On its farther bank were the
traces of a very large camp of Arapahoes.
The ashes of some three
hundred fires were visible among the scattered trees, together with
the remains of sweating lodges, and all the other appurtenances of a
permanent camp. The place however had been for some months deserted.
A few miles farther on we found more recent signs of Indians; the
trail of two or three lodges, which had evidently passed the day
before, where every foot-print was perfectly distinct in the dry,
dusty soil. We noticed in particular the track of one moccasin, upon
the sole of which its economical proprietor had placed a large patch.
These signs gave us but little uneasiness, as the number of the
warriors scarcely exceeded that of our own party. At noon we rested
under the walls of a large fort, built in these solitudes some years
since by M. St. Vrain. It was now abandoned and fast falling into
ruin. The walls of unbaked bricks were cracked from top to bottom.
Our horses recoiled in terror from the neglected entrance, where the
heavy gates were torn from their hinges and flung down. The area
within was overgrown with weeds, and the long ranges of apartments,
once occupied by the motley concourse of traders, Canadians, and
squaws, were now miserably dilapidated. Twelve miles further on,
near the spot where we encamped, were the remains of still another
fort, standing in melancholy desertion and neglect.
Early on the following morning we made a startling discovery. We
passed close by a large deserted encampment of Arapahoes. There were
about fifty fires still smouldering on the ground, and it was evident
from numerous signs that the Indians must have left the place within
two hours of our reaching it. Their trail crossed our own at right
angles, and led in the direction of a line of hills half a mile on
our left. There were women and children in the party, which would
have greatly diminished the danger of encountering them. Henry
Chatillon examined the encampment and the trail with a very
professional and businesslike air.
"Supposing we had met them, Henry?" said I.
"Why," said he, "we hold out our hands to them, and give them all
we've got; they take away everything, and then I believe they no kill
us. Perhaps," added he, looking up with a quiet, unchanged face,
"perhaps we no let them rob us. Maybe before they come near, we have
a chance to get into a ravine, or under the bank of the river; then,
you know, we fight them."
About noon on that day we reached Cherry Creek. Here was a great
abundance of wild cherries, plums, gooseberries, and currants. The
stream, however, like most of the others which we passed, was dried
up with the heat, and we had to dig holes in the sand to find water
for ourselves and our horses. Two days after, we left the banks of
the creek which we had been following for some time, and began to
cross the high dividing ridge which separates the waters of the
Platte from those of the Arkansas. The scenery was altogether
changed. In place of the burning plains we were passing now through
rough and savage glens and among hills crowned with a dreary growth
of pines. We encamped among these solitudes on the night of the 16th
of August. A tempest was threatening. The sun went down among
volumes of jet-black cloud, edged with a bloody red. But in spite of
these portentous signs, we neglected to put up the tent, and being
extremely fatigued, lay down on the ground and fell asleep. The
storm broke about midnight, and we erected the tent amid darkness and
confusion. In the morning all was fair again, and Pike's Peak, white
with snow, was towering above the wilderness afar off.
We pushed through an extensive tract of pine woods. Large black
squirrels were leaping among the branches. From the farther edge of
this forest we saw the prairie again, hollowed out before us into a
vast basin, and about a mile in front we could discern a little black
speck moving upon its surface. It could be nothing but a buffalo.
Henry primed his rifle afresh and galloped forward. To the left of
the animal was a low rocky mound, of which Henry availed himself in
making his approach. After a short time we heard the faint report of
the rifle. The bull, mortally wounded from a distance of nearly
three hundred yards, ran wildly round and round in a circle. Shaw
and I then galloped forward, and passing him as he ran, foaming with
rage and pain, we discharged our pistols into his side. Once or
twice he rushed furiously upon us, but his strength was rapidly
exhausted. Down he fell on his knees. For one instant he glared up
at his enemies with burning eyes through his black tangled mane, and
then rolled over on his side. Though gaunt and thin, he was larger
and heavier than the largest ox. Foam and blood flew together from
his nostrils as he lay bellowing and pawing the ground, tearing up
grass and earth with his hoofs. His sides rose and fell like a vast
pair of bellows, the blood spouting up in jets from the bullet-holes.
Suddenly his glaring eyes became like a lifeless jelly. He lay
motionless on the ground. Henry stooped over him, and making an
incision with his knife, pronounced the meat too rank and tough for
use; so, disappointed in our hopes of an addition to our stock of
provisions, we rode away and left the carcass to the wolves.
In the afternoon we saw the mountains rising like a gigantic wall at
no great distance on our right. "Des sauvages! des sauvages!"
exclaimed Delorier, looking round with a frightened face, and
pointing with his whip toward the foot of the mountains.
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