Will didn’t know whether to believe Drew. “How can you tell?”
“I can feel them,” the colonel replied.
August 17, 1864. Col. Drew says Paulina is watching us. As we ride, I feel the Indians in the hills, just like Drew does.
After the long trek to Pueblo Valley, they rested in camp on August 18. That evening, an Indian man was escorted to Drew’s tent while Will was taking dictation.
“Humboldt Jim. Paiute tribe,” the native said when asked for his name. He spoke rough English and carried a Philadelphia long rifle, which he wanted to sell. Despite the rifle, the Indian acted peaceable. The colonel questioned Jim, but relaxed when it seemed their visitor was neither belligerent nor seeking any handouts.
Then Jim said, “Chief Paulina following you.”
Drew sat up straight and stared at the Paiute. “As I suspected. Where is he?”
“Paulina not bother you. He see your big gun.”
“The howitzer?” Drew grinned. “So that’s what’s keeping him away?”
Jim nodded.
Drew chortled. “You tell Paulina I’ll use my big gun on him if I see him or any other Indians approaching.”
“But you let me trade?” Jim asked, sounding more concerned about his own profit than serving as a messenger to Chief Paulina.
Drew nodded, with another chuckle. “Why not? If you’re alone, you’re no danger. But when you leave, you find Paulina. Tell him the Army won’t permit him to bother us or the wagons with us.”
The Indian left, and Will continued scribing. When Drew dismissed him, Will found Humboldt Jim in the middle of the emigrant wagons, attempting to bargain with the settlers. Jim made a deal for his rifle, then took a five-dollar gold coin out of his pocket to show one of the white men. When the emigrant offered Jim a dollar and a quarter for the gold coin, the Paiute happily accepted.
“But—” Will started to object, until the settler glared at him and shook his head.
Jim seemed delighted to receive two large coins for his single five-dollar gold coin. No wonder Indians got mad at whites, Will thought—Jim was cheated because he didn’t understand how white men classd money. If he ever realized his error, the tribesman would be angry.
This next day, Will mentioned the incident to Drew, and the colonel laughed. “That’s the way it goes. The natives are all assassins at heart,” he said. “A horde of practical thieves, highwaymen, and murderers.” He sniffed. “Though at least the Paiute don’t prostitute their women as many of the tribes do.”
Will frowned, thinking Humboldt Jim didn’t seem anything like Drew’s assessment of Indians.
Drew continued, “Though when the Paiute find a woman who’s taken up with another man, they burn her alive.” He guffawed, as he had when Humboldt Jim told him about Paulina’s fear of the howitzer. “That tends to reduce her sinfulness.”
Will swallowed hard, trying not to show the colonel his disgust.
Drew leaned toward him. “You’ve got to understand, McDougall. Nearly all the tribes in the West—Oregon and California both—consider murder, rape, and robbery to be virtues of the highest order. The more an Indian engages in these activities, the higher his rank in the tribe. They rape the women of their enemies when captured and enslave the women and children. The War in the East is being fought over slavery, but we fight it here in the West as well. Native slaveholders are even more cruel than white owners.”
Will sat silently, not knowing how to react. Joel had told him Drew was a Copperhead, but now the colonel sounded like he abhorred the enslavement of both Blacks and Indians. Mac had taught Will that all slavery was cruel. But Drew’s understanding of the tribes was far different from Mac’s. Drew had fought in the Indian Wars for many years, while Mac worked in commerce and had little contact with Indians. Which man should Will believe?
“Klamaths are worse than Paiutes,” Drew continued. “The Klamath kill their children and slaves with as little compunction as we would kill a venomous snake. Do not forget that in any dealings with Indians. Their ways are not like ours.”
Will worried about the conversation with Drew as he lay in his bedroll that night. He’d thought Humboldt Jim was gullible, but not evil. And why had Drew hired Klamath guides, if he had such a low opinion of that tribe?
On August 19, the expedition moved on from the camp near the Paiutes and rode twenty-two miles farther into Pueblo Valley. Pueblo Mountain rose above them as they passed between it and a small alkaline lake with a hot spring at its head. The valley held little grass and was mostly a sand and sage plain, with barely enough fodder for the animals and alkaline soil that chafed the beasts’ hooves. Nevertheless, they made do with a camp in the inhospitable lowlands that night.
The next morning, while the wagons and a military escort traveled five miles farther up the Pueblo Valley canyon, Drew led Will and a small squad to reconnoiter the valley. They found an abandoned Paiute village with about sixty deserted Indian lodges. Not only were there tracks from unshod Indian horses, but also from American horses, mules, and cattle. The village offered many signs the residents had profited from an attack on whites. Scraps of calico were tied on the lodge poles, and glazed pottery shards lay in trash heaps.
“Was this Chief Paulina’s camp?” Will asked.
Drew shrugged. “Doubtful. Humboldt Jim said Paulina stayed in the hills. This was likely a winter camp for another band of Paiutes. It doesn’t matter now—they’re gone.”
Drew dismounted and walked about, kicking the dirt. “There’s evidence the residents here plundered an American settlement or wagon train. See the horseshoe prints? And the cattle bones are from well-fed beef.” He pointed out other remnants from white settlers, then he peered up at the surrounding mountains. “The Army needs an outpost nearby.”
The reconnaissance party returned to the wagons and the rest of the expeditionary force. The next morning, the entire group moved eleven miles farther through the valley to Trout Creek, which teemed with its namesake fish.
“Don’t know how these fish got here,” Joel commented as he fished with Will and Jonah that evening. “This creek ain’t connected to any bigger river I seen.”
Will didn’t care how the fish got there, as long as he could catch and eat his share. They were as tasty as any of the other mountain trout the men had hooked. The three of them sat in the shade of a willow tree that grew along the stream’s banks. The willows were large, but the cottonwoods were broken and bushy. Bunch grass and other wild grasses grew abundantly, and the horses and pack mules grazed contentedly. Man and beast both ate well that evening.
Will had taken notes for Lt. Col. Drew earlier in the evening, and the officer had commented on the vegetation, ending with the observation, “There is no good timber in the region until the Sierra Nevada Mountains approximately one-hundred and fifty miles distant.” The colonel had not seemed impressed with Pueblo Valley as a place to encourage settlement. His only concern was its military potential.
The expedition rested at Trout Creek for several days. Drew took a small cavalry squad out each day to explore while the emigrants rested their oxen. Joel and Jonah stood guard duty or hunted and fished. But often the colonel asked Will to join the reconnaissance party as his scribe.
One day, Drew took the scouts and Will to explore the mountain that rose from the valley’s floor. They rode out from Trout Creek and climbed the side of Pueblo Mountain, crisscrossing it to ease the horses’ ascent.
As they approached the top of the mountain, they heard the rhythmic sound of a machine. Near the summit, they found prospectors operating a steam-powered crushing mill. “The Pueblo mines,” Drew commented. “The miners grind the stones into gravel and pebbles. Then they sift through the smaller rock looking for precious metals.”
