Part 11

The early settlers, you see, being but few in numbers, had a hard time to maintain themselves; if they had not been extremely economical they could not have lived in the wilderness at all. They fashioned their own clothes, they raised flax and wool, which the women spun and wove into linen and linsey for the men; and made flannel for their own wear. If any man wished to hire help there would be an understanding beforehand as to what the wages were to be paid in. Sometimes pork, beef, honey, or corn was used as a substitute for money. Sometimes a calf, pig, deer-skin, bear-skin, coon-skin, or a wolf’s scalp would suffice. The settlers all lived in cabins, and fed their children on bread, meat, butter, honey, and milk. Coffee and tea were almost out of the question. A few of the older ladies, who had been raised in other parts of the country, alone could use these staples of diet. Meat was plentiful, for, if the farmers could keep the wild animals away from their hogs, the nuts and acorns would make them very fat. Pork, beef, bear-meat, and venison were easily obtained. Wild meat was not thought very much of, because it was most plentiful at all times.

Politics were little understood among the men in buckskin. Most of them were Federalists. An election was usually held on the first Monday in October, when all the settlers would gather at the polling booths, arrayed in hunting-shirt and moccasins, almost every one of them with a big knife stuck in his belt. A stranger would have thought this some military party going to war, and, if a quarrel occurred, the two contestants would rip off both coat and shirt, and fight until one or the other acknowledged that he was the beaten individual. Then their friends would take the bleeding combatants to the nearest stream and give them both a good washing. This would usually end the quarrel. The people were generous to strangers travelling through the country, and if a wayfarer lost his path a hunter would pilot him five, six, or even ten miles, until he was out of danger of being lost. They would refuse all compensation for their services.

In such a community Meshack Browning continued his life, and, in spite of numerous hairbreadth escapes from wounded bears and panthers, successfully escaped from any serious injuries, and he did not kill merely for the sake of killing. Honest and warm sentiments stirred his bosom, as the following story will show.

One day he was following a large buck, which ran into a crevice in some high rocks and there lay down. The trapper hurried after him, and, mounting a large boulder, eagerly searched for a view of the cunning animal. He stood on the rock and looked about him with the utmost care, but could see nothing of the buck, until casting his eyes down at the base of the rock directly below where he stood, there lay the fine fellow contentedly chewing his cud, apparently considering himself perfectly secure. He was watching the ground in front, not thinking that an enemy could approach on the side which the rocks so completely covered. Let me here quote the old trapper:

“The rock being fully twenty feet high, I was obliged to shoot nearly straight down, but when I saw what a complete advantage I had, it greatly marred my pleasure to think that such a noble animal, possessing all the beauty bestowed by a pair of fine, large horns, a well formed body, and tapering limbs; whose life had been innocently spent (never having committed an injury against either man or beast) should be thus sacrified. My desire of killing him was so weakened, that I really had thought of letting him escape the death that was then hanging over him, but again it occurred to me that he was one of the creatures placed here for the use of man, that, if I let him go, probably the next hunter who caught him in his power would surely kill him, and that it would be as well for me to take him as to let any other person have him.

“So, taking a good aim, I fired at this monarch of the forest, when the poor fellow gave a few jumps, and fell dead. I declare the death of that deer gave me more real pain than pleasure. He was a large, old fellow, his head and his face being quite gray with age. I took his skin and returned to my cabin, having the river to wade and at least a mile to travel before I could reach home. The winter being then near, I believe that the death of this buck ended the fall hunt.”

The seasoned trapper was not always accustomed to shoot bears. Sometimes he would trap them in large log traps, hewn out of the forest timber by means of the axe. To entice the animals into this box, he used to roast the leg of a deer, and, while the meat was cooking, he would rub honey over it, so that it would smell very strongly of the latter. Then he would cut off pieces of this sweetened meat, would tie them beneath his moccasins, would walk through the grounds which the bears frequented and would return to the trap. Every bear which smelled his tracks would follow the trail to the trap and would get caught in it.

Shooting wolves was also varied by trapping wolves, and for this he used to take a carcass of a cow or a horse, and lay it in a small stream of water. Then he would go off some distance, so that the wolf could not see where, and would cut bushes. He would stick the ends in the mud so thickly that the wolf could get at the meat only in one place, which was left open and clear. The carcass was so laid that the wolf could eat at either side.

A wolf will never jump over the bait, but will hunt the stream for a place to cross, in order to go around the other side, and eat. Therefore, the wise trapper would leave a passage for the animal to cross the water, and would set bushes about so thickly that they could not get through in any other place. The stream would then be widened where the wolves would pass, so that they could not step over it, and a flat stone be placed in the centre with green moss laid on top, so that it would look as if it had never been moved. Then meat would be cut into small pieces, and strewn on both sides of these crossing-places, both above and below the carcass.

When a gang of wolves would come to the meat the larger ones would drive the smaller ones off. These would run about seeking food, and, soon finding the small pieces strewn about the crossing-places, they would run across, stepping upon the moss-covered stone as they did so. Every time they returned they would be sure to go over the place, setting their feet precisely in the same position on the stone.

The trapper would carefully watch the marks of the presence of the wolves. When he found that they made tracks on the stone by wearing away the moss with their feet he would remove the stone and put a steel trap in its place, covering it over with green moss just as he had covered the stone. When the animals came back, in order to seek food, they would cross as before, place their feet in the trap, and would be securely caught. The old ones, being at the meat when a young one would be caught in the trap, would not be afraid to return,—as there was nothing to scare them. After a while, however, all would become afraid of the crossing-places. Then wise Meshack would place his trap in the mud where they would stand to eat the meat. But after one was caught in this place, all would desert, and trapping would be over with this particular gang of wolves.

After capturing them in this manner for several years they became so cunning that they would not touch any bait which was offered them. The trapper therefore adopted another plan, which was as follows:

He found that they would pick up any fragments of old bones that lay upon the ground, but if they lay in water, or close to it, they would not touch them. He therefore saved all the large bones from the table, particularly the joint ends of beef bones. He would beat them to pieces, mount his horse, so that his tracks would not be scented, and would scatter the stuff over a considerable area of land. Around this space he would then stick some bushes; so that the wolves, in order to get at the mess, would have to pass through an opening in the brush.

The wolves would soon find the bones and eat them up. Then they would be given a second meal. But, meanwhile, a trap would be placed at the opening of the bushes and would be stuck in a hole of its own size. All the extra dirt would be carried away. The trap would be pressed down an inch below the surface. Old leaves would then be laid over it, and it would also be covered with an inch of buckwheat bran, which would keep the wolves from smelling the iron. Then the skillful trapper would take some of the grass, which grew around the spot, and lay it carefully over the trap, so that no eye would discern the difference between that particular place and the surrounding earth. When this was done early in the morning, or before a shower of rain which would destroy all smell, a wolf would be always caught as he came up in search of the little bones. The pioneer was most successful in this method of defeating the cunning of the shy and treacherous animals, who were so destructive to the live stock of the settlers that a considerable sum was paid for their scalps.

That the wolves were fearless the following story will bear full witness:

A friend of the trapper’s called Mr. Calmes, was travelling from Virginia to Kentucky with a number of others, at a time when the Indians were very troublesome. In passing through the wilderness they saw so many trails of the red men that they were afraid to keep a fire burning at night for fear that the prowling savages might see their light and attack them by surprise. They would therefore let their wood burn until their supper was cooked, then they would smother the embers and lie down in the dark.

One night they heard an animal moving around them, and seizing their guns, made ready to shoot it. But the animal, whatever it was, made off in the woodland. By its tracks they could see that it was a huge wolf. After the excitement had subsided they all lay down again to sleep, and one of them so stretched himself upon the ground that his head was exposed outside of the camp. When he was asleep the wolf returned, and, creeping upon him stealthily, bit him so severely about the head that he died before daybreak, without speaking a word to his anxious companions. Mr. Calmes often said that had this ferocious animal found a man in the woods by himself, and if it was at a time when he was particularly hungry, he would have fallen upon him and would have killed him at once. He wound up this grewsome yarn with the sage advice to the trapper to kill all the wolves that he could.

“Browning,” said he, “your hunting is really a great service to this country, for, if you come upon one of these sneaking wolves, you must spare no pain to kill him. There is no knowing how many cattle, sheep, and hogs you will thus save to the inhabitants. I was going to tell you to be prepared for them, but I know that you understand the rascals and will take care of yourself. Whatever you do, do not let one of these bad fellows escape if you can help it.”

Meshack Browning did not do so. His long and active life was one of constant battling with the wild animals of the Blue Ridge, and at the close of his career all could justly say that nowhere had a more famous huntsman ever lived in the eastern portion of the then half-settled United States. Now little game is to be found where once deer, wolves, bears, and wild cats were plentiful, and, although sturdy and honest men still reside in the Alleghanies, seldom does one meet with a character like this bluff old trapper and pioneer.

“BILL” BENT:

HERO OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL

WHAT one of the plainsmen did not know “Bill” Bent; “Bill,” the fellow who had battled so often with the Comanches, Kiowas, and other Indians that they called him “The Red Panther:” “Bill,” who had killed innumerable braves in open conflict; and “Bill” who had often just escaped the scalping-knife by a mere hair’s breadth? The old fellow was a true plains’ hero, and after you have heard some of the stories about his escapades with the redskins I’ll warrant that you will agree that he was a marvellously lucky scout.

In 1829 the brother of this fellow—Charles Bent—was upon an expedition to the mountains near Santa Fé, New Mexico. With him were numerous others, well armed and well mounted. It was lucky that this was the case, for every day a cloud of Comanches and Kiowas hung upon the flanks of the moving line of trappers and kept up a continuous and rapid fire. Every night the trappers slept upon their arms, certain that an assault would come before the dawn. Bill Bent was several miles away—at a little frontier post—and, hearing of the peril of his brother and his friends, determined to ride to the rescue.

Old Bill rode a large black mule with split ears, which showed that he had once been owned by a Comanche brave. The Comanches soon sighted him, and about fifty of them made after him at full tilt. Arrows and bullets whistled about the head of the gallant scout, but he paid no more attention to these missiles than if they were flies. Occasionally he would turn in his saddle and drop some too eager buck whose zeal had outstripped discretion, and who had galloped within easy range of Bill’s deadly Hawken rifle.

“Here he comes, boys!” shouted one of the band of plainsmen. “A brave fellow is after us, sure.”

Bent came dashing up and reached two plainsmen called Coates and Waldo, who fired at the pursuing redskins, bringing down three of the foremost. Seeing this, the other Comanches retreated and left the little band to plod on alone. A force of one hundred and twenty Mexicans joined the party shortly afterwards, in order to be protected by them against the overwhelming numbers of the redskins.

The frontiersmen kept on their way across the lava dust and sage brush, but the Indians—although drawing off at a distance—still pursued. A famous scout called Ewing Young was travelling about twenty miles off, and from a fleeing Mexican heard that his brother trappers were sorely pressed. This particular scout was one of the bravest and most generous of men. As a trapper, hunter, and Indian fighter, he had few superiors. He had learned from a friendly redskin that the mountain canyon towards which the scouts were journeying was occupied by two thousand warriors, who lay in ambush waiting to entrap and annihilate the whites. Gathering forty trusty men-of-the-plains around him he rode to warn the fleeing plainsmen of their danger.

“By George, boys, there they are!”

One of the advance trappers spoke thus, as—from a summit of a high hill—he saw below him the vast horde of redskins surrounding and following the retreating scouts with whom Bill Bent was associated. The redskins set up a wild whooping as soon as they viewed the oncoming whites. “Crack! crack!” the rifles began to spit and spatter at the advancing plainsmen.

The scouts were courageous, but the odds were too great even for such valor as theirs. Swarms of Indians enveloped them, shouting:

“Ki yi! ki yi! The palefaces will soon all be dead!”

At this juncture young Kit Carson first showed the material that he was made of. Riding out in front, he swung himself under his horse,—and shooting at a redskin from below its neck, brought him to the ground.

“Bully for you, Kit!” shouted Scout Young. “But these infernal redskins are too thick for me. I must break loose and retreat to Tavo.”

This the plainsman speedily did, and, although pursued for some distance, finally got safely away. At Tavo a crowd of trappers were assembled for their yearly rendezvous. Ninety-five of them joined Young, crying: “To the rescue of Bill Bent! To the fore! We’ll clean up all the Comanches in the state!”

“Hurrah, boys!” shouted Young. “That’s the kind of talk I like to hear. We’ll get right after them.”

The Indians, meanwhile, still pursued Bill Bent and his party.

The trappers under Young were not long in riding to the rescue of their comrades. As they came in sight the redskins gave whoops of disgust, for they saw that they were outnumbered and outclassed.

“Back to the woods!” shouted young Kit Carson, as he galloped his steed in the direction of the braves. “Back to the plains, for we’ll get you now!”

As the party came on, Bill Bent’s followers set up a wild whooping. “We’re saved!” cried several. “Old Scout Young, we knew, would not let us be annihilated.”

The Indians now became dispirited. Seeing the reinforcements coming up in battle array they quickly retired, chanting a death song, for they had lost fully fifty men in killed and wounded.

Bill Bent’s followers were now free, and Bill, himself, was overjoyed to have saved his scalp. But he soon came near losing it again.

In the winter of 1830-1831, the tried and seasoned trapper, together with Robert Isaacs and a comrade whose name is unknown, made his way to Arizona, on a trapping expedition. For a time they met with fair success and saw nothing of the redskins. But one day they were surrounded by a body of Mescalero Apaches, who were the fiercest of the savage tribes upon the frontier. The Indians were one hundred and fifty strong. There were but three trappers. What chance had they, you ask. They had no hope of freedom, but, as Bill Bent expressed it: “We will sell our lives as dearly as possible and we will make as many redskins go under as we can before we, ourselves, will give up!”

The trappers threw up a rude stone breastwork when first surrounded. They were working hard on this, when, with terrific whoops, the Apaches were after them on the charge.

“Go easy, boys!” shouted Bill Bent. “Make every shot count!”

Two of the trappers fired as he spoke and two of the chiefs fell to the sod. Before they could get out of range the third man shot off his rifle, and another one of the braves dropped to the ground. The Apaches were not disconcerted and again returned to the charge, but they were met by the deadly fire of the reloaded rifles and the pistols of the trappers, also.

“Ugh! Ugh!” said they, “we’ve had enough! We must go back!”

Conducting the siege now at long range, the Apaches kept up a desultory fire for two days. Then they retired in disgust, for they could not dislodge the trappers.

“Hurrah!” cried Bill Bent, as he saw them going away. “Boys, we can now get some water!”

The scouts, in fact, were nearly dead with thirst, but they soon found a spring and refreshed themselves. Leaving Arizona soon afterwards, they avoided any further trouble with the terrible Apaches, who, remembering the drubbing which they had received, were glad to allow them to retreat unmolested.

The old Santa Fé trail in New Mexico was much used by emigrants at this time and was well watched by the redskins. Should a train be slightly guarded it would be unsafe for men, women and children, for the Indians would make short work of them. This deterred all except the boldest spirits from venturing where was certain peril and probable death. But among the heroes who were still willing to encounter the fearful odds of Indian combat were to be found Bill Bent, his brother Charles, the Waldos, and a few others whom no danger ever daunted, and who saw a splendid field for trade in this country. In 1839 a party of these men applied to Andrew Jackson, who had just taken his seat as President. They asked for a military escort to accompany them to the Arkansas River, which—at that time—formed the boundary between Mexico and the United States.

This request was speedily granted, and Major Bennett Riley was detailed, with two hundred men, to meet the emigrants at Fort Leavenworth and to accompany them to the Arkansas River. The traders met at Round Grove, Missouri, where Charles Bent was chosen Captain and where Bill Bent also joined. With thirty-six wagons, fully freighted with valuable goods, they set out for Santa Fé, New Mexico.

In due time they reached the Arkansas River at Chateau’s Island, and here the traders bade farewell to the gallant Major and his brave soldiers. Plunging into the shallow waters of the stream they were soon on Mexican soil. But their troubles now commenced. The dry sand engulfed their wagon wheels almost to the hubs, stalling the teams, and utterly preventing an orderly march.

“Close up! Close up!” Bill Bent kept shouting.

But in spite of these orders, the wagons were soon strung over a half a mile of road. Advance and rear detachments had been thrown out to guard against surprise, but either through the negligence of the videttes, or from the completeness with which the Indians had concealed themselves, they had only gone nine miles when the savages seemed to spring out of the very bowels of the earth. Their rifles spat a deadly fire.

“My stars, look at the redskins!” cried Bill Bent. “They’re after us, for sure, this time!”

The surprise had been complete, but Charles Bent—mounted upon a large, black horse—with his long, dark hair floating upon the wind, dashed up and down the line, forming his men. Every ravine swarmed with the redskins, and, although they yelled fiercely, above their loud calls could be heard the voice of Charles Bent.

“Close up, men! Close up!” he kept shouting. “It’s our only chance! And keep cool! Keep cool!”

Two of the men had been lagging in the rear of the train, and, at the first fire, one fell dead, while the other—with fifty Indians in pursuit—dashed for the wagons. Escape seemed to be impossible, but Bent saw the situation at a glance and charged towards the advancing savages with twenty scouts. The Indians drew off at this show of force, and the fleeing trapper was thus able to join his comrades.

_Crash! Crash!_ sounded the rifles, and the battle continued to rage with fury. Nothing but Bent’s coolness and the desperate bravery of his men prevented a charge by the red men, who numbered at least a thousand. Luckily a small, brass cannon was in the train—the first that ever crossed the Arkansas—and, as it spat its fire, the Comanches withdrew.

The trappers now dug rifle-pits, but Bent soon saw that without water his men would be unable to hold their own.

“Who will creep through the hostile redskins and go after Major Riley and his men?” he asked. “Unless we get his aid we will have to give in to these frightfully bloodthirsty savages!”

“I will go! I will go!” came from the throats of many. In fact all seemed to wish to undertake the hazardous journey.

Captain Bent could not help laughing. Nine were finally selected for the trip. They knew that their only salvation lay in their rifles, for their mules were so worn down by fatigue that flight was out of the question.

They rode out expecting to have a tough time of it, but the redskins allowed them to pass through their lines without firing a single shot at them. Spurring on their broken-down beasts they hastened towards the Arkansas River, where they still hoped to find Major Riley with his troops.

The Major was surely there. He saw them coming away off on the plains, and, striking his tents, was all prepared to meet them when they arrived.

“Gentlemen,” said he, when he heard their story, “it is a breach of national etiquette for me to cross the boundary line into Mexico—a friendly power—but blood is thicker than water, and I cannot see my countrymen suffer. I will be with you as soon as my troops can pack up.”

The soldiers were soon on their way. So rapid and silent was the approach of the force that they even penetrated between the pickets of the traders and their camp before they were discovered. Cheer after cheer welled from the throats of the beleaguered plainsmen, as they approached. The savages heard them, and, seeing that they now would have to assume the defensive, quietly slipped away.