There was only a moment’s delay, and then every person raised a hand so that Nathan could see.
For the past several days they had seen rain off and on, usually accompanied by strong, blustery winds. But this Monday morning the unsettled weather had moved east. The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun already warm upon their faces as they looked out from the wagon in which they rode. Margret Reed, Virginia, and Kathryn were seated inside one of the smaller Reed family wagons, the canvas top being rolled up partway so that they could get a better view as well as catch a breeze. Milt Elliott was walking alongside the oxen, urging them forward. Laramie River—or Laramie Fork, as many of the locals called it—was off to their right about a hundred yards. Even at that distance, they could make out the sound of birds singing lustily in the trees along the banks.
“Isn’t this a glorious morning?” Margret Reed said to no one in particular. There was an instant murmur of complete agreement from Virginia and Kathryn. Part of that gloriousness was being near a point of civilization again. It was just a point, and quite rudimentary at that, Kathryn thought, but after six weeks without seeing anything but animals and each other, Fort Laramie was indeed glorious.
Virginia Reed, who had turned thirteen years old the day before, sat between her mother and Kathryn inside the wagon. “Are you excited?” Kathryn asked her. “It’s not every girl who gets to celebrate her birthday at a place like this.” Though Virginia’s birthday was past, Mrs. Reed was determined that they would find something and buy it for her. With everything that needed attention in camp the day before, they had seen but very little of the fort itself. So even though their company had left Fort Laramie yesterday afternoon and traveled on two miles, last night Margret talked her husband into letting her take Virginia and Kathryn back to the fort early this morning. Milt Elliott volunteered to unload a few things from one of the smaller wagons to make room for the three women, then agreed to drive the wagon for them. They planned to do some quick shopping and then return to the group before it moved on.
“Oh, yes,” Virginia cried in response to Kathryn’s question. “This is so wonderful. Just look.” She waved her arm in the direction of what lay before them.
Their heads nodded. It wasa fascinating scene, Kathryn agreed. Directly ahead of them was the fort itself. It stood all by itself on the flat plain. It was a large quadrangle, the walls of which were made of what they called “adobes,”or sun-dried bricks. It enclosed an area of about three-quarters of an acre. The walls were high and surmounted by three towers, one over the front gate, and then one each at opposite corners of the walls.
But it was the scene around that main building that was so fascinating. The grounds around the fort were teeming with activity—Indians, whites, emigrants, trappers, traders, men, women, children, horses, dogs, and an occasional milk cow all moved about with great purpose. There were wagons and tents and small willow shelters. Bull boats—round craft that were made of a framework of sticks and covered with buffalo hides and which were used to carry furs downriver—were turned upside down against one wall of the fort. It was enough to give one a stiff neck, Kathryn thought, as she tried to take it all in.
“Look,” Margret said, pointing toward the south. The night before last, as they had come in they had seen a huge assembly of Indian tepees—conical tents fifteen feet high made from long poles covered by brightly decorated animal skins. There must have been two or three hundred of them. Now they were all but gone. A few remained, and there were a few more of the skeletal frameworks, but that was all. Now, where they had been, Indian women and young girls swarmed everywhere. They were striking the camp, taking down the skins from the frameworks, bundling them quickly and neatly into piles. Then the poles came down. Horses stood patiently as men tied two of the long poles across their backs, and then the bundles of robes and personal belongings were piled upon them in what was known as the travois, which was dragged behind the horses. Here and there, smaller children were making miniature travois and tying them to some of the larger dogs.
“They look like they’re preparing to move,” Kathryn said.
“Do you think we’re safe, Mama?” Virginia whispered, scooting a little closer to her mother.
“Yes, dear,” Margret smiled. “Your father says the Indians here are very friendly. We have nothing to fear from them. They’re probably off to hunt buffalo or something.”
They had nearly reached the gate, and that now drew their attention. Through the high doors, which were tied back now, they could see inside the fort. Immediately inside was a large, open courtyard. Here both animals and people milled noisily. Around the courtyard on three sides of the fort, various buildings extended from the walls themselves—stores, mechanical shops, storerooms, offices.
“Well, Virginia,” laughed Mrs. Reed. “Let’s go see if we can’t leave your father a little poorer today, shall we?”
Kathryn was shocked, but not really surprised, by the prices. She was wise enough to know that when all the essentials were brought upriver from Independence or St. Joseph, they would not be cheap. But she wasn’t prepared for what she saw. Coffee, sugar, and tobacco were each selling for one dollar per pound. Flour was fifty cents a pint. She shook her head, calculating quickly. Two pints to the quart and four quarts to the gallon meant flour was going for four dollars per gallon measure. In Independence she had been shocked when Peter reported that flour there was selling for an outrageous two dollars a barrel for super fine and one seventy-five for fine. She wasn’t sure what a barrel held, but she supposed fifteen or twenty gallons.
A slab of rock-hard bacon hung from a hook. One dollar a pound! Mr. Reed had complained of scalpers’ prices in Independence when he paid three dollars and thirty-five cents a hundred weight.
And yet if anyone was discouraged by the outrageous prices, she certainly couldn’t tell. The store was like a madhouse. Every aisle was jammed with piles of skins, stacks of buffalo robes, barrels and boxes and kegs of everything from nails to smoked cod from Boston. There were well over a hundred people crammed into every inch of free space, each shouting for attention or haggling over prices at what seemed to Kathryn at the top of their lungs. She blushed at the stream of profanity that came from the mouth of one emigrant and was pleased to see that the grizzled old clerk, bearded and looking as though he had spent a thousand winters behind the counter, found it as distasteful as she did.
As she watched the bedlam around her, she saw that most of the trading by the Indians or those who looked like mountain men or trappers was done in buffalo or deer skins or in shirts, pantaloons, and moccasins made of buckskin. But the emigrants were another matter. Here the storekeepers asked for cash wherever possible, probably so they could use it to purchase more goods from the States. The travelers were also trading watches, pocketknives, tools, and the like.
Kathryn stopped where a large box of bottles sat precariously on a counter beside a case of knives and whetstones. She wrinkled her nose in obvious distaste. Whiskey! And at one dollar a pint. Eight dollars a gallon! It was shameless and tragic. She had heard the stories about how the whites were corrupting whole Indian tribes with the sale of liquor.
“Not much of a bargain, is it?”
She turned to see who had spoken to her; then her eyes widened in surprise. “Mr. Bryant.”
“Hello, Mrs. Ingalls. I see you made it to wonderful Fort Laramie.” There was a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“Yes, we arrived the night before last and actually moved on a couple of miles yesterday. But I thought that you had gone on ahead.”
“We did, at least this far.”
“Is Colonel Russell with you?”
There was a deep frown. “Kind of. Let’s just say he’s under the weather.” He pulled a face. “Corn liquor weather.”
“Oh?” Kathryn said.
“Yes,” he grunted. “He was supposed to be trading our horses for mules and packs at Fort Bernard, which is downriver about eight miles. But a group of Mexican
s came in with what is known as ‘Taos lightning,’ and when I got there Colonel Russell was as drunk as a polecat.”
Kathryn couldn’t hide the surprise she felt. Bryant had often been at their campfire before he had gone on ahead, but he had rarely spoken directly to her. His candor as well as his vehemence took her aback somewhat. She nodded sympathetically, not quite sure how to respond to that. Then they both caught sight of Margret Reed and Virginia. Virginia had a bolt of red velvet and a large bonnet.
“Oh,” Bryant said. “There’s Mrs. Reed. I’ll go say hello.”
“Will you tell her I’ll be outside?” Kathryn said. “All of this is giving me a headache.”
He laughed pleasantly. “I will.” He watched her as she brought her crutches up and started away. “You manage very well with your handicap, Mrs. Ingalls. Your husband has real cause to be proud of you.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Bryant. What a kind thing to say!”
He tipped his hat. “Give my best to Peter. If there’s time, I’d like to get over to your group and visit for a while; Peter and I can swap some old newspaper stories together. I’d also like to see Mr. Reed one more time before we move out ahead.”
She laughed. “Peter would like that very much, and I’m sure Mr. Reed would be pleased to see you again.”
To Kathryn’s surprise, when Margret and Virginia Reed came out of the store ten minutes later they were accompanied by Edwin Bryant, who carried Mrs. Reed’s two packages.
Seeing her look, Margret smiled. “You remember Mr. Bryant, Kathryn?”
“Yes. We had a chance to visit for a moment inside the store.”
“He is going to try to visit our group out on the trail today.”
“That will be good.”
As they started toward the wagon, where Milt Elliott stood waiting, Bryant fell in step with them. “Well,” he asked, “what do you think of Fort John?”
“I think it’s wonderful. I—” Mrs. Reed stopped in mid-sentence, her mouth dropping open. “Look!” she exclaimed, pointing with one hand, even though she was constantly reminding her children that pointing was impolite.
They turned. Just ahead of them and to the left a column of Indians was approaching. They came on slowly but in complete silence. Around them, the whites were calling out to each other and pointing at this remarkable sight.
“What is it?” Virginia cried.
Bryant took Margret’s arm and stopped their progress. The lead rider, still some thirty or so yards away, was headed so that the column would pass between them and where Milt Elliott waited with the wagon. “Sioux,” he said quietly. “Let’s wait here.”
Kathryn shifted her weight, letting the crutches find a new place under her arms so that they were more comfortable, but she was barely conscious of what she did. She looked to the south and then understood. Now all the tepees were gone. The camp was no more. The Indians had formed into groups of a hundred or so, with the first party leading the way and the second group forming up about fifty yards behind them.
What caught her eye was the lead rider. It was not an Indian chief or warrior. It was a young maiden. She was mounted on one of the finest of their horses. She wore a dress of simple buckskin that came to her knees and left her legs bare. But the dress was gorgeously decorated with beads, ribbons, dyed porcupine quills, painted designs, and other items that Kathryn could not identify. On her feet were brightly adorned moccasins. In her hand she held a long pole. From the point of it were suspended additional decorations—a gilt ball, brightly colored feathers, freshly picked wildflowers, brass trinkets.
With her wide dark eyes and bronzed skin, she was a striking sight, as beautiful as any royalty Kathryn could imagine. She rode in complete silence, glossy black hair tied in braids, eyes fixed directly to the front, turning neither to the left nor to the right. She barely seemed to blink. Had it not been for the movement of the horse, she might have passed for a vividly realistic statue. Without even thinking about it, as the Indian maiden neared the four of them, Kathryn bowed slightly, acknowledging her passing. There was not a flicker of recognition or acknowledgment.
Directly behind the lead rider came three of what looked like their chiefs. These too were richly adorned in their ceremonial finery—feathered headdresses, bows, arrows, spears, and tomahawks held at attention, as though they were passing in review. Like their ensign bearer, they held their heads high and stared straight forward.
After the chiefs came the women and children and the old men. They directed the packhorses that pulled the travois or were loaded with packs on their backs. But here too Kathryn was struck by what a handsome people they were. They looked well fed and healthy. The women wore dresses of buckskin for the most part, but these were neatly sewn and were ornamented with beads and dyed porcupine quills. The seams of their sleeves were trimmed with long fringes. Like the maiden, their hair, black and long, was clean and well combed. Even the children were remarkably disciplined. Though here and there Kathryn saw them turn their heads to look at the gathering crowd of whites, they showed no emotion, no recognition. There was not a sound from any of them except for the quiet shuffle of hooves and the creak of harnessing. Even the dogs trailed along without barking.
Finally, bringing up the rear of the party were the warriors. Kathryn shuddered as she looked up into their implacable faces. Slashes of brilliantly colored paint stood out on their cheeks, their chins, or their foreheads. Hair was pulled back into tight locks. All carried their weapons in utter silence. This was the stuff of which nightmares were made, she thought, for there was nothing but the coldness of death in their eyes.
“What is it, Mr. Bryant?” Margret Reed whispered. “Where are they going?”
“I think they’re going to war,” Bryant finally said. “Look how the warriors are painted.”
“That’s right,” said a voice just behind them. They turned. A man with a heavy beard and dressed in fringed buckskins had come up behind them. He was nodding as he watched the marchers file past them. “They’re off to make war with their most hated enemies—the Snakes and the Crows.”
“With their women and children?” Kathryn asked in surprise.
“Nope. They’ll go upriver about fifty miles and make camp. They’ll leave the women and children in care of the old men, then head into enemy country.”
“They’re beautiful,” Kathryn exclaimed softly. “I’ve never seen anything so majestic.”
He nodded, seemingly pleased by her reaction. “These are the mighty Sioux. What you see are the tribal groupings—the Lakotas, the Arikaras, the Assiniboines, the Oglalas, the Tetons. You rarely see an assembly like this in one place.”
“And they’re all going to battle?” Bryant asked softly.
“Not just battle. This is a major war against their longtime enemies.”
Now the second group was approaching, and the whites fell silent as they came abreast of them. Their interpreter nudged Kathryn gently. “See that lead chief, just behind the girl?”
“Yes.” He was a fierce-looking man. His headdress of eagle feathers attached to a crown of buffalo horns spilled down past the belly of his horse. The buckskin shirt was half bloodred and half brown. Designs were painted across his chest. He carried a lance adorned with even more eagle feathers.
“With the Dakotas, or the Sioux, as we call them,” the old mountain man went on, “their dress tells you all about them. It’s there for either friend or enemy to read.”
Bryant looked dubious. “Like what?”
“See there on his shirt? There are black lines with heads drawn above them. That means he has taken many scalps. And can you see the painted hand there below his waist?”
“Yes,” Virginia said, leaning forward.
“That means he’s killed someone in hand-to-hand combat.”
Virginia stared at the man, and an involuntary shudder ran through her body.
“That’s right,” the man went on. “The tip of his lance is red to show that he has killed
with it. The eagle feathers tied to his lance also are signs. A feather with a black dot means that he has killed an enemy. If the feather has a notch near the end, it means he cut someone’s throat or scalped them.”
Kathryn looked away, feeling sick, no longer wanting to read the “book” the man was describing. “If the feather is split down the middle, like that one near the bottom of the shaft, it means that this man has suffered many wounds in battle.”
“You say they’re going upriver?” Bryant asked. It was clear that even he was subdued.
“Yes.”
“Will we be in danger if we continue on that way?”
The older man shook his head, his eyes somber. “Not now. It’s the Crow they’re after. But Lord help us if they ever decide to turn against us.”
Chapter Notes
Still unaware that Captain James Allen was on his way to Council Bluffs with orders to recruit a battalion of men from the Mormons, Brigham Young spoke to the assembled Saints on Sunday, 28 June 1846, about forming a vanguard company to go west (see MHBY,pp. 198–201, 586–87).
The description of Fort Laramie and the prices of goods and other details all come from contemporary accounts (see Overland in 1846,pp. 108–9; What I Saw,pp. 112–13; LeRoy R. Hafen and Francis Marion Young, Fort Laramie and the Pageant of the West, 1834–1890[1938; reprint, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984], pp. 119–20). It was Edwin Bryant who saw and described the procession of Sioux leaving Fort Laramie to go out to do battle with their traditional enemies, though it actually happened a few days before the Donners arrived (What I Saw,pp. 111–12). Having Bryant at the fort trading post on 29 June is also a liberty of the author’s. The description of a chief’s war dress and the symbols found thereon are also authentic (see Jules B. Billard, ed., The World of the American Indian[Washington D.C.: National Geographic Society, 1989], p. 277).
Several forts were built in this vicinity over the years. They were called variously Fort William, Fort John, Fort Platte, Fort Bernard, and Fort Laramie. Laramie evidently comes from the name of an early French trapper, Jacque La Ramie (various spellings), who was supposedly killed by Indians in this area about 1821. (See Hafen and Young, Fort Laramie,pp. 18–94.)
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