“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.
“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.”
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.
Courtesy of the Century Company.
JIM BRIDGER.
“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.
A ringing volley knocked over four of the leaders, but still on they came. Another shot sent a fifth chieftain to the Great Beyond, and, as the trappers reloaded, the Sioux seemed to lose heart. They swerved aside from the breastwork, offering excellent targets to the plainsmen, and, with a dull thud, still another red warrior fell from his galloping pinto. Two of the trappers, meanwhile, were wounded by bullets, while an arrow stuck into the coat sleeve of Jim Bridger, himself.
Now retiring beyond range, the redskins kept up a perpetual fusillade with rifles and with arrows. The trappers held their fire, threw up still higher entrenchments, and waited for the next onslaught, but this did not come. Instead, the Sioux lighted the long, dry prairie grass, and a sheet of flame and smoke curled surely and steadily towards the band of plainsmen, for the wind was blowing directly upon them. What were they to do now?
Necessity is the mother of invention. Quick as a flash, Jim Bridger leaped across the embankment, touched the grass off immediately in front of them, and burnt off quite a small alley-way before the roaring crackling flames came to their place of refuge. The force of the flames thus spent itself before the embankment was reached, and the wily savages renewed their whooping and yelling. Again they charged, but again they were driven off; while night closed over both besieger and besieged, bringing a lull to the unequal battle.
Next day the fight was renewed, and all five of the trappers were wounded. Towards evening it was decided that one of the party should creep through the lines and bring aid from a camp of fifty trappers, who were some miles down the river. The choice fell upon Jim Bridger, and it found him ready to undertake the hazardous expedition. At twelve o’clock he crawled over the side of the little fortification and wormed his way towards the fringe of red warriors who lay about them in a circle.
The scout kept on as quietly as he could and crawled for fully two hundred yards before he saw, or heard, anything of the redskins. Then he got to his feet (as he considered himself through their lines) and prepared to run. But before him was an Indian pony, its master sound asleep by its side. The horse had been feeding in a deep ravine, and—suddenly scenting the trapper—gave a snort which roused its master. The Sioux warrior gazed stupidly at the frontiersman.
But Bridger did not take long to make up his mind what to do. He dashed towards the Indian, intending to strangle him before he could give the alarm. The redskin uttered a loud whoop, and his companions immediately ran in his direction. The scout realized that nothing was now to be gained by silence, and, pulling out his pistol, shot the red man dead. Then, leaping upon his mustang, he urged him upon the gallop. The Sioux were all around him on their pintos, but he had the good fortune to be upon one of their fastest horses, which seemed to outdistance any of the pursuers.
It was a hot chase. The red men fired again and again at the fleeing trapper but they could not hit him. His mustang leaped over the deep crevasses, dodged badger and prairie-dog holes, and brought him safely to the camp of his companions by two o’clock in the afternoon. The Sioux had given up the chase, and, little suspecting that other trappers were camped near by, had returned to the siege of the four, hoping now to make one sudden rush and gain their scalps. Their blood was up, for twenty-five of their number had fallen before the accurate fire of the besieged.
“Come at once!” cried the panting Bridger, as he reached the camp of the plainsmen. “If you do not hurry, my four companions will all be massacred by the red men. To horse! To horse!”
It did not take the trappers long to catch their ponies and jump into their saddles.
“Show us where your friends are!” cried they, “and we’ll fix th’ redskins before another sun.”
Bridger turned and piloted the band of plainsmen back to the place where he had left his beleaguered companions. They went on the run, but, making a wide détour in order to gain the sand-hills in the rear of the besiegers, waited until morning. Then they heard rifle shots in the distance and knew that the battle was on again.
Creeping towards the sound of firing, they soon saw the Sioux preparing for a final charge upon the valorous four, and opened upon them. They had clustered together for a rush, and this weltering volley fairly took the heart out of those of small courage. Many fell dead,—the rest made all haste to get out of range,—while the four trappers in the embankment came running towards their deliverers like wild men. With yells of joy they hugged the burly form of Jim Bridger, to whose nerve and courage they owed their lives.
The scout and plainsman soon moved from the upper waters of the Missouri—after the fur trade had ceased to be prosperous—and founded a trading post in the southwestern part of the State of Wyoming—named Fort Bridger. Here he dealt in skins, furs, and peltries, accumulating a large amount of property, as the Fort was a stopping-place for all the emigrant trains bound for Salt Lake City and for California. He remained true to his Blackfoot wife, and several half-breed children made life merry in the long, low log-hut which the scout had erected as his abode. The famous plainsman lived to a ripe, old age—like most of the early trappers—and was ever ready to tell of his battle with the Sioux, when he rescued his four companions from their clutches. This was the most thrilling of all his many adventures upon the frontier.