POOR JERRY LANE:
THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING
[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself]
·········
JACKSON’S HOLE, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.
“Goin’ to Jackson’s Hole, be yer?” said a fellow in a big sombrero, on the train to Idaho Falls. “Young man, you’ll never get out alive. Young man, it’s a desperate place.”
He winked at me, shook his finger in my face, and dropped back into the seat from which he had arisen. “Young man,” he continued, “the Injuns will get you, sure. Young man, look out!”
I confess that I felt somewhat disconcerted.
“I’ll take care of my scalp,” said I.
Here the companion of my friend in the sombrero spoke. This one had a red handkerchief knotted about his tawny neck, and wore a corduroy waistcoat.
“Yes, son,” said he, “haven’t you heard about the Injuns in Jackson’s Hole two years ago? They stampeded th’ settlers, ran off a lot of stock, murdered an’ burned, until rounded up by the U. S. Cavalry. Reckon there be some more loose in thar now. An’ panthers! Why, boy, they’re as thick as peas in a pod. An’ dangerous, too, by gravy!”
The first speaker guffawed.
“’Tain’t nawthin’ to th’ grizzlies,” said he. “They be monstrous pestiferous. Why, they pull you from your horse they be so unafraid of men.”
I squirmed uneasily in my seat, for I saw that they knew me to be a tenderfoot.
“Boy, you’ll be eaten alive an’ scalped to boot,” continued the fellow in the sombrero. “The good Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Amen!” echoed his companion.
And I wriggled again, for I saw that they knew me to be an Easterner, and were having fun in their own way.
At any rate, I was bound for Jackson’s Hole and would get there somehow or other in spite of horse thieves, “Injuns” and grizzly bears.
We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon making an accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the expense of the Express Companies.
The placards read:
“$40,000 REWARD
For the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”
Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their ponies’ backs.
At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly, dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck, and wide sombrero.
“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.
“Where’s he bound?” I asked.
“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has a possé with him and they ought to be able to capture a few of the bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”
The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure, standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had been ambushed, with his entire possé, and two had escaped out of the eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.
To get into Jackson’s Hole was then a rather difficult affair, for it meant a long journey by pack-train from either Market Lake or Idaho Falls. But the surveyor and the sons of the pioneer, whom he engaged to pilot him, were not adverse to pushing into a wild country. It took a week to outfit the party, secure the necessary horses, engage the men, and whip the fractious range-animals into some kind of submission for carrying saddles, pack equipment, and heavy bags of food and tenting. Then, in a cloud of alkali dust, and with a crowd of Blackfeet children gazing open-mouthed at the curious caravan, we were off for the blue hills which lay to the northeast.
The plains of Idaho are not only arid and parched, but they are covered with sage-brush, which emits a strong, pungent odor that is delicious. The alkali dust arises in clouds, and chokes one, as one proceeds, but that is not the only difficulty, for—strange as it may seem—the mosquito breeds by the millions in the irrigating ditches, and had it not been for the thick gauntlet gloves and netting attached to our sombreros, we would have been fairly eaten alive by the black swarms which followed us in clouds.
Every now and again—afar off on the prairie—we would see a whirling cloud of moving alkali dust.
“Wild horses running to water,” said one of the cowboys. “That’s the way they always go, on the dead gallop.”
Occasionally we came near enough to see some of them and they were lean, gaunt and rangy creatures, which had escaped from the ranches, had run off to the prairie and had found pleasure in the free and untrammelled life of the plains. They would snort, as we approached, throw their heads high in the air, and then—turning around—would be off like the wind.
As we rode along, hot, dusty, and thirsty, I heard about Jerry Lane.
“This here Lane,” said Jack (a lean, little cowboy) “is a Noo Yorker. He came out here three years ago, sayin’ that life was too tame for him back East, an’ he wanted to be right in the Rocky Mountains, where the wolves, bears, and antelope could be seen, just th’ same as in th’ time of Kit Carson an’ Bill Bent. Some says that he’s a millionaire. Some says that he isn’t. Leastways he has about all th’ money one needs in this here country, an’ they tell me his cabin in th’ Rockies is full of th’ best kind of rifles, of steel traps, books, an’ all that’s nice.”
“He found life too tame for him back East.”
This sentence stuck in my mind and I knew—in a moment—what kind of a youth was Jerry Lane. He had the same spirit as the old explorers. He possessed the imagination of a Lewis or a Clarke; a Champlain, or a La Salle. To him the spirit of the wilderness was all absorbing, and, shaking off the trammels of civilization, he loved to live out his days amidst the towering mountains, which, even then, stretched before us, jutting high from the sage-brush plateau. I immediately felt a sympathetic interest for Jerry Lane.
To cross into the valley of Jackson’s Hole requires one’s utmost exertions, for one must climb up the Teton Pass in order to get over the mountains which surround this paradise of fish and game. For a man and a horse to pass up and across is easy work, but we were unfortunate enough to have a wagon with us. As we neared the bottom of the trail, which led almost perpendicularly up in the air, we saw a broken vehicle of a pioneer.
“The Top of Teton Pass, or Bust,” some one had written on a board and placed upon the battered spokes.
It had “Busted.”
Now climbing, pushing, blowing, we yoked four horses to our wagon and gradually worked it to the summit of the Pass. It was July, but snow was on the ridges, and the air was like Labrador as it swept across the hemlock-covered mountains. When once on top of the Pass, what a view! We gazed down into a peaceful little vale with log houses and thatched roofs, fields of green grass with stacks of yellow hay, and bluish gray rivers curving gracefully across the plain. Hereford cattle, with their brown bodies and white faces, grazed contentedly upon the wide sweep of natural grass, and the barking of dogs sounded indistinctly from the barnyard of a new-made home.
Down we pushed into the valley, then onward, across the Snake River at Moeners’ Ferry, and then to the Buffalo Fork of the Grosventre. Antelope began to appear upon the plain and danced about us like yellow and white rubber balls. Two of the cowboys dismounted and fired at them, resting their rifles upon their knees. They could not duplicate the marksmanship of Kit Carson or Buffalo Bill. Not an antelope was even wounded.
We camped in a beautiful spot near the Grosventre River, and, just as we were lighting the fire for supper, a cry went up from some one:
“Elk! Elk!”
I was busy pouring some coffee, and, looking up, saw a cowboy pointing to a high bank opposite our camp. Sure enough, there stood a noble bull elk, his spreading antlers standing out on either side, giving him a calm and majestic appearance. He was gazing curiously at the animated scene below.
Why is it that the average man’s first instinct when he sees a wild animal is to kill it? I was satisfied with watching this magnificent child of the forest, but not so with the rest of the party. Three of them ran immediately to get their rifles and a fusillade of bullets soon whistled in the direction of the big elk. He turned, galloped off into the timber, and left the cowboys to bemoan their lack of ability with the shooting-iron.
“By gracious,” said one, “I can’t hit a barn door at fifty yards!”
The elk was but one of the many which ranged the Jackson Hole country and whose deep trails could be seen on every hand. Their bleaching antlers, which they had shed, were also upon many a hill, and frequently we would pass a rancher’s cabin, where a fence would have been constructed of the white twisted horns of the old bulls. I knew that we would soon see a quantity of elk, and we did.
Not many evenings later, as we were again boiling our coffee for dinner, the most unearthly scream that I have ever heard echoed from the canyon just to our right. It was answered by another, and—if I can make you believe it—the sound was as if a woman were being strangled.
“Mountain lion screeching,” said Jack, with a grim smile. “Awful noise, ain’t it?”
I confessed that it was.
“Makes me always feel skeery. Kind uv makes th’ gooseflesh creep up my back. Heard ’em a thousand times but always frightens me.”
The cowboy drew closer to the fire and I noticed that he was shivering.
The mountain lion is a great coward and is afraid to attack a human being. Unless cornered and extremely hungry, he will not fight. He has—in spite of this—the most unearthly scream, which would make one believe that he was one of the fiercest and most bloodthirsty of beasts. Welling up upon the clear night air—in the very heart of the wilderness—it is enough to freeze one’s blood to hear their wailings. It takes strong nerves to listen to their gruesome noise without shaking.
I heard the lions again about a week later, when I and a cowboy called Jim, were making our way up the side of a beautiful little tributary to the Grosventre. We were following a deep-rutted elk trail which led up the edge of a mountain to and from their summer feeding grounds, upon one of the higher plateaus. There was a log cabin nestling at the foot of the opposite hill—used by one of the game wardens—and, in the rear of this, a deep bank of hemlocks clothed the side of the cliff. Here the lions were concealed, and, seeing us riding in the open, shrieked out their defiance at the trespassers upon their demesne.
Although a startling and nerve-racking sound, we kept upon our way, and I confess that I looked to the shells in my rifle—fearing that one of the screechers might consider us excellent bait for their dinner. Soon we had advanced far up the canyon and then the lions ceased their caterwauling.
We were now in the heart of gameland. The tracks of bear were extraordinarily thick, and every now and again we would come to fresh sign, not an hour old. Once I reached a stream through which a big grizzly must have just passed, for the water was still muddy, and the print of his feet could easily be seen in the soft bank. In spite of their apparent numbers we could not even catch a glimpse of one of them, and, although I was constantly hoping to meet with a specimen of these monsters of the glen, I was never to catch even a fleeting glimpse of one.
Not so with the rest of the party. Not a week later one of the cowboys rode into camp with a wild yelping, and there—behind him—were two of his companions, lugging in the body of a brown bear. He was a little fellow and his fur was all rubbed away in places, where he had scratched himself against the rocks. In spite of this he was good eating and his haunches were enjoyed by most of the party. Personally, I did not care for the meat and preferred canned tongue.
The elk trails were most abundant, and I knew that we would soon see these brown deer, for we gradually moved up to the summit of the Rockies, where were vast plateaus covered with millions of beautiful flowers. These the noble animals lived upon in summer and slept among them too, for I would often find round holes in the grass, where some of them had bedded down a short time before. One evening two of the horse-wranglers returned to camp with the haunch of a cow elk, and stated—with much glee—that they had run upon a band of six, coming through some fallen timber. Two had fallen before their rifles, and, after cutting off enough for the use of our camp, they had placed the bodies in a position that could be easily approached, at a later date, when bear would undoubtedly be feeding upon the venison.
A week later we had a glorious view of a large herd of elk.
While traversing a high belt of timber my companion—a surveyor—called out to me to hurry over and see something on the other extremity of the ridge, upon which he had just taken his position. When I reached his side I saw that he was looking in the direction of a high plateau, upon which fully a thousand elk were feeding. No bulls seemed to be there—they were all cows and calves—and were grazing like a herd of cattle. The little calves were butting at each other and frisking about in great glee, while their fond mammas watched them with loving and tender glances of affection. It was a beautiful and moving vista.
My companion had a field-glass, and we stood watching the changing mass of elk for at least an hour. They apparently had no knowledge of our presence, for the wind was blowing from them to us, so that no strange “scent of the trespassing man” came to their keen nostrils. There—in that beautiful mountain pasture—the baby elk were growing to maturity,—while far below in the valley the settlers were gathering the natural hay which usually fed them, for the use of their own cattle during the long and cruel winter. There would be much suffering and distress among the band, when they had left these mountain meadows for the valley.
A week later we met the trapper and plainsman: Jerry Lane. I had already come upon his cabin and had stopped there for luncheon, leaving a neat piece of paper on the door to the effect that,—
“Pardner, we used your tin plates, spoons, knives, and one can of potted tongue.”
High up in the hills the little log hut was situated near a stream of icy water. It was about sixteen by twenty feet, the floor covered with bear and wolf skins, and four rifles in the rack. Great steel traps hung upon the walls outside, and antelope hides were tacked against it. There were good books within: stories of hunting and adventure,—and upon the floor—were numerous copies of the Sunday New York Journal. Jerry Lane had lived well upon the summit of the Rockies.
I will never forget the view of the young trapper which came to me that morning. All around were the towering Rockies: an occasional fleck of snow upon the brown surface of the high cliffs; a gushing stream over on the right; the sage-brush plateau stretched away on every side, brown, bare, parched. A puff of dust first appeared in the far distance, then two figures rode up on horseback. They drew nearer and nearer. In front was the youthful personification of Buffalo Bill. It was Jerry Lane.
He was riding a magnificent half-bred animal—a roan. His bridle and saddle, as I remember—were silver mounted. A big pair of Mexican spurs were on his heels. With a close-fitting suit of tawny buckskin, a wide sombrero, cartridge-belt around the waist, and a long rifle hung neatly under the left leg he was a perfect picture of a plainsman,—such a picture as one sees in dime novels.
Behind him was an evil-looking customer, dressed in a slovenly manner, and scowling beneath a rather battered-in slouch hat. His horse, too, had nowhere near the breeding of the other. He frowned as he approached: the other smiled.
“Hello!” said Jerry Lane. “Dusty, isn’t it?”
“You bet,” said I. “Where you bound?”
“Montana.”
“Hunting?”
“No, just taking life easy.”
That was all the conversation that we had. He waved his hat to me, touched the spurs to his horse’s flanks, and was soon off down the divide. For a long time I stood and gazed after the lithe figure: young, beautiful, brimming over with health and exuberance,—the man who had found New York too tame for his hot blood. Could you blame him?
Three days later a cow-puncher rode into our camp, threw his saddle on the ground, hobbled his pony, and drew near the mess table.
“Too bad about Jerry, warn’t it?” said he, as he seated himself.
“Why, what’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“Shot.”
“W-h-a-a-t!”
“Yes, got into a row over the Montana line. They say it was accidental. Some one dropped his six-shooter on the floor. It exploded. No more Jerry Lane.”
·········
That night I walked out to a lonely rock and gazed at the brilliant stars. It was the true West, after all, the West that I had always read about but had never seen until now. I thought of the sandy-haired, blue-eyed sheriff who had gone to the Great Beyond. I thought of poor Jerry Lane: that lithe, active figure in buckskins; that devil-may-care manner; that fresh, pink-cheeked face. Yes, the West still held her tragedies, and the low wail of a coyote far off on the plain sounded ominously dreary, while the hand of death lay over the great wild wastes of the rolling, sagebrush-covered prairie.