Part 12

“Ow! Ow!” said one brave. “We get those palefaces yet.”

Much overjoyed, Bent and his traders again started on their journey, turning their course from Santa Fé, which point they at first intended to reach, to Taos, some eighty miles further to the North. By this détour they not only avoided many canyons, in which were sure to be lurking savages, but were also able to obtain a military escort of Mexicans. A General Viscarro—with a goodly number of Mexican rancheros—accompanied them. But there was still to be trouble.

They reached the rippling courses of the river Cimarron. There a party of savages approached the Mexicans, who rode on in front. One of them bore an arrow tied transversely across a spear, it being the symbol of the cross. Viscarro was a Catholic, and, honoring this novel flag with true devotion, he was spoken to by one of the braves.

“If the Americans will move aside to some distance,” said he, “we will lay down our arms and will surrender.”

Viscarro smiled.

“Certainly, red brother,” said he.

The Americans retired beyond a ridge, and no sooner were they out of the way than the treacherous savages poured a destructive fire into the Mexican ranks. Many men and officers were wounded. But luckily the two Bents heard the firing, and suspecting treachery, gathered a number of mounted soldiers and went to the relief of the men who lived south of the Rio Grande.

Now was a desperate affair. Bent and his men burst upon the savages with fierce cries and delivered a deadly volley right in their faces. Their rifles were then discarded, and, having next emptied their pistols, they followed up the attack with tomahawks and clubbed rifles. Soon the Comanches were in full flight and the field was strewn thickly with their dead and wounded.

A gallant action was performed by a Pueblo (or Village) Indian. He was near the Mexican General, Viscarro, and understanding the language of the hostiles, heard one of the latter exclaim in his native tongue: “Now for the General!” As he spoke he aimed a bullet at the body of the Mexican commander. The Indian threw himself in front of him—at this juncture—and fell to the ground; as noble a hero as the lists of chivalry tell of. Viscarro was much affected by this show of devotion.

Thanks to Bill Bent and his brother Charles, the caravan had been saved from the hostiles. It was well. From this time on nothing exciting occurred and the Americans and Mexicans reached their respective homes in safety, meeting with no more serious annoyance than the nightly serenade of coyotes. The disheartened Comanches had given up their attempt to crush out the travel along the Arkansas trail, and fortunately for the white traders entered into no more military combinations,—preferring the safer and more natural warfare of the small, predatory bands. They could then move quickly and could cut off small unguarded bodies of men.

Bill Bent had done well. Now he did even better, for a fort was named after him. This was situated on the Arkansas River; was first called Fort William, and was the property of Lieutenant Vrain and himself. Built in 1833, here the celebrated Kit Carson was the post hunter from 1834 to 1842. Could the walls of the old fort speak, they would tell many tales of thrilling battles with the red men.

On one occasion it was besieged by many thousands of plains Indians. All of the tribes had determined to lay aside their mutual dislike for one another for once, and to league together for the extermination of the “palefaces.” They saw that the white traders would soon have all of this country and they did not like the idea. Bill Bent was approaching the fort with a wagon-train about this time. Knowing that two or three hundred raw recruits of the United States garrison formed its only defense, he hastened rapidly to its relief. On his way he met several deserters, who (in the night) had scaled the walls of what they regarded to be a place of doom, and stealing cautiously through the savage lines, had fled with all speed towards the rising sun,—for they knew that help was there.

Bill Bent was somewhat alarmed at this. When he arrived in sight of the fort he saw that it was menaced by a great and awful danger. There were thousands of hostile Indians dancing their war and scalp dances around it, and endeavoring to work themselves up to the proper frenzy in order to make the attack. Bent’s blood began to boil.

“Here!” he cried to one of his best men, “you take charge of the train! I have to move forward!”

His hat came off as he rode on, but he galloped straight at the fort. His long hair—meanwhile—trailed out behind like a banner from its staff. It was a trophy which any of the savages would have been very proud to wear in his belt.

The Indians were too surprised to fire at him. As he dashed along, he uttered a fierce war-whoop, and fired his revolver at a savage who was unwise enough to approach. Behind him came thundering his friend and ally,—Yellow Bear. He was a great Apache chief, but a friend of the whites and their staunch supporter. Strung out in the rear were a few Apache braves, who would have cheerfully sacrificed their lives for either Bent or Yellow Bear.

Bill Bent reached the fort in safety. So did Yellow Bear and his braves. The wagon-train came steadily on, its men marching alongside, fully armed. It, too, reached the doorway of the fort without a mishap. Here the pioneers found Bent getting everything in proper shape to give a warm reception to the braves, who from their actions were apparently ready for the assault. They were met with a hot reception.

Now an unforeseen event occurred.

Upon the morning after Bent’s arrival the lookout beheld a slight cloud of dust far to the Eastward. After a while, a few black specks could be seen. They came nearer and were seen to be Indian videttes with their ponies on a dead run.

The videttes dashed into the Indian encampment, said a few hasty words to some of the chiefs, and then consternation seemed to take possession of the redskins. The squaws began at once to take down the lodges. The travois poles were slung with the tents and equipment. Soon the entire Indian camp was in full retreat. Amidst the yelping of the dogs, squalling of the babies, the rattle of pots and kettles piled up on the travois, and the insulting yells of the warriors, the savage host of besiegers crossed the Arkansas River and disappeared from view.

“Why, now,” said Bill Bent. “Boys! Seems they’re afraid of us!”

But the mystery was soon explained. Late on the evening of the next day those in the fort beheld the approach of a regiment of United States cavalry, which had been sent to its relief. The redskins had an admirable picket system. By means of this their pony express had told them of the approach of the cavalry, and, fearing that vengeance might be taken upon them for their hostile attitude and war-like threats, they prudently decamped.

Bill Bent had many another adventure upon the plains which was as thrilling as this. He was known for his courage and was never badly wounded, although he took a thousand chances. Sad to relate, he married a Cheyenne wife, and his children—suffering from this taint of redskin blood—never attained the prominence upon the plains which their fond parent had held. At last the good old fellow passed to the Happy Hunting Grounds. He had indeed seen the wild and woolly West in its palmiest days. Good-by to old Bill, hardy frontiersman and scout, whose reputation was spotless! Good-by and good luck, Bill Bent!

THOMAS EDDIE:

THE LAST OF THE OLD SCHOOL TRAPPERS

“YOU will do, boy, I will need you!”

The man who spoke—a grizzled old plainsman—nodded to a strong-looking young Scotchman who was standing before him, rifle in hand, and motioned to him to take a position among a number of trappers who stood near by. The fellow who thus spoke was John Ashley (a famous trader and explorer) who had just organized the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. As he was in need of vigorous young men his heart naturally warmed towards the stalwart youth before him, who was yearning for adventure in the Far West.

This athletic frontiersman was none other than Thomas Eddie, who was now twenty-four years of age, and whose aim with the rifle was steady and sure. Born on August 29th, 1799, he had naturally drifted to the plains, where he was as quick to volunteer upon a dangerous mission as were “Old Bill” Williams, Bill Gordon, or any of the other valiant pioneers. He was a fellow of iron will, and the older members of this expedition soon found that the canny young Scot would do and dare as much as any of them. As ready and willing to go to the relief of a stricken comrade as the most experienced man on the plains, he had not an enemy on the border, except among the redskins, whose hand was against every white man. As wiry as steel, as keen as a sword blade: such was the youthful Thomas Eddie, soon to be the hero of many a startling adventure.

The trappers under Ashley made their way up the waters of the Missouri in keel-boats. The muddy current of the turbid stream raged furiously against them, but by vigorous rowing they managed to thread their way among the numerous snags and sand-bars. At length they reached the vicinity of an Arickara village, filled with several hundred savages, and here they intended to trade, before passing up the Yellowstone River, where was splendid trapping. They rowed on with confidence, little suspecting that the redskins were in a terrible state of agitation and anger against all of the white men of the West. In fact, not many weeks before, an adventurous trapper, who had been travelling near by, had caught the son of the head chief of this nation, as he was stealing his horse. He had shot him down as he was in the act of throwing his leg over his mount. The Arickaras had soon heard of this, and, in spite of the fact that the white man had been perfectly justified in killing the horse-thief, determined to avenge the death of their comrade.

Ashley and his companions did not know of this adventure. Therefore they rowed onward with confidence, and soon sighted the tepees of the red men on the right bank of the stream.

“There they are!” cried Eddie, who was in the bow of one of the boats. “We will have good trade, for I know that they are greatly in need of arms and of ammunition.”

“Look out for them!” spoke a fellow named Rose, in one of the other vessels. “From certain signs I know that the red vermin mean mischief.”

This fellow was a Kentuckian who, for some misdemeanor, had been outlawed in his own state and had then lived among the Crow Indians, who had made him a chief. Ashley did not like him and believed him to be a villain. Eddie, however, knew that he spoke with keen knowledge of the redskins. He, therefore, turned around and cried loudly:

“Ashley, look out for the Indians! They mean mischief!”

To this, the head of the expedition paid not the slightest attention. Instead, he pushed forward, anchored his boat close in shore, near a long strip of small cottonwood trees, and pulled out his pipe, smoking it complacently.

“Be ready for an ambush,” said Rose, “I know that the Arickaras are in an ugly mood.”

“Oh, pshaw!” answered Ashley. “The red men are over anxious to trade. It has been ten years since they have been on the war-path against the whites and I know that they will treat us well. Why, man, these Indians love me like a brother.”

Rose frowned.

“I have lived among these redskins for many moons,” said he. “And I know them like a book. Look out. They mean trouble!”

Ashley again pooh-poohed the idea, and rowed to the bank, where he deposited his articles of trade upon several gaudy blankets. The Arickaras crowded around him, crying:

“Oh, palefaced brother, you have brought us fine things. Oh, good brother! Oh, kind brother!”

They showed feverish anxiety to obtain guns and ammunition, saying that they were soon going against their old enemies, the Sioux. The trade went on, many of the trappers coming ashore in order to better bargain with the redskins; a few, however, remaining in the boats. Ashley seemed to be well satisfied with the manner in which everything was going. He suspected nothing until one of his men came to him and whispered in his ear:

“Three of our trappers have secretly disappeared, and I fear that they have been murdered.”

The leader of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company was at last alarmed. He made preparations for defense and gathered his men about him in a hollow square. But the Indians, finding that they no longer could conceal their enmity, now set up a loud whooping and yelling. A shot was fired. Another and another followed in quick succession, and the cottonwood thickets swarmed with the savages, who poured a rain of bullets at the trappers upon the bank and upon those in the boats.

“Drop to the ground, boys!” shouted Ashley, “and we will fight for our lives.”

A desperate encounter ensued. Although surrounded in the rear, the trappers fought their way to the bank, jumped into the river, and attempted to swim to their boats. Many were drowned, others were killed by bullets as they splashed towards their craft, but the majority clambered aboard in safety.

“Cut the ropes,” shouted Ashley, “and get away from here as quickly as you are able!”

Under a terrific fire the boats began to slowly drift down the river. Oars were soon run out and the trappers were well beyond range of the murderous Arickara rifles. Of one hundred and forty-nine men they had lost sixty killed and drowned, and scarcely one of them did not bear marks of bullet or arrow wounds. It had been a desperate affair. Had the confident Ashley but listened to the sage advice of the Crow renegade there would have been no such slaughter. Thus ended the famous stampede of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company, on the ninth day of March, 1828.

But how about the stalwart young Eddie? This lucky plainsman escaped with only one arrow wound in his forearm. He was heroic in the defense of the boats, and, taking charge of one of them, managed to get her safely to Council Bluffs, where the Fur Company retreated in good order. Poor, old trappers! They had met with a warmer reception than they had bargained for!

As luck would have it, a Colonel Leavenworth was then at Council Bluffs with a detachment of United States troopers. Ashley soon told him his story, and wound up his sad tale with the request that he help him to chastise the savages.

“That I will do right willingly,” answered the gallant soldier. “White Bear, with his band of Sioux warriors, will go with me, I know. He says that he is just itching for a little brush with the Arickaras. He will be of great assistance to us.”

Eddie joined the detachment as it departed, and, marching speedily towards the village, the soldiers and allied Sioux found the Arickaras abandoning it. A sharp skirmish took place; the soldiers and trappers fell upon the rear guard, and, routing it speedily, dashed among the tepees, which were set on fire and quickly consumed. The Arickaras fled across the prairie. As the skirmish was in progress White Bear, the Sioux leader, was the hero of a desperate affair, which made him always well known among the whites, and greatly respected by all of the valiant men of the frontier.

While the fight was at its hottest this Sioux chieftain singled out a giant Arickara warrior, rushed upon him, tomahawk in hand, and cried out:

“If you are a man, halt and struggle with me. We will see which is the better.”

The Arickara had a bow in his hand, and, turning upon the Bear, sent a shower of arrows whistling around him. One of them pierced his thigh, but the Sioux stopped and pulled the missile from the wound. Then, with tomahawk upraised, he charged upon his enemy.

The Arickara chief had discharged his last arrow, and, seeing that it was too late to fly, wheeled and faced his antagonist. He was a large and powerful man, but the Sioux warrior was more agile. Uttering a loud and discordant yell, White Bear rushed at his foe. All the other combatants stopped for a moment, in order to view this strange and startling contest.

The sun gleamed upon the tomahawks of the two braves as they danced around each other. Again and again each endeavored to strike a blow, but, by skillful dodging, the weapon was evaded, and the warriors continued to prance about in a circle. Suddenly the Sioux bent over and struck the Arickara warrior a fierce stroke upon the knee; so fierce, indeed, that he nearly severed his leg from his body. White Bear leaped forward, dodged sideways, and evaded the descending tomahawk of the Arickara chieftain. The latter tottered and then fell to the ground.

Before he could recover, the Sioux had dealt a death-blow, and, amidst the wild yelling and screeching of the spectators, deftly scalped his enemy, holding the top-knot aloft, and himself uttering the wild yelp of triumph. “Um-Yah! Um-Yah! Uh-Yah!”

The Arickaras were dispersed and well punished for their attack upon Ashley and his men. The troops returned in triumph to Council Bluffs, and Eddie was congratulated by the head trapper for his part in the affair.

“But now, my boy,” said the veteran plainsman, “I want you to go up the Yellowstone, cross the mountains, and, with fourteen others, bring back a whole lot of peltries.”

“I’m your man,” said Eddie. “I’m off as soon as you say the word.”

The fourteen trappers moved to the Yellowstone, where they hunted and trapped with great success, until winter. Then they made their way to the village of some friendly Crows. They were treated with kindness and hospitality, and had great good luck in procuring beaver peltries. When spring came they travelled towards the Rocky Mountains, after making appropriate speeches of friendship to their hosts, and giving them many presents.

In the mountains their old enemies—the Blackfeet—were very mischievous. They often stole their traps, attempted to stampede their ponies, and fired at them from ambush. Nearly every night the alarm would sound: “Indians! Indians! Look to your horses!” And, during the day, the Blackfoot sentinels could be seen upon the skyline, perched upon the summit of some high hill. They would signal to their friends in the valleys below and tell them of the progress of the trappers. The pioneers were repeatedly ambushed, but they marched valiantly on, fighting as they went. At last they left the mountains, pressed onward towards the Pacific slope, and, almost perishing from hunger, were rescued by some trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, who took them to their post on the Columbia River. They spent the winter in this place.

When spring approached, the pioneers again set out for the Yellowstone. As they approached the Bear River, an Indian runner came bounding down the trail. He was of the Snake tribe and held up his right hand in token of friendship.

“I come from the people of the great chief, Pim,” said he. “The Great Spirit has taken our beloved ruler to the land of the hereafter. It is requested by his people that our white brothers read over him their medicine book (the Bible) and sing one of their songs. Then lay our great chief to rest upon the banks of the Bear River. Here he can ever hear the wonderful music of the stream, and here his spirit can make the beaver plenty for our white brothers.”

It was a strange request.

“Boys,” said Thomas Eddie, “we will do as our red brother wishes. We will bury our good friend Pim in a Christian manner, for he was always kindly disposed to all the trappers and pioneers who came in contact with him.”

Turning back upon their trail, the trappers travelled forty miles to the camp of the Snakes. In relays of four, they carried the dead chieftain slowly and tenderly to the banks of the roaring Bear River, and there laid him to rest, reading over him the burial service and singing a hymn. A volley was fired over the open grave, then, turning sadly towards the mountains, the men in buckskin left the red men to perform their own last rites over the dead chieftain.

As they neared the hills, the pugnacious Blackfeet again began to harass them. Every day they made an attack, but as they were principally armed with arrows they did little damage. A few had rifles, but they rarely used them. When the trappers had been fighting with these fellows, the year before, numbers of them had fallen beneath the steady aim of the whites, but not a single trapper had been killed or even dangerously wounded. This shows you what poor marksmen the Indians were.

Not long afterwards the little band of adventurers was passing through a narrow and lonely valley. As they reached a passageway through high and precipitous cliffs, a shot rang out, and a wild Indian yell told them the Blackfeet were again on their trail.

“We’re ambushed, boys!” cried Eddie. “Take to cover and ward off these skulkers, for from the sound of their fire it is apparent that they have plenty of guns and ammunition.”

He had scarcely spoken when he uttered a sharp cry of pain, for a rifle ball struck him in the thigh and penetrated well into his flesh. It was cut out by a trapper called Will Sublette, with a beaver knife, but our hero was in a serious condition for some time thereafter. Fortunately the members of the party were near water, so they threw up a rough barricade, by means of digging with their hunting-knives, and adding brush and tree trunks to the fortification. Several were unable to proceed, five had been killed, and twenty were severely wounded.

The Blackfeet could be easily seen as they circled about, some on foot, some on their ponies. They continuously yelped, howled like coyotes, and kept up a fusillade against the earth and brush fortification. Fortune favored the trappers, however, as there was an abundance of beaver in the stream which ran through the valley and these were easily captured. Trout were also plentiful and the wanderers managed to put up a fortification behind which they could catch the speckled beauties without molestation by the painted and bloodthirsty Blackfeet. The wounded made a rapid recovery, and in ten days were able to travel.

“Now, boys,” said Eddie, at this time, “it is important that we get away. Let us take our old clothes, stuff them with grass in order to deceive the red men, and light our camp-fires as usual. The Blackfeet will see the dark bodies near the flames and will not suspect that we have gotten away. We will move off towards the North, but you must make no noise.”

The trappers were eager to be off. That night they lighted their fires, placed the dummy figures so that they could be readily seen, and crept away from their little fortification. The Blackfeet did not suspect this departure, and, although it was a hazardous march over a rough path, allowed the men under Eddie to get safely away. By forced marches, and travelling over a crooked trail, the pioneers at length reached the Yellowstone. But their troubles were not yet at an end.

Trapper Eddie had left camp one day in order to look for game, and was returning to the place where the horses were tethered, when he saw a small band of Crow Indians who were endeavoring to drive off the stock. Firing at the leader of the expedition he knocked him to the ground. One of the braves jumped to the earth, lifted the dead chieftain upon his horse, and rode off with him. Eddie’s comrades heard the shooting and galloped to meet their leader.

Eddie knew the valley well. It doubled almost upon itself, making a horse-shoe curve, and he was aware that should he ascend the mountain on the right he would be able to head off the redskins.

“Boys!” cried he. “Follow me over that mountain. We will meet the red men, recapture our bronchos, and pay them well for their dastardly attempt to run off our steeds.”