Fire flashed from the Spaniard’s eyes and he reached for his pistol, but, before he could draw, the angered McLellan was seized by both Hunt and Crooks, who took his weapon away from him and pinned him to the ground, until he promised that he would not touch the Spaniard. Lisa himself was careful not to again rouse the ire of the pioneer, and, as a result, did not attempt to underbid the trade offers to the Arickaras. Successful bartering was soon accomplished, and Hunt’s party set about the difficult undertaking of crossing through the Rocky Mountains and traversing the dry table-land to the Pacific coast.
You can well realize that this was a hazardous undertaking, for, not only did the trappers have a hazy and undefined conception of the route to follow, but there was little water in certain parts of this country, and a great scarcity of game in others. There were sixty-two in the adventurous band, with eighty-two pack-horses to carry luggage, guns, and camp equipment. All were well armed and were full of determination to succeed.
As the adventurous little body of trappers filed silently towards the West—a few days later—the Indians collected in order to bid them good-by. Many an old chief was seen to shake his head, as they wended their way towards the beetling mountains, and the treacherous, though adventurous, Lisa was heard to exclaim: “These men are fools! They are all dead! All dead! None will ever return!” But these pessimistic remarks did not seem to worry the followers of Hunt and McLellan. With cheerful looks and smiling faces they kept onward towards their goal.
Soon they were in the glorious Big Horn range and were in the vicinity of the tepees of many Indians, who were not slow in discovering their approach. Contrary to every expectation, the red men greeted them most hospitably, gave them dried buffalo meat, and told them how to find a way through the rugged hills before them. These were the Cheyennes—a war-like tribe—which had its name from the Cheyenne River. They were soon to be driven from their hunting-grounds by the steady, westward emigration of the whites, but were now rich in both ponies and buffalo robes, and were much feared by the neighboring denizens of the plains: the Crows and Ogalala Sioux.
The pioneers kept on, traded with the redskins whom they met, and found increased dangers and difficulties in their path. It was summer, and thousands of gnats and mosquitoes attacked both men and horses, rendering life miserable and making it most disagreeable to proceed. I, myself, travelled through this country in the summer of 1899, and have never seen so many pests as here. Swarms of green-headed horse-flies attacked our pack animals, so that they would sometimes be bloody from their bites. Often the horses would roll upon the ground in order to get rid of the flies, and thus would dislodge the packs, which had taken some time to adjust. Their sting was most poisonous. Mosquitoes were here by the millions, and we had great difficulty—even then—of getting through the fallen timber, which sometimes extended for many miles. These pioneers picked their way through the forests, forded the rushing streams, ascended and descended the deep canyons, and finally reached the headwaters of the Mad River, or Snake River, as it is called below its junction with Henry’s Fork.
An adventurous trader named Henry had here established a trading-post, the year before, but becoming disgusted with the Indians, who refused to barter with him, had abandoned it. Hunt, McLellan, and their little party, reached this spot on the eighth day of October, where they stopped to recruit their strength. Then they engaged Indians to look out for their horses, which they concluded to leave behind them, and built a number of canoes with which to commit themselves to the current of the river. They embarked, and, for a hundred miles found their progress easy, but all at once they saw to their dismay that below them were dangerous falls and treacherous rapids. Their journey was blocked.
It was impossible to return to Henry’s Fork, where were their horses, and to go on meant the destruction of all their supplies. What was there to do? To the North was the Columbia River, but an unbroken wilderness lay between. They must cross it, trust to luck that game would come their way, and that their rifles would not miss it when found. There were but a few days’ provisions left, so it was decided to divide the party into four sections: the first, under Crooks, was to make its way up the river to Fort Henry; the second, under McLellan, was to continue down the Snake; while the third, under McKenzie, was to traverse the wilderness towards the Columbia. The fourth section was to remain for a time where it was. And it was further understood that any party which should come across assistance or supplies should return to the main body under Hunt, which would hold the present camp until their leader became convinced that all had failed in their efforts to reach their destination. Let us see how they fared.
McLellan continued his way down the rushing Snake with three companions, but, finding that it was almost impossible to make further progress, he deflected his line of march so as to follow the detachment under McKenzie. Their course was over a bare and arid country where there was no game and little water. Occasionally a jack-rabbit scampered between the clumps of sage brush, but no one seemed to have sufficient ability with the rifle in order to bring one down. A lean coyote would now and again be seen, and often the weird wailing of one of these creatures would make night hideous. The jerked buffalo meat which they carried was soon exhausted and the adventurers began to suffer from the gnawing pains of hunger, but on they walked with grim and steadfast determination. Weary, footsore, and nearly exhausted, they finally came upon McKenzie and his five companions. These fortunately had food, which they gave to the gaunt trappers, who rested for a full day before they could go on.
McLellan was undaunted. Trained in a hundred combats with the savages of the West, and hardened by years of exposure, he saw no cause for despondency. Some of the trappers, however, gave way to despair. They were among the barren drifts and extinct craters of gigantic volcanoes, while, through the winding fissures of its canyoned walls, the furious torrent of the Snake River dashed, foamed, and roared beneath them. Like a snow-white ribbon it plunged onward upon its wild career, and, in the sobbing roar of its cataracts, some of the more weak-hearted fancied that they heard the voices of those departed, who called to them to follow where they had gone.
It grew cold. A fierce snow-storm came upon them. As the food supply was gone, a dozen beaver skins were cut into strips and roasted, but this provender only sustained life for a few days. At length the trappers became exhausted, and, crouching under the protecting ledge of a wall of rock, shivered before their fire, and gloomily looked forth upon the blinding snow. All was sadness and despondency. Some contemplated death, which they thought to be inevitable, and even the lion-hearted McLellan lost that undaunted courage which had never before deserted him. Could it be that they were to die before they saw the roaring waters of the Columbia? Could it be that they were to perish before they reached the trader’s post upon the green-gray stretch of the Pacific Ocean?