I Used To Lie Languid And Dreamy Before Our Tent And Muse On The Past
And The Future, And When Most Overcome With Lassitude, My Eyes Turned
Always Toward The Distant Black Hills.
There is a spirit of energy
and vigor in mountains, and they impart it to all who approach their
presence.
At that time I did not know how many dark superstitions
and gloomy legends are associated with those mountains in the minds
of the Indians, but I felt an eager desire to penetrate their hidden
recesses, to explore the awful chasms and precipices, the black
torrents, the silent forests, that I fancied were concealed there.
CHAPTER XII
ILL LUCK
A Canadian came from Fort Laramie, and brought a curious piece of
intelligence. A trapper, fresh from the mountains, had become
enamored of a Missouri damsel belonging to a family who with other
emigrants had been for some days encamped in the neighborhood of the
fort. If bravery be the most potent charm to win the favor of the
fair, then no wooer could be more irresistible than a Rocky Mountain
trapper. In the present instance, the suit was not urged in vain.
The lovers concerted a scheme, which they proceeded to carry into
effect with all possible dispatch. The emigrant party left the fort,
and on the next succeeding night but one encamped as usual, and
placed a guard. A little after midnight the enamored trapper drew
near, mounted on a strong horse and leading another by the bridle.
Fastening both animals to a tree, he stealthily moved toward the
wagons, as if he were approaching a band of buffalo. Eluding the
vigilance of the guard, who was probably half asleep, he met his
mistress by appointment at the outskirts of the camp, mounted her on
his spare horse, and made off with her through the darkness. The
sequel of the adventure did not reach our ears, and we never learned
how the imprudent fair one liked an Indian lodge for a dwelling, and
a reckless trapper for a bridegroom.
At length The Whirlwind and his warriors determined to move. They
had resolved after all their preparations not to go to the rendezvous
at La Bonte's Camp, but to pass through the Black Hills and spend a
few weeks in hunting the buffalo on the other side, until they had
killed enough to furnish them with a stock of provisions and with
hides to make their lodges for the next season. This done, they were
to send out a small independent war party against the enemy. Their
final determination left us in some embarrassment. Should we go to
La Bonte's Camp, it was not impossible that the other villages would
prove as vacillating and indecisive as The Whirlwinds, and that no
assembly whatever would take place. Our old companion Reynal had
conceived a liking for us, or rather for our biscuit and coffee, and
for the occasional small presents which we made him. He was very
anxious that we should go with the village which he himself intended
to accompany. He declared he was certain that no Indians would meet
at the rendezvous, and said moreover that it would be easy to convey
our cart and baggage through the Black Hills. In saying this, he
told as usual an egregious falsehood. Neither he nor any white man
with us had ever seen the difficult and obscure defiles through which
the Indians intended to make their way. I passed them afterward, and
had much ado to force my distressed horse along the narrow ravines,
and through chasms where daylight could scarcely penetrate. Our cart
might as easily have been conveyed over the summit of Pike's Peak.
Anticipating the difficulties and uncertainties of an attempt to
visit the rendezvous, we recalled the old proverb about "A bird in
the hand," and decided to follow the village.
Both camps, the Indians' and our own, broke up on the morning of the
1st of July. I was so weak that the aid of a potent auxiliary, a
spoonful of whisky swallowed at short intervals, alone enabled me to
sit on my hardy little mare Pauline through the short journey of that
day. For half a mile before us and half a mile behind, the prairie
was covered far and wide with the moving throng of savages. The
barren, broken plain stretched away to the right and left, and far in
front rose the gloomy precipitous ridge of the Black Hills. We
pushed forward to the head of the scattered column, passing the
burdened travaux, the heavily laden pack horses, the gaunt old women
on foot, the gay young squaws on horseback, the restless children
running among the crowd, old men striding along in their white
buffalo robes, and groups of young warriors mounted on their best
horses. Henry Chatillon, looking backward over the distant prairie,
exclaimed suddenly that a horseman was approaching, and in truth we
could just discern a small black speck slowly moving over the face of
a distant swell, like a fly creeping on a wall. It rapidly grew
larger as it approached.
"White man, I b'lieve," said Henry; "look how he ride! Indian never
ride that way. Yes; he got rifle on the saddle before him."
The horseman disappeared in a hollow of the prairie, but we soon saw
him again, and as he came riding at a gallop toward us through the
crowd of Indians, his long hair streaming in the wind behind him, we
recognized the ruddy face and old buckskin frock of Jean Gras the
trapper. He was just arrived from Fort Laramie, where he had been on
a visit, and said he had a message for us. A trader named Bisonette,
one of Henry's friends, was lately come from the settlements, and
intended to go with a party of men to La Bonte's Camp, where, as Jean
Gras assured us, ten or twelve villages of Indians would certainly
assemble. Bisonette desired that we would cross over and meet him
there, and promised that his men should protect our horses and
baggage while we went among the Indians.
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