第46章

Louis.He is a ruffian of the first stamp; bloody and treacherous, without honor or honesty; such at least is the character he bears upon the prairie.Yet in his case all the standard rules of character fail, for though he will stab a man in his sleep, he will also perform most desperate acts of daring; such, for instance, as the following: While he was in the Crow village, a Blackfoot war party, between thirty and forty in number came stealing through the country, killing stragglers and carrying off horses.The Crow warriors got upon their trail and pressed them so closely that they could not escape, at which the Blackfeet, throwing up a semicircular breastwork of logs at the foot of a precipice, coolly awaited their approach.The logs and sticks, piled four or five high, protected them in front.The Crows might have swept over the breastwork and exterminated their enemies; but though out-numbering them tenfold, they did not dream of storming the little fortification.Such a proceeding would be altogether repugnant to their notions of warfare.

Whooping and yelling, and jumping from side to side like devils incarnate, they showered bullets and arrows upon the logs; not a Blackfoot was hurt, but several Crows, in spite of their leaping and dodging, were shot down.In this childish manner the fight went on for an hour or two.Now and then a Crow warrior in an ecstasy of valor and vainglory would scream forth his war song, boasting himself the bravest and greatest of mankind, and grasping his hatchet, would rush up and strike it upon the breastwork, and then as he retreated to his companions, fall dead under a shower of arrows; yet no combined attack seemed to be dreamed of.The Blackfeet remained secure in their intrenchment.At last Jim Beckwith lost patience.

"You are all fools and old women," he said to the Crows; "come with me, if any of you are brave enough, and I will show you how to fight."He threw off his trapper's frock of buckskin and stripped himself naked like the Indians themselves.He left his rifle on the ground, and taking in his hand a small light hatchet, he ran over the prairie to the right, concealed by a hollow from the eyes of the Blackfeet.

Then climbing up the rocks, he gained the top of the precipice behind them.Forty or fifty young Crow warriors followed him.By the cries and whoops that rose from below he knew that the Blackfeet were just beneath him; and running forward, he leaped down the rock into the midst of them.As he fell he caught one by the long loose hair and dragging him down tomahawked him; then grasping another by the belt at his waist, he struck him also a stunning blow, and gaining his feet, shouted the Crow war-cry.He swung his hatchet so fiercely around him that the astonished Blackfeet bore back and gave him room.

He might, had he chosen, have leaped over the breastwork and escaped;but this was not necessary, for with devilish yells the Crow warriors came dropping in quick succession over the rock among their enemies.

The main body of the Crows, too, answered the cry from the front and rushed up simultaneously.The convulsive struggle within the breastwork was frightful; for an instant the Blackfeet fought and yelled like pent-up tigers; but the butchery was soon complete, and the mangled bodies lay piled up together under the precipice.Not a Blackfoot made his escape.

As Paul finished his story we came in sight of Richard's Fort.It stood in the middle of the plain; a disorderly crowd of men around it, and an emigrant camp a little in front.

"Now, Paul," said I, "where are your Winnicongew lodges?""Not come yet," said Paul, "maybe come to-morrow."Two large villages of a band of Dakota had come three hundred miles from the Missouri, to join in the war, and they were expected to reach Richard's that morning.There was as yet no sign of their approach; so pushing through a noisy, drunken crowd, I entered an apartment of logs and mud, the largest in the fort; it was full of men of various races and complexions, all more or less drunk.Acompany of California emigrants, it seemed, had made the discovery at this late day that they had encumbered themselves with too many supplies for their journey.A part, therefore, they had thrown away or sold at great loss to the traders, but had determined to get rid of their copious stock of Missouri whisky, by drinking it on the spot.Here were maudlin squaws stretched on piles of buffalo robes;squalid Mexicans, armed with bows and arrows; Indians sedately drunk;long-haired Canadians and trappers, and American backwoodsmen in brown homespun, the well-beloved pistol and bowie knife displayed openly at their sides.In the middle of the room a tall, lank man, with a dingy broadcloth coat, was haranguing the company in the style of the stump orator.With one hand he sawed the air, and with the other clutched firmly a brown jug of whisky, which he applied every moment to his lips, forgetting that he had drained the contents long ago.Richard formally introduced me to this personage, who was no less a man than Colonel R., once the leader of the party.Instantly the colonel seizing me, in the absence of buttons by the leather fringes of my frock, began to define his position.His men, he said, had mutinied and deposed him; but still he exercised over them the influence of a superior mind; in all but the name he was yet their chief.As the colonel spoke, I looked round on the wild assemblage, and could not help thinking that he was but ill qualified to conduct such men across the desert to California.Conspicuous among the rest stood three tail young men, grandsons of Daniel Boone.They had clearly inherited the adventurous character of that prince of pioneers; but I saw no signs of the quiet and tranquil spirit that so remarkably distinguished him.