 CHAPTER 36 THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JAMES P. BEKWORTH MOUNTAINEER, SCOUT, AND PIONEER, AND CHIEF OF THE CROWNATION OF INDIANS Written from his own dictation by T. D. Bonner This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The next spring I engaged in mining and prospecting in various parts of the Gold Region. I advanced as far as the American Valley, having one man in my company, and proceeded north into the Pitt River Country, where we had a slight difficulty with the Indians. We had come upon a party who manifested the utmost friendship toward us. But I, knowing how far friendly appearances could be trusted to, cautioned my partner on no account to relinquish his gun if the Indians should attempt to take it. They crowded round us, pretending to have the greatest interest in the pack that we carried, until they made a sudden spring and seized our guns and attempted to rest them from our grasp. I jerked from them and retreated a few steps. Then cocking my gun, I bade them, if they wish to fight, to come on. This produced a change in their feelings, and they were very friendly again, begging caps and ammunition of us, which of course we refused. We then walked backward for about 150 yards, still keeping our pieces ready should they attempt further hostilities. But they did not deem it prudent to molest us again. While on this excursion, I discovered what is now known as Beckworth's Pass in the Sierra Nevada. From some of the elevations over which we passed, I remarked a place far away to the southward that seemed lower than any other. I made no mention of it to my companion, but thought that at some future time I would examine into it farther. I continued on to Shasta with my fellow traveler and returned after a fruitless journey of eighteen days. After a short stay in the American Valley, I again started out with a prospecting party of twelve men. We killed a bullock before starting and dried the meat in order to have provisions to last us during the trip. We proceeded in an easterly direction and all busied themselves in searching for gold, but my errand was of a different character. I had come to discover what I suspected to be a pass. It was the latter end of April when we entered upon an extensive valley at the northwest extremity of the Sierra Range. The valley was already robed in fresh as verger, contrasting most delightfully with the huge snow clad masses of rock we had just left. Flowers of every variety and hue spread their variegated charms before us. Magpies were chattering and gorgeously plumaged birds were caroling in the delights of unmolested solitude. Swarms of geese and ducks were swimming on the surface of the cool crystal stream, which was the central fork of the Rio de la Plumas, or sailed the air in clouds over our heads. Deer and antelope filled the plains, and their boldness was conclusive that the hunter's rifle was to them unknown. Nowhere visible were any traces of the white man's approach, and it is probable that our steps were the first that ever marked the spot. We struck across this beautiful valley to the waters of the Yuba, from thence to the waters of the Trigi, which later flowed in an easterly direction, telling us we were on the eastern slope of the mountain range. This, I at once saw, would afford the best wagon road into the American Valley approaching from the eastward, and I imparted my views to three of my companions, in whose judgment I placed the most confidence. They thought highly of the discovery, and even proposed to associate with me in opening the road. We also found gold, but not in sufficient quantity to warrant our working it, and furthermore, the ground was too wet to admit of our prospecting to any advantage. On my return to the American Valley, I made known my discovery to a Mr. Turner, proprietor of the American Ranch, who entered enthusiastically into my views. It was a thing he said he had never dreamed of before. If I could but carry out my plan, and divert travel into that road, he thought I should be made a man for life. Thereupon he drew up a subscription list, setting forth the merits of the project, and showing how the road could be made practicable to Bedwell's Bar, and thence to Marysville, which later place would derive peculiar advantages from the discovery. He headed the subscription with two hundred dollars. When I reached Bedwell's Bar and unfolded my project, the town was seized with a perfect mania for the opening of the route. The subscriptions toward the fund required for its accomplishment amounted to five hundred dollars. I then proceeded to Marysville, a place which would unquestionably derive greater benefit from the newly discovered route than any other place on the way, since this must be the entrepôt or principle starting place for immigrants. I communicated with several of the most influential residents on the subject in hand. They also spoke very encouragingly of my undertaking, and referred me before all others to the mayor of the city. Accordingly, I waited upon that gentleman, a Mr. Miles, and brought the matter under his notice, representing it as being a legitimate matter for his interference, and offering substantial advantages to the commercial prosperity of the city. The mayor entered warmly into my views, and pronounced it as his opinion that the profits resulting from the speculation could not be less than from six to ten thousand dollars. And as the benefits occurring to the city would be incalculable, he would ensure my expenses while engaged upon it. I mentioned that I should prefer some guarantee before entering upon my labors to secure me against loss of what money I might lay out. Leave that to me, said the mayor. I will attend to the whole affair. I feel confident that a subject of so great importance to our interests will engage the earliest attention. I thereupon left the whole proceeding in his hands, and immediately setting men to work upon the road, went out to the treachery to turn immigration into my newly discovered route. While thus busily engaged, I was seized with iriscepolis, and abandoned all hopes of recovery. I was over 100 miles away from medical assistance, and my only shelter was a brush tent. I made my will, and resigned myself to death. Life still lingered in me, however, and a train of wagons came up and encamped near to where I lay. I was reduced to a very low condition, but I saw the drivers and acquainted them with the object which had brought me out there. They offered to attempt the new road if I thought myself sufficiently strong to guide them through it. The women, God bless them, came to my assistance, and through their kind attentions and excellent nursing, I rapidly recovered from my lingering sickness, until I was soon able to mount my horse, and lead the first train, consisting of 17 wagons, through Beckworth's Pass. We reached the American Valley without the least accident, and the immigrants expressed entire satisfaction with the route. I returned with the train through to Marysville, and on the intelligence being communicated of the practicability of my road, there was quite a public rejoicing. A northern route had been discovered, and the city had received an impetus that would advance her beyond all her sisters on the Pacific shore. I felt proud of my achievement, and was foolish enough to promise myself a substantial recognition of my labors. I was destined to disappointment. For that same night, Marysville was laid in ashes. The mayor of the ruined town congratulated me upon bringing a train through. He expressed great delight at my good fortune, but regretted that their recent calamity had placed it entirely beyond his power to obtain for me any substantial reward, with the exception of some two hundred dollars subscribed by some liberal-minded citizens of Marysville. I have received no indemnification for the money and labor I have expended upon my discovery. The city had been greatly benefited by it, as all must acknowledge, for the immigrants that now flock to Marysville would otherwise have gone to Sacramento. Sixteen hundred dollars I expended upon the road is forever gone. But those who derive advantage from this outlaying loss of time devote no thought to the discoverer. Nor do I see clearly how I am to help myself. For everyone knows I cannot roll a mountain into the pass and shut it up. But there is one thing certain, although I recognize no superior in love of country, and feel in all its force the obligation imposed upon me to advance her interests. Still, when I go out hunting in the mountains a road for everybody to pass through, and expending my time and capital upon an object from which I shall derive no benefit, it will be because I have nothing better to do. In the spring of 1852 I established myself in Beckworth Valley, and finally found myself transformed into a hotelkeeper and chief of a trading post. My house is considered the immigrant's landing place, as it is the first ranch he arrives at in the Golden State, and is the only house between this point and Salt Lake. Here is a valley 240 miles in circumference, containing some of the choicest land in the world. Its yield of hay is incalculable. The red and white clovers spring up spontaneously, and the grass that covers its smooth surface is of the most nutritious nature. When the weary, toil-worn immigrant reaches this valley, he feels himself secure. He can lay himself down and taste refreshing repose, undisturbed by the fear of Indians. His cattle can graze around him in pasture up to their eyes, without running any danger of being driven off by the Arabs of the forest, and springs flow before them as pure as any that refreshes this verdant earth. When I stand at my door and watch the weary, way-worn travelers approach, their wagons holding together by a miracle, their stalk in the last stage of emaciation, and themselves a perfect exaggeration of caricature. I frequently amuse myself with imagining the contrast they must offer to the Tauten Sambool, and general appearance they presented to their admiring friends when they first set out upon their journey. We will take a fancy sketch of them as they start from their homes. We will fancy their strong and well-stored wagon, brand new for the occasion, and so firmly put together that, to look at it, one would suppose it fit to circumrotate the globe as many times as there are spokes in the wheels. Then, their fat and frightened steers, so high-spirited and fractious, that it takes the father and his two or three sons to get each under the yoke. Next, the ambitious immigrant and his proud family, with their highly raised expectations of the future that is before them. The father, so confident and important, who deems the eastern states unworthy of his abilities, and can alone find a sufficiently ample field in the growing republic on the Pacific side. The mother, who is unwilling to leave her pleasant, gossiping friends at early associations, is still half-tempted to believe that the crop of gold that waits their gathering may indemnify her for her labors. So they pull up stakes and leave town in good style, expecting to return with whole cartloads of gold dust and dazzle their neighbor's eyes with their excellent good fortune. The girls, dear creatures, put on their very best is all their admiring bow, assembled to see them start, and to give them the last kiss they will receive east of the Nevada mountains. For their idea is that they will be snatched up and married the moment they step over the threshold into California by some fine young gentleman, who is a solid pile of gold, and they joyously start away in anticipation of the event, their hats decked with ribbons, their persons in long flowing riding dresses, their delicate fingers glittering with rings, and their charming little ankles encased in their fashionable and neatly laced gaiters. At the close of day, perhaps amid a pelting rain, these same parties heave weirdly into sight. They have achieved the passage of the plains, and their pleasant eastern homes, with their agreeable sociable neighbors, are now at a distance it is painful to contemplate. The brave show they made at starting, as the whole town hurrayed them off, is sadly faded away. Their wagon appears like a relic of the revolution after doing hard service for the commissariat. Its cover burned into holes and torn to tatters. Its strong axles replaced with rough pieces of trees hewn by the wayside. The tires bound on with ropes, the iron lynchpans gone, and chips of hickory substituted, and rags wound round the hubs to hold them together, which they keep continually wedded to prevent falling to pieces. The oxen are held up by the tail to keep them upon their legs, and the ravens and magpies evidently feel themselves ill-treated and being driven off from what they deem their lawful rights. The old folks are peevish and quarrelsome. The young men are so headstrong, and the small children so full of wants, and precisely at a time when everything is given out, and they have nothing to pacify them with. But the poor girls have suffered the most. Their glossy, luxuriant locks that won so much admiration are now frizzled and discolored by the sun. Their elegant riding habit is replaced with an impoverished bloomer, and their neat little feet are exposed in sad disarray. Their fingers are white no longer, and in place of rings we see sundry bits of rag wound round to keep the dirt from entering their sore cuts. The young men of gold, who look so attractive in the distance, are now too often found to be worthless and of no intrinsic value. Their time employed in haunting gaming tables or dram shops, and their habits corrupted by unthrift and dissipation. I do not wish to speak disparagingly of my adopted state, and by no means to intimate the slightest disrespect to the many worthy citizens who have crossed the plains. I appeal to the many who have witnessed the picture for the accuracy of my portraiture. So much good material, constantly infused into society, ought to improve the character of the compound. But the demoralizing effects of transplantation greatly neutralize the benefits. Take a family from their peaceful and happy homes in a community where good morals are observed. And the tone of society exercises a salutary influence over the thoughts of both old and young, and put them in such a place as this, where all is chaotic. And the principles that regulate the social intercourse of men are not yet recognized as law. And their dignity of thought and prestige of position is bereft from them. They have to struggle among a greedy, unscrupulous populace for the means of living. Their homes have yet acquired no comfort, and they feel isolated and abandoned. And it is even worse upon the children. All corrective influence is removed from them, and the examples that surround them are often of the most vicious and worst possible description. All wholesome objects of ambition being removed, and money alone substituted as the reward of their greed. They grow up unlike their fathers. And it is only those in whom there is a solid substratum of correct feeling that mature into good citizens and proper men. The girls too, little darlings, suffer severely. They have left their worthy sweethearts behind, and cannot get back to them. And those who now offer themselves here are not fit to bestow a thought upon. Everything is strange to them. They miss their little social reunions, their quilting parties, their winter quadrils, the gossip of the village, their delightful summer haunts, and their dear paternal fireside. They have no pursuits except of the grosser kinds, and all their refinements are roughed over by the prevailing struggle after gold. Much stock is lost in crossing the plains, through their drinking the alkali water which flows from the Sierra Nevada, becoming impregnated with the poisonous mineral either in its source or in its passage among the rocks. There are also poisonous herbs springing up in the region of the mineral water, which the poor, famishing animals, devour without stent. Those who survive until they reach the valley are generally too far gone for recovery, and die while resting to recruit their strength. Their infected flesh furnishes food to thousands of wolves, which infest this place in the winter, and its effect upon them is singular. It depolates their warm coats of fur, and renders their pelts as bare as the palm of a man's hand. My faithful dogs have killed numbers of them at different times, divested entirely of hair, except on the extremity of the nose, ears, and tail. They present a truly comical and extraordinary appearance. This general loss of cattle deprives many of the poor immigrants of the means of hauling their lightened wagons, which, by the time they reach my ranch, seldom contain anything more than their family clothing and bedding. Frequently, I have observed wagons pass my house with one starvelling yoke of cattle to drag them, and the family straggling on foot behind. Numbers have put up at my ranch without a morsel of food, and without a dollar in the world to procure any. They never were refused what they asked for at my house, and during the short space that I have spent in the valley, I have furnished provisions and other necessaries to the numerous sufferers who have applied for them to a very serious amount. Some have since paid me, but the bills of many remain unsettled. Still, although a prudent businessman would condemn the proceeding, I cannot find it in my heart to refuse relief to such necessities, and if my pocket suffers a little, I have my recompense in a feeling of internal satisfaction. My pleasant valley is 35 miles at its greatest breath. It is irrigated by two streams with their various small tributaries. These form a junction about 10 miles from my house up the valley, which as you remount it becomes the central fork of the Feather River. All these streams abound with trout, some of them weighing seven or eight pounds. In the main one, there are also plenty of otter. Antelope and deer are to be found the entire year, unless the winter is unusually severe when they cross the mountains to the eastern slope. Grizzly bears come and disappear again without asking leave of any man. There are wolves of every species together with foxes, hares, rabbits, and other animals. Of the Feather Tribe, we have wild geese, ducks, sage hens, grouse, and a large variety of smaller birds. Service berries and cherries are the only kinds of fruit that grow from nature's cultivation. The growth of timber about the valley is principally pitch pine, although there is a considerable inner mixture of cedar. I have never yet sown any grain, but I have cultivated a small kitchen garden and raised cabbages, turnips, and radishes of great size. I have never known the snow to fall to a greater depth than three feet, and when the storms are over it dissolves very rapidly. Notwithstanding the elevation is many thousands feet above the level of the Pacific. The snow clings to the mountain peaks that overlook the valley to the eastward the year round, and as it is continually melting and feeding the streams, it keeps the water icy cold all the summer through. About a mile and a half distant from my house there is a large sulfur spring, and on the eastern slope in the desert there are copious hot springs, supplying the traveler with boiling water for his coffee without the cost of fuel. The Truce rises on the summit of the Sierra Nevada, opposite the headwaters of the Yuba, and runs in an easterly direction until it loses itself in Pyramid Lake. About 50 miles east of this valley, this lake is a great natural curiosity as it receives not alone the waters of the Truce, but numerous other streams and has no visible outlet. It's surcharge of water probably filtering into the earth like St. Mary's River and some others I have met with. There is no place in the whole state that offers so many attractions for a few weeks or months retirement. For its charms of scenery with Sylvan and Piscatorial sports present unusual attractions. During the winter season my nearest neighbors are 16 miles away. In the summer they are within 4 miles of my house, so that social broils do not much disturb me. There is a pleasant historical incident associated with St. Mary's River, which as it can be familiar to but a few of my readers I will relate here. The St. Mary's River is known to most persons as the River Humboldt, since that is the name that has been since conferred upon it in honor of the distinguished European traveler. I prefer the former name as being more poetical, though less assuming. An Indian woman, the wife of a Canadian named Chappano, who acted as interpreter and guide to Lewis and Clark during their explorations of the Rocky Mountains, was suddenly seized with the pains of labor and gave birth to a son on the banks of this mysterious river. The red-headed chief, Clark, adopted the child thus rudely issued into the world and on his return to St. Louis took the infant with him and baptized it John Baptiste Clark Chappano. After a careful culture of his mind, the boy was sent to Europe to complete his education. But the Indian was ineffacable in him. The Indian Lodge and his native mountain fastness possessed greater charms than the luxuries of civilized life. He returned to the desert and passed his days with his tribe. Mary, the mother of the child, was a crow, very pleasing and intelligent and may have been, for ought I know, connected with some of my many relatives in that tribe. It was in honor of this event and to perpetuate her memory that the river received its original name. St. Mary's and as such is still known to the mountaineers. End of Chapter 36 Chapter 37 The life and adventures of James P. Beckworth, mountaineer, scout, and pioneer, and chief of the Crow Nation of Indians, written from his own dictation by T. D. Bonner. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. As an American citizen, a friend of my race, and a sincere lover of my country, and also as one well acquainted with the Indian character, I feel that I cannot properly conclude the record of my eventful life without saying something for the red man. It should be remembered, when judging of their acts, that they consider the country they inhabit as the gift of the Great Spirit, and they resent in their hearts the invasion of the immigrant just as much as any civilized people would if another nation, without permission, should cross their territory. It must also be understood that the Indians believe the buffalo to be theirs by inheritance, not as game, but in the light of ownership given to them by Providence for their support and comfort. And that, when an immigrant shoots a buffalo, the Indian looks upon it exactly as the destruction by a stranger of so much private property with these ideas clearly in the mind of the reader. It can be understood why the Indian in destroying a cow belonging to white people or stealing a horse considers himself as merely retaliating for injuries received, repaying himself in fact for what he has lost. For this act on the part of the red man, the United States troops are often turned indiscriminately upon his race. The innocent generally suffer, and those who have raised the storm cannot understand of what crime they can be guilty. But if the government is determined to make war upon the western tribes, let it be done intelligently, and so effectually that mercy will temper justice. To attempt to chastise Indians with United States troops is simply ridiculous. The expense of such campaigns is only surpassed by their inefficiency. The Indians live on horseback, and they can steal and drive off the government horses faster than it can bring them together. The Indians have no stationary villages. They can travel faster, even with the encumbrance of their lodges, women and children, subsisting themselves on buffalo slain on the way. Than any force, however richly appointed, the country could send against them. An army must tire out in such a chase before summer is gone. While the Indians will constantly harass it with their sharp shooters, and should several powerful tribes unite, not an unusual occurrence, many thousands men would make no impression. It should also be recollected by our officers sent to fight in the Rocky Mountains, that the Indians have a mode of telegraphing by the aid of robes and mirrors, and thus, by having their spies station at convenient distances, they convey intelligence of the movements of their enemies at great distances and in a very few minutes, thus informing villages whether it would be best to retreat or not. Some tribes telegraph by fires at night, and by smoke in the daytime. An officer might hear of a band of warriors encamped at a certain place. He immediately makes a forced march, and when his troops arrive at their destination, those same warriors may be many miles in his rear, encamped on his trail. A village of three hundred lodges of crows or Cheyennes could, within thirty minutes after receiving an order to move, have all their lodges struck, the poles attached to the horses, and their men, women and children, going at full speed, and could thus outstrip the best dragoons sent in their pursuit. I have seen enough of Indian treaties and annuities to satisfy me that their effects for good are worse than fruitless. The idea formed by the Indians is that the annuities are sent to them by the great white chief because he is afraid of them and wishes to purchase their friendship. There are some of the tribes, a very few, who would keep a treaty sacred. But the majority would not be bound by one, for they cannot understand their nature. When caught at a disadvantage and reduced to enter into a compact, they would agree to any proposals that were offered, but when the controlling power is withdrawn, and they can repeat their depredations with apparent impunity, no moral obligation would restrain them, and the treaty that was negotiated at so much cost to the country proves a mere delusion. The officer having charge of an expedition against the Indians should rightly understand which band of a tribe he is commissioned to punish. The Sioux, for instance, which a few years ago could raise 30,000 warriors, are divided into many bands, which at times are hundreds of miles apart. One band of that tribe may commit a depredation on the immigrant road, and the other bands not even have heard of it. They do not hold themselves amenable for the misdeeds of another body totally distinct from them in social relations, and to inflict chastisement upon them in such a case would be a manifest injustice. But in a case of extreme danger, all these bands coalesce. Other tribes have the same divisions into distinct bands, and many are hence led into the belief that each band is a tribe. The Sioux range over a territory upward of a thousand miles in extent from north to south, and their country embraces some of the most beautiful spots in the world, as well for natural scenery as for extreme productiveness of soil. The Crows have but one band proper, although they are generally divided into two villages, as being a more convenient arrangement to afford pasture for their immense herds of horses, and also to hunt the buffalo. But these two villages are seldom more than 300 miles apart, generally much nearer. They come together at least once a year and have frequent accidental coalitions in the course of their wanderings. They speak the groven language, from which nation they are an offshoot. The Pawnees are probably the most degraded in point of morals of all the western tribes. They are held in such contempt by the other tribes that none will make treaties with them. They are a populous nation and are inveterate against the whites, killing them whenever met. A treaty concluded with that nation at night would be violated the next morning. Those who engage in warfare with the western Indians will remember that they take no prisoners except women and children. It has generally been believed that the Sioux never kill white men, but this is a mistake. They have always killed them. I have seen white men's scalps in their hands, and many still fresh hanging in the smoke of their lodges. The western Indians have no hummocks or everglades to fight among, but they have their boundless prairies to weary an army in, and the fastness of the rocky mountains to retreat to. Should a majority of those powerful nations coalesce in defense against one common enemy, it would be the worst Indian war. The most costly and blood and treasure that the national government has ever entered into. The coalition tribes could bring 250,000 warriors against any hostile force, and I know I am greatly within the limits of truth in assigning that number to them. If it is the policy of government to utterly exterminate the Indian race, the most expeditious manner of affecting this ought to be the one adopted. The introduction of whiskey among the red men under the con events of government agents leads to the demoralization and consequent extermination by more powerful races of thousands of Indians annually. Still, this infernal agent is not effectual. The Indians diminish in numbers, but with comparative slowness. The most direct and speedy mode of clearing the land of them would be by the simple means of starvation. By depriving them of their hereditary sustenance, the buffalo. To effect this, send an army of hunters among them, to root out and destroy in every possible manner the animal in question. They can shoot them, poison them, dig pitfalls for them, and resort to numberless other contrivances to efface the devoted animal, which serves, it would seem, by the wealth of his carcass to preserve the Indian, and thus impede the expanding development of civilization. To fight the Indians, they at our mess, the government can employ no such effectual means as to take into its service five hundred mountaineers for the space of one year. And any one tribe of Indians that they should fall foul of could never survive the contest. Such men, employed for that purpose, would have no incumbrance from superfluous baggage to impede them in a pursuit or a retreat over their inimitable plains. The mode of life of a mountaineer just fits him for an Indian fighter. And if he has to submit to privation and put up with an empty commissarate, he has the means of support always in hand. He is so much an Indian from habit that he can fight them in their own way. If they steal his horses, he can steal theirs in return. If they snatch a hasty repose in the open air, it is all he asks for himself, and his health and spirits, are fortified with such regimen. It is only by men possessing the qualities of the white hunter, combined with Indian habits that the Indians can be effectually and economically conquered. I have now presented a plain, unvarnished statement of the most noteworthy occurrences of my life. And in doing so, I have necessarily led the reader through a variety of savage scenes at which his heart must second. The narrative, however, is not without its use. The restless, youthful mind that wearies with the monotony of peaceful everyday existence and aspires after a career of wild adventure and thrilling romance will find, by my experience, that such a life is by no means one of comfort. And that the excitement which it affords is very dearly purchased by the opportunities lost of gaining far more profitable wisdom. Where one man would be spared, as I have been, to pass through the perils of fasting, the encounters with the savage and the fury of the wild beast, and still preserve his life, and attain an age of near three score, it is not too much to say that five hundred would perish, with not a single loved one near to catch his last whispered accent, would die in the wilderness, either in solitude or with the fiendish savage shrieking in revolting triumph in his ear. I now close the chapter of my eventful life. I feel that time is pressing, and the reminisces of the past, stripped of all that was unpleasant, come crowding upon me. My heart turns naturally to my adopted people. I think of my son, who is the chief. I think of his mother, who went unharmed through the medicine lodge. I think of Barciampe, the brave heroine. I see her, tearful, watching my departure from the banks of the Yellowstone. Her nation expects my return, that I may be buried with my supposed fathers, but none look so eagerly for the great warrior as pine leaf, the Indian heroine. I've seen her in her youthful years. Her heart was light and free. Her black eyes never dimmed with tears, so happy then was she. When warriors from the fight returned and halted for display, the trophies that the victors won, she was first to bring away. I've seen her kiss her brother's cheek, when he was called to go, the lurking enemy to seek, or chase the buffalo. She loved him with a sister's love, he was the only son, and pine leaf prized him far above the warrior's hearts she'd won. I've seen her in her morning hours, that brother had been slain. Her head, that oft was decked with flowers, now shed its crimson rain. Her bleeding head and bleeding hand, her crimson clotted hair, her brothers in the spirit land, and hence her keen despair. I've heard her make a solemn vow, a warrior I will be, until a hundred foes shall bow, and yield their scouts to me. I will revenge my brother's death, I swear it on my life, or never, while I draw a breath, will I become a wife. I've seen her on her foaming steed, I've seen her on her foaming steed, with battle axe in hand, pursuing at her utmost speed the Blackfoot and Cheyenne. I've seen her wield her polished lance a hundred times and more, when charging fierce in the advance amid the battle's roar. I've seen her with her scalping knife spring on the fallen foe, and ere he was yet void of life, make sure to count her coup. I've seen her at full speed again, oft draw her trusty bow, across her arrow take good aim and lay a warrior low. I've heard her say, I'll take my shield, my battle axe and bow, and follow you through Glenner Field, wherever you're dare to go. I'll rush amid the blood and strife, where any warrior leads, pine leaf would choose to lose her life amid such daring deeds. I've heard her say, the spirit land is where my thoughts incline, where I can grasp my brother's hand, extended now for mine. There's nothing now in this wide world, no ties that bid me stay, but a broken hearted Indian girl I weep both night and day. He tells me in my midnight dreams, I must revenge his fall, then come wear flowers and cooling streams, surround their spirit all. He tells me that the hunting ground, so far away on high, is filled with warriors all around, who nobly here did die. He says that all is joy and mirth, where the great spirit lives, and joy that's never known on earth, he constantly receives. No brother to revenge his wrongs, the warpath is my road. A few more days I'll sing his songs, then high to his abode. I've heard her say, I'll be your bride, you've waited long enough I know. A hundred foes by me have died, by my own hand laid low. Tis for my nation's good I wed, for I would still be free, until I slumber with the dead, but I will marry thee. And when I left the heroine, a tear stood in her eye, as last I held her hand in mine, and whispered a good-bye. Oh, will you soon return again? the heroine did say. Yes, when the green grass dexed the plain, I said, and came away. End of the life and adventures of James P. Beckworth, mountaineer, scout, and pioneer, and chief of the Crow Nation of Indians. Audio book recording by Claude Stewart