Four miles farther on we crossed the Sweetwater River and camped. Near
this point is Independence Rock, a conspicuous, though not a lofty,
granite dome, which has long been a landmark on that trail. It is
mentioned in the chronicles of the first Mormon emigrants, who camped
there June 21, 1847, at which time the names of some persons were found
painted upon one of its cliffs. So far as I can learn, both from written
and oral accounts, it is not now known who gave the Rock its name.
Mention of it by its present name is made in Fremont's reports of his
explorations, also in the reports of the Reverend Samuel Parker, who
visited it in 1835. Again, in 1836, Parker, with his bride, and the
Reverend Marcus Whitman and his bride, paused here on their remarkable
wedding tour, which has become historic. These two young brides appear
to be the first white women that ever crossed the Continent.
Independence Rock, therefore, seems to have been a halting place for all
travelers on the Oregon trail, and was known as such before that pathway
received a name.

CHAPTER XIX

CAMP FIRE YARNS AT THREE CROSSINGS

The Prince of Darkness has been highly honored by the trappers in the
West in the nomenclature of various freaks of nature, in the same
manner, though perhaps not with the same devout spirit, as the names of
saints have been perpetuated by the early Christian fathers, who
established their missions in the southwest along the trail of the
Spanish conquerors.

The names applied to objects often afford a clue to the character of the
men who first applied them. Although no signs of human life or
habitation were visible along this part of the Sweetwater, not only
because of hostile Indians but chiefly because of predatory outlaws, who
were said to live in seclusion in these mountains, this location had won
and maintained a very bad repute. It is, therefore, not strange that the
remarkable cleft in the vast pile of granite through which the rushing
torrent of the Sweetwater here crowds its way, became known as Devil's
Gate. When we saw the dark and massive walls of the shadowy opening
looming upon our right, we were almost prepared to see his Satanic
Majesty or some of his minions emerge from its imposing portals, but as
all seemed to be serene, we might safely conclude that,

        "From his brimstone bed at break of day
        A-walking the Devil is gone,
        To look at his snug, little farm of the World,
        And see how his stock went on--"

This chasm is about six miles from Independence Rock, and there were
believed to be many herds of stolen stock concealed back in the valleys
beyond what would seem to be an eastern spur of the Sweetwater range of
mountains. Ben, Fred, Paul and I undertook an exploration of the summit
of the mountain and also of the gorge, which we entered at the point
from which the stream emerges from the chasm. We followed up the right
bank of the river, clambering over the rocky shore, all of which proved
rather an easy task. From a slight elevation we were able to look
through the entire extent of the chasm, which appeared to be about
twelve hundred feet in length, and varied from four to ten rods in
width. In the narrowest pass it is compressed within walls hardly more
than two rods apart. The sides of the cliffs rise to a height of about
four hundred feet. Why and how the river forced its way through this
isolated, granite cone, seems a mystery, as there is apparently no
obstacle to prevent its flowing undisturbed round the lower borders of
the south slope. Some great convulsion of nature must have split the
mountain through its center and opened this channel. The chasm was
certainly not formed by erosion, for the sides of the cliff expose a
face of grey, weather-stained granite, with perpendicular seams and
scoriated trap rock.

Reaching the narrowest point in the gorge we found it impossible to
proceed further, as the swift, foaming waters of the rapids swept along
the base of the high walls, rushing over and between the broken masses
of rock that had tumbled down, leaving no footing near the banks of the
stream.

At this narrow point we discovered four or five groups of names painted
upon the face of a granite cliff and beneath a low, over-hanging rock
that protected them from the tempest. Among them, neatly printed with
blue ink, were what appeared to be the names of the members of a small
party. The last name in this group was Emily Wheeler and was followed by
the date July, 1864. We thought little more of this young explorer
until, on the following day, while riding a few miles westward beyond
Devil's Gate, my attention was attracted to a small board standing about
a fourth of a mile south of the trail and apparently placed there to
mark the spot. Led by curiosity, I rode through the sage brush and found
upon a little barren knoll a grave at which the board had been squarely
set. Upon this marker painted in blue ink, were the following words: "To
the memory of Emily Wheeler, who died July 19, 1864--age 17 years." It
was the same name, the same month, and the same neat lettering that we
had seen on the cliff and it was printed with the same kind of ink. On
the rocks I remembered having seen below the names and also in blue ink
the word "Illinois." We, therefore, inferred that the party came from
that state. There were crowded into those few words painted in blue the
outlines of a sad story. They fairly illustrated an experience that
befell nearly every party of emigrants, who in those days made the long
and hazardous trip across that country. Some one without doubt knows the
rest of the story of Emily Wheeler and the different circumstances under
which the two inscriptions were written. It would appear that her
friends were compelled to leave her in that far away wilderness, over
which the Arapahoe hunted his game, where,

        "No tears embalm her tomb,
          None but the dews by twilight given,
        Where not a sigh disturbs the gloom,
          None but the whispering winds of heaven."

The Sweetwater River becomes smooth and placid immediately after it
emerges from the Devil's Gate, flowing on quietly through picturesque
scenery. Westward from this point the granite ridges rise from the
northern bank of the river in rugged cliffs. The country in general,
while very interesting, is barren, the chief vegetation being the
artemesia or wild sage, which in those parts is found growing to a large
size, so as to furnish very good fuel.

On the evening of July 26, 1866, we camped at Three Crossings, forty-two
miles west of Platte Bridge. Within a few rods it was necessary to ford
the rapidly running Sweetwater three times. The number of these
crossings doubtless gave rise to the name by which this place seems to
have been known. It was also recognized as one of the most dangerous
sections of the western country for peaceful travelers, by reason not
only of the frequent attacks of Indians, but also of the fact that bands
of white thieves and robbers had made their headquarters near there
somewhere in the mountains, and were quite as much to be feared as were
the savages. In 1865 William F. Cody (who became known as Buffalo Bill)
accepted this precarious route as a stage driver, and here met with some
of the experiences that contributed to his fame.

In the following season, the year of our trip, the stages were
transferred to the southern route on account of these frequent Indian
raids and attacks of robbers. On one trip, near Three Crossings, Cody
sustained an attack of several hundred Sioux. The Division Agent sat
upon the box of the stage with Cody. There were also seven passengers
inside the stage, all well armed, as was almost the invariable custom.
Cody applied the lash to the horses, amid a shower of arrows, some
piercing the stage, some wounding the frightened animals. The agent who
sat with Cody was also dangerously wounded. The men inside the box kept
themselves busy with their rifles and revolvers from their less exposed
position, and as the stage rattled over the rocky road brought a few of
the savages low and held the enemy at bay. It was a running fight in
which the bleeding and terrified horses fully bore their part. Cody was
able to reach Three Crossings, where men at the station joined in the
fight and forced the Indians to fall back. I am informed by Colonel Cody
that this is the event which in the earlier days of his Wild West show
he endeavored to picture in as realistic a manner as possible, with a
score of tamed red men with repeating rifles.

After our supper a few of us forded the river and climbed some distance
up into the mountain, obtaining a fine view of the country and
incidentally creating no little diversion by rolling huge, detached
rocks found on the edge of the cliffs in terrific and resistless course
down to the valley beneath. A young man from Creighton's outfit, no more
than sixteen years of age, accompanied us, and finally at parting
announced that he would return by a different path from that which we
were taking. The days at that season of the year being long, we
concluded the day's journey before sunset. Dropping down to rest, after
reaching camp, we heard a voice faintly sounding, as if from the sky. It
came from the youth, who was still far up the mountain side and that
moment in the full light of the setting sun. He was evidently seeking to
attract our attention to his perilous position, for he was poised at a
dizzy height, several hundred feet above us on a very slight projection,
where he appeared like a moving speck. From his point of observation he
was unable to decide upon the safest course for descent. The air being
very still, his friends from across the river were able to advise him as
to the difficulties below him. His voice could be heard distinctly from
the distance. In his descent, his garments had already been torn to
shreds as the result of sliding down the rough rocks, and now, as he
informed us, the soles of his boots were so slippery that he could not
retain his footing. The boots were soon rattling down the cliffs. Plans
were made to secure a rope, which might be lowered to him from above,
leaving one end fastened at a higher point. The night, however, was fast
coming. Watchers, who could do little for him, expected at almost any
moment to see his body tumble down the cliffs. The youth was favored by
the twilight, long after he was lost to our sight in the dim shadows. It
was some time after dark when friends bore the little fellow across the
river, where others quickly gathered. He was bleeding and torn. The
flesh on the soles of his feet was worn nearly to the bone. Although
physically almost a wreck, he had such youthful vigor as in a few days
put him again on duty.

When the night closed upon us, our camps were pitched along the south
bank of the clear Sweetwater River. At the west, the campfire of
Creighton's train lighted up a little circle, around which were gathered
the drivers, except such as were standing guard for the stock. In our
camp nearby, the tin plates had been retired and Deacon Cobb and some
others of the older members of the party had gone to bed early to keep
warm; for the night, although bright and beautiful, was cool.

Having in mind some extravagance in the use of fuel, Ben, Fred, and I
had harvested a good supply of sage brush, which we turned in at the
Warne camp with the view of making the evening as cheerful as possible.
Everything there was in readiness, when we chanced to meet Tom Soon and
succeeded in leading him down to the big fire, where welcome was
accorded him and the seat of honor, on the end of an empty water keg.
During a little preliminary conversation, and as if settling down to the
peaceful enjoyment of his comfortable environment, he mechanically drew
out his tobacco pouch and slowly filled his pipe, lighting it with a
burning stick found near the edge of the fire.

Mr. Warne was half reclining upon some robes, his three daughters
nestling very close to him, and his wife, in a more dignified position,
occupied a camp chair nearby. The rest of our party completed the
circle. From time to time one would tell a story and others would hum a
tune, while all watched the changing pictures in the fire or a sudden
flash of light from the burning sticks which now and then, for a moment,
illuminated the figures in the circle.

We were anxious to hear more from Tom, and finally when he had concluded
a graphic description of a war-dance which he had recently witnessed,
one of the young ladies said, "Mr. Soon, can you tell us why Indian
warriors wear so many feathers and decorate their heads in so grand a
fashion, while their women dress more simply? Does it not seem
childish?"

"Well," Tom replied, "Indians are creatures who follow their tribal
fashions, but their fashions don't change very much. An incident now
comes to my mind that shows how the fashions of others sometimes impress
the Red Man and also an old fellow like me, when those fashions are seen
for the first time. Two or three years ago, Billy Comstock, the scout,
and I were instructed to talk with some Ogallalla Chiefs, and arrange
to have them visit Washington City and see the Great Father, President
Lincoln. It was believed that if they could learn from personal
observation that the country was great and powerful, they would not wish
longer to fight the whites. Well, we induced them to go, so I went with
them and the Indian Agent as far as St. Louis. We stayed over night at
the Planter's House, in that city. I had been out West a long time and
was almost as green as the Indians were, concerning the existing
fashions and customs of civilized people. Well, we got rooms for them,
but what does a wild Indian know about a bed? Of course the blankets
were all over the floor and so were the Chiefs. They couldn't get into a
bed any more than they could use the things on the table. They thought
the pillows were the funniest things they ever saw. One of the Indians
was astonished on approaching a big looking glass. He thought he saw a
warrior that he had never seen before coming right at him. But what do
you think they did when they saw the women on the street? It was about
that time when women began to wear big dresses and hooped skirts. I had
never myself seen such dresses until then. They didn't wear them when I
was a boy. The Indians were starting up the sidewalk through the crowd,
in a sort of single file as they generally do, and three fine women came
along wearing those big dresses and grand bonnets on their heads. Of
course the women didn't realize how strange they appeared to us, but
they were interested in the Indians and stopped to look at the Chiefs
who wore blankets and big feathers. The Indians were also interested in
the women, and they stopped in front of the ladies, who wore skirts
almost big enough for tents, and strange feathers in their bonnets. For
a minute both parties looked at each other's toggery.

"The Indians were astonished to see the women so big around and wearing
such gorgeous things on their heads. Of course the ladies quickly looked
the Indians all over at a glance, just as they would at any curious
thing in a show, and as they have a right to, and they especially looked
at the feathers on the Indians' heads. At the same time the Chiefs, who
were equally interested in the ladies' dresses, almost surrounded the
women, before they realized the situation. You know that an Indian feels
that it is proper to examine carefully anything that interests him. The
Indians do that when they come into our cabins, in fact, it is their
custom, so they proceeded at once to examine the ladies' wardrobe very
carefully, before the ladies realized that they themselves were also
objects of interest; but the Indians did not go very far in their
investigation, for the women gave a yell loud enough for any Sioux and
broke into a run. Some of the white people's fashions seem to be as
ridiculous to the wild Indian as theirs are to you, and may be more so,
for you see pictures of other people, and the Indians do not."

"That's all right, Tom," said Mr. Warne, "fashion is sometimes only a
freak."

An old fellow with a big red mustache, whose name I failed to obtain,
but who was addressed as Conk, standing somewhat in the background,
overheard Tom's story. At its conclusion, he broke in with a
remark--"Say, Tom, don't you remember about that Assiniboine Wi-jun-jun,
the son of the Chief, who went to Washington?"

"Yes, of course I do," was the reply, "but let's have it."

We all called for the story, and as nearly as can be given from
memoranda that I took at the time, his talk ran like this:

"I ain't much on telling stories," (said the trapper) "but some of
these young Indian bucks are about as much dandies as any of the white
folks. You know Major Sanford was the Indian Agent for the Assiniboine
tribe, and as a lot of chiefs from other tribes were going down the
Missouri to go to see the President in Washington, he went for
Wi-jun-jun, because he was tall and wore more feathers and put on more
d--d style with his people than any other Injun on the river."

"Don't swear, Conk," interjected Tom.

"Excuse me, ladies,--but as I was saying, he would go around on the
steamboat when he was going down the river, so the people and the other
Injuns would look at him just as fine dressed white men do when they
think they are better than common folks. But he was a d--d good fighter!
Excuse my swearing, ladies.

"Well, he got to Washington with the rest of 'em and thought he was a
devil of a fellow, when everybody, men and women, looked at him,--more'n
they did at the rest of 'em. He and the rest of 'em were took aroun' to
see the ships and the cannon and they went to the theatre, and he sot
where everybody could see him. They knew the Injuns were going to be
there, but that d--d fool--excuse my swearin,' ladies--that d--d fool
thought he was a devil of a fellow. He felt bigger than ever when they
wanted his clothes and feathers to hang up in some show place there, so
he let'em have'em in trade for some American soldiers' clothes made for
a general,--and the Agent agreed to let him wear his Injun clothes until
he got back as far as St. Louis.

"They boarded the first steamboat that Mr. Chouteau sent up the river
that spring, and Sanford went with 'em and took Wi-jun-jun into his room
on the boat, and helped him change his clothes, for how in hell--excuse
my swearing, ladies--could an Injun get into a general's clothes, and
get 'em on right?

"After a while when he came out on deck, he had on a blue broadcloth
general's coat, with high collar and with gilt epaulets on the
shoulders, and a tall beaver hat. He had on a belt with a big sword, and
he had on long-top high-heeled boots. He had learned on this trip to
smoke cigars, and Sanford brought him out and was as solemn as a
funeral, and Wi-jun-jun was smoking a cigar, and marched out on deck
with all that toggery on. The sword got between his legs and his hat was
on the back of his head and his long black hair hung down behind. There
wasn't only a few white passengers on the steamboat and they got tired
of him pretty soon, but when they all got to the Yellowstone, of course,
Major Sanford and his Injuns got off at their town, and that
cuss--excuse my swearing, ladies--that d--d cuss walked up through their
village and for awhile wouldn't look at any of 'em--even his wife. But
Sanford had give him two bottles of whiskey, and they both stuck out of
his split-tail coat pockets, and pretty soon he commenced on the
whiskey. The next day the sleeves of his coat were on his wife's legs
for leggins, which she thought was pretty fine, and the gold lace of his
clothes were on women in the tribe, and the epaulet things were in their
hair, and the dandy purty soon hadn't a d--d thing left--excuse my
swearing, ladies--but I hear'n you talking about how feathers looked to
you on an Injun and I thought of that d--d Assinboine--excuse my
swearing, ladies; I've got so use to it out here I can't help it. The
thing is, he had shown himself off in soldiers' clothes and don't you
see, ladies, that an Injun must wear Injuns' clothes or he looks
like--well, I came purty near swearing,--but Injun clothes and feathers
are all right for Injuns, but ain't worth a damn for white people."

The trapper bit a big piece from his plug of tobacco, while he received
favorable expressions concerning the history, which he had given and
yet--

        "Jack was embarrassed--never hero more--
        And as he knew not what to say--he swore."

Many years after our party camped near Red Buttes, the writer discovered
in the second volume of Elliot Coues' notes on _Forty Years a Fur
Trader_, a brief description of the visit of Wi-jun-jun to Washington
and the gift to him of the general's outfit. The portrait of the
warrior-dude is preserved in the Catlin collection.

The mild profanity with which the tale was decorated can hardly be
omitted without robbing it of its peculiar western flavor. Dan Trippe,
who had been listening, finally said, "Mr. Soon, you referred a moment
ago to Billy Comstock. Some of us also knew him very well. A few years
ago Comstock was well known in Colorado."

"He was," replied Tom, "and he helped might'ly in that Sand Creek
affair. Of course, we know him as Buffalo Bill."

Tom was asked to tell about that fight. "I know all about it," he
replied, "but I don't know as it's right to tell the women about these
Indian scalpings." Tom was assured that when women were out where things
were going on, they were no more nervous than men were. They all had
guns and ought to know the true condition of things.

"All right," said Tom. "Well, it was like this. A year ago last August
the Indians began a series of raids, going for everything and everybody
along the stage route from Julesburg _east_. I think they cleaned out
every ranch and attacked every train and stage that passed in that two
hundred and fifty or three hundred miles. More than forty people were
killed by them. The most severe fight was at Liberty Farm, east of Fort
Kearney near where you crossed the Little Blue River. There was a small
train of wagons loaded with goods for George Tritch of Denver. The
entire party of whites were killed, including a stage driver and the
station keeper, and there was a young woman there named Mrs. Eubanks,
and her child, whom they did not then kill, and the Indians run them
off, and that is really what brought on the Sand Creek Battle. The
Indians were Arapahoes. The people of Denver were greatly excited when
the news reached there. Before his train was attacked Tritch had heard
of the troubles, and having so many valuable goods coming along that
line he talked with Colonel Chivington, and they arranged with Billy
Comstock and Oliver Wiggins to go out at once, and ascertain where the
Indians were, and what they were then planning to do. Billy went down
the Republican River and Wiggins went down the Platte. They were good
scouts and spoke Arapahoe well. Billy had been interpreter for the
government several times. He knew many of the Chiefs. Billy's route was
away from the line of travel. He overtook a large party of Arapahoes
quite a way down the Republican, and after he had watched their
movements for awhile, he run up to the Platte and reported, and then he
went back and had a talk with the Indians. He kept watch on that band,
but it was another party of Indians who made the raid that I have told
of. After the Liberty Farm massacre, Comstock and Wiggins with a few
soldiers from the Plum Creek Station started out and followed the
Indians southward and overtook them. They saw the young woman riding
behind Chief Two Face, and then Billy and his soldiers had a fight with
the Indians, but the soldiers were greatly outnumbered and lost most of
their horses.

"In November, Colonel Chivington started out with his forces and after
one long night march, the scouts led them to Sand Creek, where they
surrounded the Indian village and then the fight was on. It was a
slaughter. Chivington said to his soldiers, 'Nits make lice,' which
meant that it was a battle to the finish, and that they need not stop
with the old Indians; women and children were to be killed as well.

"Some people criticized Colonel Chivington very bitterly, declaring that
this warfare was brutal and uncivilized, but the people of Denver gave
him a gold mounted rifle as a token of their good will. The Chief and
three or four others escaped in the night with Mrs. Eubanks and they
were caught later and strung up. The queerest thing about the hanging
was that the Colonel of the troops who caught the Chiefs telegraphed to
General Connor, in command of the department, that he had the devils in
chains. General Connor replied, 'Then hang them in chains,' and it was
done mighty quick. In a little time the Colonel received another message
from General Connor, instructing him to bring the scoundrels to
Julesburg, because he had decided to give them a trial. The Colonel
telegraphed back to the effect that he 'obeyed his first message before
he received the second.'"

When Tom had finished this recital, the camp fires had nearly all gone
out on the shore of the river, and the bright moon was lighting up the
southern slopes of the Sweetwater Mountains. Through the stillness of
the night was heard the occasional bark of a few coyotes and its echo
reflected from the adjacent mountain-side. Our party separated and
slowly wandered along the river to their respective camps. The manner in
which Cody wrested from Comstock the sobriquet Buffalo Bill, has been
explained in another chapter.

CHAPTER XX

A SPECTACULAR BUFFALO CHASE

Except perhaps a sudden view of the blue waters of the broad ocean, few
things in nature are more inspiring to the pilgrim who has plodded his
way across our barren plains than is the first glimpse of some towering
peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Riding my horse in advance of the train,
which on an exceedingly hot July day was toiling up a long and difficult
sandy grade, I reached a flat summit from which there suddenly and
unexpectedly burst upon my view the entire panorama of the lofty peaks
of the Wind River range, from Fremont Peak to South Pass. They were
"crowned with a diadem of snow," but were not "in a robe of clouds," for
not a speck of mist was visible in any direction. The mountains in all
their detail stood out against the blue sky with wonderful clearness and
it seemed as if they were not ten miles away. I may have been unduly
excited, but in calling to those below me, who were next in advance, I
shouted that the snow mountains were in sight. One after another of the
party soon arrived at the summit, and being considerably heated after
the climb they had made under the sharp rays of the sun, some of the men
insisted that the brilliant white on the distant peaks was not snow. As
one driver put it, "Do you think I'm a fool, to think that snow wouldn't
melt in hot weather like this?" This man from the prairie did not
appreciate the towering height of those far away peaks. On the following
morning we were informed that they were still thirty miles away, and
after two more days of travel, we were told that even then Fremont Peak
was nearly one hundred miles beyond us. Fred accordingly declared that
we should never reach it unless we turned back in the other direction,
because the longer we traveled toward it, the further it was away.

[Illustration: THE ROCKIES]

The day after we obtained our first view of Fremont Peak, we knew that
we were near a certain strange freak of nature known as Ice Springs. Its
location is carefully noted on the old charts, and it is described in
the reports of numerous explorers and travelers. In every description of
the springs that I had read or heard, it was stated that at any time of
the year, even in the late summer, a solid mass of ice could be found
within a foot of the surface. We determined to see this remarkable
phenomenon. The springs lie near the foothill on the edge of a somewhat
extensive area of swampy ground from which no water issues on the
surface. Digging down a spade's depth we reached the white crystal and
found it to be cold enough to answer all requirements, but it was so
hard and the superimposed mud was so deep, that it seemed hardly worth
the effort to obtain a block under such difficulties. We reported to our
friends as had been done to us by former travelers that solid ice was
there, and endeavored to explain to each other by what processes ice
could be formed on an open plain during hot summer days, but never
arrived at a satisfactory solution of the problem. Professor W. H. Reed,
of the University of Wyoming, has finally come to my assistance and
exploded the "ice" theory _in toto_. Having learned of the generally
accepted belief that natural ice is formed in those springs, he made
the matter the subject of personal investigation and informs me that
"the springs show what appears to be ice, but what in reality is soda
and gypsum. The so-called ice springs yield a bitter water; this is
because of the dissolving of the gypsum, one of the lime deposits." The
springs like many frauds in other lands are very interesting to the
deluded seeker of curiosities and marvels, but it causes a shock to
learn that this midsummer ice is a fiction. The gypsum resembles soda
and also salt and ice. And thus is our popular delusion dispelled!

A few rods west of the springs we observed two or three small ponds of
water, which were exceedingly bitter to the taste. The surrounding soil
was covered thickly with a saline efflorescence. Beyond the springs, we
reached a creek that was strongly impregnated with sulphur. On the dry
plain adjacent I discovered the finest specimens of petrifaction I have
ever seen. They were evidently sections of red cedar and were nearly
transparent. Here and there lying upon the ground were carcasses of
buffaloes, which, though they had doubtless lain there for many weeks
under the direct rays of a midsummer sun, gave no evidence of
decomposition, but such portions as had not been removed by the wolves
were preserved and dried solid in the pure air, in which there were no
germs of decay. Availing themselves of this property, the Indians and
trappers preserve meat by hanging it up to dry in the sun.

During the day, members of the party despatched an antelope, two jack
rabbits, and a few healthy rattlesnakes; and they reported that they saw
Indians sneaking up a distant ravine.

Truly interesting was this land of wonders, which we are hardly
justified in calling "Wyoming" in this description, because there was
no territory having that name until 1886.

One of those bright days, when the train had 'laid by' to give the stock
a rest, Ben and I strolled out on foot for a hunt. After wandering a few
hours over treeless hills and into dry valleys, we began to suffer
severely from thirst. We changed our course from time to time, allured
by indications of any distant ravine along the bottom of which might
creep a rivulet. We were invariably disappointed. As our travel had at
all times carried us away from the trail, we soon realized that many
hours must pass before we could again find relief in our camp. One
little diversion temporarily turned our thoughts from our personal
discomforts. We were standing above a narrow ravine counseling together
as to our future course when we heard the report of a rifle shot coming
from an unseen point up the valley, possibly a mile distant. We were not
previously aware of the presence of any other person in that vicinity
nor did we learn who fired the shot. It was evidently directed toward a
herd of antelopes, for in a few seconds about a dozen of the graceful
beasts came sweeping toward us along the bottom of the ravine. I had
seen many herds of antelopes skimming over the plains, usually in the
distance, but never before nor since that time have I beheld such poetry
of motion or such remarkable speed in an animal as was exhibited by
those frightened creatures. Along the valley were numerous dense clumps
of sage brush six or seven feet in height and in some cases covering
rather a large area. These obstacles did not seem to retard the flight
of the airy creatures in the slightest degree. Bunched closely together,
the antelopes fairly sailed over one obstruction after another with
wonderful ease and grace, never touching a twig and always alighting
upon all four feet; and again springing from all fours they bounded
swiftly onward, glancing like arrows over the next patch of sage brush.
One quick and seemingly light touch now and then upon the earth was all
that was needed to send them onward. As they approached the point where
we stood, each of us fired a shot at them, but we were too slow for
their movements. Much has been written concerning the gazelle, the
springbok, the chamois, and other congeners of this beautiful animal,
but there appears to be no definite information concerning the maximum
speed of the antelope of our plains, which is known by zoologists as the
pronghorn antelope. The opportunity was afforded us to witness from a
favorable position but a few rods distant a wonderful burst of speed,
which in our judgment would have left the swiftest race horse quickly
out of sight. When this swiftly moving picture had vanished we
shouldered our rifles for the long tramp toward the train.

Hardly a day had passed during the few preceding weeks in which we had
not seen herds of antelopes and black-tailed deer, but our approach
toward antelopes was usually discovered by them very quickly and a few
rapid bounds put them beyond reach of our rifles, where they would
sometimes suddenly turn, and with long, sleek ears tipped forward and
large eyes turned toward the source of danger often remain to watch the
closer approach of the hunter. Paul Beemer was our most accomplished
sportsman and his patience was occasionally rewarded.

When we started upon our return from the long wanderings of the day to
which I have referred, we realized that a drink of cool water would have
been more welcome than an antelope would have been. As our course
outward had been tortuous, without any objective point in view, and had
carried us possibly eight miles from camp, our knowledge of plainscraft
was fully tested, for the camp was pitched in a little valley invisible
from any point forty rods distant. Many of the ravines were dry runs,
down which the water evidently had flowed in time of storms, but in the
sides of many of them were exposed strata of alkali several feet in
thickness. We finally observed in the distance the glistening of water
in a broad, sandy valley and changed our course to reach it. It proved
to be one of those remarkable water courses common in parts of that
country, where a stream filters along beneath the dry quicksand and here
and there appears for a short distance at the surface, but it would have
been impossible to dip the tiniest cup of water from it, for the sand
instantly refilled the slightest depression made in it. A strainer of
fine cloth might possibly have prevented one from drinking sand. There
was, indeed, an opportunity to moisten our lips, but wet sand is an
unsatisfactory beverage at best. The water was found to be strongly
alkaline, therefore unfit to quench thirst--an unpleasant disappointment
on a hot day in the midst of a hot, arid plain.

        "Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
        What treasures exist in the cold, deep well.
        Sink in despair on the red, parched earth,
        And then we may reckon what water is worth."

This water famine of only eight or nine hours was comparatively a small
matter, but it impressed us with the fact of our constant dependence
upon the simple things of life. When we had found our camp and satisfied
our thirst from the old water keg we discovered with pleasure that Paul,
who went out as usual alone on horseback, had brought in an antelope,
which, of course, furnished us steak for supper.

Paul's success, however, was eclipsed on the following day. It was July
29th. Driving Pete's fine four-horse team in advance of the train, and
while passing along the summit of an elevated ridge commanding an
extended view over a broad valley on our left, I discovered a dark,
moving object three or four miles distant, toward the furthest limit of
that depression. The field-glass disclosed the fact that it was a
solitary buffalo. The train was halted. Although tens of thousands of
these magnificent animals were at close range later on my return, this
was the first buffalo thus far seen on our trip that was near enough to
justify the hunt. Fresh meat was needed, and every one was eager for any
excitement. It was therefore determined that Ben, Fred, and Mr. Alsop,
the Captain of Creighton's train, should enter the chase. Hasty
preparations to that end were accordingly made.

Intense excitement was manifested not only by the spectators but by our
chosen representatives while the trio belted their waists, tightened
their saddle girths, examined their firearms, discarded their
waistcoats, slung aside their hats, and otherwise prepared for the
coming encounter--in all of which they received willing assistance. At
the last moment Dan Trippe, the Nestor of our group on all such
occasions, stood beside his wagon with uncovered head and in an earnest
manner from his unfailing knowledge gave the boys some parting words of
advice and admonition. He briefly instructed them in the habits of the
American Bison, (_Bos Americanus_) its mode of defense and its sudden
attacks. He carefully informed them in what part of the body the leaden
missile would be most likely to prove effective and where it would
strike as harmlessly as a feather. Thus duly prepared for the chase,
the boys, as had been arranged, rode rapidly round the valley to the
right. Captain Alsop turned to the left and soon disappeared from sight.
The plan agreed upon was to out-flank the buffalo from both sides and
start the chase toward the train. Nothing could have been planned to
produce a more spectacular contest. The affair was to occur in a
magnificent natural amphitheater the floor of which was comparatively
level, and the spectators occupied a remarkably favorable position upon
the elevated ridge at one end of the ellipse, commanding a fine view of
the entire field. Stretched along in the distance at our right were the
snow-clad peaks of the Wind River Range. In scenic effect it was hardly
inferior to the site of the amphitheater in Taormina, where Mount Etna
at the south and the Snow Mountains across the straits of Messina once
added to the interest of the sports in the arena. All agreed that such
opportunities were very uncommon. In about thirty minutes nearly every
watcher at the same moment observed the boys emerging from a ravine
along which they had entered the valley and about one-third of a mile
beyond their game. Every spectator was as intent on witnessing what was
to follow as if in the ring at a bull fight in Old Madrid. At the same
moment the buffalo also caught his first glimpse of his pursuers. Then
followed a demonstration which some of the older hunters declared that
they had never before witnessed. The animal, which proved to be an
unusually large bull buffalo, turned toward the horsemen and as if in
defiance gave an angry shake of his massive head; then dropping upon the
ground rolled entirely over three times as if to warm himself to the
approaching combat, and all as nimbly as would a kitten and with a
celerity of movement marvelous in so large an animal. With one angry
bellow he started toward the hills. At that moment Captain Alsop rode
rapidly into the arena and would soon have met the bull but the animal
instantly turned directly toward the train and the chase was on. For
about two miles the boys, yelling like Cheyenne Indians, and with hair
flying in the wind, pursued the monster, now and then sending a bullet
in advance from their repeating rifles. Though directed somewhat at
random, some of the shots took effect. The animal's big red tongue,
covered with foam, soon began to protrude from the mass of shaggy hair,
which enveloped the bison's head. His speed slackened, and soon two of
the riders were at his side. Here for convenience the boys used their
Colt's revolvers. The animal gave a desperate and vicious plunge at one
of the riders, fell upon his knees, and rolled heavily upon the ground.
Prolonged cheers arose from the excited spectators. A few of us ran out
to inspect the game and congratulate the sportsmen. A bullet from Ben's
rifle had reached the animal's heart, but to our surprise we found
fragments of two bullets which had struck his head, but had not
penetrated through the shaggy mass of hair. Each bullet had separated
into fragments of lead, appearing as if melted by the impact against the
cushion of hair, which was filled with sand. When the animal was turned
upon his back, his fore hoofs rose to a height of more than six feet.
About four hundred pounds of meat was cut (chiefly from the hump, which
is the choicest part of the animal) and was taken in a wagon to camp.
Deacon Cobb and Noah Gillespie did not come down to greet the hunters,
therefore Ben and Fred practiced upon them a bit of deception. They
stained the nostrils of their horses with the fresh blood of the victim
of the chase, and then the weary animals were led to camp, which it was
necessary to pitch nearby on account of the delay. Both the Deacon and
Noah were careful observers of horses, and a glance at the returning
steeds revealed evidence of severe treatment. The blood, coming
apparently from the nostrils, was, however, something extraordinary.
Noah called our attention to the proofs of over-driving, which he
regarded as criminal. Deacon Cobb was summoned and with Noah gave the
animals a careful inspection. A driver from the big train was also
brought in and the limbs of the horses were examined, the chest was
tested, and the driver gave it as his expert opinion that some blood
vessel had "busted," an opinion in which Noah seemed to concur.

Noah was kept in ignorance of the deception practiced, and so seriously
did he regard the offense that Dan said, "When Noah passes to the other
side he will immediately ask to see the books and ascertain how the
crime in question had been passed upon by the higher courts." Neither
Fred nor Ben was ever disposed to be irreverent, but Fred added that if
Noah should ever be permitted to see the books he would doubtless find
that judgment was entered with a full knowledge of the facts in the
case, a plan not always adopted in decisions rendered on the plains.

Since leaving the Missouri River, each day had seen us at a little
higher altitude than that of the preceding day. The nights were chill,
the cold being doubtless intensified somewhat by proximity of the snowy
range. A trapper stated that it had snowed daily on the East slope from
the 7th to the 14th of July. On the 30th of the month we suddenly
encountered immense swarms of Rocky Mountain locusts, with which for two
days we were surrounded. All of them were moving eastward, and many of
them, sailing along blindly, struck us squarely in the face.

Some of the horses with the train became affected by drinking water that
was strongly impregnated with alkali. The remedy adopted was to force
down the animal's throat a piece of fat bacon; the stomach, becoming a
sort of chemical laboratory, converted the bacon and alkali into soap,
which was considered less harmful than pure soda.

On the night before reaching the pass, the peaks of the Wind River Range
rose grandly in the northwest. Their dip is toward the west. The eastern
faces are abrupt and the peaks are sharp, appearing from the south as if
the strata on that slope had been rent asunder and the edge to the west
of the fissure had been lifted toward the sky, leaving the ragged fault
exposed toward the east, with the surface sloping more gradually toward
the west. A magnificent range, and a most inspiring mountain view to us
camping in sight of the pass.

It had been half a century since Robert Stuart and his party, in
carrying despatches to John Jacob Astor, discovered this pass after
suffering great privations. From the distance it seemed now as bleak and
desolate as it ever could have been. The night being cold with a heavy
frost, we secured enough sage brush for a moderate camp fire. As we were
quietly warming ourselves by the flickering blaze, a voice from outside
the circle broke in unexpectedly with the words, "I hear'n your boy Fred
say after they killed the buffalo and they were twittin' him about
bustin' his horse's blood-vessels that mebbe they wanted to hang him
before they knowed much about it." After this introduction the speaker
roared out with a hearty laugh.

"Well, what were you going to say about it?" said Dan.

"Well, I'll tell you," he replied. "It's like a case down on Poison
Spider Creek. There was some fellows down there that they thought were
stealin' horses. A train was coming along there and the captain of it
lost two horses and he jest made up his mind who got 'em, and there
wasn't no guessing about it neither, so he and his crowd made up their
minds that they was the law. They went down to the fellow's camp and
before the thieves could get out their guns the train men got 'em tight
and run 'em off and got 'em up the creek where there was a tree, and
hung 'em both. After awhile one of the herders found the horses off in
the hills and brought 'em in and they were sure they hadn't been run off
by the fellows either. Then they found that one of the fellows had a
wife that they hadn't known about, and that she had heard that her man
had been hung for stealing horses that he hadn't stole at all, so the
captain who hung the fellows went over to where the woman was to fix
things right with her and make her feel better. They didn't want to do a
dirty trick."

"You mean," said Dan, "that they went to sympathize with the widow and
give her consolation."

"Yes, that's it. And the captain said to her, 'Missis, it is our
mistake, and the joke is on us.' They found the woman couldn't take a
joke, but she went for her gun and put a bullet in the captain. Now, I
thought that this fellow that you call Noah oughtn't to kill these boys
for hurting the horses in that chase until he knows the horses are hurt.
I guess the joke is on Noah." Then he laughed a big "ha! ha!" at the
same time punching a nearby driver in the ribs. "Noah, Noah," he
pronounced, in a slow, drawling tone as he moved onward, "seems to me
I've heard of him before."

"That's a good-natured fellow," said Tom, as he drifted up toward the
little fire, "and the story he told is pretty nearly true, but it does
not match the experiences of Jack Slade, who managed the stage route
this side of Julesburg."

"We have heard so much of Slade," said Ben, "that we should like to know
more about him."

"Oh! everybody in this country knows about Slade. There are said to be
fully a hundred graves near Julesburg in which are buried the worst
characters in the country, and Jack killed a great many of them. Jules
Reni for whom Julesburg was named, was one of his first victims. Reni
was as hard a character as Slade. The fact is that along this road there
have been here and there for several years the headquarters of
desperadoes who are worse than the Indians. The story which Bob has told
you concerning the horse thief's wife reminds me of an experience with
Jack Slade's wife. Jack had become a terror to the country, and
everybody was afraid of him because he was a quick, dead shot, and his
revolver was his usual argument in case of any difference. A lot of men
finally laid for Jack and decided to lynch him. Watching patiently for
their opportunity, they caught him asleep and secured his guns. Instead
of stringing him up at once, they locked him up in a log room and stood
guard around it until they could bring others to participate in the
ceremonies. Jack assumed that everything was all up with him, so he
urged that they send for his wife that he might see her once more and
make his dying confessions. In the goodness of their hearts this one
last wish was granted, for they were satisfied that Jack would die game.
He was a bold and brave though a bad man in life, and would surely be
square in his last hour. The wife was notified and coming quickly,
mounted upon a fine horse, without being searched she was admitted to
the room where Jack was confined. Before the door had been closed she
whipped out revolvers for two, and defying the crowd the woman marched
Slade to the horse she had brought, upon which both of them quickly
mounted, keeping their guns at all times leveled with the threat that
the first one of his captors that moved was a dead man. The business was
done so quickly that Slade and his helpmate were soon out of reach. The
party was afraid of Slade with a gun. This occurred on the Rocky Ridge
division which you came over and where the stages ran last year until
they were taken off on account of the Indian troubles. Jack for a time
had charge of that run for the Overland. He came from Clinton County,
Illinois."

Noah had been poking the sage brush fire into renewed life; then
crossing his hands behind his coat tails and backing close to the
reviving embers he said, "That story that Bob told a few minutes ago
brings to mind the remark which some of us heard made by one of that
gang back on the road who sold to Dan the corn, which was to be
delivered to him on arrival at Julesburg. I guess some of you know that
Dan isn't much afraid of anybody, so when he found that the rascals were
trying to swindle him on the corn, Dan, holding a club in his hand said
to their boss, 'You are a horse thief and a liar.' 'Well,' said the
fellow, 'may be that's all right, but do you know anything against my
reputation for honesty?'"

"Our party remembers that very well," said Fred. "Dan told the truth and
got his corn."

A number of incidents of border life were related by the little fire,
but the night was cold and the ground was freezing. Taking our army
overcoats and blankets, Paul and I found a protected spot and retired
beneath the open sky. If such a brilliant starlight night should come
but once in one's life, it would thenceforth be a matter of constant
remembrance as a scene of beauty and grandeur. Until the morning sun
shone in our faces, we slept undisturbed.

CHAPTER XXI

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS

The picturesque red-sandstone cliffs of Red Buttes and the
granite-ribbed range of the Sweetwater Mountains were left behind us.
Slowly our train climbed up the gentle grade to South Pass. But this
thoroughfare over the backbone of the continent proved to be a
disappointment, as it failed to present the striking characteristics of
a mountain pass. In one respect, at least, its top is not unlike the
North Pole, for it is admitted by Arctic explorers (Cook and Peary of
course, always excepted) that they find it impossible to locate the
Boreal end of the earth with exactness. Similarly the transient through
South Pass is unable to determine within several miles where his pathway
is actually at its highest point. An expansive though shallow depression
is found where the summit ought to be, both east and west of which, as
we follow the trail, lies a broad, level plateau, and it would be
impossible without an instrument to ascertain which side is the higher.
On both sides the approaches to the Pass are very easy grades, each
merging almost imperceptibly into the table land of the broad summit. To
the south, along this great divide, the surface rises step by step and
many miles further away in the distance it continues on in smoothly
rounded mountain billows. To the north the ascent is also gradual, until
twenty-five miles from the trail there rises the base of Atlantic Peak,
which is the great southern spur of the bold and rugged Wind River
Range. From the slopes of this range issue the remotest tributaries of
the Sweetwater River, the stream we had been following. We saw not even
a rivulet upon the highland known as South Pass, the flow of which would
mark the watershed. Finally we reached Pacific Spring, a diminutive
fountain whence a scanty flow of water, oozing from the mud, crept along
for a time slowly to the westward. We then knew that we had crossed the
great Continental Divide. Here we pitched our tent, and further down the
brook the other outfits camped. Although the altitude is but seventy-six
hundred feet, the ground froze at night. Some of the snow from the
recent storm, which was said to have lain fourteen inches in depth a few
days before, still remained on all the lands above the pass. The country
for miles around was bleak and destitute even of sage bush. From a small
cedar log which we had transported a long distance to meet such an
emergency, we chipped a few splinters to build our fire. Each member of
our party being provided with a soldier's overcoat, we wrapped ourselves
in those garments and were soon to be found standing, very close
together around the little blaze. A blue veil of smoke rose also from
similar fires at each of the other camps, bearing through the clear air
the sweet incense of burning cedar, which was quickly followed by the
appetizing fragrance of coffee and bacon.

We were to make a long drive on the following day, for we had learned
that after leaving the Pacific Spring no water would be found on our
course within a distance of twenty-eight miles. As a start was to be
made at three o'clock in the morning, the boys began early to pull out
their blankets and find a warm spot for the night. But where is the
man with soul so dead, so devoid of all appreciation of nature when she
is in one of her rarest moods, who would not wish to watch a remarkable
sunset? The sun was sinking behind the mountains of the Bear River Range
which, white with the recent snows and extending from north to south,
lay one hundred and fifty miles distant to the westward. Far, far away
to the south and extending from east to west, rose the white-topped
Uinta Range, which south of us seemed to merge into the high lands of
the great divide, crossed by the pass and extending westward until it
closed in with the western range, forming the base of an immense
triangle of mountains, the eastern side of which was the Continental
Divide, upon which we stood. Extending northward from our camp, this
dividing ridge rises gradually until it meets the foothills of what is
now known as Atlantic Peak, which is the southern buttress of the lofty
Wind River Range and is twenty-five miles away. Continuing northward,
beyond two high intervening summits, this range culminates in Fremont
Peak, the monarch of that range, and, as later surveys show, still one
hundred miles from our trail. The apex of this triangle of mountains
lies north of Fremont Peak, beyond which rise the grand Tetons, one of
the most imposing ranges in our country. From the Tetons I have also
seen these peaks of the Wind River Range. Within this visible area of
mountains lies the highest watershed of North America, whence, from an
area of fifty miles square, flow tributaries to the Atlantic, the
Pacific, the Gulf of California, and the Salt Lake basin.

[Illustration: FREMONT PEAK AND ISLAND LAKE ON THE WEST SLOPE OF THE
WIND RIVER RANGE]

The triangular disposition of the mountain ranges as they lay before us,
at this time outlined by their snow-capped summits, is not clearly shown
upon the maps, but of such a form was the impression made upon our
eyes. Away down below us and between the sides of that great triangle,
thus walled in by mountains, lay the broad basin into which converge the
upper tributaries of Green River, a stream which in turn breaking
through the Uinta Range rushes southward to join the Colorado, and
thence onward through its titanic canyons to the Gulf of California. And
now, while the western mountains were casting their far-reaching shadows
across this broad basin beneath us, the cold, snow-mantled sides of the
Wind River Range were dazzling and glittering in the level beams of the
setting sun. From our point of view and at that time they were seen at
their best. It was not like an Alpine scene, diversified by mountain
lakes, waterfalls, and picturesque chalets, but it had a suggestion of
wonderful breadth and vastness and afforded a range of vision rarely to
be seen, except when one looks upward to the stars; but the whole of
that landscape of mountains, and the deep, broad desert which they
enveloped, was bleak and desolate, with never sign of animal life nor
trace of vegetation visible. Though to us it was a new country,
everything appeared to be old, as if through countless ages it had
remained unchanged. With this impression stamped upon our minds, many
members of our party wrapped their blankets round them and slept under
the open sky.

It happened on that night, one or two nights after the full of the moon,
to be my duty to stand guard until midnight. Hence it fell to my lot to
watch a dazzling, winter-like sunset in midsummer, which, because of the
prevailing whiteness, imparted hardly a tint as the daylight faded,
except what was seen in the star-studded azure above. After a brief
period of declining light there was a wondrous change when the clear,
cold, and pearly moonlight broke over the eastern highlands and lighted
up the vast, white, frosty landscape, for the moon was now in her glory
and,

        "Chaste as the icicle
        That's curdled by the frost from purest snow,"

and thus in harmony with the earth upon which she shone, for the distant
landscape was spotless white, and the vast stretches of mountain ranges
which, along many hundreds of miles, pinnacled the distant horizon with
towers and minarets, were covered with crystals of frost and snow.

It was at the break of the coming day when our little outfit closely
followed by Mr. Warne's party rolled out in advance of the long train,
and by sunrise we were following the very gentle descent of the western
slope, across sandy and gravelly wastes, which were relieved here and
there by barren, flat-topped clay buttes, for the sun had done rapid
work with the snow in the lowlands. The night found us at Little Sandy,
an unruly stream six or eight yards wide, which was doing its best in an
unceasing endeavor to make the dreary desert interesting. According to
the old Mormon diaries, (to which reference has already been made) it
was near this ford, June 28, 1847, that Brigham Young and his party
first met Jim Bridger. Jim was a famous mountaineer and guide, an almost
constant wanderer through those wilds, and might be encountered at
almost any out of the way place in the Rockies. On summing up the meager
records in the diaries, and my personal interviews with some of those
first pioneers, it appears that Bridger, with two of his men, had come
over from his fort on their way toward the Pass and had struck this
Oregon trail, probably at Green River. Fortunately for the Saints they
met toward evening near this stream. Learning that the traveler was
Bridger, the Mormons prevailed upon him to camp with them over night,
because he, above all others, was the man they most desired then to
meet, because of his familiarity with the Salt Lake Valley, concerning
which the Saints had no definite knowledge.

To reach Salt Lake they must soon leave the well defined Oregon trail.
The remainder of their course was to be guided, if at all, by the narrow
trails of the trappers. It was up and down these tributaries of Green
River and into the wilds of Pierre's Hole and Jackson's Hole, between
which lie the majestic Tetons, that the fur traders and hunters found
the most profitable game in greatest abundance. From among the men
engaged in this pursuit was organized the Rocky Mountain Fur
Company--Jackson, Green, Biddle and others, whose names are still
familiar in St. Louis, being interested in the venture. In later years
LaBarge, Sarpy, Picott, Pratte, Cabanne and other St. Louis men entered
the business. Many of the men occupied in these operations were Creoles,
the name applied to French or Spanish people born in America.

In memory of David E. Jackson, the magnificent valley on the east slope
of the Tetons was named Jackson's Hole and the beautiful lake resting
within its bosom was named Jackson's Lake. Thus in those valleys were
scattered several hundred pioneers of another type than men who have
carried civilization into our now older territory, with possibly the
exception of the upper lake districts. Some of them were French
Canadians or half-breeds, trained in the service of the Hudson Bay
Company. A few were expert marksmen from Kentucky, and with them were
many hardy Missourians, with St. Louis men as leaders. In addition to
those turbulent and apparently heterogeneous groups of nomadic
pioneers, there appear to have been many independent trappers and
traders, who also were restrained by no ties and subject to no written
laws. Although these latter were pioneer explorers and accumulated great
wealth for the companies that employed them, they were not the men who
discovered and developed the resources of the great West. Though
confronted by many perils and hardships, they loved their vocation and
the wild and wandering life along the mountain streams. Their passion
for the hunt was well expressed in the lines:

        "Give me the lure of the long, white trail,
        With the wind blowing strong in my face as I go;
        Give me the song of the wolf dog's wail
        And the crunch of the moccasin in the snow."

Of this type was Jim Bridger, a hero and a chief among the mountaineers.
In the interview that night on the banks of the Little Sandy, surrounded
by the exiled leaders of the Mormon Church, he directed the Mormons
where they should leave the Oregon trail, and then follow chiefly along
trappers' paths, and through the mountain canyons to Salt Lake Valley.
Those narrow paths, as far as they should be used, would be simply for
guidance. Along and beyond these they must blaze and clear their own
roadway for wagons, and must ford many mountain streams.

"But tell us about the valley itself," asked Brigham Young, after the
mountaineer had outlined the most practicable route to reach it.

"Well, Mr. Young," replied Bridger, "I wouldn't go into that alkali
valley to raise crops. I'll give you one thousand dollars for the first
ear of corn you raise there." He then proceeded to describe the desert
which surrounded the saline waters of the lake, in which no life could
exist. The substance of this conversation was recited to me one
afternoon at Bridger's home. At the time it occurred the Mormons had not
learned that the Salt Lake country had been ceded by Mexico to the
United States.

This interview between Bridger and the Mormons and the subsequent
turning of the Saints from the old trail, as there recommended by
Bridger, brings us to the point where, leaving the scene of that
conference, a small detachment of our party were also soon to turn from
the same trail and follow in the tortuous mountain paths taken by the
first Mormon emigrants, as mapped out for them by Bridger. Dan and Noah
and also the Warne family and others who had been our traveling
companions across hundreds of miles of desert and on excursions up the
mountains, were to continue with the big train on the Oregon trail. The
information that this separation would be made at Green River crossing,
then but a few miles before us, came to us unexpectedly. We knew nothing
of those western trails except those which we had already traversed.
None of these paths were shown upon our maps. The recent days had been
gliding by, as days sometimes do when brightened by the mystic influence
of congenial companionship.

It is needless to state that the boys deeply regretted the necessity of
so soon parting from their old friends Dan and Noah, and from Mr. and
Mrs. Warne and their obliging driver, Bill Swope. In this list we should
not forget also to mention the daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Warne, who,
being bright, cultured, and refined, seemed like exotics in that barren
wilderness. One evening, when Miss Margaret Warne was sitting upon a
rude box while others completed the circle around a sage bush fire, and
her soft voice was being listened to with rapt attention, one of the
boys whispered to his neighbor and said, "That soap box is now a throne,
for that girl upon it is a queen." The young man who whispered the words
was dead in earnest. Old Deacon Cobb, who owned many horses and whose
observations concerning men and women were of course made from his own
peculiar standpoint, often remarked the daring, freedom, and grace with
which the girls mounted and rode their horses. Dan had said that they
were fine conversers and well informed on general topics. These
attractive, winsome girls were going into some part of Montana that was
unpeopled by civilized beings, where it seemed that their light and
influence would be wasted, as would the sparkle of a gem in the desert
sands. The boys lamented this sacrifice of personal worth. They thought
little, cared less, and in fact did not then know, as no one then knew,
of the hundreds of emigrants who were to follow later and settle around
the home of this family and receive from it that uplift which, in the
establishment of a new colony, one family may exert upon the moral and
social life of the community.

As already indicated, the boys were hardly ready to say good-bye to the
young ladies, but it was impossible for them to present some reason why
they also should see Montana.

It is difficult for the present day traveler to comprehend the peculiar
situations and emergencies that sometimes confronted the western
emigrant in the early days, when they were as effectually removed from
the restraints, conveniences, and conventionalities of civilized life as
if they had been transported to an uninhabited island. An example of
such a crisis, even more striking than that in which our young men
found themselves when nearing that fork of the roads, was related to me
by a member of a family who shared in a strange episode, which
culminated at the parting of the ways which we were soon to reach.

It was in the summer of 1849, when a wagon train of emigrants captained
by George Scofield, the head of the family last mentioned, was slowly
crawling over this same road on its long way to the newly discovered
gold fields near Sacramento. Among the emigrants who had been traveling
under the protection of the Scofield outfit were a few who were bound
for Oregon. With the travelers who were destined for California was a
young and vigorous farmer from one of the Middle States, whose name was
Pratt and who was accompanied by his wife and six young children, the
youngest being an infant and the oldest hardly ten years of age. Mr.
Pratt, like the majority of the pioneers, had embarked his all, when he
started to cast his fortune in what was then an almost unknown
territory. The long line of covered wagons crossed the Mississippi River
and rolled out over the plains. In a few weeks the stock of provisions
was practically exhausted. Many of the horses were run off by the
Indians, leaving a heavy burden upon the animals which were left. While
the men were toiling by day and watching against the savages by night,
the women also had their work to perform and their vigils to maintain,
for the children had their weary hours.

While traversing the desert, Mrs. Pratt became a helpless invalid, and
in spite of her husband's efforts she and the children were suffering
from neglect. With her parents, bound for Oregon and accompanying the
train, was Miss Huldah Thompson, a strong, kind-hearted, young woman,
who became deeply interested in the unhappy condition of Mrs. Pratt and
her children, and with the noble impulses of a Florence Nightingale, she
voluntarily served them to the limit of her strength.

Weeks passed by, and one blistering hot day, while the train was
dragging along beyond the stream, Little Sandy, Mrs. Pratt died. The
train was ordered to halt while men and women held a council near the
dusty, covered wagon in which lay the remains of the young mother.
Nothing could be done except what always had been done when one of such
a company dies, where there is no cemetery except the broad bosom of
Mother Earth and no person within reach fitted to conduct funeral rites.
Therefore, while the train stood still, as stop the engines of the ocean
steamer while the body of the dead is consigned to the sea, the
sympathetic emigrants circled around the hastily dug grave by the
roadside in the desert, while the body from which the spirit had taken
its flight hardly an hour before, was lowered into its solitary tomb.

Then again the line moved slowly on the long drive toward the ford of
the Big Sandy, before reaching which no water would be found, and there
they camped.

Huldah had been a stranger to the Pratt family until they were brought
together on this pilgrimage across the plains, and now the day after the
burial, the train was expected to reach the forks of the road at Green
River, and Huldah, with her parents and other friends, was to proceed on
the Oregon trail, while Mr. Pratt was to continue under the protection
of Scofield's train along the new Mormon trail. Pratt was heart-broken.
Huldah was sympathetic and helpful to the last moment.

A new light began to dawn upon Pratt, and a new emotion rose within
him. If anything was to be done in response to this newborn inspiration
it must be done quickly. During the hours of the only evening whose
shadows fell after the burial, and before the expected separation, Pratt
and Huldah were engaged in earnest converse. This brief courtship was
concluded by summoning the Thompson family and Mr. and Mrs. Scofield to
a midnight conference on the bank of the Big Sandy. The Thompsons
finally yielded to the inevitable, and the definite approval of all
members of the little party was given to the plans proposed. The morrow
was to be a day of unusual activity with the emigrants because of
transfers of loads and teams to be made on dividing the train, and hence
the night after the burial presented the last opportunity to solve the
delicate problem then before the little group which had convened. It
must be now and forever or never.

There being no officer of the law and no clergyman in all that broad
wilderness who was authorized to perform the marriage rites, Huldah
without further ado and in the presence of the witnesses there gathered
at midnight on the bank of Big Sandy River consented then and there to
become Mrs. Pratt. On the following day the train reached Green River,
where Mrs. Pratt bade adieu to her father and mother and proceeded with
her husband on a honeymoon trip toward California, with many months of
travel still before her, along a route where possibly not even a hut
would be seen after passing the new Mormon settlement near Great Salt
Lake, at which point it was hoped that supplies would be obtained.

Although other emigrants who continued with the Scofield train failed to
reach the Eldorado of the West, Pratt and his wife, Huldah, with their
family, made the trip with safety and became a part of the remarkable
civilization that characterized the early California settlements.

We also had camped at Big Sandy, a stream varying in volume, but now
about three feet in depth and easily forded. A dozen Confederate
soldiers, then loyally in the service of the United States Government,
were temporarily stationed there, to afford a nominal protection to the
few trains then passing that way. In the evening, Ben, who was fresh
from his army life, led the veterans to recitals of many of their recent
experiences on southern battle-fields. One more day of travel brought us
to Green River. The country traversed is a barren clay land,
inhospitable, and apparently sterile, presenting hardly a blade of grass
to relieve the monotony of the scenery. The young people who had saddle
horses, caring little then for scenery, rode leisurely in advance of the
train and planned somewhat for the future.

A rough looking old frontiersman had established a ferry at Green River,
which, in conjunction with trapping wolves, and selling whiskey and
other necessaries, enabled him to earn a livelihood. His tattered
garments and the exterior of his hut and its surroundings left us with
the impression that he was not enjoying great prosperity. His charges
for ferrying seemed to be somewhat excessive, but the stream being very
swift and the water at points being ten feet in depth, we concluded
negotiations for the portage and camped on the further shore of the
river.

As it is our purpose to describe some of the movements that led to the
development of the West, we must here and there secure glimpses of the
emigrants who undertook that work, even though it be through eyes other
than our own. I find in a diary written by a member of the Mormon
pioneer train, that when that party reached Green River, to which we
have just referred, the company was there met by one Samuel Brannan who,
with other Mormons, had sailed round Cape Horn to Yerba Buena (now San
Francisco) intending to establish a colony on San Joaquin River. Knowing
of the proposed emigration of the Saints, he started eastward with two
companions, hoping to meet Young and his party. The diary states that on
his course Brannan and his party passed a camping ground where nearly
fifty emigrants had perished from storm and famine, there being but one
survivor, a German, who had subsisted several weeks on human flesh.

We return now to our night near the banks of the Green River. As it was
my watch from midnight and we were to roll out at daybreak, I retired
early with a few words of farewell to those from whom we were to
separate, leaving others to enjoy the later hours, as parting friends
are apt to do. It may be stated now that some of the boys later made a
visit to Montana, but for a time this thread in our story is broken. It
was in the gray light of the morning that each member of our party was
roused to his respective service. The teams were rushed in while the
breakfast was being prepared, and at sunrise all were off for the still
further West. The main train turned to the right, and our party to the
left. After a mile or more of travel we halted upon a hilltop, before
descending out of sight, and from the distance we heard the last shouts
of good-bye from the other train, accompanied by waving of hats and
handkerchiefs, after which our now very small party moved on alone.

[Illustration: RED SANDSTONE CLIFFS, ON WIND RIVER]

CHAPTER XXII

THE BANDITTI OF HAM'S FORK

Before our little outfit rolled out from Nebraska City, Captain Whitmore
gave us many suggestions concerning our route, and instructions as to
where long drives must be made along which no water would be found.
Among other words of warning he said, with some earnestness, "Now, boys,
if you take the South Pass route keep a close watch when near Ham's
Fork. I lost some stock there and am confident that it was stolen, for I
have learned that a gang of thieves and outlaws are located near that
crossing." Now it happened that early in the afternoon of the 4th of
August, while riding in advance of our train in search of a suitable
place to camp for the night, I descended to a very large and rapidly
flowing stream, thirty or forty feet in width and about two feet in
depth. I forded, and located a very satisfactory camping place near the
west bank. Having signaled our approaching drivers to cross the little
river and camp at a point indicated, I rode upstream along the banks for
further reconnoitering.

On reaching the crest of a low ridge there came into view in the
distance to the left some outline of what proved later to be a solitary
good-sized log cabin, situated in a sequestered valley. After traversing
the last few hundred miles of our course, along which we had discovered
only the few huts to which reference has already been made, this
hospitable looking cabin seemed wonderfully attractive. Led on by
curiosity I turned directly to the building and soon observed a tall,
athletic figure standing erect in the open door. It proved to be a
swarthy, black-haired man, attired in a red flannel shirt and leather
breeches, the bottoms of which were tucked into his long topped boots.
Having a revolver strapped to his waist, he was equipped to fit well the
rude setting in which he was placed. I addressed the stranger with a
"Hello," as I assumed to pass by. "Hello, where in h--l are you bound
for? Ain't you lost?" was his cheerful greeting. This rough form of
salutation, then so common among frontiersmen in the West, may read in
print as if it implied the speaker's familiarity with the nether regions
to which he referred, and that my course led to some department of the
Devil's domain. In manner the greeting was thoroughly cordial, and the
words that conveyed it had no more significance than the conventional
"How do you do?" to which no specific reply is expected. The greeting
led me to turn my horse near to the door and, having been riding for
several hours, I dismounted and threw the bridle reins over a post. An
invitation to come in and sit down was accepted, for I felt a desire to
see the interior of a cabin that was so remarkably situated, for it was
not a location that a trader or trapper would naturally select. My reply
concerning the object of my ride was reasonably frank and apparently
satisfactory. Immediately after my entrance to the cabin three men, also
wearing leather breeches, straggled in from another room, and in time
there was a larger gathering than I had hoped to meet. Some members of
the party took a half-reclining position on bunks built along the sides
of the room, others straddled rough wooden chairs, a number of which,
when I entered, surrounded a table on which lay a pack of cards. The
man who first addressed me continued the conversation during which,
while facing me, he stood with feet somewhat apart and his hands thrust
deep into his trousers' pockets. The sombre effect of his heavy black
mustache, stubby beard, and swarthy complexion was somewhat relieved by
the good-natured manner in which he conversed, and by his cordial
request that I join with him in a drink from a black bottle that he took
from a cupboard, an invitation which was interpreted as being an
evidence of his benevolent impulses. The black-haired man seemed to be
astounded when I declined to drink his good whiskey. The fact that my
newly-found friend and some of his companions carried revolvers in their
belts signified but little, because even I, a peaceful traveler, had
carried my rifle, as was our usual custom where there was any hope of
finding game.

"What kind of a gun have you got?" asked the rancher, as he stopped and
took it from my hands.

"It's a Henry." The men gathered around and one by one carefully
examined the rifle.

"Sixteen shooters, ain't they?" asked one.

"Yes, 32 calibre."

While the weapon was commanding the undivided attention of the men in
the room, an occasion was afforded me to take a more careful survey of
the furnishings, among which were a few guns, saddles, and other
trappings for horsemen.

I was what might properly be termed, in the parlance of the country, an
innocent tenderfoot, and yet an innocent on observing the interior of a
home cannot fail to form some impressions concerning the type of people
who occupy it.

"This stream off here is a branch of Green River, is it not?" I
propounded the question partly to get my bearings and partly to hasten
the examination of the rifle.

"Yes," replied one, without raising his eyes from the gun, "it's Ham's
Fork,--but does this gun throw the spent cartridge all right when the
hammer comes up?"

"Yes, it works all right. Is there much game along the stream?"

"Wa'al, there's right smart of game round here sometimes,"--which
response was a shibboleth that betrayed the speaker as having come from
Indiana. Something, for the first time since we left the Missouri River,
brought to my mind the spirit of Whitmore's admonition, "Beware of Ham's
Fork."

I had already lingered longer than I had intended to do, for I wished to
find a spot where our horses could be pastured for the night. I
accordingly told the man that my party was doubtless already encamped
near the ford, and I must return to supper. After returning the rifle,
all the men walked with me to my horse, and as I mounted expressed
wishes for my good luck, and other favorable conditions too numerous to
recall. I slowly traveled up the gentle ascent, taking a view from time
to time of the general surroundings. On reaching the camp I reported my
observations to the boys and reminded them of Captain Whitmore's
experience and advice.

Instead of seeking a remote place for pasturing our horses we picketed
them within sight of the camp and maintained an extra guard during the
night.

It is possible that no reference would have been made herein to the
unimportant episode in this interesting cabin, had it not been for the
experience that befell Whitmore and his men with our ox train, which
followed us over this road some weeks later.

As stated by the Captain and some of his men, they arrived at Ham's
Fork, crossing late in the day after a difficult drive. Their stock,
consisting chiefly of oxen, were driven off to a range some distance
from the camp, to feed for the night. In the early morning the herders
reported to the Captain that eight oxen were missing and that they had
been unable to track them in any direction. Whitmore at once suspected
the cause of the trouble. After sending out scouts for two or three
miles in various directions on horseback in search of the lost stock, he
himself made some survey of the country upstream. The men returned and
reported that the stock was not found. This was all accomplished before
eight o'clock. At about that time Whitmore called his men close around
him, gave his opinion of the situation, and asked them if, in view of
all the circumstances, they were ready for a fight. The fact was that
every man was anxious for some excitement. Of the forty odd men in the
outfit more than one half of them had seen active service in the Civil
War just ended, and there was a good rifle for nearly every man. No
better, braver, or more vigorous body of men could easily be found.

"All right," said Whitmore, "I'm going to get those oxen before I leave
Ham's Fork. I am going to take one man with me over to the ranch beyond
the hill yonder. I want all of you to get your guns and lie down out of
sight on this side of a slope which lies off north, and where two or
three of you can, at all times, see me. Now, you see this old, red silk
handkerchief. If I should pull that out, it would be a signal that I
want every one of you to come down in a rush with your guns and surround
that d--d den over there, and I'll boss the job when you get there. And
if it's a fight shoot to kill, because I know they are a hard crowd.
I've heard of 'em before now."

These brief instructions seemed to be well understood. Whitmore had
selected his companion, a strong, cool, hardy young man, who had served
in the Iron Brigade during the war, and the two, without rifles, but
with pistols at their sides, started on foot for the ranch. Before they
reached its open door the men connected with the train were lying
concealed along and near the crest of the ridge ready for service. The
two were met at the door of the ranch by two or three of the occupants
of the cabin. Whereupon, Whitmore, without any circumlocution, said to
them, "I want my oxen." The reply, as might have been expected, was
embodied in a few vigorous curses, and the question, "What the h--l have
we got to do with your oxen?" Whitmore was a man who had seen much of
western life and in emergencies had command of a vigorous vocabulary in
common use in that country. He also knew that the men whom he was now
confronting were part of a band of the banditti of the plains, who were
likely to kill on the slightest provocation. He was also conscious that
the least evidence of timidity would render his mission fruitless, if
not fatal. He accordingly and in very emphatic language informed his
auditors that they must promptly deliver to him the missing stock. This
announcement brought to the front a number of tough-looking men, who
emerged from an adjoining room attracted by the pointed conversation at
the front of the ranch, and all were apparently enraged because of
Whitmore's assertion that they were thieves. Thus far the interview had
been simply a war of words, but now the ranchers declared that they
would kill him instanter if the demand should be repeated. At that point
Whitmore had occasion to wipe the perspiration from his brow, which he
did with his big red handkerchief, which he flourished as he stood near
the door. This was the agreed signal, and forty men, armed with rifles,
suddenly came rushing down the slope, completely surrounding the ranch.
The demonstration was undoubtedly a surprise to the gang of the cabin.
Whitmore hardly moved from his tracks, but quietly said, "I have just
one more word to say to you fellows. We mean business. Two of you men
may go outside of our lines to get my oxen. You may tell me which men
you wish to have to go. If another man attempts to leave he will be
shot. If those oxen are not delivered here by six o'clock tonight, we'll
blow your d--d old ranch to ---- the infernal regions. I know you
fellows from away back. Now how does that strike you?" The declaration
was duly emphasized with appropriate epithets, such as are supposed to
add force and lucidity to such a statement, as legal terms often do in
arguments made in courts of justice.

Some explosions of bluff and braggadocio from the ranchers followed
Whitmore's announcement, until one of the gang, who had been engaged in
a private conversation with another inside the ranch, came out and said
with more calmness, "Now your oxen have probably strayed off, and if you
wouldn't make such a d--d fuss about it, mebbe we might help you find
'em. We know the ranges pretty well, but we won't stand any of your
insinuations." Whitmore cast a glance at his men, who all appeared to be
perfectly serene. Their Henry repeating rifles, recognizable by their
bright brass mountings, were in hand ready for business.

"As I said a minute ago," continued Whitmore, "all I ask of you is that
you get the oxen, and you have got to get 'em d--d quick, and the
quicker you get 'em the better for you. I'll give you just about five
minutes to settle what you will do, but mind you, only two men can pass
our lines without a fight."

Now this was one method for securing justice, practicable only under
peculiar circumstances. There were no courts, no constables, and the
practice of bluff was sometimes worked to the limit. Sometimes the bluff
would fail and often a desperate fight would follow.

"Well, pard," said one of the leaders, after a private parley with some
members of his party, "we ain't here to hunt other people's stock, and
we ain't afraid of nobody, but mebbe there is some misunderstanding
about this thing and we are willin' to see if we can't find your oxen.
Now, what do they look like?" "You bring me eight good oxen," replied
Hill, "and I reckon they'll be mine."

In a little time two men, wearing leather breeches, might have been seen
riding northward and disappearing in the distance. At the same time the
men from the train fell back to a respectful distance, many resting upon
the ground prepared for a protracted vigil. In about three hours the
riders returned, driving all the missing stock before them. The battle
was declared off, and after lunch the train promptly pulled out for
Green River.

Having seen the old _rendezvous_ of Jean Lafitte, the dreaded pirate of
the Gulf, situated far back near the swampy shore and protected in the
rear by impenetrable canebrakes, also the bolder structure said to have
been the castle of Gilles de Rais, the French Buccaneer in the Danish
Islands, in the light that history and romance have thrown round them, I
have endeavored in imagination to repeople them with the characters,
both men and women, who once inhabited those now deserted strongholds,
yet I have never pictured a band that would more perfectly suit that
service nor have I ever seen a body of men who in manner and appearance
were more perfectly adapted to such a vocation than the gang who
infested the cabin at Ham's Fork.

CHAPTER XXIII

THROUGH THE WASATCH MOUNTAINS

Fred, who one afternoon had been riding in advance, was observed toward
the close of the day waving his old hat and shouting, "Hurrah, here is
water!" We had been traveling many hours across a desolate, barren
country that lay silent and apparently lifeless beneath a bright sun,
and the announcement that water was in sight was received with great
satisfaction. We soon descended toward a swift-running stream, along
which there strolled a solitary man, the only person we had seen during
the day. He paused at the ford, awaiting our arrival.

"What stream is this?" we asked the stranger.

"Smith Fork," was the reply.

"This appears to be a good place to camp," remarked Fred.

"You'll go a long way before you find another," said the stranger as he
drew nigh to our horsemen.

"Do you live in these parts?"

"Yes, I have a ranch down below here, and I'd like to have you come and
see me."

We promised to respond to his invitation, as soon as our stock could be
properly picketed on the range. An hour later Ben, Fred, and I sauntered
down the stream and were soon at the door of a good-sized cabin, in
which stood our new acquaintance ready to receive us. He was a strong,
fine-looking fellow, with a genial face, and he welcomed us most
cordially. The room into which we were immediately ushered, although
simple in its appointments, as was to be expected in the cabin of a
frontiersman in such a wilderness, nevertheless had an air of comfort.
The attractive arrangement of various little articles indicated that
woman was the presiding genius; for there is an indescribable something
that is imparted even to the rudest cabin by a woman's hands.

In a short time a young lady of engaging appearance entered the room,
whom our host introduced to us as his wife, Clara. The boys all rose
instantly to take the hand of this Queen of the valley of Smith Fork.
When we resumed our seats, the rancher asked the usual questions
concerning our destination. Learning in addition to other facts that one
of our party, Paul Beemer, had with him in his wagon a stock of jewelry
which he was taking West to sell, the mountaineer requested that some of
the articles be brought over to the cabin, so that the women might see
them.

All is not gold that glitters, and this was true of the treasures that
Paul possessed, which had been packed away in attractive packages in his
wagon. He was perfectly willing to present for inspection a few choice
samples, which he believed would interest the ladies of Smith Fork,
whoever they might be. The society of that entire valley as far as we
could learn, was centered in this one cabin, but we knew nothing of the
character of the household.

In response to the rancher's request, Paul soon appeared bearing a few
packages containing his choicest jewels, which were soon opened upon a
table in the room where we had been received.

In anticipation of the pleasure in store for them, two other young
women soon came rushing into the room in high glee. To our surprise,
these also were introduced as wives of the host.

They were all certainly very attractive in personal appearance, and none
of the three seemed to be more than twenty-three years of age. The
husband was a comparatively young man.

"With such a fine family we may safely conclude that you are a Mormon,"
said Ben.

"You are correct," replied the rancher. "We are of the church of Latter
Day Saints, and I think I have a fine family."

This sentiment met our cordial endorsement. Being thus introduced for
the first time into a Mormon home, and having read much concerning the
doctrines and practices of this people, I was very curious, as other
persons have been, to observe something of their religious life and the
manner in which their complex domestic affairs are managed. In later
years I have been received in many Mohammedan homes in Turkey and other
parts of the Orient, but among those people, as is well known, the women
of the household are required to retire from the room before a guest may
enter, however intimate that guest may be with the host. These young
women of Utah were apparently as free to converse with guests as would
be the wife of an Illinois farmer. They were also refined and modest in
deportment.

As soon as Paul had spread out upon the table several trays of his most
attractive jewelry, imported as I believed from Connecticut, the ladies
proceeded to examine the articles. There were so-called amethyst pins
and earrings, the jewels of which were of an excellent quality of
exquisitely colored glass, and necklaces that might please a queen, if
she did not know how little they cost. The young women were delighted,
and when one of them espied a pin that had the appearance of an emerald
set with diamonds she made a dive for it and, holding it to her neck,
asked the husband, in whom she had a one-third interest, if it was not
beautiful. He seemed favorably impressed with the combination, and asked
the price of the treasure. It was a good opportunity for Paul to ask
about nine thousand dollars, but he was square, and informed the
admiring husband that as he, Paul, was not regularly in business he
would make the price to him ten dollars, because he was anxious to
realize on a few articles and ready to make a sacrifice to obtain a
little money. The pin was immediately presented to the young wife by the
husband, who said that the other girls must have something equally fine.
It will be readily understood that in a home with three young wives, the
principle of the square deal must be fundamental, otherwise there will
be jealousies and heart-burnings.

The Mormon rancher stood a little distance back from the enthusiastic
group in the Smith Fork cabin, and with a broad smile upon his face
watched his wives while they reveled freely in the assortment of cheap
jewelry. Paul did not hand the treasures out article by article with the
watchful care that is practiced by the trained diamond salesmen in the
great New York shops, but allowed free access to his goods. When the
young women had satisfied their hearts' desire, the husband was
apparently the happiest person in the group and promptly paid cash for
the articles selected. Thus the lord of this frontier manor with a free
and easy air scanned with an eye to equity the articles with which his
several wives were adorning themselves and (as we believed) was
conscious of the fact that there would be an hereafter, in case one of
them should believe herself to be the subject of unfavorable
discrimination.

Our visit to this new Mormon home far out in the mountains became the
subject of much discussion in the evening, and in fact made a lasting
impression on us. What were to be the experiences of this family as the
months should go by, and the responsibilities of later years should rest
upon the father and mothers? Could the husband under this system
religiously preserve the principle of the square deal, and not find
among the three who were pledged to share his joys and sorrows one who,
because of some peculiar attraction, should become a favorite, and for
that cause rouse the green-eyed monster in the breasts of her sisters?
Would they all welcome the fourth wife, if another should be escorted to
the door?

On the morning after our arrival at Smith Fork I was called at 12.30
A. M., it being my duty that morning to stand guard until the breakfast
hour, which was to be at daybreak. We soon discovered that our course
had led us to the thoroughfare pursued by the Holliday mail coaches. The
trail was stony, and many steep hills were ascended and descended. At
noon we reached Fort Bridger, established by James Bridger, to whom
Bancroft and other high authorities have accorded the honor of the first
discovery of Great Salt Lake, whose waters he reached when in the
service of Henry and Ashley of the Rocky Mountain Fur Company. Bancroft
also states that Franciscan friars, who explored in the southern
country, had evidently learned of this lake through the Yutah Indians
inhabiting that region.

[Illustration: WEBER RIVER, MOUTH OF ECHO CANYON]

Fort Bridger was beautifully situated near one of the tributaries of
Black Fork, 124 miles northeast of Salt Lake, at an elevation of about
seven thousand feet above the sea. Some incidents in the history of
this Fort in its relation to the Mormons, as given to me personally, may
be more properly mentioned in another chapter. At Fort Bridger we found
many Snake and Bannock Indians, who were then at peace with all the
world, except the Sioux. It was reported that three thousand Snakes had
left this post the week preceding our arrival.

The scenery between Fort Bridger and the entrance to Salt Lake valley,
as observed from our pathway, is grand and interesting. Having passed
over the divide and thence down to the swift waters of Bear River, we
again ascended to another summit and thence into the upper entrance to
Echo Canyon, a wild gorge hemmed in by sandstone cliffs. Toward the
close of the day we overtook a Mormon farmer having a wagonload of
garden truck and other produce. We had not tasted a fresh vegetable
since leaving Nebraska City in May, and it was now the eighth of August.
We were in a frame of mind similar to that of the Israelites in the
wilderness of Sin, when they sighed for the good things back in Egypt.
Paul was delegated to interview the farmer in a diplomatic manner and if
possible negotiate for something to eat, but under no circumstances to
divulge the fact that we were famishing for a change of diet, which if
known might cause the farmer to establish high prices, for he certainly
had an effective corner on the green goods market. Paul reported that
the best prices he could obtain were six bits, or seventy-five cents,
per pound for butter; eight cents per pound for potatoes; ten cents for
onions.

"Did he say six bits?" asked Uncle Simeon Cobb.

"He did," replied Paul.

"Then he is from Missouri," continued the deacon.

The order finally was to buy potatoes and onions. "They are a good
buy," said the deacon, whereupon we instantly went into camp. In fact,
it was near the close of the day, and the clear, bright waters of Echo
Creek rushing down the narrow gorge, and the little patches of grass on
which our horses might revel, presented every inducement needed for
pitching our tent, but the supreme reason was onions and potatoes.

Soon the delicate fragrance of frying onions, as all pervasive as the
aroma of an orange grove, was diffusing itself throughout that beautiful
and magnificent valley. The party watched around the campfire, as if in
fear that something might be wasted in the air. The potatoes, carefully
counted, were placed beneath the ashes, where for one long hour they
must lie unseen and untasted. How long and how many its sixty minutes!

Much has been written by would-be purveyors on the art of cooking
various mixtures. To many of these concoctions, some of which are unfit
to be introduced into the human stomach, there have been ascribed names
usually of French coinage, the purpose of which is both to disguise the
commonplace ingredients used and to compensate in some measure for lack
of attractiveness to the palate, by spicing the compound with a
mysterious name of foreign derivation.

On the other hand it may be interesting to the fastidious epicure to
glance at some instructions for properly cooking one simple article in
plain American style, _al fresco_, the recipe for which is prepared by
an intelligent expert as the precipitate of personal experience.

HOW TO ROAST POTATOES IN CAMP. First secure the potatoes. Wrap them
separately in wet paper or something of a similar nature that may be
available. Bury them in the hot ashes of the campfire and cover with
hot embers. Let them remain an hour. Then call the boys. In serving
they should not be cut open with a knife, but should be divided by
breaking.

This artless method of cooking this well-known tuber imparts to it a
wholesomeness and palatableness that surpass all the countless _à la's_
with which caterers have deluded the public in its preparation. One such
example of Wild West cooking may suffice in this connection.

Possibly the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of our supper in Echo Canyon was the onions
and bacon, the pleasant savor of which was doubtless heightened by our
thirty-mile ride and tramp in an exhilarating atmosphere after a ten
weeks' total abstinence from vegetable diet.

The well-fed epicure may fail to grasp the full significance of these
conditions, but it was expressed with unction at a banquet given by a
venerable and wealthy bachelor, an acquaintance of the writer. Favorable
comments were passing round the board concerning the excellence of
various articles that were being served. One of the guests, who had been
an intimate friend of the host for nearly a half century, facetiously
said; "Gentlemen, even the excellent cook for this occasion, and, in
fact, all of the modern caterers fail to impart to the viands they serve
the peculiar and appetizing flavor that was given by the old mothers,
when I was a boy, to all their domestic cookery." "Is that so, George?
And how old was your palate then?" was the host's prompt repartee. All
of which throws light on the vagaries of a man's appetite.

Under favorable conditions Echo Canyon is a charming ravine. While our
evening campfire was lighting up the deep gorge, Ben, Fred and I
wandered down the banks of Echo Creek, the bright waters of which glide
along the base of overhanging sandstone cliffs, and we soon guessed why
the canyon had received its present name. To the focus of the vast
concaves that have been scooped from some of the cliffs the sound of our
voices came back with redoubled power, and to other points with softer
reverberations startling in effect. It is an unobservant traveler whose
attention has not often been arrested by weird echoes coming to his ears
from some mountain cliffs, but in the shadows of this canyon we
discussed the phenomena of echoes while interesting demonstrations were
being made. We endeavored to calculate the distance of the unseen cliffs
that sent back the sound, and then speculated upon the effect such
phenomena would produce upon the minds of an imaginative people like the
Greeks of the older period, who were ready at any time to pay homage to
any deity previously unrecognized. It was not strange that they should
conceive the fiction of the Nymph Echo, who because of her babbling was
made to pine away into a bodiless voice. Nights leisurely spent in these
canyons would lead the untutored mind to let loose its fancy, if it
possessed any, and people this mountain valley with beings more than
human.

As we looked westward down the canyon we noticed a little grove of
quaking aspen trees which had sent some of their slender branches above
the lines of the cliffs beyond, so that they were silhouetted against
the evening sky. Although the air seemed to be perfectly still in the
valley, the leaves of the aspen trees were vigorously shaking, as if
some invisible sprites were using them to wave signals across the gorge.

From the ravines now and then there came the dismal howl of a timber
wolf, and the cry, hurled back from the echoing rocks, was repeated
after a little delay, as if the wolf had been awaiting the returning
sound, like enough to his own to be the voice of his hungry brother. The
little stream continued to flow down the valley over its stony bed,
rushing under overhanging willows, singing its own peculiar music, in
which there was any melody that one's fancy might conceive.

Amidst these startling sounds we wandered through the gloom nearly a
mile down the dark, rocky road where we decided that it was time to
return. Before retracing our steps up the canyon we gave a short whoop,
which as before was echoed back from the other side. To our astonishment
the first echo was quickly followed by a soft, suppressed whoop and
echo, evidently the voice of a girl. We repeated our call, but no voice
then came back except our own. Renewed curiosity impelled us to follow
the pathway farther down stream. The light of a campfire soon broke
through the foliage, and it became evident that another party was in the
valley. Approaching the group, we discovered to our great surprise and
pleasure that it was the family of Dr. Brown from whom we had separated
at Julesburg and who intended to remain in Denver. On their arrival at
that mining camp, letters were received by the doctor urging him to
proceed at once to Oregon where a friend had located at a place offering
an excellent opportunity for a physician to practice his profession.

Echo Canyon, which proved to be so interesting to us and in which
several days and nights were again spent later in the season, is
twenty-three miles in length and increases in depth as it narrows down
to its outlet into the valley of the Weber River. At a few points,
narrow, steep ravines radiate from the main canyon, and in their walls a
few small caves are found. From the summits above the valley the views
obtained were superb.

At the break of day after our first night in Echo Canyon, we heard the
approaching mail coach rattling along the stony road, making its best
possible speed down the rapidly descending grade, turning short curves
on the dizzy edge of cliffs over which a slight deviation would have
hurled it upon the rocks below. A glimpse into the open windows, as the
coach rolled by, revealed the passengers within half-reclining in
various attitudes, doubtless weary with their long ride and evidently
unconscious of the grand scenery through which they were plunging.

On the ninth of August we reached the station at the mouth of the
canyon, and a general rush was made for the establishment in which we
learned there was a telegraph office, the wires having been strung to
Salt Lake several months previous to our visit. Many weeks had passed
since we had received any intelligence from the busy world.

"What's the news from America?" asked Ben after we had entered the door.

"Here's the last Salt Lake paper," said the genial proprietor, as he
laid the welcome sheet upon the counter.

We gathered closely around the journal, and all read the first
headlines: "The Success of the Prussians Attributed to the Needle Gun."

"What have the Prussians been doing with Needle guns?" was asked.

"Fighting, of course," said the man behind the counter. "You probably
haven't heard of the European war. Here are other papers," he added, as
he laid them before us.

These disclosed the fact that on the third day of the preceding month
(July,) a great decisive battle had been fought between the Prussians
and the Austrians at Königgrätz in Bohemia, now called the battle of
Sadowa, in which the Austrians had lost 40,000 men. But why had we not
learned before leaving the states that war existed between those
nations? Further investigation showed that the first message through
the Atlantic cable, which had been quietly laid, was received on July
29th, and it announced that a treaty of peace had been concluded between
Austria and Prussia, a surprise in that day of slow-going even in New
York. On the same day telegrams of congratulation passed between Queen
Victoria and President Johnson on the successful completion of the link
between the two countries, and these were also quoted in the Salt Lake
papers. News from Europe at the close of the Prussian war reached Salt
Lake two weeks more quickly than was possible at the beginning of that
conflict, which lasted only seven weeks. Thus it seemed that although we
were ten weeks in travel farther from Europe than we were when we moved
out from Nebraska City, we were twelve weeks nearer to it in time of
communication than we would have been without the telegraph. As we
passed along on the following days in sight of the cold, silent wires
strung across that wild country, we were conscious that signals were
probably flying through them that others could read, yet for us there
was no message from home that we could see or hear. It was, therefore,
remarked that if we could read the signals which then might be passing
through space where there were no wires, or could understand even the
call of the birds that nested in those rocks, and would soon migrate, we
should be wiser than other men.

Our trail through the Wasatch Mountains zigzagged at acute angles to
reach the canyons through which it must pass and in a manner which
sometimes leaves the observant traveler bewildered concerning the
direction in which he is going. The average immigrant simply follows
such a trail in the abiding faith that it will come out somewhere.

From Echo our trail bore sharply to east of south, thence westward into
Silver Creek Canyon, thence southward through that gorge, thence
westward through Parley's Canyon, at all times following the sinuosities
of mountain streams and crooked valleys.

Beyond a little flouring mill on the Weber River we pitched an
attractive camp, where Fred found water on a mountain side.

Some experiences in Silver Creek and Parley's Canyon will be mentioned
in connection with another trip through these ranges of mountains. On
the morning of August 11th I stood guard from midnight on the western
limits of the beautiful Parley's Park. At 2.45 A. M. as prearranged, the
camp was roused that we might make an early start. At noon we lunched on
a high cliff near the west end of Parley's Canyon, a point not reached
by the present road. In the distance, the waters of Great Salt Lake
sparkled in the sunlight and between it and us was spread that
interesting valley, which once was an alkaline desert soon to be made to
blossom as the rose. In its bosom was the new City of the Saints, which
we entered near the close of the day.

CHAPTER XXIV

WHY A FAIR CITY AROSE IN A DESERT

The history of Utah is a history of the Mormons, but that history, as is
well known, strikes its roots much further East. It is not the purpose
of this story to give a chronicle of Mormonism, nevertheless, as some
startling events have marked the birth of nearly every religious sect, a
cursive glance at the beginnings of Mormonism seems necessary to
introduce us into the atmosphere of Mormon life and make our later
observations better understood. The brief account here given is largely
the result of personal investigation and of conference with old citizens
in the early centers of Mormon influence.

The revelation made to Joseph Smith on the hill Cumorah, near the
village of Manchester, in the state of New York; the delivery to him by
Moroni, a messenger from God, of the book written on plates of gold,
also a key with which to translate the mystic characters engraved
thereon,--all of which was alleged to have taken place in the year 1827,
naturally became the subject of much comment, chiefly of an adverse
nature.

[Illustration: JOSEPH SMITH]

A few persons accepted as a divine revelation the book as translated,
which was finally crystallized into the _Book of Mormon_, now held by
that people as a part of the Holy Word and equal in importance and
authority with the Old and New Testaments.

After suffering many persecutions, during which the disciples of Smith
gradually increased in numbers, the leaders of the New Church
practically abandoned the state of New York, a number of them reaching
Independence, Missouri, in the early part of the year 1831, where in
obedience to another revelation they established a Zion, a term which
appears to be adopted for their various centers of religious activity.
Almost concurrently with the movement to Missouri, a colony of the
scattered New York Saints settled in Kirtland, Ohio. In both of these
Zions monthly journals were published to represent the interests and
claims of the New Church. Temples were also built, the one in Kirtland
being dedicated in 1836. Records show that the Saints held their
property in common. In Independence and other towns in Missouri, soon
after their settlement by the Mormons, numerous adherents of the new
faith were mobbed, tarred and feathered. After continued tribulations,
which in the severe winter of 1839 developed into open warfare, they
were driven from the state, leaving their possessions chiefly in the
control of their persecutors.

They were soon heard of in western Illinois, which they reached after
being goaded at every step by the opposition and derision of the former
settlers. Nauvoo, or the Holy City, as it was called by the Saints,
became the center of their proselyting in that state. There they erected
a temple, which in many respects was remarkable, partly because of the
fact that it is said to have cost $1,000,000. It is described in detail
in _Times and Seasons_, Vol. II. The cornerstone was laid on April 6,
1841. They also established a university and built several factories.
Being industrious, they became prosperous and increased in numbers
until, as stated in Smucker's _Mormonism_, their churches in and
around Nauvoo embraced from ten to twenty thousand members. The
_Millennial Star_, Vol. V, reports more than that number in attendance
at the October conference in Nauvoo, in 1844.

During these years they claim to have been guided at all times by divine
revelations, which were given to their leaders and are published in
their journals. Having faith in the authority by which they were being
led, they acted as a unit in all matters, and thus became a power to be
reckoned with in the political affairs of the state. This subordination
of local civil government to the head of a new religious sect, and
especially to one which its adherents recognized as a theocracy, seemed
contrary to the spirit of American institutions and was repugnant to the
ideas of the early Illinois pioneers.

It was especially odious to those political leaders on whom the Mormons
would not unite their votes. This situation intensified the hatred that
had previously met them and they were soon confronted by fresh
opposition. It would appear from the text of letters addressed by Smith
to Henry Clay and John C. Calhoun, prior to the election in 1844, that
he was arrogant in a high degree. In those letters he demanded from the
candidates a statement of what their attitude toward the Mormons would
be in case of their election. Some journalists characterized the demand
as insolent and yet suffragettes, labor unionists and other equally
respectable leaders frequently make similar demands.

On the 12th of July, 1843, a revelation was said to have been made to
Joseph Smith and was duly published. A copy is given by Bancroft, (page
160), sanctioning by divine authority the practice of polygamy. This
declaration seemed to afford sufficient grounds for a renewed war of
extermination. Then followed the bitter conflict between the citizens
represented by mobs and the state militia on the one side, and the
Mormons on the other side, which culminated in the assassination of
Joseph Smith, the prophet, and Hyrum, his brother, by a mob of about one
hundred and fifty disguised men, in the prison in Carthage, Illinois, on
June 27, 1844, where they were awaiting trial on an indictment for
treason. On July 25th, Governor Thomas Ford issued a proclamation to the
people of the county (Hancock) denouncing mob violence. The governor's
paper is given in _The Star_ of October, 1844.

This event occurred during a carnival of crime and murder in the country
around Nauvoo, all of which has given rise to such conflicting opinions
that the investigator, after conversing with numerous witnesses and
reading various journals of the time, cannot fail to conclude that both
Mormon and Gentile desperadoes infested that part of the state. Edward
Bonney, in a little volume entitled _The Banditti of the Prairies_,
gives a thrilling record of crime which he, as an officer, assisted in
bringing to light, and which resulted in the execution of a number of
Mormon murderers, but I discovered that he himself was brought to trial
under an indictment for issuing counterfeit money. A change of venue
carried the case to a Gentile court, where he made a successful defense.
Recrimination, robbery, riot, and organized resistance by both parties
in this war continued until the final eviction of the Mormons from the
state. Fourteen years had now passed since the New Church was organized
by a few obscure men. At the time of the assassination of Joseph and
Hyrum Smith the Mormon enrollment of Nauvoo numbered thousands.

The history of other new religious faiths was repeated. Mormonism was
strengthened by the persecutions through which its enemies aimed at its
extermination.

        "Strive with the half-starved lion for its prey--
          Lesser the risk
        Than rouse the slumbering spirit of wild fanaticism."

In August, 1844, Brigham Young, in accordance with a revelation said to
have been received by him, declared himself to be the successor of
Joseph Smith, and in December he was elected by the great assembly at
Nauvoo, president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints,
which was the name officially adopted for the new society. Sidney Rigdon
was also an active candidate for the office. His defeat was humiliating.
He was tried, convicted, and condemned.

Previous to the death of Smith there appears to have been but one
organized separation from the parent church, but Young and Rigdon were
not the only persons who laid claim to the mantle of the prophet, Smith.
The succession was bitterly contested by James J. Strang, who aside from
Brigham Young, was perhaps the first and most formidable aspirant for
office, partly because of his powers of leadership, and partly because
he declared that at the moment of Smith's death he received a revelation
that vested in him divine authority to become leader of the Saints. But
little seems to have been written concerning the remarkable career of
this Mormon prophet, who for several years exercised a dictatorship over
his few thousands of followers which in rigor hardly has a parallel in
our history. Some letters from his followers, and among them those of
Bishop George Miller, have come into my hands, and these give some
history of the Strangite movement. Miller had been appointed by Young
to organize the association to erect the Nauvoo house and temple, but
finally joined Strang and opposed Young. Neither these letters nor the
records in the historical society are so complete and convincing as are
the statements of Strang's own people.

It has been my privilege to be granted several interviews with the one
person who doubtless knows more than any other now living concerning the
life of the so-called king and prophet, Strang, and of the autocratic
rule of his island dominion. It was her husband, Thomas Bedford, who put
the final quietus on that monarch's authority.

Sitting with her daughter and me in their neat little cottage in
Northern Michigan, she modestly consented to give the full story, which
they both stated had never before been given in detail even to her own
children, but, as she said, the time had come when all the truth should
be given, and some of that truth had to that time for various reasons
been withheld.

Mrs. Bedford descended from hardy Connecticut stock, and at the age of
seventy-six abounded in vigor, and yet she was serene in temperament.
Her statements in reviewing the thrilling history of her experiences in
the Northern Empire were clear and definite, and she never hesitated in
giving either names or dates.

In the winter of 1844, Mrs. Bedford passed through the Endowment
house at Nauvoo. After suffering with the Saints in their various
vicissitudes of fortune and fate in Nauvoo and Nebraska, in the year
1850 and at the age of sixteen, she entered with her parents the Strang
colony on Beaver Island and spent five years in that fellowship.

[Illustration: THE KING OF BEAVER ISLAND]

James J. Strang was born in Scipio, N. Y., in the year 1813, and was
educated for the practice of law. He had been a Baptist until he became
interested in Mormon affairs and at Nauvoo, when Smith was at the
zenith of his authority, he was baptized into the Mormon Church and soon
became an elder. His complexion was florid, his hair was red, and he
wore a glass eye, but he was a convincing speaker.

As the result of an alleged revelation he established Zion at Spring
Prairie (now Voree) Wisconsin, where (so he often stated to his
disciples) he discovered eighteen metallic plates containing valuable
history. It appears that these were never submitted to the inspection of
his people.

In 1847 with a few followers he established a new Zion on Beaver Island,
in Lake Michigan, to which point considerable additional Mormon
immigration was attracted in 1849. It was his declared purpose to make
this island the center of Mormon power. In 1850 the government of his
colony was established on Mormon lines by the Union of the church and
civil government, and on July 8th of the same year he was formally
crowned King by George Adams, president of the twelve. I find this union
of church and state to be authorized, and the argument therefor
presented in _Times and Seasons_, 1844.

The assumption of civil authority by the Strangites resulted in much
friction between the Mormons and their opponents, though not so serious
as what arose from a similar cause in Illinois. The fact that the number
of votes cast on Beaver Island was equal to its entire population seems
to be conceded. It is, however, the inside life of that people that is
of present interest.

Strang had one wife, named Mary, when his kingdom was established, but a
revelation that he announced to his people decreed polygamy to be a
divine institution. He accordingly added four wives to his household,
the last two, Phoebe and Delia Wright, who were cousins, being taken
on the same day, as the sequel of a picnic held by the Saints on an
island in Pine Lake, which in memory of the happy event was called Holy
Island, by which name it is still known. Two daughters from his second
and third marriages were named respectively Eveline and Evangeline in
honor of whom two important townships in Michigan still bear the name
given by Strang.

Strang was the father of twelve children, four of whom were born after
his death and were the children of his last four wives. They all lived
together in the one home. John R. Forster in his report, 1855, on his
survey of Beaver Island, which appears in _Michigan Historical Society
Reports_, Vol. IX, states that Strang had six wives. My informant, who
was thoroughly familiar with the family and home says that this
statement is incorrect, but that Strang had said in her hearing that he
would be a father to the fatherless and a husband to the widow, and one
mourner did sojourn for a time in his hospitable log cabin.

Each of Strang's twelve apostles also took more than one wife, two of
the apostles having three wives each.

All weddings were private, none but officers who were to perform the
ceremony being present. The temple in which all these religious
functions were performed, and where services were held was built of pine
logs, hewed square.

In accordance with early Mormon teachings the use of tea, coffee,
tobacco, and spirituous liquors was interdicted. The payment of tithes
to the King, as well as the first fruits of field and flocks was
required. One of the earliest edicts of the King prescribed the dress
that must be worn by his people. The women were required to wear the
style of costume which Miss Bloomer endeavored later to introduce. The
men were commanded to wear an equally distinctive garb consisting in
part of a short jacket, with no skirt or tail to the coat.

Mrs. Bedford states also that from infancy and during the first four
years under Strang's dominion she religiously conformed to all the
decrees of the church. One day, however, she was discovered in her home
by the prophet when for a brief period she was wearing an ordinary
dress. The Prophet King at once declared that the rule pertaining to
dress must be enforced, or the people must walk over his dead body. The
strong, independent spirit of the woman rose within her, and the
beginning of the end had come. Bedford had previously been ordered to
appropriate some fishing nets, which were the property of others. A boat
had been stolen, and Bedford, who was a sturdy Englishman, _would_ speak
the truth, which reflected upon the integrity of certain of Strang's
apostles, whereupon the King caused his officers to enforce upon Bedford
a brutal punishment with whips. These were secured later and were sent
to a museum in Detroit.

The rule of a tyrant is quite certain in time to be brought to an end by
some lover of liberty and justice.

Night came down upon Bedford's home far back upon Beaver Island, and
husband and wife conversed together concerning the wrongs and oppression
of the King's despotic rule. Strang had preached that no bullet could
enter his body.

"If you are going to shoot Strang go now and do it," said the indignant
young wife, and Bedford went out into the darkness. It was long past the
midnight hour of June 17th when the waiting wife heard a pounding at the
barred door of their log cabin.

"Who is there?"

"Friends."

She stood with an axe in her hands prepared to defend herself, her
children, and her home. Stating what defence she would make, if
necessary, she told her visitors that she must know their names, before
they would be admitted. On becoming assured that they were marines from
the government steamer, Michigan, that her husband was aboard their
ship, and that they had come to rescue her, she unbarred the door. A
supper had been laid upon the table awaiting her husband's return, from
which the sailors were glad to take refreshment.

Bundling her two little ones and a few light effects, they fled to the
steamer before the King's officers reached the house.

Strang had been duly shot. In a few days a passing steamer carried him
to Racine, from which place he was conveyed to Voree, where on July 8th
he died from the effects of his wound.

Bedford was taken to Mackinac and placed in an unlocked jail with a
friendly guard, but boldly returned with his wife to Beaver Island.
There was no recognized leader. The spell was broken. The Saints
scattered, some in one direction and some in another, as opportunity
offered, by passing vessels. Women wept as each party embarked. It was
well known that at whatever port they might be landed their peculiar
dress, which marked them as disciples of the despised and now fallen
prophet, would invite the searching gaze and contemptuous jeers of rude
and unsympathetic onlookers. Such was in fact their fate. Thus was
closed the chapter of the Strangite defection.

An old pioneer has related to the writer the story of the gallows, which
was erected on the Michigan beach by the Mormons and which he cut down.
Upon it was suspended the effigy of an obnoxious Gentile, which is
preserved by its prototype to this day.

At the time of the dispersion of the Strangites Brigham Young had long