While the camp was on its way from the neighborhood of Grande River to the New
Park, Meek, Kit Carson, and Mitchell, with three Delaware Indians, named Tom Hill,
Manhead, and Jonas, went on a hunt across to the east of Grande River, in the country
lying between the Arkansas and Cimarron, where numerous small branches of these
rivers head together, or within a small extent of country.
They were about one hundred and fifty miles from camp, and traveling across the open
plain between the streams, one beautiful May morning, when about five miles off they
descried a large band of Indians mounted, and galloping toward them. As they were in
the Camanche country, they knew what to expect if they allowed themselves to be
taken prisoners. They gave but a moment to the observation of their foes, but that one
moment revealed a spirited scene. Fully two hundred Camanches, their warriors in
front, large and well formed men, mounted on fleet and powerful horses, armed with
spears and battle axes, racing like the wind over the prairie, their feather head-dresses
bending to the breeze, that swept past them in the race with double force; all distinctly
seen in the clear air of the prairie, and giving the beholder a thrill of fear mingled with
The first moment given to this spectacle, the second one was employed to devise some means of escape. To run was useless. The swift Camanche steeds would soon overtake them; and then their horrible doom was fixed. No covert was at hand, neither thicket nor ravine, as in the mountains there might have been. Carson and Meek exchanged two or three sentences. At last, "we must kill our mules! " said they.
That seems a strange devise to the uninitiated reader, who no doubt believes that in
such a case their mules must be their salvation. And so they were intended to be. In
this plight a dead mule was far more useful than a live one. To the ground sprang every
man; and placing their mules, seven in number, in a ring, they in an instant cut their
throats with their hunting knives, and held on to the bridles until each animal fell dead
in its appointed place. Then hastily scooping up what earth they could with knives, they
made themselves a fort--a hole to stand in for each man, and a dead mule for a
In less than half an hour the Camanches charged on them; the medicine-man in
advance shouting, gesticulating, and making a desperate clatter with a rattle which he
carried and shook violently. The yelling, the whooping, the rattling, the force of the
charge were appalling. But the little garrison in the mule fort did not waver. The
Camanche horses did. They could not be made to charge upon the bloody carcasses of
the mules, nor near enough for their riders to throw a spear into the fort.
This was what the trappers had relied upon. They were cool and determined, while
terribly excited and wrought up by their situation. It was agreed that no more than three
should fire at a time, the other three reserving their fire while the empty guns could be
reloaded. They were to pick their men, and kill one at every shot.
They acted up to their regulations. At the charge the Camanche horses recoiled and
could not be urged upon the fort of slaughtered mules. The three whites fired first, and
the medicine-man and two other Camanches fell. When a medicine-man is killed, the
others retire to hold a council and appoint another, for without their "medicine" they
could not expect success in battle. This was time gained. The warriors retired, while
their women came up and carried off the dead.
After devoting a little time to bewailing the departed, another chief was appointed to the
head place, and another furious charge was made with the same results as before.
Three more warriors bit the dust; while the spears of their brethren, attached to long
hair ropes by which they could be withdrawn, fell short of reaching the men in the fort.
Again and again the Camanches made a fruitless charge, losing, as often as they
repeated it, three warriors, either dead or wounded. Three times that day the head chief
or medicine-man was killed; and when that happened, the heroes in the fort got a little
time to breathe. While the warriors held a council, the women took care of the wounded
As the women approached the fort to carry off the fallen warriors, they mocked and
reviled the little band of trappers, calling them "women," for fighting in a fort, and
resorting to the usual Indian ridicule and gasconade. Occasionally, also, a warrior
raced at full speed past the fort apparently to take observations. Thus the battle
continued through the entire day.
It was terrible work for the trappers. The burning sun of the plains shone on them, scorching them to faintness. Their faces were begrimed with powder and dust; their
throats parched, and tongues swollen with thirst, and their whole frames aching from
their cramped positions, as well as the excitement and fatigue of the battle. But they
dared not relax their vigilance for a moment. They were fighting for their lives, and they
meant to win.
At length the sun set on that bloody and wearisome day. Forty-two Camanches were
killed, and several more wounded, for the charge had been repeated fifteen or twenty
times. The Indians drew off at nightfall to mourn over their dead, and hold a council.
Probably they had lost faith in their medicines, or believed that the trappers possessed
one far greater than any of theirs. Under the friendly cover of the night, the six heroes
who had fought successfully more than a hundred Camanches took each his blanket
and his gun, and bidding a brief adieu to dead mules and beaver packs, set out to
return to camp.
When a mountain-man had a journey to perform on foot, to travel express, or to escape
from an enemy, he fell into what is called a dog trot, and ran in that manner,
sometimes, all day. On the present occasion, the six, escaping for life, ran all night, and
found no water for seventy-five mile. When they did at last come to a clear running
stream, their thankfulness was equal to their necessity, " for," says Meek, " thirst is the
greatest suffering I ever experienced. It is far worse than hunger or pain."
Having rested and refreshed themselves at the stream, they kept on without much
delay until they reached camp in that beautiful valley of the Rocky Mountains called the
New, or the South Park.
While they remained in the South Park, Mr. Guthrie, one of the Rocky Mountain
Company's traders, was killed by lightning. A number of persons were collected in the
lodge of the Booshway, Frapp, to avoid the rising tempest, when Guthrie, who was
leaning against the lodge pole, was struck by a flash of the electric current, and fell
dead instantly. Frapp rushed out of the lodge, partly bewildered himself by the shock,
and under the impression that Guthrie had been shot. Frapp was a German, and spoke
English somewhat imperfectly. In the excitement of the moment he shouted out, " Py
Gott, who did shoot Guttery ! "
"G--a' mighty, I expect: He's a firing into camp;" drawled out Hawkins, whose ready wit
was very disregardful of sacred names and subjects.
The mountaineers were familiar with the most awful aspects of nature; and if their
familiarity had not bred contempt, it had at least hardened them to those solemn
impressions which other men would have felt under their influence.
From New Park, Meek traveled north with the main camp, passing first to the Old Park;
thence to the Little Snake, a branch of Bear River; thence to Pilot Butte; and finally to
Green River to rendezvous; having traveled in the past year about three thousand
miles, on horseback, through new and often dangerous countries. It is easy to believe
that the Monterey expedition was the popular theme in camp during rendezvous. It had
been difficult to get volunteers for Bonneville's Salt Lake Exploration: but such was the
wild adventure to which it led, that volunteering for a trip to Monterey would have been
exceedingly popular immediately thereafter.
On Bear River, Bonneville's men fell in with their commander, Captain Bonneville,
whose disappointment and indignation at the failure of his plans was exceedingly great.
In this indignation there was considerable justice; yet much of his disappointment was
owing to causes which a more experienced trader would have avoided. The only
conclusion which can be arrived at by an impartial observer of the events of 1832-35,
is, that none but certain men of long experience and liberal means, could succeed in
the business of the fur-trade. There were too many chances of loss; too many wild
elements to be mingled in amity; and too powerful opposition from the old established
companies. Captain Bonneville's experience was no different from Mr. Wyeth's. In both
cases there was much effort, outlay, and loss. Nor was their failure owing to any action
of the Hudson's Bay Company, different from, or more tyrannical, than the action of the
American companies, as has frequently been represented. It was the American
companies in the Rocky Mountains that drove both Bonneville and Wyeth out of the
field. Their inexperience could not cope with the thorough knowledge of the business,
and the country, which their older rivals possessed. Raw recruits were no match, in
trapping or fighting, for old mountaineers: and those veterans who had served long
under certain leaders could not be inveigled from their service except upon the most
extravagant offers; and these extravagant wages, which if one paid, the other must,
would not allow a profit to either of the rivals.
"How much does your company pay you?" asked Bonneville of Meek, to whom he was
complaining of the conduct of his men on the Monterey expedition.
"Fifteen hundred dollars," answered Meek.
"Yes: and I will give it to you," said Bonneville with bitterness.
It was quite true. Such was the competition aroused by the Captain's efforts to secure good men and pilots, that rather than lose them to a rival company, the Rocky Mountain Company paid a few of their best men the wages above named.