With the Indians in the Rockies Read online

  CHAPTER I

  My father kept a little firearm shop in St. Louis. Over it was thesign:----

  DAVID FOX & Co. Wholesale & Retail Guns & Ammunition. Fine Rifles & Fowling Pieces Made To Order.

  "Co." on the sign stood for my uncle, Wesley Fox, who was a silentpartner in the business. Longer than I could remember, he had been anemployee of the American Fur Company away up the Missouri River.

  It was a great event in the quiet life of our little family of threewhen he came, as he did every two or three years, to pay us a shortvisit. He no sooner set foot in the house than my mother began to cookbread, cakes, puddings and pies. I have seen him make what he called adelicious breakfast on nothing but buttered toast and coffee. That wasbecause he did not get any bread where he lived except on Christmas Day.Every pound of freight that went up the river above Fort Union in thecompany's keel-boats and bateaux was for the Indian trade, and there wasno room for such luxuries as flour.

  While Uncle Wesley was with us, mother always let me put away my books,and not say any lessons to her, and I went with him everywhere in thetown. That is what St. Louis was in those days--just a good-sized town.I liked best to go with him to the levee and see the trappers andtraders coming in, their bateaux loaded down with beaver and other furpelts. Nearly all these men wore buckskin clothes and moccasins, andfur caps of their own make. They all had long hair and big whiskers andmustaches that looked as if they had been trimmed with a butcher-knife.

  Every time my Uncle Wesley came out of the Far West he brought me a bowand arrows in a fine case and quiver; or a stone-headed war-club; realweapons that had killed buffalo and been in battles between the tribes.And once he brought me a Sioux scalp, the heavy braided hair all of fourfeet in length. When I asked him where he got it he laughed a little andsaid, "Oh, I got it up there near Fort Union." But I had seen my mothershake her head at him, and by that I knew that I was not to be toldmore. I guessed, though, that he had taken that scalp himself, and longafterward I found out that I had guessed right.

  One night I heard the family talking about me. I had been sent to bedand was supposed to be asleep, but as the door to my room was open and Iwas lying wide awake, I couldn't help hearing. My mother was takingUncle Wesley to task. "You know that the presents you bring him only addto his interest in trapping and trading," she said, "and as it is, wedon't succeed very well in interesting him in his studies, and in thelife we have planned for him."

  "You know how our hearts are set on his going to Princeton," said myfather, in his always low, gentle voice, "and then becoming such apreacher as his grandfather was before him. You must help us, Wesley.Show the boy the dark side of the plains life, the hardships and dangersof it."

  In our little sitting-room there was a picture of Grandfather Fox, atall, dark man with a long wig. He wore a long-tailed coat with atremendous collar, knee-breeches, black stockings, and shoes withenormous buckles. I thought that I should not like to be a preacher ifthat was the way I must dress. And thinking that, I lost the rest ofwhat they were saying and fell asleep.

  Uncle Wesley stayed with us only a few days that spring. He intended toremain a month, but one morning Pierre Chouteau, the head of the greatfur company, came to our house and had a long talk with him, with theresult that he left for Fort Union the very next day, to take the placeof some one who had died there.

  So I went back to my studies, and my parents kept me closer at home thanever. I was allowed to go out on real play spells only for two hours onSaturday afternoons. There were very few American boys in the town inthose days. Most of my playmates were French Creoles, who spoke verylittle English, or none at all, so naturally I learned their patois.That knowledge was very useful to me in after days.

  I am going to pass over what I have to say now as quickly as possible,for even after all these years, and old as I am, the thought of it stillhurts. In February of the following winter my father fell ill ofsmallpox and died. Then my mother and I took it, and my mother diedalso.

  I did not know anything about her death until many days after she wasburied, and then I wanted to die, too. I felt that there was nothing inthe world for me, until one day Pierre Chouteau himself came for me inhis grand carriage, took me to his house, and kept me there until May,when my uncle arrived again in St. Louis.

  Uncle Wesley put on what we call "a bold front" when he came to me, butfor all that I could see that he was very sad. We had just one talkabout my future. "I should like to carry out your father's and mother'splans for you, Tom," he said. "The only way to do it, so far as I cansee, is to send you to Cynthia Mayhew, in Hartford, Connecticut. Sheloved your mother,--they were just like sisters,--and I know that shewould be glad to take care of you and see to your education."

  I broke out crying, and said that if he sent me away from him I shoulddie. How could he be so cruel as to send me far away among strangers?And then I cried all the harder, although I was ashamed of myself fordoing so.

  Uncle Wesley almost broke down himself. He gulped hard two or threetimes, and his voice wasn't steady as he took me on his lap and felt ofmy spindling legs and arms.

  "Poor boy! You are weak," he said. "Weak in body and low in mind. Well,we'll say no more about this matter of your education now. I'll take youup the river with me for a year, or until you get good and strong. Butwe'll pack your study books along, and a good part of your mother'slibrary, and you'll have to dig into them every evening after we getsettled. Now that's fair, isn't it?"

  It was more than fair. My fondest dream was to be realized. I wasactually to see the country and the Indians and the great herds ofbuffalo. There was nothing in St. Louis now to keep my uncle or makehis stay there a pleasure. As quickly as possible he disposed of thelittle shop and its contents, and deposited the entire proceeds with thecompany for me "for a rainy day," as he said.

  On April 10, 1856, we left St. Louis on the Chippewa, a fine new boatthat the company had just bought. I was thirteen years old, and that wasmy first steamboat ride. As the stern-wheel craft swung out from thelevee and steamed rapidly--as it seemed to me--up-stream, the novelexperience gave me the keenest pleasure. I fairly hugged myself as Iremembered that by the channel of the river it was more than twothousand miles to our destination.

  We no sooner left the Mississippi and turned into the more muddy watersof the Missouri than I earnestly begged my uncle to get his rifle out ofthe cabin and load it, so as to be ready to shoot buffalo. I wasterribly disappointed when he told me that many days must pass beforewe should see any of the animals. But to please me he brought the rifleto the cabin deck and fired a couple of shots at the sawyers in theriver. Again he loaded the piece, and told me to shoot at one.

  "Even boys must know how to shoot where we are going," he said. "Nowtake a fine sight at the end of that little sawyer and let's see hownear it you can place a bullet."

  I did as I was told and fired, after a long, wabbly aim; the watersplashed just over the tip of the log, and a number of passengersclapped their hands and praised me.

  That shot began my training in shooting. Every day after that, until wegot to the game country, I spent an hour shooting at different objectsin the water and on the banks. One morning I fired at one of a pair ofwild geese. The bird gave a flap or two of its great wings, its headdropped, and it floated inertly with the current.

  "I killed it!" I shouted. "I killed it! Wasn't that a fine shot, uncle?"

  He was silent a moment, and then said gravely:--

  "It was a thoughtless boy's shot. And I hope it will be the only one. Atrue hunter never takes the life of God's creatures needlessly."

  That was all he said, but the reproof was enough. I took it to heart,and all my life I have not only profited by it, but preached to othersagainst the wanton taking of life.

  After passing St. Charles, Missouri, the ranches of the settlers werefar
ther and farther apart, and in a few days we saw the last of them andwere in the wild country. Game now became more and more frequent,especially white-tail deer, of which we soon had some for the table. Theboat was always tied to an island or to the shore at sundown, and duringthe short remainder of daylight we would all scatter in the near timberto hunt. A number of wild turkeys were killed, which made us some finefeasts. On these occasions, however, I was only a follower of thehunters. My red-letter day was yet to come.

  At Fort Pierre we saw a great number of Sioux Indians. Formerly acompany post, it had been sold to the United States, and was nowoccupied by several companies of soldiers. Two days after leaving thefort, we sighted the first of the buffalo herds, a small band of bullsthat splashed out of the river not far ahead of the boat, and took tothe hills. About four o'clock that afternoon, the port engine breakingdown, we had to make a long stop for repairs. As soon as we swung intothe bank and learned that the boat would be tied there for the night, myuncle got out his rifle, and we went hunting.

  The timber bordering the river was half a mile wide, with an undergrowthof willow- and rose-brush so thick that we never could have penetratedit but for the game trails crossing it in every direction. From thelooks of them, I thought that thousands of animals must be livingthere. The trails were worn deep by their sharp hoofs.

  In places the earth was moist but hard, and there the tracks wereplainly outlined. My uncle pointed out the difference in them--how thetracks of the deer differed from those of elk, and how these differedagain from the tracks of the buffalo. I was taught, too, that wolftracks were longer than those of the mountain-lion, which were nearlycircular. Finally, I was asked to prove my knowledge.

  "What made those tracks?" I was asked.

  I hesitated a moment, and replied that I thought buffalo had made them.

  "Right," said my uncle. "They seem very fresh; we will follow them."

  The myriad tracks of different game, the mystery of the deep woods, thethought that hostile Indians might be there hunting us, all combined toexcite me. My heart thumped rapidly and I found it difficult to breathe.I was afraid, and kept looking intently in all directions--even behindme, for I expected every moment to see something come charging throughthe brush, either to rend us with sharp claws or to stick our bodiesfull of arrows.

  But nothing could have induced me to admit that I felt so; gritting myteeth, I followed on uncertain legs, close at Uncle Wesley's heels. Soclose was I that when he suddenly stopped, I bumped into him, and thengave a little squeal of fright, for I thought that he had discoveredsomething to justify my fears.

  "_Sh-h-h-h!_" he cautioned, and reaching back and drawing me to hisside, he pointed significantly ahead.

  We were only a few yards from the outer edge of the timber; a hundredyards farther on were three buffalo bulls, standing motionless on theopen, sparsely grassed bottom-land. How big they were! How majestic andyet uncouth they loomed before me! They had apparently no necks at all.Forgetting entirely our purpose in coming there, I stared at them withintense interest, until my uncle passed me the rifle and whispered,"Take that farthest one. He is young and in good condition. Aim low,close behind his shoulder."

  My hands closed on the long-barreled, heavy weapon. Heretofore my boystrength had been sorely taxed to shoot with it, but now, in my tenseexcitement, it fairly leaped to my shoulder, and I was able to hold itsteady. I pulled the trigger.

  _Bang!_ A thick cloud of powder smoke drifted into my face, and thenpassed on, and I saw two of the bulls running across the bottom; theother was swaying, staggering round and round, with blood streaming fromits mouth. Before I could reload, it toppled over with a crash and laystill.

  IT TOPPLED OVER WITH A CRASH AND LAY STILL]

  I stood staring at the animal like one in a dream; it was hard torealize that I had actually killed it. Uncle Wesley broke my trance bypraising the shot I had made, and added that the animal was in finecondition and would weigh all of a ton. He had me lie down on it, myfeet even with its fore feet, and I found that I could not reach the topof its withers, or rather, its hump: its height had been more than sixfeet.

  I now got my first lesson in skinning and butchering one of these greatanimals. Without axe or windlass, or any of the other things regarded asindispensable by farmers and by professional butchers, the old-timeplainsmen made a quick and neat job of this work with only a commonbutcher-knife.

  First, my uncle doubled up the bull's fore legs and straightened backthe hind ones. Then, little by little, he twisted the great head sharplyback beside the body, at the same time heaving up the back, and in amoment or two the animal lay prone on its belly, propped up in thatposition by the head. If the skin had been wanted, the rolling-up of theanimal would have been reversed, and it would have lain on its back,legs up, and as in the other way, propped in position by the bent-backhead.

  After making an incision along the back from head to tail, he skinnedboth sides down to the ground, and even under the body, by propping thehead one way and then another, and slanting the carcass so that therewas knife room beneath. At last the body lay free, back up, on theclean, spread-out skin.

  The choicest part of it was the so-called "hump," or in frontierlanguage, the "boss ribs." These dorsal ribs rose gradually from thecentre of the back to a length of twenty inches and more just above thepoint of the shoulders, and were deeply covered with rich tenderloin.

  It took but a moment to get the set off. Uncle Wesley cut an incisionalong each side at the base of them; then he unjointed a hind leg at thegambrel-joint, and with that for a club he hit the tips of the ribs afew blows, causing them to snap off from the back-bone like so manypipe-stems, and the whole hump lay free on the hide.

  Next, he removed the legs with a few deft cuts of the knife, and laidthem out on the clean grass; unjointed the backbone at the third rib andremoved the after part; severed the neck from the big ribs, cut themapart at the brisket, and smashed one side of them free from thebackbone with the leg club, and there we had the great animal divided ineight parts. Lastly, he removed the tongue through an incision in thelower jaw.

  "There," said he, when it was all done, "now you know how to butcher.Let's hurry to the boat and get the roustabouts to carry in the meat."

  From this point on, there were days at a time when we saw no Indians,and the various kinds of game animals were more and more plentiful andtame. At last, several days after passing Fort Clarke, we came to theAmerican Fur Company's greater post, Fort Union, situated on the northbank of the river about five miles above the mouth of the Yellowstone.

  It was begun in 1829, under the direction of the factor, KennethMcKenzie, and finished in 1832. A stockade of logs ten or twelve feetlong, set up on end, side by side, protected the buildings, and this, inturn, was commanded by two-storied bastions, in which cannon weremounted at the northeast and southwest corners.

  When we approached the place, a flag was run up on the staff of thefort, cannon boomed a welcome, and a great crowd of Indians and companymen, headed by the factor, gathered at the shore to greet us. My uncleand I were escorted to the two-story house which formed the rear of thefort, and in which were the quarters of the factor and clerks.

  I learned afterward that distinguished guests had been housed there:George Catlin, the painter and philanthropist, in 1832; Maximilian,Prince of Neuwied, in 1833; and Audubon, the great naturalist, in 1843.All of them published extremely interesting accounts of what they sawand did in the Upper Missouri country, which I commend to the reader,Maximilian's "Travels in North America" especially; for I went up theriver from Fort Union just as he did, and there had been practically nochange in the conditions of the country from his time to mine.Maximilian gives a wonderfully accurate and vivid description of theremarkable scenery of the Missouri, without question the most strangelypicturesque river in America, and probably in the world.

  My Uncle Wesley was a valued clerk of the American Fur Company. He wassent from one to another of their Far Western forts,
as occasion for hisservices arose, and frequently he was in full charge of a post formonths at a time, while the factor went on a trip to the States. When wearrived in Fort Union he was told that he must go on to Fort Benton,where the factor needed his help. At that time, since the company'ssteamboats went no farther than Fort Union, all the goods for the postsbeyond were sent in keel-boats, or bateaux. It was not until the summerof 1860 that the extreme upper river was found to be navigable, and onJuly 2 of that year the Chippewa and the Key West arrived at FortBenton.

  A keel-boat was lying at Fort Union when we arrived there; it waswaiting for part of the Chippewa's cargo of ammunition, guns, andvarious trade goods, mostly tobacco, red and blue cloth, brass wire forjewelry, Chinese vermilion, and small trinkets. These were soontransferred, and we resumed our voyage, Uncle Wesley in charge of theboat and crew. The Minnie was sixty feet long, ten feet wide, and wasdecked over. The crew consisted of thirty French-Canadian cordelliers,or towmen, a cook, a steersman and two bowmen, and a hunter with hishorse. In a very small cabin aft there were two bunks. Forward there wasa mast and sail for use when the wind was favorable--which was seldom.There was a big sweep oar on each side, and a number of poles werescattered along the deck to be used as occasion required. In the bowthere was a four-pound howitzer, loaded with plenty of powder, and acouple of quarts of trade balls, in case of an attack by Indians, whichwas not at all improbable.

  By the channel it was called eight hundred miles from Fort Union to FortBenton, where we hoped to arrive in two months. After the first day'sexperience, I thought that we should be fortunate if we reached theplace in two years. From morning until night the cordelliers toiled as Ihad never seen men toil before. It was a painful sight, those thirty mentugging on the long tow-rope as they floundered through water oftenwaist-deep; through quicksand or mud so tenacious that the moreunfortunate were dragged out of it gasping for breath and smeared withthe stuff from head to foot. They frequently lost their footing onsteep places and rolled down into deep water; banks of earth caved uponthem; they were scratched and torn by rose-brush and bull-berry thorns;they were obliged to cut trails along the top of the banks in places,and to clear a way for the boat through dense masses of sawyers anddriftwood.

  A day or two after leaving Fort Union we narrowly escaped losing theboat, and the lives of all of us who were on it, in the treacherousswirling current. At the time the cordelliers were walking easily alonga sandy shore under a high bank. Ahead of them, at the edge of thewater, lay a dead buffalo bull, its rump partly eaten by the prowlinganimals. When the lead-man was within a few feet of it a big grizzlysprang toward him from the other side of the carcass, where it had lainasleep. The men dropped the rope and with loud cries sprang into thewater, since they could not climb the bank. The boat at once turnedbroadside to the swift current, drifted against two sawyers, and beganto turn turtle. The lower rail was already under water, and the horsehad lost its footing and tumbled overboard, where it hung strangling,when by the greatest good fortune first one and then the other of thesawyers snapped under the strain, and the boat righted and swung in tothe bank. We now had time to see what was going on above. The bear wasjust leaving the opposite shore and making for the timber; the men,dripping from their hasty bath, were gathered in a close group near thecarcass, and were talking and gesticulating as only Frenchmen can. Wesuspected that something was wrong, and while the bowmen made the boatfast, the rest of us hurried up the shore. The group parted at ourapproach and disclosed one of their number--the lead-man on therope--lying moaning on the sand. The bear had overtaken and mauled himterribly, and then, frightened probably by the loud cries of so manymen, it took to the river and swam away. We got the wounded man aboardat once, and my uncle set his arm and made him as comfortable aspossible. The hunter had saved his horse by cutting its rope andswimming with it to a landing far down stream. As soon as the tow-linewas recovered we went on, thankful that the accident had been no worse.

  Yet through it all they were cheerful and happy, and at the eveningcamp-fire my uncle was frequently obliged to speak harshly to keep themfrom shouting their voyageur songs, that might have brought someprowling war party of Indians down on us. The food of these men wasmeat--nothing but meat, washed down with a little tea. Sometimes theymanaged to dig a few _pommes blanches_, white, edible roots that werevery palatable when roasted in the coals. Uncle Wesley and I had a boxof hard crackers and a few pounds of flour and sugar. When they weregone, he told me, we should have no more until we sat down to ourChristmas dinner. That did not worry me; I thought that if big, strongmen could live on meat, a boy could, too.

  The river wound like a snake through the great valley. There were longpoints only a mile or two across by land, but many times that distanceround by the channel. Sometimes when we came to such a place UncleWesley and I would hunt across the bottom and then wait for the boat. Onthese trips I killed my first deer and elk and antelope--not to mentionseveral more buffalo.

  But Uncle Wesley was always uneasy when away from the boat; he wasresponsible for it and its cargo, which was worth more than a hundredthousand dollars in furs. Should anything happen to it while he was awayfrom it, even for an hour's hunt, his hope of eventually becoming amember of the great company would have to be given up. Finally, afterminute instructions in the proper handling of the rifle, I was allowedto accompany the hunter on his daily quests for meat.

  Baptiste Rondin was a dreamy, gentle little Creole from Louisiana. Hecame from a good family, had not been taught to work, and had hatedbooks, so he told me. So when misfortune came to his family, and he hadto do something, he chose the position he now held in preference toothers with more pay which the Chouteaus had offered him. When westarted out in the morning, I would climb up behind him on the gentleold horse, and we would ride for miles up one side or the other of theriver. We always saw various kinds of game soon after leaving the boat,but never attempted to kill any until some was found convenient to theshore of the river, where the boat could land and the meat easily betaken aboard.

  Besides looking for game, we examined every dusty trail, every mudflatand sandbar, and constantly scanned the bottoms and the hills for signsof Indians. They were the great terror of the cordelliers; often aboat's crew was surprised and killed, or the cargo was destroyed.

  We tied up one night four or five miles below the mouth of theMusselshell River, which my Uncle Wesley said Lewis and Clark had sonamed on account of the quantities of fossil shells that are foundthere.

  Early the next morning Baptiste saddled the old horse, and we startedout to hunt at the same time that the cordelliers hauled the rope tightand began their weary tramp.

  We came to the lower edge of the big bottom at the mouth of theMusselshell. Opposite the mouth there was a heavily timbered island. Onesmall band of antelope was the only game in sight between us and theMusselshell. On the other side of it, at the upper end of the bottom andclose to the Missouri, there were a couple of hundred buffalo, somefeeding, some lying down.

  They were so far away that we rode boldly through the tall sage-brush tothe little river, and across it to the outer edge of the strip oftimber. There Baptiste told me to remain with the horse while he creptout to the herd and made a killing. I did not like being left alone.There were many fresh grizzly tracks on the river sands just behind me,and I was afraid of the terrible animals, so afraid that I did not dareto dismount and gather some strawberries which showed in the grass atthe horse's feet.

  The passing minutes seemed hours. The tall sage-brush out ahead hadswallowed Baptiste. By rising in the stirrups I could just see the backsof some of the distant buffalo. A sudden splash in the river made myheart flutter, and I quickly turned to see what had caused it.

  Here and there between the trees and brush its glistening surface was inplain view, and through one opening I saw something more terrible than awhole band of grizzlies: an Indian crossing toward me. I saw his face,painted red with blue bars across the cheeks; I noted that he woreleather clothing; that
a shield hung suspended from his left arm; thatin his right hand he grasped a bow and a few arrows.

  All this I noted in an instant of time; and then nearer to me, and moreto the right, a stick snapped, and I turned my head to see anotherIndian in the act of letting an arrow fly at me. I yelled and gave thehorse such a thump with the stock of my rifle that he made a long, quickleap. That was a lucky thing for me. The arrow aimed at my body cutthrough my coat sleeve and gashed my left arm just above the elbow.

  I yelled frantically for Baptiste and urged the horse on through thesage-brush. I looked back, and saw that Indians all up and down thestream were leaving the timber and running toward me. I looked ahead andsaw the smoke of Baptiste's gun, heard the report, saw the buffalo bunchup and then scurry westward for the nearest hills.

  The thought came to me that I could pick the hunter up, and that theold horse would easily carry us beyond the possibility of an attack byIndians afoot. That hope was shattered a moment later. The buffalosuddenly circled and came back into the bottom, and I saw that they hadbeen turned by some Indians at the edge of the hills. Indians werestrung out clear across the flat, were leaping through the sage-brushtoward us, and shouting their dreadful war-cry; they were hemming us inon the south, and the great river cut off our retreat to the north.

  I urged the old horse on, determined to reach Baptiste and die by hisside, but the Indians who had appeared on the hills were now quite nearhim. I saw him raise his rifle and fire at the one in the lead, thenturn and run a few steps and spring from the high cut-bank into theriver. But just before jumping he paused, and raising a hand, motionedto me to turn back.

  To turn back! Accustomed to obeying him, I sawed on the bridle and thehorse stopped. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that the nearest ofthe Indians were not three hundred yards from me. In my distress Icried, "What shall I do? Oh, what shall I--what can I do to escape?"