 | Rocky Mountain Perils. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West |  |
19. Rocky Mountain Perils.
The life of the trapper in the Far West, in earlier
times, was one of almost constant peril. Setting off alone,
or with only a companion or two, into the great, lonely wilderness,
whose only denizens were wild beasts and savages,
and pursuing an occupation which led him into the wildest
and gloomiest retreats among the mountains, he was compelled
to be ever on the watch, night and day, to protect
his life against foes who often lurked in deep thickets, or
behind projecting rocks, awaiting an opportunity to cut
him off and carry his scalp and effects in triumph to their
barbarous homes. This wild life naturally made the trapper
wary, suspicious, and ferocious—a sort of semi-savage;
and regarding his rifle as his truest friend, and the Indian
as his greatest foe, he took care to keep the former ever by
him, and kill the latter whenever opportunity presented.
One of the most daring, and for many years successful,
of these mountaineers, was a man by the name of Markhead.
He was a finely-built, athletic fellow, and was probably
as devoid of fear as it is possible for any human being to
personal risk, at one period of his career, that he seemed
afraid to venture; and probably, the renowned Kit Carson
alone excepted, there never was so bold and reckless a
hunter, trapper, and guide, who lived so many years to
boast of his almost incredible exploits. He managed for a
long time to escape with life; though his body and limbs
were covered with ugly scars, which told the tale of many
deadly conflicts, and how near he had more than once been
to the very jaws of death itself.
As a single instance of what he had been known to dare,
it is related of him, that, while accompanying Sir William
Drummond Stewart in one of his expeditions across the
mountains, a half-breed absconded one night with several
animals; and Sir William, being greatly vexed and annoyed
at the occurrence, remarked that he would give five hundred
dollars for the scalp of the thief. Soon after, it was
discovered that Markhead was missing; but the next day
he rode into camp, with the scalp of the half-breed dangling
at the end of his rifle.
Markhead was by profession a trapper, and boldly ventured
into every region where he thought he might be most
successful in taking the beaver, having no regard whatever
to the dangers he would be compelled to encounter in his
lonely explorations. On more than one occasion he was
himself taken by outlying savages, who were only prevented
desire of burning him at the stake; but he always succeeded,
sometimes in an almost miraculous manner, in
effecting his escape, and always embraced every opportunity
of a vindictive revenge upon the hated race.
The Yellow Stone and its numerous branches, from its
source among the mountains to its junction with the great
and turbid Missouri, was the favorite trapping-ground of
this daring individual; and one of his most remarkable
adventures in this region of country it is our present
purpose to record.
Setting off alone, as was frequently his custom, with his
riding horse, pack-mules, “possibles,” “traps,” and camp-utensils,
himself well-armed and equipped in mountain
style, Markhead penetrated far into the territorial possessions
of his savage foes, and at last fixed his camp in a
wild, romantic valley, and set about his vocation with the
same careless indifference to danger that the angler would
cast his line in the tranquil waters about his peaceful home.
Here he remained unmolested for several weeks, and
found beaver so plenty as to gladden his heart at the
thought of the “glorious time” he would have when he
should return to the “rendezvous,” that paradise for such
mountain men as happen to bring sufficient “peltries”
to indulge largely in its luxuries, its games, and its general
dissipations.
But going one morning to examine his traps, the gallant
mountaineer, to his great annoyance, discovered the fresh
print of a moccasin a little distance back from the stream;
and the sight so roused his ire, that he at once gave vent
to it in a very uncomplimentary apostrophe to an individual
he had not yet seen; and using all due caution to
guard against a surprise, he continued on down the stream
to his different traps; and found to his great delight, that
each one held a prize, in the shape of a plump, fat beaver.
Having dispatched the animals, and reset his traps, he
cautiously, but proudly, returned to his camp, muttering as
he went along:
“The sneaking fool! to come and put his foot into my
mess in that way, and think to outwit me! But I'll fix
him yit, and every son of an aboriginee that comes with
him; for whilst I find beavers coming in this handsome,
and begging to be tuk by a gentleman what appreciates,
I'll be dogged ef I'll be druv from my position by all the
greasy, copper-colored rascals in North America!”
Markhead spent much of the day in hunting for “Indian
signs,” but without discovering any thing to excite fresh
uneasiness. He found a few more moccasin prints, it is
true, but evidently made by the same feet; and he came
to the conclusion that some stray Indian, perhaps a solitary
hunter, had been near his camp and departed—it might be
with, and it might be without, the knowledge of a white
the savage had friends near, he thought it more than likely
an attempt would soon be made to waylay and kill him;
and if the latter, that he had nothing unusual to fear; but
as he could not determine this point satisfactorily, he
permitted prudence for once to have entire control over
his actions; and he took the trouble to secrete his peltries,
lead his animals to a new grazing spot, and pass the following
night in another place himself.
The next morning, Markhead, by a new and roundabout
course, went down to his first trap most cautiously, reconnoitering
the ground as he neared it; and much pleased
was he with himself at having taken this precaution; for
right in the very path along which he would otherwise
have approached the spot, he now discovered three
Indians, crouched down among some bushes behind a
projecting rock, patiently awaiting his appearance. By
the course he had prudently taken, he had come upon the
stream a little below, and consequently behind them; and
he now, without being himself perceived, had them in fair
range.
“That's the way you painted heathens watch for a white
gentleman, is it?” chuckled the trapper, as he slowly and
deliberately brought forward his long, unerring rifle, and
took a steady aim at the nearest, who nearly covered the
one beyond him.
Markhead recollected the old proverb of “killing two
birds with one stone,” and a grim smile partially relieved
the harshness of his vindictive expression as he pulled the
trigger. True to its duty, the piece sent forth its leaden
messenger, and with such force as to drive the ball clean
through the first savage and mortally wound the second.
The instant he fired, the daring mountaineer grasped his
long knife, and bounded forward with a ferocious yell;
while the unharmed Indian, starting as suddenly to his
feet, with a wild yell of surprise and terror, darted quickly
away, leaving his wounded, floundering, and groaning
friends to the mercy of a foe who was never known to
spare one of the hated race.
On coming up to the wounded savages, neither of whom
was dead, Markhead proceed to dispatch and scalp them
with the same ferocious satisfaction that he would have
butchered and skinned two wounded wild beasts; after
which he coolly reloaded his rifle, without the least compunction
of conscience, and with a self-complacent chuckle
at his own caution and triumph.
“Wonder how fur that thar other skeered Injun 'll run
afore he stops!” he grinned, as he spurned his dead enemies
with his foot, and gathered up, as further trophies of
his exploit, the weapons with which they had intended to
destroy him. “Thar!” he continued, as he moved away
from the dead bodies; “I reckon I'll see to my traps now,
feed wolves and buzzards, that maybe is wanting a breakfast
this fine morning.”
He then, believing there was no further danger set off
boldly, and somewhat carelessly, down the stream, to visit
his traps. As on the preceding day, he found his success
had been somewhat remarkable; and, fairly loaded with
beaver he returned toward his camp in fine spirits. On
his direct route, was a wild, romantic glen, with steep,
high, rocky hills on either hand, and between which
dashed, foaming and roaring, a clever mountain stream.
He had reached nearly the centre of this valley, and was
walking leisurely along, when he was startled by the sharp
report of several muskets, instantly followed by the fierce
exultant yells of a small party of savages, who sprung up
suddenly from behind different concealments and darted
toward him in a body.
The instant the Indians fired, Markhead felt a sharp
twinge in his left arm; and glancing toward it, he perceived
the blood streaming through his garments, and
knew he was wounded; but finding, on trial, he could use
his arm, he gave no further heed to it, and concentrated
his every thought upon the saving of his life.
The Indians, some six or eight in number, were now
bounding forward to finish their work; and instantly
throwing down his beaver, the trapper brought his deadly
of firing, when the latter, perceiving his danger, uttered
a short cry of surprise, and dodged behind a tree—an
example which his cowardly companions took care to imitate
as speedily as possible.
This gave the intrepid hunter a moment to look about
him and calculate his chances of escape; and perceiving,
on the hill to his left, an opening among the rocks, as it
might be the mouth of a cave—and knowing if he gave his
foes time to reload, they could certainly kill him where he
stood—he suddenly turned, and dashed across the stream,
and up the steep acclivity; his enemies immediately bounding
after, with yells of triumph, but being deterred from
venturing a too rapid pursuit by a wholesome fear of his
deadly rifle, which every now and then was steadily brought
to bear upon the nearest.
In this way Markhead reached the point at which he
had aimed, some considerable distance ahead of his pursuers;
and for a few moments he stood and debated with
himself whether he should secrete himself within the opening,
which appeared large and deep, or continue his flight
over the mountain ridge. He decided on the former, as
the readiest means of giving him immediate time for cool
and deliberate calculation; and the next moment he disappeared
from the sight of his yelling foes; who, fearing
and boldly.
The opening, as the trapper had conjectured, was the
mouth of a cave of considerable dimensions; and was so
guarded, by winding passages among projecting rocks, as
to secure to him, from the moment of entering it, a feeling
of safety; and darting back a few paces, he ensconced
himself behind a sharp angle, and waited for his foes to
come up.
Presently he saw the Indians appear, one after another,
at the mouth of the opening, and cautiously peer into the
gloom within; but neither seemed possessed of courage
sufficient to lead the way to what would probably be certain
death to the foremost. From where they stood, the
savages could not discern the fugitive, though he could
perceive them distinctly; and it required all his self-control
to restrain his desire of firing upon them, and
trusting the rest to chance.
Soon after, the Indians withdrew from the view of the
trapper, and for a few minutes all was silence within and
without. He conjectured they were now holding a consultation;
and when he thought that his very life might
depend upon the result, he could not but feel anxious to
have an end put to his suspense by an attack or retreat.
Suddenly, while he was wondering how he should get
safely out of his present “scrape,” even with the loss of his
several Indians, and lightened by the flash of several
muskets, while half a dozen balls flattened themselves
against the rocks, and the reports reverberated strangely
as the sounds were thrown back from the farthest recesses
of his subterranean retreat.
Markhead was untouched by their fire, but enraged at
what he considered their audacity; and, with a yell of
defiance, he instantly raised his own rifle and poured back
its contents. His shot, fortunately, took effect in the
breast of a warrior, who fell over, and rolled yelling down
the rugged hill, to the great chagrin and dismay of his
companions, who made haste to get beyond the reach of so
dangerous an enemy.
After this, the savages, though remaining in the vicinity,
and keeping a close watch upon the mouth of the cave, to
prevent the escape of the prisoner within, took good care
to keep out of his sight. And so the day wore away—
Markhead fretting and swearing at what he termed his
ill-luck, in being “cooped up in sich an infernal hole,” but
not caring to venture out in the face of almost certain
death.
At last, toward night, he was suddenly surprised by
seeing a large pile of brush thrown down in front of the
cave, and was not slow in comprehending
that his foes
intended to smoke him out, as he himself had aforetime
augmented by fresh combustibles; and in the course of an
hour it had become quite formidable—the trapper sitting
and watching, and considering which might be the safest
proceeding for him—to remain and let them fire it, or
attempt an escape by suddenly breaking through it.
“But I'll let the cusses do it,” he muttered, at length;
“for I can break through arterward as well as now, and
night'll soon be here to kiver me as I run.”
Had the savages thought of this plan and acted upon it
sooner, the history of the trapper might have ended with
that eventful day—for an escape in daylight would have
been almost impossible; but fortunately for him, they did
not set fire to the combustibles till the forest had begun to
grow dusky with the advancing shadows of night. The
materials they had collected being old, dry brush, ignited
like so much tinder; and in a minute after the application
of the match, the whole pile was a crackling and roaring
flame—the heat and smoke at once penetrating far back
into the cavern, and soon rendering it an untenable
place.
Seeing the time had come for him to make another
desperate effort for his life, Markhead secured his powder-horn
in his bosom, wrapped the skirt of his hunting-frock
around the lock of his rifle, grasped his knife firmly, drew
in his breath for a start, and, concentrating his whole will
through the scorching flames.
So sudden was his exit from the cavern, that the
Indians, though looking for the event to take place, and
standing prepared to fire at and fall upon him with their
knives and tomahawks, did not even get their guns to bear
till he was half way down the dangerous declivity; and
then they discharged their muskets almost at random, and
set yelling after him with a degree of uncertainty and
confusion that gave him an additional advantage.
On reaching the bank of the stream, Markhead turned
quickly down it, darted into a favoring thicket, thence into
the water, and threw himself flat down close up under the
overhanging foliage. Here he quietly remained, favored
by the fast gathering shades of night, till his enemies, who
believed he was still in flight, had run yelling past in fierce
pursuit; and then, as they gradually grew more distant,
he started up and ran in an opposite direction.
An hour later he had reached in safety the spot where
he had deposited his pelts. Gathering up as many as he
could carry, he next sought and found his horse, mounted
him, and escaped—leaving his mules, traps, and camp
utensils as the spoil of his foes.
Three days after this, he boldly revisited the spot, and
found the remainder of his furs; but all the rest of his
property had been discovered and taken away by the
by what in Western parlance would be termed “some
pretty tall swearing;” but concluded at last to make the
best of what he possessed, and set off to the nearest station
to get a new outfit.
That same season, notwithstanding all his misfortunes,
Markhead might have been found trapping along the
different streams, in the vicinity of his losses and thrilling
adventures; and when he repaired to the “rendezvous,”
in the following autumn, no single trapper could out-count
him in peltries, or out-talk him in exploits.
But this man of daring finally met a terrible fate. At
the fearful uprising of the treacherous Mexicans, in the
Valley of Taos, at the time of the massacre of Governor
Bent and other Americans, Markhead, and a companion
named Harwood, who had gone thither to exchange some
peltries for whiskey, were captured by the blood-thirsty
mob, and shot down like dogs.
So perished, in the full vigor of manhood, one of the
very bravest, boldest, and most reckless of that hardy and
daring little band known as the Trappers of the Far West.
| Rocky Mountain Perils. Wild scenes on the frontiers, or, Heroes of the West | |