Volume 46 - No. 51
December 22, 2016
compiled by lyle e davis
Editor’s Note: Another in the series of journal stories by James P. Beckwourth and chronicled by an itinerant (and verbose) judge, by T. D. Bonner: Disagreeable Rencounters in St. Louis.—Messenger arrives from Fort Cass.—Imminent Peril of the Whites from the Infuriated Crows.—The Cause.—Immediate Return.— Incidents of my Arrival.—Pine Leaf substituted for Eliza.—Last Battle with the Black Feet.—Final Adieu to the Crows.
IT now comes in the order of relation to describe two or three unpleasant rencounters I had with various parties in St. Louis, growing out of the misunderstanding (already related) between the Crows and Mr. Fitzpatrick's party. I had already heard reports in the mountains detrimental to my character for my supposed action in the matter, but I had never paid much attention to them. Friends had cautioned me that there were large sums of money offered for my life, and that several men had even undertaken to earn the rewards. I could not credit such friendly intimations; still I thought, on the principle that there is never smoke but there is fire, that it would be as well to keep myself a little on my guard. I had recovered from my sickness, and I spent much of my time about town. My friends repeatedly inquired of me if I had seen Fitzpatrick. Wondering how so much interest could attach to my meeting with that man, I asked one day what reason there was for making the inquiry. My friend answered, "I don't wish you to adduce me as authority; but there are strong threats of taking your life for an alleged robbery of Fitzpatrick by the Crow nation, in which you were deeply concerned."
I saw now what to prepare for, although I still inclined to doubt that any man, possessed of ordinary perceptions, could charge me with an offense of which I was so manifestly innocent. True, I had met Fitzpatrick several times, and, instead of his former cordial salutation, it was with difficulty he addressed a civil word to me. Shortly after this conversation with my friend I went to the St. Louis Theatre. Between the pieces I had stepped to the saloon to obtain some refreshments, and I saw Fitzpatrick enter, with four other not very respectable citizens. They advanced directly toward me. Fitzpatrick then pointed me out to them, saying, "There's the Crow."
"Then," said the others, "we are Black Feet, and let us have his scalp." They immediately drew their knives and rushed on me.
I then thought of my friend's salutary counsel to be on my guard, but I had no weapon about me. With the agility of a
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cat I sprung over the counter, and commenced passing tumblers faster than they had been in the habit of receiving them. I had felled one or two of my assailants, and I saw I was in for a serious disturbance. A friend (and he is still living in St. Louis, wealthy and influential) stepped behind the bar, and, slapping me on the shoulder, said, "Look out, Beckwourth, you will hurt some of your friends." I replied that my friends did not appear to be very numerous just then.
"You have friends present," he added; and, passing an enormous bowie-knife into my hand, stepped out again. Now I was all right, and felt myself a match for the five ruffians. My practice with the battle-axe, in a case where the quickness of thought required a corresponding rapidity of action, then came into play. I made a sortie from my position on to the open floor, and challenged the five
Obituaries Memorials Area Services Page 12
bullies to come on; at the same time (which, in my excited state, was natural enough) calling them by the hardest names.
My mind was fully made up to kill them if they had only come at me; my arm was nervous; and my friends, who knew me at that time, can tell whether I was quick-motioned or not. I had been in situations where I had to ply my battle-axe with rapidity and precision to redeem my own skull. I was still in full possession of my belligerent powers, and I had the feeling of justice to sustain me. I stood at bay, with my huge bowie-knife drawn, momentarily hesitating whether to give the Crow war-hoop or not, when Sheriff Buzby laid hands on me, and requested me to be quiet. Although boiling with rage, I respected the officer's presence, and the assassins marched off to the body of the theatre. I followed them to the door, and defied them to descend to the street with me; but the sheriff becoming angry, and threatening me with the calaboose, I straightway left
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the theatre.
I stood upon the steps, and a friend coming up, I borrowed a well-loaded pistol of him, and moved slowly away, thinking that five men would surely never allow themselves to be cowed by one man. Shortly after, I perceived the whole party approaching, and, stepping back on the side-walk in front of a high wall, I waited their coming up. On they came, swaggering along, assuming the appearance of intoxication, and talking with drunken incoherency. When they had approached near enough to suit me, I ordered them to halt, and cross over to the other side of the street. "Who are you?" inquired one of them.
"I am he whom you are after, Jim Beckwourth; and if you advance one step farther, I will blow the tops of your heads off."
"You are drunk, ar'n't you?" said one of the party. "No, I am not drunk," I replied; "I never drink any thing to make a dog of me like