They commenced one of their horrible war-dances right in sight and hearing of the trappers, and at dawn the following day they advanced toward the little fortification, carefully prepared for a concerted attack.
Carson cautioned his men to reserve their fire until the Indians were near enough to make sure that every shot would count; but the savages, seeing how effectively the trappers had intrenched themselves, retired after firing a few harmless shots, and went into camp a mile distant. Finally they separated into two bands, leaving the whites a breathing-spell. The latter were well aware an encounter must necessarily be of a most desperate character.
The Indians had evidently recognized Carson, who had so frequently severely punished them, and they made no further attempt to molest the trappers, much to the relief of the beleaguered men.
Jim Cockrell,[73] as he was known in the mountains, was one of the earliest of the old trappers. He left his home in Missouri in the spring of 1822, and started for the heart of the Rocky Mountains, with a single packhorse to carry his camp equipage, and a single riding-horse. He trapped by himself for more than two years. In a short time that terrible loneliness which comes to all men, for man is a gregarious animal, was experienced in all its horrors by this isolated trapper. Like all men of his class at that time, he was exceedingly superstitious. He wanted somebody to talk to, and in the absence of a possibility of finding one of his own kind, his greatest desire was for a dog, a true friend under all circumstances. He says that he prayed long and earnestly for the fulfilment of his wish. To his surprise on awaking one morning from the night's sleep he saw a dog lying on his robes alongside of him. Remote from all civilization and far from any Indian camp, he never, to the day of his death, had the slightest idea how the dog came to him; but no one could ever disabuse his mind of his belief that Providence had answered his appeal.
The youthful trapper avoided the Indians as much as possible, for, tenderfoot as he was at first, he knew well that they would harass him in every possible way, in order to drive him from a region which was their elysium. He found it an easy matter, after he became acquainted with their habits, to keep out of their sight. In a short time, also, he was under a sort of protection of Peg Leg Smith, who lived with his Indian wife near Soda Springs, now in Idaho.
James Cockrell was over six feet high, very hospitable, generous and kind to friends, but decidedly outspoken to his enemies. After having accumulated some money by trapping, he returned to Missouri, lived upon a fine farm, and died at a ripe old age.
Peg Leg Smith was a famous trapper, and after marrying a squaw of the Shoshone tribe, who proved to be a very efficient partner in preparing the pelts of the animals he had caught, he made a great deal of money.
He was very fond of whiskey and generally full of it, particularly while remaining in the settlements, and would have his fun if he had to make it for himself. In the early '30's, Peg Leg Smith came down from his mountain home, sold his season's trapping, then put up at the Nolan House at Independence, Missouri, for a general good time. In a very few hours he was drunk, and remained in that condition for some time. After he had been at the hotel a week, the clerk put his bill under the door of his room, simply to let him know the amount of his account. When Smith saw it he determined to have some fun out of it. He went down to the office apparently in a perfect rage, and holding the account up to the clerk, said he was grossly insulted; “here's this paper stuck under my door, and it's one of the greatest insults that I have ever received.” Smith kept on talking in this wild strain for a few moments, until he arrested the attention of every one in the bar-room. The poor clerk tried to pacify him, but, failing completely, sent for Mr. Nolan, the proprietor, who, coming in, tried to reason with Smith, but all in vain. Finally, Smith in great indignation called for his horse. It was a fine animal, as he always rode the best that could be procured. Upon this demand the landlord told him to pay his bill and he could have his horse. He went back to his room, procured his gun, and started for the stable, which was about fifty yards from the house. The hostler had already been ordered not to let him have the animal and to lock the stable door. Peg Leg on reaching the stable demanded his horse, but he was refused. He raised his gun and shot the lock all to pieces. The fellows who were looking on screamed with laughter and made fun, greatly to the mortification of Nolan. Smith then told the hostler to take good care of his horse, and, his apparent indignation changing to a smile, he walked back to the house. Then he invited every one up to the bar and spent twenty or thirty dollars before he left for his room.[74]
CHAPTER XX. BUILDING THE UNION PACIFIC RAILROAD.
In this story of the Salt Lake Trail, our account would not be complete without including the history of the great “Iron Trail” that now practically, for a long distance, follows the grassy path of the lumbering stage-coach, the slowly moving freight caravans drawn by patient oxen, or the dangerous route of the relatively rapid Pony Express.