Chapter XLIX: An Interesting Adventure

For the first three or four years after the settlement of Montana, a favorite mode of returning to the States was by Mackinaw boat, down one or the other of the two great rivers whose upper waters traverse the Territory. The water trip, if not less exposed to Indian attack, was pleasanter, less laborious and expensive, and sooner accomplished than the long, weary journey by the plains.

The upper portions, both of the Missouri and Yellowstone, pass through a country abounding in some of the grandest, most unique, and most richly diversified scenery on the continent. Of themselves the rivers are very beautiful,—their waters pure, cold, broken into frequent rapids; at one moment passing through tremendous cañons and gorges; at the next, babbling along widespread meads; and anon, as if by a transformation of enchantment, dashing into the midst of a desolation which realizes all the descriptive horrors of Dante’s “Inferno,”—affording to the eye a greater variety of picturesque beauty than any of the other great rivers of the continent. A journey down them in a Mackinaw boat is an incident to fill a prominent place in the most adventurous life.

The point selected for embarkation on the Yellowstone was about twelve miles above the spot where Captain Clark started on his descent of the river, when returning from the famous expedition of 1804–06. An isolated grove of lofty cottonwoods has grown upon the only soil within miles, under the overhanging crags of a cañon whose sombre walls lift themselves three thousand feet or more into the atmosphere. The river glides through those strong jaws with the swiftness and silence of a huge serpent escaping its pursuers, forming an eddy just in front of the grove, which, being convenient of access, was early selected as a favorable place for the construction of boats and embarkation of companies.

At this grove, in the Fall of 1865, a company of six hundred persons commenced, in forty-three boats of different patterns, the long journey of three thousand miles to the States. The distance to the mouth of the Yellowstone was eight hundred and twenty miles, and little more was known of its general character at that time than could be derived from the geographical memoir written by Captain Clark sixty years before. A gentleman who belonged to the party has informed me that, after the first day’s sail, he had learned to confide so fully in this narrative for geographical accuracy, that he was enabled to anticipate, long before reaching them, every prominent landmark and rapid mentioned in it. No better geographers than Lewis and Clark have, since their time, visited the country which they explored; but their book, valuable as it must ever prove for its historical and topographical accuracy, left untold the surpassing grandeur and novelty of the scenes through which they passed. There is not a river in the world which, for its entire length of one thousand miles, presents with the same grandeur and magnificence so much of novelty and variety in the stupendous natural architecture that adorns its banks. Its source is in a beautiful lake, unlike, in general character and appearance, any other body of water on the globe. It is surrounded by innumerable warm and hot springs, sulphur deposits, and mud volcanoes. At a few miles’ distance is the largest geyser basin in the world, and close at hand stupendous cataracts and beautiful cascades. Here, too, is a cañon which for forty miles of distance is filled with physical wonders, so numerous, strange, and various as to defy description, and almost surpass comprehension.

Two hundred miles below this immense field of novelties, we arrive at the mouth of the cañon whence the river has been of late years frequently navigated, by Mackinaw and flat boats, to its union with the Missouri. Of this portion, but little has yet been written except by scientific explorers. For the first eighty miles of the distance, the river, almost a continuous rapid, rolls between gently undulating banks, dotted at intervals with clumps of stunted pines. Frequent ledges of rock jut into the stream, and wherever a bend or projection has served to arrest the flow of debris in time of flood, or catch the detritus washed from the rocks, a little bottom affords sustenance to a dense growth of majestic cottonwoods. This feature is prominent in the river scenery until the stream enters the Bad Lands, four hundred miles below the cañon. These groves, unlike the irregular groves that adorn the Eastern rivers, present to the voyager a straight regular outline on all sides, a feature imparted to them by the beavers, which cut down unsparingly both great and small trees outside the given spaces. This perfect regularity, always at right angles with the upland shore, gives to these frequent groves the appearance of artificial cultivation, and in the very midst of one of the most boundless solitudes in the world, the observer frequently finds himself indulging a thought that there may be some old mediæval castle still standing within the shadow of these trees.

After one has sailed about eighty miles, and finds himself descending an expansive reach of the river, the eye is suddenly attracted by the appearance on the right of an immense and seemingly interminable ridge of yellow rocks, very high, precipitous, and crowned along its summit by a forest of stunted pines. It is several miles distant, and its sheer, vertical sides gleam in the sunlight like massive gold. Far away it stretches, seemingly on an air line beyond the field of vision, presenting few inequalities of surface, and none of the features of ordinary mountain scenery.

The Happy Valley of Rasselas was not more strongly protected against outside intrusions by the precipices surrounding it, than is this portion of the Yellowstone Valley from all access by those who dwell beyond this ridge of sandstone.

At a distance of ten miles or more from where it first appears, the river has worn its way through it. We enter the massive gorge. Higher and higher rise the gleaming cliffs, seemingly straight up from the river’s bed, until sunlight disappears, and the blue sky above you spans like a roof the confronting crags. The illusion vanishes with decreasing height, the gloom painted in darkness upon the frightened stream grows again into sunlight, and for the next few miles you pass through banks of green adorned on either hand with citadels, temples, towers, turrets, spires, and castellated ruins, all deftly wrought by the wind and rain upon the exposed portions of the yellow rock. Neither the Hudson, with its green hills and massive knobs, nor the Columbia, with its crags and beetling cliffs, presents anything at all comparable to this. At one moment you look up at the sheer sides of a temple wrought into a form not unlike that of Edfou or Denderah, except as it surpasses them in its magnificent dimensions, all its sides presenting in the vitrified fractures of the layers of rock, regular rows of seeming hieroglyphics, and its conical, time-worn summit, gray and smooth with the frosts and storms of centuries. A little beyond stand the remains of a castle; and still farther on, seemingly equidistant from each other, three or four stately towers; then comes a massive citadel of stone, with embrasures, walls, and portholes, all the apparent paraphernalia of a mighty fortress.

These scenes, with all the variety that Nature observes in her works, occur at intervals of thirty or forty miles, every time the river penetrates the ridge, for a distance of two hundred miles; and all the way between these passages, on one side or the other of the beautiful stream, you behold stretching along upon the most exact of natural lines the pine-crowned ridge itself, skirted by meadows reaching to the margin. Before quite losing this grand exhibition, the river, fed by Clark’s Fork, the Rosebud, and the Big Horn, changes its character. The waters become dark and turbid, and spread out to more than a mile in width. The valley expands correspondingly, and the foothills and mountains are more distant. About midway of this passage through the yellow sandstone, Pompey’s Pillar, a table of rock separated by the river from the main ridge, stands isolated, towering to a height of several hundred feet over the plain, on the brink opposite. Its summit of less than half an acre, accessible with difficulty on the inland side, according to Captain Clark, affords an extensive view of the surrounding country.

At the mouth of the Big Horn the last view of the Rocky Mountains, which thus far have enlivened the scenery with their varied phenomena of storm and sunlight, fades upon the vision, and your voyage lies for several miles through a richer agricultural region than any you have yet seen. Here are fine meadows covered with bunch-grass, and, upon the distant hills, herds of elks, flocks of mountain sheep, antelopes, and deer. The temptation, often too great to be resisted, makes the hunter forgetful of Crows and Sioux, and sometimes lures him to his death. The rapids now become less frequent, though several of them are more formidable. At one point, where the river passes through the ridge for a distance of six miles, it has no channel of sufficient depth to float an ordinary Mackinaw, and voyagers are obliged by main force to push their boats into the pool below. Captain Clark gave to this obstruction the name of Buffalo Shoals. A few miles below this he saw, in the midst of a formidable rapid, a grizzly bear upon a rock, and gave to the place the name of Bear Rapids.

The early hunters and trappers of the Northwest found no region more favorable for their pursuit than the central valley of the Yellowstone. Here came Ashley, and Bridger, and Culbertson, and Sarpie, as early as 1817. The latter built a fort, which he called Fort Alexander, some remains of which are still standing on the margin of one of the most delightful meadows in the valley.

The last and most fearful rapid of the Yellowstone is near the mouth of the Tongue River, and was named by Captain Clark, Wolf Rapid, because he killed a wolf near it. The river is here lashed into a fury. The roar of the rapid is heard for several miles, and the tossing spray and seething foam can be seen at considerable distance. The experiment of descending it has much to excite the fears of a person unaccustomed to river travels, but as yet it has been unmarked by accident.

Below this rapid we enter upon the last one hundred and eighty miles between us and the Missouri. The river, which to this point has displayed its beauties in long reaches of ten and twelve miles, now becomes crooked like the Missouri. Its banks are constantly crumbling, and its channel as constantly shifting. Everything in sight but adds to the desolation of the scenery, and the traveller finds it hard to realize that he is sailing on the same river which he beheld but yesterday so gloriously arrayed. The same general features are apparent to its mouth. It is much larger and wider than the Missouri at its junction with it, and increases to more than twice its size the latter, which, as all are aware, for more than a thousand miles below the Yellowstone has fewer attractions than any other river in the world.

Not so, however, the upper Missouri. That, like the Yellowstone, passes through a picturesque and beautiful country. From its source, where the Madison, Jefferson, and Gallatin unite to form it, to Fort Benton, a distance of two hundred miles, it exhibits a great variety of interesting and stupendous scenery, both of water, valley, rock, and mountain. There are the Great Falls, the Gate of the Mountains, and the passage of the river through numerous cañons, which, in any other portion of the country than the mountains and rocks of Montana, would be unparalleled for grandeur and sublimity.

Fort Benton, one of the early posts built by the American and Northwestern Fur Companies, is at the virtual head of steamboat navigation on the Missouri, in the midst of a country formerly occupied by the Blackfeet Indians,—the most implacable of all the mountain tribes in their hatred of the whites. From the time of the arrival of the first settlers of Montana in 1862, until the completion of railroads into the Territory, Fort Benton was the commercial depot of the Territory. During the period of high water every spring it is visited by steamboats freighted at St. Louis with merchandise for the great number of traders in the interior towns. A considerable town has sprung up within the shadows of the old post.

A trip from Fort Benton to the States in a Mackinaw, though full of danger, was always inviting, while the same trip by the overland stage, though comparatively safe, was ever repulsive. In the latter part of August, 1866, Andrew J. Simmons, a citizen of Helena, and ten companions, after a wagon journey of one hundred and forty miles, alighted on the _levée_ at Fort Benton, _en route_ to the States. In a letter to me descriptive of this journey, Mr. Simmons writes:

“The varied fortunes and migrating tendencies of the gold miner, in
following the great periodical excitements, had cast our lots
together through rough and pleasant places, through adversity and
prosperity in many of the mining camps of the Pacific slope; and
now, having accomplished a successful mining season in the Rocky
Mountains, a visit to home and friends was determined upon by
descending the Missouri River in a Mackinaw. In three days our craft
was completed. She was as stanch as pine lumber and nails could make
her. She was thirty-three feet in length, seven and a half feet
beam, and ten inches rake. Sharp at both ends, and ample for our
accommodation, she was a trim built, rakish-looking craft, which
rode the current majestically, and challenged the admiration of all
observers.

“Delighted with the success of our experiment in boat-building, and
animated with hope of a safe and speedy passage through the two
thousand miles of hostile Indian country, we quickly deposited our
personal effects and various creature comforts in the little vessel,
which we called the _Self Riser_, and got everything in readiness
for embarkation. We felt, indeed, that the bright visions of home,
which had cheered us through many years of wandering, were soon to
be realized. We had just taken a parting glass with the friends
assembled on the _levée_ to witness our departure, and the farewell
hand-shaking and good wishes were in progress, when a young man,
seemingly not more than twenty, approached me, and in an imploring
voice and manner asked a passage with us down the river. There was
something so touching in the low, sad tones of his voice, and his
subdued manner, that I involuntarily, and on the instant, found
myself deeply interested in him. He was a stranger to us all, but
his pleasant, honest face, lit up by a pair of expressive eyes,
disarmed all suspicions unfavorable to his character; and it was
with real regret that I told him, with a view of breaking my refusal
as lightly as possible, that our party was made up of old comrades,
who had seen much service together, and had jointly outfitted for
the trip with the understanding that the company should not be
increased.

“I was about to turn away and join my comrades, who had already got
into the boat, when he persisted,

“‘For the love of God, sir, do not refuse me! I am here alone among
strangers, and have met with many misfortunes in this country. If
you do not take me, I shall lose my last chance of returning to my
friends and relatives.’

“I could not resist the power of this appeal. After a few words of
hasty consultation with my companions, it was agreed that the young
man should accompany us. Never shall I forget his look of mingled
joy and gratitude when I told him to come on board. Our moorings
were then cut loose, and with many a shout and cheer we bore down
upon the rapid current. When night approached we did not, as was
usual with voyagers, make land and remain until morning, but sailed
on, bringing to for the first time early in the afternoon of the
next day at the mouth of Judith River. There we made camp under the
branching cottonwoods, one hundred and forty miles from our place of
embarkation. Our larder had been replenished on the trip with three
fat antelopes and a buffalo cow, shot from the boat as we floated
along. We had also contrived to form the acquaintance of our new
passenger, but without learning much of his history. There was
something about him when questioned as to his life in the mountains
which impressed us with the idea that he was guarding a secret it
would cost him great pain to reveal. Respect for his sensibility
soon overcame all curiosity on the subject, and so the poor boy was
only known to us by the unromantic name of ‘Johnny.’ His skill with
the pistol, exhibited on several occasions on our first day out, won
him the favor of every man in the party. We all felt that in his way
‘Johnny’ was one of us, but his way was not like ours. We soon
discovered that the rough life to which we had been accustomed had
no charms for him. He neither indulged in coarse jokes himself nor
enjoyed them in others, no profane expressions escaped his lips, and
we were kept constantly upon our guard by some indescribable
delicacy of demeanor on his part, which commanded our respect.
Neither could we impose on him any of the severe toil of the voyage,
but in all the lighter duties no man was more faithful than he, nor
more grateful for relief from any labor that overtasked his
strength.

“We had feasted to repletion on antelope and buffalo at our first
camping place, and when the hour for resting came, the question
arose what should be done with Johnny. He had no blankets, and there
was no alternative but that Humphrey and I should give him a place
with us. So he became our joint bedfellow for the trip.

“We left at dawn, and before mid-day entered upon that marvellous
tract of country which as yet has received no more appropriate name
than the ‘Bad Lands.’ This significant title, translated from the
original French, _Mauvaises Terres_, has been given to an immense
tract of barren country stretching for more than a thousand miles
along the Missouri and Yellowstone; but the portion to which I here
allude is but a single and remarkable feature of this vast earthen
desert, and should receive a more distinctive appellation. The
Missouri at this point, for a distance of thirty miles or more,
passes through a ledge of talcose rock. Its color is a dusky white.
Twelve miles of this distance the entire face of the rock upon
either bank of the river has been eroded by the elements into
countless forms, which suggest a thousand resemblances to artificial
and natural objects, in some instances so exact as almost to deceive
a casual observer. No other spot in the world has yet been
discovered which can boast of such an extensive display of eroded
rock. The river is confined between precipitous banks a hundred or
more feet in height, and all along the jagged and broken surface,
extending from the edge of these vertical walls beyond the range of
vision, these objects are distributed. It seems as if all the
pantheons and art galleries of the world had been emptied of their
contents here. In one place is an immense round table with a large
company gathered around, realizing at a single glance the legendary
stories of Arthur and his knights. Through a little nook may be seen
a number of forms that will remind one of the Saviour and his
disciples. Then again suddenly springs into view a large gathering
of people, as if assembled upon some public occasion. Men in every
position, women, angels, animals, mausoleums, may be seen, and in
their immediate vicinity are larger forms suggestive of dwellings,
churches, and cottages. On the extreme point of one of the bends in
the river stands the most exquisitely fretted castle of imperial
dimensions; spires, minarets, towers, and domes scattered over it in
great profusion. This single object is larger than the Capitol at
Washington. One nearly as large, and presenting points of great
interest, stands diagonally from it, on the opposite side of the
river. Buildings with long lines of colonnades, citadels with
embrasured parapets and bastions at their several angles, may be
seen on every hand. The exhibition is very beautiful, and so unlike
any other exhibition of natural art, as to excite the wonder not
less than the admiration of all beholders. The difference between
these and the eroded rocks of the Yellowstone is in color and size.
The Missouri erosions are much more delicate, and not confined to
architectural forms alone, but they embrace statuary, furniture,
vessels, chariots, and almost every object in the natural world.
They are, moreover, nearly white, and their surfaces gleam in the
sunlight with all the beauty of polished marble. Awestruck at the
multiplicity and grandeur of the various objects which met our gaze,
we floated through this region of wonders as silently as if it had
been a city of the dead. It did not seem possible as we sailed under
the shadow of these immense citadels, that they were the mere
creation of the elements, and had never been the abodes of men.

“The navigation of a Mackinaw boat over this portion of the river
was intensely interesting. Our light craft, impelled by sails and a
rapid current, easily at the command of the helmsman, would sheer
around the huge rocks and dash through the foaming rapids, sweeping
bends, crooked channels, and innumerable islands and sand-bars. The
scene was constantly changing, and new objects of interest
presenting themselves.

“Early on the morning of the third day, one of our company fired at
a black-tailed deer, standing midway to the summit of a lofty cliff.
The animal rolled down the declivity almost to the water’s edge. The
shot was pronounced remarkable. Out of compliment to the skill of
the marksman, as well as to appease the cravings of appetite, we
immediately landed, built a fire, and proceeded to roast and
‘scoff,’ after the approved manner of hunters, the tender ribs and
haunches, furnishing a meal which all agreed surpassed anything
known to the modern _cuisine_. Perhaps this was attributable to the
fact that we were hungry, but then the delicious flavor of the
venison was not spoiled by villainous cookery. Our dessert consisted
of canned fruit and coffee, the whole moistened with a moderate flow
of Bourbon drunk from tin cups. After our repast was finished, we
resumed our journey in the happiest mood, with the spirit and dash
of adventurers who felt themselves equal to any emergency. At noon
we came upon the steamboat _Luella_, which, owing to the falling of
the river, had left Fort Benton some weeks before, and was lying
below Dauphin’s Rapids, where her passengers, who were coming down
in small boats, were to join her for the trip to St. Louis. The
river, which owes its spring flood to the early rains and dissolving
snows in the mountain ranges, seldom affords sufficient depth later
than July for steamboats to pass over Dauphin’s and Dead-Man’s
rapids, the two great obstructions to its upper navigation. Indeed
it was matter of speculation whether the _Luella_ would be able at
this late period in the season to make the trip until after another
rise. We remained long enough to exchange compliments with Captain
Marsh, and presenting him with a quantity of game for his lady
passengers, resumed our voyage.

“While descending the river the forenoon of the next day, we saw on
the right bank half a mile ahead, three monster bears. They were
taking a social drink from the river. As soon as they had finished,
they strolled leisurely up the bank and disappeared in the
cottonwoods. Landing at the spot, all hands seized their weapons and
started enthusiastically in pursuit of them. We followed their huge
tracks in the sand up a low coulee, to the top of the bluff, and
there formed in line and proceeded by the flank into the chaparral,
their tracks growing larger and fresher as we advanced, until
suddenly the huge monsters confronted us at a distance of about
thirty paces. Seated on their haunches, their heads towering above
the shrubbery, jaws extended, and paws swaying to and fro, they by
short and eager snuffs, growls, and snaps, gave us an acute sense of
the danger we had mistaken for sport. Our appetite for bear meat
weakened much quicker than it came, and old ‘Forty-niner,’ who had
served a long apprenticeship in California, coming up at this
moment, on seeing the animals, raised and fired his rifle, shouting
in a voice of terror, ‘Holy Jupiter! They are grizzlies!’ and turned
and ran like a demoralized jack-rabbit in the direction of the boat.
Suddenly recollecting that it was the black bear and not the grizzly
we were in pursuit of, we all followed his example. Humphrey, slowly
bringing up the rear, proposed that we should ‘give them a round.’
To this I assented, but urged as a preliminary that we should get
out of the brush and within striking distance of the boat. Before we
could do so, however, the foremost bear made a plunge for Humphrey,
who, facing him, with his gun at his shoulder, fired with so true an
aim, that the great beast with a somersault fell forward at his
feet, and with a roar of pain expired. The cub, two-thirds the size
of its dam, seeing her fall, turned and fled, leaving the way open
for the attack of the sire, a grand old fellow who sounded instantly
to the charge, and came crashing through the thicket upon us. It was
a moment for action. We opened upon him with a terrible bombardment
from our Henry rifles. In less time than a minute we had fired
thirty-one balls into him. In his endeavors to reach us, and in his
rage and agony, he executed some tremendous feats of ground and
lofty tumbling. The woods echoed to his howlings, and in a frantic
manner he tore up the earth and broke down the saplings for a
considerable space around. The chaparral cracked beneath the strokes
of his paws, and large pieces of rotten logs were scattered in all
directions. His pluck should have won him a more glorious fate, for
with all his efforts to attack us, he died without inflicting any
harm, and his death roar, reverberating through the forest, summoned
our frightened companions, who, with ‘Forty-niner’ in the van,
returned in time to be in at the death. ‘Johnny,’ my faithful
henchman, with revolver in hand, reserving fire for a last
contingency, had stood near while the fight was progressing. He now
came forward and warmly congratulated Humphrey and myself on our
victory. We took the hind quarters of our prize on board, and nailed
one of the huge paws as a trophy, to the top of our jack-staff, and
floated on.

“Toward evening we descried a party of white men on the right bank,
hove to, and went ashore. They proved to be a party of seven,
engaged in chopping wood for steamboats. They were living in a
little shanty, and intended to remain through the winter. When the
boats came up, in the early spring, they expected to make a
profitable sale of their wood, and go to some less exposed country.
During the winter they designed to increase their wealth by hunting
and trapping for furs. These men were armed with Hawkins rifles,
which, being muzzle-loading, were greatly inferior to the
breech-loading cartridge guns then in use. We warned them of their
danger, but with the energy and enterprise they possessed also the
courage and recklessness of all pioneers. They said they were ready
to take the chances. Poor fellows! The chances were too strong for
them, for only a few days afterwards a body of Sioux Indians came
upon them. They made a desperate defence, but were overpowered and
every one of them massacred.

“The eighth day of our voyage was mild and lovely. We had floated
seven hundred miles without accident. Each day had been crowded with
events of interest, and our adventures had all been crowned with
success. These, with our resources for humor, and a general
disposition to see only the ludicrous side of passing incidents,
made us cheerful and good-humored even to boisterousness. Sometimes,
even in the midst of mirth, the thought of our constant exposure to
Indian attack would operate as an unpleasant restraint. But we did
not shirk the subject, or fail for a moment to look it steadily in
the face. Most of our company knew what Indian fighting meant, and
some had had experience. Three had followed under the banner of the
writer, on the sunny slopes of the distant Pacific, when gallantry
and honor had called for volunteers for the defence of firesides
against savage forays. In early times upon the Middle Yuba, when
Bill Junes the packer and five others were ruthlessly murdered, it
was ‘Forty-niner’ who sounded the tocsin of war and led the daylight
attack down the winding gorge upon a Digger _ranchero_, to its total
annihilation. Our uniform experience had been that where civilized
jarred with savage nature, a conflict was inevitable, and the
pioneer had fought his own battles unaided. Government had done
little for his protection, and less for the savage.

“Occasionally this subject would obtrude itself upon our thoughts,
and we would discuss it in its personal aspects, always resolving to
be on our guard against surprise and attack. But the prestige of
successful adventure made us careless, and a latent sentiment of
pride and confidence in our arms pervaded the entire party. We had
been for several days passing through the country of the hostile
Sioux, and knew if we should fall in with one of their war parties
an attack would surely follow, and he would be a lucky man who
escaped a bloody fate. As if, by a presentiment of coming evil, the
subject on this day became more than usually exciting.
‘Forty-niner,’ who rather desired a brush with the Indians, had just
expressed his willingness and ability to eat any number of Sioux for
breakfast, should they attack our party, when our boat rounded a
bend in the river, and Humphrey, the first to make the discovery,
exclaimed, ‘Well, there they are. You can eat them for dinner if you
choose.’

“It was high noon. Just before us at the mouth of a coulee on the
south bank of the river, was a large party of Indians. A hasty
glance of mutual surprise and an instant seizure of arms by both
parties, defined, stronger than language could do, the terms upon
which we were to meet. Below the coulee, there rose to the height of
fifty feet, a perpendicular bluff around whose base dashed the
foaming current. A low open sand-bar disputed our passage on the
opposite side. There was no alternative. We must go by the channel,
within range of their guns, or not at all. As we steered to a point
across the river, the Indians withdrew to the coulee, one alone
remaining, who accompanied his friendly salutation of ‘How! How!’
with gestures indicating a desire for us to return to that side, and
engage in trade with them. A moment later and our boat was opposite
the coulee, within which we could see some of the red devils
stripping off their blankets, and others, already denuded,
approaching the verge of the bluff, armed with bows and arrows and
rifles. It was evident we had come up with a large party of Sioux
who were about to attack us, and we must make the best of the
situation. Despite our labor at the oars, the current swept us down
in direct range of the spot occupied by the Indians, who, before we
had finished fastening our boat, opened fire upon us with about
fifty shots, which fortunately whistled over our heads. Before they
could correct their aim for another fire, we were behind a
breastwork hastily extemporized by throwing up our blankets and
baggage against the exposed gunwale of the boat. This they pierced
with bullets thick as hail, but the protection it afforded us was
ample, and we soon got ready to return their leaden compliments.
Each of our Henry rifles contained sixteen cartridges when we opened
fire, and the distance being about one hundred and fifty yards to
the bluff, which was literally swarming with savages, not more than
ten minutes elapsed until every one of them had disappeared. The
fearful death howl, however, assured us that our fire had not been
in vain. With the exception of an occasional head dodging behind the
trees, not an Indian could be seen, yet from the coulee, the sage
brush, and low shrubbery, an incessant firing was kept up, which we
returned as often as an object became visible.

“The effect of our first fire satisfied us that while it would be
death to all on board to attempt to run the channel, we could in our
present position keep the rascals at bay. We could stand the
broiling sun of an August afternoon on a heated sand-bar in the
Missouri better than the hotter fire of our savage foes. Early in
the action, while rising to fire from the breastwork, a bullet
struck Humphrey in the mouth, carrying away with it a piece of the
jaw and three teeth, and severely cutting the lips. The wound
disabled him, and deprived us of the best marksman in the party. A
little later ‘Forty-niner’ was struck by an arrow in the fleshy part
of the thigh. I pulled out the shaft, and bound up the wound. Five
minutes after, an arrow pierced the calf of his leg, inflicting a
painful wound. These arrows came from a squad which was protected
from our bullets by a depression in the bluff, oblique to us. So
great was their skill with the bow, that while the main party in
front could not harm us with bullets, they, by bending their arrows,
caused them to describe a curve which would strike their sharp
points into the legs of our boots with unerring precision.

“The pride of ‘Forty-niner’ was now fully aroused. Twice wounded, he
became enraged, desperate, and unsheathing his bowie-knife, he rose
to his feet, and brandished it in the rays of the sun, launching a
terrible imprecation upon the liver, hearts, and scalps of the
savages. ‘Come on,’ he shouted, ‘you infernal sons of Belial! Alone
and single-handed, I will meet any five of the best of you in open
fight!’

“The bullets whistled around him from an invisible foe, but to no
purpose. Seizing him by the left arm I pulled him down, and warned
him of the danger of this personal exposure; but not until he had
exhausted his vocabulary of maledictions, would he yield to my
entreaties and resume his place behind the breastwork. Deprecating
his recklessness, I could not but admire his courage. But as this
was no time for sentiment, I was only too happy, when, of his own
accord, he stretched himself beside me, and I heard the bullets
whistling harmlessly over us. Just at this moment I looked behind me
and caught a glance of my little friend Johnny. With nothing but a
pistol to engage in the conflict, he had taken no active part in it,
but, with the pistol beside him, he was administering every possible
relief to poor wounded Humphrey. His coolness was remarkable, and
inspired us all with hope.

“The Indians kept up a brisk fire from various places of concealment
until after sundown. We only responded when our shots would tell,
and finally ceased to fire at all. Our enemies, thinking we were all
slain, sent a party to take our scalps and plunder. We lay still,
behind our breastwork, so as not to undeceive them. Twenty-seven of
their best warriors, led by Ta-Skun-ka-Du-tah (the ‘Red Dog’), swam
the river half a mile above, and marched down directly in rear of
us. There, at a distance of about three hundred yards, they sat down
in a ring, within easy range of our rifles. Sitting Bull, their head
chief, meantime made medicine on the south bank for their success,
while they, believing that we were fully in their power, commenced
smoking and making medicine with the intention of destroying us at
leisure. (The names of the chiefs engaged in this attack were
learned by the writer several years after its occurrence when he was
employed as a government agent for the Teton Sioux, of which tribe
Sitting Bull was head chief.)

“The ‘Red Dog’ was a big medicine man. Having filled and lighted the
magic pipe, he first touched the heel of it to the ground, then
raised and pointed the stem to the sun, drew a few solemn whiffs,
forcing the smoke through his nostrils, and passed the pipe to his
neighbor on the right, by whom it was passed on, until the ceremony
was performed by every man in the circle, and the pipe returned from
right to left without ceremony to the hands of the medicine man. He
refilled it, and it was circulated again from left to right. Painted
sticks with colored sacks of medicine attached were then stuck in
the ground in the centre of the enchanted circle, and the whole
company arose, broke into a guttural graveyard chant, and commenced
the war-dance around the medicine, the chief meantime waving over it
his coo-stick. This over, the medicine with great solemnity was
given to the sun.

“During the half-hour thus occupied by the Indians, we were engaged
also in making medicine, and we made it strong. Our ten large Colt’s
revolvers were carefully loaded, our Henry rifles cleaned, and their
magazines filled with cartridges. We were impatiently awaiting the
assault when it came. Naked, hideously striped with red and black
paint, dancing, contorting their bodies, showering arrows thick and
fast into and around the boat, blowing war whistles made of the
bones of eagles’ wings, whooping and yelling, they rushed to the
onset as if all the devils of pandemonium had been suddenly let
loose. For their arrows and bullets we were prepared, but this
terrific vocal accompaniment for the moment scattered our courage to
the winds. We could well understand how the stoutest hearts would
quail in presence of such an infernal demonstration. Our hair rose
up like quills, and we could feel our hearts sink within us as the
noise and din increased, filling the forest with horrible
reverberations.

“Our little boat, breasting the sluggish current, floated at a
distance of twenty feet from the shore, to which she was fastened by
a strong painter. The red-skins, still shouting and firing,
evidently anticipating an easy victory, rushed madly onward to the
water’s edge, when at a word, we all rose up and opened a deadly and
incessant fire upon them with our rifles. Our hopes were more than
realized in seeing several fall, and the others beat a hasty retreat
to the cottonwoods. It was now our turn to shout, and we made the
welkin ring with cheers of victory as we jumped from the boat and
waded rapidly to the shore, and pursued the flying demons to their
log covert in a coppice of willows. ‘Forty-niner,’ reminded that his
banqueting hour had arrived, forgetful of his wounds, rushed
impetuously to the charge, brandishing his inevitable bowie-knife
with one hand, his unerring pistol firmly clasped in the other, and
his powerful voice raised to the highest pitch of angry utterance.

“‘Scatter, you infernal demons!’ he cried, ‘scatter, for not a devil
of you shall escape us.’

“Too true, alas! for Ta-Skun-ka-Du-tah, were these words of doom.
The medicine which he deemed invincible, failed to protect him from
the deadly aim of ‘Forty-niner,’ a bullet from whose pistol passed
through his heart. With a convulsive leap into the air, and an
agonizing death yell, he fell prone to the earth, grasping the
coo-stick and medicine which had lured him to his fate. Six lifeless
bodies of his followers lay around, and how many were killed or
wounded on the opposite bank in the early part of the contest, we
had no means of ascertaining. ‘Forty-niner’ made medicine over the
fallen chief, and removed his scalp in a manner which even he would
have approved. Little Johnny displayed great courage in the fight,
and was always near me in the thickest of it, seemingly ready to
avenge any harm that might befall his benefactor.

“The twilight was fading into darkness, when the Indians on the
opposite side of the river fired upon us for the last time.
Assembling upon the bank in a group a few hundred yards above us,
they were speedily rejoined by the survivors of the attacking party,
who, as we learned from their melancholy death howl, had
communicated to them the disasters of the battle. The wailing notes,
attuned to a dismal cadence, ringing in echoes through the forest,
harmonized gloomily with the joy and thankfulness which our escape
had inspired. We had no sorrow to squander upon the savages in their
distress, but there was something so heartfelt in the expression of
their grief, that it filled us all with sadness. And there was no
heart in the loud and repeated cheers and firing of rifles with
which we deemed it necessary to respond, lest they should return and
seek to avenge the death of their fallen comrades. It was simply an
act of self-defence; for had the Indians known our fear of future
and immediate attack, and the anxious plans we made for prompt
departure, our doom would have been certain.

“When the last faint note of the retreating Sioux assured us of
freedom from immediate danger, we took careful note of our injuries,
and made preparations to resume our voyage. Five of our company had
been wounded, none fatally, but all needed attention and service
which we could not bestow. Our boat and baggage had been pierced by
hundreds of bullets. A companion, who was disqualified by the recent
amputation of his leg from service during the fight, had received a
wound in the back that would have proved fatal but for the
interposition of his wooden leg, which happened to be in range.
Another had an arrow point in his shoulder, and still another one in
the hip. Then there were Humphrey and ‘Forty-niner,’ so badly
wounded as to be incapable of service. Before daylight a thousand
Indians, thirsting for revenge, might assemble at some point below
us, intent upon our destruction. There was no alternative;—we must
leave with all possible speed, and reach Fort Buford, about one
hundred and thirty miles distant, at the mouth of the Yellowstone,
without detention of any sort. Those of us who were uninjured by the
fight, set about repairing the boat. An hour before midnight we
dropped into the current, and under cover of intense darkness were
borne rapidly down the turbid river. Jostled by frequent snags,
arrested by sand-bars and by various collisions, kept in constant
fear of wreck, we contrived to hold our course until daylight.
Through the succeeding day our field-glass was in constant use, but
as no Indians were visible, we ventured, while passing a bottom, to
fire into a large herd of antelopes. Two were killed. We
disembarked, threw out pickets, and prepared a hasty meal, and
sailed onward. Until its close, the remainder of the day was without
incident; but just at dark, our boat ran hard aground upon a
sand-bar, and obliged us to remain there during the night. This was
not without risk, for if the Indians had come upon us we would have
been an easy prey. Our ever-faithful Johnny, who had slept during
the day, volunteered as guard, and wrapped in his blanket, he sat
down on the deck, his clear eye peering into the darkness, and his
keen ears detecting the slightest unusual noise. Several times he
mistook the whistle of an elk, and howl of the wolf, for the Indian,
but no Indian came, and we were aroused at daylight by our trusty
sentinel with the welcome announcement that a large human habitation
was visible. We sprung to our feet, and beheld, at a distance of
three miles ahead, the stockade and bastions of Fort Union. Fears
for our safety and for the poor fellows whose wounds produced the
most intense physical suffering, were instantly relieved; and every
able-bodied man in the party put forth his best exertions with
hearty good will to remove the boat from the sand-bar. This
accomplished, we soon effected a landing at the fort, but finding no
surgeon there, crossed the point with our wounded, a distance of two
miles, to Fort Buford, then in process of construction at the mouth
of the Yellowstone. Here we found a Company of the Thirteenth United
States Infantry, under command of Col. W. G. Rankin, quartered in
tents until the completion of the post. More than half the time
their attention was diverted from work upon the fort by attacks of
Sioux, large bands of whom were prowling through this region. The
colonel received us very kindly, placed a large tent at our
disposal, furnished us with commissary stores, and consigned our
wounded to the skilful treatment of the surgeon.

“We had been two weeks at Fort Buford, when the steamer _Luella_
arrived with three hundred passengers. Our taste for adventure
having lost its flavor, we reluctantly bade the kind colonel and his
Company good-bye, and took passage on her for Sioux City. The run
down, unmarked by any unusual incident, and after frequent
detentions upon sand-bars, was accomplished to the head of the great
bend above the town in fourteen days. One of our party crossed the
bend, which is but a few miles in width, to the city, to provide
means upon our arrival for the conveyance of the company to the
Northwestern Railroad, not then completed to the Missouri. I had
just finished a game of whist, when my comrade Johnny, who was
seated beside me, drew me aside and inquired if I intended to leave
the boat at Sioux City. On receiving, with an affirmative reply, an
urgent request to accompany me to Chicago, he broke into tears and
expressed great regret that we must part so soon, as by remaining on
the boat he could reach his friends and home much sooner than by any
other route.

“‘Come with me on the deck,’ he continued, putting his arm in mine.
‘I have something to tell you in confidence, which will greatly
surprise you.’

“I had often had occasion during our trip to think that Johnny would
unfold the mystery which enveloped him, before we separated, and I
readily accompanied him to the place indicated. With much nervous
embarrassment, he then said to me,

“‘I am indebted to you more deeply than you can even imagine. You
have been a kind friend and benefactor, and now that the time has
come for us to part, I should be more than criminal did I not reveal
myself to you in my true character. The disguise is no longer
necessary for my protection. I am a woman.’

“Involuntarily I exclaimed, ‘Great Heaven! is it possible!—and I,
all this while, so stupid as not to see it in your conduct! This
accounts for everything I thought so strangely reticent, so
singularly delicate and refined in your manners.’

“‘Let me go on,’ said she, interrupting this rhapsody. ‘Our relation
to each other, so changed, must not affect the deep sense of
obligation your kindness has imposed; and besides, my history, with
all its sad vicissitudes, will afford ample apology for the deceit
of which this confession convicts me. When I came to you and begged
for the passage you so generously granted, I was a poor heart-broken
woman, but now with the multiplied evidences I have of a protecting
Providence, I am comparatively happy. Listen to my story. Just
before the great rebellion I was married to one I dearly loved. Our
home was in Tennessee. I was nineteen, and my husband, whom I will
call Mr. Gordon, a few years older. Early in the Summer of 1861 he
espoused the Union cause, which brought him in great disfavor with
his relatives and neighbors. Their frequent persecutions drove us
from the country. We sought a new home in California. There he
engaged in extensive mining enterprises, all of which terminated in
failure. He became utterly discouraged, and realized in the current
idiom of the country the condition of one who had “lost his grip.” I
urged him to return to the States, but our means were nearly
exhausted. With the hope of replenishing them, as a last resort he
staked and lost everything at a gambling table. To my constant
entreaties for reformation, he promised well, until intemperance
seized him in its deadly coil. Naturally high-spirited and
honorable, misfortune and dissipation soon reduced him to a wreck.

“‘In the Spring of 1866 we were living in a mining camp at the
Middle mines, on the western slope of the Sierras. One night (I
shall never forget it) my unfortunate husband, while intoxicated,
became embroiled in a desperate quarrel at a game of faro, with a
player of much local popularity. A fearful fight followed, in which
he killed his antagonist. He was followed into the street and his
arrest attempted by a sheriff’s officer. He fled in the direction of
his home, was fired upon and seriously wounded, and in three shots
fired by him in return, he killed one of the arresting party. The
others fled. The crowd, attracted by the firing, pursued him so
hotly that he ran to the hills and secreted himself in the forest.

“‘During the succeeding six days of bitter anguish I was in a state
of terrible suspense. Late one night relief was brought by a
messenger from my husband, who said he was lying at a miner’s cabin
in the mountains, fifteen miles distant, seriously wounded, and
required medicine and attendance. I instantly determined to go to
him. The man, an old friend of my husband, discouraged me, lest I
should be followed by the officers, and the hiding-place discovered.
This objection I overcame by donning male attire, and following his
guidance astride a mule. I reached the bedside of my wretched
husband without exciting suspicion, and after several weeks of
careful nursing, his condition was so improved that he could
commence a journey to the States. Fear of discovery prevented longer
delay, and our friend providing us with means of conveyance, we
started on our weary route.

“‘You may readily conceive that the task was disheartening, for to
escape detection it was necessary to avoid all travelled routes, and
literally pick our way through mountains, valleys, defiles, and
cañons, fording rivers where we could find opportunity, and
obtaining food from ranches and at points remote from the large
settlements. My husband’s condition required constant attention, and
on me alone devolved all the labor and care of the journey. No one,
to see my embrowned face and knotty hands, would have ever dreamed
that I was aught else than the tough wiry boy I appeared, or that I
concealed beneath my disguise a heart torn with anguish and shaken
by continual fear.

“‘We selected, as least liable to interruption, a route through
Northern California, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho, intending, after
our arrival in Montana, to find some easier mode of completing our
journey. Five long weary months during which travel was about
equally alternated with delay, found us encamped on the Columbia
plains in Washington Territory near the western border of Montana.
Oh! it had been a terrible perambulation. And now, when beyond the
pursuit of sheriffs, and near the close as we supposed of our
journey, my poor husband, weakened by the internal hemorrhage from
his wound, was prostrated by an attack which in a few days
terminated his life.

“‘I was alone in the wilderness, several hundred miles from the
nearest settlement. For two days and nights I lingered in that
lonely camp beside the dead body of my husband, without a sound to
break the fearful stillness, save the yelping of coyotes, and the
midnight howl of the wolf. On the third day I heard the welcome
sound of an approaching pack train. The men having it in charge dug
a grave and gave my husband decent burial. I accompanied their train
to Helena, preserving my male _incognito_ without suspicion. After a
brief period of rest and refreshment, I disposed of my effects and
went by coach to Benton, where I was so fortunate as to fall in with
your party. You know the rest.’

“The recital of this eventful narrative made a profound impression
upon me. I could scarcely realize that it had fallen from the lips
of the mild-mannered, resolute, active little Johnny, who had been
to us all such a pleasant but enigmatical companion. My sympathies
were all warmly enlisted in favor of the brave woman, but she
refused all further proffers of assistance, assuring me that she was
provided with ample means for the completion of her journey, and had
many able and willing friends who would greet her return to them
with joy. I took leave of her at Sioux City the next day with real
regret, and often since have recalled to mind the thrilling history
of her experience in the mountains.”