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THE cold was intense during our last encampment at Walnut Creek. About an hour after
the midnight watch had been relieved, and while the last watch were warming their benumbed
limbs before a large fire, one of the men on horse guard left his duty, and came into camp
to warm himself—Col. Fremont, who was always on the "qui vive," suddenly
appeared at the camp-fire. This was not unusual, that he should personally inspect the
guard, but he took such times, when he was least expected-in order to see if the men did
their duty properly.
The Colonel accosted the officer of the watch, and enquired if Mr. — had been
relieved? He replied that he had not, but gave as an excuse, the coldness of the weather.
Col. Fremont lectured the officer, and had another man immediately sent out to take his
place. He was highly displeased and as a punishment, told Mr.— that he expected he
"would walk," during the next day's travel. I had been relieved a short time
before, and I knew how cold I was, and that it was necessary to move about continually, to
keep up the circulation of the blood; under the circumstances, I thought the punishment
disproportionate to the offense.
I was a novice in camp life among Indians, and was not aware of the stern necessity
required for a strict guardianship of the animals; but the sequel proved, that the
"slight dereliction" from duty, as I thought it, involved the most serious
consequences.
At day-light, when the animals were driven in to be loaded and packed for the day's
journey, five of them were missing. The camp was, in consequence, delayed, while the
animals were sought; half the day was lost in an ineffectual search. Our Delawares
reported having discovered moccasin prints on the snow, and at once decided they were made
by Cheyenne Indians, from their peculiar form.
The next day we followed a track made by "shod horses," which convinced us we
were on the right scent. The Indians do not shoe their horses.
On the "divide," near the Arkansas River, we saw one of our mules grazing,
but so worn out by the hard drive, that be was unable to continue, and the Indians left
him on the prairie.
It took us several days to reach the village, which was situated on the part of the
Arkansas River known as Big Timber, near Mr. Bent's house.
At this village we found the rest of the animals, and some of the thieves. On examining
them, they confessed that they had watched our camp during the night, for an opportunity
to run off our animals, but found them guarded, until one man left his watch, and went to
warm himself at the camp fire, during which time they stole five of them, and if they had
had an hour longer time, they would have stolen a great many more. They went so far as to
point out the very man who went to the fire.
Mr. — submitted to the walk with as good a grace as possible. We had a long
journey that day, but he manfully accomplished it; and I heard him say, afterwards, that
he richly deserved it.
Imagine twenty odd men, 600 miles from the frontiers, at the commencement of a severe
winter, deprived of their animals, on an open prairie, surrounded by Comanches, Pawnees
and other tribes of hostile Indians. I am fully convinced that but for the
"watchfulness" of Col. Fremont, we should have been placed in this awkward
predicament.
IMMENSE HERDS OF BUFFALO.
On the divide, between Walnut Creek and the Arkansas River, we traveled through immense
herds of buffalo; at one time there could not have been fewer than two hundred thousand in
sight.
All around us, as far as the eye could reach, the prairie was completely black with
them; they at times impeded our progress. We stopped for more than an hour to allow a
single herd to gallop, at full speed, across our path, while the whole party amused
themselves with singling out particular ones, and killing them.
I essayed, at different times, to daguerreotype them while in motion, but was not
successful, although I made several pictures of distant herds.
On this "divide" I saw numbers of prairie dogs, they ran to their holes on
our approach; a small sized owl, most generally stood as sentinel near the hole. Our
Delawares told me that the prairie dog, the owl, and the rattlesnake always congregate
together—a strange trio.
The prairie after you pass Pawnee Fork, and also on the divide between Walnut Creek and
the Arkansas River, is covered with a short grass, called buffalo grass.
Firewood or timber, only grows on the creek, and the artemisia entirely disappears.
We camped one night on the open prairie, without wood, near Pawnee Fork, a tributary of
the Kansas. The thermometer was below freezing point, and there was no vestige of wood or
timber to be seen.
I was busily engaged making my daguerreotype views of the country, over which I had to
travel the next day. On looking through my camera I observed two of our men approaching
over a slope, holding between them a blanket filled with something; curious to know what
it was, I hailed them, and found they had been gathering "dried buffalo chips,"
to build a fire with. This material burns like peat, and makes a very hot fire, without
much smoke, and keeps the heat a long time; a peculiar smell exhales from it while
burning, not at all unpleasant. But for this material, it would be impossible to travel
over certain parts of this immense country. It served us very often, not only for cooking
purposes but also to warm our half frozen limbs. I have seen chips of a large
size—one I had the curiosity to measure, was two feet in diameter.
Our first camp on the Arkansas was visited by a number of Indian hunters, with the
product of their skill, in the use of their bows and arrows, hanging across their horses.
One of them borrowed my jack-knife, and cutting a piece of the raw antelope liver,
deliberately ate it. I remember the peculiar feeling this exhibition excited in my bosom.
I considered the Indian little better than a cannibal, and taking back my knife, turned
from him in disgust.
I got bravely over it, however, in the course of my journey, as a perusal of these
pages will show.
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