Turning back up Unknown River, Ogden wintered on Salt Lake; “a gloomy, barren region, except for wolves, no other animals seen,” he relates of the backward march. “Here we are at the end of Great Salt Lake, having this season explored half the north side of it, and we can safely assert, as the Americans have of the south side, that it is a country destitute of everything.” On the 1st of January, came the trappers who had nursed their comrade to the time of his death.
“Of all the men who first came to the Snake country,” writes Ogden, “there remains now only one alive. All the others have been killed except two, who died a natural death. It is incredible the number who have perished in this country.” When spring came, Ogden again set out for Unknown or Humboldt River, following it westward where it disappears into alkali sinks. Two thousand beaver in all were taken from the river. “Country level far as eye can see. I am at a loss to know where this river discharges. We start at dawn to escape the heat. The journey is over beds of sand. The horses sink leg deep. The country is level, though hills can be seen southwest. The Indians are not so numerous as last fall, but from the number of fires seen in the mountains, I know they are watching us and warning their tribes. Nowhere have I found beaver so abundant. The total number of American trappers in this region is eighty. My trappers average one hundred and twenty-five a man for the season and are greatly pleased. The number of pelicans seems to indicate a lake. If it is salt, there is an end to our beaver.”
It was not the desert but the Indians that finally drove Ogden back. He had advanced almost to the Shasta in California when a tribe of Indians from Pit River began mauling his trappers, though Ogden had taken the precaution of sending them out only in twos. It was the 28th of May. The brigade had turned northeast to strike for some branch of the Columbia, to pass from what is now known as Nevada to Oregon, when “a man who had gone to explore the lake (where the river disappears) dashed in breathless with word of ‘Indians.’ He had a narrow escape. Only the fleetness of his horse saved him. When rounding a point within sight of the lake, twenty men on horseback gave the war cry. He fled. An Indian would have overtaken him, but the trapper discharged his gun in the fellow’s face. He says the hills are covered with Indians. I gave orders to secure our horses, and for ten men to advance and spy on what the Indians were doing, but not to risk a battle, as we were too weak. They reported more than two hundred warriors marching on us. On they galloped. Having signaled a spot for them to halt five hundred yards from our camp, I went out, met them, desired them to be seated.” One wonders what would have happened at this point if instead of the doughty little man with the squeaky voice and podgy body and spirit of a lion, there had been a coward at the head of the Oregon brigade. What if the leader had lost his head and fled in panic, or fired?
“This order,” writes Ogden, “was obeyed. They sat down. From their dress and drums, I knew it was a war party. If they had not been discovered, they had intended to attack us. Weak as we were—only twelve guns in camp—they would have been successful. They gave me the following information through a Snake interpreter: this river discharges in a lake, that has no outlet. In eight days’ march is a large river but no beaver” (the Sacramento, or Rogue River named after these Indians). “There is another river (Pit River). We saw rifles, ammunition and arms among them. This must be the plunder of the sixteen Americans under Jedediah Smith, who were murdered here in the fall” (Smith had reached Fort Vancouver naked, and Doctor McLoughlin had sent Tom McKay out to punish these Indians). “They wanted to enter my camp. I refused. A more daring set of rascals I have never seen. The night was dark and stormy. The hostile fires burned all night. As I do not wish to infringe on the territory of Mr. McLeod’s Umpqua brigade, I gave orders to raise camp and return. McLeod’s territory is on the waters emptying in the Pacific. If Mr. McLeod had reached Bona Venture, he must have passed this stream. I told the Indians in three months, they would see us again, and we steered for Sylvaille’s River. Passed Paul’s grave where he must sleep till the last great trumpet sounds.” In July, the brigade reached Fort Vancouver by way of John Day’s River. In four years, the South Brigades had explored Oregon, Idaho, the north of California, Nevada and Utah as well as the corner of Wyoming—a fairly good record for brave men, who made no pretenses and thought no greatness of daily deeds. The next few years, other men led the Oregon brigade South. Ogden was sent North to open up that Russian strip of coast leading to the interior of British Columbia. Henceforth, he led the canoe brigade to the famous Caribou and Cassiar regions, but he came back to pass his last days in Oregon, where he died on the banks of the Willamette about 1854. Looking back over the plain little man’s plain life, told in plain words without a thought of heroism, I cannot say I am surprised that his numerous descendants and distinguished relatives of the East are as proud of him as other people are of the Mayflower and William the Conqueror.
Notes to Chapter XXXI.—Ogden’s daily journals as sent in to H. B. C. House, London, fill some six or eight note-books—foolscap size—of three hundred pages each. The contents of this chapter are taken entirely from my copies of these daily journals.
The Jo. Paul and his son, Jo. Paul, were two of the most famous guides and bullies in the West during the last century. Of them both the same story is told: of the father in these H. B. C. journals, of the son in the Oblate Missionary annals. In an article on Père Lacombe, I told the story as of the son. What was my surprise to find the same story turn up in the H. B. C. journals, about Jo. Paul, Sr. Whether father or son, here is the legend of their prowess. In the days when the French bullies used to meet and fight the Orkneymen on the Saskatchewan, Jo. Paul chanced to enter an H. B. C. post. Knowing his fame for strength, the clerk thought to put up a trick on him. A sugar barrel was filled with lead. “There, Jo. Paul,” said the clerk, “lift that barrel of sugar on the counter for me—will you?” Jo. Paul gave it a tug. It did not budge. He gave it another tug. Not a move! Very heavy sugar. Jo. Paul scented a trick. Mustering all his strength, he seized the barrel and hurled it with a slam right on the counter. It splintered through counter and floor to the bottom of the cellar. “Voila, mon enfant,” says Jo. Paul with a shrug. Whether the incident occurred with the Jo. Paul whose body lies lonely on the desert river, or the Jo. Paul who guided the Oblates up the Saskatchewan, I do not know, It is just a Jo. Paul legend of those early days.