Part 19

The head trapper’s patience was now almost exhausted and he told the chief in plain language to “get out.” His men prepared for action, as he spoke, so the redskins mounted their ponies and departed towards the South. As they rode off, they cast all kinds of insults at the white men, both with signs and in spoken language. It was certain that they would soon follow the trappers and then there would be a big fight.

That night every precaution was taken to guard against a surprise. Two guards were put on duty, to be relieved at midnight, and a well fortified position was chosen for camp. Perkins said that it was customary for the Utahs to attack just before daylight, for this is the time that the redskins expect to find the whites fast asleep. This is what occurred in the present instance.

A little before daylight two or three wolf howls were heard by the guards, who immediately notified Perkins. Soon all the men were up, their packs being placed in a semi-circle as a breastwork. Twenty of the best horses were saddled and tied in a thicket, to protect them from Indian bullets and arrows. Defeat meant death, so the trappers looked stolidly before them, fully prepared for the worst, if it were to come.

The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts. Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many endeavor to do so.

It was not long before the attack commenced. Just as day began to dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.

The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant death upon many an occasion.

The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young Bill Hamilton’s cap.

The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them. The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed small parties of trappers, killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty. After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers the “go by.”

The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843. The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and lodges together.

They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians. These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the accurate aim of the men in buckskin.

“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more, because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold his own with the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour, first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.

As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick near by.

They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall, brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found, and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon back in camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless man of the plains.

The Pah Utes were soon to be encountered, for at two in the afternoon the pickets signalled: “Indians coming on horseback.” The stock was corralled and the scouts stood ready for action. The pickets now rode in and reported sixty Indians, who made their appearance upon a ridge, about three hundred yards from camp.

“Come out and fight! Come out and fight!” yelled the redskins.

Crawford’s death had cut the scouts down to thirty-eight, but that did not worry these hardy souls. It was impossible to keep the men back, so eager were they to avenge the death of their comrade. Leaving three trappers to take care of camp, the others mounted and started away in the direction of the Indians.

When the redskins saw them coming they gave yell after yell, thinking, no doubt, that this would paralyze the white men with fear. Then they divided and charged from two sides. The trappers let them get to within one hundred yards, when they halted and brought their rifles into play. Dropping these upon the ground, they charged with pistols in hand. Fully twenty-five Indians fell before their accurate shots. This bewildered the savages, and, before they could recover, the scouts were in their midst.

One tall redskin was mounted on Crawford’s horse. He tried to get away, but delayed entirely too long. He was caught, knocked prostrate to the ground, and the horse, rifle, and pistols of the dead scout were recovered. Forty-three ponies were captured. Very few of the Pah Utes made their escape. Poor Crawford, you see, was thus revenged in full.

Two horses which the trappers rode were killed. A few of the scouts received arrow wounds, but none were serious. The secret of the frontiersmen’s success was in making every shot count in the first volley. This bewildered the Indians, and, before they could collect their thoughts, the plainsmen were among them. The scouts were an effective body, and were as well drilled in the use of both rifle and pistol as the soldiers of any nation. Their horses, too, were trained to stand fire and to be quick in evolutions. The war-whoops and yells of the Indians simply made them prick up their ears and look unconcerned.

After this affair the little party received little molestation from the red men. At a council it was decided to move, as it was not known how many warriors these Indians could muster, and it was not safe for one or two men to go any distance from camp after furs. The hardy adventurers travelled to the Laramie River, where twenty-five of them determined to go back to St. Louis and to take their furs with them. The original thirteen all returned to the Far West; Williams going to Santa Fé, accompanied by Perkins and six others. It was a sad parting for all, particularly for Bill Hamilton, who had grown to love his comrades like brothers.

Bill was now a seasoned trapper, and the rest of his career on the plains was marked by many hazardous adventures with the redskins. He went to California, during the gold excitement, was in the famous Modoc war of 1856, where he belonged to the “Buckskin Rangers,” and was employed as a scout in the uprising of the Sioux in 1876, which was so disastrous to General Custer and his command. He was among those who followed Crazy Horse to his end, and finally resigned from the service of the Government to resume the free and independent life of a trapper. At eighty-two years of age he was living a peaceful and contented life at Columbus, Montana, where—as he says in his biography—“I am thankful that I can still enjoy and appreciate the wonderful beauties of nature.”

A true plainsman, a great shot, a nervy fighter,—such was “Uncle Bill” Hamilton. At the present time there is no wild and adventurous West to create such characters as this, for bad Indians have passed away forever.

UNCLE JOB WITHERSPOON:

AND HIS EXCITING ADVENTURES WITH THE BLACKFEET

NO more famous plainsman ever lived upon the Wyoming prairies than Uncle Job Witherspoon: a veteran of many an Indian battle: of several tussles with grizzly bears; and of frequent brushes with desperadoes and bad men who had taken to the hills in order to escape jail. Born about 1830, the old fellow was still hale and hearty in the year 1898, when he was piloting a number of young men through the intricacies of the Rocky Mountains; a region which he had lived in for many years.

“Well, youngsters,” said the veteran trapper to the party of young fellows who were upon an amateur hunting excursion, “when you’ve toted traps and peltries, and fit Injuns as long as I have, you’ll sartainly have considerable more experience than you have now.”

The old fellow was sitting with his back against a tree trunk, near the Grosventre River, and before him, in a semi-circle, lay five young men. All looked up at him eagerly, for they were in a country which had once been peopled by hostile redskins. It was now safe, for the savage tribesmen were upon reservations. Still, the air of romance lay over the beautiful land and added a zest to their expedition, which would have been absent had they been in a more unhistoric country.

“Ha! Ha! boys!” continued Uncle Job. “You think that you’ll have a mighty nice time out on the trapping grounds, and I ain’t going to say as how you won’t. But, take my word for it, ye’ll wish yourselves back in th’ settlements many a time afore you’ll get there. What with fighting and hiding from Injuns and them pesky grizzlies, and livin’ sometimes fer weeks together on nothin’ but pine cones an’ such trash as luck happened to throw in my way to keep body an’ soul together, my time used to be anything but ’specially agreeable, until I got used to it. Then I found it barely endurable. It’s a hard life, anyway, boys!”

“My, my, Uncle Job,” said one of the youngsters, “why, then, do you go back to the plains?”

The trapper laughed.

“Well, there, boys, yer have me, anyhow,” he answered. “Ter be right down honest with yer, _I likes it_. It’s a fact, as sure as dry prairie grass will burn, and I wouldn’t live a whole month in Saint Lewy (St. Louis) fer all th’ money there if I could not be allowed to spend th’ balance of my time in th’ mountain country. I’m used to it, youngsters, and city air is rank poison to me; besides, I’d spoil fer th’ want of a fight with some of th’ red varmints of Blackfeet, Pawnees, and Poncas; for, my boys, that’s the best part of the life on th’ plains. And now,” continued the old trapper, “I’ll tell yer about a fight, and a long battle it was, too, which I had with a party of them cowardly Black feet over on the Sweet-water River. It was something over twenty years ago, and one fall when I was trapping on the headwaters of the Columbia.”

The boys drew closer and gazed at the old fellow with wide open eyes.

“We had about a dozen greenhorns at our post, just like yourselves. We were only a few months from the settlements and these fellows hadn’t yet got toughened to the kind of a life we had to lead. Some of ’em was about dyin’ with th’ ager, and we hadn’t a dose of medicine, or even a blessed drop of spirits to save ’em with. So, as I knew every inch of th’ country from th’ Pacific to Saint Lewy, I was ordered by th’ head trader of th’ post to go to Fort Laramie and bring back a supply of calomel, Queen Anne powders, an’ sich truck fer our sick men.”

“You had your nerve with you,” interrupted one of the boys.

“Always had plenty of that,” continued Uncle Job. “The distance was about six hundred miles over the mountains. We had come to the western side of the range the spring before, by way of the Sweet-water Valley Pass, and I concluded to take that route again toward Laramie.

“Wall, things went well with me for some time. After I got over the main ridge I kept along the south side of th’ Wind River Mountain and stopped one day on th’ Green River, in order to make me a new pair of moccasins. The rough travelling over th’ hills had worn mine out and left me barefoot. While I was stitching away at my shoes I remembered a _cache_ (a supply of provisions hidden or stowed away until it should be convenient to remove them) which a party of us had made the spring before about a day’s travel out of my regular route. It was on the North Branch of the Sweet-water River. We had started from the head of the Platte on our way to the Columbia, with a small drove of pack-mules loaded with provisions for the new post, and when on the South Branch one of th’ creeturs give out and we had to _cache_ the cargo. It was a package of jerked venison and a sack of flour, with a small bag of rice for th’ sick, when we had ’em, and a five gallon keg of hard cider. It is a common practice with us trappers to _cache_ our provisions when we know they will be safe for some future journey that way.

“Wall, as I worked at my moccasins, all at once I got to be mighty thirsty, and a vision of that five gallon keg of delicious cider began to come into my head. Says I to myself, says I: ‘Job, wouldn’t you like to have a little taste of that sweet beverage, ’specially when nobody at the post would be either any wiser or any poorer for it?’ I reckoned that I would. So I finished sewing up my buckskin, an’ started next morning, bright an’ early, for the _cache_. Now, as I told yew all, it was one day’s journey from my route, and it would take me another day to put me on the right course again. That, you know, would use up two days that I certainly ought to give to my sick comrades at the post. But I argued this way to myself: ‘Now, I’m pesky thirsty fer a drink of that sweet cider. I’m actually feelin’ bad fer th’ want uv it. If I gratify my natural longing I’ll certainly feel better arter it, and I can then tread out so much faster that I shall more’n make up for th’ lost time.’ And that’s the way that I reconciled it to my conscience.

“Wall, I reached the South Branch in th’ middle of the afternoon, and going down the stream a little ways from where I struck it, I found the cave where we had _cached_ our provisions. It was a pretty large one, too. I crawled into the narrow mouth of it and drew my rifle in arter me; and, as soon as my eyes got kinder used tew th’ dim light, right up there in the corner I found everything all right. There was that jolly little red keg of cider, and it seemed to actually laugh all over at the sight of an old friend. And well it might, for it had been shut up there in the dark for more’n six months with nothing but the flour, the rice, and the dried meat to keep it company.

“I pulled out my sharp-pointed bowie knife and tapped the head of th’ cider barrel in no time. But just as I raised the little fellow to get a taste of him I heard the tramping of horses’ feet outside, and the howlin’ of twenty or thirty infernal Blackfeet. Gee Whillikins! I had ter drop th’ keg before a bit of th’ amber liquid had wet my thirsty lips. Well was it that I did so, for in that moment the entrance of the place was darkened by a rascally Injun who had been fool enough to follow me. Boys! I was plum skeered!

“What was I to do? I raised my rifle and fired at Mr. Redskin, who dropped dead upon the ground, uttering a wild war-whoop as he fell. His comrades crept into the mouth of the cave, seized him by the feet, and gave a terrible yell when they found that he’d been wiped out of existence. While they were tugging away at the old fellow I busied myself in reloading my rifle in order to get ready for the next visitor. Although th’ pesky redskins kept up a terrible hullabaloo they didn’t attempt to crawl into the cave any more.

“Thinks I, ‘Now’s your time, old boy, if you ever hope to have any refreshment.’ So, raising the little cask of cider, I took a good, long, glorious drink. I tell you, boys, that was delicious, for my throat was all parched and dry from alkali dust. It braced me right up and I’d hardly had it down my throat when I felt that I was a host in myself and could handle, single-handed, all of the Blackfeet west of the Mississippi.

“Arter a few moments three or four rifles were cautiously poked into the hole, and were fired at random into the cave toward me. I ducked to one side, and let ’em peg away. They were only using up their ammunition, an’ th’ sooner they got rid of that the better it was for me.

“Next they sent a shower of arrows through the opening, but with no better effect than with their bullets. In the meanwhile I had found a little hole through the rocks just large enough for the barrel of my gun, and, watching a good chance, when the varmints were thick about the mouth, I took good aim and popped away at them. By the Jumping Jingoes! boys, but I sent half an ounce of lead through the bodies of no less than three of them at once. At this th’ Injuns fell back, yelling vengeance, an’ I took another refreshing pull at th’ cider. ‘For,’ says I to myself, ‘Job, now it’s _your_ treat, and here’s to as good luck the next shot.’ But th’ varmints didn’t try th’ shooting game any more, as they found that this was a game which I could play as well as they, themselves. Boys! I held all the trump cards! They kept losing their hands, while I continued to hold my own.

“Arter they had been quiet fer a considerable time I poked my head out of the cave and peeped down the stream, where I could see the cowardly wolves gathering armsful of dry sticks and grass, which I at once knew that they intended to bring up to the cavern and smoke me out. I hadn’t thought of this before, and, thinks I, the rascals have got me now, sure. I can fight Injuns so long as my ammunition holds out, but when it comes to a fire and smoke I ain’t a match nohow for them fellers, shut up as I be in these here limestone rocks.

“Presently th’ savages came back again to th’ mouth of th’ cave in such a direction that I couldn’t bring old Kill-Deer to bear upon ’em, and piling up their combustibles they set fire to ’em. The wind happened to be blowing directly into th’ cave, and, in a few moments, a nasty smudge began to suffocate me. I had to crawl farther and farther into the place as the smoke followed me; and I could hear the Injuns pilin’ on the grass and wood all the time. They found that they couldn’t get me out by any other means, and were now endeavorin’ to choke me to death by their horrid smoke. Fortunately, as I shrank away from it, I saw a little streak of daylight ahead of me. It was a crevice in the rock through which the rays of the setting sun were streaming, as much as to say: ‘Be of good heart, Job; they cannot smoke you out as long as you choose to breathe through this nice little air hole.’

“I ran to the crevice, and laid down, breathing the pure air, and laughing at the redskins, who were yelling and dancing for joy at the cute trick they thought that they were playing upon me. Luck was certainly with me, boys, for through the crevice that admitted the light and the air I discovered a nice little stream trickling away, while a tiny pool of fresh water had formed upon the floor of the cavern. Now, thought I, if I only had the provisions with me, I could last until the Injuns got tired and had to go away. So, holding my breath, I crawled back again into the smoke, and catching hold of the little keg of cider in one hand, and a package of jerked meat in the other, I went back to my breathing-hole and had a comfortable supper. The red fiends outside were screeching and yelling like mad men.

“Arter I had satisfied my hunger, and had taken another pull at the delicious apple juice, I laid down for a nap, for I knew that the Injuns wouldn’t trouble me while they kept up their smoke.

“Wall, boys, I tell you that I had a pretty good night’s rest, considerin’ that I had tew keep one eye open. In the morning, after the smoke had settled, I sat quietly at the side of the opening, expectin’ Mr. Injun to creep through arter my scalp. They thought that I had given up the ghost, and were all ready to make a speedy end of me. But they had reckoned without their host, for no sooner did a Blackfoot show his head than pop! a little slug of lead from Mister Kill-Deer made him remember that I was still breathing.

“Them Injuns, I reckon, thought that they had holed Old Nick himself, for they was plum surprised when they heard the bark of my trusty old rifle. When they saw another of their number fall, they even forgot to yell. They found that smoke couldn’t kill the old man, and so they tried another plan. Their game was to starve me out. But here, boys, I held the trump cards again. The fact was, they hadn’t the least idea that the cave had been used as a _cache_; and when they saw me take to it they thought that I had discovered them and was hiding away from them there. The old boys didn’t realize that I had a store of good things piled up and ready for use.

“I could understand their gibberish well enough to learn that they had determined to stand guard over me until I should be forced to yield to starvation, at least. But I had fully two months’ provisions in the cave and that would hold out for some time. I determined, therefore, to pass the time as agreeably as possible.