Into the Unknown w-55

by David Thompson

  To his credit, young Billingsley made no pretensions to wisdom. He said it was fear, not caution, that brought him to a stop.

  On examination, we found that the warrior had been in the act of cutting the horses free, with the intent of stealing them, when he was interrupted by Billingsley. The rope was, in fact, half severed. A few more seconds, and we might well have been stranded on foot—a calamity, Trevor states, of the highest order.

  None of us were able to go back to sleep. More wood was thrown on the fire until the blaze cast light twice as far as before. A new batch of coffee was brewed, and until sunrise we sat drinking and watching, every man armed with all his weapons.

  Life’s ironies are limitless. I had begun to question the widespread dread in which the red man is held. To hear some people talk, a hate-filled savage lurks behind every bush and tree. But for weeks now we had been crossing the land of the red man and not seen a trace of that race. Proof, to my mind, that the common fear of Indians is as exaggerated as it is misguided. Now this.

  Perhaps I am the one who has been misguided. Perhaps the dangers are more real than I believed.

  If so, what does that bode for the future?

  Chapter Two

  The Prairie, June 12

  All right.

  I admit it.

  There is no “perhaps” about the dangers. There is no “perhaps” about the prospect of dying.

  We have left the Platte behind. We followed it to where it forked. The north fork would have taken us toward South Pass and the Green River country, made famous by the exploits of those hardy souls who engaged in the fur trade until beaver went out of fashion. We took the south fork, for a few days, anyway, and then our scout said that we must strike straight off across the prairie to a trading post known as Bent’s Fort.

  I cannot get over the vastness of this grassland. I have never been on board a ship in the middle of the ocean, but I have heard that it gives one a sense of the limitlessness of the briny deep. The same can be applied to the prairie. It seems to go on forever, a sea of grass without end. We who traverse it are but tiny specks adrift in its immensity.

  Yesterday afternoon we passed close to mounds of earth pockmarked with burrows. A prairie dog town, Trevor said, and he advised us to give it a wide berth as many a horse has broken a leg by inadvertently stepping into one of the holes. We complied, but I had barely reined after him when there came a sound as of seeds being shaken in a dry gourd, and the next I knew, my mount whinnied and reared and it was all I could do to stay in the saddle.

  Belatedly, I recognized the sound for what it was: the telltale warning of a rattlesnake. I glanced down and perceived sinuous movement, but then had my hands full regaining control of my steed. Trevor and the others rushed to my assistance. I am proud to say I did not need it, and with a few pats and soft-spoken words, my animal’s calm was restored.

  As for the serpent, it slithered off into a prairie dog hole before anyone could shoot it. Trevor informed us that rattlesnakes are often found near prairie dog colonies, prairie dog litters being high on the snake’s list of delicacies.

  Today dawned sunny and warm. By nine I was sweating; by noon I was sweltering. Nary a tree nor any other cover within sight and the temperature by our thermometer was one hundred and one.

  About the middle of the afternoon a bank of dark clouds appeared to the north. Soon we saw the flash of lightning and a nebulous mist between the dark clouds and the ground that signified a deluge. A thunderhead, but as it was drifting from west to east and we were well to the south of it, we gave it no more thought than we had countless others.

  Trevor turned to me and said, “You will be happy to hear that in three or four days we should reach Bent’s Fort.”

  Welcome news, indeed. The trading post is the last bastion of civilization before the mountains. We intend to spend a week resting and recuperating, then purchase new provisions and strike off into unexplored territory.

  Presently, a distant rumble fell on my ears. I equated it with thunder from the storm and rode blithely on until our scout suddenly drew rein and shifted in the saddle.

  “What is the matter?” I asked, struck by what might be alarm on his face.

  “I hope I am wrong,” he said. Rising in the stirrups, he peered intently to the north.

  It occurs to me as I write this that I have not described him. Imagine rawhide made flesh. He has lived on the frontier most of his adult life, and the imprint of hardship and the elements are stamped on his rugged features. The one word I would choose for his character is tough. His age I would not presume to guess, for while he exhibits the vitality of a twenty-year-old, he has enough gray hairs to persuade me he is at least twice that age.

  Anyway, we rode on, but we had only gone a short way when Trevor again drew rein. This time there was no doubt about his alarm, for the others saw it, too.

  “What is it?” asked Wilson, our cook.

  “Don’t you have ears?” Trevor responded. “Can’t you hear?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That rumbling.”

  “The storm, you mean?” young Billingsley said.

  “Would that it were,” Trevor said, and glanced all about us, as if he were seeking something.

  “What else can it be?” Billingsley inquired.

  “Our doom,” Trevor said.

  Since I was the leader of the expedition I felt compelled to say, “Confound it man, speak plainly. What has you so agitated?”

  “We must find cover, and we must find it quickly,” Trevor replied, and jabbed his heels against his mount.

  We had no choice but to hurry after him. I was anxious to question him further, but he had brought his animal to a gallop and I would have to shout to be heard. He was heading to the southwest at a breakneck clip. Repeatedly, he looked over his shoulder, and each time he did, he scowled.

  I was at a loss. The rumbling still sounded to my ears like thunder. Then I noticed that it was becoming louder, which was odd, since we were putting more distance between the thunderstorm and ourselves. Logic dictated the sound should grow fainter. Obviously, then, the rumble was not thunder. And whatever it was, was coming closer by the moment.

  I glanced to the north.

  For a few moments the sight I beheld made no sense. There appeared to be a second dark cloud bank, only this one was close to the ground and flowing toward us at a startling speed.

  Soon I saw that what I had taken for a single mass was instead made up of many small parts. Not in the scores or the hundreds or even the thousands, but in numbers too great too count. I saw, too, that each of these parts possessed a pair of curved horns and a hump and four flying hooves.

  They were buffalo.

  A herd, God knew how large, had been stampeded by lightning or some other cause and were bearing down on us like a shaggy avalanche.

  My analogy leaves a little to be desired, but the end result, should they overtake us, would be the same; we would be crushed under tons of bone, sinew and horn, pulverized to pieces and left for the buzzards to feast on. No one would ever know our fate, not unless at some future date a wayfarer happened on a few of our bleached bones.

  Morbid thoughts, I confess, but under the circumstances they were justified.

  We lashed our mounts, to no avail. The buffalo continued to gain. I have since learned that when in flight, they are as tireless as Titans. A fitting description, given that the males weigh upward of a ton and stand six feet high at the shoulder.

  I cannot say how far we fled. Mile after mile, to the point where my dun was flecked with sweat and flagging, and many of the other horses were about done in.

  It was then that Trevor rose in the stirrups and pointed, shouting, “Over yonder! As you value your hides, stay with me!”

  I needed no urging. The buffalo were less than two hundred yards behind us, a roiling maelstrom that obliterated everything in its path. The rumbling had become a thunderous din, and from under their pounding hooves swirled a t
hick column of dust.

  What strange creatures men are. I say that because my life was in the direst peril, but I was not thinking of that. I was thinking only of my art supplies and equipment. I saw Jeffers frantically tugging on the lead rope to the pack animals. Burdened as they were, they were falling behind.

  What I did next surprised even me.

  I wheeled the dun. Trevor shouted my name, but I did not answer. I raced back to Jeffers and hauled on the reins to bring the dun in close to the pack animals. With yells and motions I sought to hasten their flight, and in that I succeeded, for they moved faster.

  I looked up in time to witness an incredible sight; our scout seemed to ride into the ground itself. One by one the other men did the same, vanishing before my eyes.

  Thirty more yards, the miracle was explained.

  Long ago a cataclysm had rent the earth leaving a gash some ten feet wide and about that deep. At the bottom were my men, hastily dismounting.

  Trevor bellowed to bring their rifles and follow him.

  I was the last to descend. They were climbing back up and I passed them on the way down. Before the dun came to a stop, I was off and after them.

  Trevor reached the rim and sank to one knee. He immediately pressed the stock of his rifle to his shoulder.

  I did not need to ask what he was about to shoot, although why he would bother mystified me. There were eight of us and hundreds of thousands of buffalo. Dropping a few would have no more effect than dipping a finger into raging rapids to stem the flow of a river.

  But Trevor was determined to try. “Aim for the ones coming right at us!” he roared. “Wait until I give the word, then squeeze trigger!”

  “What good will this do us?” Wilson wanted to know.

  Trevor did not answer. His cheek was to his rifle. We imitated him.

  I am not much of a shot. In childhood I hunted, but my heart was never in it. Even today, I would rather paint specimens alive than dead, but that simply is not practical so I have others do my shooting for me.

  But now my aversion was moot. A living wall of horn and muscle was bearing down on us. I swear the very ground shook. My mouth was dry, and my palms grew slick. I firmed my grip and waited for Trevor to give the command to fire.

  “Remember, aim for the buffs coming right at us!”

  A futile exercise, I reflected, since behind the first rank were untold more. But I centered my Hawken’s sights between a bull’s beady eyes and thumbed back the hammer.

  At times, heartbeats can become hours. This was one of them. The buffalo seemed to be moving in slow motion. I saw the flair of every nostril, the driving thrust of every hoof. The illusion lasted all of ten seconds, and then they were on top of us and everything happened so swiftly and so furiously that the details are a bit of a haze even if the sequence is not.

  “Fire!” Trevor cried, and fire we did, our eight rifles blasting almost in unison. Only Trevor and Jeffers could claim to be marksmen of any note, but the buffalo were so close that marksmanship was not much of a factor.

  Our eight rifles boomed. Six buffalo crashed down. They struck hard, and rolled or tumbled or slid to a rest near the edge. In doing so they formed a barrier between us and the onrushing herd, which I divined was Trevor’s intent. Almost instantly the herd parted, breaking to the right and the left, going around the bodies of their fallen fellows.

  A temporary reprieve at best, I thought. The press of massive forms would soon drive the living against the dead and both the dead and the living would spill into our sanctuary. They would crush all us tiny humans who had the temerity to try and stem the tide of certain death.

  Trevor was scrambling toward the horses. “Get back!” he bellowed. “Get away from the rim!”

  I barely heard him, the din was so loud. How can I describe the indescribable? Imagine you are surrounded by a million men pounding the ground with heavy hammers, and you will have some idea. Add to that the riot of snorts, grunts and cries from a legion of bison throats. The walls of our retreat trembled, and the air was chocked with dust.

  I pictured our broken bodies lying under a heap of thrashing buffalo. I cursed my arrogance in believing that somehow I was special, for thinking that the wilderness would single me out for the unique honor of immunity from its many dangers.

  It is ever so. We think bad things will happen to others but not to us. The life breathed into us is somehow different from the breath of life in everyone else. Ours cannot be extinguished by random happenstance. We are special.

  A common delusion, I daresay.

  I am not overly religious, and I make no claim to understanding Scripture better than anyone else, but there is a quote that has stuck with me and sums up the state of our existence to a remarkable degree. He sends rain on the just and the unjust, or something to that effect. Could it possibly be any clearer? None of us merit special treatment. We are one and the same with everyone else. We are fodder in the panorama of life. Nothing more, nothing less.

  My morbid streak is showing again.

  But back to that cleft in the earth, and to the buffalo and the dust and the fear that coursed through my veins. I made it to the bottom and helped the others hold fast to our horses, which were in a state of sheer terror and fit to bolt. They plunged and reared and whinnied.

  Along both rims flowed endless shaggy forms with their bulging humps and wicked black horns. On and on, until my nerves were raw and my mind numb and I could barely breathe for the dust in the air.

  We never forget certain moments in our lives. Moments so profound, so intense, they are indelibly seared into our being. Such it was with me when Augustus Trevor hollered, “The worst is over!”

  He was right. The thunder was not as loud. The snorting and grunting was less. The herd was thinning.

  I clung to the reins on my mount and to the rope to the pack animals, and I could have wept for joy. The only reason I didn’t, I suppose, is that I was too dazed. The blank expressions of the others showed they were in the same state.

  At length the ground stopped trembling, the dust stopped swirling, and the thunder ceased altogether.

  Trevor was first to stir and climb to the top. He raised his head above the rim and gazed about him with the air of someone who does not believe what he is seeing. Then he beckoned.

  I do not know what I expected. Pockmarked earth, yes, and to find that in places the grass had been pounded down to bare dirt. I had not counted on the bodies, though. Mostly cows and calves but I also spied a few old bulls. They had tripped or stumbled or tired and gone down, never to rise again. Brown mounds ringed by red, some so badly mangled I honestly could not tell that they had been buffalo.

  “It’s a miracle!” Wilson exclaimed. “The Lord be praised!” He shook his pudgy hands at the sky, his belly jiggling.

  “We live!” young Billingsley marveled. “We still live!” He jumped up and down in glee.

  I shared their relief, but more so that my supplies had been spared than that we had. That might seem hard-hearted, but I am a naturalist, after all, and my easel and my sketchbooks are my means of recording my endeavors for posterity.

  Soon we were underway.

  Once again the dangers I had taken so lightly had shown they were not to be mocked. Either I learned my lesson, or I perished.

  It was that simple.

  Chapter Three

  Bent’s Fort, June 16

  We have arrived at an oasis of civilization in the middle of nowhere.

  Since Trevor repeatedly referred to it as a fort, I had envisioned a structure along military lines, even though he stressed it was civilian run, and had never been anything but a trading center.

  I can think of no better way to convey what I beheld than to say it was a castle made of mud. Adobe, the style is called, a word of Spanish extraction. More aesthetic than logs, it lent an atmosphere of dignity and sophistication to what was essentially a site where beads, trinkets and liquor were traded for furs.

  How they ever
built it with a relative handful of men, I cannot conceive. I would have thought an army would be required.

  The dimensions were as follows: the front and rear walls were approximately one hundred and forty feet in length, the side nearer one hundred and eighty. The average height was fourteen feet, and all the walls were three feet thick. They were proof not only against rifles and pistols and arrows, but a cannon ball would not penetrate.

  As if that were not enough, at the northwest and southeast corners were towers housing cannons.

  At its maximum, provided provisions were adequate, the fort could sustain two hundred men and twice that in stock and poultry.

  I had to paint it.

  I also had to paint the men who ran it.

  This remarkable enterprise was the brainchild of the Bent brothers and Ceran St. Vrain. I saw more of the latter than the former, who were busy with freighters bound for Santa Fe.

  St. Vrain is an aristocratic gentleman, well-read and kindly yet firm in his dealings with subordinates. It was from his lips that I first heard the names which would soon figure so prominently in my life. It happened when he mentioned having a Cheyenne wife.

  “How remarkable,” I responded.

  “Not really,” said he. “Quite a few white men have found Indian maidens much to their liking. Nate King and Joseph Walker are the most famous examples.”

  I had never heard of either and stated as much.

  “Good Lord, man,” St. Vrain said. “Walker’s explorations are legendary. As for King, he is one of my closest friends and as ideal an example of the mountain man as you are likely to meet.”

  “The mountain man?”

  “That is what people are calling whites who stayed on in the mountains after the beaver trade faded. King was one of the best of the trappers and one of the first whites to go Indian, as they say. His wife is a Shoshone, and I don’t mind admitting she is as beauteous a woman as ever drew breath.”