Dreams of El Dorado

by H. W. Brands

  9

  COLTER’S RUN

  AND THEN THERE WERE THE INDIANS. BEFORE THE Sublette party left the Snake River, Joe Meek had his first encounter with the Blackfeet. Perhaps the Blackfeet were still angry about their tribesman killed by the Lewis and Clark expedition; perhaps they nursed new grievances against whites; perhaps—as most of the whites and many of the other Indians believed—they were simply violent and vicious. In any event, they were the scourge of the Rockies and the adjacent valleys and plains. When possible the trappers steered clear of the Blackfeet; when they couldn’t avoid them they tried to travel in large groups. Woe to the trapper who found himself alone or in small company when the Blackfeet appeared.

  Meek’s first scrape with the Blackfeet had a comparatively happy ending. A small raiding party descended on the Sublette camp early one morning with the design of stampeding the horses and mules. But their timing was off, and the attackers arrived, shouting and firing rifles, before most of the animals had been turned out for their breakfast graze.

  The men in the camp leaped to arms and onto horseback to repel the raid. A sharp firefight ensued, with the Indians being driven back. Sublette’s men determined to punish the attackers, and they chased the Blackfeet into a ravine. A standoff developed, lasting several hours. Casualties were incurred on both sides, though none of the Sublette party were killed. Finally the Indians slipped away and were seen no more.

  The incident prompted Sublette to redouble the guards posted at night. Joe Meek took his turn along with a veteran named Reese. The night was calm and cold; the combination caused both men, wrapped in their blankets, to become drowsy. They nodded off. Sublette, who periodically checked on the guards by calling to them, heard no response from Reese and Meek. Aware of the danger to life and property that lurked in the dark, he grew angry and sallied forth to investigate. “Sublette came round the horse-pen swearing and snorting,” Meek recalled. “He was powerful mad. Before he got to where Reese was, he made so much noise that he waked him; and Reese, in a loud whisper, called to him, ‘Down, Billy! Indians!’ Sublette got down on his belly might quick. ‘Where? Where?’ he asked. ‘They were right there when you hollered so,’ said Reese. ‘Where is Meek?’ whispered Sublette. ‘He is trying to shoot one,’ answered Reese, still in a whisper. Reese then crawled over to where I was, and told me what had been said, and informed me what to do. In a few minutes I crawled over to Reese’s post, when Sublette asked me how many Indians had been there, and I told him I couldn’t make out their number. In the morning a pair of Indian moccasins were found where Reese saw the Indians, which I had taken care to leave there; and thus confirmed, our story got us the credit of vigilance, instead of our receiving our just dues for neglect of duty.”

  Vigilance, real or feigned, didn’t prevent another attack by the Blackfeet. This one occurred almost at the crest of the Continental Divide and resulted in the death of two of the trappers and Meek’s separation from the main body of the Sublette party. He had only his mule, his blanket, his gun and his wits. The last told him not to use his gun lest he alert the Blackfeet to his presence. He climbed a ridge to get his bearings and map his strategy. To the west, the Snake River rolled toward the Columbia and the Pacific. To the north, the Missouri began its long journey to the Mississippi and the Gulf of Mexico. To the east, the Yellowstone sliced toward its intersection with the Missouri. In all that space he saw no sign of humans, neither Sublette and his comrades nor, thankfully, Blackfeet. He knew that off to the south lay the land of the Crows, who were friendlier to whites than the Blackfeet. Toward them he determined to travel.

  Meek spent a cold night in the forest—winter’s first snows had fallen. He did without a fire lest its smoke draw unwelcome attention. The next day he headed toward the Crow country. He soon felt the drag of hunger. His mule did, too, and showed less determination than Meek to survive. Meek left the mule behind.

  Two more days carried him fifty miles closer to the Crows, but also closer to starvation. Then good luck brought a band of mountain sheep within rifle range. Risking detection, Meek shot and killed one. Taking a further risk, he lit a small fire and cooked the wild mutton. He ate hastily, looking over his shoulder for signs of Indian approach, his rifle at the ready.

  Three more days of walking brought him to the brink of a broad valley. As Meek caught his breath and looked ahead, he couldn’t make out, and then couldn’t believe, what his eyes were seeing. The valley appeared to be on fire, with smoke pouring from gashes in the ground. The wind carried the smell of brimstone. “I have been told the sun would be blown out and the earth burnt up,” he said to himself, referring to the words of his family’s minister back home. “If this infernal wind keeps up, I shouldn’t be surprised if the sun were blown out. If the earth is not burning up over there, then it is that place the old Methodist preacher used to threaten me with.”

  He descended to investigate. He found hot springs bubbling and geysers blasting steam and water into the air. He had been constantly cold, and the singular heat took the edge off his chill. “If it were hell,” he recalled thinking, “it were a more agreeable climate than I had been in for some time.”

  Joe Meek had heard of “Colter’s Hell,” named for John Colter, one of the members of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Colter had a greater aversion to civilized life than most other members of the Corps of Discovery, and on the return trip, while they were growing misty-eyed at the thought of seeing St. Louis again, he asked and received permission from Lewis to join a group of trappers heading the other way, back up the Missouri. That winter he wandered about the region Joe Meek later entered, and he became the first white person to see the geothermal wonders of the Yellowstone region. His fellow mountain men weren’t sure they believed his stories, and they jestingly labeled the quarter Colter’s Hell. Joe Meek discovered that it was real, and hellish indeed.

  Meek knew something else about Colter: that he had run an epic race for his life after capture by the Blackfeet. Colter and a trapper named Potts were paddling two canoes up the Jefferson Fork of the Missouri River when a band of several hundred Blackfeet appeared on the shore. Their chief demanded that the two men bring their boats ashore. Colter realized that successful resistance was impossible. Hoping he would be merely robbed, he stealthily dropped his traps into the water on the side of the canoe away from the Indians, that he might retrieve them later, but otherwise conspicuously complied with the chief’s demand. When he reached the shore he was seized and stripped naked.

  Potts didn’t like the looks of this and stayed in his canoe. One of the Indians fired and hit him. Potts fired back, killing one of the Blackfeet. Thereupon a hundred bullets rained upon and through Potts, killing him in seconds. Several Indians splashed into the stream and dragged the canoe ashore. Potts’s body was hauled out and slashed to pieces with knives and hatchets. His heart and other internal organs were cut out and thrust into Colter’s face. Relatives of the dead Indian demanded that Colter receive similar treatment, and Colter braced himself for a gory end.

  But a council of the leaders of the band, convened on the spot, decreed a different fate. One of the chiefs gestured to the wide prairie that stretched away from the river, and in the Crow language, which Colter understood, said, “Go! Go away!”

  Colter supposed they were planning to shoot him and only wanted him to get clear of the crowd of Indians before doing so. Not sure he wished to play along, he nonetheless walked slowly in the direction the chief had pointed. An old Indian walked beside him, urging him to move faster. Yet Colter kept walking. The old Indian shouted and gesticulated, trying to get him to hurry. Finally Colter looked back and saw the younger Blackfeet taking off their leggings, as if preparing for an athletic contest. He now grasped his situation: there was to be a race—for his life.

  He started running, and as he did so he heard whoops from his pursuers, who took up the chase with a will. For each of them, Colter’s scalp was a prize that would bring honor and rank. He looked over
his shoulder and saw their spears flashing in the sun, each sharp point intended for his heart.

  He knew that the Madison Fork lay five miles ahead, and he headed in that direction. But the ground was rough and the rocks tore his feet. Yet he mustn’t slow, and fear for his life made him run faster than he had ever thought he could. Halfway to the Madison he burst a blood vessel in his lungs or nose and began spewing blood from his nostrils. He felt faint and stopped to avoid passing out.

  He saw that he had distanced all of his pursuers but one, who was closing upon him with a spear in his right hand and a blanket over his left shoulder. The Indian dropped the blanket, took the spear in both hands, and hurled himself on the naked, bleeding, apparently defenseless Colter.

  Colter somehow dodged the blade and seized its shaft. The Indian, propelled by his own momentum, stumbled to the ground, and his weight and Colter’s remaining strength broke the spear shaft. Colter swiftly grasped the blade end and stabbed the fallen Indian.

  Withdrawing the blade, he snatched up the Indian’s blanket. The other Blackfeet were now approaching, and, inflamed by the death of their fellow, they redoubled their efforts to catch and kill Colter. The new danger gave his legs fresh life, and he tore off again.

  A line of willows marked the banks of the Madison, and Colter flew toward them. Reaching the trees, he briefly cut himself off from the view of the Blackfeet. His eye scanned the stream for a hiding place, and it lit on an old beaver lodge. He dove under the water and, holding his breath, managed to find the entrance. He wriggled through and into the lodge itself, which stood above the waterline.

  He shivered from the cold of the water and from his continuing fear of imminent death, but he made no sound as the Blackfeet searched for him. He heard and felt the footsteps of one Indian who mounted the outside of the beaver lodge for a better view up and down the river. He was certain the Indians would tear open the lodge or set it afire, but the possibility that he was inside apparently didn’t occur to them. Their voices gradually died away as they moved on.

  Colter stayed where he was, recouping his strength and pondering his next move. In an hour or two he heard the Indians again, evidently returning to the Jefferson Fork after concluding that they had lost their quarry. Again the voices died away.

  Colter remained quiet. He waited several hours more, till full night had fallen. Still hearing nothing, he crawled and swam out of the lodge and broke the surface of the river. He looked carefully around and, seeing no sign of the Blackfeet, clambered out onto the far bank and began walking. He avoided trails and passes the Indians might frequent, instead climbing one mountain ridge by a nearly impossible route. He descended from the mountain onto a broad plain that stretched to the east. During the next eleven days he traveled three hundred miles across the plain, subsisting on roots and tree bark. He finally arrived at Manuel’s Fort on the Bighorn River, exhausted, emaciated and dirty, but alive.

  He told his story to the men at the fort, who knew him but didn’t at first recognize him. They told his story to others; in time, “Colter’s Run” became a part of the lore of the mountains.

  10

  URSUS HORRIBILIS

  JOE MEEK HAD HEARD THE STORY, AND AS HE WANDERED alone about Colter’s Hell, knowing there were Blackfeet nearby, he wondered if he might have to recapitulate Colter’s Run. The sudden sound of two gunshots heightened his concern. He crouched and sought the source of the fire, priming his own weapon to return it.

  But then a voice called out, “It is old Joe!” Meek recognized the speaker as one of the Sublette company, come with a comrade to look for him. The three shook hands on their reunion and set out after the main party, which was trudging through the snow toward the wintering ground.

  Winter was the harshest time of the year for the mountain men, but it was also the easiest. The cold was bitter; temperatures far below zero were common. Deep snow made moving around difficult and travel all but impossible. The horses and mules had to be fed, as the grass was buried beneath the drifts. Yet experience had schooled the mountain men in surviving. They fed the animals on the bark of cottonwoods, which they peeled from the trees with their large knives. The task was laborious but the fodder nutritious, and despite the brutal temperatures the animals grew fat.

  The trappers grew fat, too. The cottonwoods attracted buffalo, which became easy prey for the hunters of the party. The men ate a lot, and what they didn’t eat, they dried. The buffalo skins were cured and fashioned into moccasins, leggings and shirts. Sometimes the men did the work; those with Indian wives turned it over to their spouses. Even for the men without spouses, the workload didn’t fill the available hours, and the remainder was devoted to card-playing, story-telling and other pastimes.

  Joe Meek spent much of the winter remedying a deficiency he had felt since his rebellious school days: he learned to read. The library of the camp wasn’t large, consisting of a Bible and a one-volume Shakespeare. But under the tutelage of a trapper named Green, Meek found his way through those volumes and began looking for more.

  The fat time of winter gave way to the working time of spring. The trappers set out as soon as the ice began breaking in the streams and the beavers came out of their lodges. This season was distinctively dangerous, for other animals came out as well. Joe Meek and two partners one day were trapping and enjoying good luck, which included a buffalo they shot and dined on. Lest small varmints steal the leftovers, they cut the choicest steaks from the carcass and placed them under their blankets for the night. Weary from their labors and with full stomachs, they slept soundly. Only at dawn was Meek disturbed by the snuffling and snorting, then pawing and trampling, of something large and nosy, which turned out to be a grizzly bear.

  “You may be sure that I kept very quiet, while that bear helped himself to some of my buffalo meat and went off a little way to eat it,” Meek related afterward. But one of his partners wasn’t so circumspect, sitting up and inadvertently attracting the attention of the bear. “Back came the bear,” Meek said. “Down went our heads under the blankets, and I kept mine covered pretty snug while the beast took another walk over the bed.” The bear went off to finish its breakfast.

  The third member of the group whispered to Meek that he wanted to shoot the bear. Meek answered, “No, no, hold on, or the brute will kill us, sure.” The bear heard the voices and again came back to investigate, once more walking over the recumbent men. “I’d have been happy to have felt myself sinking ten feet in the ground while that bear promenaded over and around us,” Meek recalled. But the animal couldn’t figure out what made the lumps in the blankets, and it eventually wandered away.

  When Meek decided that the coast was clear, he arose and grabbed his rifle. “Wanting to be revenged for his impudence, I went after him, and seeing a good chance, shot him dead. Then I took my turn at running over him awhile!”

  Spring also brought encounters with the Indians. The Crows could be as troublesome as the Blackfeet, and one night a band divested Meek’s company of three hundred horses. Without the horses the trappers were helpless; retrieving them was a matter of life and death. The trappers decided to go after the rustlers on foot, lest they risk losing the few horses that remained. Meek and sixty or seventy others trailed the Crows for two hundred miles, hardly stopping to eat and not stopping to sleep. The Crows, thinking they had left the hapless whites behind, did allow themselves repose. Consequently they were sound asleep when Meek and the others slipped up on them.

  Two of the trappers got to the horses, untied them and started to drive them off. Noise from the animals awoke the Crows, who jumped up to pursue them. Meek and the mountaineers were ready, and they fired a rifle volley into the ranks of the Indians. Meek later learned that seven were killed in the initial blast. The Crows recoiled, and as they did, the trappers leaped onto the horses and, riding them bareback, set the whole herd galloping on the trail back to their camp. They didn’t hear from that band of Crows again, though they took greater precautions with the ho
rses at night.

  JOE MEEK, DODGING GRIZZLY BEARS AND BATTLING INDIANS, had scant opportunity to reflect on the larger forces at work in the fur trade. He didn’t appreciate what was distinctive about that trade as it related to American history. Although the high country of the Rockies was as remote as any place in what would become the United States, it was intimately entangled in the affairs of the broader world. Not for several generations would the word globalization be used to describe supply chains that spanned oceans and continents, but it applied to the nineteenth-century fur trade and the work of Meek and his comrades. Joe Meek had a job because gentlemen in London liked beaver hats. American farmers in that era generally produced for regional markets; coopers, blacksmiths and mechanics of a dozen other descriptions catered to markets more local still. But Meek was a man of the world. Invisible threads tied him to customers six thousand miles away. A twinge on those threads—a simple change in taste in England—could undo the business model that sustained the annual rendezvous, that made allies of some Indian tribes and enemies of others, and that forced Bill Sublette to recruit new men each year to replace trappers killed in the mountains. Joe Meek had only the vaguest notion of the complex linkages involved, yet the fur trade was the instrument by which the world economy penetrated the deepest recesses of the American West.

  There was another term economists would coin that applied to the fur trade. The pelts the trappers hunted belonged to no one until they were caught. The fur companies—the Hudson’s Bay Company and the various American companies—had every incentive to catch as many as possible as quickly as possible, lest other companies get there first. To conserve the resource was economically foolish. The companies found themselves caught in a tragedy of the commons, where the unavoidable outcome was the exhaustion of the resource. The harder Joe Meek and his comrades worked, the more certain was the collapse of their industry. They raced the clock, but the clock was sure to win.