During our march, we found an abundance of game as far as Antelope hills, on the South Canadian river, in the Pan Handle of Texas; but after crossing the Canadian, we saw no other wild animals than buffalo; but these were plenty, which indicated that the predictions of the friendly chief would be falsified. Up to this time, we had done well, and had never lacked for water, though some of it was not of the best quality; and thus encouraged, we pushed on, following the Marcy trail to the famous line of 36° 30', which is the northern boundary of the State of Texas. On crossing the Canadian, we reached a beautiful sweet water creek, where we stopped for a day's hunt; and as buffalo could be seen in every direction, we separated into parties of six or eight, and started on the chase; and, in a few hours, we had the ground strewn with dead and dying animals.
After becoming wearied with the sport, we commenced saving the choicest parts of the meat—the hump steak, shoulder cuts, and loins—which were lashed to our saddles and carried to the camp. When again at our camp, we stretched ropes like a clothes lines, and proceeded to cut up our meat in long, thin strips, and hang it out to dry. This is the universal method among hunters and Indians, of curing buffalo meat—no salt being used. It is exposed to the heat of the sun during the day, and is taken down in the evening, before the dew falls, and put in the mess sacks. For three or four days it requires airing, until the moisture disappears; and in a few days more it may be opened.
From Sweet Water creek, we crossed over to the valley of the North Canadian—a stream which seems to puzzle geographers immensely. According to some authorities, it is sixty miles longer, and according to others, as much shorter than it really is. Its exact source is in the Texas Pan Handle, in longitude 23 deg. from Washington. It is small, with clear water, and for some distance down it, there is no timber but cotton wood. As we approached it, game became scarcer; and, when once across, all signs of wild animals disappeared. For days, we could not see a crow, or even one of those little brown birds, so plentiful in every prairie region.
We had intended to go from the North Canadian to the Salt fork of the Arkansas, but missed our reckoning and struck the Red fork. It was a long, and wearisome march, and we all suffered severely from thirst, and many of the men from hunger. On the Red fork, we divided up our little stores equally, and turned up Hard Wood creek, heading directly for Santa Fe. During this march, we suffered greatly from hunger. The stream on which we were is a famous resort for Kiowas, but they had all left it, and gone to a section where game was to be had. All along its banks, there were evidences that but a short time before, there had been a great number of them camped in the vicinity. This is a most singular stream—but eight feet wide, and dry as a floor at its mouth; while three miles up it was fourteen feet wide, with a current of clear, swift running water; and three miles further toward its source, it was the same width, and two feet deep; and after traveling five days more, in the direction of its head waters, it measured thirty yards in width, and was, at least twenty feet deep; and it was yet another day's journey to its head; but whether or not it increased in size all the way, I can not tell.
We were all out of rations when we left Hard Wood creek; and as to Captain Fitzhugh's company, it had been out since two days before our arrival at the Red fork of the Arkansas. After traveling in the direction of Santa Fe for some days, we found so much Indian sign, that after due deliberation, the officers determined to return in the direction of Fort Belknap. The chances of our seeing home looked rather gloomy when we reflected that we had four hundred miles to travel through a region we knew to be destitute of game; the most sanguine reader, I presume, would scarcely venture to say that our prospects were flattering.
From Hard Wood creek we crossed to the Mesquit, one of the tributaries of the South Canadian; and here we began to feel ourselves safe from an attack by a superior force of savages, as the sign was not plentiful and was very old. On this stream we encamped in a large grove of most beautiful young cottonwoods, near which was a bluff thirty feet high, with a projecting cliff, almost forming a cave. Near the foot of this we found the skeleton of a man and of a huge bear—perhaps a grizzly. The arms of the man had been crushed and the ribs broken; while near by lay the irons of a rifle with part of the mutilated stock, and a large bowie knife, of the pattern known as the Arkansas tooth-pick. Judging from appearances, the man had stood on the ground and shot the bear on the level of the cliff; and that the animal, though mortally wounded, had leaped down, and after a desperate struggle, killed the hunter. How long they had lain there was a mere matter for conjecture; but, doubtless, the period might be measured by years. No name was on the gun or knife, and no memorial remained to tell who the unfortunate hunter was; but the surgeon, after examining the bones, pronounced them to belong to a white man.
While on this stream, we had a mule bitten by an enormous rattle-snake, and none of us knew what to do in the matter. As soon, however, as we had reached the camp, Shawnee Jack examined the wound, after which he took a survey of the ground for some distance, till his eye rested on a particular plant, when he took out his bowie knife and dug it up by the roots. The root was a long one, somewhat resembling a small sweet potato, both as to shape and size; and Jack at once bit off a piece, which he commenced chewing till he had rendered it plastic; after which he bound it on the wound, which was a severe one; each fang of the reptile having cut a slit in the hide of the animal, at least five inches long; and a single night, under the influence of this wonderful restorative, sufficed to render the animal entirely sound again.
We were now suffering terribly from hunger; and in every direction our eyes were searching for something to satisfy our craving appetites; but we saw nothing till we reached the South Canadian river, at the mouth of Mesquit creek. There we came upon a group of low, sandy hills, covered with grape vines,—no other vegetation, however, not even grass being in sight—young and thrifty, and loaded with fruit—the first of the kind I ever saw. This was indeed a God-send to us; the children of Israel never devoured manna more greedily than we did these grapes; and having satisfied our appetites, we carried away as many as we could put in our haversacks and camp kettles. How these vines happened to grow there is a mystery; and why they were so unusually thrifty, considering the soil, is a problem I despair of solving.
Crossing to the South side of the Canadian, we passed over Dry river, which appeared to be the only stream in the country which afforded any water. On the banks of this river we found a small growth of mesquit and hackberry bushes; and so famished were a portion of the command, that they actually devoured the dry mesquit beans,—which at that time of the year are as hard as hickory wood—with greediness. Of those who were ravenous enough to eat them, I was one. From the valley of Dry river, we crossed a plain to a stream called White Fish creek, though why so called I am unable to divine, as I do not think there ever was a member of the finny tribe within its waters—if, indeed, it ever had water in it. When we saw it, at least, it was perfectly dry, the bottom being covered with a fine white sand.
On the banks of this creek, we found hack berries and Cheatham berries, of which the rangers partook liberally; but as the latter were not fit to eat, many of the men sickened. On the plain were occasional groups of prickly pears, and on some days we had all we could eat of them; but at other times, they were not to be had, and we were compelled to do entirely without nourishment. Continuing along White Fish creek, we at length reached Prairie-Dog fork of Red river.