth. Myriads of swarthy, bearded,
dust-covered men are piercing into the grim old mountains, ripping them
open, thrusting murderous holes through their naked bodies; piling
up engines to cut out their vital arteries; stamping and crushing
up with infernal machines their disemboweled fragments, and holding
fiendish revels amidst the chaos of destruction; while the mighty
earth, blasted, barren, and scarred by the tempests of ages, fiercely
affronts the foe, smiting him with disease and death; scoffing at his
puny assaults with a grim scorn; ever grand in his desolation, ever
dominant in the infinity of his endurance. “Come!” he seems to mutter,
“dig, delve, pierce, and bore, with your picks, your shovels, and your
infernal machines; wring out of my veins a few globules of the precious
blood; hoard it, spend it, gamble for it, bring perdition to your souls
with it--do what you will, puny insects! Sooner or later the death-blow
smites you, and Earth swallows you! From earth you came--to earth you
go again!”

The city lies on a rugged slope, and is singularly diversified in its
uprisings and downfallings. It is difficult to determine, by any system
of observation or measurement, upon what principle it was laid out. My
impression is that it was never laid out at all, but followed the dips,
spurs, and angles of the immortal Comstock. Some of the streets run
straight enough; others seem to dodge about at acute angles in search
of an open space, as miners explore the subterranean regions in search
of a lead. The cross-streets must have been forgotten in the original
plan--if ever there was a plan about this eccentric city. Sometimes
they happen accidentally at the most unexpected points; and sometimes
they don’t happen at all where you are sure to require them. A man
in a hurry to get from the upper slope of the town to any opposite
point below must try it underground or over the roofs of the houses,
or take the customary circuit of half a mile. Everybody seems to have
built wherever he could secure a lot. The two main streets, it must be
admitted, are so far regular as to follow pretty nearly the direction
of the Comstock lead. On the lower slope, or plateau, the town, as
viewed from any neighboring eminence, presents much the appearance of
a vast number of shingle-roofs shaken down at random, like a jumbled
pack of cards. All the streets are narrow, except where there are but
few houses, and there they are wide enough at present. The business
part of the town has been built up with astonishing rapidity. In the
spring of 1860 there was nothing of it save a few frame shanties and
canvas tents, and one or two rough stone cabins. It now presents some
of the distinguishing features of a metropolitan city. Large and
substantial brick houses, three or four stories high, with ornamental
fronts, have filled up most of the gaps, and many more are still in
progress of erection. The oddity of the plan, and variety of its
architecture--combining most of the styles known to the ancients,
and some but little known to the moderns--give this famous city a
grotesque, if not picturesque, appearance, which is rather increased
upon a close inspection.

Immense freight-wagons, with ponderous wheels and axles, heavily
laboring under prodigious loads of ore for the mills, or groaning with
piles of merchandise in boxes, bales, bags, and crates, block the
narrow streets. Powerful teams of horses, mules, or oxen, numbering
from eight to sixteen animals to each wagon, make frantic efforts to
drag these land schooners over the ruts, and up the sudden rises, or
through the sinks of this rut-smitten, ever-rising, ever-sinking city.
A pitiable sight it is to see them! Smoking hot, reeking with sweat,
dripping with liquefied dust, they pull, jerk, groan, fall back, and
dash forward, tumble down, kick, plunge, and bite; then buckle to it
again, under the galling lash; and so live and so struggle these poor
beasts, for their pittance of barley and hay, till they drop down dead.
How they would welcome death if they had souls! Yet men have souls, and
work hard too for their miserable pittance of food. How many of the
countless millions of the earth yearn for death or welcome its coming?
Even the teamsters that drive these struggling labor-worn brutes seem
so fond of life that they scorn eternity. Brawny, bearded fellows they
are; their faces so ingrained with the dust and grit of earth, and
tanned to such an uncertain hue by the scorching suns and dry winds of
the road, that for the matter of identity they might as well be Hindoos
or Belooches. With what malignant zeal they crack their leather-thonged
whips, and with what ferocious vigor they rend the air with their
imprecations! O Plutus! such swearing--a sliding scale of oaths to
which swearing in all other parts of the world is as the murmuring of
a gentle brook to the volume and rush and thunder of a cataract. The
fertility of resource displayed by these reckless men; their ready
command of metaphor; their marvelous genius for strange, startling
and graphic combinations of slang and profanity; their grotesque
originality of inflexion and climax; their infatuated credulity in the
understanding of dumb animals; would in the pursuit of any nobler art
elevate them to a niche in the temple of fame. Surely if murder be
deemed one of the Fine Arts in Virginia City, swearing ought not to be
held in such common repute.

Entering the main street you pass on the upper side huge piles of earth
and ore, hoisted out of the shafts or run out of the tunnels, and cast
over the “dumps.” The hill-sides, for a distance of more than a mile,
are perfectly honey-combed. Steam-engines are puffing off their steam;
smoke-stacks are blackening the air with their thick volumes of smoke;
quartz-batteries are battering; hammers are hammering; subterranean
blasts are bursting up the earth; picks and crowbars are picking and
crashing into the precious rocks; shanties are springing up, and
carpenters are sawing and ripping and nailing; store-keepers are
rolling their merchandise in and out along the way-side; fruit vendors
are peddling their fruits; wagoners are tumbling out and piling in
their freights of dry-goods and ore; saloons are glittering with their
gaudy bars and fancy glasses, and many-colored liquors, and thirsty men
are swilling the burning poison; auctioneers, surrounded by eager and
gaping crowds of speculators, are shouting off the stocks of delinquent
stock-holders; organ-grinders are grinding their organs and torturing
consumptive monkeys; hurdy-gurdy girls are singing bacchanalian
songs in bacchanalian dens; Jew clothiers are selling off prodigious
assortments of worthless garments at ruinous prices; bill-stickers are
sticking up bills of auctions, theatres, and new saloons; news-boys are
crying the city papers with the latest telegraphic news; stages are
dashing off with passengers for “Reese”; and stages are dashing in with
passengers from “Frisco”; and the inevitable Wells, Fargo, and Co. are
distributing letters, packages, and papers to the hungry multitude,
amidst tempting piles of silver bricks and wonderful complications of
scales, letter-boxes, clerks, account-books, and twenty-dollar pieces.
All is life, excitement, avarice, lust, deviltry, and enterprise. A
strange city truly, abounding in strange exhibitions and startling
combinations of the human passions. Where upon earth is there such
another place?

One of the most characteristic features of Virginia is the inordinate
passion of the inhabitants for advertising. Not only are the columns
of the newspapers filled with every possible species of advertisement,
but the streets and hill-sides are pasted all over with flaming bills.
Says the proprietor of a small shanty, in letters that send a thrill of
astonishment through your brain:

  “LOOK HERE! _For fifty cents_ YOU CAN GET A GOOD SQUARE MEAL at the
  HOWLING WILDERNESS SALOON!”

A square meal is not, as may be supposed, a meal placed upon the table
in the form of a solid cubic block, but a substantial repast of pork
and beans, onions, cabbage, and other articles of sustenance that will
serve to fill up the corners of a miner’s stomach.

The Jew clothing-stores present the most marvelous fertility of
invention in this style of advertising. Bills are posted all over the
doorways, in the windows, on the pavements, and on the various articles
of clothing hung up for sale. He who runs may read:

  “NOW OR NEVER! _Cheapest coats in the world!!_ PANTS GIVEN AWAY!!!
  WALK IN, GENTS.”

And so on without limit. New clothes and clothes doubtful are offered
for sale at these prolific establishments, which are always selling
off at cost or suicidal prices, yet never seem to be reduced in stock.
I verily believe I saw hanging at the door of one of these shops
the identical pair of stockings stolen from me several years ago at
Strawberry.

Drinking establishments being rather numerous, the competition in
this line of business gives rise to a very persuasive and attractive
style of advertising. The bills are usually printed in florid and
elaborately gilt letters, and frequently abound in pictures of an
imaginative character. “Cosy Home,” “Miner’s Retreat,” “Social Hall,”
“Empire,” “Indication,” “Fancy-Free,” “Snug,” “Shades,” etc., are a few
of the seductive names given to these places of popular resort; and
the announcements are generally followed by a list of “choice liquors”
and the gorgeous attractions of the billiard department, together with
a hint that Dick, Jack, Dan, or Jerry “is always on hand, and while
grateful for past favors will spare no pains to merit a continuance of
the same. By catering to the public taste he hopes to make his house
in the future, as it has been in the past, a real Home for the Boys!”
Nice homes these, and a nice family of boys that will come out of them!
Where will they live when they grow to be men? A good idea it was to
build a stone penitentiary.

  “_Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!_”
  “AUCTION SALES EVERY DAY!”

This is another form of advertisement for a very prolific branch of
trade. Day and night auctions are all the rage in Virginia as in San
Francisco. Everything that can’t go any other way, and many things that
can, go by auction. Stocks, horses, mules, boots, groceries, tinware,
drugs and medicines, and rubbish of all kinds are put in flaming bills
and auctioned off to the highest bidder for cash. “An’af! an’af! an’af!
shall I have it?” is a part of the language popularly spoken on the
principal streets.

A cigar store not much bigger than a dry-goods box must have its
mammoth posters out over the town and hill-sides, displaying to the
public eye the prodigious assortments of Regalias, Principes, Cheroots,
etc., and choice brands of “Yellow-leaf,” “Honey-dew,” “Solace,” and
“Eureka,” to be had within the limits of their cigar and tobacco
emporium. If Archimedes were to rush from the solace of a bath and run
naked through the streets of Virginia, shouting, “Eureka! Eureka!”
it would merely be regarded as a dodge to dispose of an invoice of
Fine-Cut.

Quack pills, sirups, tonics, and rectifiers stare you in the face from
every mud-bank, rock, post, and corner, in red, black, blue, and white
letters; in hieroglyphics, in cadaverous pictures of sick men, and
astounding pictures of well men.

Every branch of trade, every conceivable species of amusement, is
forced upon the public eye in this way. Bill-posting is one of the fine
arts. Its professors are among the most notable characters in Virginia.
They have a specific interest in certain corners, boards, boxes, and
banks of earth and rock, which, with the brush and pot of paste, yield
them a handsome revenue. To one who witnesses this bill-mania for the
first time the effect is rather peculiar. He naturally imagines that
the whole place is turned inside out. Every man’s business fills his
eye from every point of view, and he cannot conceive the existence of
a residence unless it be that where so much of the inside is out some
portion of the outside may be in. With the exception of the silver
mines this is, to a casual observer, an inverted city, and may well
claim to be a city of anomalies.

I had occasion, during my stay, to avail myself of the services of a
professional bill-sticker. For the sum of six dollars he agreed to
make me notorious. The bills were printed in the approved form: “A
Trip to Iceland,” etc. Special stress was given to the word “ICELAND,”
and my name was printed in extravagantly conspicuous letters. In the
course of a day or two I was shocked at the publicity the Professor
of Bill-Posting had given me. From every rock, corner, dry-goods box,
and awning post; from every screen in every drinking saloon, I was
confronted, and browbeaten by my own name. I felt disposed to shrink
into my boots. Had anybody walked up to me and said, “Sir, you
are a humbug!” it would have been an absolute relief. I would have
grasped him by the hand, and answered, “I know it, my dear fellow,
and honor you for your frankness!” But there was one consolation: I
was suffering in company. A lady, popularly known as “The Menken”
(the afterwards celebrated actress, Adah Isaacs Menken) had created
an immense sensation in San Francisco, and was about to favor the
citizens of Virginia with a classical equestrian exhibition entitled
“Mazeppa.” She was represented as tied in an almost nude state to the
back of a wild horse, which was running away with her at a fearful
rate of speed. My friend the Professor was an artist in the line of
bill-sticking, and carefully studied effects. He evidently enjoyed
Mazeppa. It was a flaming and a gorgeous bill. Its colors were of the
most florid character; and he posted accordingly. First came Mazeppa
on the mustang horse; then came the Trip to Iceland and myself. If I
remember correctly we (that is to say “The Menken” and I) were followed
by “Ayer’s Tonic Pills,” “Brown’s Bronchial Troches,” and “A good
Square Meal at the Howling Wilderness Saloon.” Well, I suppose it was
all right, though it took me rather aback at the first view. If the
lady had no reason to complain, it was not for me, an old traveler, to
find fault with the bill-sticker for placing me prominently before the
public. Perhaps the juxtaposition was unfortunate in a pecuniary point
of view; perhaps the citizens of Virginia feel no great interest in
icy regions. Be that as it may, never again so long as I live will I
undertake to run “Iceland” in the vicinity of a beautiful woman tied to
the back of a wild horse.

       *       *       *       *       *

Making due allowance for the atmosphere of exaggeration through
which a visitor sees everything in this wonderful mining metropolis,
its progress has been sufficiently remarkable to palliate in some
measure the extraordinary flights of fancy in which its inhabitants
are prone to indulge. I was not prepared to see so great a change
within the brief period of three years; for when people assure me
“the world never saw anything like it,” “California is left in the
shade,” “San Francisco is eclipsed,” “Montgomery Street is nowhere
now,” my incredulity is excited, and it takes some little time to
judge of the true state of the case without prejudice. Speaking then
strictly within bounds, the growth of this city is remarkable. When it
is considered that the surrounding country affords but few facilities
for the construction of houses; that lumber has to be hauled a
considerable distance at great expense; that lime, bricks, ironwork,
sashes, doors, etc., cost three or four times what similar articles do
in San Francisco; that much indispensable material can only be had by
transporting it over the mountains a distance of more than a hundred
and fifty miles; and that the average of mechanical labor, living, and
other expenses is correspondingly higher than in California, it is
really wonderful how much has been done in so short a space of time.

Yet, allowing all this, what would be the impressions of a Fejee
Islander sent upon a mission of inquiry to this strange place? His
earliest glimpse of the main street would reveal the curious fact
that it is paved with a conglomerate of dust, mud, splintered planks,
old boots, clippings of tinware, and playing-cards. It is especially
prolific in the matter of cards. Mules are said to fatten on them
during seasons of scarcity when the straw gives out. The next marvelous
fact that would strike the observation of this wild native is that so
many people live in so many saloons, and do nothing from morning till
night, and from night till morning again, but drink fiery liquids and
indulge in profane language. How can all these able-bodied men afford
to be idle? Who pays their expenses? And why do they carry pistols,
knives, and other deadly weapons, when no harm could possibly befall
them if they went unarmed and devoted themselves to some useful
occupation? Has the God of the white men done them such an injury in
furnishing all this silver for their use that they should treat His
name with contempt and disrespect? Why do they send missionaries to
the Fejee Islands and leave their own country in such a dreadful state
of neglect? The Fejeeans devour their enemies occasionally as a war
measure; the white man swallows his enemy all the time without regard
to measure. Truly the white man is a very uncertain native! Fejeeans
can’t rely upon him.

When I was about to start on my trip to Washoe, friends from Virginia
assured me I would find hotels there almost, if not quite, equal to
the best in San Francisco. There was but little difference, they said,
except in the matter of extent. The Virginia hotels were quite as
good, though not quite so large. Of course I believed all they told
me. Now I really don’t consider myself fastidious on the subject of
hotels. Having traveled in many different countries I have enjoyed an
extensive experience in the way of accommodations, from my mother-earth
to the foretop of a whale-ship, from an Indian wigwam to a Parisian
hotel, from an African palm-tree to an Arctic snowbank. I have slept
in the same bed with two donkeys, a camel, half a dozen Arabs, several
goats, and a horse. I have slept on beds alive with snakes, lizards,
scorpions, centipedes, bugs, and fleas--beds in which men stricken
with the plague had died horrible deaths--beds that might reasonably
be suspected of smallpox, measles and Asiatic cholera. I have slept in
beds of rivers and beds of sand, and on the bare bed rock. Standing,
sitting, lying down, doubled up, and hanging over; twisted, punched,
jammed, and elbowed by drunken men; snored at in the cars; sat upon and
smothered by the nightmare; burnt by fires, rained upon, snowed upon,
and bitten by frost--in all these positions, and subject to all these
discomforts, I have slept with comparative satisfaction. There are
pleasanter ways of sleeping, to be sure, but there are times when any
way is a blessing. In respect to the matter of eating I am even less
particular. Frogs, horse-leeches, snails, and grasshoppers are luxuries
to what I have eaten. It has pleased Providence to favor me with
appetites and tastes appropriate to a great variety of circumstances
and many conditions of life. These facts serve to show that I am not
fastidious on the subject of personal accommodations.

Perhaps my experience in Virginia was exceptional; perhaps misfortune
was determined to try me to the utmost extremity. I endeavored to
find accommodations at a hotel recommended as the best in the place,
and was shown a room over the kitchen stove, in which the thermometer
ranged at about 130 to 150 degrees of Fahrenheit. To be lodged and
baked at the rate of $2 per night, cash in advance, was more than I
could stand, so I asked for another room. There was but one more, and
that was pre-empted by a lodger who might or might not come back and
claim possession in the middle of the night. It had no window except
one that opened into the passage, and the bed was so arranged that
every other lodger in the house could take a passing observation of
the sleeper and enjoy his style of sleeping. Nay, it was not beyond
the resources of the photographic art to secure his negative and
print his likeness for general distribution. It was bad enough to be
smothered for want of light and air; but I had no idea of paying $2 a
night for the poor privilege of showing people how I looked with my
eyes shut, and possibly my mouth open. A man may have an attack of
nightmare; his countenance may be distorted by horrible dreams; he
may laugh immoderately at a very bad pun made in his sleep--in all
which conditions of body and mind he doubtless presents an interesting
spectacle to the critical eyes of a stranger, but he doesn’t like to
wake up suddenly and be caught in the act.

The next hotel to which I was recommended was eligibly located on a
street composed principally of grog-shops and gambling-houses. I was
favored with a front-room about eight feet square. The walls were
constructed of boards fancifully decorated with paper, and afforded
this facility to a lodger--that he could hear all that was going on
in the adjacent rooms. The partitions might deceive the eye, but the
ear received the full benefit of the various oaths, ejaculations,
conversations, and perambulations in which his neighbors indulged. As
for the bed, I don’t know how long it had been in use, or what race of
people had hitherto slept in it, but the sheets and blankets seemed
to be sadly discolored by age--or lack of soap and water. It would
be safe to say washing was not considered a paying investment by the
managers of this establishment. Having been over twenty-four hours
without sleep or rest I made an attempt to procure a small supply, but
miserably failed in consequence of an interesting conversation carried
on in the passage between the chamber-maids, waiters, and other ladies
and gentlemen respecting the last free fight. From what I could gather
this was considered the best neighborhood in the city for free fights.
Within the past two weeks three or four men had been shot, stabbed,
or maimed close by the door. “Oh, it’s a lively place, you bet!” said
one of the ladies (the chamber-maid, I think), “an oncommon lively
place--reely hexcitin’. I look out of the winder every mornin’ jist
to see how many dead men are layin’ around. I declare to gracious the
bullets flies around here sometimes like hailstones!” “An’ shure,”
said a voice in that rich brogue which can never be mistaken, “it’s no
wondher the boys shud be killin’ an’ murtherin’ themselves forninst the
door, whin they’re all just like me, dyin’ in love wid yer beauteeful
self!” A smart slap and a general laugh followed this suggestion. “Git
away wid ye, Dinnis; yer always up to yer mischief! As I was sayin’, no
later than this mornin’, I see two men a poppin’ away at each other wid
six-shooters--a big man an’ a little man. The big man he staggered an’
fell right under the winder, wid his head on the curb-stone, an’ his
legs a stickin’ right up in the air. He was all over blood, and when
the boys picked him up he was dead as a brickbat. ’Tother chap he run
into a saloon. You better b’leeve this is a lively neighborhood. I tell
you hailstones is nothink to the way the bullets flies around.” “That’s
so,” chimes in another female voice; “I see myself, with my own eyes,
Jack’s corpse an’ two more carried away in the last month. If I’d a had
a six-shooter then you bet they’d a carried away the fellow that nipped
Jack!”

Now taking into view the picturesque spectacle that a few dead men
dabbled in blood must present to the eye on a fine morning, and the
chances of a miscellaneous ball carrying away the top of one’s cranium,
or penetrating the thin board wall and ranging upward through his
body as he lies in bed, I considered it best to seek a more secluded
neighborhood, where the scenery was of a less stimulating character
and the hail-storms not quite so heavy. By the kind aid of a friend I
secured comparatively agreeable quarters in a private lodging-house
kept by a widow lady. The rooms were good and the beds clean, and the
price not extravagant for this locality--$12 a week without board.

So much for the famous hotels of Virginia. If there are any better,
neither myself, nor some fellow-travelers who told me their
experiences, succeeded in finding them. The concurrent testimony was
that they are dirty, ill-kept, badly attended by rough, ill-mannered
waiters--noisy to such a degree that a sober man can get but little
rest, day or night, and extravagantly high in proportion to the small
comfort they afford. One of the newspapers published a statement which
the author probably intended for a joke, but which is doubtless founded
upon fact--namely, that a certain hotel advertised for 300 chickens
to serve the same number of guests. Only one chicken could be had for
love or money--a very ancient rooster, which was made into soup and
afterward served up in the form of a fricassee for the 300 guests. The
flavor was considered extremely delicate--what there was of it; and
there was plenty of it such as it was.

Still if we are to credit what the Virginia newspapers say--and it
would be dangerous to intimate that they ever deal in anything save
the truth--there are other cities on the eastern slope of the Sierras
which afford equally attractive accommodations. On the occasion of the
recent Senatorial contest at Carson City, the prevailing rates charged
for lodgings, according to the Virginia _Enterprise_, were as follows:
“For a bed in a house, barn, blacksmith-shop, or hay-yard (none to be
had--all having been engaged shortly before election); horse-blanket in
an old sugar hogshead per night, $10; crockery-crate, with straw, $7
50; without straw, $5 75; for cellar door, $4; for roosting on a smooth
pole $3 50; pole, common, rough, $3; plaza fence, $2 50; walking up
and down the Warm Springs road--if cloudy, $1 50; if clear, $1 25. (In
case the clouds are very thick and low $1 75 is generally asked.) Very
good roosting in a pine-tree, back of Camp Nye, may still be had free,
but we understand that a company is being formed to monopolize all the
more accessible trees. We believe they propose to improve by putting
two pins in the bottom of each tree, or keep a man to boost regular
customers. They talk of charging six bits.”

I could scarcely credit this, if it were not that a friend of mine,
who visited Reese River last summer, related some experiences of
a corroborative character. Unable to secure lodgings elsewhere,
he undertook to find accommodations in a vacant sheep corral. The
proprietor happening to come home about midnight found him spread out
under the lee of the fence. “Look-a-here, stranger!” said he gruffly
“that’s all well enough, but I gen’rally collect in advance. Just fork
over four bits or mizzle!” My friend indignantly mizzled. Cursing the
progressive spirit of the age, he walked some distance out of town, and
was about to finish the night under the lee of a big quartz boulder,
when a fierce-looking speculator, with a six-shooter in his hand,
suddenly appeared from a cavity in the rock, saying, “No yer don’t!
Take a fool’s advice now, and git! When you go a prospectin’ around
ov nights agin, jest steer ov this boulder ef you please!” In vain
my friend attempted to explain. The rising wrath of the squatter was
not to be appeased by soft words, and the click of the trigger, as he
raised his pistol and drew a bead, warned the trespasser that it was
time to be off. He found lodgings that night on the public highway to
Virginia City and San Francisco.




ALDER GULCH

NATHANIEL P. LANGFORD

1863

From “Vigilante Days and Ways.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, A. C. McClurg and Company, Chicago.[21]


In May, 1863, a company of miners, while returning from an unsuccessful
exploring expedition, discovered the remarkable placer afterwards known
as Alder Gulch. They gave the name of one of their number, Fairweather,
to the district. Several of the company went immediately to Bannack,
communicated the intelligence, and returned with supplies to their
friends. The effect of the news was electrical. Hundreds started
at once to the new placer, each striving to outstrip the other, in
order to secure a claim. In the hurry of departure, among many minor
accidents, a man whose body, partially concealed by the willows, was
mistaken for a beaver, was shot by Mr. Arnold. Discovering the fatal
mistake, Arnold gave up the chase and bestowed his entire attention
upon the unfortunate victim until his death, a few days afterwards. The
great stampede with its numerous pack-animals, penetrated the dense
alder thicket which filled the gulch, a distance of eight miles, to the
site selected for building a town. An accidental fire occurring, swept
away the alders for the entire distance in a single night. In less than
a week from the date of the first arrival, hundreds of tents, brush
wakiups, and rude log cabins, extemporized for immediate occupancy,
were scattered at random over the spot, now for the first time trodden
by white men. For a distance of twelve miles from the mouth of the
gulch to its source in Bald Mountain, claims were staked and occupied
by the men fortunate enough first to assert an ownership. Laws were
adopted, judges selected, and the new community was busy in upheaving,
sluicing, drifting, and cradling the inexhaustible bed of auriferous
gravel, which has yielded under these various manipulations a greater
amount of gold than any other placer on the continent.

The Southern sympathizers of the Territory gave the name of Varina to
the new town which had sprung up in Alder Gulch, in honor of the wife
of President Jefferson Davis. Dr. Bissell, one of the miners’ judges of
the gulch, was an ardent Unionist. Being called upon to draw up some
papers before the new name had been generally adopted, and requested
to date them at “Varina City,” he declared, with a very emphatic
expletive, he would not do it, and wrote the name “Virginia City,”--by
which name the place has ever since been known.

The road agents were among the first to follow in the track of the
miners. Prominent among them were Cyrus Skinner, Jack Gallagher, Buck
Stinson, and Ned Ray,--the last three as deputies of Plummer in the
sheriffalty. Ripe for the commission of any deed, however atrocious,
which gave the promise of plunder, jackal-like they watched the
gathering crowd and its various industries, marking each and all for
early and unceasing depredation.

The Hon. Washington Stapleton who had been at work in the Bannack mines
from the time of their discovery, a miner named Dodge, and another
man, each supposed to possess a considerable amount of gold, having
determined to go to Virginia City, Dodge was privately informed by
Dillingham, one of Plummer’s deputies, on the eve of their intended
departure, that Buck Stinson, Hayes Lyons, and Charley Forbes had laid
plans for robbing them on the way, and had requested him (Dillingham)
to join them in the robbery. When the time for their going came, Dodge
expressed his fear of an attack, and announced his determination to
remain. His friends rallied him, until, smarting under their taunts,
he revealed the information given by Dillingham. Stinson, Lyons, and
Forbes heard of it, and determined to kill the informer. Stapleton left
his companions, and started for Virginia City alone. At Rattlesnake
he encountered Hayes Lyons, who rode up and asked him if he had heard
of the robbery which Dillingham alleged had been planned against him.
Stapleton replied in the negative; but when telling the story since,
says that he has felt more comfortable even when sleeping in church,
than when he saw that scoundrel approaching him. He told him, he says,
that this was the first he had heard of it, adding, “If you want my
money, I have only one hundred dollars in greenbacks. You had better
take that, and let me go.”

Lyons replied with an oath that the story was a lie, and that he
was then on his way to kill Dillingham for putting such a story in
circulation, but he feared Dillingham had heard of his intention and
left the country.

Stapleton accomplished his trip without molestation. Lyons and
Forbes rode on to Virginia City, also, and finding Dillingham there,
they, in company with Stinson, met the next day and arranged for his
assassination.

A miners’ court for the trial of a civil case was in session the
following morning near the bank of the creek fronting the town. To the
observation of a person unaccustomed to the makeshifts and customs of
a mining community, the picture presented by this court of justice
would have exhibited many amusing features--not the least of which was
the place wherein it was held. The Temple of Justice was a wakiup of
brush and twigs, gathered from the different coppices of willow and
alder growing upon the banks of the creek, thrown together in conical
form, and of barely sufficient capacity to accommodate the judge,
clerk, parties, and jurors. Spectators were indebted to the interstices
in this primitive structure for a view of the proceedings; and as
no part of the person except the eyes was visible to those within,
the appearance of those visual orbs bore no inapt comparison to a
constellation in a brush heap.

Dr. Steele, president of the gulch, acted as judge. He united with much
native good sense, great modesty of demeanor. He was not a lawyer. On
his trip from the States, while crossing the plains, an unfriendly gust
had swept his only hat beyond recovery, and he came into Montana with
his brows bound in a parti-colored cotton handkerchief, which, for
want of something more appropriate, not obtainable at the stores, he
had worn until some friendly miner possessing an extra hat presented
him with it. Proving too small to incase his intellectual organs, the
doctor had, by a series of indented slits encircling the rim, increased
its elasticity, so that, saving a succession of gaps, through which his
hair bristled “like quills upon the fretful porcupine,” it answered the
purpose of its creation. With this upon his head he sat upon the bench,
an embodiment of the dignity, law, and learning of this little mountain
judiciary.

In the progress of the trial, the defendant’s counsel asked for a
nonsuit, on account of some informality of service.

“A what?” inquired the judge with a puzzled expression, as if he had
not rightly understood the word.

“A nonsuit,” was the rejoinder.

“What’s a--” The question partly asked, was left incomplete. The judge
blushed, but reflecting that he would probably learn the office of a
nonsuit in the course of the argument, he broke through the dilemma by
asking,

“Upon what ground?”

The argument followed, and the judge, soon comprehending the meaning of
a nonsuit, decided that unless the defendant could show that he had
suffered by reason of the informal service, the case must proceed. Some
of the friends of the magistrate, seated near the door, understanding
the cause of his embarrassment, enjoyed the scene hugely, and as it
presented an opportunity for returning in kind some of the numerous
jokes which he had played at their expense, one of them, thinking it
too good to be lost, with much mock sobriety of manner and tone, arose
and said,

“Most righteous decision!”

All eyes were turned upon the speaker, but before they could comprehend
the joke at the bottom, another arose, and with equal solemnity,
exclaimed,

“Most just judge!”

Dr. Steele, though embarrassed by his ill-timed jocularity, was so
well satisfied with his sagacity in finding out what a nonsuit meant,
without betraying his legal unlearnedness, that the joke was taken in
good part, and formed a subject of frequent merriment in after times.

Charley Forbes was the clerk of the court, and sat beside the judge
taking notes of the trial. After the decision denying the motion, the
plaintiff passed around a bottle of liquor, of which the court and jury
partook. Not to be outdone, the defendant circulated a box of cigars.
And it was while the spectators were giving expression in various forms
to their approval of the decision, that Stinson and Lyons came into
the court, and proceeding to the seat occupied by Forbes, engaged with
him in a whispered conversation inaudible to the bystanders. After a
few moments, Forbes suddenly rose in his place, and, with an oath,
exclaimed,

“Well, we’ll kill the scoundrel then, at once,” and accompanied
Stinson and Lyons out of the wakiup. The audience, startled by the
announcement, hurriedly followed. Dillingham had come over from Bannack
in his capacity as deputy sheriff, to look for some stolen horses. He
had come on the ground a moment before, in search of Mr. Todd, the
deputy at Virginia City, for assistance.

An assemblage of a hundred or more miners and others was congregated
in and about the place where the court was in progress,--some intent
upon the trial, others sauntering through the crowd and along the bank
of Alder Creek. The three ruffians, after a moment’s conversation,
approached in company the spot where Dillingham stood.

“We want to see you,” said Lyons, addressing him. “Step this way a
moment.”

Stinson advanced a few paces, and looking over his shoulder said to his
companions,

“Bring him along. Make him come.”

Dillingham waited for no second invitation. Evidently supposing that
they had some matter of business to communicate, he accompanied them to
an open spot not more than ten paces distant. There they all stopped,
and facing Dillingham, with a muttered curse Lyons said to him,

“Take back those lies,” when with the quickness of thought, they drew
their revolvers,--Charley Forbes at the same time exclaiming, “Don’t
shoot, don’t shoot,”--and fired upon him simultaneously. The groan
which Lyons’ ball drew from the poor victim as it entered his thigh,
was hushed by the bullet of Forbes, as it passed through his breast,
inflicting a mortal wound. He fell, and died in a few moments. Jack
Gallagher, who was in the plot, rushed up, and in his capacity as
a deputy sheriff, seized the pistols of the three ruffians, one of
which, while unobserved, he reloaded, intending thereby to prevent the
identification of the villain who fired the fatal shot.

The deed was committed so quickly that the bystanders hardly knew what
had happened till they saw Dillingham stretched upon the ground in the
death agony. The court broke up instantly, and the jury dispersed.
Aghast at the bloody spectacle, for some moments the people surveyed
it in speechless amazement. The ruffians meanwhile sauntered quietly
away, chuckling at their own adroitness. They had not gone far, until
several of the miners, by direction of Dr. Steele, arrested them.
The reaction from terror to reason was marked by the adoption of
vigorous measures for the punishment of the crime, and but for the calm
self-possession of a few individuals, the murderers would have been
summarily dealt with. An officer elected by the people, with a detail
of miners, took them into custody, and having confined them in a log
building, preparations were made for their immediate trial.

Here again, as at the trial of Moore and Reeves, the difficulty of
a choice between a trial by the people, and by a jury of twelve,
occasioned an obstinate and violent discussion. The reasons for the
latter, though strongly urged, were finally overcome by the paramount
consideration that the selection of a jury would devolve upon a deputy
sheriff who was in league with the prisoners, and, as it was afterwards
ascertained, an accomplice in the crime for which they were arrested.

The people assembled _en masse_ upon the very spot where the murder
had been committed. Dr. Steele, by virtue of his office as president
of the gulch, was appointed judge, and at his request Dr. Bissell, the
district judge, and Dr. Rutar, associates, to aid with their counsel
in the decisions of such questions as should arise in the progress of
the trial. E. R. Cutler, a blacksmith, and James Brown acted as public
prosecutors, and H. P. A. Smith, a lawyer of ability, appeared on
behalf of the prisoners.

A separate trial was assigned to Forbes, because the pistol which
Gallagher had privately reloaded, was claimed by him, a fact of which
he wished to avail himself. In fact, however, the pistol belonged to
Stinson. It was midday when the trial of Lyons and Stinson commenced.
At dark it was not concluded, and the prisoners were put under a strong
guard for the night. They were confined in a small, half-roofed,
unchinked cabin, overlooking Daylight Creek, which ran through a
hollow filled with willows. Dr. Six and Major Brookie had charge of
the prisoners. Soon after dark their attention was attracted by the
repeated shrill note of a night-hawk, apparently proceeding from
the willows. After each note, Forbes commenced singing. This being
noticed by the guard, on closer investigation they discovered that
the note was simulated by some person as a signal for the prisoners.
They immediately ordered Forbes to stop singing. He refused. They then
proposed to chain the prisoners, they objecting, and Forbes remarking,

“I will suffer death before you shall do it.”

He receded, however, under the persuasion of six shotguns drawn upon a
line with his head, and in a subdued tone, said,

“Chain me.”

During the night Lyons sent for one of the citizens, who, under cover
of the guns of the guard, approached and asked him what he wanted.

“I want you,” said he, “to release Stinson and Forbes. I killed
Dillingham. I came here for that express purpose. They are innocent. I
was sent here by the best men in Bannack to kill him.”

“Who sent you?” inquired the citizen.

After naming several of the best citizens of Bannack, who knew nothing
of the murder until several days after it was committed, he added,

“Henry Plummer told me to shoot him.” It was afterwards proven that
this was true.

Hayes Lyons was greatly unnerved, and cried a great part of the night;
but Buck Stinson was wholly unconcerned and slept soundly.

The trial was resumed the next morning. At noon, the arguments being
concluded, the question of “guilty or not guilty,” was submitted to the
people, and decided almost unanimously in the affirmative.

“What shall be their punishment?” asked the president of the now eager
crowd.

“Hang them,” was the united response.

Men were immediately appointed to erect a scaffold, and dig the graves
of the doomed criminals, who were taken into custody to await the
result of the trial of Forbes. This followed immediately; and the
loaded pistol, and the fact that when the onslaught was made upon
Dillingham, he called out, “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” were used in
evidence with good effect. When the question was finally put, Forbes,
who was a young man of fine personal appearance, and possessed of
good powers as a speaker, made a personal appeal to the crowd, which
so wrought upon their sympathies, and was so eloquent withal, that
they acquitted him by a large majority. In marked contrast with the
spirit which they had exhibited a few hours before while condemning
Stinson and Lyons to a violent death, the people, upon the acquittal
of Forbes, crowded around him with shouts and laughter, eager to shake
hands with and congratulate him upon his escape. Months afterwards,
when the excitement of the occasion, with the memory of it, has passed
from men’s minds, Charley Forbes was heard vauntingly to say that
he was the slayer of Dillingham. He was known to deride the tender
susceptibilities of the people, who gave him liberty to renew his
desperate career, and chuckle over the exercise of powers of person
and mind that could make so many believe even Truth herself to be a
liar. Among the villains belonging to Plummer’s band, not one, not even
Plummer himself, possessed a more depraved nature than Forbes; and with
it, few, if any, were gifted with as many shining accomplishments. He
was a prince of cut-throats, uniting with the coolness of Augustus
Tomlinson all the adaptability of Paul Clifford. On one occasion he
said to a gentleman about to leave the Territory,

“You will be attacked on your way to Salt Lake City.”

“You can’t do it, Charley,” was the reply. “Your boys are scattered, we
are together, and will prove too many for you.” Nevertheless, the party
drove sixty miles the first day out, and thus escaped molestation.

His early life was passed in Grass Valley, California. While
comparatively a youth, he was convicted of robbery. On the expiration
of his sentence, he visited his old friends, and on his promise of
reformation, they obtained employment for him in McLaughlin’s gas
works. For a while his conduct was unexceptionable, and he was rapidly
regaining the esteem of all; but in an evil hour he indulged in a game
of poker for money. From that moment he yielded to this temptation,
until it became a besetting vice. Not long after he entered upon this
career, he provoked a quarrel with one “Dutch John,” who threatened to
kill him.

Forbes told McLaughlin, saying in conclusion, “When Dutch John says so,
he means it.”

“Take my revolver out of the case,” said McLaughlin, “put it in your
breast-pocket, and defend yourself as occasion may require.”

Forbes obeyed. Soon after, as he was passing along with a ladder on his
shoulder, an acquaintance said to him,

“Dutch John is looking for you to kill you.”

“So I hear,” replied Forbes. “He’ll find me sooner than he wants to.”

A few rods farther on he saw John coming from the Magnolia saloon,
where he had been looking for Forbes. Forbes sprang towards him,
exclaiming with an oath,

“Here I am,” and immediately fired four shots at him. John fired once
in return, and throwing up his hands in affright at the rapid firing of
Forbes, ejaculated,

“_O mein Gott!_ Will I be murdered?”

A bystander who had witnessed the meeting, and saw that John, who had
expected an easy victory, was paralyzed with fear, called to him,

“Turn your artillery loose!”

Forbes was tried for this crime, and acquitted. He was afterwards
convicted of crime of some kind in Carson City, and imprisoned. On New
Year’s day he succeeded in removing his handcuffs, broke jail, and went
to the sheriff’s house, as he said upon entering, “to make a New Year’s
call.” The officer returned him to prison. From this time, his career
of crime knew no impediment.

On his first arrival in the mountains he corresponded for some of the
California and Nevada papers. His letters were highly interesting. His
true name was Edward Richardson.

To return to Stinson and Lyons. After the demonstration of joy at
Forbes’s escape had subsided, the people remembered that there was an
execution on the _tapis_. Drawing up a wagon in front of the building
where the criminals were confined, they ordered them to get in. They
obeyed, followed by several of their friends, who took seats beside
them. Lyons became almost uproarious in his appeals for mercy. The
women, of whom there were many, began to cry, begging earnestly for the
lives of the criminals. Smith, their lawyer, joined his petitions to
those of the women, and the entire crowd began to give way under this
pressure of sympathy. Meantime the wagon was drawn slowly towards the
place of execution. When the excitement was at its highest pitch, a
man demanded in a loud tone that the people should listen to a letter
which Lyons had written to his mother. This document, which had been
prepared by some person for the occasion, was now read. It was filled
with expressions of love for the aged mother, regret for the crime,
repentance, acknowledgments of misspent life, and strong promises of
amendment, if only life could be spared a little longer. Every sentence
elicited fresh grief from the women, who now became perfectly clamorous
in their calls for mercy to the prisoners. After the letter was read,
some one cried out, in derision,

“Give him a horse, and let him go to his mother.”

Another immediately moved that they take a vote upon that proposition.
Sheriff Todd, whose duty it was only to carry out the sentence of the
court, consented to this, and the question was submitted to ayes and
noes. Both parties claimed the victory. It was then agreed that those
in favor of hanging should go up, and those opposed, down the side of a
neighboring hill. Neither party being satisfied, as a final test, four
men were selected, and those who wished the sentence enforced were to
pass between two of them, and those who opposed, between the other two.
The votes for liberty were increased to meet the occasion, by a second
passage of as many as were necessary to carry the question. An Irish
miner, while the voting was in progress, exclaimed in a loud voice, as
a negro passed through the acquittal bureau,

“Bedad, there’s a bloody nagur that’s voted three times.”

But this vote, dishonest as it was, settled the question; for Jack
Gallagher, pistol in hand, shouted,

“Let them go. They’re cleared.”

This was a signal for a general uproar, and amid shouts from both
parties, expressive of the opinions which each entertained, some one
mounted the assassins upon a horse standing near, which belonged to a
Blackfoot squaw, and cutting the lariat, started them off at a gallop
down the gulch. At this moment one of the guard pointed to the gallows,
and said to another,

“There stands a monument of disappointed justice.”

Immediately after sentence of death had been passed upon Stinson
and Lyons, Dr. Steele returned to his cabin, two miles down the
gulch. The result of the trial had furnished him with food for sad
reflection,--especially as the duty of passing death sentence had
devolved upon him. Other considerations followed in quick succession.
He has since, when speaking of it, said that he never indulged in a
more melancholy reverie, than while returning home from this trial.
The youth of the convicts; their evident fitness, both by culture and
manners, for any sphere of active business; the effect that their
execution must have upon distant parents and friends,--all these
thoughts presented themselves in sad array before his mental vision;
when, as he was about entering his cabin, a quick clatter of hoofs
roused him and turning to see the cause, he beheld the subjects of
his gloomy reflections both mounted upon the Indian pony, approaching
at the animal’s swiftest pace. He had hardly time to recover from
his surprise, and realize that the object was not a vision, until
the animal with its double rider passed him,--and Lyons, nodding
familiarly, waved his hand, accompanying the gesture with the parting
words,

“Good-bye, Doc.”

The body of the unfortunate Dillingham lay neglected upon a gambling
table in a tent near by, until this wretched travesty was completed.
Then a wagon was obtained, and, followed by a small procession, it was
hurriedly buried. The tears had all been shed for the murderers.

“I cried for Dillingham,” said one, on being told that his wife and
daughters had expended their grief upon the wrong persons.

“Oh, you did,” was the reply. “Well thought of. Who will pray for him?
Will you do it, judge?”

Judge Bissell responded by kneeling upon the spot and offering up
an appropriate prayer, as the body of the unfortunate young man was
consigned to its mother-earth.

Soon after the murder of Dillingham, Charley Forbes suddenly
disappeared. No one knew what became of him, but it was supposed that
he had fallen a victim to the vengeance of his comrades for the course
he had taken in securing for himself a separate trial. This supposition
was afterwards confirmed by some of the robbers themselves, who stated
that in a quarrel with Moore at the Big Hole River, Forbes was killed.
Fearing that the friends of the murdered ruffian would retaliate,
Moore killed Forbes’s horse at the same time, and burned to ashes the
bodies of horse and rider. This fact was known to Plummer only, at the
time of its occurrence.

Dillingham was a straightforward, honest young man, and his office
as deputy sheriff was given him under the supposition that he would
readily affiliate with the roughs. Lyons, Stinson, and Forbes, who were
also deputies, supposed him to be as bad as they were.

On my trip east in 1863, the Overland coach in which I had taken
passage was detained a night by snow at Hook’s Station in Nebraska.
Ascertaining that I was from Bannack, a young man at the station asked
me many questions about Hayes Lyons, telling me that he had heard that
he narrowly escaped hanging the previous summer. I narrated to him the
circumstances attending the murder of Dillingham and the trial.

“He is my brother,” said the young man, and invited me to go with him
and see his mother and sister. I learned that Hayes had been well
brought up, but was the victim of evil associations. His mother wept
while deploring his criminal career, which she ascribed to bad company.




CHEYENNES AND SIOUX

GENERAL GEORGE A. CUSTER

1867

From “My Life on the Plains.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, J. D. Sheldon Company, New York.[22]


Of the many important expeditions organized to operate in the Indian
country, none, perhaps, of late years has excited more general and
unfriendly comment, considering the slight loss of life inflicted
upon the Indians, than the expedition organized and led in person by
Major-General Hancock in the spring of 1867. The clique generally known
as the “Indian ring” were particularly malevolent and bitter in their
denunciations of General Hancock for precipitating, as they expressed
it, an Indian war. This expedition was quite formidable in appearance,
being made up of eight troops of cavalry, seven companies of infantry,
and one battery of light artillery, numbering altogether about 1,400
men.

It may be asked, What had the Indians done to make this incursion
necessary? They had been guilty of numerous thefts and murders during
the preceding summer and fall, for none of which had they been called
to account. They had attacked the stations of the overland mail route,
killed the employees, burned the station, and captured the stock.
Citizens had been murdered in their homes on the frontier of Kansas;
murders had been committed on the Arkansas route. The principal
perpetrators of these acts were the Cheyennes and Sioux. The agent of
the former, if not a party to the murder on the Arkansas, knew who
the guilty persons were, yet took no steps to bring the murderers to
punishment. Such a course would have interfered with his trade and
profits. It was not to punish for these sins of the past that the
expedition was set on foot, but rather by its imposing appearance
and its early presence in the Indian country to check or intimidate
the Indians from a repetition of their late conduct. This was deemed
particularly necessary from the fact that the various tribes from which
we had greatest cause to anticipate trouble had during the winter,
through their leading chiefs and warriors, threatened that as soon as
the grass was up in spring a combined outbreak would take place along
our entire frontier, and especially against the main routes of travel.
To assemble the tribes for the desired council, word was sent early in
March to the agents of those tribes whom it was desirable to meet. The
agents sent runners to the villages inviting them to meet us at some
point near the Arkansas river.

General Hancock, with the artillery and six companies of infantry,
reached Fort Riley, Kansas, from Fort Leavenworth by rail the last week
in March; here he was joined by four companies of the Seventh Cavalry
and an additional company of the Thirty-seventh Infantry. It was at
this point that I joined the expedition. And as a very fair sample
of the laurels which military men may win in an Indian campaign by a
zealous discharge of what they deem their duty, I will here state, in
parenthesis, that after engaging in the expedition, some of the events
of which I am about to relate, and undergoing fatigue, privations, and
dangers equal to those of a campaign during the Rebellion, I found
myself at the termination of the campaign again at Fort Riley _in
arrest_. This is not mentioned in a fault-finding spirit. I have no
fault to find. It is said that blessings sometimes come in disguise.
Such proved to be true in this instance, although I must say the
disguise for some little time was most perfect.

From Fort Riley we marched to Fort Harker, a distance of ninety miles,
where our force was strengthened by the addition of two more troops of
cavalry. Halting only long enough to replenish our supplies, we next
directed our march toward Fort Larned, near the Arkansas, about seventy
miles to the southeast. A march from the 3d to the 7th of April brought
us to Fort Larned. The agent for the Comanches and Kiowas accompanied
us. At Fort Larned we found the agent of the Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and
Apaches; from the latter we learned that he had, as requested, sent
runners to the chiefs of his agency inviting them to the council, and
that they had agreed to assemble near Fort Larned on the 10th of the
month, requesting that the expedition would remain there until that
date. To this request General Hancock acceded.

On the 9th of April, while encamped awaiting the council, which was to
be held the following day, a terrible snow-storm occurred, lasting all
day until late in the evening. It was our good fortune to be in camp
rather than on the march; had it been otherwise, we could not well
have escaped without loss of life from the severe cold and blinding
snow. The cavalry horses suffered seriously, and were only preserved
by doubling their ration of oats, while to prevent their being frozen
during the intensely cold night which followed, the guards were
instructed to keep passing along the picket lines with a whip, and to
keep the horses moving constantly. The snow was eight inches in depth.
The council, which was to take place the next day, had to be postponed
until the return of good weather. Now began the display of a kind of
diplomacy for which the Indian is peculiar. The Cheyennes and a band of
the Sioux were encamped on Pawnee Fork, about thirty miles above Fort
Larned. They neither desired to move nearer to us nor have us approach
nearer to them. On the morning of the 11th they sent us word that they
had started to visit us, but discovering a large herd of buffalo near
their camp, they had stopped to procure a supply of meat. This message
was not received with much confidence, nor was a buffalo-hunt deemed
of sufficient importance to justify the Indians in breaking their
engagement. General Hancock decided, however, to delay another day,
when, if the Indians still failed to come in, he would move his command
to the vicinity of their village and hold the conference there.

Orders were issued on the evening of the 12th for the march to be
resumed on the following day. Later in the evening two chiefs of the
“Dog Soldiers,” a band composed of the most warlike and troublesome
Indians on the Plains, chiefly made up of Cheyennes, visited our camp.
They were accompanied by a dozen warriors, and expressed a desire to
hold a conference with General Hancock, to which he assented. A large
council fire was built in front of the General’s tent, and all the
officers of his command assembled there. A tent had been erected for
the accommodation of the chiefs a short distance from the General’s.
Before they could feel equal to the occasion, and in order to obtain
time to collect their thoughts, they desired that supper might be
prepared for them, which was done. When finally ready they advanced
from their tent to the council fire in single file, accompanied by
their agent and an interpreter. Arrived at the fire, another brief
delay ensued. No matter how pressing or momentous the occasion, an
Indian invariably declines to engage in a council until he has filled
his pipe and gone through with the important ceremony of a smoke. This
attended to, the chiefs announced that they were ready “to talk.”
They were then introduced to the principal officers of the group,
and seemed much struck with the flashy uniforms of the few artillery
officers who were present in all the glory of red horsehair plumes,
aigulets, etc. The chiefs seemed puzzled to determine whether these
insignia designated chieftains or medicine men. General Hancock began
the conference by a speech, in which he explained to the Indians his
purpose in coming to see them, and what he expected of them in the
future. He particularly informed them that he was not there to make
war, but to promote peace. Then expressing his regret that more of the
chiefs had not visited him, he announced his intention of proceeding
on the morrow with his command to the vicinity of their village and
there holding a council with all of the chiefs. Tall Bull, a fine,
warlike-looking chieftain, replied to General Hancock, but his speech
contained nothing important, being made up of allusions to the growing
scarcity of the buffalo, his love for the white man, and the usual hint
that a donation in the way of refreshments would be highly acceptable;
he added that he would have nothing new to say at the village.

Several years prior to the events referred to, our people had captured
from the Indians two children. I believe they were survivors of the
Chivington massacre at Sand Creek, Colorado. These children had been
kindly cared for, and were being taught to lead a civilized mode of
life. Their relatives, however, made demands for them, and we by treaty
stipulation agreed to deliver them up. One of them, a little girl, had
been cared for kindly in a family living near Denver, Colorado; the
other, a boy, had been carried East to the States, and it was with
great difficulty that the Government was able to learn his whereabouts
and obtain possession of him. He was finally discovered, however,
and sent to General Hancock, to be by him delivered up to his tribe.
He accompanied the expedition, and was quite a curiosity for the
time being. He was dressed comfortably, in accordance with civilized
custom; and, having been taken from his people at so early an age, was
apparently satisfied with the life he led. The Indians who came to
our camp expressed a great desire to see him, and when he was brought
into their presence they exhibited no emotion such as white men under
similar circumstances might be expected to show. They evidently were
not pleased to see him clothed in the white man’s dress. The little
fellow, then some eight or ten years of age, seemed little disposed to
go back to his people. I saw him the following year in the village of
his tribe; he then had lost all trace of civilization, had forgotten
his knowledge of the English language, and was as shy and suspicious
of the white men as any of his dusky comrades. From older persons of
the tribe we learned that their first act after obtaining possession
of him was to deprive him of his “store clothes,” and in their stead
substitute the blanket and leggings.

Rightly concluding that the Indians did not intend to come to our
camp as they had at first agreed to, it was decided to move nearer to
their village. On the morning following the conference held with the
two chiefs of the “Dog Soldiers,” our entire force therefore marched
from Fort Larned up Pawnee Fork in the direction of the main village,
encamping the first night about twenty-one miles from the fort. Several
parties of Indians were seen in our advance during the day, evidently
watching our movements; while a heavy smoke, seen to rise in the
direction of the Indian village, indicated that something more than
usual was going on. This smoke we afterwards learned arose from the
burning grass. The Indians, thinking to prevent us from encamping in
their vicinity, had set fire to and burned all the grass for miles in
the direction from which they expected us. Before we arrived at our
camping-ground we were met by several chiefs and warriors belonging to
the Cheyennes and Sioux. Among the chiefs were Pawnee Killer of the
Sioux, and White Horse of the Cheyennes. It was arranged that these
chiefs should accept our hospitality and remain with us during the
night, and in the morning all the chiefs of the two tribes then in
the village were to come to General Hancock’s headquarters and hold a
council. On the morning of the 14th Pawnee Killer left our camp at an
early hour, for the purpose, as he said, of going to the village to
bring in the other chiefs to the council. Nine o’clock had been agreed
upon as the hour at which the council should assemble. The hour came,
but the chiefs did not. Now an Indian council is not only often an
important but always an interesting occasion. And, somewhat like a
famous recipe for making a certain dish, the first thing necessary in
holding an Indian council is to get the Indian. Half-past nine o’clock
came, and still we were lacking this one important part of the council.
At this juncture Bull Bear, an influential chief among the Cheyennes,
came in and reported that the chiefs were on their way to our camp, but
would not be able to reach it for some time. This was a mere artifice
to secure delay. General Hancock informed Bull Bear that as the chiefs
could not arrive for some time, he would move his forces up the stream
nearer to the village, and the council could be held at our camp that
night. To this proposition Bull Bear gave his assent.

At 11 A. M. we resumed the march, and had proceeded but a few miles
when we witnessed one of the finest and most imposing military
displays, prepared according to the Indian art of war, which it has
ever been my lot to behold. It was nothing more nor less than an
Indian line of battle drawn directly across our line of march; as if
to say, Thus far and no further. Most of the Indians were mounted;
all were bedecked in their brightest colors, their heads crowned with
the brilliant war-bonnet, their lances bearing the crimson pennant,
bows strung, and quivers full of barbed arrows. In addition to these
weapons, which with the hunting-knife and tomahawk are considered as
forming the armament of the warrior, each one was supplied with either
a breech-loading rifle or revolver, sometimes with both--the latter
obtained through the wise foresight and strong love of fair play which
prevails in the Indian Department, which, seeing that its wards are
determined to fight, is equally determined that there shall be no
advantage taken, but that the two sides shall be armed alike; proving,
too, in this manner the wonderful liberality of our Government, which
not only is able to furnish its soldiers with the latest improved
style of breech-loaders to defend it and themselves, but is equally
able and willing to give the same pattern of arms to their common foe.
The only difference is, that the soldier, if he loses his weapon, is
charged double price for it; while to avoid making any such charge
against the Indian, his weapons are given him without conditions
attached. In the line of battle before us there were several hundred
Indians, while further to the rear and at different distances were
other organized bodies acting apparently as reserves. Still further
were small detachments who seemed to perform the duty of couriers, and
were held in readiness to convey messages to the village. The ground
beyond was favorable for an extended view, allowing the eye to sweep
the plain for several miles. As far as the eye could reach small groups
or individuals could be seen in the direction of the village; these
were evidently parties of observation, whose sole object was to learn
the result of our meeting with the main body and hasten with the news
to the village.

For a few moments appearances seemed to foreshadow anything but a
peaceful issue. The infantry was in the advance, followed closely by
the artillery, while my command, the cavalry, was marching on the
flank. General Hancock, who was riding with his staff at the head of
the column, coming suddenly in view of the wild fantastic battle array,
which extended far to our right and left and not more than half a mile
in our front, hastily sent orders to the infantry, artillery, and
cavalry to form line of battle, evidently determined that if war was
intended we should be prepared. The cavalry, being the last to form on
the right, came into line on a gallop, and, without waiting to align
the ranks carefully, the command was given to “draw sabre.” As the
bright blades flashed from their scabbards into the morning sunlight,
and the infantry brought their muskets to a carry, a most beautiful
and wonderfully interesting sight was spread out before and around us,
presenting a contrast which, to a military eye, could but be striking.
Here in battle array, facing each other, were the representatives of
civilized and barbarous warfare. The one, with but few modifications,
stood clothed in the same rude style of dress, bearing the same
patterned shield and weapon that his ancestors had borne centuries
before; the other confronted him in the dress and supplied with the
implements of war which the most advanced stage of civilization had
pronounced the most perfect. Was the comparative superiority of these
two classes to be subjected to the mere test of war here? Such seemed
the prevailing impression on both sides. All was eager anxiety and
expectation. Neither side seemed to comprehend the object or intentions
of the other; each was waiting for the other to deliver the first blow.
A more beautiful battle-ground could not have been chosen. Not a bush
or even the slightest irregularity of ground intervened between the two
lines which now stood frowning and facing each other. Chiefs could be
seen riding along the line as if directing and exhorting their braves
to deeds of heroism.

After a few moments of painful suspense, General Hancock, accompanied
by General A. J. Smith and other officers, rode forward, and through
an interpreter invited the chiefs to meet us midway, for the purpose
of an interview. In response to this invitation Roman Nose, bearing
a white flag, accompanied by Bull Bear, White Horse, Gray Beard, and
Medicine Wolf on the part of the Cheyennes, and Pawnee Killer, Bad
Wound, Tall Bear that Walks under the Ground, Left Hand, Little Bear,
and Little Bull on the part of the Sioux, rode forward to the middle of
the open space between the two lines. Here we shook hands with all of
the chiefs, most of them exhibiting unmistakable signs of gratification
at this apparently peaceful termination of our encounter. General
Hancock very naturally inquired the object of the hostile attitude
displayed before us, saying to the chiefs that if war was their object
we were ready then and there to participate. Their immediate answer
was that they did not desire war, but were peacefully disposed. They
were then told that we would continue our march toward the village, and
encamp near it, but would establish such regulations that none of the
soldiers would be permitted to approach or disturb them. An arrangement
was then effected by which the chiefs were to assemble at General
Hancock’s headquarters as soon as our camp was pitched. The interview
then terminated, and the Indians moved off in the direction of their
village, we following leisurely in rear.

A march of a few miles brought us in sight of the village, which was
situated in a beautiful grove on the banks of the stream up which we
had been marching. The village consisted of upwards of three hundred
lodges, a small fraction over half belonging to the Cheyennes, the
remainder to the Sioux. Like all Indian encampments, the ground chosen
was a most romantic spot, and at the same time fulfilled in every
respect the requirements of a good camping-ground; wood, water, and
grass were abundant. The village was placed on a wide, level plateau,
while on the north and west, at a short distance off, rose high bluffs,
which admirably served as a shelter against the cold winds which at
that season of the year prevail from these directions. Our tents were
pitched within half a mile of the village. Guards were placed between
to prevent intrusion upon our part. A few of the Indian ponies found
grazing near our camp were caught and returned to them, to show that
our intentions were at least neighborly. We had scarcely pitched our
tents when Roman Nose, Bull Bear, Gray Beard, and Medicine Wolf, all
prominent chiefs of the Cheyennes, came into camp, with the information
that upon our approach their women and children had all fled from the
village, alarmed by the presence of so many soldiers, and imagining a
second Chivington massacre to be intended. General Hancock insisted
that they should all return, promising protection and good treatment
to all; that if the camp was abandoned he would hold it responsible.
The chiefs then stated their belief in their ability to recall the
fugitives, could they be furnished with horses to overtake them. This
was accordingly done, and two of them set out mounted on two of our
horses. An agreement was also entered into at the same time that one
of our interpreters, Ed. Gurrier, a half-breed Cheyenne who was in the
employ of the Government, should remain in the village and report every
two hours as to whether any Indians were leaving the village. This was
about seven o’clock in the evening. At half-past nine the half-breed
returned to headquarters, with the intelligence that all the chiefs and
warriors were saddling up to leave, under circumstances showing that
they had no intention of returning, such as packing up such articles as
could be carried with them, and cutting and destroying their lodges,
this last being done to obtain small pieces for temporary shelter.

I had retired to my tent, which was located some few hundred yards from
that of General Hancock, when a messenger from the latter awakened
me with the information that General Hancock desired my presence at
his tent. Imagining a movement on the part of the Indians, I made no
delay in responding to the summons. General Hancock briefly stated the
situation of affairs, and directed me to mount my command as quickly
and as silently as possible, surround the Indian village, and prevent
the departure of its inhabitants. Easily said, but not so easily done.
Under ordinary circumstances, silence not being necessary, I could have
returned to my camp, and by a few blasts from the trumpet placed every
soldier in his saddle almost as quickly as it has taken time to write
this sentence. No bugle calls must be sounded; we were to adopt some
of the stealth of the Indian--how successfully remains to be seen. By
this time every soldier, officers as well as men, was in his tent sound
asleep. How to awaken them and impart to each the necessary order?
First going to the tent of the adjutant and arousing him, I procured
an experienced assistant in my labors. Next the captains of companies
were awakened and orders imparted to them. They in turn transmitted
the order to the first sergeant, who similarly aroused the men. It
has often surprised me to observe the alacrity with which disciplined
soldiers, experienced in campaigning, will hasten to prepare themselves
for the march in an emergency like this. No questions are asked,
no time is wasted. A soldier’s toilet, on an Indian campaign, is a
simple affair, and requires little time for arranging. His clothes are
gathered up hurriedly, no matter how, so long as he retains possession
of them. The first object is to get his horse saddled and bridled, and
until this is done his own toilet is a matter of secondary importance,
and one button or hook must do the duty of half a dozen. When his
horse is ready for the mount the rider will be seen completing his own
equipment; stray buttons will receive attention, arms be overhauled,
spurs restrapped; then, if there still remain a few spare moments, the
homely black pipe is filled and lighted, and the soldier’s preparation
is completed.

The night was all that could be desired for the success of our
enterprise. The air was mild and pleasant; the moon, although nearly
full, kept almost constantly behind the clouds, as if to screen us in
our hazardous undertaking. I say hazardous, because there were none
of us who imagined for one moment that if the Indians discovered us
in our attempt to surround them and their village, we would escape
without a fight--a fight, too, in which the Indians, sheltered behind
the trunks of the stately forest trees under which their lodges were
pitched, would possess all the advantage. General Hancock, anticipating
that the Indians would discover our approach, and that a fight would
ensue, ordered the artillery and infantry under arms, to await the
result of our moonlight venture. My command was soon in the saddle,
and silently making its way toward the village. Instructions had been
given forbidding all conversation except in a whisper. Sabres were
so disposed of as to prevent clanging. Taking a camp-fire which we
could see in the village as our guiding point, we made a detour so as
to place the village between ourselves and the infantry. Occasionally
the moon would peep out from behind the clouds and enable us to catch
a hasty glance at the village. Here and there under the thick foliage
we could see the white, conical-shaped lodges. Were their inmates
slumbering, unaware of our close proximity, or were their dusky
defenders concealed, as well they might have been, along the banks
of the Pawnee, quietly awaiting our approach, and prepared to greet
us with their well-known war-whoop? These were questions that were
probably suggested to the mind of each individual of my command. If we
were discovered approaching in the stealthy, suspicious manner which
characterized our movements, the hour being midnight, it would require
a more confiding nature than that of the Indian to assign a friendly
or peaceful motive to our conduct. The same flashes of moonlight
which gave us hurried glimpses of the village enabled us to see our
own column of horsemen stretching its silent length far into the dim
darkness, and winding its course, like some huge anaconda about to
envelop its victim.

The method by which it was determined to establish a cordon of armed
troopers about the fated village, was to direct the march in a circle,
with the village in the centre, the commanding officer of each rear
troop halting his command at the proper point, and deploying his
men similarly to a line of skirmishers--the entire circle, when
thus formed, facing toward the village, and distant from it perhaps
a few hundred yards. No sooner was our line completely formed than
the moon, as if deeming darkness no longer essential to our success,
appeared from behind her screen and lighted up the entire scene. And
a beautiful scene it was. The great circle of troops, each individual
of which sat on his steed silent as a statue, the beautiful and in
some places dense foliage of the cotton trees sheltering and shading
the bleached, skin-clad lodges of the red man, while in the midst of
all murmured undisturbedly in its channel the little stream on whose
banks the village was located, all combined to produce an artistic
effect, as beautiful as it was interesting. But we were not there to
study artistic effects. The next step was to determine whether we had
captured an inhabited village, involving almost necessarily a fierce
conflict with its savage occupants, or whether the red man had again
proven too wily and crafty for his more civilized brothers.

Directing the entire line of troopers to remain mounted with carbines
held at the “advance,” I dismounted, and taking with me Gurrier, the
half-breed, Dr. Coates, one of our medical staff, and Lieutenant
Moylan, the adjutant, proceeded on our hands and knees toward the
village. The prevailing opinion was that the Indians were still
asleep. I desired to approach near enough to the lodges to enable the
half-breed to hail the village in the Indian tongue, and if possible
establish friendly relations at once. It became a question of prudence
with us, which we discussed in whispers as we proceeded on our “Tramp,
tramp, tramp, the boys are creeping,” how far from our horses and how
near to the village we dared to go. If so few of us were discovered
entering the village in this questionable manner, it was more than
probable that, like the returners of stolen property, we should be
suitably rewarded and no questions asked. The opinions of Gurrier, the
half-breed, were eagerly sought for and generally deferred to. His
wife, a full-blooded Cheyenne, was a resident of the village. This with
him was an additional reason for wishing a peaceful termination to our
efforts. When we had passed over two-thirds of the distance between
our horses and the village, it was deemed best to make our presence
known. Thus far not a sound had been heard to disturb the stillness of
the night. Gurrier called out at the top of his voice in the Cheyenne
tongue. The only response came from the throats of a score or more of
Indian dogs which set up a fierce barking. At the same time one or two
of our party asserted that they saw figures moving beneath the trees.
Gurrier repeated his summons, but with no better result than before.

A hurried consultation ensued. The presence of so many dogs in the
village was regarded by the half-breed as almost positive assurance
that the Indians were still there. Yet it was difficult to account for
their silence. Gurrier in a loud tone repeated who he was, and that our
mission was a friendly one. Still no answer. He then gave it as his
opinion that the Indians were on the alert, and were probably waiting
in the shadow of the trees for us to approach nearer, when they would
pounce upon us. This comforting opinion induced another conference. We
must ascertain the truth of the matter; our party could do this as well
as a large number, and to go back and send another party in our stead
could not be thought of.

Forward was the verdict. Each one grasped his revolver, resolved to
do his best, whether it was in running or fighting. I think most of
us would have preferred to take our own chances at running. We had
approached near enough to see that some of the lodges were detached
some distance from the main encampment. Selecting the nearest of these,
we directed our advance on it. While all of us were full of the spirit
of adventure, and were further encouraged with the idea that we were
in the discharge of our duty, there was scarcely one of us who would
not have felt more comfortable if we could have got back to our horses
without loss of pride. Yet nothing, under the circumstances, but a
positive order would have induced any one to withdraw. The doctor, who
was a great wag, even in moments of greatest danger, could not restrain
his propensities in this direction. When everything before us was
being weighed and discussed in the most serious manner, he remarked:
“General, this recalls to my mind those beautiful lines:

  ‘Backward, turn backward, O Time, in thy flight,
  Make me a child again just for to-night--’

this night of all others.”

Cautiously approaching, on all fours, to within a few yards of the
nearest lodge, occasionally halting and listening to discover evidence
as to whether the village was deserted or not, we finally decided that
the Indians had fled before the arrival of the cavalry, and that none
but empty lodges were before us. This conclusion somewhat emboldened
as well as accelerated our progress. Arriving at the first lodge, one
of our party raised the curtain or mat which served as a door, and
the doctor and myself entered. The interior of the lodge was dimly
lighted by the decaying embers of a small fire built in the centre.
All around us were to be seen the usual adornments and articles which
constitute the household effects of an Indian family. Buffalo robes
were spread like carpets over the floor; head-mats, used to recline
upon, were arranged as if for the comfort of their owners; parfleches,
a sort of Indian bandbox, with their contents apparently undisturbed,
were to be found carefully stowed away under the edges or borders of
the lodge. These, with the door-mats, paint-bags, rawhide ropes, and
other articles of Indian equipment, were left as if the owners had only
absented themselves for a brief period. To complete the picture of an
Indian lodge, over the fire hung a camp-kettle, in which, by means of
the dim light of the fire, we could see what had been intended for the
supper of the late occupants of the lodge. The doctor, ever on the
alert to discover additional items of knowledge, whether pertaining to
history or science, snuffed the savory odors which arose from the dark
recesses of the mysterious kettle. Casting about the lodge for some
instrument to aid him in his pursuit of knowledge, he found a horn
spoon, with which he began his investigation of the contents, finally
succeeding in getting possession of a fragment which might have been
the half of a duck or rabbit, judging merely from its size. “Ah!” said
the doctor, in his most complacent manner, “here is the opportunity
I have long been waiting for. I have often desired to test and taste
of the Indian mode of cooking. What do you suppose this is?” holding
up the dripping morsel. Unable to obtain the desired information, the
doctor, whose naturally good appetite had been sensibly sharpened by
his recent exercise _à la quadrupède_, set to with a will and ate
heartily of the mysterious contents of the kettle. “What can this
be?” again inquired the doctor. He was only satisfied on one point,
that it was delicious--a dish fit for a king. Just then Gurrier, the
half-breed, entered the lodge. He could solve the mystery, having spent
years among the Indians. To him the doctor appealed for information.
Fishing out a huge piece, and attacking it with the voracity of a
hungry wolf, he was not long in determining what the doctor had supped
so heartily upon. His first words settled the mystery: “Why, this is
dog.” I will not attempt to repeat the few but emphatic words uttered
by the heartily disgusted member of the medical fraternity as he rushed
from the lodge.

Other members of our small party had entered other lodges, only to find
them, like the first, deserted. But little of the furniture belonging
to the lodges had been taken, showing how urgent and hasty had been
the flight of the owners. To aid in the examination of the village,
reinforcements were added to our party, and an exploration of each
lodge was determined upon. At the same time a messenger was despatched
to General Hancock, informing him of the flight of the Indians. Some
of the lodges were closed by having brush or timber piled up against
the entrance, as if to preserve the contents. Others had huge pieces
cut from their sides, these pieces evidently being carried away to
furnish temporary shelter to the fugitives. In most of the lodges the
fires were still burning. I had entered several without discovering
anything important. Finally, in company with the doctor, I arrived
at one, the interior of which was quite dark, the fire having almost
died out. Procuring a lighted fagot, I prepared to explore it, as I
had done the others; but no sooner had I entered the lodge than my
fagot failed me, leaving me in total darkness. Handing it out to the
doctor to be relighted, I began feeling my way about the interior of
the lodge. I had almost made the circuit when my hand came in contact
with a human foot; at the same time a voice unmistakably Indian, and
which evidently came from the owner of the foot, convinced me that I
was not alone. My first impression was that in their hasty flight the
Indians had gone off leaving this one asleep. My next, very naturally,
related to myself. I would have gladly placed myself on the outside
of the lodge, and there matured plans for interviewing its occupant;
but unfortunately to reach the entrance of the lodge I must either
pass over or around the owner of the before-mentioned foot and voice.
Could I have been convinced that among _its_ other possessions there
was neither tomahawk nor scalping-knife, pistol nor war-club, or any
similar article of the noble red man’s toilet, I would have risked an
attempt to escape through the low narrow opening of the lodge; but who
ever saw an Indian without one or all these interesting trinkets? Had
I made the attempt, I should have expected to encounter either the
keen edge of the scalping-knife or the blow of the tomahawk, and to
have engaged in a questionable struggle for life. This would not do. I
crouched in silence for a few moments, hoping the doctor would return
with the lighted fagot. I need not say that each succeeding moment
spent in the darkness of that lodge seemed like an age. I could hear a
slight movement on the part of my unknown neighbor, which did not add
to my comfort. Why does not the doctor return? At last I discovered
the approach of a light on the outside. When it neared the entrance I
called to the doctor and informed him that an Indian was in the lodge,
and that he had better have his weapons ready for a conflict. I had,
upon discovering the foot, drawn my hunting-knife from its scabbard,
and now stood waiting the _dénouement_. With his lighted fagot in one
hand and cocked revolver in the other, the doctor cautiously entered
the lodge. And there, directly between us, wrapped in a buffalo-robe,
lay the cause of my anxiety--a little Indian girl, probably ten years
old; not a full-blood, but a half-breed. She was terribly frightened
at finding herself in our hands, with none of her people near. Why was
she left behind in this manner? Gurrier, our half-breed interpreter,
was called in. His inquiries were soon answered. The little girl, who
at first was an object of our curiosity, became at once an object of
pity. The Indians, an unusual thing for them to do toward their own
blood, had wilfully deserted her; but this, alas! was the least of
their injuries to her. After being shamefully abandoned by the entire
village, a few of the young men of the tribe returned to the deserted
lodge, and upon the person of this little girl committed outrages, the
details of which are too sickening for these pages. She was carried to
the fort and placed under the care of kind hands and warm hearts, where
everything was done for her comfort that was possible. Other parties
in exploring the deserted village found an old, decrepit Indian of
the Sioux tribe, who also had been deserted, owing to his infirmities
and inability to travel with the tribe. He also was kindly cared for
by the authorities of the fort. Nothing was gleaned from our search
of the village which might indicate the direction of the flight.
General Hancock, on learning the situation of affairs, despatched some
companies of infantry to the deserted village, with orders to replace
the cavalry and protect the village and its contents from disturbance
until its final disposition could be determined upon. Starting my
command back to our camp near General Hancock’s headquarters, I
galloped on in advance to report the particulars to the General. It
was then decided that with eight troops of cavalry I should start in
pursuit of the Indians at early dawn on the following morning (April
15). There was no sleep for my command the remainder of the night, the
time being fully occupied in preparation for the march, neither the
extent nor direction of which was known.

Mess kits were overhauled, and fresh supplies of coffee, sugar, flour,
and the other articles which go to supply the soldier’s larder, were
laid in. Blankets were carefully rolled so as to occupy as little
space as possible; every useless pound of luggage was discarded, for
in making a rapid pursuit after Indians, much of the success depends
upon the lightness of the order of march. Saratoga trunks and their
accompaniments are at a discount. Never was the old saying that in
Rome one must do as Romans do more aptly illustrated than on an Indian
campaign. The Indian, knowing that his safety either on offensive
or defensive movements depends in a great measure upon the speed
and endurance of his horse, takes advantage of every circumstance
which will favor either the one or the other. To this end he divests
himself of all superfluous dress and ornament when preparing for rapid
movements. The white man, if he hopes for success, must adopt the
same rule of action, and encumber his horse as little as possible.
Something besides well-filled mess chests and carefully rolled
blankets is necessary in preparing for an Indian campaign. Arms must
be reëxamined, cartridge-boxes refilled, so that each man should carry
about one hundred rounds of ammunition “on his person,” while each
troop commander must see that in the company wagon there are placed
a few boxes of reserve ammunition. Then, when the equipment of the
soldier has been attended to, his horse, without whose assistance
he is helpless, must be looked after; loose shoes are tightened by
the driving of an additional nail, and to accomplish this one may
see the company blacksmith, a soldier, with the few simple tools of
his kit on the ground beside him, hurriedly fastening the last shoe
by the uncertain light of a candle held in the hands of the rider of
the horse, their mutual labor being varied at times by queries as to
“How long shall we be gone?” “I wonder if we will catch Mr. Lo?” “If
we do, we’ll make it lively for him.” So energetic had everybody been
that before daylight everything was in readiness for the start. In
addition to the regularly organized companies of soldiers which made
up the pursuing column, I had with me a detachment of white scouts
or Plainsmen, and one of friendly Indians, the latter belonging to
the tribe of Delawares, once so famous in Indian wars. Of the Indians
one only could speak English; he acted as interpreter for the party.
Among the white scouts were numbered some of the most noted of their
class. The most prominent man among them was “Wild Bill,” whose highly
varied career was made the subject of an illustrated sketch in one
of the popular monthly periodicals a few years ago. “Wild Bill” was
a strange character, just the one which a novelist might gloat over.
He was a Plainsman in every sense of the word, yet unlike any other
of his class. In person he was about six feet one in height, straight
as the straightest of the warriors whose implacable foe he was;
broad shoulders, well-formed chest and limbs, and a face strikingly
handsome; a sharp, clear, blue eye, which stared you straight in
the face when in conversation; a finely-shaped nose, inclined to be
aquiline; a well-turned mouth, with lips partially concealed by a
handsome moustache. His hair and complexion were those of the perfect
blond. The former was worn in uncut ringlets falling carelessly over
his powerfully formed shoulders. Add to this figure a costume blending
the immaculate neatness of the dandy with the extravagant taste and
style of the frontiersman, and you have Wild Bill, then as now, the
most famous scout on the Plains. Whether on foot or on horseback, he
was one of the most perfect types of physical manhood I ever saw. Of
his courage there could be no question; it had been brought to the
test on too many occasions to admit of a doubt. His skill in the use
of the rifle and pistol was unerring; while his deportment was exactly
the opposite of what might be expected from a man of his surroundings.
It was entirely free from all bluster or bravado. He seldom spoke of
himself unless requested to do so. His conversation, strange to say,
never bordered either on the vulgar or blasphemous. His influence
among the frontiersmen was unbounded, his word was law; and many are
the personal quarrels and disturbances which he has checked among his
comrades by his simple announcement that “this has gone far enough,”
if need be followed by the ominous warning that when persisted in
or renewed the quarreller “must settle it with me.” “Wild Bill” is
anything but a quarrelsome man; yet no one but himself can enumerate
the many conflicts in which he has been engaged, and which have almost
invariably resulted in the death of his adversary. I have a personal
knowledge of at least half a dozen men whom he has at various times
killed, one of these being at the time a member of my command. Others
have been severely wounded, yet he always escapes unhurt. On the Plains
every man openly carries his belt with its invariable appendages,
knife and revolver, often two of the latter. Wild Bill always carried
two handsome ivory-handled revolvers of the large size; he was never
seen without them. Where this is the common custom, brawls or personal
difficulties are seldom if ever settled by blows. The quarrel is not
from a word to a blow, but from a word to the revolver, and he who
can draw and fire first is the best man. No civil law reaches him;
none is applied for. In fact there is no law recognized beyond the
frontier but that of “might makes right.” Should death result from the
quarrel, as it usually does, no coroner’s jury is impanelled to learn
the cause of death, and the survivor is not arrested. But instead of
these old-fashioned proceedings, a meeting of citizens takes place, the
survivor is _requested_ to be present when the circumstances of the
homicide are inquired into, and the unfailing verdict of “justifiable,”
“self-defence,” etc., is pronounced and the law stands vindicated. That
justice is often deprived of a victim there is not a doubt. Yet in all
of the many affairs of this kind in which “Wild Bill” has performed
a part, and which have come to my knowledge, there is not a single
instance in which the verdict of twelve fair-minded men would not be
pronounced in his favor. That the even tenor of his way continues to
be disturbed by little events of this description may be inferred
from an item which has been floating lately through the columns of
the press, and which states that “the funeral of ‘Jim Bludso,’ who
was killed the other day by ‘Wild Bill,’ took place to-day.” It then
adds: “The funeral expenses were borne by ‘Wild Bill.’” What could be
more thoughtful than this? Not only to send a fellow mortal out of the
world, but to pay the expenses of the transit.




THE PONY EXPRESS

MARK TWAIN

From “Roughing It.” Reprinted by permission of Harper and Brothers, New
York, and the Estate of Samuel L. Clemens.[23]


In a little while all interest was taken up in stretching our necks
and watching for the “pony-rider”--the fleet messenger who sped across
the continent from St. Joe to Sacramento, carrying letters nineteen
hundred miles in eight days! Think of that for perishable horse and
human flesh and blood to do! The pony-rider was usually a little bit
of a man, brimful of spirit and endurance. No matter what time of the
day or night his watch came on, and no matter whether it was winter or
summer, raining, snowing, hailing, or sleeting, or whether his “beat”
was a level straight road or a crazy trail over mountain crags and
precipices, or whether it led through peaceful regions or regions that
swarmed with hostile Indians, he must be always ready to leap into
the saddle and be off like the wind! There was no idling-time for a
pony-rider on duty. He rode fifty miles without stopping, by daylight,
moonlight, starlight, or through the blackness of darkness--just as
it happened. He rode a splendid horse that was born for a racer and
fed and lodged like a gentleman; kept him at his utmost speed for ten
miles, and then, as he came crashing up to the station where stood
two men holding fast a fresh, impatient steed, the transfer of rider
and mail-bag was made in the twinkling of an eye, and away flew the
eager pair and were out of sight before the spectator could get
hardly the ghost of a look. Both rider and horse went “flying light.”
The rider’s dress was thin, and fitted close; he wore a “roundabout,”
and a skull-cap, and tucked his pantaloons into his boot-tops like
a race-rider. He carried no arms--he carried nothing that was not
absolutely necessary, for even the postage on his literary freight
was worth _five dollars a letter_. He got but little frivolous
correspondence to carry--his bag had business letters in it, mostly.
His horse was stripped of all unnecessary weight, too. He wore a little
wafer of a racing-saddle, and no visible blanket. He wore light shoes,
or none at all. The little flat mail-pockets strapped under the rider’s
thighs would each hold about the bulk of a child’s primer. They held
many and many an important business chapter and newspaper letter, but
these were written on paper as airy and thin as gold-leaf, nearly, and
thus bulk and weight were economized. The stagecoach traveled about a
hundred to a hundred and twenty-five miles a day (twenty-four hours),
the pony-rider about two hundred and fifty. There were about eighty
pony-riders in the saddle all the time, night and day, stretching in
a long, scattering procession from the Missouri to California, forty
flying eastward, and forty toward the west, and among them making four
hundred gallant horses earn a stirring livelihood and see a deal of
scenery every single day in the year.

We had had a consuming desire, from the beginning, to see a pony-rider,
but somehow or other all that passed us and all that met us managed to
streak by in the night, and so we heard only a whiz and a hail, and the
swift phantom of the desert was gone before we could get our heads out
of the windows. But now we were expecting one along every moment, and
would see him in broad daylight. Presently the driver exclaims:

“HERE HE COMES!”

Every neck is stretched further, and every eye strained wider.
Away across the endless dead level of the prairie a black speck
appears against the sky, and it is plain that it moves. Well, I
should think so! In a second or two it becomes a horse and rider,
rising and falling, rising and falling--sweeping toward us nearer
and nearer--growing more and more distinct, more and more sharply
defined--nearer and still nearer, and the flutter of the hoofs comes
faintly to the ear--another instant a whoop and a hurrah from our upper
deck, a wave of the rider’s hand, but no reply, and man and horse burst
past our excited faces, and go winging away like a belated fragment of
a storm!

So sudden is it all, and so like a flash of unreal fancy, that but for
the flake of white foam left quivering and perishing on a mail-sack
after the vision had flashed by and disappeared, we might have doubted
whether we had seen any actual horse and man at all, maybe.

[Illustration: Man and horse burst past our excited faces, and go
winging away like a belated fragment of a storm! _Page 270._]




SLADE

From “Roughing It.” By Mark Twain.


There was much magic in that name, SLADE! Day or night, now, I stood
always ready to drop any subject in hand, to listen to something new
about Slade and his ghastly exploits. Even before we got to Overland
City, we had begun to hear about Slade and his “division” (for he
was a “division-agent”) on the Overland; and from the hour we had
left Overland City we had heard drivers and conductors talk about
only three things--“Californy,” the Nevada silver mines, and this
desperado Slade. And a deal the most of the talk was about Slade. We
had gradually come to have a realizing sense of the fact that Slade
was a man whose heart and hands and soul were steeped in the blood
of the offenders against his dignity; a man who awfully avenged all
injuries, affronts, insults or slights, of whatever kind--on the spot
if he could, years afterward if lack of earlier opportunity compelled
it; a man whose hate tortured him day and night till vengeance appeased
it--and not an ordinary vengeance either, but his enemy’s absolute
death--nothing less; a man whose face would light up with a terrible
joy when he surprised a foe and had him at a disadvantage. A high and
efficient servant of the Overland, an outlaw among outlaws and yet
their relentless scourge, Slade was at once the most bloody, the most
dangerous, and the most valuable citizen that inhabited the savage
fastnesses of the mountains.

Really and truly, two-thirds of the talk of drivers and conductors
had been about this man Slade, ever since the day before we reached
Julesburg. In order that the Eastern reader may have a clear conception
of what a Rocky Mountain desperado is, in his highest state of
development, I will reduce all this mass of overland gossip to one
straightforward narrative, and present it in the following shape:

Slade was born in Illinois, of good parentage. At about twenty-six
years of age he killed a man in a quarrel and fled the country. At St.
Joseph, Missouri, he joined one of the early California-bound emigrant
trains, and was given the post of trainmaster. One day on the plains he
had an angry dispute with one of his wagon-drivers, and both drew their
revolvers. But the driver was the quicker artist, and had his weapon
cocked first. So Slade said it was a pity to waste life on so small a
matter, and proposed that the pistols be thrown on the ground and the
quarrel settled by a fist-fight. The unsuspecting driver agreed, and
threw down his pistol--whereupon Slade laughed at his simplicity, and
shot him dead!

He made his escape, and lived a wild life for awhile, dividing his time
between fighting Indians and avoiding an Illinois Sheriff, who had
been sent to arrest him for his first murder. It is said that in one
Indian battle he killed three savages with his own hand, and afterward
cut their ears off and sent them, with his compliments, to the chief of
the tribe.

Slade soon gained a name for fearless resolution, and this was
sufficient merit to procure for him the important post of overland
division-agent at Julesburg, in place of Mr. Jules, removed. For some
time previously, the company’s horses had been frequently stolen, and
the coaches delayed, by gangs of outlaws, who were wont to laugh at the
idea of any man’s having the temerity to resent such outrages. Slade
resented them promptly. The outlaws soon found that the new agent was
a man who did not fear anything that breathed the breath of life. He
made short work of all offenders. The result was that delays ceased,
the company’s property was let alone, and, no matter what happened
or who suffered, Slade’s coaches went through, every time! True, in
order to bring about this wholesome change, Slade had to kill several
men--some say three, others say four, and others six--but the world was
the richer for their loss. The first prominent difficulty he had was
with the ex-agent Jules, who bore the reputation of being a reckless
and desperate man himself. Jules hated Slade for supplanting him, and
a good fair occasion for a fight was all he was waiting for. By-and-by
Slade dared to employ a man whom Jules had once discharged. Next, Slade
seized a team of stage-horses which he accused Jules of having driven
off and hidden somewhere for his own use. War was declared, and for a
day or two the two men walked warily about the streets, seeking each
other, Jules armed with a double-barreled shotgun, and Slade with his
history-creating revolver. Finally, as Slade stepped into a store,
Jules poured the contents of his gun into him from behind the door.
Slade was pluck, and Jules got several bad pistol wounds in return.
Then both men fell, and were carried to their respective lodgings,
both swearing that better aim should do deadlier work next time. Both
were bed-ridden a long time, but Jules got on his feet first, and
gathering his possessions together, packed them on a couple of mules,
and fled to the Rocky Mountains to gather strength in safety against
the day of reckoning. For many months he was not seen or heard of, and
was gradually dropped out of the remembrance of all save Slade himself.
But Slade was not the man to forget him. On the contrary, common report
said that Slade kept a reward standing for his capture, dead or alive!

After awhile, seeing that Slade’s energetic administration had restored
peace and order to one of the worst divisions of the road, the Overland
Stage Company transferred him to the Rocky Ridge division in the Rocky
Mountains, to see if he could perform a like miracle there. It was
the very paradise of outlaws and desperadoes. There was absolutely
no semblance of law there. Violence was the rule. Force was the only
recognized authority. The commonest misunderstandings were settled on
the spot with the revolver or the knife. Murders were done in open
day, and with sparkling frequency, and nobody thought of inquiring
into them. It was considered that the parties who did the killing
had their private reasons for it; for other people to meddle would
have been looked upon as indelicate. After a murder, all the Rocky
Mountain etiquette required of a spectator was, that he should help
the gentleman bury his game--otherwise his churlishness would surely
be remembered against him the first time he killed a man himself and
needed a neighborly turn in interring him.

Slade took up his residence sweetly and peacefully in the midst of this
hive of horse-thieves and assassins, and the very first time one of
them aired his insolent swaggerings in his presence he shot him dead!
He began a raid on the outlaws, and in a singularly short space of
time he had completely stopped their depredations on the stage stock,
recovered a large number of stolen horses, killed several of the worst
desperadoes of the district, and gained such a dread ascendency over
the rest that they respected him, admired him, feared him, obeyed him!
He wrought the same marvelous change in the ways of the community that
had marked his administration at Overland City. He captured two men
who had stolen Overland stock, and with his own hands he hanged them.
He was supreme judge in his district, and he was jury and executioner
likewise--and not only in the case of offenses against his employers,
but against passing emigrants as well. On one occasion some emigrants
had their stock lost or stolen, and told Slade, who chanced to visit
their camp. With a single companion he rode to a ranch, the owners of
which he suspected, and, opening the door, commenced firing, killing
three, and wounding the fourth.

From a bloodthirstily interesting little Montana book[24] I take this
paragraph:

  While on the road, Slade held absolute sway. He would ride down to
  a station, get into a quarrel, turn the house out of windows, and
  maltreat the occupants most cruelly. The unfortunates had no means
  of redress, and were compelled to recuperate as best they could. On
  one of these occasions, it is said he killed the father of the fine
  little half-breed boy Jemmy, whom he adopted, and who lived with his
  widow after his execution. Stories of Slade’s hanging men, and of
  innumerable assaults, shootings, stabbings, and beatings, in which he
  was a principal actor, form part of the legends of the stage line.
  As for minor quarrels and shootings, it is absolutely certain that
  a minute history of Slade’s life would be one long record of such
  practices.

Slade was a matchless marksman with a navy revolver. The legends say
that one morning at Rocky Ridge, when he was feeling comfortable, he
saw a man approaching who had offended him some days before--observe
the fine memory he had for matters like that--and, “Gentlemen,” said
Slade, drawing, “it is a good twenty-yard shot--I’ll clip the third
button on his coat!” Which he did. The bystanders all admired it. And
they all attended the funeral, too.

On one occasion a man who kept a little whisky-shelf at the station
did something which angered Slade--and went and made his will. A day
or two afterward Slade came in and called for some brandy. The man
reached under the counter (ostensibly to get a bottle--possibly to
get something else), but Slade smiled upon him that peculiarly bland
and satisfied smile of his which the neighbors had long ago learned
to recognize as a death warrant in disguise, and told him to “none of
that!--pass out the high-priced article.” So the poor barkeeper had to
turn his back and get the high-priced brandy from the shelf; and when
he faced around again he was looking into the muzzle of Slade’s pistol.
“And the next instant,” added my informant, impressively, “he was one
of the deadest men that ever lived.”

The stage-drivers and conductors told us that sometimes Slade would
leave a hated enemy wholly unmolested, unnoticed and unmentioned,
for weeks together--had done it once or twice, at any rate. And
some said they believed he did it in order to lull the victims into
unwatchfulness, so that he could get the advantage of them, and
others said they believed he saved up on enemy that way, just as a
schoolboy saved up a cake, and made the pleasure go as far as it would
by gloating over the anticipation. One of these cases was that of a
Frenchman who had offended Slade. To the surprise of everybody Slade
did not kill him on the spot, but let him alone for a considerable
time. Finally, however, he went to the Frenchman’s house very late
one night, knocked, and when his enemy opened the door, shot him
dead--pushed the corpse inside the door with his foot, set the house on
fire and burned up the dead man, his widow and three children! I heard
this story from several different people, and they evidently believed
what they were saying. It may be true, and it may not. “Give a dog a
bad name,” etc.

Slade was captured once, by a party of men who intended to lynch him.
They disarmed him, and shut him up in a strong log-house, and placed a
guard over him. He prevailed upon his captors to send for his wife, so
that he might have a last interview with her. She was a brave, loving,
spirited woman. She jumped on a horse and rode for life and death. When
she arrived they let her in without searching her, and before the door
could be closed she whipped out a couple of revolvers, and she and her
lord marched forth defying the party. And then, under a brisk fire,
they mounted double and galloped away unharmed!

In the fullness of time Slade’s myrmidons captured his ancient enemy,
Jules, whom they found in a well-chosen hiding-place in the remote
fastnesses of the mountains, gaining a precarious livelihood with
his rifle. They brought him to Rocky Ridge, bound hand and foot, and
deposited him in the middle of the cattle-yard with his back against a
post. It was said that the pleasure that lit Slade’s face when he heard
of it was something fearful to contemplate. He examined his enemy to
see that he was securely tied and then went to bed, content to wait
till morning before enjoying the luxury of killing him. Jules spent
the night in the cattle-yard, and it is a region where warm nights are
never known. In the morning Slade practised on him with his revolver,
nipping the flesh here and there, and occasionally clipping off a
finger, while Jules begged him to kill him outright and put him out of
his misery. Finally Slade reloaded, and walking up close to his victim,
made some characteristic remarks and then dispatched him. The body lay
there half a day, nobody venturing to touch it without orders, and then
Slade detailed a party and assisted at the burial himself. But he first
cut off the dead man’s ears and put them in his vest pocket, where he
carried them for some time with great satisfaction. That is the story
as I have frequently heard it told and seen it in print in California
newspapers. It is doubtless correct in all essential particulars.

In due time we rattled up to a stage-station, and sat down to
breakfast with a half-savage, half-civilized company of armed and
bearded mountaineers, ranchmen and station employés. The most
gentlemanly-appearing, quiet, and affable officer we had yet found
along the road in the Overland Company’s service was the person who sat
at the head of the table, at my elbow. Never youth stared and shivered
as I did when I heard them call him SLADE!

Here was romance, and I sitting face to face with it!--looking upon
it--touching it--hobnobbing with it, as it were! Here, right by my
side, was the actual ogre who, in fights and brawls and various ways,
_had taken the lives of twenty-six human beings_, or all men lied about
him! I suppose I was the proudest stripling that ever traveled to see
strange lands and wonderful people.

He was so friendly and so gentle-spoken that I warmed to him in
spite of his awful history. It was hardly possible to realize that
this pleasant person was the pitiless scourge of the outlaws, the
raw-head-and-bloody-bones the nursing mothers of the mountains
terrified their children with. And to this day I can remember nothing
remarkable about Slade except that his face was rather broad across the
cheek bones, and that the cheek bones were low and the lips peculiarly
thin and straight. But that was enough to leave something of an
effect upon me, for since then I seldom see a face possessing these
characteristics without fancying that the owner of it is a dangerous
man.

The coffee ran out. At least it was reduced to one tin-cupful, and
Slade was about to take it when he saw that my cup was empty. He
politely offered to fill it, but although I wanted it, I politely
declined. I was afraid he had not killed anybody that morning,
and might be needing diversion. But still with firm politeness he
insisted on filling my cup, and said I had traveled all night and
better deserved it than he--and while he talked he placidly poured
the fluid, to the last drop. I thanked him and drank it, but it gave
me no comfort, for I could not feel sure that he would not be sorry,
presently, that he had given it away, and proceed to kill me to
distract his thoughts from the loss. But nothing of the kind occurred.
We left him with only twenty-six dead people to account for, and I felt
a tranquil satisfaction in the thought that in so judiciously taking
care of No. 1 at that breakfast-table I had pleasantly escaped being
No. 27. Slade came out to the coach and saw us off, first ordering
certain rearrangements of the mail-bags for our comfort, and then we
took leave of him, satisfied that we should hear of him again, some
day, and wondering in what connection.

       *       *       *       *       *

And sure enough, two or three years afterward, we did hear of him
again. News came to the Pacific coast that the Vigilance Committee in
Montana (whither Slade had removed from Rocky Ridge) had hanged him.
I find an account of the affair in the thrilling little book from
which I have already quoted a paragraph--“The Vigilantes of Montana;
being a Reliable Account of the Capture, Trial and Execution of Henry
Plummer’s Notorious Road Agent Band: By Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale,
Virginia City, N. T.” Mr. Dimsdale’s chapter is well worth reading, as
a specimen of how the people of the frontier deal with criminals when
the courts of law prove inefficient. Mr. Dimsdale makes two remarks
about Slade, both of which are accurately descriptive, and one of which
is exceedingly picturesque: “Those who saw him in his natural state
only, would pronounce him to be a kind husband, a most hospitable host,
and a courteous gentleman; on the contrary, those who met him when
maddened with liquor and surrounded by a gang of armed roughs, would
pronounce him a fiend incarnate.” And this: “From Fort Kearney, west,
he was feared _a great deal more than the Almighty_.” For compactness,
simplicity, and vigor of expression, I will “back” that sentence
against anything in literature. Mr. Dimsdale’s narrative is as follows.
In all places where italics occur they are mine:

  After the execution of the five men on the 14th of January, the
  Vigilantes considered that their work was nearly ended. They had
  freed the country of highwaymen and murderers to a great extent, and
  they determined that in the absence of the regular civil authority
  they would establish a People’s Court where all offenders should be
  tried by judge and jury. This was the nearest approach to social
  order that the circumstances permitted, and, though strict legal
  authority was wanting, yet the people were firmly determined to
  maintain its efficiency, and to enforce its decrees. It may here be
  mentioned that the overt act which was the last round on the fatal
  ladder leading to the scaffold on which Slade perished, _was the
  tearing in pieces and stamping upon a writ of this court, followed
  by his arrest of the Judge, Alex. Davis, by authority of a presented
  Derringer, and with his own hands_.

  J. A. Slade was himself, we have been informed, a Vigilante; he
  openly boasted of it, and said he knew all that they knew. He was
  never accused, or even suspected, of either murder or robbery,
  committed in this Territory (the latter crime was never laid to his
  charge, in any place); but that he had killed several men in other
  localities was notorious, and his bad reputation in this respect
  was a most powerful argument in determining his fate, when he was
  finally arrested for the offense above mentioned. On returning from
  Milk River he became more and more addicted to drinking, until at
  last it was a common feat for him and his friends to “take the
  town.” He and a couple of his dependents might often be seen on one
  horse, galloping through the streets, shouting and yelling, firing
  revolvers, etc. On many occasions he would ride his horse into
  stores, break up bars, toss the scales out of doors, and use most
  insulting language to parties present. Just previous to the day of
  his arrest, he had given a fearful beating to one of his followers;
  but such was his influence over them that the man wept bitterly at
  the gallows, and begged for his life with all his power. _It had
  become quite common, when Slade was on a spree, for the shopkeepers
  and citizens to close the stores and put out all the lights_; being
  fearful of some outrage at his hands. For his wanton destruction of
  goods and furniture, he was always ready to pay, when sober, if he
  had money; but there were not a few who regarded payment as small
  satisfaction for the outrage, and these men were his personal enemies.

  From time to time Slade received warnings from men that he well knew
  would not deceive him, of the certain end of his conduct. There was
  not a moment, for weeks previous to his arrest, in which the public
  did not expect to hear of some bloody outrage. The dread of his very
  name, and the presence of the armed band of hangers-on who followed
  him alone prevented a resistance which must certainly have ended in
  the instant murder or mutilation of the opposing party.

  Slade was frequently arrested by order of the court whose
  organization we have described, and had treated it with respect
  by paying one or two fines and promising to pay the rest when he
  had money; but in the transaction that occurred at this crisis, he
  forgot even this caution, and, goaded by passion and the hatred of
  restraint, he sprang into the embrace of death.

  Slade had been drunk and “cutting-up” all night. He and his
  companions had made the town a perfect hell. In the morning, J. M.
  Fox, the sheriff, met him, arrested him, took him into court and
  commenced reading a warrant that he had for his arrest, by way of
  arraignment. He became uncontrollably furious, and _seizing the
  writ, he tore it up, threw it on the ground and stamped upon it_.
  The clicking of the locks of his companions’ revolvers was instantly
  heard, and a crisis was expected. The sheriff did not attempt
  his retention; but being at least as prudent as he was valiant,
  he succumbed, leaving Slade the _master of the situation and the
  conqueror and ruler of the courts, law, and law-makers_. This was a
  declaration of war, and was so accepted. The Vigilance Committee now
  felt that the question of social order and the preponderance of the
  law-abiding citizens had then and there to be decided. They knew the
  character of Slade, and they were well aware that they must submit to
  his rule without murmur, or else that he must be dealt with in such
  fashion as would prevent his being able to wreak his vengeance on
  the committee, who could never have hoped to live in the Territory
  secure from outrage or death, and who could never leave it without
  encountering his friends, whom his victory would have emboldened
  and stimulated to a pitch that would have rendered them reckless of
  consequences. The day previous he had ridden into Doris’s store, and,
  on being requested to leave, he drew his revolver and threatened to
  kill the gentleman who spoke to him. Another saloon he had led his
  horse into, and, buying a bottle of wine, he tried to make the animal
  drink it. This was not considered an uncommon performance, as he had
  often entered saloons and commenced firing at the lamps, causing a
  wild stampede.

  A leading member of the committee met Slade, and informed him in the
  quiet, earnest manner of one who feels the importance of what he is
  saying: “Slade, get your horse at once, and go home, or there will
  be ---- to pay.” Slade started and took a long look, with his dark
  and piercing eyes, at the gentleman. “What do you mean?” said he.
  “You have no right to ask what I mean,” was the quiet reply, “get
  your horse at once, and remember what I tell you.” After a short
  pause he promised to do so, and actually got into the saddle; but,
  being still intoxicated, he began calling aloud to one after another
  of his friends, and at last seemed to have forgotten the warning
  he had received and became again uproarious, shouting the name of
  a well-known courtezan in company with those of two men whom he
  considered heads of the committee, as a sort of challenge; perhaps,
  however, as a simple act of bravado. It seems probable that the
  intimation of personal danger he had received had not been forgotten
  entirely; though, fatally for him, he took a foolish way of showing
  his remembrance of it. He sought out Alexander Davis, the Judge of
  the Court, and, drawing a cocked Derringer, he presented it at his
  head, and told him that he should hold him as a hostage for his own
  safety. As the judge stood perfectly quiet, and offered no resistance
  to his captor, no further outrage followed on this score. Previous
  to this, on account of the critical state of affairs, the committee
  had met, and at last resolved to arrest him. His execution had not
  been agreed upon, and, at that time, would have been negatived, most
  assuredly. A messenger rode down to Nevada to inform the leading men
  of what was on hand, as it was desirable to show that there was a
  feeling of unanimity on the subject, all along the gulch.

  The miners turned out almost _en masse_, leaving their work and
  forming in solid column, about six hundred strong, armed to the
  teeth, they marched up to Virginia. The leader of the body well knew
  the temper of his men on the subject. He spurred on ahead of them,
  and, hastily calling a meeting of the executive, he told them plainly
  that the miners meant “business,” and that, if they came up, they
  would not stand in the street to be shot down by Slade’s friends; but
  that they would take him and hang him. The meeting was small, as the
  Virginia men were loath to act at all. This momentous announcement of
  the feeling of the Lower Town was made to a cluster of men, who were
  deliberating behind a wagon, at the rear of a store on Main street.

  The committee were most unwilling to proceed to extremities. All the
  duty they had ever performed seemed as nothing to the task before
  them; but they had to decide, and that quickly. It was finally agreed
  that if the whole body of the miners were of the opinion that he
  should be hanged, that the committee left it in their hands to deal
  with him. Off, at hot speed, rode the leader of the Nevada men to
  join his command.

  Slade had found out what was intended, and the news sobered him
  instantly. He went into P. S. Pfouts’ store, where Davis was, and
  apologized for his conduct, saying that he would take it all back.

  The head of the column now wheeled into Wallace street and marched up
  at quick time. Halting in front of the store, the executive officer
  of the committee stepped forward and arrested Slade, who was at once
  informed of his doom, and inquiry was made as to whether he had any
  business to settle. Several parties spoke to him on the subject;
  but to all such inquiries he turned a deaf ear, being entirely
  absorbed in the terrifying reflections on his own awful position. He
  never ceased his entreaties for life, and to see his dear wife. The
  unfortunate lady referred to, between whom and Slade there existed
  a warm affection, was at this time living at their ranch on the
  Madison. She was possessed of considerable personal attractions;
  tall, well-formed, of graceful carriage, pleasing manners, and was,
  withal, an accomplished horsewoman.

  A messenger from Slade rode at full speed to inform her of her
  husband’s arrest. In an instant she was in the saddle, and with all
  the energy that love and despair could lend to an ardent temperament
  and a strong physique, she urged her fleet charger over the twelve
  miles of rough and rocky ground that intervened between her and the
  object of her passionate devotion.

  Meanwhile, a party of volunteers had made the necessary preparations
  for the execution, in the valley traversed by the branch. Beneath the
  site of Pfouts and Russell’s stone building there was a corral, the
  gate-posts of which were strong and high. Across the top was laid
  a beam, to which the rope was fastened, and a dry-goods box served
  for the platform. To this place Slade was marched, surrounded by a
  guard, composing the best armed and most numerous force that has ever
  appeared in Montana Territory.

  The doomed man had so exhausted himself by tears, prayers, and
  lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left to stand under the
  fatal beam. He repeatedly exclaimed, “My God! my God! must I die? Oh,
  my dear wife!”

  On the return of the fatigue party, they encountered some friends of
  Slade, staunch and reliable citizens and members of the committee,
  but who were personally attached to the condemned. On hearing of
  his sentence, one of them, a stout-hearted man, pulled out his
  handkerchief and walked away, weeping like a child. Slade still
  begged to see his wife, most piteously, and it seemed hard to deny
  his request; but the bloody consequences that were sure to follow
  the inevitable attempt at a rescue, that her presence and entreaties
  would have certainly incited, forbade the granting of his request.
  Several gentlemen were sent for to see him, in his last moments, one
  of whom (Judge Davis) made a short address to the people; but in
  such low tones as to be inaudible, save to a few in his immediate
  vicinity. One of his friends, after exhausting his powers of
  entreaty, threw off his coat and declared that the prisoner could not
  be hanged until he himself was killed. A hundred guns were instantly
  leveled at him; whereupon he turned and fled; but, being brought
  back, he was compelled to resume his coat, and to give a promise of
  future peaceable demeanor.

  Scarcely a leading man in Virginia could be found, though numbers of
  the citizens joined the ranks of the guard when the arrest was made.
  All lamented the stern necessity which dictated the execution.

  Everything being ready, the command was given, “Men, do your duty,”
  and the box being instantly slipped from beneath his feet, he died
  almost instantaneously.

  The body was cut down and carried to the Virginia Hotel, where, in
  a darkened room, it was scarcely laid out, when the unfortunate
  and bereaved companion of the deceased arrived, at headlong speed,
  to find that all was over, and that she was a widow. Her grief and
  heart-piercing cries were terrible evidences of the depth of her
  attachment for her lost husband, and a considerable period elapsed
  before she could regain the command of her excited feelings.

There is something about the desperado-nature that is wholly
unaccountable--at least it looks unaccountable. It is this. The true
desperado is gifted with splendid courage, and yet he will take the
most infamous advantage of his enemy; armed and free, he will stand up
before a host and fight until he is shot all to pieces, and yet when he
is under the gallows and helpless he will cry and plead like a child.
Words are cheap, and it is easy to call Slade a coward (all executed
men who do not “die game” are promptly called cowards by unreflecting
people), and when we read of Slade that he “had so exhausted himself by
tears, prayers, and lamentations, that he had scarcely strength left
to stand under the fatal beam,” the disgraceful word suggests itself
in a moment--yet in frequently defying and inviting the vengeance of
banded Rocky Mountain cut-throats by shooting down their comrades and
leaders, and never offering to hide or fly, Slade showed that he was a
man of peerless bravery. No coward would dare that. Many a notorious
coward, many a chicken-livered poltroon, coarse, brutal, degraded, has
made his dying speech without a quaver in his voice and been swung into
eternity with what looked like the calmest fortitude, and so we are
justified in believing, from the low intellect of such a creature, that
it was not _moral_ courage that enabled him to do it. Then, if moral
courage is not the requisite quality, what could it have been that this
stout-hearted Slade lacked?--this bloody, desperate, kindly-mannered,
urbane gentleman, who never hesitated to warn his most ruffianly
enemies that he would kill them whenever or wherever he came across
them next! I think it is a conundrum worth investigating.




GENERAL SHERIDAN HUNTS THE BUFFALO

DE B. R. KEIM

From “On the Border with Sheridan’s Troopers.” Reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Claxton, Remsen & Heffinger,
Philadelphia.[25]


To relieve the monotony of inactivity the Commanding General, much to
the pleasure of a number of the officers of the staff and garrison at
Fort Hays, proposed a “genuine” buffalo-hunt. The diversion was also in
part out of compliment to Captain Merryman, of the U. S. revenue cutter
M’Culloch, then on a visit to headquarters. A bright day in October was
fixed for the sport. Accordingly at an early hour the horses were sent
to the railroad and put on the cars. Leaving Hays City we ran up the
track, a distance of thirty miles. Here, by means of a gangplank, the
horses were led out of the cars and saddled by the orderlies. Leaving
the guard the General had brought with him to protect the train, we
mounted and “lit out,” as rapid locomotion is called in that locality.
Each person wore a brace of pistols for close work, and, carried a
breech-loading rifle to use at greater distance.

After a lively gallop of several miles, passing within the cordon of
watchful sentinels, always found on the outskirts, we struck a herd
numbering several thousand animals. Our approach had already been
signalled and the herd was moving off at a rapid pace. There was no
time to lose. Each one of the party singled out his animal, and putting
spurs to his horse dashed after, striving to get abreast his game at
a distance of a few paces, in order to deliver his fire. The General
led off in the charge followed by Merryman, who, accustomed to salt
water navigation, swayed from side to side. He, however, maintained a
vigorous hold upon the pummel of the saddle, bounded into the air and
returned emphatically, but not always gracefully, into his saddle with
every leap of his horse. The General, after considerable manœuvering,
managed to separate a fine cow from her companions. The chase was quite
spirited for several hundred yards, but a well directed shot under the
shoulder, which very summarily suspended the powers of locomotion on
the part of the buffalo, put a termination to the race. Several of the
party soon became busily engaged on their own account in the exciting
sport. One young bull, of irate temper, finding himself selected as a
target, undertook to show fight and turned upon his pursuer. For some
minutes the characters were reversed, and, judging from appearances, it
might have been supposed that the buffalo was the hunter. In the course
of an hour five animals were killed. Most of the horses, however,
were perfectly “green,” and consequently no use whatever, except to
follow, giving the rider an opportunity to witness the sport without
participating in it.

There is something majestic and formidable in the appearance of a
buffalo. It is therefore not surprising that but few horses will
readily approach sufficiently near to enable the hunter to make a
close shot. Some horses rebel, notwithstanding every effort to allay
their alarm. Others, by a proper course of training, carry their
riders, without any direction, into just the position desirable. Such
an animal is a treasure in the esteem of a plainsman. He talks about
his “buffalo horse” with more pride than he would of himself, had he
accomplished a feat ever so wonderful. It was interesting to watch the
movements of the trained horse. He approached the buffalo rapidly but
cautiously. His eyes were steadily fixed upon the animal and watched
every motion. Should the buffalo expedite his pace, the horse did
likewise, regulating his increased rate of speed so as to get alongside
without unnecessarily alarming the animal. As the horse came abreast,
the buffalo naturally swayed his course away to the right or left. This
was the dangerous part of the chase. Should the buffalo after moving
away, the horse following, turn suddenly, a collision would be almost
certain. This the horse seemed to know so perfectly that he changed
direction on a long turn. After firing, should the animal fall, the
horse kept up his speed, described a circle bringing him back to the
carcass of the dead or wounded buffalo.

Timid horses and awkward riders run great risks of their lives by not
knowing how to avoid any hostile demonstrations on the part of the
buffalo. The latter has the advantage, and by not keeping a close
watch, fatal results are sure to occur. An old hunter, mounted on a
“buffalo horse,” in every sense of the term, dashing fearlessly across
the plain in pursuit of this truly magnificent game, presents a picture
the very culmination of manly sport.

During our own attempts to make a fair show of knowledge of the
subject, there were several very narrow escapes as regarded personal
safety. Two of our party being in pursuit of the same animal, there was
quite a competition as to who would get the first shot. The rider in
the rear, in the excitement had his pistol go off out of time. The ball
passed within a very few inches of the front rider’s head. Both were
alarmed, and the race terminated by the one apologizing, and the other
feeling around to see whether he had been hurt.

While our own sport was going on, two Mexicans with us, were to be seen
in the very midst of the herd following up the younger animals. Each
rider had his lariat, holding the coil in one hand and with the other
swinging the loop above his head in order to get the proper momentum.
It was short work. At the first attempt, each man had his noose over
the head of a fine yearling. The horses gradually slackened their gait,
while the terrified buffaloes made every effort to escape. One of the
lariats, unfortunately, parted and off went the animal with it dangling
at his heels. The other calf was secured and sent to the train.

After several hours occupied in the exciting amusement of the chase, we
returned to the cars. The horses, much blown, were unsaddled and put
aboard. A party of soldiers were sent out to bring in the meat.

On our homeward journey a fine herd of antelopes was discovered ahead,
close to the track. By a little skillful calculation of time, distance,
and velocity, the engineer brought us within three hundred yards. A
perfect fusilade was opened out of the car windows, during which one of
the beautiful little animals was seen to fall. The train stopped and
the “meat” was brought in. This terminated the day’s sport. At nine
o’clock in the evening we reached Fort Hays.

I may, in this connection, make a few passing notes upon the resorts
and habits of the American bison or buffalo, as he is popularly
designated. With the savage nomad, he constitutes the actual and
aboriginal occupant of the plains. The movements of the immense
herds of buffaloes regulate the locations of the savage tribes. They
constitute the commissariat of the Indian, and govern frequently his
ability for war or control his desire for peace. Prior to the opening
of the country to the settler, the buffalo roamed over the entire
territory from the Missouri river to the Rocky mountains, and from
the plains of western Texas to the head-waters of the Missouri in the
north. To-day the buffalo is rarely seen south of the Red river, or
within two hundred miles of the Missouri, at Kansas City. In numbers
he is evidently rapidly diminishing, though the countless herds found
during the summer along the railroads, would seem to indicate that the
race is far from running out.

The buffalo is migratory in his habits and subject to two influences in
his movements, the seasons, and the abundance or scarcity of pasturage.
The migrations of the herds appear to be simultaneous. I have seen herd
after herd stretching over a distance of eighty miles, all tending in
the same direction. During the early spring months they are generally
to be found in the regions south of the Canadian, as far as the Red.
Here the winters are short and the grass shoots early. As the pasturage
makes its appearance towards the north, the herds follow, moving across
the Cimmaron, the Arkansas, the Smoky Hill, the Republican, and beyond
the Platte. Cases frequently occur where small herds becoming detached
from the main bodies, and particularly the old bulls and cows unable to
travel, remain north of the Platte, and manage to eke out an existence
through the coldest winters. Other small herds are found in different
localities far south during the summer. These exceptions, to the
general rule of their habits, are always the result of causes, such as
inability to follow the main herd, or being detached and driven back.

In all his habits the buffalo displays an instinctive sense of
organization and discipline which alone could accomplish the wise
provisions of nature in subsisting such enormous masses of animal life.
Not only does the great herd, as a mass, preserve a remarkable concert
of action “on the move,” but it is subdivided into smaller herds, which
seem to be composed of animals having peculiar affinities. These small
herds have each their leader, always a fine young or middle-aged bull,
whose fighting qualities had won for him the ascendency over all other
male competitors. In the black mass presented by the great herd a
space, sometimes as limited as a hundred yards, can always be detected
between the sub-divisions. Each herd always preserves its relative
position to the others, and, in case of alarm, takes flight in a single
mass. It also preserves the same relation in galloping to water.

As a precaution against surprise, each herd has its videttes, through
which the alarm is given upon the appearance of danger. Approaching a
herd, groups of buffaloes in fours and fives are first seen. These,
taking the alarm, gallop towards the common centre. The ever-watchful
and suspicious young males immediately on the outer edge of the herd
receive the movements of the videttes as warnings. They sniff the
air, and with piercing vision scan the plain. If the cause of alarm
be discovered, the herd-leader, heading the way, sets out, followed
by the cows and calves, while the males form a sort of rear guard and
flankers. For the sake of protection, the females and the young occupy
the centre of the herd. By a wise instinct, the young are thus secured
from the ravenous wolf, and the natural timidity of the cow is guarded
against sudden or unnecessary alarm.

The evening is the usual time for the herds to set out for water. When
moving for this purpose, they may be seen in single file, following
their leaders, traveling at an ambling gait. Frequently they travel
eight or ten miles to the nearest stream or pond. The passage of large
numbers of buffalo in this way over the same ground soon marks out
a well-beaten track, resembling a foot-path, and known to hunters
as the “buffalo trail.” On the banks of the streams running through
the buffalo country these trails may be seen converging from all
directions, some faintly marked, while some are worn eight and ten
inches in depth. These trails not only follow the most direct course to
a given point, but always lead to water or a water-course. The traveler
on the plains is frequently obliged to take to the trail of the buffalo
in order to reach water. In many places the “buffalo wallow” furnishes
a supply of stagnant water which, though extremely unpalatable, has
often saved life. The buffalo wallow is a circular, dish-shaped, hole
in the earth, about twelve feet in diameter and a foot deep at its
greatest concavity. During the warm season, immense clouds of dust
are to be seen rising over a herd quietly grazing. Like other animals
of his species, the buffalo frequently amuses himself by wallowing in
the fine sand or plowing up the earth with his horns. The surface once
broken, the place becomes a common resort, until the wallow assumes the
shape above described. In the wet season, the rain fills up the wallow,
and, unless consumed, standing water is to be found there far into
summer.

Among the young buffalo bulls there seems to be a remarkable aspiration
to secure the leadership of the herd. This question of rank is annually
settled by a test of strength. Certain ambitious males set themselves
up as competitors. The first opportunity that offers is accepted.
The contests are stubborn and severe--frequently fatal. If the old
leader gets the upper hand, he is doubly a hero, and his claims to
pre-eminence are greater than ever. Next in rank to the herd-leader
are a number of young buffalo, courtiers and gallants, who have free
range of the herd so long as they do not come in contact with the
leader, or trespass upon his privileges. Between the young and the
old males there is an inveterate hostility. As the young grow in
ability to cope with the fathers of the herd, a regular conflict takes
place. If it terminates in favor of the former, the old buffaloes are
unceremoniously driven out. Thus banished from their associations when
strong and active, the old animals form a sort of hermit order on the
outskirts of the herds, where they constitute the outer guard. These
competitive encounters are constantly taking place. As one generation
of males succeeds another, those driven out can never return, but live
an exiled existence until age, the hunter’s bullet, disease, or the
ravenous wolf, finishes their days.

The females display, most remarkably, the attachments of maternity.
In one instance, I remember, our party shot and badly wounded a fine
calf about six months old. As the calf fell, the mother turned and
looked upon it with an expression of absolute grief. Her offspring made
repeated efforts to rise, but without avail. The mother, in perfect
despair, ran around her young, uttering low moans. As we approached,
the mother’s nature was entirely changed. She stamped upon the ground
as if to warn us to “keep off.” Although she made no direct attack, she
manifested a disposition to defend her young, which was only exceeded
by the shouts and firing, which seemed to terrify her. To put the calf
out of its suffering and relieve the distress of the mother, and insure
our own safety, both animals were dispatched.

Always in the vicinity of the buffalo herd the hunter encounters that
beautiful little animal, the antelope. Shy and timid, with an acute
scent and far-reaching vision, it is difficult of approach. An old
animal is killed now and then by a long-range rifle. Like other timid
animals, the antelope has a remarkable development of that too-often
fatal instinct, curiosity. By taking advantage of this failing, the
experienced hunter succeeds in taking the game. The usual means
resorted to is “still hunting.” A red flannel flag, fastened to a short
stick, is posted in a conspicuous place. The hunter then secretes
himself and waits for an opportunity. This is always a slow process;
but, with a proper degree of patience, if anywhere in the vicinity of
antelopes so that the flag can be seen, he is sure “to bring a haul.”

The wolves and the coyotes are the inveterate enemies of the antelope,
and continually waylay its path. The fleetness of the animal, however,
is its complete protection until weakened by age, or probably, it has
been crippled. In times of danger, if possible, the antelope takes
refuge within the lines of the nearest herd of buffaloes. Its excessive
fright at these times often causes whole herds of the mighty beasts to
take to their heels as if a battalion of hunters were on their tracks.

Probably one of the most perfect pictures of desertion and despair
is the aged and enfeebled buffalo. Driven first from the herd as if
it were a mortal offence to live beyond a certain period of summers,
or his inability to follow its movements, he is left alone to wander
feebly about, without companions, and an object of patient, sometimes
decidedly impatient, watchfulness on the part of the wolf. When the
buffalo has arrived at such an advanced age, he will be found near a
constant stream where grass grows in abundance. Isolated, shy in his
movements, and alarmed at the slightest indications of danger, he seems
to lose his customary boldness, and becomes an easily terrified and
suspicious animal. He loses his vigorous appearance, and literally
becomes worn down and decrepit. The timidity of age grows upon him, and
the solemn stillness and solitude which surrounds him is calculated
to increase rather than diminish this instinctive terror. Few of
these superannuated specimens come to a natural end. The starving
wolf and his diminutive companion the coyote, are ever ready to take
advantage of the first favorable opportunity of hastening the demise
of the object of their solicitude and observation. Under the goading
impulse of hunger, the wolf does not hesitate to attack any buffalo
who may have strayed from the herd. As if tired of waiting for the
natural course of the expiring fires of nature, his wolfship, with a
few comrades, begins a regular series of battles until his victim is
overpowered.

On one occasion while present with a small detachment of scouts, we
suddenly drew to the summit of a “divide.” In the valley below an old
buffalo, and a pack of seven large gray wolves, were evidently in the
act of engaging in a mortal fray. The old buffalo, as if realizing his
situation, stood with his head down and confronting the wolves. At
times he threw his head up and down, dropped out his blackened tongue,
and constantly uttered a low hoarse roar. We determined to witness
the conflict, which was evidently at hand. We halted and lariated our
animals. The buffalo, so much engrossed in his own safety, failed to
discover our presence, though not more than several hundred yards off.
The wolves saw us. This only sharpened their appetite, and seemed to
hasten their desire to secure the feast which they had before them. The
wolves were seated upon their haunches and formed a sort of semicircle
in front of the buffalo. They resembled so many wise men in council.
The buffalo stood a few paces off, very careful to keep his moppy head
towards his starving tormentors, and his hind-quarters in an opposite
direction, free from any demonstration in the rear. By way of response
to the fierce guttural effusions of the buffalo, the wolves at times
set up a mournful chorus. No sooner did the wolves see us than they
slyly deployed for action. Finding his rear thus in danger, the buffalo
made a dive at the nearest wolf, tumbling him over and over. During
this movement, however, the rest of the pack pounced upon the hind legs
of the buffalo, snarling and snapping, and tearing at his hams. Their
object, evidently, was to hamstring their antagonist. These attacks
in the rear diverted the attention of the buffalo from the hapless
victim of his first charge. The animal turned to attack in the opposite
direction, but his tormentors were once more at his vulnerable point.

The contest after these opening performances grew lively and exciting.
The buffalo evidently fully appreciated the situation, and the wolves
were not to be robbed of their meal. The hind-quarters of the buffalo
streamed with blood, and the animal showed signs of exhaustion. He did
not dare to lie down for that would be fatal. The wolves had three of
their number _hors du combat_. The noise of the contest had attracted
quite an audience of coyotes, and a few interloper wolves, sitting at
a distance, licking their chops, and impatiently awaiting the issue,
evidently expecting an invitation to participate in the feast. The
buffalo made several efforts at flight, but soon found that that was a
useless manœuvre. The battle test had been going on more than an hour,
and having no more time to devote to that sort of recreation, a well
directed volley laid out several of their wolfish excellencies. The
buffalo did not stop to thank us for our timely assistance, but took
the first moment of relief to hobble off. The animal was evidently
badly injured, and doubtless our interference was merely prolonging the
burden of life, now doubly an encumbrance.

A wolf feast over the carcass of a buffalo is one of those sharp-toned
entertainments, which could only be compared to an old-fashioned
tea-party, composed of snappish octogenarian, paralytic, and generally
debilitated characters of both sexes, with a fair sprinkle of shriveled
virginity, and a few used up celibates of the masculine gender. Each
one guzzling to his heart’s content, and growling, and finding fault
with his neighbor.

The construction of railroads has developed a new and extensive field
for pleasure seekers. The facilities of communication now opened with
that strange and remote section, the plains, and, at the same time,
the opportunity afforded of seeing the buffalo, that animal above all
others associated from our earliest years with everything wild and
daring, now invites visitors from all parts of the country. From the
cities of Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other less important
points during the autumn of 1868, excursions were made up at low rates
of fare.

The following announcement of an excursion I found at one of the
railroad stations. I give a copy of it as one of the peculiar and
progressive innovations made by the railways.

                RAILWAY EXCURSION
                      AND
                 BUFFALO HUNT.

  An excursion train will leave Leavenworth, at 8 a. m.
  and Lawrence, at 10 a. m. for

                   SHERIDAN,

  On Tuesday, October 27, 1868, and return on Friday.

  This train will stop at the principal stations both going
  and returning.

  Ample time will be had for a grand Buffalo

              HUNT ON THE PLAINS.

Buffaloes are so numerous along the road that they are shot from the
cars nearly every day. On our last excursion our party killed twenty
buffaloes in a hunt of six hours.

All passengers can have refreshments on the cars at reasonable prices.

Tickets of round trip from Leavenworth, $10.00.

The inducements, at these rates, to any one anxious to visit the
plains, and see a live buffalo, and perhaps a “live injun,” not so
acceptable at that time, were certainly very tempting, as the full
expense of the above trip, at the regular rate of fare, would not
have been short of seventy dollars. A quarter of a century hence, the
buffalo and the Indian will have entirely disappeared from the line of
the railways. The few that still survive will have then been driven
to the most remote, inaccessible, and uninhabitable sections, if not
entirely exterminated.




AT TUCSON

CAPT. JOHN G. BOURKE

1870

From “On the Border with Cook.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.[26]


It has been shown that Tucson had no hotels. She did not need any at
the time of which I am writing, as her floating population found all
the ease and comfort it desired in the flare and glare of the gambling
hells, which were bright with the lustre of smoking oil lamps and gay
with the varicolored raiment of moving crowds, and the music of harp
and Pan’s pipes. In them could be found nearly every man in the town
at some hour of the day or night, and many used them as the Romans did
their “Thermæ”--as a place of residence.

All nationalities, all races were represented, and nearly all
conditions of life. There were cadaverous-faced Americans, and
Americans whose faces were plump; men in shirt sleeves, and men who
wore their coats as they would have done in other places; there were
Mexicans wrapped in the red, yellow, and black striped cheap “serapes,”
smoking the inevitable cigarrito, made on the spot by rolling a pinch
of tobacco in a piece of corn shuck; and there were other Mexicans more
thoroughly Americanized, who were clad in the garb of the people of the
North. Of Chinese and negroes there were only a few--but their place
was occupied by civilized Indians, Opatas, Yaquis, and others, who had
come up with “bull” teams and pack trains from Sonora. The best of
order prevailed, there being no noise save the hum of conversation or
the click of the chips on the different tables. Tobacco-smoke ascended
from cigarritos, pipes, and the vilest of cigars, filling all the rooms
with the foulest of odors. The bright light from the lamps did not
equal the steely glint in the eyes of the “bankers,” who ceaselessly
and imperturbably dealt out the cards from faro boxes, or set in motion
the balls in roulette.

There used to be in great favor among the Mexicans, and the Americans,
too, for that matter, a modification of roulette called “chusas,” which
never failed to draw a cluster of earnest players, who would remain
by the tables until the first suggestion of daylight. High above the
squeak of Pan’s pipes or the plinkety-plink-plunk of the harps sounded
the voice of the “banker”: “Make yer little bets, gents; make yer
little bets; all’s set, the game’s made, ’n th’ ball’s a-rollin’.”
When, for any reason, the “game” flagged in energy, there would be
a tap upon the bell by the dealer’s side, and “drinks all round” be
ordered at the expense of the house.

It was a curious exhibit of one of the saddest passions of human
nature, and a curious jumble of types which would never press against
each other elsewhere. Over by the faro bank, in the corner, stood Bob
Crandall, a faithful wooer of the fickle goddess Chance. He was one
of the handsomest men in the Southwest, and really endowed with many
fine qualities; he had drifted away from the restraints of home life
years ago, and was then in Tucson making such a livelihood as he could
pick up as a gambler, wasting brain and attainments which, if better
applied, would have been a credit to himself and his country.

There was one poor wretch who could always be seen about the tables;
he never played, never talked to any one, and seemed to take no
particular interest in anything or anybody. What his name was no one
knew or cared; all treated him kindly, and anything he wished for was
supplied by the charity or the generosity of the frequenters of the
gaming-tables. He was a trifle “off,” but perfectly harmless; he had
lost all the brain he ever had through fright in an Apache ambuscade,
and had never recovered his right mind.

Then one was always sure to meet men like old Jack Dunn, who had
wandered about in all parts of the world, and has since done such
excellent work as a scout against the Chiricahua Apaches. I think that
Jack is living yet, but am not certain. If he is, it will pay some
enterprising journalist to hunt him up and get a few of his stories
out of him; they’ll make the best kind of reading for people who care
to hear of the wildest days on the wildest of frontiers. And there
were others--men who have passed away, men like James Toole, one of
the first mayors of Tucson, who dropped in, much as I myself did, to
see what was to be seen. Opposed as I am to gambling, no matter what
protean guise it may assume, I should do the gamblers of Tucson the
justice to say that they were as progressive an element as the town
had. They always had plank floors, where every other place was content
with the bare earth rammed hard, or with the curious mixture of river
sand, bullock’s blood, and cactus juice which hardened like cement and
was used by some of the more opulent. But with the exception of the
large wholesale firms, and there were not over half a dozen of them
all told, the house of the governor, and a few--a very few--private
residences of people like the Carillos, Sam Hughes, Hiram Stevens, and
Aldrich, who desired comfort, there were no wooden floors to be seen in
that country.

The gaming establishments were also well supplied with the latest
newspapers from San Francisco, Sacramento, and New York, and to these
all who entered, whether they played or not, were heartily welcome.
Sometimes, but not very often, there would be served up about midnight
a very acceptable lunch of “frijoles,” coffee, or chocolate, “chile
con carne,” “enchiladas,” and other dishes, all hot and savory, and
all thoroughly Mexican. The flare of the lamps was undimmed, the
plinkety-plunk of the harps was unchecked, and the voice of the dealer
was abroad in the land from the setting of the sun until the rising of
the same. Sunday or Monday, night or day, it made no difference--the
game went on; one dealer taking the place of another with the
regularity, the precision, and the stolidity of a sentinel.

“Isn’t it ra-a-a-ther late for you to be open?” asked the tenderfoot
arrival from the East, as he descended from the El Paso stage about
four o’clock one morning, and dragged himself to the bar to get
something to wash the dust out of his throat.

“Wa-a-al, it is kinder late fur th’ night afore last,” genially replied
the bartender; “but’s jest ’n th’ shank o’ th’ evenin’ fur t’-night.”

It was often a matter of astonishment to me that there were so few
troubles and rows in the gambling establishments of Tucson. They did
occur from time to time, just as they might happen anywhere else, but
not with sufficient frequency to make a feature of the life of the
place.

Once what threatened to open up as a most serious affair had a very
ridiculous termination. A wild-eyed youth, thoroughly saturated with
“sheep-herder’s delight” and other choice vintages of the country, made
his appearance in the bar of “Congress Hall,” and announcing himself
as “Slap-Jack Billy, the Pride of the Pan-handle,” went on to inform a
doubting world that he could whip his weight in “b’ar-meat”--

  “Fur ber-lud’s mee color,
  I kerries mee corfin on mee back,
  ’N’ th’ hummin’ o’ pistol-balls, bee jingo,
  Is me-e-e-u-u-sic in mee ears.” (Blank, blank, blank.)

Thump! sounded the brawny fist of “Shorty” Henderson, and down went
Ajax struck by the offended lightning. When he came to, the “Pride of
the Pan-handle” had something of a job in rubbing down the lump about
as big as a goose-egg which had suddenly and spontaneously grown under
his left jaw; but he bore no malice and so expressed himself.

“Podners (blank, blank, blank), this ’ere’s the most sociablest crowd I
ever struck; let’s all hev a drink.”

If the reader do not care for such scenes, he can find others perhaps
more to his liking in the various amusements which, under one pretext
or another, extracted all the loose change of the town. The first,
in popular estimation, were the “maromas,” or tight-rope walkers and
general acrobats, who performed many feats well deserving of the praise
lavished upon them by the audience. Ever since the days of Cortés the
Mexicans have been noted for gymnastic dexterity; it is a matter of
history that Cortés, upon returning to Europe, took with him several of
the artists in this line, whose agility and cunning surprised those who
saw them perform in Spain and Italy.

There were trained dogs and men who knew how to make a barrel roll up
or down an inclined plane. All these received a due share of the homage
of their fellow-citizens, but nothing to compare to the enthusiasm
which greeted the advent of the genuine “teatro.” That was the time
when all Tucson turned out to do honor to the wearers of the buskin. If
there was a man, woman, or child in the old pueblo who wasn’t seated on
one of the cottonwood saplings which, braced upon other saplings, did
duty as benches in the corral near the quartermaster’s, it was because
that man, woman, or child was sick, or in jail. It is astonishing how
much enjoyment can be gotten out of life when people set about the task
in dead earnest.

There were gross violations of all the possibilities, of all the
congruities, of all the unities, in the play, “Elena y Jorge,”
presented to an appreciative public the first evening I saw the Mexican
strolling heavy-tragedy company in its glory. But what cared we? The
scene was lighted by bon-fires, by great torches of wood, and by the
row of smoking foot-lights running along the front of the little stage.

The admission was regulated according to a peculiar plan: for Mexicans
it was fifty cents, but for Americans, one dollar, because the
Americans had more money. Another unique feature was the concentration
of all the small boys in the first row, closest to the actors, and the
clowns who were constantly running about, falling head over heels over
the youngsters, and in other ways managing to keep the audience in the
best of humor during the rather long intervals between the acts.

The old ladies who sat bunched up on the seats a little farther in rear
seemed to be more deeply moved by the trials of the heroine than the
men or boys, who continued placidly to puff cigarettes or munch sweet
quinces, as their ages and tastes dictated. It was a most harrowing,
sanguinary play, but it is all over at last.

Everybody would be very hungry by this time, and the old crones who
made a living by selling hot suppers to theatre-goers reaped their
harvest. The wrinkled dames whose faces had been all tears only a
moment ago over the woes of Elena were calm, happy, and voracious.
Plate after plate of steaming hot “enchiladas” would disappear down
their throats, washed down by cups of boiling coffee or chocolate; or
perhaps appetite demanded “tamales” and “tortillas,” with plates of
“frijoles” and “chile con carne.”

The banquet may not have been any too grand, out in the open air, but
the gratitude of the bright-eyed, sweet-voiced young señoritas who
shared it made it taste delicious. Tucson etiquette in some things was
ridiculously strict, and the occasions when young ladies could go, even
in parties, with representatives of the opposite sex were few and far
between--and all the more appreciated when they did come.

If ever there was created a disagreeable feature upon the fair face of
nature, it was the Spanish dueña. All that were to be met in those days
in southern Arizona seemed to be possessed of an unaccountable aversion
to the mounted service. No flattery would put them in good humor, no
cajolery would blind them, intimidation was thrown away. There they
would sit, keeping strict, dragon-like watch over the dear little
creatures who responded to the names of Anita, Victoria, Concepcion,
Guadalupe, or Mercedes, and preventing conversation upon any subject
excepting the weather, in which we became so expert that it is a wonder
the science of meteorology hasn’t made greater advances than it has
during the past two decades.

The bull fight did not get farther west than El Paso. Tucson never had
one that I have heard of, and very little in the way of outdoor “sport”
beyond chicken fights, which were often savage and bloody. The rapture
with which the feminine heart welcomed the news that a “baile” was to
be given in Tucson equalled the pleasure of the ladies of Murray Hill
or Beacon Street upon the corresponding occasions in their localities.
To be sure, the ceremony of the Tucson affairs was of the meagrest. The
rooms were wanting in splendor, perhaps in comfort--but the music was
on hand, and so were the ladies, young and old, and their cavaliers,
and all hands would manage to have the best sort of a time. The
ball-room was one long apartment, with earthen floor, having around its
sides low benches, and upon its walls a few cheap mirrors and half a
dozen candles stuck to the adobe by melted tallow, a bit of moist clay,
or else held in tin sconces, from which they emitted the sickliest
light upon the heads and forms of the highly colored saints whose
pictures were to be seen in the most eligible places. If the weather
happened to be chilly enough in the winter season, a petty fire would
be allowed to blaze in one of the corners, but, as a general thing,
this was not essential.

The moment you passed the threshold of the ball-room in Tucson you had
broken over your head an egg-shell filled either with cologne of the
most dubious reputation or else with finely cut gold and silver paper.
This custom, preserved in this out-of-the-way place, dates back to the
“Carnestolends” or Shrove-Tuesday pranks of Spain and Portugal, when
the egg was really broken over the head of the unfortunate wight and
the pasty mass covered over with flour.

Once within the ball-room there was no need of being presented to any
one. The etiquette of the Spaniards is very elastic, and is based upon
common sense. Every man who is good enough to be invited to enter the
house of a Mexican gentleman is good enough to enter into conversation
with all the company he may meet there.

Our American etiquette is based upon the etiquette of the English.
Ever since King James, the mild-mannered lunatic, sold his orders of
nobility to any cad who possessed the necessary six thousand pounds
to pay for an entrance into good society, the aristocracy of England
has been going down-hill, and what passes with it for manners is the
code of the promoted plutocrat, whose ideas would find no place with
the Spaniards, who believe in “_sangre azul_” or nothing. There was
very little conversation between the ladies and the gentlemen, because
the ladies preferred to cluster together and discuss the neighbors who
hadn’t been able to come, or explain the details of dresses just made
or to be made.

Gentlemen invited whom they pleased to dance, and in the intervals
between the figures there might be some very weak attempt at
conversation, but that was all, except the marching of the gentle
female up to the counter and buying her a handkerchief full of raisins
or candies, which she carefully wrapped up and carried home with her,
in accordance with a custom which obtained among the Aztecs and also
among their Spanish conquerors, and really had a strong foothold in
good old England itself, from which latter island it did not disappear
until A.D. 1765.

While the language of conversation was entirely Spanish, the figures
were called off in English, or what passed for English in those days in
Arizona: “Ally man let ’n’ all shassay”; “Bal’nce t’ yer podners ’n’
all han’s roun’”; “Dozydozy-chaat ’n’ swing.”

What lovely times we used to have! What enchanting music from the
Pan’s pipes, the flute, the harp, the bass-drum, and the bull-fiddle
all going at once! How lovely the young ladies were! How bright the
rooms were with their greasy lamps or their candles flickering from the
walls! It can hardly be possible that twenty years and more have passed
away, yet there are the figures in the almanac which cannot lie.

After the “baile” was over, the rule was for the younger participants
to take the music and march along the streets to the houses of the
young ladies who had been prevented from attending, and there, under
the window, or, rather, in front of the window--because all the houses
were of one story, and a man could not get under the windows unless he
crawled on hands and knees--pour forth their souls in a serenade.

The Spanish serenader, to judge him by his songs, is a curious blending
of woe and despair, paying court to a damsel whose heart is colder
than the crystalline ice that forms in the mountains. The worst of
it all is, the young woman, whose charms of person are equalled by
the charms of her mind, does not seem to care a rush what becomes of
the despairing songster, who threatens to go away forever, to sail on
unknown seas, to face the nameless perils of the desert, if his suit
be not at once recognized by at least one frosty smile. But at the
first indication of relenting on the part of the adored one, the suitor
suddenly recollects that he cannot possibly stand the fervor of her
glance, which rivals the splendor of the sun, and, accordingly, he begs
her not to look upon him with those beautiful orbs, as he has concluded
to depart forever and sing his woes in distant lands. Having discharged
this sad duty at the windows of Doña Anita Fulana, the serenaders
solemnly progress to the lattice of Doña Mercedes de Zutana, and there
repeat the same heart-rending tale of disappointed affection.

It was always the same round of music, taken in the same series--“La
Paloma,” “Golondrina,” and the rest. I made a collection of some twenty
of these ditties or madrigals, and was impressed with the poetic fervor
and the absolute lack of common sense shown in them all, which is the
best evidence that as love songs they will bear comparison with any
that have ever been written. The music in many cases was excellent,
although the execution was with very primitive instruments. I do not
remember a single instance where the fair one made the least sign of
approval or pleasure on account of such serenades, and I suppose that
the Mexican idea is that she should not, because if there is a polite
creature in the world it is the Mexican woman, no matter of what degree.

But it is morning now, and the bells are clanging for first mass, and
we had better go home and to bed. Did we so desire we could enter the
church, but as there is much to be said in regard to the different
feasts, which occurred at different seasons and most acceptably divided
the year, we can leave that duty unfulfilled for the present and give
a few brief sentences to the christening and funerals, which were
celebrated under our observation.

The Mexicans used to attach a great deal of importance to the naming
of their children, and when the day for the christening had arrived,
invitations scattered far and near brought together all the relatives
and friends of the family, who most lavishly eulogized the youngster,
and then partook of a hearty collation, which was the main feature of
the entertainment.

Funerals, especially of children, were generally without coffins, owing
to the great scarcity of lumber, and nearly always with music at the
head of the procession, which slowly wended its way to the church to
the measure of plaintive melody.

Birthdays were not observed, but in their stead were kept the days of
the saints of the same name. For example, all the young girls named
Anita would observe Saint Ann’s day, without regard to the date of
their own birth, and so with the Guadalupes and Francescas and others.

I should not omit to state that there were whole blocks of houses
in Tucson which did not have a single nail in them, but had been
constructed entirely of adobes, with all parts of the wooden framework
held together by strips of rawhide.

Yet in these comfortless abodes, which did not possess ten dollars’
worth of furniture, one met with charming courtesy from old and young.
“Ah! happy the eyes that gaze upon thee,” was the form of salutation
to friends who had been absent for a space--“Dichosos los ojos que ven
a V.” “Go thou with God,” was the gentle mode of saying farewell, to
which the American guest would respond, as he shifted the revolvers on
his hip and adjusted the quid of tobacco in his mouth: “Wa-al, I reckon
I’ll git.” But the Mexican would arrange the folds of his serape, bow
most politely, and say: “Ladies, I throw myself at your feet--À los
pies de VV., señoritas.”

Thus far there has been no mention of that great lever of public
opinion--the newspaper. There was one of which I will now say a word,
and a few months later, in the spring of 1870, the town saw a second
established, of which a word shall be said in its turn. The _Weekly
Arizonian_ was a great public journal, an organ of public opinion,
managed by Mr. P. W. Dooner, a very able editor.

It was the custom in those days to order the acts and resolutions of
Congress to be published in the press of the remoter Territories, thus
enabling the settlers on the frontier to keep abreast of legislation,
especially such as more immediately affected their interests.

There may have been other matter in the _Weekly Arizonian_ besides the
copies of legislative and executive documents referred to, but if so I
never was fortunate enough to see it, excepting possibly once, on the
occasion of my first visit to the town, when I saw announced in bold
black and white that “Colonel” Bourke was paying a brief visit to his
friend, Señor So-and-so. If there is one weak spot in the armor of a
recently-graduated lieutenant, it is the desire to be called colonel
before he dies, and here was the ambition of my youth gratified almost
before the first lustre had faded from my shoulder-straps. It would
serve no good purpose to tell how many hundred copies of that week’s
issue found their way into the earliest outgoing mail, addressed to
friends back in the States. I may be pardoned for alluding to the
reckless profanity of the stage-driver upon observing the great bulk
of the load his poor horses were to carry. The stage-drivers were
an exceptionally profane set, and this one, Frank Francis, was an
adept in the business. He has long since gone to his reward in the
skies, killed, if I have not made a great mistake, by the Apaches in
Sonora, in 1881. He was a good, “square” man, as I can aver from an
acquaintance and friendship cemented in later days, when I had to
take many and many a lonesome and dangerous ride with him in various
sections and on various routes in that then savage-infested region.
It was Frank’s boast that no “Injuns” should ever get either him or
the mail under his care. “All you’ve got to do with ’n Injun’s to be
smarter nor he is. Now, f’r instance, ’n Injun’ll allers lie in wait
’longside the road, tryin’ to ketch th’ mail. Wa’al, I never don’ go
’long no derned road, savey? I jest cut right ’cross lots, ’n’ dern
my skin ef all th’ Injuns this side o’ Bitter Creek kin tell whar to
lay fur _me_.” This and similar bits of wisdom often served to soothe
the frightened fancy of the weary “tenderfoot” making his first trip
into that wild region, especially if the trip was to be by night, as it
generally was.

Whipping up his team, Frank would take a shoot off to one side or the
other of the road, and never return to it until the faint tinge of
light in the east, or the gladsome crow of chanticleer announced that
the dawn was at hand and Tucson in sight. How long they had both been
in coming!

Through it all, however, Frank remained the same kind, entertaining
host; he always seemed to consider it part of his duties to entertain
each one who travelled with him, and there was no lack of conversation,
such as it was.

The establishment of the rival paper, the _Citizen_, was the signal for
a war of words, waxing in bitterness from week to week, and ceasing
only with the death of the _Arizonian_, which took place not long
after. One of the editors of the _Citizen_ was Joe Wasson, a very
capable journalist, with whom I was afterward associated intimately
in the Black Hills and Yellowstone country during the troubles with
the Sioux and Cheyennes. He was a well-informed man, who had travelled
much and seen life in many phases. He was conscientious in his ideas
of duty, and full of the energy and “snap” supposed to be typically
American. He approached every duty with the alertness and earnestness
of a Scotch terrier. The telegraph was still unknown to Arizona, and
for that reason the _Citizen_ contained an unusually large amount of
editorial matter upon affairs purely local. Almost the very first
columns of the paper demanded the sweeping away of garbage-piles, the
lighting of the streets by night, the establishment of schools, and the
imposition of a tax upon the gin-mills and gambling-saloons.

Devout Mexicans crossed themselves as they passed this fanatic, whom
nothing would seem to satisfy but the subversion of every ancient
institution. Even the more progressive among the Americans realized
that Joe was going a trifle too far, and felt that it was time to put
the brakes upon a visionary theorist whose war-cry was “Reform!” But
no remonstrance availed, and editorial succeeded editorial, each more
pungent and aggressive than its predecessors. What was that dead burro
doing on the main street? Why did not the town authorities remove it?

“Valgame! What is the matter with the man? and why does he make such a
fuss over Pablo Martinez’s dead burro, which has been there for more
than two months and nobody bothering about it? Why, it was only last
week that Ramon Romualdo and I were talking about it, and we both
agreed that it ought to be removed some time very soon. Bah! I will
light another cigarette. These Americans make me sick--always in a
hurry, as if the devil were after them.”

In the face of such antagonism as this the feeble light of the
_Arizonian_ flickered out, and that great luminary was, after the lapse
of a few years, succeeded by the _Star_, whose editor and owner arrived
in the Territory in the latter part of the year 1873, after the Apaches
had been subdued and placed upon reservations.




TOLD AT TRINIDAD

A. A. HAYES, JR.

1879

From “New Colorado and the Santa Fé Trail.” By A. A. Hayes, Jr.
Reprinted by permission of the publishers, Harper and Brothers, New
York.[27]


We had driven over from El Moro only to find that the daily train for
the South had started, and that we had a long night and day on our
hands. We soon exhausted the sights of the town, and sat down on the
hotel piazza in company with rather a motley group. We talked in a
languid way about various subjects, and drifted after awhile to the old
staging days; then a quiet New Yorker took his cigar out of his mouth,
and said,

“Gentlemen, I should like to tell you a story. Those of you who saw
the _New York Herald_ of July --, 1876, may have noticed a rather
unintelligible account of a crime committed by the scion of a wealthy
and distinguished family long resident in the city. It was supposed
to be a heavy forgery, but one soon saw that extraordinary measures
and powerful influence had suppressed details and prevented further
publicity, and the matter passed off as a nine days’ wonder. When I
myself first saw the item, I felt sure that I knew who the culprit was.
James W---- and I were school-mates at Geneva, and once great friends.
He was the son of one of the finest gentlemen of the old school that I
have ever seen--who had married rather late in life, and been a most
affectionate and indulgent father. James was a boy of most attractive
appearance, with very dark complexion, hair and eyes, and the figure
of an athlete. There was apparently nothing in feature, expression, or
manner, to cause suspicion that he was not a very fine fellow; and yet
there came to me before long the positive conviction, first, that under
that attractive exterior a desperate power of evil was at work; second
(and I am no more able to explain this than those other spiritual
mysteries which so many of us encounter in our lives), that it would be
my fate to come into contact with him in after years when this power
had developed itself.

“Through certain channels then open to me I easily ascertained that,
after a career of deep dissipation, James W----had committed a bold
forgery; that in some way the money had been paid, and the affair
quashed. Other things came to my ears, all strongly confirmatory of my
expectations about him. About eighteen months later his mother died,
and his father settled all his business and went to Europe; nearly
everyone supposing, in the meantime, that the son had suddenly started,
when he was first missed from his accustomed haunts, on a journey to
Central Asia, and that it would be months before he could hear this sad
news.

“Later again, as the Union Pacific train, on which I was a passenger,
stopped at the Green River station, I saw on the platform, evidently
waiting to join us, a father and daughter. The former was a fine
specimen of the better class of plainsmen--six feet two, and of
powerful build--his eyes large and blue, his long hair and full beard
light-colored, and his expression kindness itself. The young girl was
about eighteen, slender and delicate, and altogether charming--one of
those beautiful, tender, clinging young creatures sometimes found on
the frontier, like the delicate wild flowers in the cañons. They were
going to Chicago; and having been commended to Major G---- by some
mutual acquaintances, I passed much time in his company, and we became
excellent friends. He had been a widower for a number of years, and
was deeply devoted to his pretty Anita, who in her turn seemed to
adore him. I could not help thinking that she was ill-fitted to meet
the cares of life, and that there was a look in her lovely eyes that
suggested a rare capacity for suffering. She had never been east of
the Missouri before, and the major told me that after a short stay in
Chicago, they were going to live on a ranch which he had bought in the
Wet Mountain Valley. He had been a noted hunter and Indian fighter in
the West, and bore the scars of more than one struggle with wild beast
and wilder man. I remained with them one day in Chicago, and remember
Anita’s childish delight in a bouquet of flowers which I gave her, when
I called at the hotel to say good-bye, and her waving her handkerchief
to me as I drove off to the station, and she stood on the balcony
leaning on her father’s shoulder.

“Chance brought me, within six or eight months, to the region south
of the Arkansas, and I took a trip on the Wet Mountains with an old
Mexican called Manuel. One day it occurred to me that we could not be
far from my friend’s location; so I asked Manuel if we could not cross
the range and go down into the valley, and if he knew where Major G----
lived.

“‘Oh si, señor!’ he quickly replied, ‘we easy come over the mountain
and to the Rancho San José, where live the major. Oh, it is a place so
beautiful! the valley which the señor will see when we pass the Sierra
and go down the cañon.’ ‘And the major, and his daughter, are they
well?’ I asked. ‘The major, yes,’ said Manuel; ‘but the señorita’--and
his voice changed--‘she is not well. The señor does not then know--but
ah! how could he?--that she have so great trouble.’

“Much surprised and shocked, I gradually elicited from him a narration
of what had occurred after the father and daughter took up their abode
in the valley. It seemed that a young man, bound ostensibly on a
hunting trip, once asked for a night’s lodging at the ranch, and was
evidently struck by the beauty of Anita; that he had returned again and
again, and finally expressed his intention of taking up a homestead in
the vicinity. Anita seemed attracted by him from the first. They were
finally betrothed, and the major had the comfort of knowing that they
would remain near him. He had apparently given his full confidence to
the young man, and talked freely to him of his affairs; and notably,
on one occasion, of his intention to keep quite a large sum of money
in the house for two days, contrary to his usual custom, but for the
purpose of paying for a mine which he had bought. The next morning the
money was gone! The young man was never seen again.

“I heard this tale with great regret, and said to myself that the
poor girl would never bear such a blow. When I asked Manuel about her
condition, he broke into distressed and almost incoherent utterances
about _la pobrecita_ (the poor little one), for whom might the _Madre
de Dios_ intercede. I began to dread the visit to the ranch, and would
have turned back but for a desire to offer my sympathies.

“When we entered the corral the sun was just sinking behind the Sangre
de Cristo Range, and flooding the valley with light. The major came
out when he heard our horses, and, recognizing me, at once bade us
welcome. When I saw his poor daughter I was shocked beyond measure. She
lay on a sofa looking at the western mountains. She knew me and gave
me her poor little hand, so thin that it seemed almost transparent.
Her face was pallid, and deep purple rings were under her eyes. I said
a few commonplace words of sympathy, and then turned away. The major
followed me into the house, and, coming up and taking my offered hand,
said, ‘They call it quick consumption. I know better than that--it is
a broken heart!’ His grasp tightened painfully on my hand. ‘My God!’
he cried, ‘how can I bear it!’ The scene was painful in the extreme.
I found Manuel and told him that we must go on, and that he had best
lead the horses outside of the corral, where I would join him. The
major’s life-long instincts of hospitality flashed out in a momentary
protest at my departure, but he did not press me to stay. I knew that
he had kind neighbors, and the ranch seemed no place for us. I went to
say farewell to the dying girl, but finding her lying with closed eyes
and folded hands, I dared not disturb her, although I knew that I saw
her for the last time. Major G---- walked mechanically to the gate, and
bade us good-bye. I saw the tears in old Manuel’s eyes as we mounted
and rode some distance in silence. Two weeks after this, coming from
Fort Garland, I bought a Denver paper from the newsboy on the train,
and saw that I had rightly judged of the poor child’s inability to bear
a rude shock, for I read that she had ‘entered into rest.’

“Now, gentlemen, I am afraid that you will think I am spinning a
sensational yarn, but it is only a few months since, just as we are
sitting here, I was sitting with a party of gentlemen at the door of
the fonda at the corner of the plaza in Santa Fé. We were admiring
the gorgeous sunset, and listening to the band playing under the
trees, when the ‘buckboard’ of the Transportation Company arrived from
the South. It was with a start that I rose to salute, in the only
passenger, my poor friend Major G----. He had changed sadly; his hair
had grown white, and his cheeks were sunken. Then he had a habit of
pressing his hand to his forehead, which gave one a vivid impression of
despair.

“He greeted me warmly, as of old, and mentioned that he had come from
Mesilla, and was going on to Fort Garland in the morning, but he said
little more at first, and I dreaded any recurrence to the past. In
the evening I induced him to take a cigar, and to drink a little from
my flask. Soon he seemed restored to a temporary animation, and after
asking me if I proposed accompanying him on his journey, and expressing
gratification at my willingness so to do, he went on as follows:

“‘I have heard something which leads me to think that the road agents
are going to try to rob the stage, which will have some treasure
freight. The only passengers besides us will be a couple of greasers,
who can’t help us if they would. You know the boys say that the agents
always have things their own way. Now, as I feel at present, I’m not
inclined to give up without a try. I don’t want to ring you in unless
you are for it; but, with all the trouble I’ve had, a bullet more or
less is of no account to me; but I have a notion,’ he continued, ‘that
I can block their game. It was done once by an old pard of mine, and,
if you say so, I’ll try it, and you just follow my lead. Will you take
the chances?’ I knew him to be a man of desperate courage and fertile
in resource, and I assented. ‘What kind of shooting-iron have you?’
he asked. ‘Navy Colt? No, that’s good in its way; but I’ll lend you a
self-cocker like mine. Mind and take at least a strong cup of coffee
before we start; and now you’d better turn in.’

“In the morning we took our places in the coach, the major sitting on
the front seat, and left-hand side; I sat opposite, and each had a
silent Mexican next him. We drove without incident to the place where
the horses were first changed; but, before we started again, my friend
said to me,

“‘I allow that we’ll have our trouble, if at all, in the cañon four
miles ahead. Now just put your blanket over your lap and hold your
pistol under it. Keep a bright look-out, and if we strike ’em, just
have your wits about you, and be ready to fire after I do.’ Soon we
rolled off again, and I saw him lean back for awhile and then sit
upright, and keep his eye fixed on the road. The horses were good; we
soon approached the cañon, and the suspense became almost unbearable. I
could not help thinking about our chances in the case of attack. Just
then--I remember that I was looking at a group of cedars--the stage
stopped, and, as if conjured up by the hand of a magician, three men
on horseback appeared on our side, two close to us, one behind. I
seemed to comprehend the whole situation in the twinkling of an eye;
the figures--the levelled barrels--the major sitting before me.

“‘_Throw up your hands, ---- ---- you!_’ They were reckless enough
to wear no masks--the speaker lowered his head to look in. Heavens!
shall I ever forget that scene? On my part there was a startling
recognition--on the major’s there must have been the same, for never
have I seen a human face so transformed, and it added an almost
demoniacal force to the action, which all passed in a flash. The terror
of the sudden start, the throwing out of the left arm, the frightened
glare of the eyes, may have been the product of rare dramatic power;
but there was something far more terribly real in his wild cry,

“‘_Great God! who is that behind you?_’ The robbers instinctively
turned their heads. Crack!--crack! The major’s right arm, rigid as
iron, held the smoking weapon, as two riderless horses galloped off,
and I mechanically fired at the third man. Then my friend laid his
revolver down, and put his hand to his forehead. We drove on a short
distance, and then made one of the frightened Mexicans hold the horses,
and the driver and I hurried back. It was with a sharp shudder, and a
vivid realization that the forebodings of earlier days had come only
too true, that I saw my old school-mate lying dead in the dusty road.
And then I saw one of those strange phenomena of the occurrence of
which there is ample scientific evidence. Gentlemen, I assure you that
there _had_ been mutual recognition, and the terror of it was in those
dead eyes.

“We drove back to Santa Fé almost at a gallop, the major sitting like
a statue in his seat, and never speaking. As we entered the plaza and
stopped before the old palace a crowd gathered, and I whispered to an
army officer to take my poor friend to headquarters, while I attended
to the needful formalities. I can see the scene before my eyes this
moment: the motley gathering of Americans and Mexicans, with some
uniforms among them; the driver eagerly talking--the hostlers taking
the horses’ heads. The United States Marshal and Commissioner came out
of their offices, and I told them the story. The marshal stopped me for
a moment after the first ten words, and sent for his two deputies and
three horses. Then he lighted a cigar and offered me one as I went on
with my brief narrative. The deputies came up, the marshal went to his
office for his arms, and examined the percussion-caps as he asked me
a few questions. Then they all three shook hands with me and galloped
down the narrow street. They were fierce pursuers, and when I saw the
chief deputy that evening, he told me that the third man was in the
jail.

“‘I know ’em all well,’ he added, ‘and two more ungodly ruffians
than the dead men never cheated the gallows. I’ve been after that
black-haired one a long time for a matter in Wyoming’; and a wolfish
look came for a moment over his pleasant face. ‘I knew where to find
the third man. He’s a mean cur, and gave in without the show of a
fight. To be sure, you plugged him pretty bad in the arm.’

“When the marshal had gone to his office the commissioner and I walked
to headquarters and found the major (whom the surgeon had induced to
drink a composing draught) sitting in a chair, leaning his head upon
his hand. He rose as we approached. ‘Sam,’ said he to the commissioner,
‘the Lord delivered him into my hands! It was his will.’

“He started again the next morning, and as the stage turned the corner
he waved his hand to me, and then put it to his head once again in that
sad, weary way of his. Urged by the spirit of unrest which had seized
upon him, he joined the prospectors at Leadville, exposed himself
recklessly, and died of pneumonia in three weeks.

“Strangely enough, the news recently came that old Mr. W---- was never
seen after taking a steamer at Vienna to go down the Danube. That is
the reason that I have felt at liberty to tell the story. They say the
way of the transgressor is hard; but in this case it seems to me that
there is a good deal to be said about the ways of those against whom he
transgressed. Perhaps many of you have come across curious things in
your lives, but nothing much stranger than what you have just heard.”

And to this statement no one took exception.




SPECIMEN JONES

OWEN WISTER

From “Red Men and White.” Reprinted by permission of the author and
of Harper and Brothers, New York.[28]


Ephraim, the proprietor of Twenty Mile, had wasted his day in burying a
man. He did not know the man. He had found him, or what the Apaches had
left of him, sprawled among some charred sticks just outside the Cañon
del Oro. It was a useful discovery in its way, for otherwise Ephraim
might have gone on hunting his strayed horses near the cañon, and ended
among charred sticks himself. Very likely the Indians were far away
by this time, but he returned to Twenty Mile with the man tied to his
saddle, and his pony nervously snorting. And now the day was done, and
the man lay in the earth, and they had even built a fence round him;
for the hole was pretty shallow, and coyotes have a way of smelling
this sort of thing a long way off when they are hungry, and the man was
not in a coffin. They were always short of coffins in Arizona.

Day was done at Twenty Mile, and the customary activity prevailed
inside that flat-roofed cube of mud. Sounds of singing, shooting,
dancing, and Mexican tunes on the concertina came out of the windows
hand in hand, to widen and die among the hills. A limber, pretty boy,
who might be nineteen, was dancing energetically, while a grave old
gentleman, with tobacco running down his beard, pointed a pistol at
the boy’s heels, and shot a hole in the earth now and then to show
that the weapon was really loaded. Everybody was quite used to all of
this--excepting the boy. He was an Eastern new-comer, passing his first
evening at a place of entertainment.

Night in and night out every guest at Twenty Mile was either happy and
full of whiskey, or else his friends were making arrangements for his
funeral. There was water at Twenty Mile--the only water for twoscore
of miles. Consequently it was an important station on the road between
the southern country and Old Camp Grant, and the new mines north of the
Mescal Range. The stunt, liquor-perfumed adobe cabin lay on the gray
floor of the desert like an isolated slab of chocolate. A corral, two
desolate stable-sheds, and the slowly turning windmill were all else.
Here Ephraim and one or two helpers abode, armed against Indians, and
selling whiskey. Variety in their vocation of drinking and killing
was brought them by the travellers. These passed and passed through
the glaring vacant months--some days only one ragged fortune-hunter,
riding a pony; again by twos and threes, with high-loaded burros;
and sometimes they came in companies, walking beside their clanking
freight-wagons. Some were young, and some were old, and all drank
whiskey, and wore knives and guns to keep each other civil. Most of
them were bound for the mines, and some of them sometimes returned. No
man trusted the next man, and their names, when they had any, would be
O’Rafferty, Angus, Schwartzmeyer, José Maria, and Smith. All stopped
for one night; some longer, remaining drunk and profitable to Ephraim;
now and then one stayed permanently, and had a fence built round him.
Whoever came, and whatever befell them, Twenty Mile was chronically
hilarious after sundown--a dot of riot in the dumb Arizona night.

On this particular evening they had a tenderfoot. The boy, being
new in Arizona, still trusted his neighbor. Such people turned up
occasionally. This one had paid for everybody’s drink several times,
because he felt friendly, and never noticed that nobody ever paid for
his. They had played cards with him, stolen his spurs, and now they
were making him dance. It was an ancient pastime; yet two or three
were glad to stand round and watch it, because it was some time since
they had been to the opera. Now the tenderfoot had misunderstood these
friends at the beginning, supposing himself to be among good fellows,
and they therefore naturally set him down as a fool. But even while
dancing you may learn much, and suddenly. The boy, besides being
limber, had good tough black hair, and it was not in fear, but with a
cold blue eye, that he looked at the old gentleman. The trouble had
been that his own revolver had somehow hitched, so he could not pull it
from the holster at the necessary moment.

“Tried to draw on me, did yer?” said the old gentleman. “Step higher!
Step, now, or I’ll crack open yer kneepans, ye robin’s egg.”

“Thinks he’s having a bad time,” remarked Ephraim. “Wonder how he’d
like to have been that man the Injuns had sport with?”

“Weren’t his ear funny?” said one who had helped bury the man.

“Ear?” said Ephraim. “You boys ought to been along when I found him,
and seen the way they’d fixed up his mouth.” Ephraim explained the
details simply, and the listeners shivered. But Ephraim was a humorist.
“Wonder how it feels,” he continued, “to have--”

Here the boy sickened at his comments and the loud laughter. Yet a few
hours earlier these same half-drunken jesters had laid the man to rest
with decent humanity. The boy was taking his first dose of Arizona. By
no means was everybody looking at his jig. They had seen tenderfeet so
often. There was a Mexican game of cards; there was the concertina; and
over in the corner sat Specimen Jones, with his back to the company,
singing to himself. Nothing had been said or done that entertained him
in the least. He had seen everything quite often.

“Higher! skip higher, you elegant calf,” remarked the old gentleman to
the tenderfoot. “High-yer!” And he placidly fired a fourth shot that
scraped the boy’s boot at the ankle and threw earth over the clock, so
that you could not tell the minute from the hour hand.

“‘Drink to me only with thine eyes,’” sang Specimen Jones, softly. They
did not care much for his songs in Arizona. These lyrics were all, or
nearly all, that he retained of the days when he was twenty, although
he was but twenty-six now.

The boy was cutting pigeon-wings, the concertina played “Matamoras,”
Jones continued his lyric, when two Mexicans leaped at each other, and
the concertina stopped with a quack.

“Quit it!” said Ephraim from behind the bar, covering the two with his
weapon. “I don’t want any greasers scrapping round here to-night. We’ve
just got cleaned up.”

It had been cards, but the Mexicans made peace, to the regret of
Specimen Jones. He had looked round with some hopes of a crisis, and
now for the first time he noticed the boy.

“Blamed if he ain’t neat,” he said. But interest faded from his eyes,
and he turned again to the wall. “‘Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein,’”
he melodiously observed. His repertory was wide and refined. When he
sang he was always grammatical.

“Ye kin stop, kid,” said the old gentleman, not unkindly, and he shoved
his pistol into his belt.

The boy ceased. He had been thinking matters over. Being lithe and
strong, he was not tired nor much out of breath, but he was trembling
with the plan and the prospect he had laid out for himself. “Set ’em
up,” he said to Ephraim. “Set ’em up again all round.”

His voice caused Specimen Jones to turn and look once more, while the
old gentleman, still benevolent, said, “Yer langwidge means pleasanter
than it sounds, kid.” He glanced at the boy’s holster, and knew he need
not keep a very sharp watch as to that. Its owner had bungled over it
once already. All the old gentleman did was to place himself next the
boy on the off side from the holster; any move the tenderfoot’s hand
might make for it would be green and unskilful, and easily anticipated.
The company lined up along the bar, and the bottle slid from glass to
glass. The boy and his tormentor stood together in the middle of the
line, and the tormentor, always with half a thought for the holster,
handled his drink on the wet counter, waiting till all should be filled
and ready to swallow simultaneously, as befits good manners.

“Well, my regards,” he said, seeing the boy raise his glass; and as
the old gentleman’s arm lifted in unison, exposing his waist, the boy
reached down a lightning hand, caught the old gentleman’s own pistol,
and jammed it in his face.

“Now you’ll dance,” said he.

“Whoop!” exclaimed Specimen Jones, delighted. “_Blamed_ if he ain’t
neat!” And Jones’s handsome face lighted keenly.

“Hold on!” the boy sang out, for the amazed old gentleman was
mechanically drinking his whiskey out of sheer fright. The rest had
forgotten their drinks. “Not one swallow,” the boy continued. “No,
you’ll not put it down either. You’ll keep hold of it, and you’ll dance
all round this place. Around and around. And don’t you spill any. And
I’ll be thinking what you’ll do after that.”

Specimen Jones eyed the boy with growing esteem. “Why, he ain’t bigger
than a pint of cider,” said he.

“Prance away!” commanded the tenderfoot, and fired a shot between the
old gentleman’s not widely straddled legs.

“You hev the floor, Mr. Adams,” Jones observed, respectfully, at the
old gentleman’s agile leap. “I’ll let no man here interrupt you.” So
the capering began, and the company stood back to make room. “I’ve saw
juicy things in this Territory,” continued Specimen Jones, aloud, to
himself, “but this combination fills my bill.”

He shook his head sagely, following the black-haired boy with his eye.
That youth was steering Mr. Adams round the room with the pistol, proud
as a ring-master. Yet not altogether. He was only nineteen, and though
his heart beat stoutly, it was beating alone in a strange country. He
had come straight to this from hunting squirrels along the Susquehanna,
with his mother keeping supper warm for him in the stone farm-house
among the trees. He had read books in which hardy heroes saw life, and
always triumphed with precision on the last page, but he remembered no
receipt for this particular situation. Being good game American blood,
he did not think now about the Susquehanna, but he did long with all
his might to know what he ought to do next to prove himself a man. His
buoyant rage, being glutted with the old gentleman’s fervent skipping,
had cooled, a stress of reaction was falling hard on his brave young
nerves. He imagined everybody against him. He had no notion that there
was another American wanderer there, whose reserved and whimsical
nature he had touched to the heart.

The fickle audience was with him, of course, for the moment, since
he was upper dog and it was a good show; but one in that room was
distinctly against him. The old gentleman was dancing with an ugly
eye; he had glanced down to see just where his knife hung at his side,
and he had made some calculations. He had fired four shots; the boy
had fired once. “Four and one hez always made five,” the old gentleman
told himself with much secret pleasure, and pretended that he was
going to stop his double-shuffle. It was an excellent trap, and the boy
fell straight into it. He squandered his last precious bullet on the
spittoon near which Mr. Adams happened to be at the moment, and the
next moment Mr. Adams had him by the throat. They swayed and gulped for
breath, rutting the earth with sharp heels; they rolled to the floor
and floundered with legs tight tangled, the boy blindly striking at Mr.
Adams with the pistol-butt, and the audience drawing closer to lose
nothing, when the bright knife flashed suddenly. It poised, and flew
across the room, harmless, for a foot had driven into Mr. Adams’s arm,
and he felt a cold ring grooving his temple. It was the smooth, chilly
muzzle of Specimen Jones’s six-shooter.

“That’s enough,” said Jones. “More than enough.”

Mr. Adams, being mature in judgment, rose instantly, like a good old
sheep, and put his knife back obedient to orders. But in the brain of
the overstrained, bewildered boy universal destruction was whirling.
With a face stricken lean with ferocity, he staggered to his feet,
plucking at his obstinate holster, and glaring for a foe. His eye fell
first on his deliverer, leaning easily against the bar watching him,
while the more and more curious audience scattered, and held themselves
ready to murder the boy if he should point his pistol their way. He was
dragging at it clumsily, and at last it came. Specimen Jones sprang
like a cat, and held the barrel vertical and gripped the boy’s wrist.

“Go easy, son,” said he. “I know how you’re feelin’.”

The boy had been wrenching to get a shot at Jones, and now the
quietness of the man’s voice reached his brain, and he looked at
Specimen Jones. He felt a potent brotherhood in the eyes that were
considering him, and he began to fear he had been a fool. There was his
dwarf Eastern revolver, slack in his inefficient fist, and the singular
person still holding its barrel and tapping one derisive finger over
the end, careless of the risk to his first joint.

“Why, you little ---- ----,” said Specimen Jones, caressingly, to the
hypnotized youth, “if you was to pop that squirt off at me, I’d turn
you up and spank y’u. Set ’em up, Ephraim.”

But the commercial Ephraim hesitated, and Jones remembered. His last
cent was gone. It was his third day at Ephraim’s. He had stopped,
having a little money, on his way to Tucson, where a friend had a
job for him, and was waiting. He was far too experienced a character
ever to sell his horse or his saddle on these occasions, and go on
drinking. He looked as if he might, but he never did; and this was what
disappointed business men like Ephraim in Specimen Jones.

But now, here was this tenderfoot he had undertaken to see through, and
Ephraim reminding him that he had no more of the wherewithal. “Why,
so I haven’t,” he said, with a short laugh, and his face flushed. “I
guess,” he continued, hastily, “this is worth a dollar or two.” He
drew a chain up from below his flannel shirt-collar and over his head.
He drew it a little slowly. It had not been taken off for a number of
years--not, indeed, since it had been placed there originally. “It
ain’t brass,” he added, lightly, and strewed it along the counter
without looking at it. Ephraim did look at it, and, being satisfied,
began to uncork a new bottle, while the punctual audience came up for
its drink.

“Won’t you please let me treat?” said the boy, unsteadily. “I ain’t
likely to meet you again, sir.” Reaction was giving him trouble inside.

“Where are you bound, kid?”

“Oh, just a ways up the country,” answered the boy, keeping a grip on
his voice.

“Well, you _may_ get there. Where did you pick up that--that thing?
Your pistol, I mean.”

“It’s a present from a friend,” replied the tenderfoot, with dignity.

“Farewell gift, wasn’t it, kid? Yes; I thought so. Now I’d hate to get
an affair like that from a friend. It would start me wondering if he
liked me as well as I’d always thought he did. Put up that money, kid.
You’re drinking with me. Say, what’s yer name?”

“Cumnor--J. Cumnor.”

“Well, J. Cumnor, I’m glad to know y’u. Ephraim, let me make you
acquainted with Mr. Cumnor. Mr. Adams, if you’re rested from your
quadrille, you can shake hands with my friend. Step around, you Miguels
and Serapios and Cristobals, whatever y’u claim your names are. This is
Mr. J. Cumnor.”

The Mexicans did not understand either the letter or the spirit of
these American words, but they drank their drink, and the concertina
resumed its acrid melody. The boy had taken himself off without being
noticed.

“Say, Spec,” said Ephraim to Jones, “I’m no hog. Here’s yer chain.
You’ll be along again.”

“Keep it till I’m along again,” said the owner.

“Just as you say, Spec,” answered Ephraim, smoothly, and he hung the
pledge over an advertisement chromo of a nude cream-colored lady
with bright straw hair holding out a bottle of somebody’s champagne.
Specimen Jones sang no more songs, but smoked, and leaned in silence
on the bar. The company were talking of bed, and Ephraim plunged his
glasses into a bucket to clean them for the morrow.

“Know anything about that kid?” inquired Jones, abruptly.

Ephraim shook his head as he washed.

“Travelling alone, ain’t he?”

Ephraim nodded.

“Where did y’u say y’u found that fellow layin’ the Injuns got?”

“Mile this side the cañon. ’Mong them sand-humps.”

“How long had he been there, do y’u figure?”

“Three days, anyway.”

Jones watched Ephraim finish his cleansing. “Your clock needs wiping,”
he remarked. “A man might suppose it was nine, to see that thing the
way the dirt hides the hands. Look again in half an hour and it’ll say
three. That’s the kind of clock gives a man the jams. Sends him crazy.”

“Well, that ain’t a bad thing to be in this country,” said Ephraim,
rubbing the glass case and restoring identity to the hands. “If that
man had been crazy he’d been livin’ right now. Injuns’ll never touch
lunatics.”

“That band have passed here and gone north,” Jones said. “I saw a smoke
among the foothills as I come along day before yesterday. I guess
they’re aiming to cross the Santa Catalina. Most likely they’re that
band from round the San Carlos that were reported as raiding down in
Sonora.”

“I seen well enough,” said Ephraim, “when I found him that they wasn’t
going to trouble us any, or they’d have been around by then.”

He was quite right, but Specimen Jones was thinking of something else.
He went out to the corral, feeling disturbed and doubtful. He saw the
tall white freight-wagon of the Mexicans, looming and silent, and a
little way off the new fence where the man lay. An odd sound startled
him, though he knew it was no Indians at this hour, and he looked
down into a little dry ditch. It was the boy, hidden away flat on his
stomach among the stones, sobbing.

“Oh, snakes!” whispered Specimen Jones, and stepped back. The Latin
races embrace and weep, and all goes well; but among Saxons tears are
a horrid event. Jones never knew what to do when it was a woman, but
this was truly disgusting. He was well seasoned by the frontier, had
tried a little of everything: town and country, ranches, saloons,
stage-driving, marriage occasionally, and latterly mines. He had
sundry claims staked out, and always carried pieces of stone in his
pockets, discoursing upon their mineral-bearing capacity, which was
apt to be very slight. That is why he was called Specimen Jones. He
had exhausted all the important sensations, and did not care much
for anything any more. Perfect health and strength kept him from
discovering that he was a saddened, drifting man. He wished to kick the
boy for his baby performance, and yet he stepped carefully away from
the ditch so the boy should not suspect his presence. He found himself
standing still, looking at the dim, broken desert.

“Why, hell,” complained Specimen Jones, “he played the little man to
start with. He did so. He scared that old horse-thief, Adams, just
about dead. Then he went to kill me, that kep’ him from bein’ buried
early to-morrow. I’ve been wild that way myself, and wantin’ to shoot
up the whole outfit.” Jones looked at the place where his middle finger
used to be, before a certain evening in Tombstone. “But I never--” He
glanced towards the ditch, perplexed. “What’s that mean? Why in the
world does he git to cryin’ for _now_, do you suppose?” Jones took to
singing without knowing it. “‘Ye shepherds, tell me, have you seen my
Flora pass this way?’” he murmured. Then a thought struck him. “Hello,
kid!” he called out. There was no answer. “Of course,” said Jones.
“Now he’s ashamed to hev me see him come out of there.” He walked with
elaborate slowness round the corral and behind a shed. “Hello, you
kid!” he called again.

“I was thinking of going to sleep,” said the boy, appearing quite
suddenly. “I--I’m not used to riding all day. I’ll get used to it, you
know,” he hastened to add.

“‘Ha-ve you seen my Flo’--Say, kid, where y’u bound, anyway?”

“San Carlos.”

“San Carlos? Oh. Ah. ‘Flo-ra pass this way?’”

“Is it far, sir?”

“Awful far, sometimes. It’s always liable to be far through the
Arivaypa Cañon.”

“I didn’t expect to make it between meals,” remarked Cumnor.

“No. Sure. What made you come this route?”

“A man told me.”

“A man? Oh. Well, it is kind o’ difficult, I admit, for an Arizonan
not to lie to a stranger. But I think I’d have told you to go by Tres
Alamos and Point of Mountain. It’s the road the man that told you would
choose himself every time. Do you like Injuns, kid?”

Cumnor snapped eagerly.

“Of course y’u do. And you’ve never saw one in the whole
minute-and-a-half you’ve been alive. I know all about it.”

“I’m not afraid,” said the boy.

“Not afraid? Of course y’u ain’t. What’s your idea in going to Carlos?
Got town lots there?”

“No,” said the literal youth, to the huge internal diversion of Jones.
“There’s a man there I used to know back home. He’s in the cavalry.
What sort of a town is it for sport?” asked Cumnor, in a gay Lothario
tone.

“_Town?_” Specimen Jones caught hold of the top rail of the corral.
“_Sport?_ Now I’ll tell y’u what sort of a town it is. There ain’t no
streets. There ain’t no houses. There ain’t any land and water in the
usual meaning of them words. There’s Mount Turnbull. It’s pretty near
a usual mountain, but y’u don’t want to go there. The Creator didn’t
make San Carlos. It’s a heap older than Him. When He got around to it
after slickin’ up Paradise and them fruit-trees, He just left it to be
as He found it, as a sample of the way they done business before He
come along. He ’ain’t done any work around that spot at all, He ’ain’t.
Mix up a barrel of sand and ashes and thorns, and jam scorpions and
rattlesnakes along in, and dump the outfit on stones, and heat yer
stones red-hot, and set the United States army loose over the place
chasin’ Apaches, and you’ve got San Carlos.”

Cumnor was silent for a moment. “I don’t care,” he said. “I want to
chase Apaches.”

“Did you see that man Ephraim found by the cañon?” Jones inquired.

“Didn’t get here in time.”

“Well, there was a hole in his chest made by an arrow. But there’s no
harm in that if you die at wunst. That chap didn’t, y’u see. You heard
Ephraim tell about it. They’d done a number of things to the man before
he could die. Roastin’ was only one of ’em. Now your road takes you
through the mountains where these Injuns hev gone. Kid, come along to
Tucson with me,” urged Jones, suddenly.

Again Cumnor was silent. “Is my road different from other people’s?” he
said, finally.

“Not to Grant, it ain’t. These Mexicans are hauling freight to Grant.
But what’s the matter with your coming to Tucson with me?”

“I started to go to San Carlos, and I’m going,” said Cumnor.

“You’re a poor chuckle-headed fool!” burst out Jones, in a rage. “And
y’u can go, for all I care--you and your Christmas-tree pistol. Like as
not you won’t find your cavalry friend at San Carlos. They’ve killed a
lot of them soldiers huntin’ Injuns this season. Goodnight.”

Specimen Jones was gone. Cumnor walked to his blanket-roll, where his
saddle was slung under the shed. The various doings of the evening had
bruised his nerves. He spread his blankets among the dry cattle-dung,
and sat down, taking off a few clothes slowly. He lumped his coat
and overalls under his head for a pillow, and, putting the despised
pistol alongside, lay between the blankets. No object showed in the
night but the tall freight-wagon. The tenderfoot thought he had made
altogether a fool of himself upon the first trial trip of his manhood,
alone on the open sea of Arizona. No man, not even Jones now, was his
friend. A stranger, who could have had nothing against him but his
inexperience, had taken the trouble to direct him on the wrong road.
He did not mind definite enemies. He had punched the heads of those
in Pennsylvania, and would not object to shooting them here; but this
impersonal, surrounding hostility of the unknown was new and bitter:
the cruel, assassinating, cowardly Southwest, where prospered those
jail-birds whom the vigilantes had driven from California. He thought
of the nameless human carcass that lay near, buried that day, and of
the jokes about its mutilations. Cumnor was not an innocent boy, either
in principles or in practice, but this laughter about a dead body had
burned into his young, unhardened soul. He lay watching with hot,
dogged eyes the brilliant stars. A passing wind turned the windmill,
which creaked a forlorn minute, and ceased. He must have gone to sleep
and slept soundly, for the next he knew it was the cold air of dawn
that made him open his eyes. A numb silence lay over all things, and
the tenderfoot had that moment of curiosity as to where he was now
which comes to those who have journeyed for many days. The Mexicans had
already departed with their freight-wagon. It was not entirely light,
and the embers where these early starters had cooked their breakfast
lay glowing in the sand across the road. The boy remembered seeing a
wagon where now he saw only chill, distant peaks, and while he lay
quiet and warm, shunning full consciousness, there was a stir in the
cabin, and at Ephraim’s voice reality broke upon his drowsiness, and
he recollected Arizona and the keen stress of shifting for himself. He
noted the gray paling round the grave. Indians? He would catch up with
the Mexicans, and travel in their company to Grant. Freighters made
but fifteen miles in the day, and he could start after breakfast and
be with them before they stopped to noon. Six men need not worry about
Apaches, Cumnor thought. The voice of Specimen Jones came from the
cabin, and sounds of lighting the stove, and the growling conversation
of men getting up. Cumnor, lying in his blankets, tried to overhear
what Jones was saying, for no better reason than that this was the only
man he had met lately who had seemed to care whether he were alive
or dead. There was the clink of Ephraim’s whiskey-bottles, and the
cheerful tones of old Mr. Adams, saying, “It’s better ’n brushin’ yer
teeth”; and then further clinking, and an inquiry from Specimen Jones.

“Whose spurs?” said he.

“Mine.” This from Mr. Adams.

“How long have they been yourn?”

“Since I got ’em, I guess.”

“Well, you’ve enjoyed them spurs long enough.” The voice of Specimen
Jones now altered in quality.

“And you’ll give ’em back to that kid.”

Muttering followed that the boy could not catch.

“You’ll give ’em back,” repeated Jones. “I seen y’u lift ’em from under
that chair when I was in the corner.”

“That’s straight, Mr. Adams,” said Ephraim. “I noticed it myself,
though I had no objections, of course. But Mr. Jones has pointed out--”

“Since when have you growed so honest, Jones?” cackled Mr. Adams,
seeing that he must lose his little booty. “And why didn’t you raise
yer objections when you seen me do it?”

“I didn’t know the kid,” Jones explained. “And if it don’t strike you
that game blood deserves respect, why it does strike me.”

Hearing this, the tenderfoot, outside in his shed, thought better of
mankind and life in general, arose from his nest, and began preening
himself. He had all the correct trappings for the frontier, and his
toilet in the shed gave him pleasure. The sun came up, and with a
stroke struck the world to crystal. The near sand-hills went into rose,
the crabbed yucca and the mesquite turned transparent, with lances and
pale films of green, like drapery graciously veiling the desert’s face,
and distant violet peaks and edges framed the vast enchantment beneath
the liquid exhalations of the sky. The smell of bacon and coffee from
open windows filled the heart with bravery and yearning, and Ephraim,
putting his head round the corner, called to Cumnor that he had better
come in and eat. Jones, already at table, gave him the briefest nod;
but the spurs were there, replaced as Cumnor had left them under a
chair in the corner. In Arizona they do not say much at any meal, and
at breakfast nothing at all; and as Cumnor swallowed and meditated, he
noticed the cream-colored lady and the chain, and he made up his mind
he should assert his identity with regard to that business, though how
and when was not clear to him. He was in no great haste to take up
his journey. The society of the Mexicans whom he must sooner or later
overtake did not tempt him. When breakfast was done he idled in the
cabin, like the other guests, while Ephraim and his assistant busied
about the premises. But the morning grew on, and the guests, after a
season of smoking and tilted silence against the wall, shook themselves
and their effects together, saddled, and were lost among the waste
thorny hills. Twenty Mile became hot and torpid. Jones lay on three
consecutive chairs, occasionally singing, and, old Mr. Adams had not
gone away either, but watched him, with more tobacco running down his
beard.

“Well,” said Cumnor, “I’ll be going.”

“Nobody’s stopping y’u,” remarked Jones.

“You’re going to Tucson?” the boy said, with the chain problem still
unsolved in his mind. “Good-bye, Mr. Jones. I hope I’ll--we’ll--”

“That’ll do,” said Jones; and the tenderfoot, thrown back by this
severity, went to get his saddle-horse and his burro.

Presently Jones remarked to Mr. Adams that he wondered what Ephraim was
doing, and went out. The old gentleman was left alone in the room, and
he swiftly noticed that the belt and pistol of Specimen Jones were left
alone with him. The accoutrement lay by the chair its owner had been
lounging in. It is an easy thing to remove cartridges from the chambers
of a revolver, and replace the weapon in its holster so that everything
looks quite natural. The old gentleman was entertained with the notion
that somewhere in Tucson Specimen Jones might have a surprise, and he
did not take a minute to prepare this, drop the belt as it lay before,
and saunter innocently out of the saloon. Ephraim and Jones were
criticising the tenderfoot’s property as he packed his burro.

“Do y’u make it a rule to travel with ice-cream?” Jones was inquiring.

“They’re for water,” Cumnor said. “They told me at Tucson I’d need to
carry water for three days on some trails.”

It was two good-sized milk-cans that he had, and they bounced about on
the little burro’s pack, giving him as much amazement as a jackass can
feel. Jones and Ephraim were hilarious.

“Don’t go without your spurs, Mr. Cumnor,” said the voice of old Mr.
Adams, as he approached the group. His tone was particularly civil.

The tenderfoot had, indeed, forgotten his spurs, and he ran back to get
them. The cream-colored lady still had the chain hanging upon her, and
Cumnor’s problem was suddenly solved. He put the chain in his pocket,
and laid the price of one round of drinks for last night’s company on
the shelf below the chromo. He returned with his spurs on, and went
to his saddle that lay beside that of Specimen Jones under the shed.
After a moment he came with his saddle to where the men stood talking
by his pony, slung it on, and tightened the cinches; but the chain was
now in the saddle-bag of Specimen Jones, mixed up with some tobacco,
stale bread, a box of matches, and a hunk of fat bacon. The men at
Twenty Mile said good-day to the tenderfoot, with monosyllables and
indifference, and watched him depart into the heated desert. Wishing
for a last look at Jones, he turned once, and saw the three standing,
and the chocolate brick of the cabin, and the windmill white and idle
in the sun.

“He’ll be gutted by night,” remarked Mr. Adams.

“I ain’t buryin’ him, then,” said Ephraim.

“Nor I,” said Specimen Jones. “Well, it’s time I was getting to Tucson.”

He went to the saloon, strapped on his pistol, saddled, and rode away.
Ephraim and Mr. Adams returned to the cabin; and here is the final
conclusion they came to after three hours of discussion as to who took
the chain and who had it just then:

_Ephraim._ Jones, he hadn’t no cash.

_Mr. Adams._ The kid, he hadn’t no sense.

_Ephraim._ The kid, he lent the cash to Jones.

_Mr. Adams._ Jones, he goes off with his chain.

_Both._ What damn fools everybody is, anyway!

And they went to dinner. But Mr. Adams did not mention his relations
with Jones’s pistol. Let it be said, in extenuation of that
performance, that Mr. Adams supposed Jones was going to Tucson, where
he said he was going, and where a job and a salary were awaiting him.
In Tucson an unloaded pistol in the holster of so handy a man on the
drop as was Specimen would keep people civil, because they would not
know, any more than the owner, that it was unloaded; and the mere
possession of it would be sufficient in nine chances out of ten--though
it was undoubtedly for the tenth that Mr. Adams had a sneaking hope.
But Specimen Jones was not going to Tucson. A contention in his mind as
to whether he would do what was good for himself, or what was good for
another, had kept him sullen ever since he got up. Now it was settled,
and Jones in serene humor again. Of course he had started on the Tucson
road, for the benefit of Ephraim and Mr. Adams.

The tenderfoot rode along. The Arizona sun beat down upon the deadly
silence, and the world was no longer of crystal, but a mesa, dull and
gray and hot. The pony’s hoofs grated in the gravel, and after a time
the road dived down and up among lumpy hills of stone and cactus,
always nearer the fierce glaring Sierra Santa Catalina. It dipped so
abruptly in and out of the shallow sudden ravines that, on coming up
from one of these into sight of the country again, the tenderfoot’s
heart jumped at the close apparition of another rider quickly bearing
in upon him from gullies where he had been moving unseen. But it was
only Specimen Jones.

“Hello!” said he, joining Cumnor. “Hot, ain’t it?”

“Where are you going?” inquired Cumnor.

“Up here a ways.” And Jones jerked his finger generally towards the
Sierra, where they were heading.

“Thought you had a job in Tucson.”

“That’s what I have.”

Specimen Jones had no more to say, and they rode for a while, their
ponies’ hoofs always grating in the gravel, and the milk-cans lightly
clanking on the burro’s pack. The bunched blades of the yuccas bristled
steel-stiff, and as far as you could see it was a gray waste of mounds
and ridges sharp and blunt, up to the forbidding boundary walls of the
Tortilita one way and the Santa Catalina the other. Cumnor wondered
if Jones had found the chain. Jones was capable of not finding it for
several weeks, or of finding it at once and saying nothing.

“You’ll excuse my meddling with your business?” the boy hazarded.

Jones looked inquiring.

“Something’s wrong with your saddle-pocket.”

Specimen saw nothing apparently wrong with it, but perceiving Cumnor
was grinning, unbuckled the pouch. He looked at the boy rapidly, and
looked away again, and as he rode, still in silence, he put the chain
back round his neck below the flannel shirt-collar.

“Say, kid,” he remarked, after some time, “what does J stand for?”

“J? Oh, my name! Jock.”

“Well, Jock, will y’u explain to me as a friend how y’u ever come to
be such a fool as to leave yer home--wherever and whatever it was--in
exchange for this here God-forsaken and iniquitous hole?”

“If you’ll explain to me,” said the boy, greatly heartened, “how you
come to be ridin’ in the company of a fool, instead of goin’ to your
job at Tucson.”

The explanation was furnished before Specimen Jones had framed his
reply. A burning freight-wagon and five dismembered human stumps lay
in the road. This was what had happened to the Miguels and Serapios
and the concertina. Jones and Cumnor, in their dodging and struggles
to exclude all expressions of growing mutual esteem from their speech,
had forgotten their journey, and a sudden bend among the rocks where
the road had now brought them revealed the blood and fire staring them
in the face. The plundered wagon was three parts empty; its splintered,
blazing boards slid down as they burned into the fiery heap on the
ground; packages of soda and groceries and medicines slid with them,
bursting into chemical spots of green and crimson flame; a wheel
crushed in and sank, spilling more packages that flickered and hissed;
the garbage of combat and murder littered the earth, and in the air
hung an odor that Cumnor knew, though he had never smelled it before.
Morsels of dropped booty up among the rocks showed where the Indians
had gone, and one horse remained, groaning, with an accidental arrow in
his belly.

“We’ll just kill him,” said Jones; and his pistol snapped idly, and
snapped again, as his eye caught a motion--a something--two hundred
yards up among the bowlders on the hill. He whirled round. The enemy
was behind them also. There was no retreat. “Yourn’s no good!” yelled
Jones, fiercely, for Cumnor was getting out his little, foolish
revolver. “Oh, what a trick to play on a man! Drop off yer horse,
kid; drop, and do like me. Shootin’s no good here, even if I was
loaded. _They_ shot, and look at them now. God bless them ice-cream
freezers of yourn, kid! Did y’u ever see a crazy man? If you ’ain’t,
_make it up as y’u go along!_”

[Illustration: The milk-cans clashed, and Jones thought he felt the
boy’s strokes weakening. _Page 339._]

More objects moved up among the bowlders. Specimen Jones ripped off the
burro’s pack, and the milk-cans rolled on the ground. The burro began
grazing quietly, with now and then a step towards new patches of grass.
The horses stood where their riders had left them, their reins over
their heads, hanging and dragging. From two hundred yards on the hill
the ambushed Apaches showed, their dark, scattered figures appearing
cautiously one by one, watching with suspicion. Specimen Jones seized
up one milk-can, and Cumnor obediently did the same.

“You kin dance, kid, and I kin sing, and we’ll go to it,” said Jones.
He rambled in a wavering loop, and diving eccentrically at Cumnor,
clashed the milk-cans together. “‘Es schallt ein Ruf wie Donnerhall,’”
he bawled, beginning the song of “Die Wacht am Rhein.” “Why don’t you
dance?” he shouted sternly. The boy saw the terrible earnestness of
his face, and, clashing his milk-cans in turn, he shuffled a sort of
jig. The two went over the sand in loops, toe and heel; the donkey
continued his quiet grazing, and the flames rose hot and yellow from
the freight-wagon. And all the while the stately German hymn pealed
among the rocks, and the Apaches crept down nearer the bowing, scraping
men. The sun shone bright, and their bodies poured with sweat. Jones
flung off his shirt; his damp, matted hair was half in ridges and
half glued to his forehead, and the delicate gold chain swung and
struck his broad, naked breast. The Apaches drew nearer again, their
bows and arrows held uncertainly. They came down the hill, fifteen or
twenty, taking a long time, and stopping every few yards. The milk-cans
clashed, and Jones thought he felt the boy’s strokes weakening. “Die
Wacht am Rhein” was finished, and now it was “‘Ha-ve you seen my Flora
pass this way?’” “Y’u mustn’t play out, kid,” said Jones, very gently.
“Indeed y’u mustn’t”; and he at once resumed his song. The silent
Apaches had now reached the bottom of the hill. They stood some twenty
yards away, and Cumnor had a good chance to see his first Indians. He
saw them move, and the color and slim shape of their bodies, their thin
arms, and their long black hair. It went through his mind that if he
had no more clothes on than that, dancing would come easier. His boots
were growing heavy to lift, and his overalls seemed to wrap his sinews
in wet, strangling thongs. He wondered how long he had been keeping
this up. The legs of the Apaches were free, with light moccasins only
half-way to the thigh, slenderly held up by strings from the waist.
Cumnor envied their unencumbered steps as he saw them again walk nearer
to where he was dancing. It was long since he had eaten, and he noticed
a singing dulness in his brain, and became frightened at his thoughts,
which were running and melting into one fixed idea. This idea was to
take off his boots, and offer to trade them for a pair of moccasins.
It terrified him--this endless, molten rush of thoughts; he could see
them coming in different shapes from different places in his head, but
they all joined immediately, and always formed the same fixed idea. He
ground his teeth to master this encroaching inebriation of his will
and judgment. He clashed his can more loudly to wake him to reality,
which he still could recognize and appreciate. For a time he found it
a good plan to listen to what Specimen Jones was singing, and tell
himself the name of the song, if he knew it. At present it was “Yankee
Doodle,” to which Jones was fitting words of his own. These ran, “Now
I’m going to try a bluff, And mind you do what I do”; and then again,
over and over. Cumnor waited for the word “bluff”; for it was hard and
heavy, and fell into his thoughts, and stopped them for a moment. The
dance was so long now he had forgotten about that. A numbness had been
spreading through his legs, and he was glad to feel a sharp pain in
the sole of his foot. It was a piece of gravel that had somehow worked
its way in, and was rubbing through the skin into the flesh. “That’s
good,” he said, aloud. The pebble was eating the numbness away, and
Cumnor drove it hard against the raw spot, and relished the tonic of
its burning friction. The Apaches had drawn into a circle. Standing at
some interval apart, they entirely surrounded the arena. Shrewd, half
convinced, and yet with awe, they watched the dancers, who clashed
their cans slowly now in rhythm to Jones’s hoarse, parched singing. He
was quite master of himself, and led the jig round the still blazing
wreck of the wagon, and circled in figures of eight between the corpses
of the Mexicans, clashing the milk-cans above each one. Then, knowing
his strength was coming to an end, he approached an Indian whose
splendid fillet and trappings denoted him of consequence; and Jones was
near shouting with relief when the Indian shrank backward. Suddenly
he saw Cumnor let his can drop, and without stopping to see why, he
caught it up, and, slowly rattling both, approached each Indian in
turn with tortuous steps. The circle that had never uttered a sound
till now receded, chanting almost in a whisper some exorcising song
which the man with the fillet had begun. They gathered round him,
retreating always, and the strain, with its rapid muttered words, rose
and fell softly among them. Jones had supposed the boy was overcome by
faintness, and looked to see where he lay. But it was not faintness.
Cumnor, with his boots off, came by and walked after the Indians in a
trance. They saw him, and quickened their pace, often turning to be
sure he was not overtaking them. He called to them unintelligibly,
stumbling up the sharp hill, and pointing to the boots. Finally he sat
down. They continued ascending the mountain, herding close round the
man with the feathers, until the rocks and the filmy tangles screened
them from sight; and like a wind that hums uncertainly in grass, their
chanting died away.

The sun was half behind the western range when Jones next moved. He
called, and, getting no answer, he crawled painfully to where the boy
lay on the hill. Cumnor was sleeping heavily; his head was hot, and he
moaned. So Jones crawled down, and fetched blankets and the canteen of
water. He spread the blankets over the boy, wet a handkerchief and laid
it on his forehead; then he lay down himself.

The earth was again magically smitten to crystal. Again the sharp
cactus and the sand turned beautiful, and violet floated among the
mountains, and rose-colored orange in the sky above them.

“Jock,” said Specimen at length.

The boy opened his eyes.

“Your foot is awful, Jock. Can y’u eat?”

“Not with my foot.”

“Ah, God bless y’u, Jock! Y’u ain’t turruble sick. But can y’u eat?”

Cumnor shook his head.

“Eatin’s what y’u need, though. Well, here.” Specimen poured a
judicious mixture of whiskey and water down the boy’s throat, and
wrapped the awful foot in his own flannel shirt. “They’ll fix y’u over
to Grant. It’s maybe twelve miles through the cañon. It ain’t a town
any more than Carlos is, but the soldiers’ll be good to us. As soon as
night comes you and me must somehow git out of this.”

Somehow they did, Jones walking and leading his horse and the
imperturbable little burro, and also holding Cumnor in the saddle.
And when Cumnor was getting well in the military hospital at Grant,
he listened to Jones recounting to all that chose to hear how useful
a weapon an ice-cream freezer can be, and how if you’ll only chase
Apaches in your stocking feet they are sure to run away. And then
Jones and Cumnor both enlisted; and I suppose Jones’s friend is still
expecting him in Tucson.




THE LAND OF THE STRADDLE-BUG

HAMLIN GARLAND

Dakota, 1883

From “The Moccasin Ranch.” Reprinted by permission of the author and
of Harper and Brothers, New York.[29]


I

Early in the gray and red dawn of a March morning in 1883, two wagons
moved slowly out of Boomtown, the two-year-old “giant of the plains.”
As the teams drew past the last house, the strangeness of the scene
appealed irresistibly to the newly arrived immigrants. The town lay
behind them on the level, treeless plain like a handful of blocks
pitched upon a russet robe. Its houses were mainly shanties of pine,
one story in height, while here and there actual tents gleamed in the
half-light with infinite suggestion of America’s restless pioneers.

The wind blew fresh and chill from the west. The sun rose swiftly, and
the thin scarf of morning cloud melted away, leaving an illimitable
sweep of sky arching an almost equally majestic plain. There was a
poignant charm in the air--a smell of freshly uncovered sod, a width
and splendor in the view which exalted the movers beyond words.

The prairie was ridged here and there with ice, and the swales were
full of posh and water. Geese were slowly winging their way against the
wind, and ducks were sitting here and there on the ice-rimmed ponds.
The sod was burned black and bare, and so firm with frost that the
wagon chuckled noisily as it passed over it. The whistle of the driver
called afar, startling the ducks from their all-night resting-places.

One of the teams drew a load of material for a house, together with
a few household utensils. The driver, a thin-faced, blue-eyed man of
thirty, walked beside his horses. His eyes were full of wonder, but he
walked in silence.

The second wagon was piled high with boxes and barrels of groceries and
hardware, and was driven by a handsome young fellow with a large brown
mustache. His name was Bailey, and he seemed to be pointing the way for
his companion, whom he called Burke.

As the sun rose, a kind of transformation-scene took place. The whole
level land lifted at the horizon till the teams seemed crawling
forever at bottom of an enormous bowl. Mystical forms came into
view--grotesquely elongated, unrecognizable. Hills twenty, thirty miles
away rose like apparitions, astonishingly magnified. Willows became
elms, a settler’s shanty rose like a shot-tower--towns hitherto unseen
swam and palpitated in the yellow flood of light like shaken banners
low-hung on unseen flagstaffs.

Burke marched with uplifted face. He was like one suddenly wakened in
a new world, where nothing was familiar. Not a tree or shrub was in
sight. Not a mark of plough or harrow--everything was wild, and to him
mystical and glorious. His eyes were like those of a man who sees a
world at its birth.

Hour after hour they moved across the swelling land. Hour after hour,
while the yellow sun rolled up the slope, putting to flight the morning
shapes on the horizon--striking the plain into level prose again, and
warming the air into genial March. Hour after hour the horses toiled on
till the last cabin fell away to the east, like a sail at sea, till the
road faded into a trail almost imperceptible on the firm sod.

And so at last they came to the land of “the straddle-bug”--the
squatters’ watch dog--three boards nailed together (like a stack of
army muskets) to mark a claim. Burke resembled a man taking his first
sea-voyage. His eyes searched the plain restlessly, and his brain
dreamed. Bailey, an old settler--of two years’ experience--whistled and
sang and shouted lustily to his tired beasts.

It drew toward noon. Bailey’s clear voice shouted back, “When we reach
that swell we’ll see the Western Coteaux.” The Western Coteaux! To
Burke, the man from Illinois, this was like discovering a new range of
mountains.

“There they rise,” Bailey called, a little later.

Burke looked away to the west. Low down on the horizon lay a long, blue
bank, hardly more substantial than a line of cloud. “How far off are
they?” he asked, in awe.

“About twenty-five miles. Our claims are just about in line with that
gap.” Bailey pointed with his whip. “And about twelve miles from here.
We’re on the unsurveyed land now.”

Burke experienced a thrill of exultation as he looked around him. In
the distance, other carriages were crawling like beetles. A couple of
shanties, newly built on a near-by ridge, glittered like gold in the
sun, and the piles of yellow lumber and the straddle-bugs increased in
number as they left the surveyed land and emerged into the finer tract
which lay as yet unmapped. At noon they stopped and fed their animals,
eating their own food on the ground beside their wagons.

While they rested, Bailey kept his eyes on their backward trail,
watching for his partner, Rivers. “It’s about time Jim showed up,” he
said, once again.

Burke seemed anxious. “They won’t get off the track, will they?”

Bailey laughed at his innocence. “Jim Rivers has located about
seventy-five claims out here this spring. I guess he won’t lose his
bearings.”

“I’m afraid Blanche’ll get nervous.”

“Oh, Jim will take care of her. She won’t be lonesome, either. He’s a
great favorite with the women, always gassin’--Well, this won’t feed
the baby,” he ended, leaping to his feet.

They were about to start on when a swift team came into sight. The
carriage was a platform-spring wagon, with a man and woman in the front
seat, and in the rear a couple of alert young fellows sat holding
rifles in their hands and eyeing the plain for game.

“Hello!” said the driver, in a pleasant shout. “How you getting on?”

“Pretty well,” replied Bailey.

“Should say you were. I didn’t know but we’d fail to overhaul you.”

Burke went up to the wagon. “Well, Blanche, what do you think of
it--far’s you’ve got?”

“Not very much,” replied his wife, candidly. She was a handsome woman,
but looked tired and a little cross, at the moment. “I guess I’ll get
out and ride with you,” she added.

“Why, no! What for?” asked Rivers, hastily. “Why not go right along out
to the store with us?”

“Why, yes; that’s the thing to do, Blanche. We’ll be along soon,” said
Burke. “Stay where you are.”

She sat down again, as if ashamed to give her reason for not going on
with these strange men.

“I was just in the middle of a story, too,” added Rivers, humorously.
“Well, so long.” And, cracking his whip, he started on. “We’ll have
supper ready when you arrive!” he shouted back.

Burke could not forget the look in his wife’s eyes. She was right. It
would have been pleasanter if she had stayed with him. They had been
married several years, but his love for her had not grown less. Perhaps
for the reason that she dominated him.

She was a fine, powerful girl, while he was a plain man, slightly
stooping, with thin face and prominent larynx. She had brought a little
property to him, which was unusual enough to give her a sense of
importance in all business transactions of the firm.

She had consented to the sale of their farm in Illinois with great
reluctance, and, as Burke rode along on his load of furniture, he
recalled it all very vividly, and it made him anxious to know her
impression of his claim. As he took her position for a moment, he got
a sudden sense of the loneliness and rawness of this new land which he
had not felt before. The woman’s point of view was so different from
that of the adventurous man.

Twice they were forced to partly unload in order to cross ravines where
the frost had fallen out, and it was growing dark as they rose over
the low swell, from which they could see a dim, red star, which Burke
guessed to be the shanty light, even before Bailey called, exultantly:

“There she blows!”

The wind had grown chill and moist, the quacking ducks were thickening
on the pools, and strange noises came from ghostly swells and hidden
creeks. The tired horses moved forward with soundless feet upon the
sod, which had softened during the day. They quickened their steps when
they saw the lantern shine from the pole before the building.

The light of the lamp, and the sight of Blanche standing in the doorway
of the cabin at the back of the store-room, was a beautiful sight to
Burke. Set over against the wet, dark prairie, with its boundless sweep
of unknown soil, the shanty seemed a radiant palace.

“Supper’s all ready, Willard!” called Blanche, and the tired man’s
heart leaped with joy to hear the tender, familiar cadence of her
voice. It was her happy voice, and when she used it men were her slaves.

Bailey came out with one of the land-seekers.

“Go in to supper, boys; we’ll take care of the teams,” was his hearty
command.

The tired freighters gladly did as they were bid, and, scooping up some
water from a near-by hollow on the sod, hurriedly washed their faces
and sat down to a supper of chopped potatoes, bacon and eggs, and tea
(which Blanche placed steaming hot upon the table), and in such joy as
only the weary worker knows.

Mrs. Burke was in high spirits. The novelty of the trip, the rude
shanty, with its litter of shavings, and its boxes for chairs, the
bundles of hay for beds, gave her something like the same pleasure a
picnic might have done. It appealed to the primeval in her. She forgot
her homesickness and her vague regrets, and her smiles filled her
husband with content.

Rivers and the others soon came in, and after supper there was a great
deal of energetic talk. The young land-seekers were garrulous with
delight over their claims, which they proudly exalted above the stumps
and stones of the farms “back home.”

“Why, it took three generations of my folks to clear off forty acres of
land,” said one of them. “They just wore themselves out on it. I told
Hank he could have it, and I’d go West and see if there wasn’t some
land out there which wouldn’t take a man’s lifetime to grub out and
smooth down. And I’ve found it.”

Rivers had plainly won the friendship of Mrs. Burke, for they were
having a jolly time together over by the table, where he was helping to
wash the dishes. He had laughing, brown eyes, and a pleasant voice, and
was one of the most popular of the lawyers and land-agents in Boomtown.
There was a boyish quality in him which kept him giving and taking
jocular remarks.

Bailey sometimes said: “Rivers would shine up to a seventy-year-old
Sioux squaw if she was the only woman handy, but he don’t mean anything
by it--it’s just his way. He’s one o’ the best-hearted fellers that
ever lived.” Others took a less favorable view of the land-agent, and
refused to trust him.

Bailey assumed command. “Now, fellers,” he said, “we’ll vamoose the
ranch while Mrs. Burke turns in.” He opened the way to the store-room,
and the men filed out, all but Burke, who remained to put up the calico
curtain with which his wife had planned to shield her bed.

Blanche was a little disturbed at the prospect of sleeping behind such
a thin barrier.

“Oh, it’s no worse than the sleeping-car,” her husband argued.

A little later he stuck his head in at the store-room door. “All ready,
Bailey.”

Bailey was to sleep on the rickety lounge, which served as bedstead and
chair, and the other men were to make down as best they could in the
grocery.

Bailey went out to the front of the shanty to look at the lantern he
had set up on a scantling. Rivers followed him.

“Going to leave that up there all night?”

“Yes. May keep some poor devil from wandering around all night on the
prairie.”

Rivers said, with an abrupt change in his voice:

“Mrs. Burke is a hummer, isn’t she? How’d his flat-chested nibs manage
to secure a ‘queen’ like that? I must get married, Bailey--no use.”

Bailey took his friend’s declaration more lightly than it deserved. He
laughed. “Wish you would, Jim, and relieve me of the cookin’.”

Blanche could hardly compose herself to sleep. “Isn’t it wonderful,”
she whispered. “It’s all so strange, like being out of the world,
someway.”

Burke heard the ducks quacking down in the “Moggason”, and he, too,
_felt_ the silence and immensity of the plain outside. It was enormous,
incredible in its wildness. “I believe we’re going to like it out here,
Blanche,” he said.

Blanche Burke rose to a beautiful and busy day. The breakfast which
she cooked in the early dawn was savory, and Rivers, who helped her by
bringing water and building the fire, was full of life and humor. He
seemed to have no other business than to “wait and tend” on her.

He called her out to see the sunrise. “Isn’t this great!” he called,
exultantly. Flights of geese were passing, and the noise of ducks came
to them from every direction. He pointed out the distant hills, and
called her attention to a solemn row of sand-hill cranes down by the
swale, causing her to see the wonder and beauty of this new world.

“You’re going to like it out here,” he said, with conviction. “It is a
glorious climate, and you’ll soon have more neighbors than you want.”

After breakfast Bailey and Burke left the “Moggason Ranch”--as Bailey
called the store and shanty--to carry the lumber and furniture
belonging to Burke on to his claim, two or three miles away. Rivers
remained to work in the store, and to meet some other land-seekers, and
Mrs. Burke agreed to stay and get dinner for them all.

During this long forenoon, Rivers exerted himself to prevent her from
being lonely. He was busy about the store, but he found time to keep
her fire going and to bring water and to tell her of his bachelor life
with Bailey. She had never had anything like this swift and smiling
service, and she felt very grateful to him. He encouraged her to make
some pies and to prepare a “thumping dinner.” “It will seem like being
married again,” he said, with a chuckle.

Burke and Bailey returned at noon to dinner.

“Mrs. Burke, you can sleep in your own ranch to-night,” announced
Bailey.

“I guess it will be a ranch.”

“It’ll be new, anyhow,” her husband said, with a timid smile.

After dinner she straightened things up a little, and as she got into
the wagon she said: “Well, there, Mr. Rivers. _You’ll_ have to take
care o’ things now.”

Rivers leered comically, sighed, and looked at his partner. “Bailey, I
didn’t know what we needed before; I know now. We need a woman.”

Bailey smiled. “Go get one. Don’t ask a clumsy old farmer like me to
provide a cook.”

“I’ll get married to-morrow,” said Rivers, with a droll inflection.
They all laughed, and Burke clucked at the team. “Well, good-bye, boys;
see you later.”

After leaving the ranch they struck out over the prairie where no
wagon-wheel but theirs had ever passed. Here were the buffalo trails,
deep-worn ruts all running from northwest to southeast. Here lay the
white bones of elk in shining crates, ghastly on the fire-blackened
sod. Beside the shallow pools, buffalo horns, in testimony of the
tragic past, lay scattered thickly. Everywhere could be seen the signs
of the swarming herds of bison which once swept to and fro from north
to south over the plain, all so silent and empty now.

A few antelope scurried away out of the path, and a wolf sitting on a
height gravely watched the teams as if marvelling at their coming. The
wind swept out of the west clear and cold. The sky held no shred of
cloud. The air was like some all-powerful intoxicant, and when Bailey
pointed out a row of little stakes and said, “There’s the railroad,”
their imagination supplied the trains, the wheat, the houses, the towns
which were to come.

At the claim Blanche sat on a box and watched the two men as they
swiftly built the little cabin which was to be her home. Their hammers
rang merrily, and soon she was permitted to go inside and look up at
the great sky which roofed it in. This was an emotional moment to her.
As she sat there listening to the voices of the men who were drawing
this fragile shelter around her, a great awe fell upon her. It seemed
as if she had drawn a little nearer to the Almighty Creator of the
universe. Here, where no white man had ever set foot, she was watching
the founding of her own house. Was it a home? Could it ever be a home?

Swiftly the roof closed over her head, and the floor crept under her
feet. The stove came in, and the flour-barrel, and the few household
articles which they had brought followed, and as the sun was setting
they all sat down to supper in her new home.

The smell of the fresh pine was round them. Geese were flying over.
Cranes were dancing down by the ponds, prairie-chickens were _booming_.
The open doorway--doorless yet--looked out on the sea-like plain
glorified by the red sun just sinking over the purple line of treeless
hills to the west. It was the bare, raw materials of a State, and they
were in at the beginning of it.

After Bailey left them the husband and wife sat in silence. When they
spoke it was in low voices. It seemed as if God could hear what they
said--that He was just there behind the glory of the western clouds.


II

Day by day the plain thickened with life. Each noon a crowd of
land-seekers swarmed about the Moggason Ranch asking for food and
shelter, and Blanche, responding to Rivers’ entreaties, went down to
cook, returning each night to her bed. Rivers professed to be very
grateful for her aid.

All ages and sexes came to take claims. Old men, alone and feeble,
school-teachers from the East, young girls from the towns of the older
counties, boys not yet of age--everywhere incoming claimants were
setting stakes upon the green and beautiful sod.

Each day the grass grew more velvety green. Each day the sky waxed
warmer. The snow disappeared from the ravines. The ice broke up on
the Moggason. The ponds disappeared. Plover flew over with wailing
cry. Buffalo birds, prairie pigeons, larks, blackbirds, sparrows,
joined their voices to those of the cranes and geese and ducks, and
the prairie piped and twittered and clacked and chuckled with life.
The gophers emerged from their winter quarters, the foxes barked on
the hills, the skunk hobbled along the ravines, and the badger raised
mounds of fresh soil as if to aid the boomer by showing how deep the
black loam was.

Everybody was in holiday mood. Men whistled and sang and shouted and
toiled--toiled terribly--and yet it did not seem like toil! They sank
wells and ploughed gardens and built barns and planted seeds, and yet
the whole settlement continued to present the care-free manners of
a great pleasure party. It seemed as if no one needed to work, and,
therefore, those first months were months of gay and swift progress.

It was the most beautiful spring Blanche and Willard Burke had spent
since their marriage nine years before. Blanche forgot to be petulant
or moody. She was in superb health, and carried herself like a girl of
eighteen. She appeared to have lost all her regrets.

She laughed heartily when Rivers came over one afternoon and boldly
declared:

“Burke, I’ve c’me to borrow your wife. We’ve got a lot o’ tenderfoots
over there to-night, and I’m a little shy of Bailey’s biscuits. I’m
going to carry your cook away.”

“All right; only bring her back.”

Blanche was a little embarrassed when Rivers replied: “I don’t like to
agree to do that. Mebbe you’d better come over to make sure I do.”

“All right. I’ll come over in time for supper.” Burke’s simple, good
face glowed with enjoyment of the fun. He smilingly went back to
beating his ploughshare with hammer and wedge as Rivers drove away
with Blanche. The clink of his steel rang through the golden light that
flooded the prairie, keeping time to his whistled song.

In the months of April and May the world sent a skirmish-line into this
echoless land to take possession of a belt of territory six hundred
miles long and one hundred miles broad. The settlers came like locusts;
they sang like larks. From Alsace and Lorraine, from the North Sea,
from Russia, from the Alps, they came, and their faces shone as if they
had happened upon the spring-time of the world. Tyranny was behind
them, the majesty of God’s wilderness before them, a mystic joy within
them.

Under their hands the straddle-bug multiplied. He is short-lived, this
prairie insect. He usually dies in thirty days--by courtesy alone he
lives. He expresses the settlers’ hope and sense of justice. In these
spring days of good cheer he lived at times to sixty days--but only on
stony ground or fire-scarred, peaty lowlands.

He withered--this strange, three-legged, voiceless insect--but in his
stead arose a beetle. This beetle sheltered human beings, and was
called a shack.

They were all alike, these shacks. They had roofs of one slant. They
were built of rough lumber, and roofed with tarred paper, which made
all food taste of tar.

They were dens but little higher than a man’s head, and yet they
sheltered the most joyous people that ever set foot to earth. In one
cabin lived a girl and a canary-bird, all alone. In the next a man who
cooked his own food when he did not share his rations with the girl,
all in frank and honorable companionship. On the next claim were two
school-teachers, busy as magpies, using the saw and hammer with deft
accuracy. In the next was a bank-clerk out for his health--and these
clean and self-contained people lived in free intercourse without
slander and without fear. Only the Alsatians settled in groups, alien
and unapproachable. All others met at odd times and places, breathing
in the promiseful air of the clean sod, resolute to put the world of
hopeless failure behind them.

Spring merged magnificently into summer. The grass upthrust. The
water-fowl passed on to the northern lake-region. The morning symphony
of the prairie-chickens died out, but the whistle of the larks, the
chatter of the sparrows, and the wailing cry of the nestling plover
came to take its place.

The gophers whistled and trilled, the foxes barked from the hills, and
an occasional startled antelope or curious wolf passed through the line
of settlement as if to see what lay behind this strange phalanx of
ploughmen guarding their yellow shanties.

Week after week passed away, and the government surveyors did not
appear. The Boomtown _Spike_ told in each issue how the men of the
chain and compass were pushing westward; but still they did not come,
and the settlers’ hopes of getting their claims filed before winter
grew fainter. The mass of them had planned to take claims in the
spring, live on them the required six months, “prove up,” and return
East for the winter.

In spite of these disappointments, all continued to be merry. No one
took any part of it very seriously. The young men went out and ploughed
when they pleased, and came in and sat on the door-step and talked with
the women when they were weary. The shanties were hot and crowded, but
no one minded that; by-and-by they were to build bigger.

And, then, all was so new and beautiful, and the sky was so clear. Oh,
that marvellous, lofty sky with just clouds enough to make the blue
more intense! Oh, the wonder of the wind from the wild, mysterious
green sea to the west! With the change and sheen of the prairie,
incessant and magical life was made marvellous and the winter put far
away.

Merry parties drove here and there visiting. Formalities counted
for little, and yet with all this freedom of intercourse, this close
companionship, no one pointed the finger of gossip toward any woman.
The girls in their one-room huts received calls from their bachelor
neighbors with the confidence that comes from purity of purpose, both
felt and understood. Life was strangely idyllic during these spring
days. Envy and hate and suspicion seemed exorcised from the world.




OLD EPHRAIM

THE GRIZZLY

THEODORE ROOSEVELT

From “Hunting-Trips of a Ranchman.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.[30]


But few bears are found in the immediate neighborhood of my ranch; and
though I have once or twice seen their tracks in the Bad Lands, I have
never had any experience with the animals themselves except during the
elk-hunting trip on the Bighorn Mountains, described in the preceding
chapter.

The grizzly bear undoubtedly comes in the category of dangerous game,
and is, perhaps, the only animal in the United States that can be
fairly so placed, unless we count the few jaguars found north of the
Rio Grande. But the danger of hunting the grizzly has been greatly
exaggerated, and the sport is certainly very much safer than it was at
the beginning of this century. The first hunters who came into contact
with this great bear were men belonging to that hardy and adventurous
class of backwoodsmen which had filled the wild country between the
Appalachian Mountains and the Mississippi. These men carried but one
weapon: the long-barrelled, small-bored pea-rifle, whose bullets ran
seventy to the pound, the amount of powder and lead being a little
less than that contained in the cartridge of a thirty-two calibre
Winchester. In the Eastern States almost all the hunting was done in
the woodland; the shots were mostly obtained at short distance, and
deer and black bear were the largest game; moreover, the pea-rifles
were marvellously accurate for close range, and their owners were famed
the world over for their skill as marksmen. Thus these rifles had so
far proved plenty good enough for the work they had to do, and indeed
had done excellent service as military weapons in the ferocious wars
that the men of the border carried on with their Indian neighbors, and
even in conflict with more civilized foes, as at the battles of King’s
Mountain and New Orleans. But when the restless frontiersmen pressed
out over the Western plains, they encountered in the grizzly a beast
of far greater bulk and more savage temper than any of those found in
the Eastern woods, and their small-bore rifles were utterly inadequate
weapons with which to cope with him. It is small wonder that he was
considered by them to be almost invulnerable, and extraordinarily
tenacious of life. He would be a most unpleasant antagonist now to a
man armed only with a thirty-two calibre rifle, that carried but a
single shot and was loaded at the muzzle. A rifle, to be of use in this
sport, should carry a ball weighing from half an ounce to an ounce.
With the old pea-rifles the shot had to be in the eye or heart; and
accidents to the hunter were very common. But the introduction of heavy
breech-loading repeaters has greatly lessened the danger, even in the
very few and far-off places where the grizzlies are as ferocious as
formerly. For nowadays these great bears are undoubtedly much better
aware of the death-dealing power of men, and, as a consequence,
much less fierce, than was the case with their forefathers, who so
unhesitatingly attacked the early Western travellers and explorers.
Constant contact with rifle-carrying hunters, for a period extending
over many generations of bear-life, has taught the grizzly by bitter
experience that man is his undoubted overlord, as far as fighting goes;
and this knowledge has become an hereditary characteristic. No grizzly
will assail a man now unprovoked, and one will almost always rather run
than fight; though if he is wounded or thinks himself cornered he will
attack his foes with a headlong, reckless fury that renders him one of
the most dangerous of wild beasts. The ferocity of all wild animals
depends largely upon the amount of resistance they are accustomed to
meet with, and the quantity of molestation to which they are subjected.

The change in the grizzly’s character during the last half-century
has been precisely paralleled by the change in the characters of his
northern cousin, the polar bear, and of the South African lion. When
the Dutch and Scandinavian sailors first penetrated the Arctic seas,
they were kept in constant dread of the white bear, who regarded a man
as simply an erect variety of seal, quite as good eating as the common
kind. The records of these early explorers are filled with examples of
the ferocious and man-eating propensities of the polar bears; but in
the accounts of most of the later Arctic expeditions they are portrayed
as having learned wisdom, and being now most anxious to keep out of the
way of the hunters. A number of my sporting friends have killed white
bears, and none of them were ever even charged. And in South Africa the
English sportsmen and Dutch Boers have taught the lion to be a very
different creature from what it was when the first white man reached
that continent. If the Indian tiger had been a native of the United
States, it would now be one of the most shy of beasts. Of late years
our estimate of the grizzly’s ferocity has been lowered; and we no
longer accept the tales of uneducated hunters as being proper authority
by which to judge it. But we should make a parallel reduction in the
cases of many foreign animals and their describers. Take, for example,
that purely melodramatic beast, the North African lion, as portrayed
by Jules Gérard, who bombastically describes himself as “le tueur des
lions.” Gérard’s accounts are self-evidently in large part fictitious,
while if true they would prove less for the bravery of the lion than
for the phenomenal cowardice, incapacity, and bad marksmanship of the
Algerian Arabs. Doubtless Gérard was a great hunter; but so is many a
Western plainsman, whose account of the grizzlies he has killed would
be wholly untrustworthy. Take for instance the following from page 223
of “La Chasse au Lion”: “The inhabitants had assembled one day to the
number of two or three hundred with the object of killing (the lion)
or driving it out of the country. The attack took place at sunrise; at
midday five hundred cartridges had been expended; the Arabs carried
off one of their number dead and six wounded, and the lion remained
master of the field of battle.” Now if three hundred men could fire
five hundred shots at a lion without hurting him, it merely shows
that they were wholly incapable of hurting anything, or else that M.
Gérard was more expert with the long-bow than with the rifle. Gérard’s
whole book is filled with equally preposterous nonsense; yet a great
many people seriously accept this same book as trustworthy authority
for the manners and ferocity of the North African lion. It would be
quite as sensible to accept M. Jules Verne’s stories as being valuable
contributions to science. A good deal of the lion’s reputation is built
upon just such stuff.

How the prowess of the grizzly compares with that of the lion or
tiger would be hard to say; I have never shot either of the latter
myself, and my brother, who has killed tigers in India, has never
had a chance at a grizzly. Any one of the big bears we killed on the
mountains would, I should think, have been able to make short work of
either a lion or a tiger; for the grizzly is greatly superior in bulk
and muscular power to either of the great cats, and its teeth are as
large as theirs, while its claws, though blunter, are much longer;
nevertheless, I believe that a lion or a tiger would be fully as
dangerous to a hunter or other human being, on account of the superior
speed of its charge, the lightning-like rapidity of its movements,
and its apparently sharper senses. Still, after all is said, the man
should have a thoroughly trustworthy weapon and a fairly cool head,
who would follow into his own haunts and slay grim Old Ephraim.

A grizzly will only fight if wounded or cornered, or, at least, if he
thinks himself cornered. If a man by accident stumbles on to one close
up, he is almost certain to be attacked really more from fear than from
any other motive; exactly the same reason that makes a rattlesnake
strike at a passer-by. I have personally known of but one instance of
a grizzly turning on a hunter before being wounded. This happened to
a friend of mine, a Californian ranchman, who, with two or three of
his men, was following a bear that had carried off one of his sheep.
They got the bear into a cleft in the mountain from which there was no
escape, and he suddenly charged back through the line of his pursuers,
struck down one of the horsemen, seized the arm of the man in his jaws
and broke it as if it had been a pipe-stem, and was only killed after a
most lively fight, in which, by repeated charges, he at one time drove
every one of his assailants off the field.

But two instances have come to my personal knowledge where a man has
been killed by a grizzly. One was that of a hunter at the foot of the
Bighorn Mountains who had chased a large bear and finally wounded him.
The animal turned at once and came straight at the man, whose second
shot missed. The bear then closed and passed on, after striking only a
single blow; yet that one blow, given with all the power of its thick,
immensely muscular forearm, armed with nails as strong as so many
hooked steel spikes, tore out the man’s collar-bone and snapped through
three or four ribs. He never recovered from the shock, and died that
night.

The other instance occurred to a neighbor of mine--who has a small
ranch on the Little Missouri--two or three years ago. He was out on a
mining trip, and was prospecting with two other men near the head-water
of the Little Missouri, in the Black Hills country. They were walking
down along the river, and came to a point of land, thrust out into it,
which was densely covered with brush and fallen timber. Two of the
party walked round by the edge of the stream; but the third, a German,
and a very powerful fellow, followed a well-beaten game trail, leading
through the bushy point. When they were some forty yards apart the two
men heard an agonized shout from the German, and at the same time the
loud coughing growl, or roar, of a bear. They turned just in time to
see their companion struck a terrible blow on the head by a grizzly,
which must have been roused from its lair by his almost stepping on
it; so close was it that he had no time to fire his rifle, but merely
held it up over his head as a guard. Of course it was struck down, the
claws of the great brute at the same time shattering his skull like an
egg-shell. Yet the man staggered on some ten feet before he fell; but
when he did he never spoke or moved again. The two others killed the
bear after a short, brisk struggle, as he was in the midst of a most
determined charge.

In 1872, near Fort Wingate, New Mexico, two soldiers of a cavalry
regiment came to their death at the claws of a grizzly bear. The army
surgeon who attended them told me the particulars, as far as they were
known. The men were mail carriers, and one day did not come in at the
appointed time. Next day, a relief party was sent out to look for them,
and after some search found the bodies of both, as well as that of one
of the horses. One of the men still showed signs of life; he came to
his senses before dying, and told the story. They had seen a grizzly
and pursued it on horseback, with their Spencer rifles. On coming
close, one had fired into its side, when it turned with marvellous
quickness for so large and unwieldy an animal, and struck down the
horse, at the same time inflicting a ghastly wound on the rider. The
other man dismounted and came up to the rescue of his companion. The
bear then left the latter and attacked the other. Although hit by the
bullet, it charged home and threw the man down, and then lay on him
and deliberately bit him to death, while his groans and cries were
frightful to hear. Afterward it walked off into the bushes without
again offering to molest the already mortally wounded victim of its
first assault.

At certain times the grizzly works a good deal of havoc among the herds
of the stockmen. A friend of mine, a ranchman in Montana, told me that
one fall bears became very plenty around his ranches, and caused him
severe loss, killing with ease even full-grown beef-steers. But one of
them once found his intended quarry too much for him. My friend had a
stocky, rather vicious range stallion, which had been grazing one day
near a small thicket of bushes, and, towards evening, came galloping
in with three or four gashes in his haunch, that looked as if they had
been cut with a dull axe. The cowboys knew at once that he had been
assailed by a bear, and rode off to the thicket near which he had been
feeding. Sure enough a bear, evidently in a very bad temper, sallied
out as soon as the thicket was surrounded, and, after a spirited
fight and a succession of charges, was killed. On examination, it was
found that his under jaw was broken, and part of his face smashed in,
evidently by the stallion’s hoofs. The horse had been feeding when the
bear leaped out at him but failed to kill at the first stroke; then the
horse lashed out behind, and not only freed himself, but also severely
damaged his opponent.

Doubtless, the grizzly could be hunted to advantage with dogs, which
would not, of course, be expected to seize him, but simply to find
and bay him, and distract his attention by barking and nipping.
Occasionally a bear can be caught in the open and killed with the aid
of horses. But nine times out of ten the only way to get one is to put
on moccasins and still-hunt it in its own haunts, shooting it at close
quarters. Either its tracks should be followed until the bed wherein it
lies during the day is found, or a given locality in which it is known
to exist should be carefully beaten through, or else a bait should be
left out and a watch kept on it to catch the bear when he has come to
visit it.

       *       *       *       *       *

For some days after our arrival on the Bighorn range we did not come
across any grizzly.

Although it was still early in September, the weather was cool and
pleasant, the nights being frosty; and every two or three days there
was a flurry of light snow, which rendered the labor of tracking much
more easy. Indeed, throughout our stay on the mountains, the peaks were
snow-capped almost all the time. Our fare was excellent, consisting of
elk venison, mountain grouse, and small trout; the last caught in one
of the beautiful little lakes that lay almost up by timber line. To
us, who had for weeks been accustomed to make small fires from dried
brush, or from sage-brush roots, which we dug out of the ground, it was
a treat to sit at night before the roaring and crackling pine logs; as
the old teamster quaintly put it, we had at last come to a land “where
the wood grew on trees.” There were plenty of black-tail deer in the
woods, and we came across a number of bands of cow and calf elk, or of
young bulls; but after several days’ hunting, we were still without any
head worth taking home, and had seen no sign of grizzly, which was the
game we were especially anxious to kill; for neither Merrifield nor I
had ever seen a wild bear alive.

Sometimes we hunted in company; sometimes each of us went out alone;
the teamster, of course, remaining in to guard camp and cook. One day
we had separated; I reached camp early in the afternoon, and waited a
couple of hours before Merrifield put in an appearance.

At last I heard a shout--the familiar long-drawn _Ei-koh-h-h_ of the
cattle-men,--and he came in sight galloping at speed down an open
glade, and waving his hat, evidently having had good luck; and when he
reined in his small, wiry, cow-pony, we saw that he had packed behind
his saddle the fine, glossy pelt of a black bear. Better still, he
announced that he had been off about ten miles to a perfect tangle of
ravines and valleys where bear sign was very thick; and not of black
bear either but of grizzly. The black bear (the only one we got on the
mountains) he had run across by accident, while riding up a valley in
which there was a patch of dead timber grown up with berry bushes. He
noticed a black object which he first took to be a stump; for during
the past few days we had each of us made one or two clever stalks up
to charred logs which our imagination converted into bears. On coming
near, however, the object suddenly took to its heels; he followed over
frightful ground at the pony’s best pace, until it stumbled and fell
down. By this time he was close on the bear, which had just reached
the edge of the wood. Picking himself up, he rushed after it, hearing
it growling ahead of him; after running some fifty yards the sounds
stopped, and he stood still listening. He saw and heard nothing, until
he happened to cast his eyes upwards, and there was the bear, almost
overhead, and about twenty-five feet up a tree; and in as many seconds
afterwards it came down to the ground with a bounce, stone dead. It was
a young bear, in its second year, and had probably never before seen a
man, which accounted for the ease with which it was treed and taken.
One minor result of the encounter was to convince Merrifield--the list
of whose faults did not include lack of self-confidence--that he could
run down any bear; in consequence of which idea we on more than one
subsequent occasion went through a good deal of violent exertion.

Merrifield’s tale made me decide to shift camp at once, and go over to
the spot where the bear-tracks were so plenty. Next morning we were
off, and by noon pitched camp by a clear brook, in a valley with steep,
wooded sides, but with good feed for the horses in the open bottom. We
rigged the canvas wagon sheet into a small tent, sheltered by the trees
from the wind, and piled great pine logs near by where we wished to
place the fire; for a night camp in the sharp fall weather is cold and
dreary unless there is a roaring blaze of flame in front of the tent.

That afternoon we again went out, and I shot a fine bull elk. I came
home alone toward nightfall, walking through a reach of burnt forest,
where there was nothing but charred tree trunks and black mould. When
nearly through it I came across the huge, half-human footprints of a
great grizzly, which must have passed by within a few minutes. It gave
me rather an eerie feeling in the silent, lonely woods, to see for the
first time the unmistakable proofs that I was in the home of the mighty
lord of the wilderness. I followed the tracks in the fading twilight
until it became too dark to see them any longer, and then shouldered my
rifle and walked back to camp.

That evening we almost had a visit from one of the animals we were
after. Several times we had heard at night the musical calling of the
bull elk--a sound to which no writer has as yet done justice. This
particular night, when we were in bed and the fire was smouldering,
we were roused by a ruder noise--a kind of grunting or roaring whine,
answered by the frightened snorts of the ponies. It was a bear which
had evidently not seen the fire, as it came from behind the bank, and
had probably been attracted by the smell of the horses. After it made
out what we were it stayed round a short while, again uttered its
peculiar roaring grunt, and went off; we had seized our rifles and had
run out into the woods, but in the darkness could see nothing; indeed
it was rather lucky we did not stumble across the bear, as he could
have made short work of us when we were at such a disadvantage.

Next day we went off on a long tramp through the woods and along the
sides of the canyons. There were plenty of berry bushes growing in
clusters; and all around these there were fresh tracks of bear. But
the grizzly is also a flesh-eater, and has a great liking for carrion.
On visiting the place where Merrifield had killed the black bear, we
found that the grizzlies had been there before us, and had utterly
devoured the carcass, with cannibal relish. Hardly a scrap was left,
and we turned our steps toward where lay the bull elk I had killed.
It was quite late in the afternoon when we reached the place. A
grizzly had evidently been at the carcass during the preceding night,
for his great footprints were in the ground all around it, and the
carcass itself was gnawed and torn, and partially covered with earth
and leaves--for the grizzly has a curious habit of burying all of his
prey that he does not at the moment need. A great many ravens had been
feeding on the body, and they wheeled about over the tree tops above
us, uttering their barking croaks.

The forest was composed mainly of what are called ridgepole pines,
which grow close together, and do not branch out until the stems are
thirty or forty feet from the ground. Beneath these trees were walked
over a carpet of pine needles, upon which our moccasined feet made no
sound. The woods seemed vast and lonely, and their silence was broken
now and then by the strange noises always to be heard in the great
forests, and which seem to mark the sad and everlasting unrest of the
wilderness. We climbed up along the trunk of a dead tree which had
toppled over until its upper branches struck in the limb crotch of
another, that thus supported it at an angle half-way in its fall. When
above the ground far enough to prevent the bear’s smelling us, we sat
still to wait for his approach; until, in the gathering gloom, we could
no longer see the sights of our rifles, and could but dimly make out
the carcass of the great elk. It was useless to wait longer; and we
clambered down and stole out to the edge of the woods. The forest here
covered one side of a steep, almost canyon-like ravine, whose other
side was bare except of rock and sage-brush. Once out from under the
trees there was still plenty of light, although the sun had set, and we
crossed over some fifty yards to the opposite hill-side, and crouched
down under a bush to see if perchance some animal might not also leave
the cover. To our right the ravine sloped downward toward the valley of
the Bighorn River, and far on its other side we could catch a glimpse
of the great main chain of the Rockies, their snow peaks glinting
crimson in the light of the set sun. Again we waited quietly in the
growing dusk until the pine trees in our front blended into one dark,
frowning mass. We saw nothing; but the wild creatures of the forest had
begun to stir abroad. The owls hooted dismally from the tops of the
tall trees, and two or three times a harsh wailing cry, probably the
voice of some lynx or wolverine, arose from the depths of the woods. At
last, as we were rising to leave, we heard the sound of the breaking
of a dead stick, from the spot where we knew the carcass lay. It was
a sharp, sudden noise, perfectly distinct from the natural creaking
and snapping of the branches; just such a sound as would be made by
the tread of some heavy creature. “Old Ephraim” had come back to the
carcass. A minute afterward, listening with strained ears, we heard him
brush by some dry twigs. It was entirely too dark to go in after him;
but we made up our minds that on the morrow he should be ours.

Early next morning we were over at the elk carcass, and, as we
expected, found that the bear had eaten his fill at it during the
night. His tracks showed him to be an immense fellow, and were so fresh
that we doubted if he had left long before we arrived; and we made up
our minds to follow him up and try to find his lair. The bears that
lived on these mountains had evidently been little disturbed; indeed,
the Indians and most of the white hunters are rather chary of meddling
with “Old Ephraim,” as the mountain-men style the grizzly, unless they
get him at a disadvantage; for the sport is fraught with some danger
and but small profit. The bears thus seemed to have very little fear of
harm, and we thought it likely that the bed of the one who had fed on
the elk would not be far away.

My companion was a skilful tracker, and we took up the trail at once.
For some distance it led over the soft, yielding carpet of moss and
pine needles, and the footprints were quite easily made out, although
we could follow them but slowly; for we had, of course, to keep a sharp
look-out ahead and around us as we walked noiselessly on in the sombre
half-light always prevailing under the great pine trees, through whose
thickly interlacing branches stray but few beams of light, no matter
how bright the sun may be outside. We made no sound ourselves, and
every little sudden noise sent a thrill through me as I peered about
with each sense on the alert. Two or three of the ravens that we had
scared from the carcass flew overhead, croaking hoarsely; and the pine
tops moaned and sighed in the slight breeze--for pine trees seem to be
ever in motion, no matter how light the wind.

After going a few hundred yards the tracks turned off on a well-beaten
path made by the elk; the woods were in many places cut up by these
game trails, which had often become as distinct as ordinary footpaths.
The beast’s footprints were perfectly plain in the dust, and he had
lumbered along up the path until near the middle of the hill-side,
where the ground broke away and there were hollows and boulders. Here
there had been a windfall, and the dead trees lay among the living,
piled across one another in all directions; while between and around
them sprouted up a thick growth of young spruces and other evergreens.
The trail turned off into the tangled thicket, within which it was
almost certain we would find our quarry. We could still follow the
tracks, by the slight scrapes of the claws on the bark, or by the
bent and broken twigs; and we advanced with noiseless caution, slowly
climbing over the dead tree trunks and upturned stumps, and not letting
a branch rustle or catch on our clothes. When in the middle of the
thicket we crossed what was almost a breastwork of fallen logs, and
Merrifield, who was leading, passed by the upright stem of a great
pine. As soon as he was by it he sank suddenly on one knee, turning
half round, his face fairly aflame with excitement; and as I strode
past him, with my rifle at the ready, there, not ten steps off, was
the great bear, slowly rising from his bed among the young spruces.
He had heard us, but apparently hardly knew exactly where or what we
were, for he reared up on his haunches sideways to us. Then he saw us
and dropped down again on all fours, the shaggy hair on his neck and
shoulders seeming to bristle as he turned toward us. As he sank down on
his forefeet I had raised the rifle; his head was bent slightly down,
and when I saw the top of the white bead fairly between his small,
glittering, evil eyes, I pulled trigger. Half-rising up, the huge beast
fell over on his side in the death throes, the ball having gone into
his brain, striking as fairly between the eyes as if the distance had
been measured by a carpenter’s rule.

The whole thing was over in twenty seconds from the time I caught sight
of the game; indeed, it was over so quickly that the grizzly did not
have time to show fight at all or come a step toward us. It was the
first I had ever seen, and I felt not a little proud, as I stood over
the great brindled bulk, which lay stretched out at length in the cool
shade of the evergreens. He was a monstrous fellow, much larger than
any I have seen since, whether alive or brought in dead by the hunters.
As near as we could estimate (for of course we had nothing with which
to weigh more than very small portions) he must have weighed about
twelve hundred pounds, and though this is not as large as some of his
kind are said to grow in California, it is yet a very unusual size
for a bear. He was a good deal heavier than any of our horses; and it
was with the greatest difficulty that we were able to skin him. He
must have been very old, his teeth and claws being all worn down and
blunted; but nevertheless he had been living in plenty, for he was
as fat as a prize hog, the layers on his back being a finger’s length
in thickness. He was still in the summer coat, his hair being short,
and in color a curious brindled brown, somewhat like that of certain
bull-dogs; while all the bears we shot afterward had the long thick
winter fur, cinnamon or yellowish brown. By the way, the name of this
bear has reference to its character and not to its color, and should, I
suppose, be properly spelt grisly--in the sense of horrible, exactly as
we speak of a “grisly spectre”--and not grizzly; but perhaps the latter
way of spelling it is too well established to be now changed.

In killing dangerous game steadiness is more needed than good shooting.
No game is dangerous unless a man is close up, for nowadays hardly any
wild beast will charge from a distance of a hundred yards, but will
rather try to run off; and if a man is close it is easy enough for him
to shoot straight if he does not lose his head. A bear’s brain is about
the size of a pint bottle; and any one can hit a pint bottle off-hand
at thirty or forty feet. I have had two shots at bears at close
quarters, and each time I fired into the brain, the bullet in one case
striking fairly between the eyes, as told above, and in the other going
in between the eye and ear. A novice at this kind of sport will find
it best and safest to keep in mind the old Norse viking’s advice in
reference to a long sword. “If you go in close enough your sword will
be long enough.” If a poor shot goes in close enough he will find that
he shoots straight enough.

I was very proud over my first bear; but Merrifield’s chief feeling
seemed to be disappointment that the animal had not had time to show
fight. He was rather a reckless fellow, and very confident in his own
skill with the rifle; and he really did not seem to have any more fear
of the grizzlies than if they had been so many jack-rabbits. I did
not at all share his feelings, having a hearty respect for my foes’
prowess, and in following and attacking them always took all possible
care to get the chances on my side. Merrifield was sincerely sorry
that we never had to stand a regular charge; while on this trip we
killed five grizzlies with seven bullets, and except in the case of
the she and cub, spoken of further on, each was shot about as quickly
as it got sight of us. The last one we got was an old male, which was
feeding on an elk carcass. We crept up to within about sixty feet, and
as Merrifield had not yet killed a grizzly purely to his own gun, and
I had killed three, I told him to take the shot. He at once whispered
gleefully: “I’ll break his leg, and we’ll see what he’ll do!” Having
no ambition to be a participator in the antics of a three-legged bear,
I hastily interposed a most emphatic veto; and with a rather injured
air he fired, the bullet going through the neck just back of the head.
The bear fell to the shot, and could not get up from the ground, dying
in a few minutes; but first he seized his left wrist in his teeth and
bit clean through it, completely separating the bones of the paw and
arm. Although a smaller bear than the big one I first shot, he would
probably have proved a much more ugly foe, for he was less unwieldy,
and had much longer and sharper teeth and claws. I think that if my
companion had merely broken the beast’s leg he would have had his
curiosity as to its probable conduct more than gratified.

We tried eating the grizzly’s flesh but it was not good, being coarse
and not well flavored; and besides, we could not get over the feeling
that it had belonged to a carrion feeder. The flesh of the little black
bear, on the other hand, was excellent; it tasted like that of a young
pig. Doubtless, if a young grizzly, which had fed merely upon fruits,
berries, and acorns, was killed, its flesh would prove good eating; but
even then, it would probably not be equal to a black bear.

A day or two after the death of the big bear, we went out one afternoon
on horseback, intending merely to ride down to see a great canyon
lying some six miles west of our camp; indeed, we went more to look at
the scenery than for any other reason, though, of course, neither of
us ever stirred out of camp without his rifle. We rode down the valley
in which we had camped, through alternate pine groves and open glades,
until we reached the canyon, and then skirted its brink for a mile or
so. It was a great chasm, many miles in length, as if the table-land
had been rent asunder by some terrible and unknown force; its sides
were sheer walls of rock, rising three or four hundred feet straight up
in the air, and worn by the weather till they looked like the towers
and battlements of some vast fortress. Between them at the bottom was a
space, in some places nearly a quarter of a mile wide, in others very
narrow, through whose middle foamed a deep, rapid torrent of which
the sources lay far back among the snow-topped mountains around Cloud
Peak. In this valley, dark-green, sombre pines stood in groups, stiff
and erect; and here and there among them were groves of poplar and
cottonwood, with slender branches and trembling leaves, their bright
green already changing to yellow in the sharp fall weather. We went
down to where the mouth of the canyon opened out, and rode our horses
to the end of a great jutting promontory of rock, thrust out into the
plain; and in the cold, clear air we looked far over the broad valley
of the Bighorn as it lay at our very feet, walled in on the other side
by the distant chain of the Rocky Mountains.

Turning our horses, we rode back along the edge of another canyon-like
valley, with a brook flowing down its centre, and its rocky sides
covered with an uninterrupted pine forest--the place of all others in
whose inaccessible wildness and ruggedness a bear would find a safe
retreat. After some time we came to where other valleys, with steep,
grass-grown sides, covered with sage-brush, branched out from it, and
we followed one of these out. There was plenty of elk sign about, and
we saw several black-tail deer. These last were very common on the
mountains, but we had not hunted them at all, as we were in no need of
meat. But this afternoon we came across a buck with remarkably fine
antlers, and accordingly I shot it, and we stopped to cut off and skin
out the horns, throwing the reins over the heads of the horses and
leaving them to graze by themselves. The body lay near the crest of
one side of a deep valley, or ravine, which headed up on the plateau a
mile to our left. Except for scattered trees and bushes the valley was
bare; but there was heavy timber along the crests of the hills on its
opposite side. It took some time to fix the head properly, and we were
just ending when Merrifield sprang to his feet and exclaimed: “Look at
the bears!” pointing down into the valley below us. Sure enough there
were two bears (which afterwards proved to be an old she and a nearly
full-grown cub) travelling up the bottom of the valley, much too far
off for us to shoot. Grasping our rifles and throwing off our hats we
started off as hard as we could run, diagonally down the hill-side,
so as to cut them off. It was some little time before they saw us,
when they made off at a lumbering gallop up the valley. It would seem
impossible to run into two grizzlies in the open, but they were going
up hill and we down, and moreover the old one kept stopping. The cub
would forge ahead and could probably have escaped us, but the mother
now and then stopped to sit up on her haunches and look around at us
when the cub would run back to her. The upshot was that we got ahead
of them, when they turned and went straight up one hill-side as we ran
straight down the other behind them. By this time I was pretty nearly
done out, for running along the steep ground through the sage-brush was
most exhausting work; and Merrifield kept gaining on me and was well
in front. Just as he disappeared over a bank, almost at the bottom of
the valley, I tripped over a bush and fell full length. When I got up
I knew I could never make up the ground I had lost, and besides, could
hardly run any longer; Merrifield was out of sight below, and the bears
were laboring up the steep hill-side directly opposite and about three
hundred yards off, so I sat down and began to shoot over Merrifield’s
head, aiming at the big bear. She was going very steadily and in a
straight line, and each bullet sent up a puff of dust where it struck
the dry soil, so that I could keep correcting my aim; and the fourth
ball crashed into the old bear’s flank. She lurched heavily forward,
but recovered herself and reached the timber, while Merrifield, who had
put on a spurt, was not far behind.

I toiled up the hill at a sort of trot, fairly gasping and sobbing for
breath; but before I got to the top I heard a couple of shots and a
shout. The old bear had turned as soon as she was in the timber, and
came towards Merrifield, but he gave her the death wound by firing into
her chest, and then shot at the young one, knocking it over. When I
came up he was just walking towards the latter to finish it with the
revolver, but it suddenly jumped up as lively as ever and made off at
a great pace--for it was nearly full-grown. It was impossible to fire
where the tree trunks were so thick, but there was a small opening
across which it would have to pass, and collecting all my energies I
made a last run, got into position, and covered the opening with my
rifle. The instant the bear appeared I fired, and it turned a dozen
somersaults down-hill, rolling over and over; the ball had struck it
near the tail and had ranged forward through the hollow of the body.
Each of us had thus given the fatal wound to the bear in which the
other had fired the first bullet. The run, though short, had been very
sharp, and over such awful country that we were completely fagged out,
and could hardly speak for lack of breath. The sun had already set, and
it was too late to skin the animals; so we merely dressed them, caught
the ponies--with some trouble, for they were frightened at the smell
of the bear’s blood on our hands,--and rode home through the darkening
woods. Next day we brought the teamster and two of the steadiest
pack-horses to the carcasses, and took the skins into camp.

The feed for the horses was excellent in the valley in which we were
camped, and the rest after their long journey across the plains did
them good. They had picked up wonderfully in condition during our stay
on the mountains; but they were apt to wander very far during the
night, for there were so many bears and other wild beasts around that
they kept getting frightened and running off. We were very loath to
leave our hunting grounds, but time was pressing, and we had already
many more trophies than we could carry; so one cool morning, when the
branches of the evergreens were laden with the feathery snow that had
fallen overnight, we struck camp and started out of the mountains, each
of us taking his own bedding behind his saddle, while the pack-ponies
were loaded down with bearskins, elk and deer antlers, and the hides
and furs of other game. In single file we moved through the woods, and
across the canyons to the edge of the great table-land, and then slowly
down the steep slope to its foot, where we found our canvas-topped
wagon; and next day saw us setting out on our long journey homewards,
across the three hundred weary miles of treeless and barren-looking
plains country.

Last spring, since the above was written, a bear killed a man not very
far from my ranch. It was at the time of the floods. Two hunters came
down the river, by our ranch, on a raft, stopping to take dinner. A
score or so of miles below, as we afterwards heard from the survivor,
they landed, and found a bear in a small patch of brushwood. After
waiting in vain for it to come out, one of the men rashly attempted
to enter the thicket, and was instantly struck down by the beast,
before he could so much as fire his rifle. It broke in his skull with
a blow of its great paw, and then seized his arm in its jaws, biting
it through and through in three places, but leaving the body and
retreating into the bushes as soon as the unfortunate man’s companion
approached. We did not hear of the accident until too late to go after
the bear, as we were just about starting to join the spring round-up.




THE VANISHED SCENE

HAL G. EVARTS

From “The Passing of the Old West.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, Little, Brown, and Company.[31]


Wherever men fared, no matter how secluded the pocket of the hills to
which they penetrated, they found evidence that some solitary wanderer
had been before them. His horses had grazed in hidden meadows and they
found the ashes of his camp fires on the shores of unmapped lakes.
It was said that the range that rimmed the new land in on the east
was impenetrable, that no man could cross through its wild passes;
but in the dead of winter, long after the Crow tribe had taken to
winter quarters in the lower valleys, some white man’s lone trail was
often seen leading down out of these peaks which others shunned even
in the warmth of summer. He was even welcome in the wigwams of the
Crows and frequently he tarried for a few days in their villages, but
his restlessness always drove him forth to leave his tracks in the
secluded fastnesses of the winter hills. When a party of explorers
pressed westward up the valley of the Stinking Water to determine if
an entrance might be effected from the east, they found the trails
of horses leading up a tributary stream which broke in from the west
where the main river flared back in a wide sweeping curve to the north
and east. These tracks led up an elk trail, threaded the mazes of a
frowning gorge, crossed the lower extremities of late-melting snow
banks and came out at last upon the Yellowstone Slope.

The news of the segregation of these hills and valleys he loved had
brought to Mart Woodson another of those rare moments of exaltation.
The invariable theme of his childhood tales had dealt with the
near-serfdom of the inhabitants of far countries and had built up in
his mind the belief that the people of other lands were chattels. Now,
as if in direct refutation of those ancient policies which decreed that
the land was God-given for the benefit and pleasure of the few, his
country had set aside the wonder-spot of the world for the enjoyment of
the many. This vast reservation, more than three thousand square miles
of it, belonged to the people as a whole, a joint estate to descend to
unborn generations for a thousand years to come. Never a foot of it
could come into the possession of individuals or concerns.

What more could a man ask than to live his life upon his own estate
comprising hundreds of square miles? This belonged to him. A thousand
might share it, or ten thousand, but his own rights would ever remain
the same. He could make his night fire on the shores of some stream,
leave it the next morning and never look upon it again till the last
day of his life, but always with the certain knowledge that on that day
he could return and say, “Here is my camp,” and no man could wave him
off. But a man should know his own property,--so Mart Woodson set forth
to explore every nook of this vast estate which had so unexpectedly
been willed to him.

His wants were few. He killed his meat as he needed it and when he felt
the necessity of gaining a few dollars with which to buy supplies he
worked with the construction gang that had been sent here to hew out
a primitive road system through the People’s Park while the nearest
railroad point was yet five hundred miles away; but mostly he roamed
the hills and whenever seen was mounted on a bay mare that mothered
a mare colt. He scoured the hills for gold in summers and panned the
streams from the Flathead to the Green, prospected the ledges for
quartz from Big Wing River to the Gallatin. When a party of explorers
verified the existence of the stream which flowed to both seas and
heralded to the world their find of Two Ocean Pass, they found also a
low mound of earth surmounted by a headboard slabbed out with an ax and
rudely carved with the words “Tom North,” testimony that in this spot
men had lived and died before they came.

Jim Bridger’s tale of the mountain of black glass had roused a shriek
of derision that echoed round the earth, yet in time others found it
as he had said they would, and as they gazed upon the obsidian cliff
they found the tracks of a mare and colt along its base. Homeric mirth
had rocked the world at Bridger’s assertion that he had caught fish in
the icy waters of a lake and cooked them in boiling springs without
rising from his seat or removing his prey from the hook. When explorers
reached this spot they found the bones of fish upon the rocks. The lone
wanderer had once more preceded them and cooked his meal of trout a
month before they came.

And it was Woodson himself who now came in for a share of ridicule
and met general disbelief when he told men of the petrified forest
he had found. It stood on a steep side-hill cut away by the action
of water. Tier upon tier it rose, succeeding layers exposed to view,
fifteen periods of forestation one above the other. Near the base were
stumps more than a dozen feet in diameter, relics of the ages past,
when tropical vegetation flourished here. Above these ancient ones,
in successive accumulation, was the evidence of the gradual cooling
of the earth on down to date, the top strata containing vegetation of
the present age. Here were not merely crumbling fragments of bygone
periods but exact reproductions, the preserved record of the whole;
bark and twigs intact, ferns and shrubbery, even to the buds, held in
delicate tracery of stone and sprouting from the outcroppings to the
cliff. But in Woodson’s case the disbelief was not so widespread. Men
were beginning to believe all things possible of this wondrous corner
of the earth. It was decided that he should lead a party to the spot,
but when they sought for him the wanderer was gone. Years later he led
men to the ledges and they found it as he had said, the most complete
record of its kind in the world.

Woodson had moved on in search of new lands and for months he traveled
into the west, moving by easy stages with his little pack string,
sampling the ledges and panning the streams en route. Everywhere there
was food in plenty and he lived off the country as he roamed. He came
at last into a land whose natural wealth staggered his imagination,
the giant forests of the northwest coast. There were stretches where
he might travel for weeks without once leaving the timber; and such
timber! Fir, spruce and cedar side by side, each monster capable of
furnishing from within its own mighty trunk the lumber for a small
village. They stood ten to eighteen feet through at the butts, rising
with barely perceptible lessening of dimension, towering three hundred
feet aloft, two-thirds of their height without a limb. From these a
man might cut beams six feet through by a hundred feet in length as
easily as eight-inch board stuff is cut from the average tree. Week
after week he wandered through this king of forests, the ferns growing
to his saddle skirts. There was one stretch of a hundred miles each
way, covered with a solid stand of the finest timber known to man. He
lingered in this tract for a solid year. Here, in this one stretch,
he estimated, was enough lumber to rebuild the world, lumber that was
clear, straight-grained and without a knot.

He was a man of the open, attuned to Nature’s varying moods; he had
felt the different spells exerted by mountain, lake and plain and
thought that he knew them all; yet here was something new. There was
a hush in the dim aisles of this mightiest of all forests, a reverent
silence rarely broken. It was so completely roofed over by the tufted
tops as to almost exclude the light. Even the night sounds were
subdued as if the wild things hesitated to raise their voices above the
softest croon and cheep necessary for communication among themselves.
Woodson some way disliked to shatter the silence with his voice and
when he spoke to his horses it was in the modulated tones one uses in
some ancient cathedral freighted with reverent memories.

After a year the call of the Yellowstone drew him on the back trail.
As he traveled he sometimes pondered about that mark he would make
for himself in the world. Yet there was no hurry. There was undreamed
plenty of everything in this land of his. One had but to choose
his course, dip in and help himself from the storehouse that was
inexhaustible,--Nature’s storehouse that replenished itself without
help. He reflected that ever since history began, this natural
reservoir had been refilled more rapidly than it could possibly be
depleted by man. A world of plenty; leather for all the world from the
buffalo of the plains; hardwood timber without end to the eastward;
free grass for fifty million cows; meat for the nation from the
antelope of the plains and the elk and mule deer of the hills; wealth
untold for those who would seek for it and burrow in the ground for
gold; and in this great untouched forest of the northwest coast was
enough lumber to roof the earth. He smiled and slapped the brown mare
on the neck as a whimsical thought crossed his mind.

“She didn’t forget a thing,” he said. “She didn’t leave one thing out.
There’s enough of everything to go round and a lot to spare. Back in
the Yellowstone, where we’re headed for, there’s enough natural and
unnatural wonders to entertain the people of the world. She didn’t even
leave that out--plenty of everything for us all.”

As he traveled eastward his desire to look again upon this best land of
all increased and he made longer packs. Soon it was rumored that the
lone wanderer, for so long a part of the Park, had returned to roam
once more in the hills of the Yellowstone. He knew the valleys of warm
springs where his horses might winter while others were forced to drive
their stock to the lower country. He prospected far and wide in summer
but always he came back to winter within the limits of his own estate.

After a lapse of perhaps fifteen years since Woodson and Old Tom had
quit the plains, a little pack train was seen winding down the east
slope of the hills. The man rode a bay mare that mothered a mare colt.
In the rear of the string still another bay mare, ancient and decrepit,
pensioned for long service and unburdened by a pack, trailed stiffly
after the rest. The man told those he met along the trails that he
was headed for the lower country to join a hide outfit for one last
buffalo-hunt on the plains. Men smiled at the naïve plans of this Rip
Van Winkle who had been asleep in the hills; for the buffalo was gone.

Woodson knew that the men from his old outfit--Hanson, Cleve, McCann
and all the rest--would be wherever the most of the shaggy beasts had
congregated for the southward drift of fall. But when he made inquiry
he found that their names were unknown to the present-day dwellers of
the foothills. Men told him that the buffalo was no more. That the
last of them had been killed off to make room for the settler’s cows.
As he traveled east he experienced a series of surprises. Stockmen’s
cabins showed at every water hole where, but a few years past, there
had been no human habitation within two hundred miles. All this was as
it should be, he reflected; a wild country tamed and made habitable
for man. It was clear that the buffalo had to go to make room for the
cows. But the job had certainly been sweeping and thorough. He crossed
vast stretches where domestic stock had not yet arrived but the way
had been paved for them years in advance of their coming, for not a
single buffalo track could he find. Little towns had sprung up with
amazing rapidity. Out in the long desolate stretch between Lander and
Rawlins he covered forty-two miles unmarked by a water hole, an arid
region where domestic stock could not live but where the buffalo might
have ranged in thousands; but here too they had been wiped out to the
last hoof. It came to him that he knew of enough waste areas, as yet
untouched by cows, to support a half-million head of buffalo. They
would have constituted a source of revenue for many years to come. Men
spoke vaguely of the “lost herd” that lived in some unknown spot and
would one day repopulate these waste stretches with buffalo. Woodson
could see that all this development was for the best; there were now
homes where no homes stood before. But a vague uneasiness assailed
him, a sense of something gone amiss with a popular idol. Some way it
seemed that he had been warned of this. Some forgotten prophecy welled
up out of the past to clamor for expression at the threshold of his
consciousness. It troubled him that he should not quite place the thing
and he attempted to shake it off.

He left his horses with a cowman and held on to the east. The old
trails where once the prairie schooners and the oxbows had wound
interminably to the far horizon were no longer traveled. Steel rails
stretched away in their stead; and the creak of wheels and leather and
the bawls of plodding oxen,--all these were replaced by the rattle and
roar of freight cars and the screech of the locomotives’ whistles; city
streets wound where there had been naught but dog towns on blistering
flats.

Truly development was wonderful and he rejoiced with the rest over this
sweeping transformation, the swiftest and most complete reclamation in
the history of the world. But again the still small voice assailed him
from within and whispered that a good and worthy job had been just a
trifle too well done.

A cold fall storm was driving down from the north and overtook him in
the salt-marsh country of Western Kansas. The water-fowl scurried ahead
of it. Every pond and slough, each broad prairie lake and marshy bottom
was covered with members of the feathered horde en route to the winter
quarters on the Gulf. Flock followed flock in an endless procession,
streaking the sky. The prairies were covered with feeding geese. Great
white cranes stalked majestically in the open flats, traveling in
bands of hundreds, and at night the wild whoops of overhead squadrons
almost drowned the clamor of oncoming hordes of geese. This evidence of
abundance cheered him. He estimated that he saw over a million birds a
day; and he reflected that everywhere east and west of him this great
migration was going on; the east coast and the west, the Mississippi
flyway and the course of every inland river; all were experiencing this
same deluge of birds headed into the south. Nowhere had he seen so much
bird life except during the pigeon flights in the hardwood country
of his boyhood home. There he had seen the skies blackened with wild
pigeons, had seen limbs broken from the trees by the sheer weight of
thousands of roosting birds. The shock of finding the buffalo gone from
the plains in a few short years was counteracted by this fresh evidence
of plenty.

It was in Dodge that his trail crossed that of Hanson, a man from his
old outfit. Hanson, with a younger man named Rice, was hunting antelope
for the hides. The two spoke of old friends. Cleve had gone to the
lumber camps of the northwest coast, Hanson informed, and McCann to
the hardwood belt to the east. They had quit the hunting. Antelope
were fleet and it was difficult to stalk them in the flats. Hanson had
known the time when all hands might kill and skin an average of twenty
buffalo to the man each day. He now lamented the necessity of hunting
the wary pronghorn for less than a dollar a hide. A man was doing well
to average four a day.

“The old days are gone,” he said. “Things are different now. It’s hard
pickings for a man to make a living in times like these.”

But Rice looked forth on the world with the optimism of youth. It was
a land of plenty in which he lived. He had planned a hunt in the hills
of Western Colorado and urged Woodson to throw in with them.

“There’s millions of deer up there,” he said. “They’re paying three
dollars apiece for venison saddles at the mines. I’ve seen ten thousand
mule deer boiling through the passes, all in sight at once, when they
gathered from the Gore Range and the Rabbit Ear to drift down to
the Oak Hills for the winter. There’s deer without end. I hunted up
there last year. We loaded thirty four-horse freight-wagons with deer
saddles, high as we could lash ’em on, all from a two-day kill in one
pass as they came streaming down, a thousand to the band. There’s good
money in meat-hunting for the mines. You better throw in with us, Mart,
and come along.”

They urged their case but Woodson would not join. The rapidity with
which old conditions had slipped past him filled him with a sense
of bewilderment. He could not get his start, as he had intended, by
hide-hunting on the plains. That day had gone, and some way he could
see no future in hunting deer to supply Denver and the Colorado mining
towns with meat. Perhaps he would better go to the lumber camps, either
east or west, and take up that end. There was more permanency to that.
He could not make up his mind and decided at last to go back to the
quiet hills of the Yellowstone for one final look around while making
his decision.




FOOTNOTES:

[1] Platte and Missouri Rivers. The expedition started May 14th.

[2] To Washington.

[3] The organization was military.

[4] Forty-one men, full musters.

[5] A small cannon.

[6] Concerning this great race for life, it may appear impossible to
some for a human being to accomplish such a feat. Those who survive of
Sublet’s company, and who know the distances from point to point of my
celebrated race, will please to correct me publicly if I am in error in
the distance. I have known instances of Indian runners accomplishing
more than one hundred and ten miles in one day.

[7] This is Captain Jim Bridger, a celebrated Western character who
figures in “A Frontier Duel.”

[8] Beckwourth had lived in the wilds for several years and might
easily have been mistaken for an Indian.--EDITOR.

[9] Beckwourth left the Crows several years afterwards and lived for
many years in California, where he was a celebrated character.--EDITOR.

[10] Kit Carson, the celebrated scout.

[11] Copyright, 1914, 1920, by Grace P. Coffin.

[12] Copyright, 1922, by Emerson Hough. Copyright, 1922, by the Curtis
Publishing Co.

[13] Named for the celebrated Parker House in Boston.

[14] Copyright, 1914, by G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

[15] Copyright, 1899, by Bret Harte.

[16] “Ole Ephraim” is the mountain-man’s _sobriquet_ for the grizzly
bear.

[17] I have frequently heard this legend from Gentiles, never from
Mormons; yet even the Saints own that as early as 1842 visions of the
mountains and kanyons, the valley and the lake, were revealed to Mr.
Joseph Smith, jun., who declared it privily to the disciples whom he
loved. Thus Messrs. O. Pratt and E. Snow, apostles, were enabled to
recognize the Promised Land, as, the first of the pioneers, they issued
from the ravines of the Wasach. Of course the Gentiles declare that the
exodists hit upon the valley by the purest chance. The spot is becoming
classical: here Judge and Apostle Phelps preached his “Sermon on the
Mount,” which, anti-Mormons say, was a curious contrast to the first
discourse so named.

[18] I subjoin one of the promising sort of advertisements:

“Tom Mitchell!!! dispenses comfort to the weary (!), feeds the hungry
(!!), and cheers the gloomy (!!!), at his old, well-known stand,
thirteen miles east of Fort Des Moines. _Don’t pass by me._”

[19] Poole--the celebrated London tailor.

[20] Alluding to one Thos. H. Ferguson, a Gentile; he killed, on Sept.
17th, 1859, in a drunken moment, A. Carpenter, who kept a boot and
shoe store. Judge Sinclair, according to the Mormons, was exceedingly
anxious that somebody should be _sus. per coll._, and, although
intoxication is usually admitted as a plea in the Western States, he
ignored it, and hanged the man on Sunday. Mr. Ferguson was executed in
a place behind the city; he appeared costumed in a Robin Hood style,
and complained bitterly to the Mormon troops, who were drawn out, that
his request to be shot had not been granted.

[21] Copyright, 1890, by Nathaniel P. Langford. Copyright, 1912, by A.
C. McClurg & Co.

[22] Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
Sheldon & Co., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress.

[23] Copyright, 1871, 1899, by the American Publishing Company.
Copyright, 1899, by Samuel L. Clemens. Copyright, 1913, by Clara
Gabrilowitsch.

[24] “The Vigilantes of Montana,” by Prof. Thos. J. Dimsdale.

[25] Copyright, 1885, by David McKay.

[26] Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

[27] Copyright, 1880, by Harper and Brothers.

[28] Copyright, 1895, by Harper and Brothers. Copyright, 1923, by Owen
Wister.

[29] Copyright, 1909, by Hamlin Garland.

[30] Copyright, 1886 and 1914, by G. P. Putnam’s Sons.

[31] Copyright, 1921, by Little, Brown, and Company.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.




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