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<h3>Chapter Forty Seven.</h3> <h4>The Mountain Parks.</h4> 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. At the time of which I write, the Utahs were reported to be on good terms with the whites. The Mormons had done everything to conciliate them; and it was said that a single white man might traverse their territory with perfect safety. It was chiefly in the passes that led to the Utahs’ country, that danger from Indians was to be apprehended—in the valleys and ravines above mentioned—where Cheyennes, Comanches, Pawnees, and Arapahoes were more likely to be met with than the Utahs themselves. We were not yet certain by which pass the caravan might cross the great Cordillera. From beyond the Big Timbers, three routes were open to it. First was the southern route through the Eaton mountains, which leads to Santa Fé, in New Mexico, and is known as the “Santa Fé trail.” I did not anticipate their taking this one. It was not their design, on leaving Fort Smith, to pass by Santa Fé—else would they have kept up the Canadian, by the head of the Llano Estacado; and thence to California by the Gila. Another route parts from the Arkansas still higher up—by one of its affluents, the Fontaine que bouit. This is the “Cherokee trail,” which, after running north along the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, crosses them by the Cheyenne Pass, and on through Bridger’s Pass into the central valley of the Great Basin. Neither did I believe that the train would travel by this trail. The season of the year was against the supposition. In all probability, the central route of the three would be the one followed—leading from the Arkansas up the Huerfano river, and through “Robideau’s Pass,” or that of the “Sangre de Cristo.” Either of these conducts into the valley of the Rio del Norte; thence by the famed “Coochetopa,” or “gate of the buffaloes,” on the head waters of the Western Colorado. This pass, though long known to the trappers and ciboleros of New Mexico, had only just come into notice as a road to the Pacific; but, being one of the most central and direct, it had already been tried both by Californian and Mormon emigrants, and found practicable for waggons. The caravan had left Van Buren with the design of taking this road; but I knew that the design might be altered by contingencies—hence our uncertainty. The Rocky Mountains could be crossed, by following up the Arkansas to its remotest sources on the southern side of the Bayou Salade; but the stupendous gorges through which that river runs leave no pass practicable for wheeled vehicles. Only by mounted men, or pack-mules, can the Cordillera be crossed at that point; and of course it did not occur to us that the caravan we were following would attempt it. At three points, then, might we expect to find its trace parting from the Arkansas—near Bent’s Old Fort, for the southern route: at the Fontaine que bouit river, for the northern; and for the central, it should diverge up the valley of the Huerfano. In any case, our risk would be unquestionably great. We should have to travel through districts of country, where white man and red man meet only as foes; where to kill each other at sight is the instinct and practice of both; and where, though it may sound strange to civilised ears, to scalp, after killing each other, is equally a mutual custom! Such was the character of the region through which we should have to travel. No wonder we were anxious to come up with the caravan, before it should have passed through the dangerous gorges of the mountains. Independent of other motives, our personal safety prompted us to hasten on. At first, our new comrades were not exactly agreeable to the design of overtaking the train. They had the escort in their thoughts, and along with it, the dread of the nine-tailed cat. But a little instruction as to the far greater danger they were in from Indians—of which up to that hour they had been in happy ignorance—reconciled them to our purpose; and thenceforward they picked up their feet with a pleasing rapidity. Both preferred risking the skin of their backs to losing that of their heads; but of the former they had now less fear: since I had promised to disguise them, before bringing them face to face with the troopers of the escort. Notwithstanding our increased strength, we travelled with as much caution as ever: for the danger had augmented in proportion. We made most way under the friendly shadow of night—sometimes by the light of the moon—and only by day, when we could discover no Indian sign in our neighbourhood. Only two of us could ride at a time—the other two taking it afoot; but in this way a journey can be made almost as well, as when each has a horse to himself. Our pack-animals gave us little trouble: as the continued travel had long since trained them to follow in file, and without requiring to be led. We refrained from making fires, where the ground was unfavourable. Only when we could choose our camp in the midst of a timbered thicket, or down in the secluded depth of some rocky ravine, did we risk kindling fires; and them we extinguished as soon as they had served the purposes of our simple cuisine. These precautions, drawn from experience, were absolutely necessary in a passage across the prairies—at least by a party so small as ours. Perhaps had we continued them, we might have escaped a misfortune that soon after befell us; and the tale of which is now to be told. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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