Chapter 54: Toward the Snake River Crossing

 

August 15, 1847. Traded with Shoshone. They spear fish with elk horn points tied to thin tree branches. They said to cross the Snake where three islands make the river shallow. Frémont’s map is vague, so we will follow the Indian advice.

 

As he wrote, Mac remembered the Shoshones’ unkempt appearance. They had dressed in odd assortments of Indian and white clothing—one man had worn a woman’s cotton shirtwaist over his leather pants, another a black armband as his sole garment above a breechclout. Many wore pierced pennies and buttons on leather thongs around their necks.

Communication was difficult. One Indian knew a little English, learned from trappers, he said. Another spoke a little Pawnee, as did Pershing. Pershing and the braves drew maps in the sand. The Indians indicated the best river crossing was a few days west.

The next morning Jenny fixed breakfast in silence, slapping a plate of dried salmon and flapjacks in front of Mac.

“Thank you,” he said.

She walked off. In a snit again, Mac thought.

He wondered why he’d brought her. Surely he could have convinced Pershing to take him, even without a wife. But he couldn’t have left Jenny alone in Independence, though now he didn’t know what he’d do with her and her child in Oregon. They were his responsibility.

Pershing ambled over and sat on a stone while Mac ate. “Shoshone said we can hug the Snake or cut across the desert to get to Three Island Crossing. Desert might save a day, but maybe not. Might be some purty steep canyons to get through.”

“Which way we going?” Mac asked, swallowing the last bite of flapjack.

Pershing shrugged. “What do Shoshone know about wagons? Fishing’s better along the Snake—that’s all they care about.”

Jenny had nearly collapsed from the heat on their last spell in the desert. “I vote for the river,” Mac said. “But Abercrombie won’t.”

Pershing nodded. “I’m with you. We’ll head for Salmon Falls tonight. No need to tell Abercrombie there’s another option. He wouldn’t put store in what a Shoshone said anyway.”

They crossed Rock Creek and headed northwest. Pershing rotated Zeke and Joel as scouts through the day. “Indians say the Snake turns north afore Salmon Falls,” Pershing said. “But there’s rough land between here and there. Keep us south of the ravines.”

Joel returned to the wagons at the noon halt. “There’s a terrible patch north of here,” he said, as Mac and other men watered the teams. “We can get to the river, but I ain’t sure we can move along the shore once we’re there.”

“Then where to?” Pershing asked.

Joel drank a dipperful of water. “Zeke’s looking for a path to the south.”

“Need another scout?” Mac asked. “I’d enjoy it.” Jenny was still upset.

Pershing nodded. “Go with Joel. Send Zeke back. He can lead the company around the rough land ahead.”

Mac and Joel rode northwest over another arid plateau. “Wagons can get by here,” Joel said. “But look yonder,” he gestured to the north. A rock-strewn slope creased with gullies spread for miles toward the river. The Snake was just a narrow band of silver glinting in the distance.

They skirted the stony slope, and Joel pointed to the west ahead of them. “Another gorge.”

Mac couldn’t see the ravine until they reached its crest. They peered over the sheer volcanic cliffs at the small blue creek below. Mac whistled. “Must be four hundred feet deep. How do we get across?”

“Can’t. Got to travel the canyon lip till it hits the Snake,” Joel said. “Indians told Pa the bluffs flatten out at the river. Zeke should be up ahead.”

Mac heard a yell and peered ahead. Zeke trotted toward them.

“You find the way?” Joel asked.

Zeke nodded and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “I didn’t go all the way to the Snake, but I seen a path.”

“Pa says to go back. Bring the wagons here,” Joel told his brother.

“We’ll mark the way down to the river,” Mac said. “Watch out for Jenny, if you would, please.”

Zeke grinned, saluted, and trotted off. Mac and Joel picked their way toward the Snake, marking the route with piles of stones. After they staked out a campsite, Mac suggested they ride up the valley. Within a mile, the black walls of the gorge rose above them, though it was cool and green in the valley.

“What a sight,” Mac said, gazing at the looming cliffs. An eagle soared and swooped high above the creek, but still below the crest of the ravine.

Joel shuddered. “I don’t like feeling hemmed in by walls,” he said. “I’d ruther be in open land any day.”

They surprised a small herd of mule deer drinking at the stream. Mac fired, and one deer dropped. They packed up the carcass and returned to camp. “Jenny’ll be pleased,” Mac said. “She’s tired of fish.”

While waiting for the wagons to arrive, Mac wrote:

 

August 16, 1847. Reached Salmon Falls Creek. Rode up a deep canyon, walls steeper than I’ve ever seen. Good camp tonight with plenty of grass. Should reach the Snake crossing tomorrow.

The wagons arrived in early evening. Jenny exclaimed over the deer, and Mac fried venison steaks while she made biscuits. “Is this all it takes to make you happy?” he asked with a grin.

She smiled and shook her head. “I’m sorry I’ve been so ill-tempered. I’m just worn out.”

Mac touched her arm gently. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“Yes,” she said, her face turning sober.

The next day the travelers picked their way through a narrow path along the Snake below towering lava cliffs. The route was strewn with rocks and rough grasses, making the teams strain with their loads.

In midmorning Jenny pointed at a wall of water pouring out of the bluffs on the opposite bank. “Look! Falls dropping from the middle of rocks.”

“Must be an underground stream,” Mac said. As they got closer, he saw a series of thin cascades, trickling like lacy threads from the lava walls, so numerous they covered the rocks.

“Hundreds of falls coming straight out of the cliff,” Joel said. “What a sight.”

When they left the wonder behind, the wagons clung to the slope of the hill above the Snake. Even along the river, the soil was barren except for scraggly sage bushes, so faded they were more gray than green.

“Too bad there ain’t no grass,” Zeke said. “There ain’t nothing along this God-awful river.”

Some places they had to climb the hills above the Snake. The slopes were too steep for switchbacking—the wagons would have tipped over. They skirted an enormous gulch, much like the one they had circumvented the day before. When they stopped for the noon meal, there was no grass or water for the animals.

Only the children enjoyed the halt on the hot, dry plateau. Jonathan and David ran up to Mac and Jenny. “See,” one boy said. “A bone.”

“Looks like a horse’s leg bone,” Mac said, after inspecting it. “Where did you find it?”

The boys gestured toward the river. “We been climbing down the rocks. Looking for Indians,” one said.

“Didn’t find no Indians,” the other boy said. “Just bones.”

“Maybe the Indians ate the horse,” Mac said, winking at Jenny. She looked appalled, but the boys giggled.

Zeke, who had been scouting, came galloping back to the wagons. “We can’t keep to the river,” he reported to his father while Mac listened. “Gets worse’n this.” He waved at the ravine they were detouring at the moment. “I don’t know what the damn Indians were thinking, sending us this way.”

“What’s the alternative?” Pershing asked.

“The desert,” Zeke said. “I seen a couple of gullies ahead. Both have water and grass. We can camp there. But we got to stay back from the Snake. Hills are too steep.”

Pershing squinted, then nodded. “Lead on, son.” He called for the wagons to head out.

Abercrombie rode over to Pershing. “What the devil you doing?” he asked. “Why are we moving away from the river?”

“Zeke says we can’t make it.”

“Then why the hell was he taking us that way?”

“Leave him be, Abercrombie.”

“We could’ve been crossing the desert in the cool of the morning.” Abercrombie spat tobacco juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“No help for it now,” Pershing said. “We got bad advice.”

“What advice?”

“From the Shoshone.”

“You listened to those savages?” Abercrombie’s face turned darker than brick. “Them heathen sent us here on purpose. Probably murder us in our sleep tonight.”

“They don’t know how to pull a wagon,” Pershing replied. He waved his hat for the company to proceed.

Abercrombie rode beside Mac. “Can you believe him? Following the trail of a bunch of savages.”

Mac grunted in reply.

“What’s that fool Frémont’s map say?” Usually Abercrombie paid about as much attention to Frémont as to Indians.

“Not enough detail,” Mac said. “Places where Frémont stayed by the river, and places where he cut across the river bends. Don’t know exactly where we are.”

Abercrombie griped further, but rode off when Mac didn’t argue back. Soon Mac saw him complaining to men in his platoon.

They reached a thin stream in late afternoon. As Zeke had said, there was plenty of grass and water for the teams.

 

August 17, 1847. Camped on a creek in the high desert. Impossible to follow the Snake. Grass enough for the oxen.