Travels and Adventures of Monsieur Violet

Chapter Eleven

At the beginning of the fall, a few months after my father’s death, I and my two comrades, Gabriel and Roche, were hunting in the rolling prairies of the South, on the eastern shores of the Buona Ventura. One evening we were in high spirits, having had good sport. My two friends had entered upon a theme which they could never exhaust; one pleasantly narrating the wonders and sights of Paris, the other describing with his true native eloquence the beauties of his country, and repeating the old local Irish legends, which appeared to me quaint and highly poetical.

Of a sudden we were surrounded by a party of sixty Arrapahoes; of course, resistance or flight was useless. Our captors, however, treated us with honour, contenting themselves with watching us closely and preventing our escape. They knew who we were, and, though my horse, saddle, and rifle were in themselves a booty for any chief, nothing was taken from us. I addressed the chief, whom I knew:

“What have I done to the Morning Star of the Arrapahoes, that I should be taken and watched like a sheep of the Watchinangoes?”

The chief smiled and put his hand upon my shoulders. “The Arrapahoes,” said he, “love the young Owato Wanisha and his pale-faced brothers, for they are great warriors, and can beat their enemies with beautiful blue fires from the heavens. The Arrapahoes know all; they area wise people. They will take Owato Wanisha to their own tribe, that he may show his skill to them, and make them warriors. He shall be fed with the fittest and sweetest dogs. He will become a great warrior among the Arrapahoes. So wish our prophets. I obey the will of the prophets and of the nation.”

“But,” answered I, “my Manitou will not hear me if I am a slave. The Pale-face Manitou has ears only for free warriors. He will not lend me his fires unless space and time be my own.”

The chief interrupted me:– “Owato Wanisha is not a slave, nor can he be one. He is with his good friends, who will watch over him, light his fire, spread their finest blankets in his tent, and fill it with the best game of the prairie. His friends love the young chief, but he must not escape from them, else the evil spirit would make the young Arrapahoes drunk as a beastly Crow, and excite them in their folly to kill the Pale-faces.”

As nothing could be attempted for the present, we submitted to our fate, and were conducted by a long and dreary journey to the eastern shores of the Rio Colorado of the West, until at last we arrived at one of the numerous and beautiful villages of the Arrapahoes. There we passed the winter in a kind of honourable captivity. An attempt to escape would have been the signal of our death, or, at least, of a harsh captivity. We were surrounded by vast sandy deserts, inhabited by the Clubs (Piuses), a cruel race of people, some of them cannibals. Indeed, I may as well here observe that most of the tribes inhabiting the Colorado are men-eaters, even including the Arrapahoes, on certain occasions. Once we fell in with a deserted camp of Club-men, and there we found the remains of about twenty bodies, the bones of which had been picked with apparently as much relish as the wings of a pheasant would have been by a European epicure. This winter passed gloomily enough, and no wonder. Except a few beautiful groves, found here and there, like the oases in the sands of the Sahara, the whole country is horribly broken and barren. Forty miles above the Gulf of California, the Colorado ceases to be navigable, and presents from its sources, for seven hundred miles, nothing but an uninterrupted series of noisy and tremendous cataracts, bordered on each side by a chain of perpendicular rocks, five or six hundred feet high, while the country all around seems to have been shaken to its very centre by violent volcanic eruptions.

Winter at length passed away, and with the first weeks of spring were renovated our hopes of escape. The Arrapahoes, relenting in their vigilance, went so far as to offer us to accompany them in an expedition eastward. To this, of course, we agreed, and entered very willingly upon the beautiful prairies of North Sonora. Fortune favoured us; one day, the Arrapahoes having followed a trail of Apaches and Mexicans, with an intent to surprise and destroy them, fell themselves into a snare, in which they were routed, and many perished.

We made no scruples of deserting our late masters, and, spurring our gallant steeds, we soon found that our unconscious liberators were a party of officers bound from Monterey or Santa Fé, escorted by two-and-twenty Apaches and some twelve or fifteen families of Ciboleros. I knew the officers, and was very glad to have intelligence from California. Isabella was as bright as ever, but not quite so light-hearted. Padre Marini, the missionary, had embarked for Peru, and the whole city of Monterey was still laughing, dancing, singing, and love-making, just as I had left them.

The officers easily persuaded me to accompany them to Santa Fé, from whence I could readily return to Monterey with the next caravan.

A word concerning the Ciboleros may not be uninteresting. Every year, large parties of Mexicans, some with mules, others with ox-carts, drive out into these prairies to procure for their families a season’s supply of buffalo beef. They hunt chiefly on horseback, with bow and arrow, or lance, and sometimes the fusil, whereby they soon load their carts and mules. They find no difficulty in curing their meat even in mid-summer, by slicing it thin, and spreading or suspending it in the sun; or, if in haste, it is slightly barbecued. During the curing operation, they often follow the Indian practice of beating the slices of meat with their feet, which they say contributes to its preservation.

Here the extraordinary purity of the atmosphere of these regions is remarkably exemplified. A line is stretched from corner to corner along the side of the waggon body, and strung with slices of beef, which remain from day to day till they are sufficiently cured to be packed up. This is done without salt, and yet the meat rarely putrefies.

The optic deception of the rarefied and transparent atmosphere of these elevated plains is truly remarkable. One might almost fancy oneself looking through a spy-glass; for objects often appear at scarce one-fourth of their real distance—frequently much magnified, and more especially much elevated. I have often seen flocks of antelopes mistaken for droves of elks or wild horses, and when at a great distance, even for horsemen; whereby frequent alarms are occasioned. A herd of buffaloes upon a distant plain often appear so elevated in height, that they would be mistaken by the inexperienced for a large grove of trees.

But the most curious, and at the same time the most tormenting phenomenon occasioned by optical deception, is the “mirage,” or, as commonly called by the Mexican travellers, “the lying waters.” Even the experienced prairie hunter is often deceived by these, upon the arid plains, where the pool of water is in such request. The thirsty wayfarer, after jogging for hours under a burning sky, at length espies a pond—yes, it must be water—it looks too natural for him to be mistaken. He quickens his pace, enjoying in anticipation the pleasures of a refreshing draught; but, as he approaches, it recedes or entirely disappears; and standing upon its apparent site, he is ready to doubt his own vision, when he finds but a parched sand under his feet. It is not until he has been thus a dozen times deceived, that he is willing to relinquish the pursuit, and then, perhaps, when he really does see a pond, he will pass it unexamined, from fear of another disappointment.

The philosophy of these false ponds I have never seen satisfactorily explained. They have usually been attributed to a refraction, by which a section of the bordering sky is thrown below the horizon; but I am convinced that they are the effect of reflection. It seems that a gas (emanating probably from the heated earth and its vegetable matter) floats upon the elevated flats, and is of sufficient density, when viewed obliquely, to reflect the objects beyond it; thus the opposing sky being reflected in the pond of gas, gives the appearance of water.

As a proof that it is the effect of reflection, I have often observed the distant knolls and trees which were situated near the horizon beyond the mirage, distinctly inverted in the “pond.” Now, were the mirage the result of refraction, these would appear on it erect, only cast below the surface. Many are the singular atmospheric phenomena observable upon the plains and they would afford a field of interesting researches for the curious natural philosopher.

We had a pleasant journey, although sometimes pressed pretty hard by hunger. However, Gabriel, Roche, and I were too happy to complain. We had just escaped from a bitter and long slavery, beside which, we were heartily tired of the lean and tough dogs of the Arrapahoes, which are the only food of that tribe during the winter. The Apaches, who had heard of our exploits, shewed us great respect; but what still more captivated their good graces, was the Irishman’s skill in playing the fiddle. It so happened that a Mexican officer having, during the last fall, been recalled from Monterey to Santa Fé, had left his violin. It was a very fine instrument, an old Italian piece of workmanship, and worth, I am convinced, a great deal of money.

At the request of the owner, one of the present officers had taken charge of the violin and packed it up, together with his trunks, in one of the Cibolero’s waggons. We soon became aware of the circumstance, and when we could not get anything to eat, music became our consolation. Tired as we were, we would all of us, “at least the Pale-faces,” dance merrily for hours together, after we had halted, till poor Roche, exhausted, could no longer move his fingers.

We were at last relieved of our obligatory fast, and enabled to look with contempt upon the humble prickly pears, which for many a long day had been our only food. Daily now we came across herds of fat buffaloes, and great was our sport in pursuing the huge lord of the prairies. One of them, by the bye, gored my horse to death, and I would likely have put an end to my adventures, had it not been for the certain aim of Gabriel. I had foolishly substituted my bow and arrows for the rifle, that I might show my skill to my companions. My vanity cost me dear; for though the bull was a fine one, and had seven arrows driven through his neck, I lost one of the best horses of the West, and my right leg was considerably hurt.

Having been informed that there was a large city or commonwealth of prairie dogs directly in our route, I started on ahead with my two companions, to visit these republicans. We had a double object in view: first, a desire to examine one of the republics about which prairie travellers have said so much; and, secondly, to obtain something to eat, as the flesh of these animals was said to be excellent.

Our road for six or seven miles wound up the sides of a gently ascending mountain. On arriving at the summit, we found a beautiful table-land spread out, reaching for miles in every direction before us. The soil appeared to be uncommonly rich, and was covered with a luxurious growth of musqueet trees. The grass was of the curly musquito species, the sweetest and most nutritious of all the different kinds of that grass, and the dogs never locate their towns or cities except where it grows in abundance, as it is their only food.

We had proceeded but a short distance after reaching this beautiful prairie, before we came upon the outskirts of the commonwealth. A few scattered dogs were seen scampering in, and, by their short and sharp yelps, giving a general alarm to the whole community.

The first cry of danger from the outskirts was soon taken up in the centre of the city, and now nothing was to be seen in any direction but a dashing and scampering of the mercurial and excitable citizens of the place, each to his lodge or burrow. Far as the eye could reach was spread the city, and in every direction the scene was the same. We rode leisurely along until we had reached the more thickly settled portion of the city, when we halted, and after taking the bridles from our horses to allow them to graze, we prepared for a regular attack upon its inhabitants.

The burrows were not more than fifteen yards apart, with well-trodden paths leading in different directions, and I even thought I could discover something like regularity in the laying out of the streets. We sat down upon a bank under the shade of a musqueet tree, and leisurely surveyed the scene before us. Our approach had driven every one in our immediate vicinity to his home, but some hundred yards off, the small mound of earth in front of a burrow was each occupied by a dog sitting I straight up on his hinder legs, and coolly looking about him to ascertain the cause of the recent commotion. Every now and then some citizen, more venturous than his neighbour, would leave his lodge on a flying visit to a companion, apparently to exchange a few words, and then scamper back as fast as his legs would carry him.

By-and-by, as we kept perfectly still, some of our nearer neighbours were seen cautiously poking their heads from out their holes and looking cunningly, and at the same time inquisitively, about them. After some time, a dog would emerge from the entrance of his domicile, squat upon his looking-out place, shake his head, and commence yelping.

For three hours we remained watching the movements of these animals, and occasionally picking one of them off with our rifles. No less than nine were obtained by the party. One circumstance I will mention as singular in the extreme, and which shows the social relationship which exists among these animals, as well as the regard they have one for another.

One of them had perched himself directly upon the pile of earth in front of his hole, sitting up, and offering a fair mark, while a companion’s head, too timid, perhaps, to expose himself farther; was seen poking out of the entrance. A well-directed shot carried away the entire top of the head of the first dog, and knocked him some two or three feet from his post, perfectly dead. While reloading, the other daringly came out, seized his companion by one of his legs, and before we could arrive at the hole, had drawn him completely out of reach, although we tried to twist him out with a ramrod.

There was a feeling in this act—a something human, which raised the animals in my estimation; and never after did I attempt to kill one of them, except when driven by extreme hunger.

The prairie dog is about the size of a rabbit, heavier perhaps, more compact, and with much shorter legs. In appearance, it resembles the ground-hog of the north, although a trifle smaller than that animal. In their habits, the prairie dogs are social, never live alone like other animals, but are always found in villages or large settlements. They are a wild, frolicksome set of fellows when undisturbed, restless, and ever on the move. They seem to take especial delight in chattering away the time, and visiting about, from hole to hole, to gossip and talk over one another’s affairs; at least, so their actions would indicate. Old hunters say that when they find a good location for a village, and no water is handy, they dig a well to supply the wants of the community.

On several occasions, I have crept up close to one of their villages, without being observed, that I might watch their movements. Directly in the centre of one of them, I particularly noticed a very large dog, sitting in front of his door, or entrance to his burrow, and by his own actions and those of his neighbours, it really looked as though he was the president, mayor, or chief; at all events, he was the “big dog” of the place.

For at least an hour, I watched the movements of this little community; during that time, the large dog I have mentioned received at least a dozen visits from his fellow-dogs, who would stop and chat with him a few moments, and then run off to their domiciles. All this while he never left his post for a single minute, and I thought I could discover a gravity in his deportment, not discernible in those by whom he was addressed. Far be it from me to say that the visits he received were upon business, or having anything to do with the local government of the village; but it certainly appeared as if such was the case. If any animal is endowed with reasoning powers, or has any system of laws regulating the body politic, it is the prairie dog.

In different parts of the village the members of it were seen gambolling, frisking, and visiting about, occasionally turning heels over head into their holes, and appearing to have all sorts of fun among themselves. Owls of a singular species were also seen among them; they did not appear to join in their sports in any way, but still seemed to be on good terms, and as they were constantly entering and coming out of the same holes, they might be considered as members of the same family, or, at least, guests. Rattlesnakes, too, dwell among them; but the idea generally received among the Mexicans, that they live upon terms of companionship with the dogs, is quite ridiculous, and without any foundation.

The snakes I look upon as loafers, not easily shaken off by the regular inhabitants, and they make use of the dwellings of the dogs as more comfortable quarters than they could find elsewhere. We killed one a short distance from a burrow, which had made a meal of a little pup; although I do not think they can master full-grown dogs.

This town, which we visited, was several miles in length and at least a mile in width. Around and in the vicinity, were smaller villages, suburbs to the town. We kindled a fire, and cooked three of the animals we had shot; the meat was exceedingly sweet, tender, and juicy, resembling that of the squirrel, only that there was more fat upon it.

Chapter Twelve

Among these Apaches, our companions, were two Comanches, who, fifteen years before, had witnessed the death of the celebrated Overton. As this wretch, for a short time, was employed as an English agent by the Fur Company, his wild and romantic end will probably interest the many readers who have known him; at all events, the narrative will serve as a specimen of the lawless career of many who resort to the western wilderness.

Some forty-four years ago, a Spanish trader had settled among a tribe of the Tonquewas (The Tonquewas tribe sprung from the Comanches many years ago.), at the foot of the Green Mountains. He had taken an Indian squaw, and was living there very comfortably, paying no taxes, but occasionally levying some, under the shape of black mail, upon the settlements of the province of Santa Fé. In one excursion, however, he was taken and hung, an event soon forgotten both by Spaniards and Tonquewas. He had left behind him, besides a child and a squaw, property to a respectable amount; the tribe took his wealth for their own use, but cast away the widow and her offspring. She fell by chance into the hands of a jolly though solitary Canadian trapper, who, not having the means of selecting his spouse, took the squaw for better and for worse.

In the meantime the young half-breed grew to manhood, and early displayed a wonderful capacity for languages. The squaw died, and the trapper, now thinking of the happy days he had passed among the civilised people of the East, resolved to return thither, and took with him the young half-breed, to whom by long habit he had become attached. They both came to St. Louis, where the half-breed soon learned enough of English to make himself understood, and one day, having gone with his “father-in-law” to pay a visit to the Osages, he murdered him on the way, took his horse, fusil, and sundries, and set up for himself.

For a long time he was unsuspected, and indeed, if he had been, he cared very little about it. He went from tribe to tribe, living an indolent life, which suited his taste perfectly; and as he was very necessary to the Indians as an interpreter during their bartering transactions with the Whites, he was allowed to do just as he pleased. He was, however, fond of shifting from tribe to tribe, and the traders seeing him now with the Pawnies or the Comanches, now with the Crows or the Tonquewas, gave him the surname of “Turn-over,” which name, making a summerset, became Over-turn, and by corruption, Overton.

By this time every body had discovered that Overton was a great scoundrel, but as he was useful, the English company from Canada employed him, paying him very high wages. But his employers having discovered that he was almost always tipsy, and not at all backward in appropriating to himself that to which he had no right, dismissed him from their service, and Overton returned to his former life. By-and-by, some Yankees made him proposals, which he accepted; what was the nature of them no one can exactly say, but every body may well fancy, knowing that nothing is considered more praiseworthy than cheating the Indians in their transactions with them, through the agency of some rascally interpreter, who, of course, receives his tantum quantum of the profits of his treachery. For some time the employers and employed agreed amazingly well, and as nothing is cheaper than military titles in the United States, the half-breed became Colonel Overton, with boots and spurs, a laced coat, and a long sword.

Cunning as were the Yankees, Overton was still more so; cheating them as he had cheated the Indians. The holy alliance was broken up; he then retired to the mountains, protected by the Mexican government, and commenced a system of general depredation, which for some time proved successful. His most ordinary method was to preside over a barter betwixt the savages and the traders. When both parties had agreed, they were of course in good humour, and drank freely. Now was the time for the Colonel. To the Indians he would affirm that the traders only waited till they were asleep, to butcher them and take back their goods. The same story was told to the traders, and a fight ensued, the more terrible as the whole party was more or less tipsy. Then, with some rogues in his own employ, the Colonel, under the pretext of making all safe, would load the mules with the furs and goods, proceed to Santa Fé, and dispose of his booty for one-third of its value. None cared how it had been obtained; it was cheap, consequently it was welcome.

His open robberies and tricks of this description were so numerous, that Overton became the terror of the mountains. The savages swore they would scalp him; the Canadians vowed that they would make him dance to death; the English declared that they would hang him; and the Yankees, they would put him to Indian torture. The Mexicans, not being able any more to protect their favourite, put a price upon his head. Under these circumstances, Overton took an aversion to society, concealed himself, and during two years nothing was heard of him; when, one day, as a party of Comanches and Tonquewas were returning from some expedition, they perceived a man on horseback. They knew him to be Overton, and gave chase immediately.

The chase was a long one. Overton was mounted upon a powerful and noble steed, but the ground was broken and uneven; he could not get out of the sight of his pursuers. However, he reached a platform covered with fine pine trees, and thought himself safe, as on the other side of the wood there was a long level valley, extending for many miles; and there he would be able to distance his pursuers, and escape. Away he darted like lightning, their horrible yell still ringing in his ears; he spurred his horse, already covered with foam, entered the plain, and, to his horror and amazement, found that between him and the valley there was a horrible chasm, twenty-five feet in breadth and two hundred feet in depth, with acute angles of rocks, as numerous as the thorns upon a prickly pear. What could he do? His tired horse refused to take the leap, and he could plainly hear the voices of the Indians encouraging each other in the pursuit.

Along the edge of the precipice there lay a long hollow log, which had been probably dragged there with the intention of making a bridge across the chasm. Overton dismounted, led his horse to the very brink, and pricked him with his knife: the noble animal leaped, but his strength was too far gone for him to clear it; his breast struck the other edge, and he fell from crag to crag into the abyss below. This over, the fugitive crawled to the log, and concealed himself under it, hoping that he would yet escape. He was mistaken, for he had been seen; at that moment, the savages emerged from the wood, and a few minutes more brought them around the log. Now certain of their prey, they wished to make him suffer a long moral agony, and they feigned not to know where he was.