“Och! now I comprehend. Arrah! an’ wasn’t it a quare thrick? Be my sowl, it bates Bannagher all to paces! Ha, ha, haw!”
Wingrove and I could hold in no longer, but joining in the loud cachinnation—as if we had been its echoes—sprang forward to the front. Infantry and rifleman bounded to their feet, with a simultaneous shout of “Indians!” and dropping their spits and half-eaten appolas of meat, dashed into the bushes like a pair of frightened rabbits! In an instant, both were out of sight; and their whereabouts was alone indicated by the rattling of the branches as they passed through them. I was apprehensive of losing them altogether; and regretted not having used more caution in approaching them. At that crisis, an idea came to my aid; and giving out an old signal, well-remembered by the ci-devant rangers, I had the gratification of receiving a double response. The utterance of the signal had brought them to an instantaneous halt; and I could hear them exchanging surmises and exclamations of astonishment, as they retraced their steps towards the fire. Presently, a pair of short, snub-nosed faces were seen peering through the leaves; while from the lips of their owners burst simultaneously, “The cyaptin’!” “The capting!” with various other phrases in their respective patois, expressive of surprise and recognition.
A few words sufficed to explain all. As we had surmised, the men were deserters. Neither attempted to deny what, in time of peace, is not considered a very heinous crime; and for which, just then, the “Californian fever” was considered an ample justification. It was no affair of ours. I was only too rejoiced to join company with the runaways, of whose loyalty to myself I had proofs of old. Their guns—more especially the rifle of Sure-shot—would be a valuable addition to our strength; and, instead of crawling along under the cover of night, we might now advance with more freedom and rapidity. It was determined, therefore, to share our means of transport with our new comrades—an offer by them eagerly and readily accepted. The partial consumption of our stores had lightened the packs upon our mules; and the contents of the wheelbarrow, equally divided between them, would give to each only its ordinary load. The barrow itself was abandoned—left among the Big Timbers—to puzzle at a future period some red-skinned archaeologist—Cheyenne or Arapaho!
Chapter Forty Seven.
The Mountain Parks.
We now proceeded along the route with more confidence; though still acknowledging the necessity of caution, and always reconnoitring the ground in advance. Although the four of us might have defended ourselves against four times our number of Indian enemies, we were passing through apart of the country, where, if Indians were to be met at all, it would be in large bands or “war-parties.” The Arkansas heads in that peculiar section of the Rocky Mountain chain known as the “Parks”—a region of country celebrated from the earliest times of fur-trading and trapping—the arena of a greater number of adventures—of personal encounters and hair-breadth escapes—than perhaps any other spot of equal extent upon the surface of the globe. Here the great Cordillera spread out into numerous distinct branches or “Sierras,” over which tower those noted landmarks of the prairie traveller, “Pike’s” and “Long’s” Peaks, and the “Wa-to-ya” or “Cumbres Españolas”;—projected far above their fellows, and rising thousands of feet into the region of eternal snow. Between their bases—embosomed amid the most rugged surrounding of bare rocky cliffs, or dark forest-clad declivities—lie vallées, smiling in the soft verdure of perpetual spring—watered by crystal streams—sheltered from storms, and sequestered from all the world. The most noted of these are the Old and New “Parks,” and the “Bayou Salade”—because these are the largest; but there are hundreds of smaller ones, not nameless, but known only to those adventurous men—the trappers—who for half a century have dwelt in this paradise of their perilous profession: since here is the habitat of the masonic beaver—its favourite building ground.
Over these valley-plains roam “gangs” of the gigantic buffalo; while in the openings between their copses may be descried the elk, antelope, and black-tailed deer, browsing in countless herds. On the cliffs that overhang them, the noble form of the carnero cimmaron (ovis montana)—or, “Bighorn” of the hunters—maybe seen, in bold outline against the sky; and crawling through the rocky ravines is encountered the grizzly bear—the most fierce and formidable of American carnivora. The red couguar and brown wolverene crouch along the edges of the thicket, to contest with jackal and wolf the possession of the carcass, where some stray quadruped has fallen a victim to the hungry troop; while black vultures wheeling aloft, await the issue of the conflict. Birds of fairer fame add animation to the scene. The magnificent meleagris, shining in metallic lustre, with spread wings and tail, offers a tempting aim to the hunter’s rifle—as it promises to afford him a rich repast; and the coq de prairie, and its gigantic congener the “sage grouse,” whirr up at intervals along the path. The waters have their denizens, in the grey Canada and white-fronted geese—ducks of numerous species—the stupid pelican and shy loon—gulls, cormorants, and the noble swan; while the groves of alamo ring with the music of numerous bright-winged songsters, scarcely known to the ornithologist.
But no land of peace is this fair region of the Rocky Mountains. There are parks, but no palaces—there are fertile fields, but none to till them—for it is even dangerous to traverse them in the open light of day. The trapper skulks silently along the creek—scarcely trusting himself to whisper to his companion—and watching warily as he renews the bait of castoreum. The hunter glides with stealthy tread from copse to copse—dreading the echo of his own rifle. Even the red-skinned rover goes not here alone, but only with a large band of his kindred—a “hunting” or “war-party.” The ground is neutral, as it is hostile—claimed by many tribes and owned by none. All enter it to hunt or make war, but none to settle or colonise. From every quarter of the compass come the warrior and hunter; and of almost as many tribes as there are points upon the card. From the north, the Crow and Sioux; from the south, the Kiowa, the Comanche, the Jicarilla-Apache—and even at times the tame Taosa. From the east penetrate, the Cheyenne, the Pawnee, and Arapaho; while through the western gates of this hunters’ paradise, pour the warlike bands of the Utah and Shoshonee. All these tribes are in mutual enmity or amity amongst themselves, of greater or less strength; but between some of them exists a hostility of the deadliest character. Such are the vendettas between Crow and Shoshonee, Pawnee and Comanche, Utah and Arapaho. Some of the tribe have the repute of being friendly to the whites. Among these may be mentioned the Utahs and Crows; while the more dreaded names are Cheyenne, Kiowa, and Arapaho; the last in hostility to the whites equalling the noted Blackfeet farther north. In all cases, however, the amity of the prairie Indian is a friendship upon which slight faith can be placed; and the trapper—even in Crow or Utah land—is accustomed “to sleep with one eye open.” In past times, Utahs have been more partial to the pale-faces than most other tribes of North Americans; and in their territory many of the celebrated trapper-stations, or “rendezvous,” are situated. At times, mutual provocations have led to dire encounters; and then are the Utahs to be dreaded—more, perhaps, than any other Indians. In their association with their trapper allies, they have learnt how to handle—and with skill—that most formidable of weapons, for partisan warfare—the hunter’s rifle.