ACROSS THE UNITED STATES IN A WAGGON
From the foregoing chapter it will have been seen that Mexico, in the middle of the nineteenth century, was not a neighbourhood wherein a man might look to find rest and quiet; and it is safe to say that if any one part of it was less to be desired than another as a place of resort, it was the United States frontier.
When the war between Mexico and the United States ended in 1847, this frontier had to be overhauled and settled afresh, and within the next two years Presidents Polk and Taylor appointed a Boundary Commission. One of the commissioners was the late John Russell Bartlett, secretary to the New York Ethnographical Society, and subsequently one of the greatest authorities on the Indian races.
Mr. Bartlett did not leave New York for his southward journey till the summer of 1850, and one of the first lessons that he learned on that journey was that redskins, like other men, cannot be understood from books or from mere surface examination. Anxious to see as much as possible of the Indians of the southern States, he elected to travel by waggon, there being no 217 immediate hurry for him to present himself at El Paso. Such a course meant passing through wild regions of prairie, plain, and hill, peopled by Missouris, Choctaws, Bannocks, Comanches, Chicasas, Araphoes, and perhaps a score more of savage tribes, the majority of whom still regarded the white man as their natural enemy; and the details of that ride, with his subsequent adventures in and round Mexico, would occupy more than the whole of this book.
His first acquaintance with the Missouri Indians came about while the waggon was crossing the great undulating plains near the Arkansas River. He was seated under the tilt pretending to write letters, but, in actual fact, dozing off to sleep under the influence of a sudden spell of heat, when a wild shriek from the direction of his leaders’ heads aroused him. He looked up and found that he was alone, though this was nothing out of the ordinary; for his negro attendant and his two waggoners not infrequently got down and walked when the horses were obliged to move slowly or when there was an opportunity of filling the pot. Before he could reach the forepart of the waggon, the black’s curly head showed above the front-board, eyes bulging and teeth chattering with terror.
“Look, Massa; look!” he shrieked.
“Catch hold o’ them ribbons, will ye?” he heard one of the teamsters shout; but the negro was too paralysed with fear to obey. The next moment the man who had called out, and had now got possession of the reins, landed with a flying leap on the footboard, and was followed with no less precipitation by his mate.
“Gun; quick!” panted the second man, while the first endeavoured to control the frightened horses.
Stumbling over the cowering nigger, Mr. Bartlett joined the teamsters. The four horses were still shying violently and kicking in every direction; and, not fifteen feet from the two wheelers, was a bison, charging with furious determination straight at them. He caught up his gun, which hung in slings close to his hand, and emptied both barrels at the formidable beast, which fell on his knees, gasping and bellowing, till two more bullets from the second teamster made him roll over.