The Greatest Works of Charles Carleton Coffin. Charles Carleton Coffin
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Bottineau is our guide. Take a look at him as he sits by the camp-fire cleaning his rifle. He is tall and well formed, with features which show both his French and Indian parentage. He has dark whiskers, a broad, flat nose, a wrinkled forehead, and is in the full prime of life. His name is known throughout the Northwest, — among Americans, Canadians, and Indians. The Chippewa is his mother-tongue, though he can speak several Indian dialects, and is fluent in French and English. He was born not far from Fort Garry, and has traversed the vast region of the Northwest in every direction. He was Governor Stevens's guide when he made the first explorations for the Northern Pacific Railroad, and has guided a great many government trains to the forts on the Missouri since then. He was with General Sully in his campaign against the Indians. He has the instinct of locality. Like the honey-bee, which flies straight from the flower to its hive, over fields, through forests, across ravines or intervening hills, so Pierre Bottineau knows just where to go when out upon the boundless prairie with no landmark to guide him. He is never lost, even in the darkest night or foggiest day.
There is no man living, probably, who has more enemies than he, for the whole Sioux nation of Indians are his sworn foes. They would take his scalp instantly if they could only get a chance. He has been in many fights with them, — has killed six of them, has had narrow escapes, and to hear him tell of his adventures makes your hair stand on end. He is going to conduct a portion of our party through the Sioux country. The Indians are friendly now, and the party will not be troubled; but if a Sioux buffalo-hunter comes across this guide there will be quick shooting on both sides, and ten to one the Indian will go down, — for Bottineau is keen-sighted, has a steady hand, and is quick to act.
The westward-bound members of our party, guided by Bottineau, will be accompanied by an escort consisting of nineteen soldiers commanded by Lieutenant Kelton. Four Indian scouts, mounted on ponies, are engaged to scour the country in advance, and give timely notice of the presence of Sioux, who are always on the alert to steal horses or plunder a train.
Bidding our friends good by, we watch their train winding over the prairie till we can only see the white canvas of the wagons on the edge of the horizon; then, turning eastward, we cross the river into Minnesota, and strike out upon the pathless plain. We see no landmarks ahead, and, like navigators upon the ocean, pursue our way over this sea of verdure by the compass.
After a few hours' ride, we catch, through the glimmering haze, the faint outlines of islands rising above the unruffled waters of a distant lake. We approach its shores, but only to see islands and lake alike vanish into thin air. It was the mirage lifting above the horizon the far-off groves of Buffalo Creek, a branch of the Red River.
Far away to the east are the Leaf Hills, which are only the elevations of the rolling prairie that forms the divide between the waters flowing into the Gulf of Mexico and into Hudson Bay.
Wishing to see the hills, to ascertain what obstacles there are to the construction of a railroad, two of us break away from the main party and strike out over the plains, promising to be in camp at nightfall. How exhilarating to gallop over the pathless expanse, amid a sea of flowers, plunging now and then through grass so high that horse and rider are almost lost to sight! The meadow-lark greets us with his cheerful song; the plover hovers around us; sand-hill cranes, flying always in pairs, rise from the ground and wing their way beyond the reach of harm. The gophers chatter like children amid the flowers, as we ride over their subterranean towns.
They are in peaceful possession of the solitude. Five years ago buffaloes were roaming here. We see their bones bleaching in the sun. Here the Sioux and Chippewas hunted them down. Here the old bulls fought out their battles, and the countless herds cropped the succulent grasses and drank the clear running water of the stream which bears their name. They are gone forever. The ox and cow of the farm are coming to take their place. Sheep and horses will soon fatten on the rich pasturage of these hills. We of the East would hardly call them hills, much less mountains, the slopes are so gentle and the altitudes so low. The highest grade of a railroad would not exceed thirty feet to the mile in crossing them.
Here we find granite and limestone bowlders, and in some places beds of gravel, brought, so the geologists inform us, from the far North and deposited here when the primeval ocean currents set southward over this then submerged region. They are in the right place for the railroad. The stone will be needed for abutments to bridges, and the gravel will be wanted for ballast, — provided the road is located in this vicinity.
On our second day's march we come to what might with propriety be called the park region of Minnesota. It lies amid the high lands of the divide. It is more beautiful even than the country around White Bear Lake and in the vicinity of Glenwood. Throughout the day we behold such rural scenery as can only be found amid the most lovely spots in England.
Think of rounded hills, with green slopes, — of parks and countless lakes, — skirted by forests, fringed with rushes, perfumed by tiger-lilies — the waves rippling on gravelled beaches; wild geese, ducks, loons, pelicans, and innumerable water-fowl building their nests amid the reeds and rushes, — think of lawns blooming with flowers, elk and deer browsing in the verdant meadows. This is their haunt. We see their tracks along the sandy shores, but they keep beyond the range of our rifles.
So wonderfully has nature adorned this section, that it seems as if we were riding through a country that has been long under cultivation, and that behind yonder hillock we shall find an old castle, a mansion, or, at least, a farm-house, as we find them in Great Britain.
I do not forget that I am seeing Minnesota at its best season, that it is midsummer, that the winters are as long as in New England; but I can say without reservation, that nowhere in the wide world — not even in old England, the most finished of all lands; not in la belle France, or sunny Italy, or in the valley of the Ganges or the Yangtse, or on the slopes of the Sierra Nevadas — have I beheld anything approaching this in natural beauty.
How it would look in winter I cannot say, but the members of our party are unanimous in their praises of this portion of Minnesota. The nearest pioneer is forty miles distant; but land so inviting will soon be taken up by settlers.
It was a pleasure, after three days' travel over the trackless wild, to come suddenly and unexpectedly upon a hay-field. There were the swaths newly mown. There was no farm-house in sight, no fenced area or upturned furrow, but the hay-makers had been there. We were approaching civilization once more. Ascending a hill, we came in sight of a settler, a pioneer who is always on the move; who, when a neighbor comes within six or eight miles of him, abandons his home and moves on to some spot where he can have more elbow-room, — to a region not so thickly peopled.
He informed us that we should find the old trail we were searching for about a mile ahead. He had long matted hair, beard hanging upon his breast, a wrinkled countenance, wore a slouched felt hat, an old checked-cotton shirt, and pantaloons so patched and darned, so variegated in color, that it would require much study to determine what was original texture and what patch and darn. He came from Ohio in his youth, and has always been a skirmisher on the advancing line of civilization, — a few miles ahead of the main body. He was thinking now of going into the "bush," as he phrased it.
Settlers farther down the trail informed us that he was a little flighty and queer; that he could not be induced to stay long in one place, but was always on the move for a more quiet neighborhood!
The road that we reached at this point was formerly traversed by the French and Indian traders between Pembina and the Mississippi, but has not been used much of late years. Striking that, we should have no difficulty in reaching the settlements of the Otter-Tail, forty miles south.
Emigration travels fast. As fires blown by winds sweep through the dried grass of the prairies, so civilization spreads along the frontier.
We reached the settlement on Saturday night, and pitched our tents for the Sabbath. It was a rare treat to these people to come into our camp and hear a sermon from Rev. Dr. Lord. The oldest member of the colony is a woman, now in her eightieth year, with eye undimmed and a countenance remarkably free from the marks of age, who walks with a firm step after fourscore years of labor. Sixty years ago she moved from Lebanon, New Hampshire,