Part 13

His men gave a cheer, and, putting spurs to their horses, galloped up the steep slope of the mountain. Sure enough, as they reached the top, there were the redskins just below them. Uttering a wild cowboy yell, the trappers dashed to the assault.

A narrow pass in the mountains lay before them and for this the Indians hastened, yelping fiercely as they went. The trappers were as experienced men at shooting on horseback as Buffalo Bill, and they soon dropped most of the Crows as they vainly endeavored to escape. The fellow who was carrying the leader was badly wounded, and as he endeavored to ride his heavily burdened horse across a stream, which flowed through the valley, the animal stumbled and fell, throwing both the live and the dead man into the water. The trappers were close upon them as they went down, but what became of the dead chieftain and his attendant was never known. They disappeared from view. Whether the live Crow was killed by the fall, or was stunned and perished in the swift current, is still a question. Perhaps he made his way back to his own tribe. At any rate, a careful search failed to discover the whereabouts of either of them.

“By George!” cried “Old Bill” Williams, who was one of Eddie’s party, “I reckon that the dead one has carried the live fellow to Heaven with him.”

The horses were soon retaken, and with smiles of satisfaction upon their faces the trappers returned to their camp on the Yellowstone. Here, seated around the blazing camp-fire, they again fought over their battles, compared notes of the country, made rude maps of their routes, with the various rivers, mountains, and plains; and those who had seen the waters of the Great Salt Lake told their comrades of this vast inland sea, whose waters were bitterly salt, and into whose depths nothing could sink because of the great buoyancy of the waves.

There was an abundance of game in the Yellowstone country. The fourteen scouts spent the entire season, and part of the next, in trapping for mink, beaver, otter, and bear. They set their beaver traps in all the suitable streams between the head of the Missouri River and the upper waters of the Platte, meeting with great success. Indians were plentiful, but seemed to leave them alone, for they had undoubtedly heard of the summary vengeance which the trappers had taken upon the thieving Crows.

“Boys,” said Eddie, one day, “we are about all through with our ammunition and I would like to send seven of our number to Santa Fé, New Mexico, in order to get a supply. Who will be willing to undertake the trip?”

“I will,” came from the throats of many, and it was plainly evident that there would be little difficulty in getting volunteers for this hazardous duty.

Seven were chosen for the journey—seven of the strongest and most hardy—but the seven were never seen again. Cheerfully they set out across the sandy plains of Colorado. When they were just about to disappear from view, they turned and waved their hands to those left behind.

“So long, boys,” cried one. “We will meet again in a few months.”

But they never met again. From the time that they disappeared upon the horizon all trace of them was lost. Perhaps they fell before the arrows and bullets of the Sioux, Kiowa, Apache, Comanche, Navajo, or other red men. Perhaps the lounging and lazy Spanish banditti captured them and carried them across the Mexican line. At any rate, their fate is enveloped in impenetrable mystery.

Eddie and his companions waited for many months for some sign of their comrades. At length they gave up hopes of their return, and leaving a note to direct them where to go should they ever come back, made their way to the Yellowstone. Hostile red men hovered about them and endeavored to cut off their ponies, but these were dispersed in several smart skirmishes. Finally they reached a camp some forty miles above Boulder, Colorado, where Eddie and Bill Gordon had a rather serious encounter with some Arapahoes, when returning from an antelope hunt.

“By gracious!” cried Bill, the trapper, as he saw the redskins swooping down upon them. “I believe that we are about to lose our scalps, Eddie. ‘_Never say die_,’ must be our motto.”

“Let’s break for that canyon,” answered the lion-hearted Eddie. “If we get into those rocks the yelping redskins can shoot all they want to but they can’t hurt us. We’ll crawl over there by the water so that they cannot starve us out. We have food enough to last us for some time.”

Crack! Crack! sounded the rifles of the red men, and both Eddie and Gordon were struck. Nothing daunted, they ran to the shelter of the ravine, where they returned the fire with so much accuracy that two of the redskins fell to the ground. The Indians numbered about twelve, but only five were detached to follow the two scouts, while the rest rode away, carrying the two dead men with them. As they went in the direction of the camp of the plainsmen Eddie feared that they would surprise his comrades and would annihilate them.

“Gordon,” said he, “you must remain here, while I run back to camp and warn our companions of the approach of these murderers. You have only five to deal with, and I know that you can handle them.”

Eddie ran swiftly up the canyon, and then, back-tracking, hid himself behind a huge boulder. The redskins saw him and made after his retreating form with great speed, but failed to see him in his hiding-place. They were soon out of sight.

The scout darted down the canyon as rapidly as possible and dashed out upon the open prairie as hard as he could go. Before him was an Arapaho who was watching the Indian ponies. He was mounted upon a buckskin pinto and was armed with a rifle, tomahawk, and knife. As Eddie approached, he raised his rifle. The scout did likewise and both fired at about the same moment.

The trapper was struck in the shoulder, but the injury was not severe, while his own ball passed through the red man’s thigh, breaking the leg of the horse upon which he was riding. This brought him to the earth and pinned the warrior beneath him, but the savage frantically struggled to escape, and, as the white man approached, drew his knife. His tomahawk had dropped some distance away as he fell.

Now was a thrilling encounter. Notwithstanding the pain in his wound and his weakness from loss of blood, the Indian made a desperate fight. He hoped, no doubt, that the shots which both he and his antagonist had fired would bring his companions to his assistance. No such luck was in store for him. Eddie was a small and wiry man, while the Arapaho was a veritable giant in stature. The scout was armed with a tomahawk and endeavored to get in a thrust, but with ill success, for the redskin parried his every attempt. Just as Eddie had succeeded in making a sweeping blow, which, had it reached the red man, would have cut him down, the savage caught his arm, and the tomahawk flew from his grasp. The Indian’s knife was in his left hand and the scout made a desperate lunge in order to seize it.

It was a hazardous moment for Thomas Eddie. As he struggled for the possession of the coveted knife he saw four Arapahoes emerge from the mouth of the canyon and dash towards them. It was touch and go with the famous man of the frontier. The savage made a thrust at this moment. Eddie caught the blade in his right hand, but the knife cut him through and through, inflicting a desperate and gaping wound. In spite of the pain it caused him, the trapper held on. With his other hand he seized the Arapaho by the throat and pushed him to the earth.

A new complication arose. A shot rang out from the mouth of the canyon and the foremost Indian fell to the ground. The other three halted and faced the new enemy, while the big fellow with whom he was struggling turned his head for a moment, in order to see who was approaching. On the short moment hung his life, for Eddie wrested the long knife from him, and, as he looked around, buried the blade in his side. The Arapaho fell to the ground, with a long, gasping cry. The three savages, who were approaching, were now about fifty yards away and they fired upon the victorious scout, but did not hit him. Instead of this they wounded another one of their horses.

Hurrah for Eddie! He had certainly done well, and was in the same class with Adam Poe, who, if you remember, had such a desperate battle with Big Foot, the celebrated Shawnee warrior and athlete.[2] The nervy fellow was not to be caught napping. Dashing to the nearest pony, he set off at full speed for the mouth of the canyon, circling as he did so, in order to avoid the three savages. To his surprise, he met Bill Gordon, who told him that from the top of a low mountain he had seen the Arapahoes engaged in a battle with a band of Crows, way off upon the plain, and that therefore he had returned to his assistance, as he knew that their companions in camp would not be molested.

“Well, let’s finish up these Arapahoes,” cried Eddie. “And punish them for their interference with honest men. Are you with me, Bill?”

Old Bill uttered a wild yell.

“Of course I’m with you, son,” said he. “Lay on! Lay on!”

Spurring their mustangs, the two scouts dashed madly after the fleeing redskins. They caught up with them, and by excellent shooting succeeded in killing them all. At once they returned to their own camp with the arms and ponies of the savages, and, upon narrating their adventures to the other scouts, it was decided to move as rapidly as possible from such a dangerous locality. Turning towards the turbid waters of the Yellowstone, they soon reached this wonderful stream, where no other bands of Indians molested them. Their battles were over.

Upon their return to the settlement at Council Bluffs all welcomed them uproariously, for many thought that the nervy fellows had perished in the wilderness. Their furs and peltries netted them a snug figure; so snug, in fact, that plainsman Eddie purchased a tavern of his own called the Green Tree. Here he dispensed a lavish hospitality and here he brought his bride in 1833. She was a Miss Clarke, a reigning belle of St. Louis, and, although the mother of eleven sturdy children (five boys and six girls) always remained a woman of remarkable beauty. Many were the tales which the trapper used to tell his children of his early experiences on the plains, and, although the frost of old age gradually touched his auburn hair with snow, the fire and imagination of youth always kept the spirit of the old pioneer as fresh as when, as a young man, he made that dangerous trip to the wild region of the West as a member of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Thus in peace and comfort passed the declining years of the last of the trappers of the Great Frontier.

JIM BRIDGER:

FOUNDER OF BRIDGER, WYOMING, AND FAMOUS INDIAN FIGHTER

IN the lower corner of the mighty state of Wyoming is a town named after one of the most noted of the trappers of the West—Jim Bridger—who not only fought Indians but also traded and trapped in many an unexplored portion of the once unknown regions near the Rocky Mountains. Fort Bridger—a strong stockade near by—received its name from this famous plainsman, who hailed from Illinois, and who was not only of humble, but also of somewhat unrespectable parentage. Young Jim ran away, when quite young, in order to escape the hard usage which was his lot at home. On the border he soon made his mark, for he was not only a great rifle shot but also a man of unusual strength and agility.

One day the scout was in a block-house, with a number of other frontiersmen who had recently been attacked by a band of Blackfoot warriors. These were encamped at no great distance, and a truce had been declared whereby neither side should molest the other. Jim Bridger wandered into the camp of the red men, and walked down the main street, looking, with an interested eye, at their tepees, their squaws, and the little papooses.

“Ugh! Ugh!” grunted some young bucks. “Paleface he look like pig. Ugh! Ugh! He no fight. He run away.”

Bridger grew crimson, but said nothing.

“Paleface waddle like duck,” continued one of the Blackfeet. “Paleface have nose like black dog.”

This was too much for the usually calm and collected Jim Bridger. Spinning upon his heel he rushed up to the nearest redskin, hit him a blow between the eyes and sent him reeling to the ground. Immediately the whole camp was in an uproar. The trapper was surrounded by a yelling, screeching mob of savages—was made a prisoner—and was carried, struggling, to a lodge upon the outskirts of the village. Then the Indians gathered in a dense throng in order to decide upon the fate of their captive.

There was much discussion as to what was to be done with the scout. Some were for a light punishment, as the trappers in the block-house were numerous, and their rifles were accurate shooters when held by the steady hands of the frontiersmen. “No! No!” shouted many others. “He should be carried to the mountains and there tortured. He has struck one of our braves. The paleface must suffer death!”

Three older chiefs listened to all of this wild talk and then gave their decision.

“The Paleface shall suffer death and torture! Let some of the young men go to his lodge and bring him to us.”

With a wild whoop, a number of the youthful warriors rushed to the tepee in which they had shoved the trapper, stoutly bound with deer thongs. As they threw open the flap which hung over the doorway surprise and dismay marked their features, for the bird had flown. All were chagrined and angered at the loss of their quarry. Whooping savagely, they dashed back to their companions, many of whom favored an immediate attack upon the block-house; but the counsel of the older chiefs prevailed.

“The paleface warriors have sticks which shoot very straight,” said they. “We must go away, or they may attack us.”

Packing up their goods, and loading their travois, they fled to the mountains.

But how had the daring plainsman escaped? Hush! It was a dusky-hued maiden who had set him free, and love will always find a way.

Jim Bridger, in fact, had met a young Indian girl in the village who had returned the sudden affection of the young trapper with much interest. With sadness and dismay she watched his capture, and, when she saw him thrown into the lodge, at first she determined to run to the block-house in order to notify his comrades of his predicament. She knew that they would then demand his release, but, fearing an attack in which some of her relatives would be killed and her lover would be doubtless assassinated, she decided to say nothing to the trappers. Instead, she determined to set him free by her own hand. While the savages wrangled over what was to be his fate she determined to creep to his tent, cut the deer thongs, and point out the way to freedom.

Two sentinels watched the lodge where Jim Bridger lay, and, as the Indian maid approached, one of them moved towards her. She stooped almost to the earth, darted behind a neighboring tepee, and crept stealthily towards the rear of the tent. As luck would have it, there was no sentinel at this point, and she cut a long slit in the buffalo-skin curtain. Bridger was lying upon a robe endeavoring to snap his bonds, and as he saw her uttered an exclamation of surprise. At this, the girl clapped one hand over his mouth. With the other she cut the raw-hide thongs, and beckoned to him to follow her.

The scout wormed his way out of the side of the tent, crept upon all fours to a safe distance, then rose and faced the Indian maiden.

“Dearest,” said he, “you have saved my life, and Jim Bridger never forgets the kindness of such a one as you. You shall be my wife.”

The Blackfoot maiden blushed, and answered that whether there was peace or war between her people and his, she would meet him in a certain grove of pine trees, at the base of a distant mountain peak, after two full moons. She counselled him how to avoid the sentinels, how to elude any pursuers by darting through a certain canyon, and then, as he pressed her to his heart, their lips met. A moment more and she had torn herself away, and had vanished down the steep cliffs upon which they had clambered.

The scout did not tell his comrades how he had escaped, for he feared that they would laugh at him. And as the days passed by his brother trappers noticed that he was cutting notches in a stick in order to mark the time elapsing before some important event. At length the stick was almost filled with little triangular marks, and Bridger, saddling his horse, led another by a long lariat, and set off for a certain towering peak in the mountains. His companions little guessed what was his real destination. Five days elapsed before they again laid eyes upon him, but all were startled and much surprised to see him ride into the camp, one brilliant morning, with a dusky, Indian maiden by his side. A broad smile was upon his face, while the bride looked radiantly happy. As they rode up, the joyous trappers gave three times three for Mr. and Mrs. Jim Bridger.

From now on the pioneer had an adventurous career, and, although away from his home for months at a time, was always devoted to his Blackfoot bride, although he often had passages at arms with her kinsmen. Not long after his marriage he was in the Medicine Bow Mountains, with a party of trappers, when they were surrounded by hundreds of the Blackfeet. Crying to them to surrender, the savage warriors circled about upon their ponies, screeching like so many devils, for they were sure that they had the white men cornered. It looked dark for the adventurous trappers.

“We must fight desperately, men,” cried out the gallant Jim. “And must make our way towards the mountains near the Yellowstone. There we can stand these pesky varmints off from behind the boulders. But now we must break through their circle. Are you all ready? Then—come on.”

The trappers cheered as Bridger led a charge against the wild riders of the plains, who scattered before the resolute attack. By alternately fighting and retreating, the frontiersmen gradually made their way towards the distant hills, and—although a few were badly wounded—at length they reached the protection of some giant boulders which afforded them excellent protection against the bullets and arrows of the red men. Seeing that it was now impossible to get them, the savages fired a parting volley and retired. The last shot proved to be an unlucky one for Jim Bridger’s best friend—a man named Milton Sublette—as a ball from an Indian rifle struck him in the ankle and tore through both flesh and bone.

Stanching the flow of blood as best they could, the trappers carried their wounded companion away with them upon a Mackinaw blanket, slung between two of the pack-animals. His leg was amputated with the aid of a beaver knife hacked into a saw, and in spite of the fact that they possessed no chloroform, ether, or other anesthetic, the patient bore everything with stoical indifference. His life was saved, and—strange as it may seem—upon his arrival at Saint Louis he submitted to a second operation in order to obtain a better-looking stump, and was back again in his old haunts within six months: trapping, fishing, and travelling with as much joy in living as before. Such was the spirit and energy of these old men of the mountains.

Bridger was later engaged in piloting emigrant trains across the prairie, in the vicinity of the Republican River, where Sandy Forsyth had his great battle with Roman Nose some years later. With him was a scout called Jim Beckwith, who has left the following account of a tight, little brush which was indulged in by two bands of Sioux and Pawnee warriors, just after the trappers had driven away a force of about fifty Pawnees who had attempted to run off their horses.

“I seen that the Pawnees would soon be after us again,” said the gallant Beckwith, “and I knowed that the Sioux would do the same thing. So I saw that we’d have about a thousand redskins after us, and we wouldn’t be a taste for them. I seen that this wouldn’t do, so I says to Jim Bridger, says I, ‘Jim, what are we goin’ ter do?’ ‘Give it up,’ said Jim, says he, ‘Fight till the reds down us, I reckon, and then turn up our toes like men.’ All this time—bless your soul—them pilgrims what we wuz a-guidin’, wuz in the wagons cryin’. It wuz awful.

“Wall, I jest made up my mind, sir, that I didn’t intend tew give my heart tew no Injun jest then, so I callates about whar th’ two parties of red devils would meet. When we got thar, we drove over a raise in th’ plain and jes’ waited fur ’em. In about two hours I seen th’ dust raisin’ in th’ East in er gret, big cloud. ‘Them’s Pawnees,’ says I, ‘by th’ tarnal prophet.’ Then I looked intew th’ West, and thar th’ dust wuz raisin’, too. ‘Them’s Sioux,’ says I, ‘an’ th’ Devil take ’em. I hev seen pleasanter sights.’ Wall, after waitin’ some time th’ Injuns seen each other, an’ of all th’ cussed yellin’ you ever heard, it wuz thar. I jes’ laid back an’ laughed, while Bridger done some tall chucklin’ too, when them two bands got together. It was lively times, yew bet.

“Th’ Injuns didn’t have many guns in them days, but you kin jest rest assured that they used their arrers fur what wuz in ’em. Thar they went circlin’ aroun’ each other, bendin’ under their hosses’ necks, an’ lettin’ th’ arrers fly. At one time th’ air wuz near so full uv arrers thet it made a cloud, shettin’ out th’ sun. Their ponies got stuck full uv ’em. Their dogs wuz full uv ’em, an’ every Injun in th’ gang had er lot uv ’em stickin’ inter him. I seed a big, fat feller ridin’ off with two uv ’em stickin’ into th’ seat uv his buckskins, an’ it reminded me so uv er big pincushion, thet I near died uv laughin’. Then they begun tew run. They run this way, an’ they run that, and—by Gravy—I believe thet some uv them Injuns be still runnin’ from one another. By Gum, they wuz so busy fightin’ each other, thet they left us plum alone.”

This was certainly a laughable incident, but a bit later occurred another episode which was not quite so amusing for the daring and adventurous Jim Bridger.

About six months after the fight upon the Republican, with five companions, the trapper was travelling near the Platte River. The plainsmen were in search of buffalo and had seen a fair sized herd when a band of Sioux Indians appeared upon one of the rolling bluffs. The trappers sought cover, for they expected an attack, and they were not far from being wrong, for the red men immediately made after them; circled about them upon their ponies, and fired their rifles at long range.

“Dig a trench with your knives,” shouted Bridger. “These fellows are out for our blood and they are going to come pretty near getting us. Move over near that water hole so that they can’t make us die of thirst, and we’ll see who can last the longest.”

Scrambling to their knees, the plainsmen quickly threw up a barricade near the water hole, and, hobbling their ponies behind them, began to take careful aim at the Sioux—one of whom was soon sent to the Happy Hunting Grounds. This enraged the remainder, and wild, blood-curdling yells echoed across the prairie as they drew nearer, hoping to make a rush and annihilate the five white trappers.

“Get ready, boys!” again shouted Bridger. “They’re going to rush us!”

All prepared for the advance by laying out additional ammunition and placing long hunting-knives near at hand. In a few moments the Sioux came on, whipping their ponies to their utmost speed, and yelping madly.