The first wolf howls were soon followed by others, coming from nearer points and in a semi-circle. Indians are experts in imitating the cries of owls, wolves and coyotes. So adept are they in the art that it is difficult to distinguish them from the calls of real birds and beasts. Few trappers can successfully imitate these animals, although many endeavor to do so.
It was not long before the attack commenced. Just as day began to dawn the wolf howls ceased and the trappers knew that the crisis was at hand. The Indians had crept to within one hundred yards of camp before they gave the war-whoop. Then they came on—fully one hundred strong—yelping wildly. The trappers were all ready with their rifles and pistols. Three were armed with double-barrelled shot-guns, loaded with half-ounce balls and fine buck-shot.
The Indians raced to within fifty yards before a single trapper fired,—then all began to shoot. The redskins halted. At this the plainsmen began with their six-shooters, one in each hand, for—as a result of long continued practice—they could shoot equally well with either arm. These mountaineers had to be experts in the use of both rifle and pistol, for inability to fire with accuracy meant instant death upon many an occasion.
The red men were much surprised to receive so many shots from but twenty men. They became panic-stricken, for they had not supposed that the trappers possessed two pistols each—twelve shots apiece after their rifles had been discharged. They had expected to rush right over the breastworks, before the rifles could be reloaded. They retreated—assisting many of their wounded. An arrow went through young Bill Hamilton’s cap.
The redskins had received a repulse which they had not expected, and retreated to their villages, taking their dead and wounded with them. The chief, Old Bear, had been slain, as well as many of their bravest warriors. This tribe had frequently robbed small parties of trappers, killing them many times and always treating them with great cruelty. After this fight they usually gave well-organized bodies of trappers the “go by.”
The plainsmen finished their work without being further molested, and then moved on to Bear River. In the spring, trapper Williams returned from Santa Fé, and made a proposition to the men that he should form a company of forty-three and make a two-years’ trip. This was agreed upon, and the expedition soon started, on the 25th of March, 1843. The trappers were divided into four parties, which collected furs in common; that is, each man had an equal share in all furs caught by his own party. For mutual protection they always pitched their tents and lodges together.
They soon passed through the country inhabited by the Bannock Indians. These were troublesome and had many a brush with the stout men of the plains. But the trappers came through every escapade without much loss. The region in which they soon found themselves was rich with beaver and otter; large quantities of which were caught. It was a grandly beautiful country—a paradise for all kinds of game. Bear were particularly plentiful, and many a grizzly and cinnamon fell before the accurate aim of the men in buckskin.
“Young Bill” Hamilton could not be called “Young Bill” any more, because he was a seasoned trapper, and his many experiences with wild men and wild beasts had made it possible for him to hold his own with the most experienced men of the party. The trappers made a wide détour, first going far North, then travelling South to the Carson River in Nevada, where they lost one of their best and most skilled men,—a fellow named Crawford. They were in the Pah Ute country and could tell very readily that the Indians were most unfriendly. In spite of this they set their beaver traps, for they saw that these animals were thick.
As Crawford did not return to camp one evening it was decided to make a search for him. Dockett, who was an outside trapper (or one who had his traps furthest from camp), had seen the missing man setting his traps at a bend in the river, at some distance away. To this point the trappers hurried, and, scouting in some cottonwood groves, in order to make sure that there was no ambush, they went in and soon discovered where one of their number had been at work. Indian tracks were thick near by.
They saw where a horse had stood, and, going to a thick bunch of willows, found the ground saturated with blood. The Indians had lain hidden in this willow patch, knowing that the trapper would come in the morning to look after his traps. They had thrown Crawford into the river, which was four feet deep. He could be easily seen and was soon pulled to dry land. Crawford was a handsome Texan, six feet tall, brave, kind, generous, and well-educated. Five of his traps were found, and four dead beaver. The Indians had stolen what was left, including his rifle, two pistols, and a horse. The trappers were soon back in camp with the body of their comrade, and, when the men saw Crawford, it was plain that death would be the penalty to any of the redskins who had waylaid him. A grave was dug—the trapper was laid to rest in his blankets—and no monument was placed above to mark the spot, for fear that some wandering redskin would dig up the remains of this fearless man of the plains.