Captain Bonneville and his band, therefore, remained
alone in the Green River valley; and their situation might have
been perilous, had the Blackfeet band still lingered in the
vicinity. Those marauders, however, had been dismayed at finding
so many resolute and well-appointed parties of white men in the
neighborhood. They had, therefore, abandoned this part of the
country, passing over the headwaters of the Green River, and
bending their course towards the Yellowstone. Misfortune pursued
them. Their route lay through the country of their deadly
enemies, the Crows. In the Wind River valley, which lies east of
the mountains, they were encountered by a powerful war party of
that tribe, and completely put to rout. Forty of them were
killed, many of their women and children captured, and the
scattered fugitives hunted like wild beasts until they were
completely chased out of the Crow country.
On the 22d of August Captain Bonneville broke up his camp, and
set out on his route for Salmon River. His baggage was arranged
in packs, three to a mule, or pack-horse; one being disposed on
each side of the animal and one on the top; the three forming a
load of from one hundred and eighty to two hundred and twenty
pounds. This is the trappers' style of loading pack-horses; his
men, however, were inexpert at adjusting the packs, which were
prone to get loose and slip off, so that it was necessary to keep
a rear-guard to assist in reloading. A few days' experience,
however, brought them into proper training.
Their march lay up the valley of the Seeds-ke-dee, overlooked to
the right by the lofty peaks of the Wind River Mountains. From
bright little lakes and fountain-heads of this remarkable bed of
mountains poured forth the tributary streams of the Seeds-ke-dee.
Some came rushing down gullies and ravines; others tumbled in
crystal cascades from inaccessible clefts and rocks, and others
winding their way in rapid and pellucid currents across the
valley, to throw themselves into the main river. So transparent
were these waters that the trout with which they abounded could
be seen gliding about as if in the air; and their pebbly beds
were distinctly visible at the depth of many feet. This beautiful
and diaphanous quality of the Rocky Mountain streams prevails for
a long time after they have mingled their waters and swollen into
important rivers.
Issuing from the upper part of the valley, Captain Bonneville
continued to the east-northeast, across rough and lofty ridges,
and deep rocky defiles, extremely fatiguing both to man and
horse. Among his hunters was a Delaware Indian who had remained
faithful to him. His name was Buckeye. He had often prided
himself on his skill and success in coping with the grizzly bear,
that terror of the hunters. Though crippled in the left arm, he
declared he had no hesitation to close with a wounded bear, and
attack him with a sword. If armed with a rifle, he was willing to
brave the animal when in full force and fury. He had twice an
opportunity of proving his prowess, in the course of this
mountain journey, and was each time successful. His mode was to
seat himself upon the ground, with his rifle cocked and resting
on his lame arm. Thus prepared, he would await the approach of
the bear with perfect coolness, nor pull trigger until he was
close at hand. In each instance, he laid the monster dead upon
the spot.
A march of three or four days, through savage and lonely scenes,
brought Captain Bonneville to the fatal defile of Jackson's Hole,
where poor More and Foy had been surprised and murdered by the
Blackfeet. The feelings of the captain were shocked at beholding
the bones of these unfortunate young men bleaching among the
rocks; and he caused them to be decently interred.
On the 3d of September he arrived on the summit of a mountain
which commanded a full view of the eventful valley of Pierre's
Hole; whence he could trace the winding of its stream through
green meadows, and forests of willow and cotton-wood, and have a
prospect, between distant mountains, of the lava plains of Snake
River, dimly spread forth like a sleeping ocean below.
After enjoying this magnificent prospect, he descended into the
valley, and visited the scenes of the late desperate conflict.
There were the remains of the rude fortress in the swamp,
shattered by rifle shot, and strewed with the mingled bones of
savages and horses. There was the late populous and noisy
rendezvous, with the traces of trappers' camps and Indian lodges;
but their fires were extinguished, the motley assemblage of
trappers and hunters, white traders and Indian braves, had all
dispersed to different points of the wilderness, and the valley
had relapsed into its pristine solitude and silence.
That night the captain encamped upon the battle ground; the next
day he resumed his toilsome peregrinations through the mountains.
For upwards of two weeks he continued his painful march; both men
and horses suffering excessively at times from hunger and thirst.
At length, on the 19th of September, he reached the upper waters
of Salmon River.
The weather was cold, and there were symptoms of an impending
storm. The night set in, but Buckeye, the Delaware Indian, was
missing. He had left the party early in the morning, to hunt by
himself, according to his custom. Fears were entertained lest he
should lose his way and become bewildered in tempestuous weather.
These fears increased on the following morning, when a violent
snow-storm came on, which soon covered the earth to the depth of
several inches.
