ILL LUCK
A Canadian came from Fort Laramie, and brought a curious piece of intelligence.A trapper, fresh from the mountains, had become enamored of a Missouri damsel belonging to a family who with other emigrants had been for some days encamped in the neighborhood of the fort.If bravery be the most potent charm to win the favor of the fair, then no wooer could be more irresistible than a Rocky Mountain trapper.In the present instance, the suit was not urged in vain.
The lovers concerted a scheme, which they proceeded to carry into effect with all possible dispatch.The emigrant party left the fort, and on the next succeeding night but one encamped as usual, and placed a guard.A little after midnight the enamored trapper drew near, mounted on a strong horse and leading another by the bridle.
Fastening both animals to a tree, he stealthily moved toward the wagons, as if he were approaching a band of buffalo.Eluding the vigilance of the guard, who was probably half asleep, he met his mistress by appointment at the outskirts of the camp, mounted her on his spare horse, and made off with her through the darkness.The sequel of the adventure did not reach our ears, and we never learned how the imprudent fair one liked an Indian lodge for a dwelling, and a reckless trapper for a bridegroom.
At length The Whirlwind and his warriors determined to move.They had resolved after all their preparations not to go to the rendezvous at La Bonte's Camp, but to pass through the Black Hills and spend a few weeks in hunting the buffalo on the other side, until they had killed enough to furnish them with a stock of provisions and with hides to make their lodges for the next season.This done, they were to send out a small independent war party against the enemy.Their final determination left us in some embarrassment.Should we go to La Bonte's Camp, it was not impossible that the other villages would prove as vacillating and indecisive as The Whirlwinds, and that no assembly whatever would take place.Our old companion Reynal had conceived a liking for us, or rather for our biscuit and coffee, and for the occasional small presents which we made him.He was very anxious that we should go with the village which he himself intended to accompany.He declared he was certain that no Indians would meet at the rendezvous, and said moreover that it would be easy to convey our cart and baggage through the Black Hills.In saying this, he told as usual an egregious falsehood.Neither he nor any white man with us had ever seen the difficult and obscure defiles through which the Indians intended to make their way.I passed them afterward, and had much ado to force my distressed horse along the narrow ravines, and through chasms where daylight could scarcely penetrate.Our cart might as easily have been conveyed over the summit of Pike's Peak.
Anticipating the difficulties and uncertainties of an attempt to visit the rendezvous, we recalled the old proverb about "A bird in the hand," and decided to follow the village.
Both camps, the Indians' and our own, broke up on the morning of the 1st of July.I was so weak that the aid of a potent auxiliary, a spoonful of whisky swallowed at short intervals, alone enabled me to sit on my hardy little mare Pauline through the short journey of that day.For half a mile before us and half a mile behind, the prairie was covered far and wide with the moving throng of savages.The barren, broken plain stretched away to the right and left, and far in front rose the gloomy precipitous ridge of the Black Hills.We pushed forward to the head of the scattered column, passing the burdened travaux, the heavily laden pack horses, the gaunt old women on foot, the gay young squaws on horseback, the restless children running among the crowd, old men striding along in their white buffalo robes, and groups of young warriors mounted on their best horses.Henry Chatillon, looking backward over the distant prairie, exclaimed suddenly that a horseman was approaching, and in truth we could just discern a small black speck slowly moving over the face of a distant swell, like a fly creeping on a wall.It rapidly grew larger as it approached.
"White man, I b'lieve," said Henry; "look how he ride! Indian never ride that way.Yes; he got rifle on the saddle before him."The horseman disappeared in a hollow of the prairie, but we soon saw him again, and as he came riding at a gallop toward us through the crowd of Indians, his long hair streaming in the wind behind him, we recognized the ruddy face and old buckskin frock of Jean Gras the trapper.He was just arrived from Fort Laramie, where he had been on a visit, and said he had a message for us.A trader named Bisonette, one of Henry's friends, was lately come from the settlements, and intended to go with a party of men to La Bonte's Camp, where, as Jean Gras assured us, ten or twelve villages of Indians would certainly assemble.Bisonette desired that we would cross over and meet him there, and promised that his men should protect our horses and baggage while we went among the Indians.Shaw and I stopped our horses and held a council, and in an evil hour resolved to go.
For the rest of that day's journey our course and that of the Indians was the same.In less than an hour we came to where the high barren prairie terminated, sinking down abruptly in steep descent; and standing on these heights, we saw below us a great level meadow.
