A rough looking old frontiersman had established a ferry at Green River, which, in conjunction with trapping wolves, and selling whiskey and other necessaries, enabled him to earn a livelihood. His tattered garments and the exterior of his hut and its surroundings left us with the impression that he was not enjoying great prosperity. His charges for ferrying seemed to be somewhat excessive, but the stream being very swift and the water at points being ten feet in depth, we concluded negotiations for the portage and camped on the further shore of the river.
As it is our purpose to describe some of the movements that led to the development of the West, we must here and there secure glimpses of the emigrants who undertook that work, even though it be through eyes other than our own. I find in a diary written by a member of the Mormon pioneer train, that when that party reached Green River, to which we have just referred, the company was there met by one Samuel Brannan who, with other Mormons, had sailed round Cape Horn to Yerba Buena (now San Francisco) intending to establish a colony on San Joaquin River. Knowing of the proposed emigration of the Saints, he started eastward with two companions, hoping to meet Young and his party. The diary states that on his course Brannan and his party passed a camping ground where nearly fifty emigrants had perished from storm and famine, there being but one survivor, a German, who had subsisted several weeks on human flesh.
We return now to our night near the banks of the Green River. As it was my watch from midnight and we were to roll out at daybreak, I retired early with a few words of farewell to those from whom we were to separate, leaving others to enjoy the later hours, as parting friends are apt to do. It may be stated now that some of the boys later made a visit to Montana, but for a time this thread in our story is broken. It was in the gray light of the morning that each member of our party was roused to his respective service. The teams were rushed in while the breakfast was being prepared, and at sunrise all were off for the still further West. The main train turned to the right, and our party to the left. After a mile or more of travel we halted upon a hilltop, before descending out of sight, and from the distance we heard the last shouts of good-bye from the other train, accompanied by waving of hats and handkerchiefs, after which our now very small party moved on alone.
RED SANDSTONE CLIFFS, ON WIND RIVER
[CHAPTER XXII]
The Banditti of Ham's Fork
BEFORE our little outfit rolled out from Nebraska City, Captain Whitmore gave us many suggestions concerning our route, and instructions as to where long drives must be made along which no water would be found. Among other words of warning he said, with some earnestness, "Now, boys, if you take the South Pass route keep a close watch when near Ham's Fork. I lost some stock there and am confident that it was stolen, for I have learned that a gang of thieves and outlaws are located near that crossing." Now it happened that early in the afternoon of the 4th of August, while riding in advance of our train in search of a suitable place to camp for the night, I descended to a very large and rapidly flowing stream, thirty or forty feet in width and about two feet in depth. I forded, and located a very satisfactory camping place near the west bank. Having signaled our approaching drivers to cross the little river and camp at a point indicated, I rode upstream along the banks for further reconnoitering.
On reaching the crest of a low ridge there came into view in the distance to the left some outline of what proved later to be a solitary good-sized log cabin, situated in a sequestered valley. After traversing the last few hundred miles of our course, along which we had discovered only the few huts to which reference has already been made, this hospitable looking cabin seemed wonderfully attractive. Led on by curiosity I turned directly to the building and soon observed a tall, athletic figure standing erect in the open door. It proved to be a swarthy, black-haired man, attired in a red flannel shirt and leather breeches, the bottoms of which were tucked into his long topped boots. Having a revolver strapped to his waist, he was equipped to fit well the rude setting in which he was placed. I addressed the stranger with a "Hello," as I assumed to pass by. "Hello, where in h—l are you bound for? Ain't you lost?" was his cheerful greeting. This rough form of salutation, then so common among frontiersmen in the West, may read in print as if it implied the speaker's familiarity with the nether regions to which he referred, and that my course led to some department of the Devil's domain. In manner the greeting was thoroughly cordial, and the words that conveyed it had no more significance than the conventional "How do you do?" to which no specific reply is expected. The greeting led me to turn my horse near to the door and, having been riding for several hours, I dismounted and threw the bridle reins over a post. An invitation to come in and sit down was accepted, for I felt a desire to see the interior of a cabin that was so remarkably situated, for it was not a location that a trader or trapper would naturally select. My reply concerning the object of my ride was reasonably frank and apparently satisfactory. Immediately after my entrance to the cabin three men, also wearing leather breeches, straggled in from another room, and in time there was a larger gathering than I had hoped to meet. Some members of the party took a half-reclining position on bunks built along the sides of the room, others straddled rough wooden chairs, a number of which, when I entered, surrounded a table on which lay a pack of cards. The man who first addressed me continued the conversation during which, while facing me, he stood with feet somewhat apart and his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. The sombre effect of his heavy black mustache, stubby beard, and swarthy complexion was somewhat relieved by the good-natured manner in which he conversed, and by his cordial request that I join with him in a drink from a black bottle that he took from a cupboard, an invitation which was interpreted as being an evidence of his benevolent impulses. The black-haired man seemed to be astounded when I declined to drink his good whiskey. The fact that my newly-found friend and some of his companions carried revolvers in their belts signified but little, because even I, a peaceful traveler, had carried my rifle, as was our usual custom where there was any hope of finding game.