Читать книгу The Adventures of William F. Drannan - William F. Drannan - Страница 20

Johnnie West and I started with a saddle-horse each and four pack- mules for a buffalo hunt; I still riding Croppy, the pony Uncle Kit had given me at St. Louis, but he was getting old and somewhat stiffened up in his shoulders.

We traveled up the Arkansas river to the mouth of the Purgatoire—pronounced in that country Picket Wire—which was about thirty miles from Bent's Fort. Seeing a small band of buffalo some distance away, we took the pack-saddles off of the mules and turned them out to graze, mounted our saddle-horses and were off for the herd; but the wily beasts got wind of us and started off before we got within gunshot of them. After running them about a mile we overhauled them, both fired and each killed a yearling calf while on the run. I fastened my rifle to the pommel of the saddle, drew my pistol, and there being a very fine heifer that had dropped back to the rear, I spurred up by the side of her and was just in the act of firing, when old Croppy stepped into a prairie-dog hole and fell with me.

Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side slapping me in the face with his hand.

I was badly bruised but no bones were broken, and as soon as I recovered sufficiently to know for a certainty that I was not dead, an examination of old Croppy developed the fact that his left shoulder was badly broken. I being too chicken-hearted to shoot him, got Johnnie West to put him out of his misery, and now I was left afoot and thirty miles from home. Johnnie West went back and got our pack-mules. We dressed our buffalo and had plenty of meat to load all of our mules, and some to leave there for the hungry cayotes. That night while we were cooking some of the meat for supper, the cayotes raised a howl and it seemed as though they would take possession of our camp in spite of us; but by firing a shot among them once in a while, we were able to keep them at bay.

In those days hunters never took along anything to eat, for a man that could not kill what he could eat was considered worthless.

The following morning we loaded our meat on the mules, lashed my saddle on top of one of the packs and started for Bent's Fort. I being bruised and crippled up from the effects of my fall, Johnnie let me ride his horse and he walked almost the entire way home.

Mr. Roubidoux on learning that I had left old Croppy dead on the prairie, said: "I have got the best buffalo horse on the plains, and I will make you a present of him;" and turning to his herder, he said, "go and bring Pinto in."

When the spotted horse was brought in, Mr. Roubidoux said: "Now, Will, I am going to make you a present of this horse, and I want you to keep him to remember me by."

I thought this the prettiest horse I had ever laid eyes on, and he proved to be as good a buffalo horse as Mr. Roubidoux had represented him to be.

On the third day of July, Johnnie West and I having enough meat ahead to last several days, we pulled out for Taos to attend the wedding of Kit Carson. Arriving there, Uncle Kit took us to his house.

He brought my new buckskin suit, and I know it was the handsomest of the kind I had ever seen. On the front of the trousers was the finest of bead work, representing horses, Indians, buffalo, deer and various other animals; and on the coat the same, except they were worked with beads and porcupine quills.

I was now twenty-one years old, and had never attended a wedding. The ladies present all being of Catholic faith, Uncle Kit and his bride were married in the Catholic church by the priest.

There were at that time about five hundred inhabitants in Taos, and every man, woman and child attended the wedding of Kit Carson.

After the ceremony was over all marched down about three blocks to where there had been a whole bullock roasted, also three sheep. The tables used were made of rude boards split out with a froe. There were no table-cloths, no tea or coffee, but plenty of wine and an abundance of meat, that all might "eat, drink and be merry."

While we were at the supper table Uncle Kit happened to get sight of Johnnie West and I, and, taking each of us by the hand, he led us over and gave us an introduction to his wife, and this was the first time I had ever been introduced to a lady. Uncle Kit introduced me as his Willie. Mrs. Carson turned to me and said:

"Ge-lem-a mo cass-a la-mis-mo ta-casso tades vases; meaning, Willie, my house shall be your home at any and all times."

As I do not write Spanish, I simply give the sound of her words as she spoke them-or as I would.

I was highly pleased with the manner in which Mrs. Carson addressed me, for no lady had ever spoken so kindly to me before, and I had supposed that after Uncle Kit was married I would have to hunt another home.

Supper being over, all repaired to the dance hall and enjoyed themselves dancing until sunrise the next morning, when they returned to the tables for breakfast. This time they had coffee and tea, but during the entire feast they did not have a bite of bread on the table.

Here I met Jim Beckwith, of whom there will be much more said at intervals later on.

Jim wanted me to accompany him to California the following spring, saying that he knew of a pass through the Sierra Nevada Mountains, which, if we could manage to get the tide of emigration turned that way, we could establish a toll road and make a fortune out of it. I said I would not promise him now, but would give him an answer later on.

The wedding being over, Johnnie West and I, after bidding Uncle Kit and his wife good-bye, started for Bent's Fort. Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux wanted to employ us to hunt for them the coming winter. Johnnie thought he could do better trapping, but I hired to them to hunt until the following spring.

Col. Bent always had from six to twenty boarders, having six men of his own, and I kept them in meat all winter, alone.

About the first of April—this being in 1854—I settled up with the Colonel, and having written Jim Beckwith the fall before that I would be on hand to go with him to California, I now pulled out for Taos.

I visited with Uncle Kit and his wife while at Taos, and found that what Mrs. Carson had said at the feast was true, for I was as welcome at their home as though I was one of the family.

Jim Beckwith had everything in readiness for our trip across the

Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The day before starting, Uncle Kit asked us what route we would take. Jim said that we would go around by the headwaters of the Gila river, this being a tributary to the Colorado. On this trip we would cross that part of the country which is now Arizona. Uncle Kit said this was a good route, and that he had gone over it twice in company with Col. Fremont. He drew a diagram of the country, showing the route by streams, mountains and valleys; telling us also what tribes of Indians inhabited each section of the country that we would pass through. Among the different tribes spoken of was the Pimas, whom he said were friendly toward the whites, and insisted on our calling on that tribe, provided we went that way.

He had been at their village in 1845, and at that time they had told him he was the third white man they had ever seen.

The reader will understand that all the Indians in that section of the country at that time could speak Spanish, having learned it from the Aztecs, a tribe that lived in Old Mexico and were of Montezuma's race. They often came out into that country to trade with the other Indians.

All being ready we bade Uncle Kit and his wife good-bye, and were off for California. We crossed the Rocky Mountains up the Arkansas river and took the trail made by Col. Fremont in 1848 to the summit of the Rocky Mountains. We then crossed over the mountains onto the headwaters of the south fork of Grand river, and from here we headed almost south, passing through a country that had all been burned over. We could look ahead for miles and see nothing but burnt hills. Game was so scarce that we could barely kill enough to supply us with food, until we struck the north fork of Gila river. Here we found plenty of game. We traveled down the Gila three days, which brought us to the Pima—or as was sometimes then called Peone—village. This village was situated in a lovely valley about twenty miles long and ten wide. The soil was very fertile. The surrounding mountains were very high and covered with fine timber, while the foothills were luxuriant in the finest quality of bunchgrass, and along the little mountain streams were cottonwood and willows.

The Indians here were fairly well civilized, a fact worthy of note, as they had never had a missionary or priest among them. They also had a different mode of worship from the tribes of the Northwest. Their place of worship was what might be called a large shed constructed by setting posts in the ground and covered with poles, brush and the leaves of the century plant, these leaves being from three to five feet long and from six to ten inches wide. Their houses were also covered with these leaves.

I never saw but two of these plants in bloom. One was about fifty miles north of Sacramento and the other in Golden Gate Park, near San Francisco. It was said they held their flowers four months. These flowers are very beautiful, being four inches across and look as though they were made of wax.

But to return to my story. These Indians had three days of worship, also three days of feasting. On assembling at their place of worship, the chief chose four men from the audience, whom we would term preachers, but which they called abblers. They never pray, but the abblers stand up and talk to the audience, during which time the Indians preserve the very best order. The abblers tell them what they must do and what they must not do. When ready to break up, all join in singing, but never sing before preaching. Just how they learned this mode of worship was a mystery to me, and is yet, for that matter. We attended service while in the village and after preaching was over many of them invited us home with them.

There were about five hundred men in this tribe, all of whom were apparently very industrious, raising corn, melons, red pepper and other vegetables in abundance. They raised some very large melons, which were not excellent in flavor, however.

The Pimas were very kind to us while we were with them, often taking us out to their truck patches and pulling nice, large melons for us. I asked a very aged Indian where they got their seed corn, but he did not know, saying they had raised it ever since he could remember. They did their plowing with wooden plows, which they made themselves, being pulled by oxen that were hitched to the plows by a strong stick in front of their horns. For harrows they used brush, and they had shovels made of wood to dig with.

Notwithstanding they were in one sense uncivilized, they showed us more hospitality during the time we were with them than most white people would have shown to strangers.

These Indians keep their age by taking a piece of horn, pressing it out flat and punching a hole in the center. When a child is a certain age he has one of these tied about his neck, and every year the child is supposed to cut a notch in the piece of horn. I did not learn how old they had to be before they were supposed to keep their own age.

We found the chief of the tribe to be very obliging. He told us the Apaches were bad Indians, and that they had killed many white people—men, women and children.

When we were ready to leave the village, the chief came out and bade us good-bye, and gave us a cordial invitation to call on him when passing through the country.

We crossed the Gila river near where Colville now stands. Here was a tribe of very indolent Indians, that during this season of the year did not wear a stitch of clothing of any kind whatever. They were known as the Yumas.

We both emptied our rifles before crossing the river, knowing that they would get wet in crossing. I fired at a bird across the river and it fell to the ground.

At the crack of my rifle the Indians ran a few paces from me, dropped down and stuck their fingers in their ears. They told us in Spanish that they had never seen a wah-hootus before, meaning a gun with a loud report.

When Jim Beckwith went to fire his gun off, the squaws all ran away, but the bucks, being more brave, stayed, but held their hands over their ears. This tribe lived principally on fish.

The reader will remember that I had traveled over this same country in the year 1849 in company with Kit Carson and Col. Fremont, when on our trip to California.

After traveling about five miles we crossed a little sage-brush valley that was almost covered with jack-rabbits, and they were dying by the thousand. We could see twenty at one time lying dead in the sage-brush.

That night we camped on what has since been known as Beaver creek, and here we had to strike across the San Antonio desert, and having been across the desert I knew it would be eighty miles to water. Having two parafleshes with us for such emergencies, we filled them with water to use in crossing this desert.

A paraflesh is made of rawhide expressly to carry water in, and are frequently used to peddle milk by the Mexicans.

The second day from Beaver creek we reached a little stream near the Goshoot village, this being the place where Uncle Kit finished buying furs to load his pack-train in 1848.

The next morning we reached the village. I had not seen any of these Indians for five years. Then I was a mere boy and now a grown man, but every one of the Goshoots knew me and were glad to meet me. We stopped that day and visited with them, and bought some venison and frigoles, or beans.

The next morning we resumed our journey to Los Angeles, crossing the extreme northeast part of Death Valley. From here on the country was all new to me, and had it not been for the kindness of the Goshoot Indians, we would have perished for the want of water.

When I told a good Indian in that village where we were going, he sat down and with his finger marked a diagram in the dust, showing the lay of the country that we must pass ever, every little blind spring near the trail, the different mountains and valleys, and made it so plain that we could scarcely have made a mistake on the trip.

On arriving at Los Angeles we found only one white man in the place, and he was the only person in the whole town that could speak the English language. He had arrived there some years before, married a Mexican woman and had got to be very wealthy. He tried to induce us to go farther up the coast, telling us if we started for San Francisco the country was full of Mexicans, and that they despised all Americans and would be sure to murder us on our way; but as we had started for San Francisco, we were determined to see that city if possible. After laying over one day with the old American we resumed our journey.

The next place we struck was Monterey, where is now the famous Hotel del Monte, about two hundred miles from Los Angeles. Here we did not find a man who could speak a word of English, and we found the Mexicans still more selfish than in Los Angeles.

We began to think that the old white man had told the truth, for we would not have been surprised at any time to have been attacked by a band of Mexicans.

While here I saw two persons that I thought to be curiosities. They were of Indian parentage, light complexion and had eyes of a pink color. One was a boy about twenty years old and the other a girl of sixteen, and were brother and sister. It was claimed that they could see well after night, but could not see their way on a bright, sunny day.

These Indians were said to be of the Mojave tribe, that inhabited a portion of the country some six hundred miles east of Monterey, near the Mojave desert. I have since learned that such freaks are called albinos.

The reader will no doubt wonder why we came this round-about away to get to San Francisco. The reason is that in coming a more direct course we would have passed through a country that was infested with wild tribes of Indians; that is, tribes hostile to the whites. There being only two of us the chances were it would have proved a very unhealthy trip for us at that time.