THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

Has All The Luxuriance Of A Garden.

 

 

 

The Whole Country, It Is Claimed, Was Once Possessed by The Shos-Shones,

Or Snake Indians, Of Whom The Comanches Of The Southern Plains Are

A Branch; And, Although Many Hundred miles Divide Their Hunting-Grounds,

They Were Once, If Not The Same People, Tribes Or Bands Of That Great

And Powerful Nation.  They Retain A Language In common, And There Is

Also A Striking analogy In many Of Their Religious Rites And Ceremonies,

In Their Folk-Lore, And In some Of Their Everyday Customs.  These

Facts Prove, At Least, That There Was At One Time A Very Close

Alliance Which Bound The Two Tribes Together.  Half A Century Ago They

Were, In point Of Numbers, The Two Most Powerful Nations In all The

Numerous Aggregations Of Indians In the West; The Comanches Ruling

Almost Supreme On The Eastern Plains, While The Shos-Shones Were The

Dominant Tribe In the Country Beyond The Rocky Mountains, And In the

Mountains Themselves.  Once, Many Years Ago, Before The Problem Of The

Relative Strength Of The Various Tribes Was As Well Solved as Now,

The Shos-Shones Were Supposed to Be The Most Powerful, And Numerically

The Most Populous, Tribe Of Indians On The North American Continent.

 

 

 

In The Immediate Vicinity Of The Old Pueblo Fort At The Time Of Its

Greatest Business Prosperity, Game Was Scarce; The Buffalo Had For

Some Years Deserted the Neighbouring Prairies, But They Were Always

To Be Found In the Mountain-Valleys, Particularly In one Known As

"Bayou Salado," Which Forty-Five Years Ago Abounded in elk, Bear,

Deer, And Antelope.

 

 

 

The Fort Was Situated a Few Hundred yards Above The Mouth Of The

"Fontaine Qui Bouille" River,[47] So Called from Two Springs Of

Mineral Water Near Its Head, Under Pike'S Peak, About Sixty Miles

Above Its Mouth.

 

 

 

As Is The Case With All The Savage Races Of The World, The American

Indians Possess Hereditary Legends, Accounting For All The Phenomena

Of Nature, Or Any Occurrence Which Is Beyond Their Comprehension.

The Shos-Shones Had The Following Story To Account For The Presence Of

These Wonderful Springs In the Midst Of Their Favourite Hunting-Ground.

The Two Fountains, One Pouring Forth The Sweetest Water Imaginable,

The Other A Stream As Bitter As Gall, Are Intimately Connected with

The Cause Of The Separation Of The Two Tribes.  Their Legend Thus Runs:

Many Hundreds Of Winters Ago, When The Cottonwoods On The Big River

Were No Higher Than Arrows, And The Prairies Were Crowded with Game,

The Red men Who Hunted the Deer In the Forests And The Buffalo On The

Plains All Spoke The Same Language, And The Pipe Of Peace Breathed its

Soothing Cloud Whenever Two Parties Of Hunters Met On The Boundless

Prairie.

 

 

 

It Happened one Day That Two Hunters Of Different Nations Met On The

Bank Of A Small Rivulet, To Which Both Had Resorted to Quench Their

Thirst.  A Small Stream Of Water, Rising From A Spring On A Rock

Within A Few Feet Of The Bank, Trickled over It And Fell Splashing

Into The River.  One Hunter Sought The Spring Itself; The Other,

Tired by His Exertions In the Chase, Threw Himself At Once To The

Ground, And Plunged his Face Into The Running Stream.

 

 

 

The Latter Had Been Unsuccessful In the Hunt, And Perhaps His Bad

Fortune, And The Sight Of The Fat Deer Which The Other Threw From His

Back Before He Drank At The Crystal Spring, Caused a Feeling Of

Jealousy And Ill-Humour To Take Possession Of His Mind.  The Other,

On The Contrary, Before He Satisfied his Thirst, Raised in the Hollow

Of His Hand A Portion Of The Water, And, Lifting It Toward The Sun,

Reversed his Hand, And Allowed it To Fall Upon The Ground, As A

Libation To The Great Spirit, Who Had Vouch-Safed him A Successful

Hunt And The Blessing Of The Refreshing Water With Which He Was About

To Quench His Thirst.

 

 

 

This Reminder That He Had Neglected the Usual Offering Only Increased

The Feeling Of Envy And Annoyance Which Filled the Unsuccessful

Hunter'S Heart.  The Evil Spirit At That Moment Entering His Body,

His Temper Fairly Flew Away, And He Sought Some Pretence To Provoke

A Quarrel With The Other Indian.

 

 

 

"Why Does A Stranger," He Asked, Rising From The Stream, "Drink At

The Spring-Head, When One To Whom The Fountain Belongs Contents

Himself With The Water That Runs From It?"

 

 

 

"The Great Spirit Places The Cool Water At The Spring," Answered the

Other Hunter, "That His Children May Drink It Pure And Undefiled.

The Running Water Is For The Beasts Which Scour The Plains.  Ausaqua

Is A Chief Of The Shos-Shones; He Drinks At The Head Water."

 

 

 

"The Shos-Shones Is But A Tribe Of The Comanches," Returned the Other:

"Wacomish Leads The Whole Nation.  Why Does A Shos-Shone Dare To

Drink Above Him?"

 

 

 

"When The Manitou Made His Children, Whether Shos-Shone Or Comanche,

Arapaho, Cheyenne, Or Pawnee, He Gave Them Buffalo To Eat, And The

Pure Water Of The Fountain To Quench Their Thirst.  He Said Not To

One, 'Drink Here,' And To Another, 'Drink There'; But Gave The Crystal

Spring To All, That All Might Drink."

 

 

 

Wacomish Almost Burst With Rage As The Other Spoke; But His Coward

Heart Prevented him From Provoking an Encounter With The Calm Shos-Shone.

The Latter, Made Thirsty By The Words He Had Spoken--For The Indian Is

Ever Sparing Of His Tongue--Again Stooped down To The Spring To Drink,

When The Subtle Warrior Of The Comanches Suddenly Threw Himself Upon

The Kneeling Hunter And, Forcing His Head Into The Bubbling Water,

Held Him Down With All His Strength Until His Victim No Longer

Struggled; His Stiffened limbs Relaxed, And He Fell Forward Over

The Spring, Drowned.

 

 

 

Mechanically The Comanche Dragged the Body A Few Paces From The Water,

And, As Soon As The Head Of The Dead Indian Was Withdrawn, The Spring

Was Suddenly And Strangely Disturbed.  Bubbles Sprang Up From The

Bottom, And, Rising To The Surface, Escaped in hissing Gas.  A Thin

Vapour Arose, And, Gradually Dissolving, Displayed to The Eyes Of The

Trembling Murderer The Figure Of An Aged indian, Whose Long, Snowy

Hair And Venerable Beard, Blown Aside From His Breast, Discovered the

Well-Known Totem Of The Great Wankanaga, The Father Of The Comanche

And Shos-Shone Nation.

 

 

 

Stretching Out A War-Club Toward The Comanche, The Figure Thus

Addressed him:--

 

 

 

"Accursed murderer!  While The Blood Of The Brave Shos-Shone Cries To

The Great Spirit For Vengeance, May The Water Of Thy Tribe Be Rank

And Bitter In their Throats!"  Thus Saying, And Swinging His Ponderous

War-Club Round His Head, He Dashed out The Brains Of The Comanche,

Who Fell Headlong Into The Spring, Which From That Day To This Remains

Rank And Nauseous, So That Not Even When Half Dead With Thirst, Can

One Drink From It.

 

 

 

The Good Wankanaga, However, To Perpetuate The Memory Of The Shos-Shone

Warrior, Who Was Renowned in his Tribe For Valour And Nobleness Of

Heart, Struck With The Same Avenging Club A Hard, Flat Rock Which

Overhung The Rivulet, And Forthwith A Round Clear Basin Opened, Which

Instantly Filled with Bubbling, Sparkling Water, Sweet And Cool.

 

 

 

From That Day The Two Mighty Tribes Of The Shos-Shones And Comanches

Have Remained severed and Apart, Although A Long And Bloody War

Followed the Treacherous Murder.

 

 

 

The Indians Regarded these Wonderful Springs With Awe.  The Arapahoes,

Especially, Attributed to The Spirit Of The Springs The Power Of

Ordaining The Success Or Failure Of Their War Expeditions.  As Their

Warriors Passed by The Mysterious Pools When Hunting Their Hereditary

Enemies, The Utes, They Never Failed to Bestow Their Votive Offerings

Upon The Spring, In order To Propitiate The Manitou Of The Strange

Fountain, And Insure A Fortunate Issue To Their Path Of War.  As Late

As Twenty-Five Years Ago, The Visitor To The Place Could Always Find

The Basin Of The Spring Filled with Beads And Wampum, Pieces Of Red

Cloth And Knives, While The Surrounding Trees Were Hung With Strips

Of Deerskin, Cloth, And Moccasins.  Signs Were Frequently Observed

In The Vicinity Of The Waters Unmistakably Indicating That A War-Dance

Had Been Executed there By The Arapahoes On Their Way To The Valley

Of Salt, Occupied by The Powerful Utes.

 

 

 

Never Was There Such A Paradise For Hunters As This Lone And Solitary

Spot In the Days When The Region Was Known Only To Them And The

Trappers Of The Great Fur Companies.  The Shelving Prairie, At The

Bottom Of Which The Springs Are Situated, Is Entirely Surrounded by

Rugged mountains And Contained two Or Three Acres Of Excellent Grass,

Affording a Safe Pasture For Their Animals, Which Hardly Cared to

Wander From Such Feeding and The Salt They Loved to Lick.

 

 

 

The Trappers Of The Rocky Mountains Belonged to A Genus That Has

Disappeared.  Forty Years Ago There Was Not A Hole Or Corner In the

Vast Wilderness Of The Far West That Had Not Been Explored by These

Hardy Men.  From The Mississippi To The Mouth Of The Colorado Of The

West, From The Frozen Regions Of The North To The Gila In mexico,

The Beaver Hunter Has Set His Traps In every Creek And Stream.

The Mountains And Waters, In many Instances, Still Retain The Names

Assigned them By Those Rude Hunters, Who Were Veritable Pioneers

Paving The Way For The Settlement Of The Stern Country.

 

 

 

A Trapper'S Camp In the Old Days Was Quite A Picture, As Were All Its

Surroundings.  He Did Not Always Take The Trouble To Build A Shelter,

Unless In the Winter.  A Couple Of Deerskins Stretched over A Willow

Frame Was Considered sufficient To Protect Him From The Storm.

Sometimes He Contented himself With A Mere "Breakwind," The Rocky

Wall Of A Canyon, Or Large Ravine.  Near At Hand He Set Up Two Poles,

In The Crotch Of Which Another Was Laid, Where He Kept, Out Of Reach

Of The Hungry Wolf And Coyote, His Meat, Consisting Of Every Variety

Afforded by The Region In which He Had Pitched his Camp.  Under Cover

Of The Skins Of The Animals He Had Killed hung His Old-Fashioned

Powder-Horn And Bullet-Pouch, While His Trusty Rifle, Carefully

Defended from The Damp, Was Always Within Reach Of His Hand.  Round

His Blazing Fire At Night His Companions, If He Had Any, Were Other

Trappers On The Same Stream; And, While Engaged in cleaning Their

Arms, Making and Mending Moccasins, Or Running Bullets, They Told

Long Yarns, Until The Lateness Of The Hour Warned them To Crawl Under

Their Blankets.

 

 

 

Not Far From The Camp, His Animals, Well Hobbled, Fed in sight;

For Nothing Did A Hunter Dread More Than A Visit From Horse-Stealing

Indians, And To Be Afoot Was The Acme Of Misery.

 

 

 

Some Hunters Who Had Married squaws Carried about With Them Regular

Buffalo-Skin Lodges, Which Their Wives Took Care Of, According To

Indian Etiquette.

 

 

 

The Old-Time Trappers More Nearly Approximated the Primitive Savage,

Perhaps, Than Any Other Class Of Civilized men.  Their Lives Being

Spent In the Remote Wilderness Of The Mountains, Frequently With No

Other Companion Than Nature Herself, Their Habits And Character Often

Assumed a Most Singular Cast Of Simplicity, Mingled with Ferocity,

That Appeared to Take Its Colouring From The Scenes And Objects Which

Surrounded them.  Having No Wants Save Those Of Nature, Their Sole

Concern Was To Provide Sufficient Food To Support Life, And The

Necessary Clothing To Protect Them From The Sometimes Rigorous Climate.

 

 

 

The Costume Of The Average Trapper Was A Hunting-Shirt Of Dressed

Buckskin, With Long, Fringed trousers Of The Same Material, Decorated

With Porcupine Quills.  A Flexible Hat And Moccasins Covered his

Extremities, And Over His Left Shoulder And Under His Right Arm Hung

His Powder-Horn And Bullet-Pouch, In which He Also Carried flint,

Steel, And Other Odds And Ends.  Round His Waist He Wore A Belt,

In Which Was Stuck A Large Knife In a Sheath Of Buffalo-Hide, Made

Fast To The Belt By A Chain Or Guard Of Steel.  It Also Supported

A Little Buckskin Case, Which Contained a Whetstone, A Very Necessary

Article; For In taking Off The Hides Of The Beaver A Sharp Knife Was

Required.  His Pipe-Holder Hung Around His Neck, And Was Generally

A Gage D'Amour, A Triumph Of Squaw Workmanship, Wrought With Beads

And Porcupine Quills, Often Made In the Shape Of A Heart.

 

 

 

Necessarily Keen Observers Of Nature, They Rivalled the Beasts Of

Prey In discovering The Haunts And Habits Of Game, And In their Skill

And Cunning In capturing It Outwitted the Indian Himself.  Constantly

Exposed to Perils Of All Kinds, They Became Callous To Any Feeling

Of Danger, And Were Firm Friends Or Bitter Enemies.  It Was A "Word

And A Blow," The Blow Often Coming First.  Strong, Active, Hardy As

Bears, Expert In the Use Of Their Weapons, They Were Just What An

Uncivilized white Man Might Be Supposed to Be Under Conditions Where

He Must Depend Upon His Instincts For The Support Of Life.

 

 

 

Having Determined upon The Locality Of His Trapping-Ground, The Hunter

Started off, Sometimes Alone, Sometimes Three Or Four Of Them In

Company, As Soon As The Breaking Of The Ice In the