The Old Santa Fe Trail: The Story of a Great Highway

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Title: The Old Santa Fe Trail: The Story of a Great Highway
Author: Inman, Henry, 1837-1899
Language: English
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THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL

THE STORY OF A GREAT HIGHWAY

By Colonel Henry Inman

Late Assistant Quartermaster, United States Army

With a Preface by W. F. "BUFFALO BILL" CODY

PREFACE.

As we look into the open fire for our fancies, so we are apt to study
the dim past for the wonderful and sublime, forgetful of the fact that
the present is a constant romance, and that the happenings of to-day
which we count of little importance are sure to startle somebody in the
future, and engage the pen of the historian, philosopher, and poet.

Accustomed as we are to think of the vast steppes of Russia and Siberia
as alike strange and boundless, and to deal with the unknown interior of
Africa as an impenetrable mystery, we lose sight of a locality in
our own country that once surpassed all these in virgin grandeur, in
majestic solitude, and in all the attributes of a tremendous wilderness.

The story of the Old Santa Fe Trail, so truthfully recalled by Colonel
Henry Inman, ex-officer of the old Regular Army, in these pages, is a
most thrilling one. The vast area through which the famous highway ran
is still imperfectly known to most people as "The West"; a designation
once appropriate, but hardly applicable now; for in these days of easy
communication the real trail region is not so far removed from New York
as Buffalo was seventy years ago.

At the commencement of the "commerce of the prairies," in the early
portion of the century, the Old Trail was the arena of almost constant
sanguinary struggles between the wily nomads of the desert and the hardy
white pioneers, whose eventful lives made the civilization of the vast
interior region of our continent possible. Their daring compelled its
development, which has resulted in the genesis of great states and large
cities. Their hardships gave birth to the American homestead; their
determined will was the factor of possible achievements, the most
remarkable and important of modern times.

When the famous highway was established across the great plains as a
line of communication to the shores of the blue Pacific, the only method
of travel was by the slow freight caravan drawn by patient oxen, or the
lumbering stage coach with its complement of four or six mules. There
was ever to be feared an attack by those devils of the desert, the
Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas. Along its whole route the remains
of men, animals, and the wrecks of camps and wagons, told a story of
suffering, robbery, and outrage more impressive than any language. Now
the tourist or business man makes the journey in palace cars, and there
is nothing to remind him of the danger or desolation of Border days; on
every hand are the evidences of a powerful and advanced civilization.

It is fortunate that one is left to tell some of its story who was a
living actor and had personal knowledge of many of the thrilling scenes
that were enacted along the line of the great route. He was familiar
with all the famous men, both white and savage, whose lives have made
the story of the Trail, his own sojourn on the plains and in the Rocky
Mountains extending over a period of nearly forty years.

The Old Trail has more than common interest for me, and I gladly record
here my indorsement of the faithful record, compiled by a brave soldier,
old comrade, and friend.

W. F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill."

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.
The First Europeans who traversed the Great Highway--Alvar Nunez
Cabeca de Vaca--Hernando de Soto, and Francisco Vasquez de Coronado--
Spanish Expedition from Santa Fe eastwardly--Escape of the Sole Survivors.

CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE SPANIARDS.
Quaint Descriptions of Old Santa Fe--The Famous Adobe Palace--
Santa Fe the Oldest Town in the United States--First Settlement--
Onate's Conquest--Revolt of the Pueblo Indians--Under Pueblo Rule
--Cruelties of the Victors--The Santa Fe of To-day--Arrival of
a Caravan--The Railroad reaches the Town--Amusements--A Fandango.

CHAPTER II.
LA LANDE AND PURSLEY.
The Beginning of the Santa Fe Trade--La Lande and Pursley,
the First Americans to cross the Plains--Pursley's Patriotism--
Captain Ezekiel Williams--A Hungry Bear--A Midnight Alarm.

CHAPTER III.
EARLY TRADERS.
Captain Becknell's Expedition--Sufferings from Thirst--Auguste
Chouteau--Imprisonment of McKnight and Chambers--The Caches--
Stampeding Mules--First Military Escort across the Plains--
Captain Zebulon Pike--Sublette and Smith--Murder of McNess--
Indians not the Aggressors.

CHAPTER IV.
TRAINS AND PACKERS.
The Atajo or Pack-train of Mules--Mexican Nomenclature of
Paraphernalia--Manner of Packing--The "Bell-mare"--Toughness of
Mules among Precipices--The Caravan of Wagons--Largest Wagon-train
ever on the Plains--Stampedes--Duties of Packers en route--Order of
Travelling with Pack-train--Chris. Gilson, the Famous Packer.

CHAPTER V.
FIGHT WITH COMANCHES.
Narrative of Bryant's Party of Santa Fe Traders--The First Wagon
Expedition across the Plains--A Thrilling Story of Hardship and
Physical Suffering--Terrible Fight with the Comanches--Abandonment
of the Wagons--On Foot over the Trail--Burial of their Specie
on an Island in the Arkansas--Narrative of William Y. Hitt,
one of the Party--His Encounter with a Comanche--The First Escort
of United States Troops to the Annual Caravan of Santa Fe Traders,
in 1829--Major Bennett Riley's Official Report to the War Department
--Journal of Captain Cooke.

CHAPTER VI.
A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY.
The Expedition of Texans to the Old Santa Fe Trail for the Purpose
of robbing Mexican Traders--Innocent Citizens of the United States
suspected, arrested, and carried to the Capital of New Mexico--
Colonel Snively's Force--Warfield's Sacking of the Village of Mora
--Attack upon a Mexican Caravan--Kit Carson in the Fight--
A Crime of over Sixty Years Ago--A Romance of the Tragedy.

CHAPTER VII.
MEXICO DECLARES WAR.
Mexico declares War against the United States--Congress authorizes
the President to call for Fifty Thousand Volunteers--Organization of
the Army of the West--Phenomenon seen by Santa Fe Traders in the Sky
--First Death on the March of the Army across the Plains--Men in
a Starving Condition--Another Death--Burial near Pawnee Rock--
Trouble at Pawnee Fork--Major Howard's Report.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF TAOS.
The Valley of Taos--First White Settler--Rebellion of the Mexicans
--A Woman discovers and informs Colonel Price of the Conspiracy--
Assassination of Governor Bent--Horrible Butcheries by the Pueblos
and Mexicans--Turley's Ranch--Murder of Harwood and Markhead--
Anecdote of Sir William Drummond Stewart--Fight at the Mills--
Battle of the Pueblo of Taos--Trial of the Insurrectionists--
Baptiste, the Juror--Execution of the Rebels.

CHAPTER IX.
FIRST OVERLAND MAIL.
Independence--Opening of Navigation on the Mississippi--Effect of
Water Transportation upon the Trade--Establishment of Trading-forts--
Market for Cattle and Mules--Wages paid Teamsters on the Trail--
An Enterprising Coloured Man--Increase of the Trade at the Close of
the Mexican War--Heavy Emigration to California--First Overland Mail
--How the Guards were armed--Passenger Coaches to Santa Fe--
Stage-coaching Days.

CHAPTER X.
CHARLES BENT.
The Tragedy in the Canyon of the Canadian--Dragoons follow the Trail
of the Savages--Kit Carson, Dick Wooton, and Tom Tobin the Scouts
of the Expedition--More than a Hundred of the Savages killed--
Murder of Mrs. White--White Wolf--Lieutenant Bell's Singular Duel
with the Noted Savage--Old Wolf--Satank--Murder of Peacock--
Satanta made Chief--Kicking Bird--His Tragic Death--Charles Bent,
the Half-breed Renegade--His Terrible Acts--His Death.

CHAPTER XI.
LA GLORIETA.
Neglect of New Mexico by the United States Government--Intended
Conquest of the Province--Conspiracy of Southern Leaders--
Surrender by General Twiggs to the Confederate Government of the
Military Posts and Munitions of War under his Command--Only One
Soldier out of Two Thousand deserts to the Enemy--Organization
of Volunteers for the Defence of Colorado and New Mexico--
Battle of La Glorieta--Rout of the Rebels.

CHAPTER XII.
THE BUFFALO.
The Ancient Range of the Buffalo--Number slaughtered in Thirteen Years
for their Robes alone--Buffalo Bones--Trains stopped by Vast Herds--
Custom of Old Hunters when caught in a Blizzard--Anecdotes of
Buffalo Hunting--Kit Carson's Dilemma--Experience of Two of Fremont's
Hunters--Wounded Buffalo Bull--O'Neil's Laughable Experience--
Organization of a Herd of Buffalo--Stampedes--Thrilling Escapes.

CHAPTER XIII.
INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS.
Big Timbers--Winter Camp of the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Arapahoes--
Savage Amusements--A Cheyenne Lodge--Indian Etiquette--Treatment
of Children--The Pipe of the North American Savage--Dog Feast--
Marriage Ceremony.

CHAPTER XIV.
TRAPPERS.
The Old Pueblo Fort--A Celebrated Rendezvous--Its Inhabitants--
"Fontaine qui Bouille"--The Legend of its Origin--The Trappers
of the Old Santa Fe Trail and the Rocky Mountains--Beaver Trapping--
Habits of the Beaver--Improvidence of the Old Trappers--Trading with
"Poor Lo"--The Strange Experience of a Veteran Trapper on the
Santa Fe Trail--Romantic Marriage of Baptiste Brown.

CHAPTER XV.
UNCLE JOHN SMITH.
Uncle John Smith--A Famous Trapper, Guide, and Interpreter--
His Marriage with a Cheyenne Squaw--An Autocrat among the People
of the Plains and Mountains--The Mexicans held him in Great Dread--
His Wonderful Resemblance to President Andrew Johnson--Interpreter
and Guide on General Sheridan's Winter Expedition against the
Allied Plains Tribes--His Stories around the Camp-fire.

CHAPTER XVI.
KIT CARSON.
Famous Men of the Old Santa Fe Trail--Kit Carson--Jim Bridger--
James P. Beckwourth--Uncle Dick Wooton--Jim Baker--Lucien B.
Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin--James Hobbs.

CHAPTER XVII.
UNCLE DICK WOOTON.
Uncle Dick Wooton--Lucien B. Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin--
James Hobbs--William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill).

CHAPTER XVIII.
MAXWELL'S RANCH.
Maxwell's Ranch on the Old Santa Fe Trail--A Picturesque Region--
Maxwell a Trapper and Hunter with the American Fur Company--
Lifelong Comrade of Kit Carson--Sources of Maxwell's Wealth--
Fond of Horse-racing--A Disastrous Fourth-of-July Celebration
--Anecdote of Kit Carson--Discovery of Gold on the Ranch--
The Big Ditch--Issuing Beef to the Ute Indians--Camping out with
Maxwell and Carson--A Story of the Old Santa Fe Trail.

CHAPTER XIX.
BENT'S FORTS.
The Bents' Several Forts--Famous Trading-posts--Rendezvous of the
Rocky Mountain Trappers--Castle William and Incidents connected
with the Noted Place--Bartering with the Indians--Annual Feast
of Arapahoes and Cheyennes--Old Wolf's First Visit to Bent's Fort--
The Surprise of the Savages--Stories told by Celebrated Frontiersmen
around the Camp-fire.

CHAPTER XX.
PAWNEE ROCK.
Pawnee Rock--A Debatable Region of the Indian Tribes--The most
Dangerous Point on the Central Plains in the Days of the Early
Santa Fe Trade--Received its Name in a Baptism of Blood--
Battle-ground of the Pawnees and Cheyennes--Old Graves on the
Summit of the Rock--Kit Carson's First Fight at the Rock with
the Pawnees--Kills his Mule by Mistake--Colonel St. Vrain's
Brilliant Charge--Defeat of the Savages--The Trappers' Terrible
Battle with the Pawnees--The Massacre at Cow Creek.

CHAPTER XXI.
FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS.
Wagon Mound--John L. Hatcher's Thrilling Adventure with Old Wolf,
the War-chief of the Comanches--Incidents on the Trail--A Boy
Bugler's Happy Escape from the Savages at Fort Union--A Drunken
Stage-driver--How an Officer of the Quartermaster's Department
at Washington succeeded in starting the Military Freight Caravans
a Month Earlier than the Usual Time--How John Chisholm fooled
the Stage-robbers--The Story of Half a Plug of Tobacco.

CHAPTER XXII.
A DESPERATE RIDE.
Solitary Graves along the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Walnut
Crossing--Fort Zarah--The Graves on Hon. D. Heizer's Ranch on
the Walnut--Troops stationed at the Crossing of the Walnut--
A Terrible Five Miles--The Cavalry Recruit's Last Ride.

CHAPTER XXIII.
HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION.
General Hancock's Expedition against the Plains Indians--Terrible
Snow-storm at Fort Larned--Meeting with the Chiefs of the
Dog-Soldiers--Bull Bear's Diplomacy--Meeting of the United States
Troops and the Savages in Line of Battle--Custer's Night Experience--
The Surgeon and Dog Stew--Destruction of the Village by Fire--
General Sully's Fight with the Kiowas, Comanches, and Arapahoes--
Finding the Skeletons of the Unfortunate Men--The Savages' Report
of the Affair.

CHAPTER XXIV.
INVASION OF THE RAILROAD.
Scenery on the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Great Plains--
The Arkansas Valley--Over the Rocky Mountains into New Mexico--
The Raton Range--The Spanish Peaks--Simpson's Rest--Fisher's Peak
--Raton Peak--Snowy Range--Pike's Peak--Raton Creek--The Invasion
of the Railroad--The Old Santa Fe Trail a Thing of the Past.

FOOTNOTES.

PUBLICATION INFORMATION.

INTRODUCTION.

For more than three centuries, a period extending from 1541 to 1851,
historians believed, and so announced to the literary world, that
Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, the celebrated Spanish explorer, in his
search for the Seven Cities of Cibola and the Kingdom of Quivira, was
the first European to travel over the intra-continent region of North
America. In the last year above referred to, however, Buckingham Smith,
of Florida, an eminent Spanish scholar, and secretary of the American
Legation at Madrid, discovered among the archives of State the
_Narrative of Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca_, where for nearly three
hundred years it had lain, musty and begrimed with the dust of ages, an
unread and forgotten story of suffering that has no parallel in fiction.
The distinguished antiquarian unearthed the valuable manuscript from its
grave of oblivion, translated it into English, and gave it to the world
of letters; conferring honour upon whom honour was due, and tearing the
laurels from such grand voyageurs and discoverers as De Soto, La Salle,
and Coronado, upon whose heads history had erroneously placed them,
through no fault, or arrogance, however, of their own.

Cabeca, beyond any question, travelled the Old Santa Fe Trail for many
miles, crossed it where it intersects the Arkansas River, a little east
of Fort William or Bent's Fort, and went thence on into New Mexico,
following the famous highway as far, at least, as Las Vegas. Cabeca's
march antedated that of Coronado by five years. To this intrepid Spanish
voyageur we are indebted for the first description of the American
bison, or buffalo as the animal is erroneously called. While not so
quaint in its language as that of Coronado's historian, a lustrum later,
the statement cannot be perverted into any other reference than to the
great shaggy monsters of the plains:--

Cattle come as far as this. I have seen them three times
and eaten of their meat. I think they are about the size
of those of Spain. They have small horns like the cows
of Morocco, and the hair very long and flocky, like that
of the merino; some are light brown, others black. To my
judgment the flesh is finer and fatter than that of this
country. The Indians make blankets of the hides of those
not full grown. They range over a district of more than
four hundred leagues, and in the whole extent of plain over
which they run the people that inhabit near there descend
and live on them and scatter a vast many skins throughout
the country.

It will be remembered by the student of the early history of our
country, that when Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca, a follower of the
unfortunate Panphilo de Narvaez, and who had been long thought dead,
landed in Spain, he gave such glowing accounts of Florida[1] and the
neighbouring regions that the whole kingdom was in a ferment, and many a
heart panted to emigrate to a land where the fruits were perennial, and
where it was thought flowed the fabled fountain of youth.

Three expeditions to that country had already been tried: one undertaken
in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, formerly a companion of Columbus;
another in 1520, by Vasquez de Allyon; and another by Panphilo de
Narvaez. All of these had signally failed, the bones of most of the
leaders and their followers having been left to bleach upon the soil
they had come to conquer.

The unfortunate issue of the former expeditions did not operate as a
check upon the aspiring mind of De Soto, but made him the more anxious
to spring as an actor into the arena which had been the scene of the
discomfiture and death of the hardy chivalry of the kingdom. He sought
an audience of the emperor, and the latter, after hearing De Soto's
proposition that, "he could conquer the country known as Florida at
his own expense," conferred upon him the title of "Governor of Cuba and
Florida."

On the 6th of April, 1538, De Soto sailed from Spain with an armament of
ten vessels and a splendidly equipped army of nine hundred chosen men,
amidst the roar of cannons and the inspiring strains of martial music.

It is not within the province of this work to follow De Soto through all
his terrible trials on the North American continent; the wonderful story
may be found in every well-organized library. It is recorded, however,
that some time during the year 1542, his decimated army, then under the
command of Luis de Moscoso, De Soto having died the previous May, was
camped on the Arkansas River, far upward towards what is now Kansas. It
was this command, too, of the unfortunate but cruel De Soto, that saw
the Rocky Mountains from the east. The chronicler of the disastrous
journey towards the mountains says: "The entire route became a trail of
fire and blood," as they had many a desperate struggle with the savages
of the plains, who "were of gigantic structure, and fought with heavy
strong clubs, with the desperation of demons. Such was their tremendous
strength, that one of these warriors was a match for a Spanish soldier,
though mounted on a horse, armed with a sword and cased in armour!"

Moscoso was searching for Coronado, and he was one of the most humane
of all the officers of De Soto's command, for he evidently bent every
energy to extricate his men from the dreadful environments of their
situation; despairing of reaching the Gulf by the Mississippi, he
struck westward, hoping, as Cabeca de Vaca had done, to arrive in Mexico
overland.

A period of six months was consumed in Moscoso's march towards the Rocky
Mountains, but he failed to find Coronado, who at that time was camped
near where Wichita, Kansas, is located; according to his historian,
"at the junction of the St. Peter and St. Paul" (the Big and Little
Arkansas?). That point was the place of separation between Coronado and
a number of his followers; many returning to Mexico, while the undaunted
commander, with as many as he could induce to accompany him, continued
easterly, still in search of the mythical Quivira.

How far westward Moscoso travelled cannot be determined accurately,
but that his route extended up the valley of the Arkansas for more than
three hundred miles, into what is now Kansas, is proved by the statement
of his historian, who says: "They saw great chains of mountains and
forests to the west, which they understood were uninhabited."

Another strong confirmatory fact is, that, in 1884, a group of mounds
was discovered in McPherson County, Kansas, which were thoroughly
explored by the professors of Bethany College, Lindsborg, who found,
among other interesting relics, a piece of chain-mail armour, of hard
steel; undoubtedly part of the equipment of a Spanish soldier either of
the command of Cabeca de Vaca, De Soto, or of Coronado. The probability
is, that it was worn by one of De Soto's unfortunate men, as neither
Panphilo de Narvaez, De Vaca, or Coronado experienced any difficulty
with the savages of the great plains, because those leaders were humane
and treated the Indians kindly, in contradistinction to De Soto, who was
the most inhuman of all the early Spanish explorers. He was of the same
school as Pizarro and Cortez; possessing their daring valour, their
contempt of danger, and their tenacity of purpose, as well as their
cruelty and avarice. De Soto made treaties with the Indians which he
constantly violated, and murdered the misguided creatures without mercy.
During the retreat of Moscoso's weakened command down the Arkansas
River, the Hot Springs of Arkansas were discovered. His historian
writes:

And when they saw the foaming fountain, they thought
it was the long-searched-for "Fountain of Youth," reported
by fame to exist somewhere in the country, but ten of the
soldiers dying from excessive drinking, they were soon
convinced of their error.

After these intrepid explorers the restless Coronado appears on the Old
Trail. In the third volume of Hakluyt's _Voyages_, published in London,
1600, Coronado's historian thus describes the great plains of Kansas and
Colorado, the bison, and a tornado:--

From Cicuye they went to Quivira, which after their account
is almost three hundred leagues distant, through mighty
plains, and sandy heaths so smooth and wearisome, and bare
of wood that they made heaps of ox-dung, for want of stones
and trees, that they might not lose themselves at their
return: for three horses were lost on that plain, and one
Spaniard which went from his company on hunting....
All that way of plains are as full of crooked-back oxen as
the mountain Serrena in Spain is of sheep, but there is
no such people as keep those cattle.... They were a
great succour for the hunger and the want of bread, which
our party stood in need of....

One day it rained in that plain a great shower of hail,
as big as oranges, which caused many tears, weakness
and bowes.

These oxen are of the bigness and colour of our bulls,
but their bones are not so great. They have a great bunch
upon their fore-shoulder, and more hair on their fore part
than on their hinder part, and it is like wool. They have
as it were an horse-mane upon their backbone, and much hair
and very long from their knees downward. They have great
tufts of hair hanging down on their foreheads, and it
seemeth they have beards because of the great store of hair
hanging down at their chins and throats. The males have
very long tails, and a great knob or flock at the end,
so that in some respects they resemble the lion, and in some
other the camel. They push with their horns, they run,
they overtake and kill an horse when they are in their
rage and anger. Finally it is a foul and fierce beast of
countenance and form of body. The horses fled from them,
either because of their deformed shape, or else because
they had never before seen them.

"The number," continues the historian, "was incredible." When the
soldiers, in their excitement for the chase, began to kill them, they
rushed together in such masses that hundreds were literally crushed to
death. At one place there was a great ravine; they jumped into it
in their efforts to escape from the hunters, and so terrible was the
slaughter as they tumbled over the precipice that the depression was
completely filled up, their carcasses forming a bridge, over which the
remainder passed with ease.

The next recorded expedition across the plains via the Old Trail was
also by the Spaniards from Santa Fe, eastwardly, in the year 1716, "for
the purpose of establishing a Military Post in the Upper Mississippi
Valley as a barrier to the further encroachments of the French in
that direction." An account of this expedition is found in _Memoires
Historiques sur La Louisiane_, published in Paris in 1858, but never
translated in its entirety. The author, Lieutenant Dumont of the French
army, was one of a party ascending the Arkansas River in search of a
supposed mass of emeralds. The narrative relates:

There was more than half a league to traverse to gain the
other bank of the river, and our people were no sooner
arrived than they found there a party of Missouris, sent to
M. de la Harpe by M. de Bienville, then commandant general
at Louisiana, to deliver orders to the former. Consequently
they gave the signal order, and our other two canoes having
crossed the river, the savages gave to our commandant the
letters of M. de Bienville, in which he informed him that
the Spaniards had sent out a detachment from New Mexico
to go to the Missouris and to establish a post in that
country.... The success of this expedition was very
calamitous to the Spaniards. Their caravan was composed of
fifteen hundred people, men, women and soldiers, having
with them a Jacobin for a chaplain, and bringing also a
great number of horses and cattle, according to the custom
of that nation to forget nothing that might be necessary for
a settlement. Their design was to destroy the Missouris,
and to seize upon their country, and with this intention
they had resolved to go first to the Osages, a neighbouring
nation, enemies of the Missouris, to form an alliance with
them, and to engage them in their behalf for the execution
of their plan. Perhaps the map which guided them was not
correct, or they had not exactly followed it, for it chanced
that instead of going to the Osages whom they sought, they
fell, without knowing it, into a village of the Missouris,
where the Spanish commander, presenting himself to the great
chief and offering him the calumet, made him understand
through an interpreter, believing himself to be speaking
to the Osage chief, that they were enemies of the Missouris,
that they had come to destroy them, to make their women
and children slaves and to take possession of their country.
He begged the chief to be willing to form an alliance
with them, against a nation whom the Osages regarded as
their enemy, and to second them in this enterprise, promising
to recompense them liberally for the service rendered,
and always to be their friend in the future. Upon this
discourse the Missouri chief understood perfectly well
the mistake. He dissimulated and thanked the Spaniard for
the confidence he had in his nation; he consented to form
an alliance with them against the Missouris, and to join
them with all his forces to destroy them; but he represented
that his people were not armed, and that they dared not
expose themselves without arms in such an enterprise.
Deceived by so favourable a reception, the Spaniards fell
into the trap laid for them. They received with due
ceremony, in the little camp they had formed on their
arrival, the calumet which the great chief of the Missouris
presented to the Spanish commander. The alliance for war
was sworn to by both parties; they agreed upon a day for
the execution of the plan which they meditated, and the
Spaniards furnished the savages with all the munitions which
they thought were needed. After the ceremony both parties
gave themselves up equally to joy and good cheer. At the
end of three days two thousand savages were armed and in
the midst of dances and amusements; each party thought
nothing but the execution of its design. It was the evening
before their departure upon their concerted expedition,
and the Spaniards had retired to their camps as usual,
when the great chief of the Missouris, having assembled
his warriors, declared to them his intentions and exhorted
them to deal treacherously with these strangers who were come
to their home only with the design of destroying them.
At daybreak the savages divided into several bands, fell on
the Spaniards, who expected nothing of the kind, and in
less than a quarter of an hour all the caravan were murdered.
No one escaped from the massacre except the chaplain, whom
the barbarians saved because of his dress; at the same time
they took possession of all the merchandise and other
effects which they found in their camp. The Spaniards had
brought with them, as I have said, a certain number of horses,
and as the savages were ignorant of the use of these animals,
they took pleasure in making the Jacobin whom they had saved,
and who had become their slave, mount them. The priest gave
them this amusement almost every day for the five or six
months that he remained with them in their village, without
any of them daring to imitate him. Tired at last of his
slavery, and regarding the lack of daring in these barbarians
as a means of Providence to regain his liberty, he made
secretly all the provisions possible for him to make,
and which he believed necessary to his plan. At last,
having chosen the best horse and having mounted him,
after performing several of his exploits before the savages,
and while they were all occupied with his manoeuvres,
he spurred up and disappeared from their sight, taking the
road to Mexico, where doubtless he arrived.

Charlevoix,[2] who travelled from Quebec to New Orleans in the year
1721, says in one of his letters to the Duchess of Lesdiguieres, dated
at Kaskaskia, July 21, 1721:

About two years ago some Spaniards, coming, as they say,
from New Mexico, and intending to get into the country of
the Illinois and drive the French from thence, whom they
saw with extreme jealousy approach so near the Missouri,
came down the river and attacked two villages of the
Octoyas,[3] who are the allies of the Ayouez,[4] and from
whom it is said also that they are derived. As the savages
had no firearms and were surprised, the Spaniards made an
easy conquest and killed a great many of them. A third
village, which was not far off from the other two, being
informed of what had passed, and not doubting but these
conquerors would attack them, laid an ambush into which
the Spaniards heedlessly fell. Others say that the savages,
having heard that the enemy were almost all drunk and
fast asleep, fell upon them in the night. However it was,
it is certain the greater part of them were killed.
There were in the party two almoners; one of them was
killed directly and the other got away to the Missouris,
who took him prisoner, but he escaped them very dexterously.
He had a very fine horse and the Missouris took pleasure
in seeing him ride it, which he did very skilfully. He took
advantage of their curiosity to get out of their hands.

One day as he was prancing and exercising his horse before
them, he got a little distance from them insensibly; then
suddenly clapping spurs to his horse he was soon out of sight.

The Missouri Indians once occupied all the territory near the junction
of the Kaw and Missouri rivers, but they were constantly decimated by
the continual depredations of their warlike and feudal enemies, the
Pawnees and Sioux, and at last fell a prey to that dreadful scourge, the
small-pox, which swept them off by thousands. The remnant of the once
powerful tribe then found shelter and a home with the Otoes, finally
becoming merged in that tribe.

CHAPTER I. UNDER THE SPANIARDS.

The Santa Fe of the purely Mexican occupation, long before the days
of New Mexico's acquisition by the United States, and the Santa Fe of
to-day are so widely in contrast that it is difficult to find language
in which to convey to the reader the story of the phenomenal change. To
those who are acquainted with the charming place as it is now, with its
refined and cultured society, I cannot do better, perhaps, in attempting
to show what it was under the old regime, than to quote what some
traveller in the early 30's wrote for a New York leading newspaper, in
regard to it. As far as my own observation of the place is concerned,
when I first visited it a great many years ago, the writer of the
communication whose views I now present was not incorrect in his
judgment. He said:--

To dignify such a collection of mud hovels with the name
of "City," would be a keen irony; not greater, however,
than is the name with which its Padres have baptized it.
To call a place with its moral character, a very Sodom
in iniquity, "Holy Faith," is scarcely a venial sin;
it deserves Purgatory at least. Its health is the best
in the country, which is the first, second and third
recommendation of New Mexico by its greatest admirers.
It is a small town of about two thousand inhabitants,
crowded up against the mountains, at the end of a little
valley through which runs a mountain stream of the same
name tributary to the Rio Grande. It has a public square
in the centre, a Palace and an Alameda; as all Spanish
Roman Catholic towns have. It is true its Plaza, or
Public Square, is unfenced and uncared for, without trees
or grass. The Palace is nothing more than the biggest
mud-house in the town, and the churches, too, are unsightly
piles of the same material, and the Alameda[5] is on top of
a sand hill. Yet they have in Santa Fe all the parts and
parcels of a regal city and a Bishopric. The Bishop has a
palace also; the only two-storied shingle-roofed house in
the place. There is one public house set apart for eating,
drinking and gambling; for be it known that gambling is here
authorized by law. Hence it is as respectable to keep a
gambling house, as it is to sell rum in New Jersey; it is
a lawful business, and being lawful, and consequently
respectable and a man's right, why should not men gamble?
And gamble they do. The Generals and the Colonels and
the Majors and the Captains gamble. The judges and the
lawyers and the doctors and the priests gamble; and there
are gentlemen gamblers by profession! You will see squads
of poor peons daily, men, women and boys, sitting on the
ground around a deck of cards in the Public Square, gambling
for the smallest stakes.

The stores of the town generally front on the Public Square.
Of these there are a dozen, more or less, of respectable
size, and most of them are kept by others than Mexicans.
The business of the place is considerable, many of the
merchants here being wholesale dealers for the vast
territory tributary. It is supposed that about $750,000
worth of goods will be brought to this place this year, and
there may be $250,000 worth imported directly from the
United States.

In the money market there is nothing less than a five-cent
piece. You cannot purchase anything for less than five cents.
In trade they reckon ten cents the eighth of a dollar.
If you purchase nominally a dollar's worth of an article,
you can pay for it in eight ten-cent pieces; and if you
give a dollar, you receive no change. In changing a dollar
for you, you would get but eight ten-cent pieces for it.

Yet, although dirty and unkempt, and swarming with hungry
dogs, it has the charm of foreign flavour, and like
San Antonio retains some portion of the grace which long
lingered about it, if indeed it ever forsakes the spot
where Spain held rule for centuries, and the soft syllables
of the Spanish language are yet heard.

Such was a description of the "drowsy old town" of Santa Fe, sixty-five
years ago. Fifteen years later Major W. H. Emory, of the United States
army, writes of it as follows:[6]

The population of Santa Fe is from two to four thousand,
and the inhabitants are, it is said, the poorest people
of any town in the Province. The houses are mud bricks,
in the Spanish style, generally of one story, and built
on a square. The interior of the square is an open court,
and the principal rooms open into it. They are forbidding
in appearance from the outside, but nothing can exceed
the comfort and convenience of the interior. The thick
walls make them cool in summer and warm in winter.

The better class of people are provided with excellent beds,
but the poorer class sleep on untanned skins. The women
here, as in many other parts of the world, appear to be
much before the men in refinements, intelligence, and
knowledge of the useful arts. The higher class dress like
the American women, except, instead of a bonnet, they wear
a scarf over their head, called a reboso. This they wear
asleep or awake, in the house or abroad. The dress of the
lower classes of women is a simple petticoat, with arms and
shoulders bare, except what may chance to be covered by
the reboso.

The men who have means to do so dress after our fashion;
but by far the greater number, when they dress at all,
wear leather breeches, tight around the hips and open from
the knee down; shirt and blanket take the place of our
coat and vest.

The city is dependent on the distant hills for wood, and
at all hours of the day may be seen jackasses passing laden
with wood, which is sold at two bits, twenty-five cents,
the load. These are the most diminutive animals, and
usually mounted from behind, after the fashion of leap-frog.
The jackass is the only animal that can be subsisted in
this barren neighbourhood without great expense; our horses
are all sent to a distance of twelve, fifteen, and thirty
miles for grass.

I have interpolated these two somewhat similar descriptions of Santa Fe
written in that long ago when New Mexico was almost as little known as
the topography of the planet Mars, so that the intelligent visitor of
to-day may appreciate the wonderful changes which American thrift, and
that powerful civilizer, the locomotive, have wrought in a very few
years, yet it still, as one of the foregoing writers has well said,
"has the charm of foreign flavour, and the soft syllables of the Spanish
language are still heard."

The most positive exception must be taken to the statement of the
first-quoted writer in relation to the Palace, of which he says "It is
nothing more than the biggest mud-house in the town." Now this "Palacio
del Gobernador," as the old building was called by the Spanish, was
erected at a very early day. It was the long-established seat of power
when Penalosa confined the chief inquisitor within its walls in 1663,
and when the Pueblo authorities took possession of it as the citadel of
their central authority, in 1681.

The old building cannot well be overlooked by the most careless visitor
to the quaint town; it is a long, low structure, taking up the greater
part of one side of the Plaza, round which runs a colonnade supported
by pillars of rough pine. In this once leaky old Palace were kept,
or rather neglected, the archives of the Territory until the American
residents, appreciating the importance of preserving precious documents
containing so much of interest to the student of history and the
antiquarian, enlisted themselves enthusiastically in the good cause,
and have rescued from oblivion the annals of a relatively remote
civilization, which, but for their forethought, would have perished from
the face of the earth as completely as have the written records of that
wonderful region in Central America, whose gigantic ruins alone remain
to tell us of what was a highly cultured order of architecture in past
ages, and of a people whose intelligence was comparable to the style of
the dwellings in which they lived.

The old adobe Palace is in itself a volume whose pages are filled
with pathos and stirring events. It has been the scene and witness of
incidents the recital of which would to us to-day seem incredible. An
old friend, once governor of New Mexico and now dead, thus graphically
spoke of the venerable building:[7]

In it lived and ruled the Spanish captain general, so remote
and inaccessible from the viceroyalty at Mexico that he was
in effect a king, nominally accountable to the viceroy,
but practically beyond his reach and control and wholly
irresponsible to the people. Equally independent for the
same reason were the Mexican governors. Here met all the
provincial, territorial, departmental, and other legislative
bodies that have ever assembled at the capital of New Mexico.
Here have been planned all the Indian wars and measures
for defence against foreign invasion, including, as the
most noteworthy, the Navajo war of 1823, the Texan invasion
of 1842, the American of 1846, and the Confederate of 1862.
Within its walls was imprisoned, in 1809, the American
explorer Zebulon M. Pike, and innumerable state prisoners
before and since; and many a sentence of death has been
pronounced therein and the accused forthwith led away and
shot at the dictum of the man at the Palace. It has been
from time immemorial the government house with all its
branches annexed. It was such on the Fourth of July, 1776,
when the American Congress at Independence Hall in
Philadelphia proclaimed liberty throughout all the land,
not then, but now embracing it. Indeed, this old edifice
has a history. And as the history of Santa Fe is the
history of New Mexico, so is the history of the Palace
the history of Santa Fe.

The Palace was the only building having glazed windows. At one end was
the government printing office, and at the other, the guard-house and
prison. Fearful stories were connected with the prison. Edwards[8] says
that he found, on examining the walls of the small rooms, locks of human
hair stuffed into holes, with rude crosses drawn over them.

Fronting the Palace, on the south side of the Plaza, stood the remains
of the Capilla de los Soldados, or Military Chapel. The real name of the
church was "Our Lady of Light." It was said to be the richest church
in the Province, but had not been in use for a number of years, and
the roof had fallen in, allowing the elements to complete the work of
destruction. On each side of the altar was the remains of fine carving,
and a weather-beaten picture above gave evidence of having been a
beautiful painting. Over the door was a large oblong slab of freestone,
elaborately carved, representing "Our Lady of Light" rescuing a human
being from the jaws of Satan. A large tablet, beautifully executed in
relief, stood behind the altar, representing various saints, with an
inscription stating that it was erected by Governor Francisco Antonio
del Valle and his wife in 1761.

Church services were held in the Parroquia, or Parish church, now the
Cathedral, which had two towers or steeples, in which hung four bells.
The music was furnished by a violin and a triangle. The wall back of
the altar was covered with innumerable mirrors, paintings, and
bright-coloured tapestry.

The exact date of the first settlement of Santa Fe is uncertain. One
authority says:

It was a primeval stronghold before the Spanish Conquest,
and a town of some importance to the white race when
Pennsylvania was a wilderness and the first Dutch governor
of New York was slowly drilling the Knickerbocker ancestry
in their difficult evolutions around the town-pump.

It is claimed, on what is deemed very authentic data by some, that
Santa Fe is really the oldest settled town in the United States. St.
Augustine, Florida, was established in 1565 and was unquestionably
conceded the honour of antiquity until the acquisition of New Mexico by
the Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty. Then, of course, Santa Fe steps into the
arena and carries off the laurels. This claim of precedence for Santa
Fe is based upon the statement (whether historically correct or not is
a question) that when the Spaniards first entered the region from the
southern portion of Mexico, about 1542, they found a very large Pueblo
town on the present site of Santa Fe, and that its prior existence
extended far back into the vanished centuries. This is contradicted
by other historians, who contend that the claim of Santa Fe to be the
oldest town in the United States rests entirely on imaginary annals of
an Indian Pueblo before the Spanish Conquest, and that there are but
slight indications that the town was built on the site of one.[9]

The reader may further satisfy himself on these mooted points by
consulting the mass of historical literature on New Mexico, and the
records of its primitive times are not surpassed in interest by those of
any other part of the continent. It was there the Europeans first made
great conquests, and some years prior to the landing of the Pilgrims, a
history of New Mexico, being the journal of Geronimo de Zarate Salmaron,
was published by the Church in the City of Mexico, early in 1600.
Salmaron was a Franciscan monk; a most zealous and indefatigable worker.
During his eight years' residence at Jemez, near Santa Fe, he claims
to have baptized over eight thousand Indians, converts to the Catholic
faith. His journal gives a description of the country, its mines, etc.,
and was made public in order that other monks reading it might emulate
his pious example.

Between 1605 and 1616 was founded the Villa of Santa Fe, or San
Francisco de la Santa Fe. "Villa," or village, was an honorary title,
always authorized and proclaimed by the king. Bancroft says that it was
first officially mentioned on the 3d of January, 1617.

The first immigration to New Mexico was under Don Juan de Onate about
1597, and in a year afterward, according to some authorities, Santa Fe
was settled. The place, as claimed by some historians, was then named
El Teguayo, a Spanish adaptation of the word "Tegua," the name of the
Pueblo nation, which was quite numerous, and occupied Santa Fe and the
contiguous country. It very soon, from its central position and charming
climate, became the leading Spanish town, and the capital of the
Province. The Spaniards, who came at first into the country as friends,
and were apparently eager to obtain the good-will of the intelligent
natives, shortly began to claim superiority, and to insist on the
performance of services which were originally mere evidences of
hospitality and kindness. Little by little they assumed greater power
and control over the Indians, until in the course of years they had
subjected a large portion of them to servitude little differing from
actual slavery.

The impolitic zeal of the monks gradually invoked the spirit of hatred
and resulted in a rebellion that drove the Spaniards, in 1680, from the
country. The large number of priests who were left in the midst of the
natives met with horrible fates:

Not one escaped martyrdom. At Zuni, three Franciscans
had been stationed, and when the news of the Spanish retreat
reached the town, the people dragged them from their cells,
stripped and stoned them, and afterwards compelled the
servant of one to finish the work by shooting them. Having
thus whetted their appetite for cruelty and vengeance,
the Indians started to carry the news of their independence
to Moqui, and signalized their arrival by the barbarous
murder of the two missionaries who were living there.
Their bodies were left unburied, as a prey for the wild
beasts. At Jemez they indulged in every refinement of
cruelty. The old priest, Jesus Morador, was seized in
his bed at night, stripped naked and mounted on a hog,
and thus paraded through the streets, while the crowd
shouted and yelled around. Not satisfied with this,
they then forced him to carry them as a beast would,
crawling on his hands and feet, until, from repeated beating
and the cruel tortures of sharp spurs, he fell dead in
their midst. A similar chapter of horrors was enacted
at Acoma, where three priests were stripped, tied together
with hair rope, and so driven through the streets, and
finally stoned to death. Not a Christian remained free
within the limits of New Mexico, and those who had been
dominant a few months before were now wretched and
half-starved fugitives, huddled together in the rude huts
of San Lorenzo.

As soon as the Spaniards had retreated from the country,
the Pueblo Indians gave themselves up for a time to
rejoicing, and to the destruction of everything which could
remind them of the Europeans, their religion, and their
domination. The army which had besieged Santa Fe quickly
entered that city, took possession of the Palace as the
seat of government, and commenced the work of demolition.
The churches and the monastery of the Franciscans were
burned with all their contents, amid the almost frantic
acclamations of the natives. The gorgeous vestments of
the priests had been dragged out before the conflagration,
and now were worn in derision by Indians, who rode through
the streets at full speed, shouting for joy. The official
documents and books in the Palace were brought forth,
and made fuel for a bonfire in the centre of the Plaza;
and here also they danced the cachina, with all the
accompanying religious ceremonies of the olden time.
Everything imaginable was done to show their detestation
of the Christian faith and their determination to utterly
eradicate even its memory. Those who had been baptized
were washed with amole in the Rio Chiquito, in order to be
cleansed from the infection of Christianity. All baptismal
names were discarded, marriages celebrated by Christian
priests were annulled, the very mention of the names Jesus
and Mary was made an offence, and estuffas were constructed
to take the place of ruined churches.[10]

For twelve years, although many abortive attempts were made to recapture
the country, the Pueblos were left in possession. On the 16th of
October, 1693, the victorious Spaniards at last entered Santa Fe,
bearing the same banner which had been carried by Onate when he entered
the city just a century before. The conqueror this time was Don Diego
de Vargas Zapata Lujan, whom the viceroy of New Spain had appointed
governor in the spring of 1692, with the avowed purpose of having New
Mexico reconquered as speedily as possible.

Thus it will be seen that the quaint old city has been the scene of many
important historical events, the mere outline of which I have recorded
here, as this book is not devoted to the historical view of the subject.

In contradistinction to the quiet, sleepy old Santa Fe of half a
century ago, it now presents all the vigour, intelligence, and bustling
progressiveness of the average American city of to-day, yet still smacks
of that ancient Spanish regime, which gives it a charm that only its
blended European and Indian civilization could make possible after its
amalgamation with the United States.

The tourist will no longer find a drowsy old town, and the Plaza is no
longer unfenced and uncared for. A beautiful park of trees is surrounded
by low palings, and inside the shady enclosure, under a group of large
cottonwoods, is a cenotaph erected to the memory of the Territory's
gallant soldiers who fell in the shock of battle to save New Mexico
to the Union in 1862, and conspicuous among the names carved on the
enduring native rock is that of Kit Carson--prince of frontiersmen, and
one of Nature's noblemen.

Around the Plaza one sees the American style of architecture and hears
the hum of American civilization; but beyond, and outside this pretty
park, the streets are narrow, crooked, and have an ancient appearance.
There the old Santa Fe confronts the stranger; odd, foreign-looking,
and flavoured with all the peculiarities which marked the era of Mexican
rule. And now, where once was heard the excited shouts of the idle
crowd, of "Los Americanos!" "Los Carros!" "La entrada de la Caravana!"
as the great freight wagons rolled into the streets of the old town
from the Missouri, over the Santa Fe Trail, the shrill whistle of the
locomotive from its trail of steel awakens the echoes of the mighty
hills.

As may be imagined, great excitement always prevailed whenever a caravan
of goods arrived in Santa Fe. Particularly was this the case among the
feminine portion of the community. The quaint old town turned out its
mixed population en masse the moment the shouts went up that the train
was in sight. There is nothing there to-day comparable to the anxious
looks of the masses as they watched the heavily freighted wagons rolling
into the town, the teamsters dust-begrimed, and the mules making the
place hideous with their discordant braying as they knew that their long
journey was ended and rest awaited them. The importing merchants were
obliged to turn over to the custom house officials five hundred dollars
for every wagon-load, great or small; and no matter what the intrinsic
value of the goods might be, salt or silk, velvets or sugar, it was all
the same. The nefarious duty had to be paid before a penny's worth could
be transferred to their counters. Of course, with the end of Mexican
rule and the acquisition of the Province by the United States, all
opposition to the traffic of the Old Santa Fe Trail ended, traders were
assured a profitable market and the people purchased at relatively low
prices.

What a wonderful change has taken place in the traffic with New Mexico
in less than three-quarters of a century! In 1825 it was all carried on
with one single annual caravan of prairie-schooners, and now there are
four railroads running through the Rio Grande Valley, and one daily
freight train of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe into the town
unloads more freight than was taken there in a whole year when the
"commerce of the prairies" was at its height!

Upon the arrival of a caravan in the days of the sleepy regime under
Mexican control, the people did everything in their power to make
the time pass pleasantly for every one connected with it during their
sojourn. Bailes, or fandangoes, as the dancing parties were called by
the natives, were given nightly, and many amusing anecdotes in regard to
them are related by the old-timers.

The New Mexicans, both men and women, had a great fondness for jewelry,
dress, and amusements; of the latter, the fandango was the principal,
which was held in the most fashionable place of resort, where every
belle and beauty in the town presented herself, attired in the most
costly manner, and displaying her jewelled ornaments to the best
advantage. To this place of recreation and pleasure, generally a large,
capacious saloon or interior court, all classes of persons were allowed
to come, without charge and without invitation. The festivities usually
commenced about nine o'clock in the evening, and the tolling of the
church bells was the signal for the ladies to make their entrance, which
they did almost simultaneously.

New Mexican ladies were famous for their gaudy dresses, but it must
be confessed they did not exercise good taste. Their robes were made
without bodies; a skirt only, and a long, loose, flowing scarf or reboso
dexterously thrown about the head and shoulders, so as to supersede both
the use of dress-bodies and bonnets.

There was very little order maintained at these fandangoes, and still
less attention paid to the rules of etiquette. A kind of swinging,
gallopade waltz was the favourite dance, the cotillion not being much in
vogue. Read Byron's graphic description of the waltz, and then stretch
your imagination to its utmost tension, and you will perhaps have some
faint conception of the Mexican fandango. Such familiarity of position
as was indulged in would be repugnant to the refined rules of polite
society in the eastern cities; but with the New Mexicans, in those early
times, nothing was considered to be a greater accomplishment than that
of being able to go handsomely through all the mazes of their peculiar
dance.

There was one republican feature about the New Mexican fandango; it was
that all classes, rich and poor alike, met and intermingled, as did the
Romans at their Saturnalia, upon terms of equality. Sumptuous repasts
or collations were rarely ever prepared for those frolicsome gatherings,
but there was always an abundance of confectionery, sweetmeats,
and native wine. It cost very little for a man to attend one of the
fandangoes in Santa Fe, but not to get away decently and sober. In that
it resembled the descent of Aeneas to Pluto's realms; it was easy enough
to get there, but when it came to return, "revocare gradum, superasque
evadere ad auras, hic labor, hoc opus est."

CHAPTER II. LA LANDE AND PURSLEY.

In the beginning of the trade with New Mexico, the route across the
great plains was directly west from the Missouri River to the mountains,
thence south to Santa Fe by the circuitous trail from Taos. When the
traffic assumed an importance demanding a more easy line of way, the
road was changed, running along the left bank of the Arkansas until
that stream turned northwest, at which point it crossed the river, and
continued southwest to the Raton Pass.

The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad track substantially follows
the Trail through the mountains, which here afford the wildest and most
picturesquely beautiful scenery on the continent.

The Arkansas River at the fording of the Old Trail is not more than
knee-deep at an ordinary stage of water, and its bottom is well paved
with rounded pebbles of the primitive rock.

The overland trade between the United States and the northern provinces
of Mexico seems to have had no very definite origin; having been rather
the result of an accident than of any organized plan of commercial
establishment.

According to the best authorities, a French creole, named La Lande,
an agent of a merchant of Kaskaskia, Illinois, was the first American
adventurer to enter into the uncertain channels of trade with the people
of the ultramontane region of the centre of the continent. He began his
adventurous journey across the vast wilderness, with no companions but
the savages of the debatable land, in 1804; and following him the next
year, James Pursley undertook the same pilgrimage. Neither of these
pioneers in the "commerce of the prairies" returned to relate what
incidents marked the passage of their marvellous expeditions. Pursley
was so infatuated with the strange country he had travelled so far to
reach, that he took up his abode in the quaint old town of Santa Fe
where his subsequent life is lost sight of. La Lande, of a different
mould, forgot to render an account of his mission to the merchant who
had sent him there, and became a prosperous and wealthy man by means of
money to which he had no right.

To Captain Zebulon Pike, who afterwards was made a general, is due the
impetus which the trade with Santa Fe received shortly after his return
to the United States. The student of American history will remember that
the expedition commanded by this soldier was inaugurated in 1806;
his report of the route he had taken was the incentive for commercial
speculation in the direction of trade with New Mexico, but it was so
handicapped by restrictions imposed by the Mexican government, that
the adventurers into the precarious traffic were not only subject to
a complete confiscation of their wares, but frequently imprisoned for
months as spies. Under such a condition of affairs, many of the earlier
expeditions, prior to 1822, resulted in disaster, and only a limited
number met with an indifferent success.

It will not be inconsistent with my text if I herewith interpolate
an incident connected with Pursley, the second American to cross the
desert, for the purpose of trade with New Mexico, which I find in the
_Magazine of American History_:

When Zebulon M. Pike was in Mexico, in 1807, he met,
at Santa Fe, a carpenter, Pursley by name, from Bardstown,
Kentucky, who was working at his trade. He had in a
previous year, while out hunting on the Plains, met with
a series of misfortunes, and found himself near the
mountains. The hostile Sioux drove the party into the
high ground in the rear of Pike's Peak. Near the headwaters
of the Platte River, Pursley found some gold, which he
carried in his shot-pouch for months. He was finally sent
by his companions to Santa Fe, to see if they could trade
with the Mexicans, but he chose to remain in Santa Fe
in preference to returning to his comrades. He told the
Mexicans about the gold he had found, and they tried hard
to persuade him to show them the place. They even offered
to take along a strong force of cavalry. But Pursley
refused, and his patriotic reason was that he thought the
land belonged to the United States. He told Captain Pike
that he feared they would not allow him to leave Santa Fe,
as they still hoped to learn from him where the gold was
to be found. These facts were published by Captain Pike
soon after his return east; but no one took the hint,
or the risk was too great, and thus more than a half
a century passed before those same rich fields of gold
were found and opened to the world. If Pursley had been
somewhat less patriotic, and had guided the Mexicans to
the treasures, the whole history and condition of the
western part of our continent might have been entirely
different from what it now is. That region would still
have been a part of Mexico, or Spain might have been
in possession of it, owning California; and, with the gold
that would have been poured into her coffers, would have
been the leading nation of European affairs to-day.
We can easily see how American and European history in
the nineteenth century might have been changed, if that
adventurer from Kentucky had not been a true lover of his
native country.

The adventures of Captain Ezekiel Williams along the Old Trail, in the
early days of the century, tell a story of wonderful courage, endurance,
and persistency. Williams was a man of great perseverance, patience, and
determination of character. He set out from St. Louis in the late
spring of 1807, to trap on the Upper Missouri and the waters of the
Yellowstone, with a party of twenty men who had chosen him as their
leader. After various exciting incidents and thrilling adventures, all
of the original party, except Williams and two others, were killed by
the Indians somewhere in the vicinity of the Upper Arkansas. The three
survivors, not knowing where they were, separated, and Captain Williams
determined to take to the stream by canoe, and trap on his way toward
the settlements, while his last two companions started for the Spanish
country--that is, for the region of Santa Fe. The journal of Williams,
from which I shall quote freely, is to be found in _The Lost Trappers_,
a work long out of print.[11] As the country was an unexplored region,
he might be on a river that flowed into the Pacific, or he might be
drifting down a stream that was an affluent to the Gulf of Mexico. He
was inclined to believe that he was on the sources of the Red River. He
therefore resolved to launch his canoe, and go wherever the stream might
convey him, trapping on his descent, when beaver might be plenty.

The first canoe he used he made of buffalo-skins. As this kind of water
conveyance soon begins to leak and rot, he made another of cottonwood,
as soon as he came to timber sufficiently large, in which he embarked
for a port, he knew not where.

Most of his journeyings Captain Williams performed during the hours of
night, excepting when he felt it perfectly safe to travel in daylight.
His usual plan was to glide along down the stream, until he came to a
place where beaver signs were abundant. There he would push his little
bark among the willows, where he remained concealed, excepting when he
was setting his traps or visiting them in the morning. When he had
taken all the beaver in one neighbourhood, he would untie his little
conveyance, and glide onward and downward to try his luck in another
place.

Thus for hundreds of miles did this solitary trapper float down this
unknown river, through an unknown country, here and there lashing his
canoe to the willows and planting his traps in the little tributaries
around. The upper part of the Arkansas, for this proved to be the river
he was on,[12] is very destitute of timber, and the prairie frequently
begins at the bank of the river and expands on either side as far as the
eye can reach. He saw vast herds of buffalo, and as it was the rutting
season, the bulls were making a wonderful ado; the prairie resounded
with their low, deep grunting or bellowing, as they tore up the earth
with their feet and horns, whisking their tails, and defying their
rivals to battle. Large gangs of wild horses could be seen grazing on
the plains and hillsides, and the neighing and squealing of stallions
might be heard at all times of the night.

Captain Williams never used his rifle to procure meat, except when
it was absolutely necessary, or could be done with perfect safety. On
occasions when he had no beaver, upon which he generally subsisted, he
ventured to kill a deer, and after refreshing his empty stomach with a
portion of the flesh, he placed the carcass in one end of the canoe. It
was his invariable custom to sleep in his canoe at night, moored to the
shore, and once when he had laid in a supply of venison he was startled
in his sleep by the tramping of something in the bushes on the bank.
Tramp! tramp! tramp! went the footsteps, as they approached the canoe.
He thought at first it might be an Indian that had found out his
locality, but he knew that it could not be; a savage would not approach
him in that careless manner. Although there was beautiful starlight, yet
the trees and the dense undergrowth made it very dark on the bank of the
river, close to which he lay. He always adopted the precaution of tying
his canoe with a piece of rawhide about twenty feet long, which allowed
it to swing from the bank at that distance; he did this so that in case
of an emergency he might cut the string, and glide off without making
any noise. As the sound of the footsteps grew more distinct, he
presently observed a huge grizzly bear coming down to the water and
swimming for the canoe. The great animal held his head up as if scenting
the venison. The captain snatched his axe as the most available means
to defend himself in such a scrape, and stood with it uplifted, ready to
drive it into the brains of the monster. The bear reached the canoe, and
immediately put his fore paws upon the hind end of it, nearly turning
it over. The captain struck one of the brute's feet with the edge of
the axe, which made him let go with that foot, but he held on with
the other, and he received this time a terrific blow on the head, that
caused him to drop away from the canoe entirely. Nothing more was seen
of the bear, and the captain thought he must have sunk in the stream and
drowned. He was evidently after the fresh meat, which he scented from
a great distance. In the canoe the next morning there were two of the
bear's claws, which had been cut off by the well-directed blow of the
axe. These were carefully preserved by Williams for many years as a
trophy which he was fond of exhibiting, and the history of which he
always delighted to tell.

As he was descending the river with his peltries, which consisted of
one hundred and twenty-five beaver-skins, besides some of the otter and
other smaller animals, he overtook three Kansas Indians, who were also
in a canoe going down the river, as he learned from them, to some post
to trade with the whites. They manifested a very friendly disposition
towards the old trapper, and expressed a wish to accompany him. He
also learned from them, to his great delight, that he was on the
Big Arkansas, and not more than five hundred miles from the white
settlements. He was well enough versed in the treachery of the Indian
character to know just how much he could repose in their confidence. He
was aware that they would not allow a solitary trapper to pass through
their country with a valuable collection of furs, without, at least,
making an effort to rob him. He knew that their plan would be to get him
into a friendly intercourse, and then, at the first opportunity, strip
him of everything he possessed; consequently he was determined to get
rid of them as soon as possible, and to effect this, he plied his oars
with all diligence. The Indians, like most North American savages, were
lazy, and had no disposition to labour in that way, but took it quite
leisurely, satisfied with being carried down by the current. Williams
soon left them in the rear, and, as he supposed, far behind him. When
night came on, however, as he had worked all day, and slept none the
night before, he resolved to turn aside into a bunch of willows to take
a few hours' rest. But he had not stopped more than forty minutes when
he heard some Indians pull to the shore just above him on the same side
of the river. He immediately loosened his canoe from its moorings, and
glided silently away. He rowed hard for two or three hours, when he
again pulled to the bank and tied up.

Only a short time after he had landed, he heard Indians again going
on shore on the same side of the stream as himself. A second time he
repeated his tactics, slipped out of his place of concealment, and stole
softly away. He pulled on vigorously until some time after midnight,
when he supposed he could with safety stop and snatch a little sleep.
He felt apprehensive that he was in a dangerous region, and his anxiety
kept him wide awake. It was very lucky that he did not close his eyes;
for as he was lying in the bottom of his canoe he heard for the third
time a canoe land as before. He was now perfectly satisfied that he was
dogged by the Kansans whom he had passed the preceding day, and in no
very good humour, therefore, he picked up his rifle, and walked up to
the bank where he had heard the Indians land. As he suspected, there
were the three savages. When they saw the captain, they immediately
renewed their expressions of friendship, and invited him to partake of
their hospitality. He stood aloof from them, and shook his head in
a rage, charging them with their villanous purposes. In the short,
sententious manner of the Indians, he said to them: "You now follow me
three times; if you follow me again, I kill you!" and wheeling around
abruptly, returned to his canoe. A third time the solitary trapper
pushed his little craft from the shore and set off down stream, to get
away from a region where to sleep would be hazardous. He plied his oars
the remainder of the night, and solaced himself with the thought that no
evil had befallen him, except the loss of a few hours' sleep.

While he was escaping from his villanous pursuers, he was running into
new dangers and difficulties. The following day he overtook a large
band of the same tribe, under the leadership of a chief, who were
also descending the river. Into the hands of these savages he fell a
prisoner, and was conducted to one of their villages. The principal
chief there took all of his furs, traps, and other belongings. A very
short time after his capture, the Kansans went to war with the Pawnees,
and carried Captain Williams with them. In a terrible battle in which
the Kansans gained a most decided victory, the old trapper bore a
conspicuous part, killing a great number of the enemy, and by his
excellent strategy brought about the success of his captors. When
they returned to the village, Williams, who had ever been treated with
kindness by the inhabitants, was now thought to be a wonderful warrior,
and could have been advanced to all the savage honours; he might even
have been made one of their principal chiefs. The tribe gave him his
liberty for the great service he had rendered it in its difficulty with
an inveterate foe, but declining all proffered promotions, he decided
to return to the white settlements on the Missouri, at the mouth of
the Kaw, the covetous old chief retaining all his furs, and indeed
everything he possessed excepting his rifle, with as many rounds of
ammunition as would be necessary to secure him provisions in the shape
of game on his route. The veteran trapper had learned from the Indians
while with them that they expected to go to Fort Osage on the Missouri
River to receive some annuities from the government, and he felt certain
that his furs would be there at the same time.

After leaving the Kansans he travelled on toward the Missouri, and soon
struck the beginning of the sparse settlements. Just as evening was
coming on, he arrived at a cluster of three little log-cabins, and was
received with genuine backwoods hospitality by the proprietor, who had
married an Osage squaw. Williams was not only very hungry, but very
tired; and, after enjoying an abundant supper, he became stupid
and sleepy, and expressed a wish to lie down. The generous trapper
accordingly conducted him to one of the cabins, in which there were two
beds, standing in opposite corners of the room. He immediately threw
himself upon one, and was soon in a very deep sleep. About midnight his
slumbers were disturbed by a singular and very frightful kind of noise,
accompanied by struggling on the other bed. What it was, Williams was
entirely at a loss to understand. There were no windows in the cabin,
the door was shut, and it was as dark as Egypt. A fierce contest seemed
to be going on. There were deep groanings and hard breathings; and the
snapping of teeth appeared almost constant. For a moment the noise would
subside, then again the struggles would be renewed accompanied as before
with groaning, deep sighing, and grinding of teeth.

The captain's bed-clothes consisted of a couple of blankets and a
buffalo-robe, and as the terrible struggles continued he raised himself
up in the bed, and threw the robe around him for protection, his rifle
having been left in the cabin where his host slept, while his knife was
attached to his coat, which he had hung on the corner post of the other
bedstead from which the horrid struggles emanated. In an instant the
robe was pulled off, and he was left uncovered and unprotected; in
another moment a violent snatch carried away the blanket upon which he
was sitting, and he was nearly tumbled off the bed with it. As the next
thing might be a blow in the dark, he felt that it was high time to
shift his quarters; so he made a desperate leap from the bed, and
alighted on the opposite side of the room, calling for his host, who
immediately came to his relief by opening the door. Williams then told
him that the devil--or something as bad, he believed--was in the room,
and he wanted a light. The accommodating trapper hurried away, and in
a moment was back with a candle, the light of which soon revealed the
awful mystery. It was an Indian, who at the time was struggling in
convulsions, which he was subject to. He was a superannuated chief, a
relative of the wife of the hospitable trapper, and generally made his
home there. Absent when Captain Williams arrived, he came into the room
at a very late hour, and went to the bed he usually occupied. No one
on the claim knew of his being there until he was discovered, in a
dreadfully mangled condition. He was removed to other quarters, and
Williams, who was not to be frightened out of a night's rest, soon sunk
into sound repose.

Williams reached the agency by the time the Kansas Indians arrived
there, and, as he suspected, found that the wily old chief had brought
all his belongings, which he claimed, and the agent made the savages
give up the stolen property before he would pay them a cent of their
annuities. He took his furs down to St. Louis, sold them there at a good
price, and then started back to the Rocky Mountains on another trapping
tour.

CHAPTER III. EARLY TRADERS.

In 1812 a Captain Becknell, who had been on a trading expedition to the
country of the Comanches in the summer of 1811, and had done remarkably
well, determined the next season to change his objective point to Santa
Fe, and instead of the tedious process of bartering with the Indians,
to sell out his stock to the New Mexicans. Successful in this, his first
venture, he returned to the Missouri River with a well-filled purse,
and intensely enthusiastic over the result of his excursion to the newly
found market.

Excited listeners to his tales of enormous profits were not lacking,
who, inspired by the inducement he held out to them, cheerfully invested
five thousand dollars in merchandise suited to the demands of the trade,
and were eager to attempt with him the passage of the great plains. In
this expedition there were thirty men, and the amount of money in the
undertaking was the largest that had yet been ventured. The progress of
the little caravan was without extraordinary incident, until it arrived
at "The Caches" on the Upper Arkansas. There Becknell, who was in
reality a man of the then "Frontier," bold, plucky, and endowed with
excellent sense, conceived the ridiculous idea of striking directly
across the country for Santa Fe through a region absolutely unexplored;
his excuse for this rash movement being that he desired to avoid the
rough and circuitous mountain route he had travelled on his first trip
to Taos.

His temerity in abandoning the known for the unknown was severely
punished, and his brave men suffered untold misery, barely escaping with
their lives from the terrible straits to which they were reduced. Not
having the remotest conception of the region through which their new
trail was to lead them, and naturally supposing that water would be
found in streams or springs, when they left the Arkansas they neglected
to supply themselves with more than enough of the precious fluid to last
a couple of days. At the end of that time they learned, too late, that
they were in the midst of a desert, with all the tortures of thirst
threatening them.

Without a tree or a path to guide them, they took an irregular course by
observations of the North Star, and the unreliable needle of an azimuth
pocket-compass. There was a total absence of water, and when what they
had brought with them in their canteens from the river was exhausted,
thirst began its horrible office. In a short time both men and animals
were in a mental condition bordering on distraction. To alleviate their
acute torment, the dogs of the train were killed, and their blood, hot
and sickening, eagerly swallowed; then the ears of the mules were cut
off for the same purpose, but such a substitute for water only added
to their sufferings. They would have perished had not a superannuated
buffalo bull that had just come from the Cimarron River, where he had
gone to quench his thirst, suddenly appeared, to be immediately killed
and the contents of his stomach swallowed with avidity. It is recorded
that one of those who partook of the nauseous liquid said afterward,
"nothing had ever passed his lips which gave him such exquisite delight
as his first draught of that filthy beverage."

Although they were near the Cimarron, where there was plenty of water,
which but for the affair of the buffalo they never would have suspected,
they decided to retrace their steps to the Arkansas.

Before they started on their retreat, however, some of the strongest of
the party followed the trail of the animal that had saved their lives
to the river, where, filling all the canteens with pure water, they
returned to their comrades, who were, after drinking, able to march
slowly toward the Arkansas.

Following that stream, they at last arrived at Taos, having experienced
no further trouble, but missed the trail to Santa Fe, and had their
journey greatly prolonged by the foolish endeavour of the leader to make
a short cut thither.

As early as 1815, Auguste P. Chouteau and his partner, with a large
number of trappers and hunters, went out to the valley of the Upper
Arkansas for the purpose of trading with Indians, and trapping on the
numerous streams of the contiguous region.

The island on which Chouteau established his trading-post, and which
bears his name even to this day, is in the Arkansas River on the
boundary line of the United States and Mexico. It was a beautiful spot,
with a rich carpet of grass and delightful groves, and on the American
side was a heavily timbered bottom.

While occupying the island, Chouteau and his old hunters and trappers
were attacked by about three hundred Pawnees, whom they repulsed with
the loss of thirty killed and wounded. These Indians afterward declared
that it was the most fatal affair in which they were ever engaged. It
was their first acquaintance with American guns.

The general character of the early trade with New Mexico was founded
on the system of the caravan. She depended upon the remote ports of old
Mexico, whence was transported, on the backs of the patient burro and
mule, all that was required by the primitive tastes of the primitive
people; a very tedious and slow process, as may be inferred, and the
limited traffic westwardly across the great plains was confined to this
fashion. At the date of the legitimate and substantial commerce with New
Mexico, in 1824, wheeled vehicles were introduced, and traffic assumed
an importance it could never have otherwise attained, and which now,
under the vast system of railroads, has increased to dimensions little
dreamed of by its originators nearly three-quarters of a century ago.

It was eight years after Pursley's pilgrimage before the trade with New
Mexico attracted the attention of speculators and adventurers. Messrs.
McKnight,[13] Beard, and Chambers, with about a dozen comrades, started
with a supply of goods across the unknown plains, and by good luck
arrived safely at Santa Fe. Once under the jurisdiction of the Mexicans,
however, their trouble began. All the party were arrested as spies,
their wares confiscated, and themselves incarcerated at Chihuahua, where
the majority of them were kept for almost a decade. Beard and Chambers,
having by some means escaped, returned to St. Louis in 1822, and,
notwithstanding their dreadful experience, told of the prospects of the
trade with the Mexicans in such glowing colours that they induced some
individuals of small capital to fit out another expedition, with which
they again set out for Santa Fe.

It was really too late in the season; they succeeded, however, in
reaching the crossing of the Arkansas without any difficulty, but there
a violent snowstorm overtook them and they were compelled to halt, as
it was impossible to proceed in the face of the blinding blizzard. On
an island[14] not far from where the town of Cimarron, on the Santa Fe
Railroad, is now situated, they were obliged to remain for more than
three months, during which time most of their animals died for want
of food and from the severe cold. When the weather had moderated
sufficiently to allow them to proceed on their journey, they had no
transportation for their goods and were compelled to hide them in pits
dug in the earth, after the manner of the old French voyageurs in the
early settlement of the continent. This method of secreting furs and
valuables of every character is called caching, from the French word "to
hide." Gregg thus describes it:

The cache is made by digging a hole in the ground, somewhat
in the shape of a jug, which is lined with dry sticks,
grass, or anything else that will protect its contents
from the dampness of the earth. In this place the goods
to be concealed are carefully stowed away; and the aperture
is then so effectually closed as to protect them from
the rains. In caching, a great deal of skill is often
required to leave no sign whereby the cunning savage may
discover the place of deposit. To this end, the excavated
earth is carried some distance and carefully concealed,
or thrown into a stream, if one be at hand. The place
selected for a cache is usually some rolling point,
sufficiently elevated to be secure from inundations.
If it be well set with grass, a solid piece of turf is
cut out large enough for the entrance. The turf is
afterward laid back, and, taking root, in a short time
no signs remain of its ever having been molested.
However, as every locality does not afford a turfy site,
the camp-fire is sometimes built upon the place, or the
animals are penned over it, which effectually destroys
all traces.

Father Hennepin[15] thus describes, in his quaint style, how he built a
cache on the bank of the Mississippi, in 1680:

We took up the green sodd, and laid it by, and digg'd a hole
in the Earth where we put our Goods, and cover'd them with
pieces of Timber and Earth, and then put in again the green
Turf; so that 'twas impossible to suspect that any Hole had
been digg'd under it, for we flung the Earth into the River.

After caching their goods, Beard and the party went on to Taos, where
they bought mules, and returning to their caches transported their
contents to their market.

The word "cache" still lingers among the "old-timers" of the mountains
and plains, and has become a provincialism with their descendants; one
of these will tell you that he cached his vegetables in the side of
the hill; or if he is out hunting and desires to secrete himself from
approaching game, he will say, "I am going to cache behind that rock,"
etc.

The place where Beard's little expedition wintered was called "The
Caches" for years, and the name has only fallen into disuse within the
last two decades. I remember the great holes in the ground when I first
crossed the plains, a third of a century ago.

The immense profit upon merchandise transported across the dangerous
Trail of the mid-continent to the capital of New Mexico soon excited
the cupidity of other merchants east of the Missouri. When the commonest
domestic cloth, manufactured wholly from cotton, brought from two to
three dollars a yard at Santa Fe, and other articles at the same ratio
to cost, no wonder the commerce with the far-off market appeared to
those who desired to send goods there a veritable Golconda.

The importance of internal trade with New Mexico, and the possibilities
of its growth, were first recognized by the United States in 1824, the
originator of the movement being Mr. Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri,
who frequently, from his place in the Senate, prophesied the coming
greatness of the West. He introduced a bill which authorized the
President to appoint a commission to survey a road from the Missouri
River to the boundary line of New Mexico, and from thence on Mexican
territory with the consent of the Mexican government. The signing of
this bill was one of the last acts of Mr. Monroe's official life, and
it was carried into effect by his successor, Mr. John Quincy Adams, but
unfortunately a mistake was made in supposing that the Osage Indians
alone controlled the course of the proposed route. It was partially
marked out as far as the Arkansas, by raised mounds; but travellers
continued to use the old wagon trail, and as no negotiations had been
entered into with the Comanches, Cheyennes, Pawnees, or Kiowas, these
warlike tribes continued to harass the caravans when these arrived in
the broad valley of the Arkansas.

The American fur trade was at its height at the time when the Santa Fe
trade was just beginning to assume proportions worthy of notice; the
difference between the two enterprises being very marked. The fur trade
was in the hands of immensely wealthy companies, while that to Santa
Fe was carried on by individuals with limited capital, who, purchasing
goods in the Eastern markets, had them transported to the Missouri
River, where, until the trade to New Mexico became a fixed business,
everything was packed on mules. As soon, however, as leading
merchants invested their capital, about 1824, the trade grew into vast
proportions, and wagons took the place of the patient mule. Later,
oxen were substituted for mules, it having been discovered that they
possessed many advantages over the former, particularly in being able
to draw heavier loads than an equal number of mules, especially through
sandy or muddy places.

For a long time, the traders were in the habit of purchasing their mules
in Santa Fe and driving them to the Missouri; but as soon as that useful
animal was raised in sufficient numbers in the Southern States to supply
the demand, the importation from New Mexico ceased, for the reason that
the American mule was in all respects an immensely superior animal.

Once mules were an important object of the trade, and those who dealt
in them and drove them across to the river on the Trail met with many
mishaps; frequently whole droves, containing from three to five hundred,
were stolen by the savages en route. The latter soon learned that it
was a very easy thing to stampede a caravan of mules, for, once
panic-stricken, it is impossible to restrain them, and the Indians
having started them kept them in a state of rampant excitement by their
blood-curdling yells, until they had driven them miles beyond the Trail.

A story is told of a small band of twelve men, who, while encamped on
the Cimarron River, in 1826, with but four serviceable guns among them,
were visited by a party of Indians, believed to be Arapahoes, who made
at first strong demonstrations of friendship and good-will. Observing
the defenceless condition of the traders, they went away, but soon
returned about thirty strong, each provided with a lasso, and all on
foot. The chief then began by informing the Americans that his men were
tired of walking, and must have horses. Thinking it folly to offer any
resistance, the terrified traders told them if one animal apiece would
satisfy them, to go and catch them. This they soon did; but finding
their request so easily complied with, the Indians held a little parley
together, which resulted in a new demand for more--they must have two
apiece! "Well, catch them!" was the acquiescent reply of the unfortunate
band; upon which the savages mounted those they had already secured,
and, swinging their lassos over their heads, plunged among the stock
with a furious yell, and drove off the entire caballada of nearly five
hundred head of horses, mules, and asses.

In 1829 the Indians of the plains became such a terror to the caravans
crossing to Santa Fe, that the United States government, upon petition
of the traders, ordered three companies of infantry and one of riflemen,
under command of Major Bennet Riley, to escort the annual caravan, which
that year started from the town of Franklin, Missouri, then the eastern
terminus of the Santa Fe trade, as far as Chouteau's Island, on the
Arkansas, which marked the boundary between the United States and
Mexico.[16] The caravan started from the island across the dreary route
unaccompanied by any troops, but had progressed only a few miles when
it was attacked by a band of Kiowas, then one of the most cruel and
bloodthirsty tribes on the plains.[17]

This escort, commanded by Major Riley, and another under Captain
Wharton, composed of only sixty dragoons, five years later, were the
sole protection ever given by the government until 1843, when Captain
Philip St. George Cooke again accompanied two large caravans to the same
point on the Arkansas as did Major Riley fourteen years before.

As the trade increased, the Comanches, Pawnees, and Arapahoes continued
to commit their depredations, and it was firmly believed by many of the
freighters that these Indians were incited to their devilish acts by the
Mexicans, who were always jealous of "Los Americanos."

It was very rarely that a caravan, great or small, or even a detachment
of troops, no matter how large, escaped the raids of these bandits of
the Trail. If the list of those who were killed outright and scalped,
and those more unfortunate who were taken captive only to be tortured
and their bodies horribly mutilated, could be collected from the opening
of the traffic with New Mexico until the years 1868-69, when General
Sheridan inaugurated his memorable "winter campaign" against the allied
plains tribes, and completely demoralized, cowed, and forced them on
their reservations, about the time of the advent of the railroad, it
would present an appalling picture; and the number of horses, mules,
and oxen stampeded and stolen during the same period would amount to
thousands.

As the excellent narrative of Captain Pike is not read as it should be
by the average American, a brief reference to it may not be considered
supererogatory. The celebrated officer, who was afterward promoted to
the rank of major-general, and died in the achievement of the victory of
York, Upper Canada, in 1813, was sent in 1806 on an exploring expedition
up the Arkansas River, with instructions to pass the sources of Red
River, for which those of the Canadian were then mistaken; he, however,
even went around the head of the latter, and crossing the mountains with
an almost incredible degree of peril and suffering, descended upon the
Rio del Norte with his little party, then but fifteen in number.

Believing himself now on Red River, within the then assumed limits of
the United States, he built a small fortification for his company, until
the opening of the spring of 1807 should enable him to continue his
descent to Natchitoches. As he was really within Mexican territory, and
only about eighty miles from the northern settlements, his position
was soon discovered, and a force sent to take him to Santa Fe, which by
treachery was effected without opposition. The Spanish officer assured
him that the governor, learning that he had mistaken his way, had sent
animals and an escort to convey his men and baggage to a navigable point
on Red River (Rio Colorado), and that His Excellency desired very much
to see him at Santa Fe, which might be taken on their way.

As soon, however, as the governor had the too confiding captain in his
power, he sent him with his men to the commandant general at Chihuahua,
where most of his papers were seized, and he and his party were sent
under an escort, via San Antonio de Bexar, to the United States.

Many citizens of the remote Eastern States, who were contemporary with
Pike, declared that his expedition was in some way connected with the
treasonable attempt of Aaron Burr. The idea is simply preposterous;
Pike's whole line of conduct shows him to have been of the most
patriotic character; never would he for a moment have countenanced a
proposition from Aaron Burr!

After Captain Pike's report had been published to the world, the
adventurers who were inspired by its glowing description of the country
he had been so far to explore were destined to experience trials and
disappointments of which they had formed no conception.

Among them was a certain Captain Sublette, a famous old trapper in
the era of the great fur companies, and with him a Captain Smith, who,
although veteran pioneers of the Rocky Mountains, were mere novices in
the many complications of the Trail; but having been in the fastnesses
of the great divide of the continent, they thought that when they got
down on the plains they could go anywhere. They started with twenty
wagons, and left the Missouri without a single one of the party being
competent to guide the little caravan on the dangerous route.

From the Missouri the Trail was broad and plain enough for a child to
follow, but when they arrived at the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas,
not a trace of former caravans was visible; nothing but the innumerable
buffalo-trails leading from everywhere to the river.

When the party entered the desert, or Dry Route, as it was years
afterward always, and very properly, called in certain seasons of
drought, the brave but too confident men discovered that the whole
region was burnt up. They wandered on for several days, the horrors of
death by thirst constantly confronting them. Water must be had or they
would all perish! At last Smith, in his desperation, determined to
follow one of the numerous buffalo-trails, believing that it would
conduct him to water of some character--a lake or pool or even wallow.
He left the train alone; asked for no one to accompany him; for he was
the very impersonation of courage, one of the most fearless men that
ever trapped in the mountains.

He walked on and on for miles, when, on ascending a little divide, he
saw a stream in the valley beneath him. It was the Cimarron, and he
hurried toward it to quench his intolerable thirst. When he arrived at
its bank, to his disappointment it was nothing but a bed of sand; the
sometime clear running river was perfectly dry.

Only for a moment was he staggered; he knew the character of many
streams in the West; that often their waters run under the ground at
a short distance from the surface, and in a moment he was on his knees
digging vigorously in the soft sand. Soon the coveted fluid began to
filter upwards into the little excavation he had made. He stooped to
drink, and in the next second a dozen arrows from an ambushed band
of Comanches entered his body. He did not die at once, however; it is
related by the Indians themselves that he killed two of their number
before death laid him low.

Captain Sublette and Smith's other comrades did not know what had become
of him until some Mexican traders told them, having got the report from
the very savages who committed the cold-blooded murder.

Gregg, in his report of this little expedition, says:

Every kind of fatality seems to have attended this small
caravan. Among other casualties, a clerk in their company,
named Minter, was killed by a band of Pawnees, before they
crossed the Arkansas. This, I believe, is the only instance
of loss of life among the traders while engaged in hunting,
although the scarcity of accidents can hardly be said to be
the result of prudence. There is not a day that hunters
do not commit some indescretion; such as straying at
a distance of five and even ten miles from the caravan,
frequently alone, and seldom in bands of more than two or
three together. In this state, they must frequently be
spied by prowling savages; so that frequency of escape,
under such circumstances, must be partly attributed to
the cowardice of the Indians; indeed, generally speaking,
the latter are very loth to charge upon even a single
armed man, unless they can take him at a decided advantage.

Not long after, this band of Captain Sublette's very
narrowly escaped total destruction. They had fallen in
with an immense horde of Blackfeet and Gros Ventres, and,
as the traders were literally but a handful among thousands
of savages, they fancied themselves for a while in imminent
peril of being virtually "eated up." But as Captain
Sublette possessed considerable experience, he was at
no loss how to deal with these treacherous savages; so that
although the latter assumed a threatening attitude,
he passed them without any serious molestation, and finally
arrived at Santa Fe in safety.

The virtual commencement of the Santa Fe trade dates from 1822, and one
of the most remarkable events in its history was the first attempt to
introduce wagons in the expeditions. This was made in 1824 by a company
of traders, about eighty in number, among whom were several gentlemen of
intelligence from Missouri, who contributed by their superior skill
and undaunted energy to render the enterprise completely successful. A
portion of this company employed pack-mules; among the rest were
owned twenty-five wheeled vehicles, of which one or two were stout
road-wagons, two were carts, and the rest Dearborn carriages, the
whole conveying some twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars' worth of
merchandise. Colonel Marmaduke, of Missouri, was one of the party. This
caravan arrived at Santa Fe safely, experiencing much less difficulty
than they anticipated from a first attempt with wheeled vehicles.

Gregg continues:

The early voyageurs, having but seldom experienced any
molestation from the Indians, generally crossed the plains
in detached bands, each individual rarely carrying more than
two or three hundred dollars' worth of stock. This peaceful
season, however, did not last very long; and it is greatly
to be feared that the traders were not always innocent of
having instigated the savage hostilities that ensued in
after years. Many seemed to forget the wholesome precept,
that they should not be savages themselves because they
dealt with savages. Instead of cultivating friendly
feelings with those few who remained peaceful and honest,
there was an occasional one always disposed to kill,
even in cold blood, every Indian that fell into their power,
merely because some of the tribe had committed an outrage
either against themselves or friends.

As an instance of this, he relates the following:

In 1826 two young men named McNess and Monroe, having
carelessly lain down to sleep on the bank of a certain
stream, since known as McNess Creek,[18] were barbarously
shot, with their own guns, as it was supposed, in the very
sight of the caravan. When their comrades came up,
they found McNess lifeless, and the other almost expiring.
In this state the latter was carried nearly forty miles to
the Cimarron River, where he died, and was buried according
to the custom of the prairies, a very summary proceeding,
necessarily. The corpse, wrapped in a blanket, its shroud
the clothes it wore, is interred in a hole varying in depth
according to the nature of the soil, and upon the grave is
piled stones, if any are convenient, to prevent the wolves
from digging it up. Just as McNess's funeral ceremonies
were about to be concluded, six or seven Indians appeared
on the opposite side of the Cimarron. Some of the party
proposed inviting them to a parley, while the rest, burning
for revenge, evinced a desire to fire upon them at once.
It is more than probable, however, that the Indians were not
only innocent but ignorant of the outrage that had been
committed, or they would hardly have ventured to approach
the caravan. Being quick of perception, they very soon saw
the belligerent attitude assumed by the company, and
therefore wheeled round and attempted to escape. One shot
was fired, which brought an Indian to the ground, when he
was instantly riddled with balls. Almost simultaneously
another discharge of several guns followed, by which all
the rest were either killed or mortally wounded, except one,
who escaped to bear the news to his tribe.

These wanton cruelties had a most disastrous effect upon the
prospects of the trade; for the exasperated children of
the desert became more and more hostile to the "pale-faces,"
against whom they continued to wage a cruel war for many
successive years. In fact this party suffered very severely
a few days afterward. They were pursued by the enraged
comrades of the slain savages to the Arkansas River, where
they were robbed of nearly a thousand horses and mules.

The author of this book, although having but little compassion for the
Indians, must admit that, during more than a third of a century passed
on the plains and in the mountains, he has never known of a war with the
hostile tribes that was not caused by broken faith on the part of the
United States or its agents. I will refer to two prominent instances:
that of the outbreak of the Nez Perces, and that of the allied plains
tribes. With the former a solemn treaty was made in 1856, guaranteeing
to them occupancy of the Wallola valley forever. I. I. Stevens, who
was governor of Washington Territory at the time, and ex-officio
superintendent of Indian affairs in the region, met the Nez Perces,
whose chief, "Wish-la-no-she," an octogenarian, when grasping the hand
of the governor at the council said: "I put out my hand to the white
man when Lewis and Clark crossed the continent, in 1805, and have never
taken it back since." The tribe kept its word until the white men took
forcible possession of the valley promised to the Indians, when the
latter broke out, and a prolonged war was the consequence. In 1867
Congress appointed a commission to treat with the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and
Arapahoes, appropriating four hundred thousand dollars for the expenses
of the commission. It met at Medicine Lodge in August of the year
mentioned, and made a solemn treaty, which the members of the
commission, on the part of the United States, and the principal chiefs
of the three tribes signed. Congress failed to make any appropriation to
carry out the provisions of the treaty, and the Indians, after waiting
a reasonable time, broke out, devastated the settlements from the Platte
to the Rio Grande, destroying millions of dollars' worth of property,
and sacrificing hundreds of men, women, and children. Another war was
the result, which cost more millions, and under General Sheridan
the hostile savages were whipped into a peace, which they have been
compelled to keep.

CHAPTER IV. TRAINS AND PACKERS.

As has been stated, until the year 1824 transportation across the plains
was done by means of pack-mules, the art of properly loading which seems
to be an intuitive attribute of the native Mexican. The American,
of course, soon became as expert, for nothing that the genus homo
is capable of doing is impossible to him; but his teacher was the
dark-visaged, superstitious, and profanity-expending Mexican arriero.

A description of the equipment of a mule-train and the method of
packing, together with some of the curious facts connected with its
movements, may not be uninteresting, particularly as the whole thing,
with rare exceptions in the regular army at remote frontier posts, has
been relegated to the past, along with the caravan of the prairie and
the overland coach. To this generation, barring a few officers who
have served against the Indians on the plains and in the mountains, a
pack-mule train would be as great a curiosity as the hairy mammoth. In
the following particulars I have taken as a model the genuine Mexican
pack-train or atajo, as it was called in their Spanish dialect, always
used in the early days of the Santa Fe trade. The Americans made
many modifications, but the basis was purely Mexican in its origin. A
pack-mule was termed a mula de carga, and his equipment consisted of
several parts; first, the saddle, or aparejo, a nearly square pad of
leather stuffed with hay, which covered the animal's back on both sides
equally. The best idea of its shape will be formed by opening a book in
the middle and placing it saddle-fashion on the back of a chair. Each
half then forms a flap of the contrivance. Before the aparejo was
adjusted to the mule, a salea, or raw sheep-skin, made soft by rubbing,
was put on the animal's back, to prevent chafing, and over it the
saddle-cloth, or xerga. On top of both was placed the aparejo, which
was cinched by a wide grass-bandage. This band was drawn as tightly
as possible, to such an extent that the poor brute grunted and groaned
under the apparently painful operation, and when fastened he seemed to
be cut in two. This always appeared to be the very acme of cruelty to
the uninitiated, but it is the secret of successful packing; the firmer
the saddle, the more comfortably the mule can travel, with less risk of
being chafed and bruised. The aparejo is furnished with a huge crupper,
and this appendage is really the most cruel of all, for it is almost
sure to lacerate the tail. Hardly a Mexican mule in the old days of the
trade could be found which did not bear the scar of this rude supplement
to the immense saddle.

The load, which is termed a carga, was generally three hundred pounds.
Two arrieros, or packers, place the goods on the mule's back, one, the
cargador, standing on the near side, his assistant on the other. The
carga is then hoisted on top of the saddle if it is a single package; or
if there are two of equal size and weight, one on each side, coupled by
a rope, which balances them on the animal. Another stout rope is then
thrown over all, drawn as tightly as possible under the belly, and laced
round the packs, securing them firmly in their place. Over the load,
to protect it from rain, is thrown a square piece of matting called a
petate. Sometimes, when a mule is a little refractory, he is blindfolded
by a thin piece of leather, generally embroidered, termed the tapojos,
and he remains perfectly quiet while the process of packing is going on.
When the load is securely fastened in its place, the blinder is removed.
The man on the near side, with his knee against the mule for a purchase,
as soon as the rope is hauled taut, cries out "Adios," and his assistant
answers "Vaya!" Then the first says again, "Anda!" upon which the mule
trots off to its companions, all of which feed around until the animals
of the whole train are packed. It seldom requires more than five minutes
for the two men to complete the packing of the animal, and in that time
is included the fastening of the aperejo. It is surprising to note the
degree of skill exercised by an experienced packer, and his apparently
abnormal strength in handling the immense bundles that are sometimes
transported. By the aid of his knees used as a fulcrum, he lifts a
package and tosses it on the mule's back without any apparent effort,
the dead weight of which he could not move from the ground.

An old-time atajo or caravan of pack-mules generally numbered from fifty
to two hundred, and it travelled a jornado, or day's march of about
twelve or fifteen miles. This day's journey was made without any
stopping at noon, because if a pack-mule is allowed to rest, he
generally tries to lie down, and with his heavy load it is difficult
for him to get on his feet again. Sometimes he is badly strained in so
doing, perhaps ruined forever. When the train starts out on the trail,
the mules are so tightly bound with the ropes which confine the load
that they move with great difficulty; but the saddle soon settles
itself and the ropes become loosened so that they have frequently to be
tightened. On the march the arriero is kept busy nearly all the time;
the packs are constantly changing their position, frequently losing
their balance and falling off; sometimes saddle, pack, and all swing
under the animal's belly, and he must be unloaded and repacked again.

On arriving at the camping-ground the pack-saddles with their loads
are ranged in regular order, their freight being between the saddles,
covered with the petates to protect it from the rain, and generally a
ditch is dug around to carry off the water, if the weather is stormy.
After two or three days' travel each mule knows its own pack and saddle,
and comes up to it at the proper moment with an intelligence that is
astonishing. If an animal should come whose pack is somewhere else, he
is soundly kicked in the ribs by the rightful mule, and sent bruised
and battered to his place. He rarely makes a mistake in relation to the
position of his own pack the second time.

This method of transportation was so cheap, because of the low rate of
wages, that wagon-freighting, even in the most level region, could
not compete with it. Five dollars a month was the amount paid to the
muleteers, but it was oftener five with rations, costing almost nothing,
of corn and beans. Meat, if used at all, was found by the arrieros
themselves.

On the trail the mule-train is under a system of discipline almost as
severe as that on board of a man-of-war. Every individual employed is
assigned to his place and has certain duties to perform. There is a
night-herder, called the savanero, whose duty it is to keep the animals
from straying too far away, as they are all turned loose to shift for
themselves, depending upon the grass alone for their subsistence. Each
herd has a mulera, or bell-mare, which wears a bell hanging to a strap
around her neck, and is kept in view of the other animals, who will
never leave her. If the mare is taken away from the herd, every mule
becomes really melancholy and is at a loss what to do or where to go.
The cook of the party, or madre (mother) as he is called, besides his
duty in preparing the food, must lead the bell-mule ahead of the train
while travelling, the pack-animals following her with a devotion that is
remarkable.

Sometimes in traversing the narrow ledges cut around the sides of a
precipitous trail, or crossing a narrow natural bridge spanning the
frightful gorges found everywhere in the mountains, a mule will be
incontinently thrown off the slippery path, and fall hundreds of feet
into the yawning canyon below. Generally instant death is their portion,
though I recall an instance, while on an expedition against the hostile
Indians thirty years ago, where a number of mules of our pack-train,
loaded with ammunition, tumbled nearly five hundred feet down an almost
perpendicular chasm, and yet some of them got on their feet again, and
soon rejoined their companions, without having suffered any serious
injury.

The wagons so long employed in this trade, after their first
introduction in 1824, were manufactured in Pittsburgh, their capacity
being about a ton and a half, and they were drawn by eight mules or the
same number of oxen. Later much larger wagons were employed with nearly
double the capacity of the first, hauled by ten and twelve mules or
oxen. These latter were soon called prairie-schooners, which name
continued to linger until transportation across the plains by wagons was
completely extinguished by the railroads.

Under Mexican rule excessive tariff imposts were instituted, amounting
to about a hundred per cent upon goods brought from the United States,
and for some years, during the administration of Governor Manuel Armijo,
a purely arbitrary duty was demanded of five hundred dollars for every
wagon-load of merchandise brought into the Province, whether great or
small, and regardless of its intrinsic value. As gold and silver were
paid for the articles brought by the traders, they were also required
to pay a heavy duty on the precious metals they took out of the country.
Yankee ingenuity, however, evaded much of these unjust taxes. When the
caravan approached Santa Fe, the freight of three wagons was transferred
to one, and the empty vehicles destroyed by fire; while to avoid paying
the export duty on gold and silver, they had large false axletrees to
some of the wagons, in which the money was concealed, and the examining
officer of the customs, perfectly unconscious of the artifice, passed
them.

The army, in its expeditions against the hostile Indian tribes, always
employed wagons in transporting its provisions and munitions of war,
except in the mountains, where the faithful pack-mule was substituted.
The American freighters, since the occupation of New Mexico by the
United States, until the transcontinental railroad usurped their
vocation, used wagons only; the Mexican nomenclature was soon dropped
and simple English terms adopted: caravan became train, and majordomo,
the person in charge, wagon-master. The latter was supreme. Upon
him rested all the responsibility, and to him the teamsters rendered
absolute obedience. He was necessarily a man of quick perception,
always fertile in expedients in times of emergency, and something of an
engineer; for to know how properly to cross a raging stream or a marshy
slough with an outfit of fifty or sixty wagons required more
than ordinary intelligence. Then in the case of a stampede, great
clear-headedness and coolness were needed to prevent loss of life.

Stampedes were frequently very serious affairs, particularly with a
large mule-train. Notwithstanding the willingness and patient qualities
of that animal, he can act as absurdly as a Texas steer, and is as
easily frightened at nothing. Sometimes as insignificant a circumstance
as a prairie-dog barking at the entrance to his burrow, a figure in the
distance, or even the shadow of a passing cloud will start every animal
in the train, and away they go, rushing into each other, and becoming
entangled in such a manner that both drivers and mules have often been
crushed to death. It not infrequently happened that five or six of the
teams would dash off and never could be found. I remember one instance
that occurred on the trail between Fort Hays and Fort Dodge, during
General Sheridan's winter campaign against the allied plains tribes
in 1868. Three of the wagons were dragged away by the mules, in a few
moments were out of sight, and were never recovered, although diligent
search was made for them for some days. Ten years afterward a farmer,
who had taken up a claim in what is now Rush County, Kansas, discovered
in a ravine on his place the bones of some animals, decayed parts of
harness, and the remains of three army-wagons, which with other evidence
proved them to be the identical ones lost from the train so many years
before.

The largest six-mule wagon-train that was ever strung out on the plains
transported the supplies for General Custer's command during the winter
above referred to. It comprised over eight hundred army-wagons, and was
four miles in length in one column, or one mile when in four lines--the
usual formation when in the field.

The animals of the train were either hobbled or herded at night,
according to the locality; if in an Indian country, always hobbled or,
preferably, tied up to the tongue of the wagon to which they belonged.
The hobble is simply a strip of rawhide, with two slides of the same
material. Placed on the front legs of the mule just at the fetlock, the
slides pushed close to the limb, the animal could move around freely
enough to graze, but was not able to travel very fast in the event of
a stampede. In the Indian country, it was usual at night, or in the
daytime when halting to feed, to form a corral of the wagons, by placing
them in a circle, the wheels interlocked and the tongues run under the
axles, into which circle the mules, on the appearance of the savages,
were driven, and which also made a sort of fortress behind which the
teamsters could more effectually repel an attack.

In the earlier trading expeditions to Santa Fe, the formation and march
of the caravan differed materially from that of the army-train in later
years. I here quote Gregg, whose authority on the subject has never been
questioned. When all was ready to move out on the broad sea of prairie,
he said:

We held a council, at which the respective claims of the
different aspirants for office were considered, leaders
selected, and a system of government agreed upon--as is
the standing custom of these promiscuous caravans.
A captain was proclaimed elected, but his powers were not
defined by any constitutional provision; consequently,
they were very vague and uncertain. Orders being only
viewed as mere requests, they are often obeyed or neglected
at the caprice of the subordinates. It is necessary to
observe, however, that the captain is expected to direct
the order of travel during the day and to designate the
camping-ground at night, with many other functions of
general character, in the exercise of which the company
find it convenient to acquiesce.

After this comes the task of organizing. The proprietors
are first notified by proclamation to furnish a list of
their men and wagons. The latter are generally apportioned
into four divisions, particularly when the company is large.
To each of these divisions, a lieutenant is appointed,
whose duty it is to inspect every ravine and creek on the
route, select the best crossings, and superintend what is
called in prairie parlance the forming of each encampment.

There is nothing so much dreaded by inexperienced travellers
as the ordeal of guard duty. But no matter what the
condition or employment of the individual may be, no one
has the slightest chance of evading the common law of
the prairies. The amateur tourist and the listless loafer
are precisely in the same wholesome predicament--they must
all take their regular turn at the watch. There is usually
a set of genteel idlers attached to every caravan, whose
wits are forever at work in devising schemes for whiling
away their irksome hours at the expense of others.
By embarking in these trips of pleasure, they are enabled
to live without expense; for the hospitable traders seldom
refuse to accommodate even a loafing companion with a berth
at their mess without charge. But these lounging attaches
are expected at least to do good service by way of guard
duty. None are ever permitted to furnish a substitute,
as is frequently done in military expeditions; for he that
would undertake to stand the tour of another besides
his own would scarcely be watchful enough for dangers
of the prairies. Even the invalid must be able to produce
unequivocal proofs of his inability, or it is a chance
if the plea is admitted.

The usual number of watchers is eight, each standing a
fourth of every alternate night. When the party is small,
the number is generally reduced, while in the case of
very small bands, they are sometimes compelled for safety's
sake to keep watch on duty half the night. With large
caravans the captain usually appoints eight sergeants
of the guard, each of whom takes an equal portion of men
under his command.

The wild and motley aspect of the caravan can be but
imperfectly conceived without an idea of the costumes of
its various members. The most fashionable prairie dress
is the fustian frock of the city-bred merchant, furnished
with a multitude of pockets capable of accommodating a
variety of extra tackling. Then there is the backwoodsman
with his linsey or leather hunting-shirt--the farmer with
his blue jean coat--the wagoner with his flannel sleeve
vest--besides an assortment of other costumes which go
to fill up the picture.

In the article of firearms there is also an equally
interesting medley. The frontier hunter sticks to his
rifle, as nothing could induce him to carry what he terms
in derision "the scatter-gun." The sportsman from the
interior flourishes his double-barrelled fowling-piece
with equal confidence in its superiority. A great many
were furnished beside with a bountiful supply of pistols
and knives of every description, so that the party made
altogether a very brigand-like appearance.

"Catch up! Catch up!" is now sounded from the captain's
camp and echoed from every division and scattered group
along the valley. The woods and dales resound with the
gleeful yells of the light-hearted wagoners who, weary of
inaction and filled with joy at the prospect of getting
under way, become clamorous in the extreme. Each teamster
vies with his fellow who shall be soonest ready; and it
is a matter of boastful pride to be the first to cry out,
"All's set."

The uproarious bustle which follows, the hallooing of those
in pursuit of animals, the exclamations which the unruly
brutes call forth from their wrathful drivers, together
with the clatter of bells, the rattle of yokes and harness,
the jingle of chains, all conspire to produce an uproarious
confusion. It is sometimes amusing to observe the athletic
wagoner hurrying an animal to its post--to see him heave
upon the halter of a stubborn mule, while the brute as
obstinately sets back, determined not to move a peg till
his own good pleasure thinks it proper to do so--his whole
manner seeming to say, "Wait till your hurry's over."
I have more than once seen a driver hitch a harnessed animal
to the halter, and by that process haul his mulishness
forward, while each of his four projected feet would leave
a furrow behind.

"All's set!" is finally heard from some teamster--
"All's set," is directly responded from every quarter.
"Stretch out!" immediately vociferates the captain.
Then the "heps!" to the drivers, the cracking of whips,
the trampling of feet, the occasional creak of wheels,
the rumbling of the wagons, while "Fall in" is heard from
head-quarters, and the train is strung out and in a few
moments has started on its long journey.

With an army-train the discipline was as perfect as that of a garrison.
The wagon-master was under the orders of the commander of the troops
which escorted the caravan, the camps were formed with regard to
strategic principles, sentries walked their beats and were visited by an
officer of the day, as if stationed at a military post.

Unquestionably the most expert packer I have known is Chris. Gilson,
of Kansas. In nearly all the expeditions on the great plains and in
the mountains he has been the master-spirit of the pack-trains. General
Sheridan, who knew Gilson long before the war, in Oregon and Washington,
regarded the celebrated packer with more than ordinary friendship.
For many years he was employed by the government at the suggestion
of General Sheridan, to teach the art of packing to the officers and
enlisted men at several military posts in the West. He received a large
salary, and for a long period was stationed at the immense cavalry depot
of Fort Riley, in Kansas. Gilson was also employed by the British army
during the Zulu war in Africa, as chief packer, at a salary of twenty
dollars a day. Now, however, since the railroads have penetrated the
once considered impenetrable fastnesses of the mountains, packing will
be relegated to the lost arts.

CHAPTER V. FIGHT WITH COMANCHES.

Early in the spring of 1828, a company of young men residing in the
vicinity of Franklin, Missouri, having heard related by a neighbour who
had recently returned the wonderful story of a passage across the great
plains, and the strange things to be seen in the land of the Greasers,
determined to explore the region for themselves; making the trip in
wagons, an innovation of a startling character, as heretofore only
pack-animals had been employed in the limited trade with far-off Santa
Fe. The story of their journey can best be told in the words of one of
the party:[19]--

We had about one thousand miles to travel, and as there was
no wagon-road in those early days across the plains to the
mountains, we were compelled to take our chances through
the vast wilderness, seeking the best route we could.

No signs of life were visible except the innumerable buffalo
and antelope that were constantly crossing our trail.
We moved on slowly from day to day without any incident
worth recording and arrived at the Arkansas; made the
passage and entered the Great American Desert lying beyond,
as listless, lonesome, and noiseless as a sleeping sea.
Having neglected to carry any water with us, we were obliged
to go withot a drop for two days and nights after leaving
the river. At last we reached the Cimarron, a cool,
sparkling stream, ourselves and our animals on the point
of perishing. Our joy at discovering it, however, was
short-lived. We had scarcely quenched our thirst when
we saw, to our dismay, a large band of Indians camped on
its banks. Their furtive glances at us, and significant
looks at each other, aroused our worst suspicions, and
we instinctively felt we were not to get away without
serious trouble. Contrary to our expectations, however,
they did not offer to molest us, and we at once made up
our minds they preferred to wait for our return, as we
believed they had somehow learned of our intention to bring
back from New Mexico a large herd of mules and ponies.

We arrived in Santa Fe on the 20th of July, without further
adventure, and after having our stock of goods passed
through the custom house, were granted the privilege of
selling them. The majority of the party sold out in a
very short time and started on their road to the States,
leaving twenty-one of us behind to return later.

On the first day of September, those of us who had remained
in Santa Fe commenced our homeward journey. We started
with one hundred and fifty mules and horses, four wagons,
and a large amount of silver coin. Nothing of an eventful
character occurred until we arrived at the Upper Cimarron
Springs, where we intended to encamp for the night.
But our anticipations of peaceable repose were rudely
dispelled; for when we rode up on the summit of the hill,
the sight that met our eyes was appalling enough to excite
the gravest apprehensions. It was a large camp of
Comanches, evidently there for the purpose of robbery
and murder. We could neither turn back nor go on either
side of them on account of the mountainous character of
the country, and we realized, when too late, that we were
in a trap.

There was only one road open to us; that right through
the camp. Assuming the bravest look possible, and keeping
our rifles in position for immediate action, we started
on the perilous venture. The chief met us with a smile
of welcome, and said, in Spanish: "You must stay with us
to-night. Our young men will guard your stock, and we have
plenty of buffalo meat."

Realizing the danger of our situation, we took advantage
of every moment of time to hurry through their camp.
Captain Means, Ellison, and myself were a little distance
behind the wagons, on horseback; observing that the balance
of our men were evading them, the blood-thirsty savages
at once threw off their masks of dissimulation and in an
instant we knew the time for a struggle had arrived.

The Indians, as we rode on, seized our bridle-reins and
began to fire upon us. Ellison and I put spurs to our
horses and got away, but Captain Means, a brave man,
was ruthlessly shot and cruelly scalped while the life-blood
was pouring from his ghastly wounds.

We succeeded in fighting them off until we had left their
camp half a mile behind, and as darkness had settled down
on us, we decided to go into camp ourselves. We tied our
gray bell-mare to a stake, and went out and jingled the
bell, whenever any of us could do so, thus keeping the
animals from stampeding. We corralled our wagons for
better protection, and the Indians kept us busy all night
resisting their furious charges. We all knew that death
at our posts would be infinitely preferable to falling
into their hands; so we resolved to sell our lives as
dearly as possible.

The next day we made but five miles; it was a continuous
fight, and a very difficult matter to prevent their
capturing us. This annoyance was kept up for four days;
they would surround us, then let up as if taking time to
renew their strength, to suddenly charge upon us again,
and they continued thus to harass us until we were almost
exhausted from loss of sleep.

After leaving the Cimarron, we once more emerged on the
open plains and flattered ourselves we were well rid of
the savages; but about twelve o'clock they came down on us
again, uttering their demoniacal yells, which frightened
our horses and mules so terribly, that we lost every hoof.
A member of our party, named Hitt, in endeavouring to
recapture some of the stolen stock, was taken by the
savages, but luckily escaped from their clutches, after
having been wounded in sixteen parts of his body;
he was shot, tomahawked, and speared. When the painted
demons saw that one of their number had been killed by us,
they left the field for a time, while we, taking advantage
of the temporary lull, went back to our wagons and built
breastworks of them, the harness, and saddles. From noon
until two hours in the night, when the moon went down,
the savages were apparently confident we would soon fall
a prey to them, and they made charge after charge upon
our rude fortifications.

Darkness was now upon us. There were two alternatives
before us: should we resolve to die where we were, or
attempt to escape in the black hours of the night?
It was a desperate situation. Our little band looked
the matter squarely in the face, and, after a council
of war had been held, we determined to escape, if possible.

In order to carry out our resolve, it was necessary to
abandon the wagons, together with a large amount of silver
coin, as it would be impossible to take all of the precious
stuff with us in our flight; so we packed up as much of it
as we could carry, and, bidding our hard-earned wealth
a reluctant farewell, stepped out in the darkness like
spectres and hurried away from the scene of death.

Our proper course was easterly, but we went in a northerly
direction in order to avoid the Indians. We travelled
all that night, the next day, and a portion of its night
until we reached the Arkansas River, and, having eaten
nothing during that whole time excepting a few prickly-pears,
were beginning to feel weak from the weight of our burdens
and exhaustion. At this point we decided to lighten
our loads by burying all of the money we had carried
thus far, keeping only a small sum for each man.
Proceeding to a small island in the river, our treasure,
amounting to over ten thousand silver dollars, was cached
in the ground between two cottonwood trees.

Believing now that we were out of the usual range of
the predatory Indians, we shot a buffalo and an antelope
which we cooked and ate without salt or bread; but no meal
has ever tasted better to me than that one.

We continued our journey northward for three or four days
more, when, reaching Pawnee Fork, we travelled down it for
more than a week, arriving again on the Old Santa Fe Trail.
Following the Trail three days, we arrived at Walnut Creek,
then left the river again and went eastwardly to Cow Creek.
When we reached that point, we had become so completely
exhausted and worn out from subsisting on buffalo meat
alone, that it seemed as if there was nothing left for
us to do but lie down and die. Finally it was determined
to send five of the best-preserved men on ahead to
Independence, two hundred miles, for the purpose of
procuring assistance; the other fifteen to get along
as well as they could until succour reached them.

I was one of the five selected to go on in advance, and
I shall never forget the terrible suffering we endured.
We had no blankets, and it was getting late in the fall.
Some of us were entirely barefooted, and our feet so sore
that we left stains of blood at every step. Deafness, too,
seized upon us so intensely, occasioned by our weak
condition, that we coud not hear the report of a gun fired
at a distance of only a few feet.

At one place two of our men laid down their arms, declaring
they could carry them no farther, and would die if they
did not get water. We left them and went in search of some.
After following a dry branch several miles, we found
a muddy puddle from which we succeeded in getting half
a bucket full, and, although black and thick, it was life
for us and we guarded it with jealous eyes. We returned
to our comrades about daylight, and the water so refreshed
them they were able to resume the weary march. We travelled
on until we arrived at the Big Blue River, in Missouri,
on the bank of which we discovered a cabin about fifteen
miles from Independence. The occupants of the rude shanty
were women, seemingly very poor, but they freely offered us
a pot of pumpkin they were stewing. When they first saw us,
they were terribly frightened, because we looked more like
skeletons than living beings. They jumped on the bed while
we were greedily devouring the pumpkin, but we had to
refuse some salt meat which they had also proffered,
as our teeth were too sore to eat it. In a short time
two men came to the cabin and took three of our men
home with them. We had subsisted for eleven days on
one turkey, a coon, a crow, and some elm bark, with an
occasional bunch of wild grapes, and the pictures we
presented to these good people they will never, probably,
forget; we had not tasted bread or salt for thirty-two days.

The next day our newly found friends secured horses and
guided us to Independence, all riding without saddles.
One of the party had gone on to notify the citizens of
our safety, and when we arrived general muster was going on,
the town was crowded, and when the people looked upon us
the most intense excitement prevailed. All business was
suspended; the entire population flocked around us to hear
the remarkable story of our adventures, and to render us
the assistance we so much needed. We were half-naked,
foot-sore, and haggard, presenting such a pitiable picture
that the greatest sympathy was immediately aroused in
our behalf.

We then said that behind us on the Trail somewhere, fifteen
comrades were struggling toward Independence, or were
already dead from their sufferings. In a very few minutes
seven men with fifteen horses started out to rescue them.

They were gone from Independence several days, but had the
good fortune to find all the men just in time to save them
from starvation and exhaustion. Two were discovered
a hundred miles from Independence, and the remainder
scattered along the Trail fifty miles further in their rear.
Not more than two of the unfortunate party were together.
The humane rescuers seemingly brought back nothing but
living skeletons wrapped in rags; but the good people of
the place vied with each other in their attentions, and
under their watchful care the sufferers rapidly recuperated.

One would suppose that we had had enough of the great plains
after our first trip; not so, however, for in the spring
we started again on the same journey. Major Riley, with
four companies of regular soldiers, was detailed to escort
the Santa Fe traders' caravans to the boundary line between
the United States and Mexico, and we went along to recover
the money we had buried, the command having been ordered to
remain in camp to await our return until the 20th of October.

We left Fort Leavenworth about the 10th of May, and were
soon again on the plains. Many of the troops had never
seen any buffalo before, and found great sport in wantonly
slaughtering them. At Walnut Creek we halted to secure
a cannon which had been thrown into that stream two seasons
previously, and succeeded in dragging it out. With a seine
made of brush and grape vine, we caught more fine fish than
we could possibly dispose of. One morning the camp was
thrown into the greatest state of excitement by a band of
Indians running an enormous herd of buffalo right into us.
The troops fired at them by platoons, killing hundreds
of them.

We marched in two columns, and formed a hollow square
at night when we camped, in which all slept excepting
those on guard duty. Frequently some one would discover
a rattlesnake or a horned toad in bed with him, and it
did not take him a very long time to crawl out of his
blankets!

On the 10th of July, we arrived at the dividing line
separating the two countries, and went into camp. The next
day Major Riley sent a squad of soldiers to escort myself
and another of our old party, who had helped bury the
ten thousand dollars, to find it. It was a few miles
further up the Arkansas than our camp, in the Mexican
limits, and when we reached the memorable spot on the
island,[20] we found the coin safe, but the water had
washed the earth away, and the silver was exposed to view
to excite the cupidity of any one passing that way;
there were not many travellers on that lonely route in
those days, however, and it would have been just as secure,
probably, had we simply poured it on the ground.

We put the money in sacks and deposited it with Major Riley,
and, leaving the camp, started for Santa Fe with Captain
Bent as leader of the traders. We had not proceeded far
when our advanced guard met Indians. They turned, and when
within two hundred yards of us, one man named Samuel Lamme
was killed, his body being completely riddled with arrows.
His head was cut off, and all his clothes stripped from
his body. We had a cannon, but the Mexicans who hauled it
had tied it up in such a way that it could not be utilized
in time to effect anything in the first assault; but when
at last it was turned loose upon the Indians, they fled
in dismay at the terrible noise.

The troops at the crossing of the Arkansas, hearing the
firing, came to our assistance. The next morning the
hills were covered by fully two thousand Indians, who had
evidently congregated there for the purpose of annihilating
us, and the coming of the soldiers was indeed fortunate;
for as soon as the cowardly savages discovered them
they fled. Major Riley accompanied us on our march for
a few days, and, seeing no more Indians, he returned to
his camp.

We travelled on for a week, then met a hundred Mexicans
who were out on the plains hunting buffalo. They had
killed a great many and were drying the meat. We waited
until they were ready to return and then all started for
Santa Fe together.

At Rabbit-Ear Mountain the Indians had constructed
breastworks in the brush, intending to fight it out there.
The Mexicans were in the advance and had one of their
number killed before discovering the enemy. We passed
Point of Rocks and camped on the river. One of the
Mexicans went out hunting and shot a huge panther;
next morning he asked a companion to go with him and help
skin the animal. They saw the Indians in the brush, and
the one who had killed the panther said to the other,
"Now for the mountains"; but his comrade retreated,
and was despatched by the savages almost within reach
of the column.

We now decided to change our destination, intending to go
to Taos instead of Santa Fe, but the governor of the
Province sent out troops to stop us, as Taos was not a
place of entry. The soldiers remained with us a whole week,
until we arrived at Santa Fe, where we disposed of our goods
and soon began to make preparations for our return trip.

When we were ready to start back, seven priests and a
number of wealthy families, comfortably fixed in carriages,
accompanied us. The Mexican government ordered Colonel
Viscarra of the army, with five troops of cavalry,
to guard us to the camp of Major Riley.

We experienced no trouble until we arrived at the
Cimarron River. About sunset, just as we were preparing
to camp for the night, the sentinels saw a body of a
hundred Indians approaching; they fired at them and ran
to camp. Knowing they had been discovered, the Indians
came on and made friendly overtures; but the Pueblos who
who were with the command of Colonel Viscarra wanted to
fight them at once, saying the fellows meant mischief.
We declined to camp with them unless they would agree to
give up their arms; they pretended they were willing to
do so, when one of them put his gun at the breast of our
interpreter and pulled the trigger. In an instant a bloody
scene ensued; several of Viscarra's men were killed,
together with a number of mules. Finally the Indians
were whipped and tried to get away, but we chased them
some distance and killed thirty-five. Our friendly Pueblos
were delighted, and proceeded to scalp the savages,
hanging the bloody trophies on the points of their spears.
That night they indulged in a war-dance which lasted
until nearly morning.

We were delighted to see a beautiful sunshiny day after
the horrors of the preceding night, and continued our march
without farther interruption, safely arriving at the camp
on the boundary line, where Major Riley was waiting for us,
as we supposed; but his time having expired the day before,
he had left for Fort Leavenworth. A courier was despatched
to him, however, as Colonel Viscarra desired to meet the
American commander and see his troops. The courier overtook
Major Riley a short distance away, and he halted for us
to come up. Both commands then went into camp, and spent
several days comparing the discipline of the armies of
the two nations, and having a general good time.
Colonel Viscarra greatly admired our small arms, and
took his leave in a very courteous manner.

We arrived at Fort Leavenworth late in the season, and
from there we all scattered. I received my share of the
money we had cached on the island, and bade my comrades
farewell, only a few of whom I have ever seen since.

Mr. Hitt in his notes of this same perilous trip says:

When the grass had sufficiently started to insure the
subsistence of our teams, our wagons were loaded with
a miscellaneous assortment of merchandise and the first
trader's caravan of wagons that ever crossed the plains
left Independence. Before we had travelled three weeks
on our journey, we were one evening confronted with the
novel fact of camping in a country where not a stick of
wood could be found. The grass was too green to burn,
and we were wondering how our fire could be started
with which to boil our coffee, or cook our bread. One of
our number, however, while diligently searching for
something to utilize, suddenly discovered scattered all
around him a large quantity of buffalo-chips, and he soon
had an excellent fire under way, his coffee boiling and
his bacon sizzling over the glowing coals.

We arrived in Santa Fe without incident, and as ours
was the first train of wagons that ever traversed the
narrow streets of the quaint old town, it was, of course,
a great curiosity to the natives.

After a few days' rest, sight-seeing, and purchasing stock
to replace our own jaded animals, preparations were made
for the return trip. All the money we had received for
our goods was in gold and silver, principally the latter,
in consequence of which, each member of the company had
about as much as he could conveniently manage, and,
as events turned out, much more than he could take care of.

On the morning of the third day out, when we were not
looking for the least trouble, our entire herd was
stampeded, and we were left upon the prairie without
as much as a single mule to pursue the fast-fleeing
thieves. The Mexicans and Indians had come so suddenly
upon us, and had made such an effective dash, that we
stood like children who had broken their toys on a stone
at their feet. We were so unprepared for such a stampede
that the thieves did not approach within rifle-shot range
of the camp to accomplish their object; few of them
coming within sight, even.

After the excitement had somewhat subsided and we began
to realize what had been done, it was decided that while
some should remain to guard the camp, others must go to
Santa Fe to see if they could not recover the stock.
The party that went to Santa Fe had no difficulty in
recognizing the stolen animals; but when they claimed them,
they were laughed at by the officials of the place.
They experienced no difficulty, however, in purchasing
the same stock for a small sum, which they at once did,
and hurried back to camp. By this unpleasant episode
we learned of the stealth and treachery of the miserable
people in whose country we were. We, therefore, took every
precaution to prevent a repetition of the affair, and
kept up a vigilant guard night and day.

Matters progressed very well, and when we had travelled
some three hundred miles eastwardly, thinking we were
out of range of any predatory bands, as we had seen no
sign of any living thing, we relaxed our vigilance somewhat.
One morning, just before dawn, the whole earth seemed to
resound with the most horrible noises that ever greeted
human ears; every blade of grass appeared to re-echo
the horrid din. In a few moments every man was at his post,
rifle in hand, ready for any emergency, and almost
immediately a large band of Indians made their appearance,
riding within rifle-shot of the wagons. A continuous
battle raged for several hours, the savages discharging
a shot, then scampering off out of range as fast as
their ponies could carry them. Some, more brave than
others would venture closer to the corral, and one of these
got the contents of an old-fashioned flint-lock musket
in his bowels.

We were careful not all to fire at the same time, and
several of our party, who were watching the effects of
our shots declared they could see the dust fly out of
the robes of the Indians as the bullets struck them.
It was learned afterward that a number of the savages
were wounded, and that several had died. Many were armed
with bows and arrows only, and in order to do any execution
were obliged to come near the corral. The Indians soon
discovered they were getting the worst of the fight, and,
having run off all the stock, abandoned the conflict,
leaving us in possession of the camp, but it can hardly
be said masters of the situation.

There we were; thirty-five pioneers upon the wild prairie,
surrounded by a wily and terribly cruel foe, without
transportation of any character but our own legs, and with
five hundred miles of dangerous, trackless waste between
us and the settlements. We had an abundance of money,
but the stuff was absolutely worthless for the present,
as there was nothing we could buy with it.

After the last savage had ridden away into the sand hills
on the opposite side of the river, each one of us had a
thrilling story to relate of his individual narrow escapes.
Though none was killed, many received wounds, the scars
of which they carried through life. I was wounded six
times. Once was in the thigh by an arrow, and once while
loading my rifle I had my ramrod shot off close to the
muzzle of my piece, the ball just grazing my shoulder,
tearing away a small portion of the skin. Others had
equally curious experiences, but none were seriously injured.

After the excitement incident to the battle had subsided,
the realization of our condition fully dawned upon us.
When we were first robbed, we were only a short distance
from Santa Fe, where our money easily procured other stock;
now there were three hundred miles behind us to that place,
and the picture was anything but pleasant to contemplate.
To transport supplies for thirty-five men seemed impossible.
Our money was now a burden greater than we could bear;
what was to be done with it? We would have no use for it
on our way to the settlements, yet the idea of abandoning
it seemed hard to accept. A vigilant guard was kept up
that day and night, during which time we all remained
in camp, fearing a renewal of the attack.

The next morning, as there were no apparent signs of
the Indians, it was decided to reconnoitre the surrounding
country in the hope of recovering a portion, at least,
of our lost stock, which we thought might have become
separated from the main herd. Three men were detailed
to stay in the old camp to guard it while the remainder,
in squads, scoured the hills and ravines. Not a horse
or mule was visible anywhere; the stampede had been
complete--not even the direction the animals had taken
could be discovered.

It was late in the afternoon when I, having left my
companions to continue the search and returning to camp
alone, had gotten within a mile of it, that I thought I saw
a horse feeding upon an adjoining hill. I at once turned
my steps in that direction, and had proceeded but a short
distance when three Indians jumped from their ambush in
the grass between me and the wagons and ran after me.
The men in camp had been watching my every movement,
and as soon as they saw the savages were chasing me,
they started in pursuit, running at their greatest speed
to my rescue.

The savages soon overtook me, and the first one that
came up tackled me, but in an instant found himself flat
on the ground. Before he could get up, the second one
shared the same fate. By this time the third one arrived,
and the two I had thrown grabbed me by the legs so that
I could no longer handle myself, while the third one had
a comparatively easy task in pushing me over. Fortunately,
my head fell toward the camp and my fast-approaching
comrades. The two Indians held my legs to prevent my
rising, while the third one, who was standing over me,
drew from his belt a tomahawk, and shrugging his head
in his blanket, at the same time looking over his shoulder
at my friends, with a tremendous effort and that peculiar
grunt of all savages, plunged his hatchet, as he supposed,
into my head, but instead of scuffling to free myself
and rise to my feet, I merely turned my head to one side
and the wicked weapon was buried in the ground, just
grazing my ear.

The Indian, seeing that he had missed, raised his hatchet
and once more shrugging his head in his blanket, and
turning to look over his other shoulder, attempted to
strike again, but the blow was evaded by a sudden toss
of his intended victim's head. Not satisfied with two
abortive trials, the third attempt must be made to brain me,
and repeating the same motions, with a great "Ugh!" he
seemed to put all his strength into the blow, which, like
the others, missed, and spent its force in the earth.
By this time the rescuing party had come near enough to
prevent the savage from risking another effort, and he then
addressed the other Indians in Spanish, which I understood,
saying, "We must run or the Americans will kill us!"
and loosening his grasp, he scampered off with his
companions as fast as his legs could take him, hurried on
by several pieces of lead fired from the old flintlocks
of the traders.

By sundown every man had returned to the forlorn camp,
but not an animal had been recovered. Then, with tired
limbs and weary hearts, we took turns at guarding the
wagons through the long night. The next morning each man
shouldered his rifle, and having had his proportion of
the provisions and cooking utensils assigned him,
we broke camp, and again turned to take a last look at
the country behind us, in which we had experienced so much
misfortune, and started on foot for our long march through
the dangerous region ahead of us.

Scarcely had we gotten out of sight of our abandoned camp,
when one of the party, happening to turn his eyes in that
direction, saw a large volume of smoke rising in the
vicinity; then we knew that all of our wagons, and
everything we had been forced to leave, were burning up.
This proved that, although we had been unable to discover
any signs of Indians, they had been lurking around us
all the time, and this fact warned us to exercise the
utmost vigilance in guarding our persons.

Though our burdens were very heavy, the first few days
were passed without anything to relieve the dreadful
monotony of our wearisome march; but each succeeding
twenty-four hours our loads became visibly lighter,
as our supplies were rapidly diminishing. It had already
become apparent that even in the exercise of the greatest
frugality, our stock of provisions would not last until
we could reach the settlements, so some of the most expert
shots were selected to hunt for game; but even in this
they were not successful, the very birds seeming to have
abandoned the country in its extreme desolation.

After eight days' travel, despite our most rigid economy,
an inventory showed that there was less than one hundred
pounds of flour left. Day after day the hunters repeated
the same old story: "No game!" For two weeks the allowance
of flour to each individual was but a spoonful, stirred
in water and taken three times a day.

One afternoon, however, fortune smiled upon the weary party;
one of the hunters returned to camp with a turkey he had
killed. It was soon broiling over a fire which willing
hands had kindled, and our drooping spirits were revived
for a while. While the turkey was cooking, a crow flew
over the camp, and one of the company, seizing a gun,
despatched it, and in a few moments it, too, was sizzling
along with the other bird.

Now, in addition to the pangs of hunger, a scarcity of
water confronted us, and one day we were compelled to
resort to a buffalo-wallow and suck the moist clay where
the huge animals had been stamping in the mud. We were
much reduced in strength, yet each day added new
difficulties to our forlorn situation. Some became so weak
and exhausted that it was with the greatest effort they
could travel at all. To divide the company and leave
the more feeble behind to starve, or to be murdered by
the merciless savages, was not considered for a moment;
but one alternative remained, and that was speedily accepted.
As soon as a convenient camping-ground could be found,
a halt was made, shelter established, and things made as
comfortable as possible. Here the weakest remained to rest,
while some of the strongest scoured the surrounding country
in search of game. During this temporary halt the hunters
were more successful than before, having killed two
buffaloes, besides some smaller animals, in one morning.
Again the natural dry fuel of the prairies was called
into requisition, and juicy steak was once more broiling
over the fire.

With an abundance to eat and a few days' rest, the whole
company revived and were enabled to renew their march
homeward. We were now in the buffalo range, and every day
the hunters were fortunate enough to kill one or more of
the immense animals, thus keeping our larder in excellent
condition, and starvation averted.

Doubting whether our good fortune in relation to food
would continue for the remainder of our march, and our
money becoming very cumbersome, it was decided by a majority
that at the first good place we came to we would bury it
and risk its being stolen by our enemies. When not more
than half of our journey had been accomplished, we came
to an island in the river to which we waded, and there,
between two large trees, dug a hole and deposited our
treasure. We replaced the sod over the spot, taking the
utmost precaution to conceal every sign of having disturbed
the ground. Though no Indians had been seen for several
days, a sharp lookout was kept in all directions for fear
that some lurking savage might have been watching our
movements. This task finished, with much lighter burdens,
but more anxious than ever, we again took up our march
eastwardly, and, thus relieved, were able to carry a
greater quantity of provisions.

Having journeyed until we supposed we were within a few
miles of the settlements, some of our number, scarcely able
to travel, thought the best course to pursue would be to
divide the company; one portion to press on, the weaker
ones to proceed by easier stages, and when the advance
arrived at the settlements, they were to send back a relief
for those plodding on wearily behind them. Soon a few
who were stronger than the others reached Independence,
Missouri, and immediately sent a party with horses to
bring in their comrades; so, at last, all got safely to
their homes.

In the spring of 1829, Major Bennett Riley of the United States army was
ordered with four companies of the Sixth Regular Infantry to march out
on the Trail as the first military escort ever sent for the protection
of the caravans of traders going and returning between Western Missouri
and Santa Fe. Captain Philip St. George Cooke, of the Dragoons,
accompanied the command, and kept a faithful journal of the trip, from
which, and the official report of Major Riley to the Secretary of War, I
have interpolated here copious extracts.

The journal of Captain Cooke states that the battalion marched from Fort
Leavenworth, which was then called a cantonment, and, strange to
say, had been abandoned by the Third Infantry on account of its
unhealthiness. It was the 5th of June that Riley crossed the Missouri at
the cantonment, and recrossed the river again at a point a little above
Independence, in order to avoid the Kaw, or Kansas, which had no ferry.

After five days' marching, the command arrived at Round Grove, where
the caravan had been ordered to rendezvous and wait for the escort. The
number of traders aggregated about seventy-nine men, and their train
consisted of thirty-eight wagons drawn by mules and horses, the former
preponderating. Five days' marching, at an average of fifteen miles a
day, brought them to Council Grove. Leaving the Grove, in a short time
Cow Creek was reached, which at that date abounded in fish; many of
which, says the journal, "weighed several pounds, and were caught as
fast as the line could be handled." The captain does not describe the
variety to which he refers; probably they were the buffalo--a species of
sucker, to be found to-day in every considerable stream in Kansas.

Having reached the Upper Valley,[21] bordered by high sand hills, the
journal continues:

From the tops of the hills, we saw far away, in almost
every direction, mile after mile of prairie, blackened
with buffalo. One morning, when our march was along the
natural meadows by the river, we passed through them for
miles; they opened in front and closed continually in
the rear, preserving a distance scarcely over three hundred
paces. On one occasion, a bull had approached within
two hundred yards without seeing us, until he ascended
the river bank; he stood a moment shaking his head, and
then made a charge at the column. Several officers
stepped out and fired at him, two or three dogs also rushed
to meet him; but right onward he came, snorting blood
from mouth and nostril at every leap, and, with the speed
of a horse and the momentum of a locomotive, dashed
between two wagons, which the frightened oxen nearly upset;
the dogs were at his heels and soon he came to bay, and,
with tail erect, kicked violently for a moment, and then
sank in death--the muscles retaining the dying rigidity
of tension.

About the middle of July, the command arrived at its
destination--Chouteau's Island, then on the boundary line between the
United States and New Mexico.

Our orders were to march no further; and, as a protection
to the trade, it was like the establishment of a ferry
to the mid-channel of a river.

Up to this time, traders had always used mules or horses.
Our oxen were an experiment, and it succeeded admirably;
they even did better when water was very scarce, which is
an important consideration.

A few hours after the departure of the trading company,
as we enjoyed a quiet rest on a hot afternoon, we saw
beyond the river a number of horsemen riding furiously
toward our camp. We all flocked out of the tents to hear
the news, for they were soon recognized as traders.
They stated that the caravan had been attacked, about
six miles off in the sand hills, by an innumerable host
of Indians; that some of their companions had been killed;
and they had run, of course, for help. There was not a
moment's hesitation; the word was given, and the tents
vanished as if by magic. The oxen which were grazing
near by were speedily yoked to the wagons, and into the
river we marched. Then I deemed myself the most unlucky
of men; a day or two before, while eating my breakfast,
with my coffee in a tin cup--notorious among chemists and
campaigners for keeping it hot--it was upset into my shoe,
and on pulling off the stocking, it so happened that the
skin came with it. Being thus hors de combat, I sought to
enter the combat on a horse, which was allowed; but I was
put in command of the rear guard to bring up the baggage
train. It grew late, and the wagons crossed slowly;
for the river unluckily took that particular time to
rise fast, and, before all were over, we had to swim it,
and by moonlight. We reached the encampment at one o'clock
at night. All was quiet, and remained so until dawn,
when, at the sound of our bugles, the pickets reported
they saw a number of Indians moving off. On looking
around us, we perceived ourselves and the caravan in the
most unfavorable defenceless situation possible--in the
area of a natural amphitheatre of sand hills, about fifty
feet high, and within gun-shot all around. There was
the narrowest practicable entrance and outlet.

We ascertained that some mounted traders, in spite of all
remonstrance and command, had ridden on in advance, and
when in the narrow pass beyond this spot, had been suddenly
beset by about fifty Indians; all fled and escaped save one,
who, mounted on a mule, was abandoned by his companions,
overtaken, and slain. The Indians, perhaps, equalled the
traders in number, but notwithstanding their extraordinary
advantage of ground, dared not attack them when they
made a stand among their wagons; and the latter, all well
armed, were afraid to make a single charge, which would
have scattered their enemies like sheep.

Having buried the poor fellow's body, and killed an ox for
breakfast, we left this sand hollow, which would soon have
been roasting hot, and advancing through the defile--of
which we took care to occupy the commanding ground--
proceeded to escort the traders at least one day's march
further.

When the next morning broke clear and cloudless, the command
was confronted by one of those terrible hot winds, still
frequent on the plains. The oxen with lolling tongues
were incapable of going on; the train was halted, and the
suffering animals unyoked, but they stood motionless,
making no attempt to graze. Late that afternoon, the
caravan pushed on for about ten miles, where was the
sandy bed of a dry creek, and fortunately, not far from
the Trail, up the stream, a pool of water and an acre
or two of grass was discovered. On the surface of the
water floated thick the dead bodies of small fish, which
the intense heat of the sun that day had killed.

Arriving at this point, it was determined to march no
further into the Mexican territory. At the first light
next day we were in motion to return to the river and
the American line, and no further adventure befell us.

While permanently encamped at Chouteau's Island, which is situated in
the Arkansas River, the term of enlistment of four of the soldiers
of Captain Cooke's command expired, and they were discharged. In his
journal he says:

Contrary to all advice they determined to return to
Missouri. After having marched several hundred miles
over a prairie country, being often on high hills
commanding a vast prospect, without seeing a human being
or a sign of one, and, save the trail we followed, not
the slightest indication that the country had ever been
visited by man, it was exceedingly difficult to credit
that lurking foes were around us, and spying our motions.
It was so with these men; and being armed, they set out
on the first of August on foot for the settlements.
That same night three of the four returned. They reported
that, after walking about fifteen miles, they were
surrounded by thirty mounted Indians. A wary old soldier
of their number succeeded in extricating them before any
hostile act had been committed; but one of them, highly
elated and pleased at their forbearance, insisted on
returning among them to give them tobacco and shake hands.
In this friendly act he was shot down. The Indians
stripped him in an incredibly short time, and as quickly
dispersed to avoid a shot; and the old soldier, after
cautioning the others to reserve their fire, fired among
them, and probably with some effect. Had the others done
the same, the Indians would have rushed upon them before
they could have reloaded. They managed to make good
their retreat in safety to our camp.

We were instructed to wait here for the return of the
caravan, which was expected early in October.
Our provisions consisted of salt and half rations of flour,
besides a reserve of fifteen days' full rations--as to the
rest, we were dependent upon hunting. When the buffalo
became scarce, or the grass bad, we marched to other
ground, thus roving up and down the river for eighty
miles. The first thing we did after camping was to dig
and construct, with flour barrels, a well in front of
each company; water was always found at the depth of
from two to four feet varying with the corresponding
height of the river, but clear and cool. Next we would
build sod fire-places; these, with network platforms of
buffalo hide, used for smoking and drying meat, formed a
tolerable additional defence, at least against mounted men.

Hunting was a military duty, done by detail, parties of
fifteen or twenty going out with a wagon. Completely
isolated, and beyond support or even communication,
in the midst of many thousands of Indians, the utmost
vigilance was maintained. Officer of the guard every
fourth night; I was always awake and generally in motion
the whole time of duty. Night alarms were frequent; when,
as we all slept in our clothes, we were accustomed to
assemble instantly, and with scarcely a word spoken,
take our places in the grass in front of each face of
the camp, where, however wet, we sometimes lay for hours.

While encamped a few miles below Chouteau's Island, on the
eleventh of August, an alarm was given, and we were under
arms for an hour until daylight. During the morning,
Indians were seen a mile or two off, leading their horses
through the ravines. A captain, however, with eighteen
men was sent across the river after buffalo, which we saw
half a mile distant. In his absence, a large body of
Indians came galloping down the river, as if to charge
the camp, but the cattle were secured in good time.
A company, of which I was lieutenant, was ordered to
cross the river and support the first. We waded in some
disorder through the quicksands and current, and just
as we neared a dry sandbar in the middle, a volley was
fired at us by a band of Indians, who that moment rode
to the water's edge. The balls whistled very near,
but without damage; I felt an involuntary twitch of
the neck, and wishing to return the compliment instantly,
I stooped down, and the company fired over my head,
with what execution was not perceived, as the Indians
immediately retired out of our view. This had passed
in half a minute, and we were astonished to see, a little
above, among some bushes on the same bar, the party we had
been sent to support, and we heard that they had abandoned
one of the hunters, who had been killed. We then saw,
on the bank we had just left, a formidable body of the
enemy in close order, and hoping to surprise them,
we ascended the bed of the river. In crossing the channel
we were up to the arm-pits, but when we emerged on the
bank, we found that the Indians had detected the movement,
and retreated. Casting eyes beyond the river, I saw a
number of the Indians riding on both sides of a wagon
and team which had been deserted, urging the animals
rapidly toward the hills. At this juncture the adjutant
sent an order to cross and recover the body of the slain
hunter, who was an old soldier and a favourite. He was
brought in with an arrow still transfixing his breast,
but his scalp was gone.

On the fourteenth of October, we again marched on our
return. Soon after, we saw smokes arise over the distant
hills; evidently signals, indicating to different parties
of Indians our separation and march, but whether preparatory
to an attack upon the Mexicans or ourselves, or rather
our immense drove of animals, we could only guess.

Our march was constantly attended by great collections
of buffalo, which seemed to have a general muster, perhaps
for migration. Sometimes a hundred or two--a fragment
from the multitude--would approach within two or three
hundred yards of the column, and threaten a charge which
would have proved disastrous to the mules and their drivers.

Under the friendly cover of the shades of evening, on the
eighth of November, our tatterdemalion veterans marched
into Fort Leavenworth, and took quiet possession of the
miserable huts and sheds left by the Third Infantry in
the preceding May.

CHAPTER VI. A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY.

As early as November, 1842, a rumour was current in Santa Fe, and along
the line of the Trail, that parties of Texans had left the Republic for
the purpose of attacking and robbing the caravans to the United States
which were owned wholly by Mexicans. In consequence of this, several
Americans were accused of being spies and acting in collusion with the
Texans; many were arrested and carried to Santa Fe, but nothing could
be proved against them, and the rumours of the intended purposes of the
Texans died out.

Very early in May, however, of the following year, 1843, a certain
Colonel Snively did organize a small force, comprising about two hundred
men, which he led from Northern Texas, his home, to the line of the
Trail, with the intention of attacking and robbing the Mexican caravans
which were expected to cross the plains that month and in June.

When he arrived at the Arkansas River, he was there reinforced by
another Texan colonel, named Warfield with another small command. Gregg
says:

This officer, with about twenty men, had some time
previously attacked the village of Mora, on the Mexican
frontier, killing five men, and driving off a number
of horses. They were afterward followed by a party of
Mexicans, however, who stampeded and carried away, not only
their own horses, but those of the Texans. Being left
afoot, the latter burned their saddles, and walked to
Bent's Fort, where they were disbanded; whence Warfield
passed to Snively's camp, as before mentioned.

The Texans now advanced along the Santa Fe Trail, beyond
the sand hills south of the Arkansas, when they discovered
that a party of Mexicans had passed toward the river.
They soon came upon them, and a skirmish ensuing, eighteen
Mexicans were killed, and as many wounded, five of whom
afterward died. The Texans suffered no injury, though
the Mexicans were a hundred in number. The rest were all
taken prisoners except two, who escaped and bore the news
to General Armijo, who was encamped with a large force
at Cold Spring, one hundred and forty miles beyond.

Kit Carson figured conspicuously in this fight, or, rather, immediately
afterward. His recital differs somewhat from Gregg's account, but the
stories substantially agree. Kit said that in April, previously to the
assault upon Armijo's caravan, he had hired out as hunter to Bent's and
Colonel St. Vrain's train caravan, which was then making its annual
tour eastwardly. When he arrived at the crossing of Walnut Creek,[22] he
found the encampment of Captain Philip St. George Cooke, of the United
States army, who had been detailed with his command to escort the
caravans to the New Mexican boundary. His force consisted of four troops
of dragoons. The captain informed Carson that coming on behind him from
the States was a caravan belonging to a very wealthy Mexican.

It was a richly loaded train, and in order to insure its better
protection while passing through that portion of the country infested
by the blood-thirsty Comanches and Apaches, the majordomo in charge
had hired one hundred Mexicans as a guard. The teamsters and others
belonging to the caravan had heard that a large body of Texans were
lying in wait for them, and intended to murder and plunder them in
retaliation for the way Armijo had treated some Texan prisoners he had
got in his power at Santa Fe some time before. Of course, it was the
duty of the United States troops to escort this caravan to the New
Mexico line, but there their duty would end, as they had no authority to
cross the border. The Mexicans belonging to the caravan were afraid they
would be at the mercy of the Texans after they had parted company with
the soldiers, and when Kit Carson met them, they, knowing the famous
trapper and mountaineer well, asked him to take a letter to Armijo,
who was then governor of New Mexico, and resided in Santa Fe, for which
service they would give him three hundred dollars in advance. The letter
contained a statement of the fears they entertained, and requested the
general to send Mexican troops at once to meet them.

Carson, who was then not blessed with much money, eagerly accepted the
task, and immediately started on the trail for Bent's Fort, in company
with another old mountaineer and bosom friend named Owens. In a short
time they arrived at the Fort, where Owens decided not to go any
further, because they were informed by the men at Bent's that the Utes
had broken out, and were scattered along the Trail at the most dangerous
points, and he was fearful that his life would be endangered if he
attempted to make Santa Fe.

Kit, however, nothing daunted, and determined to do the duty for which
he had been rewarded so munificently, started out alone on his perilous
trip. Mr. Bent kindly furnished him with the best and fastest horse he
had in his stables, but Kit, realizing the dangers to which he would be
exposed, walked, leading his animal, ready to mount him at a moment's
notice; thus keeping him in a condition that would enable Carson to fly
and make his escape if the savages tried to capture him. His knowledge
of the Indian character, and wonderful alertness in moments of peril,
served him well; for he reached the village of the hostile Indians
without their discovering his proximity. Hiding himself in a rocky,
bush-covered canyon, he stayed there until night came on, when he
continued his journey in the darkness.

He took the trail to Taos, where he arrived in two or three days,
and presented his letter to the alcalde, to be sent on to Santa Fe by
special messenger.

He was to remain at Taos until an answer from the governor arrived, and
then return with it as rapidly as possible to the train. While at
Taos, he was informed that Armijo had already sent out a company of one
hundred soldiers to meet the caravan, and was to follow in person, with
a thousand more.

This first hundred were those attacked by Colonel Snively, as related by
Gregg, who says that two survived, who carried the news of the disaster
to Armijo at Cold Spring; but Carson told me that only one got away,
by successfully catching, during the heat of the fight, a Texan pony
already saddled, that was grazing around loose. With him he made
Armijo's camp and related to the Mexican general the details of the
terribly unequal battle. Armijo, upon receipt of the news, "turned
tail," and retreated to Santa Fe.

Before Armijo left Santa Fe with his command, he had received the letter
which Carson had brought from the caravan, and immediately sent one in
reply for Carson to carry back, thinking that the old mountaineer might
reach the wagons before he did. Carson, with his usual promptness,
started on the Trail for the caravan, and came up with it while it was
escorted by the dragoons, thus saving it from the fate that the Texans
intended for it, as they dared not attempt any interference in the
presence of the United States troops.

The rumour current in Santa Fe in relation to a probable raid of parties
of Texans along the line of the Trail, for the purpose of attacking and
robbing the caravans of the wealthy Mexican traders, was received
with so little credence by the prominent citizens of the country,
that several native trains left for the Missouri River without their
proprietors having the slightest apprehension that they would not reach
their destination, and make the return trip in safety.

Among those who had no fear of marauders was Don Antonio Jose Chavez,
who, in February, 1843, left Santa Fe for Independence with an outfit
consisting of a number of wagons, his private coach, several servants
and other retainers. Don Antonio was a very wealthy Mexican engaged in
a general mercantile business on a large scale in Albuquerque, who made
all his purchases of goods in St. Louis, which was then the depot of
supplies for the whole mountain region. He necessarily carried with
him on these journeys a large amount of money, in silver, which was the
legal currency of the country, and made but one trip yearly to replenish
the stock of goods required in his extensive trade in all parts of
Mexico.

Upon his arrival at Westport Landing, as Kansas City was then called,
he would take the steamboat for St. Louis, leaving his coach, wagons,
servants, and other appointments of his caravan behind him in the
village of Westport, a few miles from the Landing.

Westport was at that time, like all steamboat towns in the era of water
navigation, the harbor of as great a lot of ruffians as ever escaped the
gallows. There was especially a noted gang of land pirates, the members
of which had long indulged in speculations regarding the probable wealth
of the Mexican Don, and how much coin he generally carried with him.
They knew that it must be considerable from the quantity of goods that
always came by boat with him from St. Louis.

At last a devilish plot was arranged to get hold of the rich trader's
money. Nine men were concerned in the robbery, nearly all of whom
were residents of the vicinity of Westport; their leader was one John
McDaniel, recently from Texas, from which government he claimed to hold
a captain's commission, and one of their number was a doctor. It was
evidently the intention of this band to join Warfield's party on the
Arkansas, and engage in a general robbery of the freight caravans of the
Santa Fe Trail belonging to the Mexicans; but they had determined that
Chavez should be their first victim, and in order to learn when he
intended to leave Santa Fe on his next trip east, they sent their spies
out on the great highway.

They did not dare attempt their contemplated robbery, and murder if
necessary, in the State of Missouri, for there were too many citizens of
the border who would never have permitted such a thing to go unpunished;
so they knew that their only chance was to effect it in the Indian
country of Kansas, where there was little or no law.

Cow Creek, which debouches into the Arkansas at Hutchinson, where the
Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad crosses the historic little
stream,[23] was, like Big and Little Coon creeks, a most dangerous
point in the transcontinental passage of freight caravans and overland
coaches, in the days of the commerce of the prairies. It was on this
purling little prairie brook that McDaniel's band lay in wait for the
arrival of the ill-fated Don Antonio, whose imposing equipage came
along, intending to encamp on the bank, one of the usual stopping-places
on the route.

The Don was taken a few miles south of the Trail, and his baggage
rifled. All of his party were immediately murdered, but the wealthy
owner of the caravan was spared for a few moments in order to make a
confession of where his money was concealed, after which he was shot
down in cold blood, and his body thrown into a ravine.

It appears, however, that the ruffians had not completed their bloody
work so effectually as they thought; for one of the Mexican's teamsters
escaped, and, making his way to Leavenworth, reported the crime, and was
soon on his way back to the Trail, guiding a detachment of United States
troops in pursuit of the murderers.

John Hobbs, scout, trapper, and veteran plainsman, happened to be
hunting buffalo on Pawnee Fork, on the ground where Larned is now
situated, with a party from Bent's Fort. They were just on the point
of crossing the Trail at the mouth of the Pawnee when the soldiers from
Fort Leavenworth came along, and from them Hobbs and his companions
first learned of the murder of Chavez on Cow Creek. As the men who were
out hunting were all familiar with every foot of the region they were
then in, the commanding officer of the troops induced them to accompany
him in his search for the murderers.

Hobbs and his men cheerfully accepted the invitation, and in about
four days met the band of cut-throats on the broad Trail, they little
dreaming that the government had taken a hand in the matter. The band
tried to escape by flight, but Hobbs shot the doctor's horse from under
him, and a soldier killed another member of the band, when the remainder
surrendered.

The money, about twelve or fifteen thousand dollars,[24] was all
recovered, and the murderers taken to St. Louis, where some were hung
and some imprisoned, the doctor escaping the death penalty by turning
state's evidence. His sentence was incarceration in the penitentiary,
from which he was pardoned after remaining there two years. Hobbs met
the doctor some years after in San Francisco. He was then leading an
honest life, publishing a newspaper, and begged his captor not to expose
him.

The money taken from the robbers was placed in charge of Colonel
Owens, a friend of the Chavez family and a leading Santa Fe trader. He
continued on to the river, purchased a stock of goods, and sent back the
caravan to Santa Fe in charge of Doctor Conley of Boonville, Missouri.

Arriving at his destination, the widow of the deceased Chavez employed
the good doctor to sell the goods and take the sole supervision of her
immense business interests, and there is a touch of romance attached to
the terrible Kansas tragedy, which lies in the fact that the doctor in
about two years married the rich widow, and lived very happily for about
a decade, dying then on one of the large estates in New Mexico, which he
had acquired by his fortunate union with the amiable Mexican lady.

CHAPTER VII. MEXICO DECLARES WAR.

Mexico declared war against the United States in April, 1846. In the
following May, Congress passed an act authorizing the President to call
into the field fifty thousand volunteers, designed to operate against
Mexico at three distinct points, and consisting of the Southern Wing,
or the Army of Occupation, the Army of the Centre, and the Army of the
West, the latter to direct its march upon the city of Santa Fe. The
original plan was, however, somewhat changed, and General Kearney, who
commanded the Army of the West, divided his forces into three separate
commands. The first he led in person to the Pacific coast. One thousand
volunteers, under command of Colonel A. W. Doniphan, were to make a
descent upon the State of Chihuahua, while the remainder and greater
part of the forces, under Colonel Sterling Price, were to garrison Santa
Fe after its capture.

There is a pretty fiction told of the breaking out of the war between
Mexico and the United States. Early in the spring of 1846, before it was
known or even conjectured that a state of war would be declared to exist
between this government and Mexico, a caravan of twenty-nine traders, on
their way from Independence to Santa Fe, beheld, just after a storm
and a little before sunset, a perfectly distinct image of the Bird of
Liberty, the American eagle, on the disc of the sun. When they saw it
they simultaneously and almost involuntarily exclaimed that in less than
twelve months the Eagle of Liberty would spread his broad plumes over
the plains of the West, and that the flag of our country would wave over
the cities of New Mexico and Chihuahua. The student of the classics
will remember that just before the assassination of Julius Caesar,
both Brutus and Cassius, while in their places in the Roman Senate,
saw chariots of fire in the sky. One story is as true, probably, as the
other, though separated by centuries of time.

The Army of the West, under General Stephen W. Kearney, consisted of two
batteries of artillery, commanded by Major Clark; three squadrons of
the First United States Dragoons, commanded by Major Sumner; the First
Regiment of Missouri Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Doniphan, and two
companies of infantry, commanded by Captain Aubrey. This force marched
in detached columns from Fort Leavenworth, and on the 1st of August,
1846, concentrated in camp on the Santa Fe Trail, nine miles below
Bent's Fort.

Accompanying the expedition was a party of the United States
topographical engineers, under command of Lieutenant W. H. Emory.[25] In
writing of this expedition, so far as its march relates to the Old
Santa Fe Trail, I shall quote freely from Emory's report and Doniphan's
historian.[26]

The practicability of marching a large army over the waste,
uncultivated, uninhabited prairie regions of the West was universally
regarded as problematical, but the expedition proved completely
successful. Provisions were conveyed in wagons, and beef-cattle driven
along for the use of the men. These animals subsisted entirely by
grazing. To secure them from straying off at night, they were driven
into corrals formed of the wagons, or tethered to an iron picket-pin
driven into the ground about fifteen inches. At the outset of the
expedition many laughable scenes took place. Our horses were generally
wild, fiery, and unused to military trappings and equipments. Amidst
the fluttering of banners, the sounding of bugles, the rattling of
artillery, the clattering of sabres and also of cooking utensils, some
of them took fright and scampered pell-mell over the wide prairie.
Rider, arms and accoutrements, saddles, saddle-bags, tin cups, and
coffee-pots, were frequently left far behind in the chase. No very
serious or fatal accident, however, occurred from this cause, and all
was right as soon as the affrighted animals were recovered.

The Army of the West was, perhaps, composed of as fine material as any
other body of troops then in the field. The volunteer corps consisted
almost entirely of young men of the country.

On the 9th of July, a separate detachment of the troops arrived at the
Little Arkansas, where the Santa Fe Trail crosses that stream--now in
McPherson County, Kansas. The mosquitoes, gnats, and black flies swarmed
in that locality and nearly drove the men and animals frantic. While
resting there, a courier came from the commands of General Kearney and
Colonel Doniphan, stating that their men were in a starving condition,
and asking for such provisions as could be spared. Lieutenant-Colonel
Ruff of Doniphan's regiment, in command of the troops now camped on
the Little Arkansas, was almost destitute himself. He had sent couriers
forward to Pawnee Fork to stop a train of provisions at that point and
have it wait there until he came up with his force, and he now directed
the courier from Kearney to proceed to the same place and halt as many
wagons loaded with supplies, as would suffice to furnish the three
detachments with rations. One of the couriers, in attempting to ford the
fork of the Pawnee, which was bank-full, was drowned. His body was
found and given a military funeral; he was the first man lost on the
expedition after it had reached the great plains, one having been
drowned in the Missouri, at Fort Leavenworth, before the troops left.

The author of _Doniphan's Expedition_ says:

In approaching the Arkansas, a landscape of the most
imposing and picturesque nature makes its appearance.
While the green, glossy undulations of the prairie to
the right seem to spread out in infinite succession,
like waves subsiding after a storm, and covered with
herds of gambolling buffalo, on the left, towering to
the height of seventy-five to a hundred feet, rise the
sun-gilt summits of the sand hills, along the base of
which winds the broad, majestic river, bespeckled with
verdant islets, thickly beset with cottonwood timber,
the sand hills resembling heaps of driven snow.

I refer to this statement to show how wonderfully the settlement of the
region has changed the physical aspect of that portion bordering the
Arkansas River. Now those sand hills are covered with verdure, and this
metamorphosis has taken place within the last thirty years; for the
author of this work well remembers how the great sand dunes used to
shine in the sunlight, when he first saw them a third of a century ago.
In coming from Fort Leavenworth up the Smoky Hill route to the Santa Fe
Trail, where the former joined the latter at Pawnee Rock, the contour of
the Arkansas could be easily traced by the white sand hills referred to,
long before it was reached.

On the 15th of July the combined forces formed a junction at Pawnee
Fork, now within the city limits of Larned, Kansas. The river was
impassable, but General Kearney, with the characteristic energy of his
family, determined not to be delayed, and to that end caused great trees
to be cut down and their trunks thrown across the stream, over which the
army passed, carrying in their arms the sick, the baggage, tents, and
other paraphernalia; the animals being forced to swim. The empty bodies
of the wagons, fastened to their running gear, were floated across by
means of ropes, and hauled up the slippery bank by the troops. This
required two whole days; and on the morning of the 17th, not an accident
having occurred, the entire column was en route again, the infantry, as
is declared in the official reports, keeping pace with the cavalry right
along. Their feet, however, became terribly blistered, and, like the
Continentals at Valley Forge, their tracks were marked with blood.

In a day or two after the command had left Pawnee Fork, while camping in
a beautiful spot on the bank of the Arkansas, an officer, Major Howard,
who had been sent forward to Santa Fe some time previously by the
general to learn something of the feeling of the people in relation to
submitting to the government of the United States, returned and reported

that the common people, or plebeians, were inclined to
favour the conditions of peace proposed by General Kearney;
viz. that if they would lay down their arms and take the
oath of allegiance to the government of the United States,
they should, to all intents and purposes, become citizens
of the same republic, receiving the protection and enjoying
the liberties guaranteed to other American citizens; but
that the patricians who held the offices and ruled the
country were hostile, and were making warlike preparations.
He added, further, that two thousand three hundred men
were already armed for the defence of the capital, and
that others were assembling at Taos.
This intelligence created quite a sensation in camp, and it was
believed, and earnestly hoped, that the entrance of the troops into
Santa Fe would be desperately opposed; such is the pugnacious character
of the average American the moment he dons the uniform of a soldier.

The army arrived at the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas on the 20th,
and during the march of nearly thirty miles from their last camp, a herd
of about four hundred buffalo suddenly emerged from the Arkansas, and
broke through the long column. In an instant the troops charged upon the
surprised animals with guns, pistols, and even drawn sabres, and many
of the huge beasts were slaughtered as they went dashing and thundering
among the excited troopers and infantrymen.

On the 29th an express from Bent's Fort brought news to General Kearney
from Santa Fe that Governor Armijo had called the chief men together
to deliberate on the best means of defending the city; that hostile
preparations were rapidly going on in all parts of New Mexico; and that
the American advance would be vigorously opposed. Some Mexican prisoners
were taken near Bent's Fort, with blank letters on their persons
addressed to the general; it was supposed this piece of ingenuity was
resorted to to deceive the American residents at the fort. These men
were thought to be spies sent out from Santa Fe to get an idea of the
strength of the army; so they were shown everything in and around camp,
and then allowed to depart in peace for Santa Fe, to report what they
had seen.

On the same date, the Army of the West crossed the Arkansas and camped
on Mexican soil about eight miles below Bent's Fort, and now the utmost
vigilance was exercised; for the troops had not only to keep a sharp
lookout for the Mexicans, but for the wily Comanches, in whose country
their camp was located. Strong picket and camp guards were posted,
and the animals turned loose to graze, guarded by a large force.
Notwithstanding the care taken to confine them within certain limits,
a pack of wolves rushed through the herd, and in an instant it was
stampeded, and there ensued a scene of the wildest confusion. More than
a thousand horses were dashing madly over the prairie, their rage and
fright increased at every jump by the lariats and picket-pins which they
had pulled up, and which lashed them like so many whips. After desperate
exertions by the troops, the majority were recovered from thirty to
fifty miles distant; nearly a hundred, however, were absolutely lost and
never seen again.

At this camp the troops were visited by the war chief of the Arapahoes,
who manifested great surprise at the big guns, and declared that the
Mexicans would not stand a moment before such terrible instruments of
death, but would escape to the mountains with the utmost despatch.

On the 1st of August a new camp near Bent's Fort was established, from
whence twenty men under Lieutenant de Courcy, with orders to proceed
through the mountains to the valley of Taos, to learn something of the
disposition and intentions of the people, and to rejoin General
Kearney on the road to Santa Fe. Lieutenant de Courcy, in his official
itinerary, relates the following anecdote:

We took three pack-mules laden with provisions, and as
we did not expect to be long absent, the men took no extra
clothing. Three days after we left the column our mules
fell down, and neither gentle means nor the points of our
sabres had the least effect in inducing them to rise.
Their term of service with Uncle Sam was out. "What's to
be done?" said the sergeant. "Dismount!" said I.
"Off with your shirts and drawers, men! tie up the sleeves
and legs, and each man bag one-twentieth part of the flour!"
Having done this, the bacon was distributed to the men also,
and tied to the cruppers of their saddles. Thus loaded,
we pushed on, without the slightest fear of our provision
train being cut off.

The march upon Santa Fe was resumed on the 2d of August.
As we passed Bent's Fort the American flag was raised,
in compliment to our troops, and, like our own, streamed
most animatingly in the gale that swept from the desert,
while the tops of the houses were crowded with Mexican girls
and Indian squaws, intently beholding the American army.

On the 15th of the month, the army neared Las Vegas; when two spies
who had been sent on in advance to see how matters stood returned and
reported that two thousand Mexicans were camped at the pass a few miles
beyond the village, where they intended to offer battle.

Upon receipt of this news, the general immediately formed a line of
battle. The United States dragoons with the St. Louis mounted volunteers
were stationed in front, Major Clark with the battalion of volunteer
light artillery in the centre, and Colonel Doniphan's regiment in the
rear. The companies of volunteer infantry were deployed on each side
of the line of march as flankers. The supply trains were next in order,
with Captain Walton's mounted company as rear guard. There was also
a strong advance guard. The cartridges were hastily distributed; the
cannon swabbed and rigged; the port-fires burning, and every rifle
loaded.

In passing through the streets of the curious-looking village of Las
Vegas, the army was halted, and from the roof of a large house General
Kearney administered to the chief officers of the place the oath of
allegiance to the United States, using the sacred cross instead of the
Bible. This act completed, on marched the exultant troops toward the
canyon where it had been promised them that they should meet the enemy.

On the night of the 16th, while encamped on the Pecos River, near the
village of San Jose, the pickets captured a son of the Mexican General
Salezar, who was acting the rôle of a spy, and two other soldiers of the
Mexican army. Salezar was kept a close prisoner; but the two privates
were by order of General Kearney escorted through the camp and shown the
cannon, after which they were allowed to depart, so that they might tell
what they had seen. It was learned afterward that they represented the
American army as composed of five thousand troops, and possessing so
many cannons that they were not able to count them.

When Armijo was certain that the Army of the West was really approaching
Santa Fe, he assembled seven thousand troops, part of them well armed,
and the remainder indifferently so. The Mexican general had written a
note to General Kearney the day before the capture of the spies, saying
that he would meet him on the following day.

General Kearney, at this, hastened on, arriving at the mouth of the
Apache canyon at noon, with his whole force ready and anxious to try the
mettle of the Mexicans in battle. Emory in his _Reconnoissance_ says:

The sun shone with dazzling brightness; the guidons and
colours of each squadron, regiment, and battalion were
for the first time unfurled. The drooping horses seemed
to take courage from the gay array. The trumpeters
sounded "to horse" with spirit, and the hills multiplied
and re-echoed the call. All wore the aspect of a gala day.
About the middle of the day's march the two Pueblo Indians,
previously sent to sound the chief men of that formidable
tribe, were seen in the distance, at full speed, with arms
and legs both thumping the sides of their mules at every
stride. Something was now surely in the wind. The smaller
and foremost of the two dashed up to the general, his face
radiant with joy, and exclaimed:

"They are in the canyon, my brave; pluck up your courage
and push them out." As soon as his extravagant delight at
the prospect of a fight, and the pleasure of communicating
the news, had subsided, he gave a pretty accurate idea
of Armijo's force and position.

Shortly afterwards a rumour reached the camp that the
two thousand Mexicans assembled in the canyon to oppose us,
have quarrelled among themselves; and that Armijo, taking
advantage of the dissensions, has fled with his dragoons
and artillery to the south. It is well known that he has
been averse to a battle, but some of his people threatened
his life if he refused to fight. He had been, for some
days, more in fear of his own people than of the American
army, having seen what they are blind to--the hopelessness
of resistance.

As we approached the ancient town of Pecos, a large fat
fellow, mounted on a mule, came toward us at full speed,
and, extending his hand to the general, congratulated him
on the arrival of himself and army. He said with a roar
of laughter, "Armijo and his troops have gone to h---ll,
and the canyon is all clear."

On reaching the canyon, it was found to be true that the Mexican troops
had dispersed and fled to the mountains, just as the old Arapahoe chief
had said they would. There, however, they commenced to fortify, by
chopping away the timber so that their artillery could play to better
advantage upon the American lines, and by throwing up temporary
breastworks. It was ascertained afterward, on undoubted authority, that
Armijo had an army of nearly seven thousand Mexicans, with six pieces of
artillery, and the advantage of ground, yet he allowed General Kearney,
with a force of less than two thousand, to march through the almost
impregnable gorge, and on to the capital of the Province, without any
attempt to oppose him.

Thus was New Mexico conquered with but little loss relatively. For the
further details of the movements of the Army of the West, the reader is
referred to general history, as this book, necessarily, treats only
of that portion of its march and the incidents connected with it while
travelling the Santa Fe Trail.

CHAPTER VIII. THE VALLEY OF TAOS.

The principal settlement in New Mexico, immediately after it was
reconquered from the Indians by the Spaniards, was, of course, Santa
Fe, and ranking second to it, that of the beautiful Valle de Taos,
which derived its name from the Taosa Indians, a few of whose direct
descendants are still occupying a portion of the region. As the pioneers
in the trade with Santa Fe made their first journeys to the capital of
the Province by the circuitous route of the Taos valley, and the initial
consignments of goods from the Missouri were disposed of in the little
villages scattered along the road, the story of the Trail would be
deficient in its integrity were the thrilling historical facts connected
with the romantic region omitted.

The reader will find on all maps, from the earliest published to the
latest issued by the local railroads, a town with the name of Taos,
which never had an existence. Fernandez de Taos is the chief city,
which has been known so long by the title of the valley that perhaps the
misnomer is excusable after many years' use.

Fernandez, or Taos as it is called, was once famous for its distilleries
of whiskey, made out of the native wheat, a raw, fiery spirit, always
known in the days of the Santa Fe trade as "Taos lightning," which was
the most profitable article of barter with the Indians, who exchanged
their buffalo robes and other valuable furs for a supply of it, at a
tremendous sacrifice.

According to the statement of Gregg, the first white settler of
the fertile and picturesque valley was a Spaniard named Pando, who
established himself there about 1745. This primitive pioneer of the
northern part of the Province was constantly exposed to the raids of
the powerful Comanches, but succeeded in creating a temporary friendship
with the tribe by promising his daughter, then a young and beautiful
infant, to the chief in marriage when she arrived at a suitable age. At
the time for the ratification of her father's covenant with the Indians,
however, the maiden stubbornly refused to fulfil her part. The savages,
enraged at the broken faith of the Spaniard, immediately swept down upon
the little settlement and murdered everybody there except the betrothed
girl, whom they carried off into captivity. She was forced to live with
the chief as his wife, but he soon became tired of her and traded
her for another woman with the Pawnees, who, in turn, sold her to a
Frenchman, a resident of St. Louis. It is said that some of the most
respectable families of that city are descended from her, and fifty
years ago there were many people living who remembered the old lady, and
her pathetic story of trials and sufferings when with the Indians.

The most tragic event in the history of the valley was the massacre of
the provisional governor of the Territory of New Mexico, with a number
of other Americans, shortly after its occupation by the United States.

Upon General Kearney's taking possession of Santa Fe, acting under the
authority of the President, he established a civil government and put
it into operation. Charles Bent was appointed governor, and the other
offices filled by Americans and Mexicans who were rigidly loyal to the
political change. At this time the command of the troops devolved
upon Colonel Sterling Price, Colonel Doniphan, who ranked him,
having departed from Santa Fe on an expedition against the Navajoes.
Notwithstanding the apparent submission of the natives of New Mexico,
there were many malcontents among them and the Pueblo Indians, and early
in December, some of the leaders, dissatisfied with the change in the
order of things, held secret meetings and formulated plots to overthrow
the existing government.

Midnight of the 24th of December was the time appointed for the
commencement of their revolutionary work, which was to be simultaneous
all over the country. The profoundest secrecy was to be preserved,
and the most influential men, whose ambition induced them to seek
preferment, were alone to be made acquainted with the plot. No woman was
to be privy to it, lest it should be divulged. The sound of the church
bell was to be the signal, and at midnight all were to enter the Plaza
at the same moment, seize the pieces of artillery, and point them into
the streets.

The time chosen for the assault was Christmas-eve, when the soldiers and
garrison would be indulging in wine and feasting, and scattered about
through the city at the fandangoes, not having their arms in their
hands. All the Americans, without distinction, throughout the State, and
such New Mexicans as had favoured the American government and accepted
office by appointment of General Kearney, were to be massacred or driven
from the country, and the conspirators were to seize upon and occupy the
government.

The conspiracy was detected in the following manner: a mulatto girl,
residing in Santa Fe, had married one of the conspirators, and had by
degrees obtained a knowledge of their movements and secret meetings. To
prevent the effusion of blood, which would inevitably be the result of a
revolution, she communicated to Colonel Price all the facts of which
she was in possession, and warned him to use the utmost vigilance. The
rebellion was immediately suppressed, but the restless and unsatisfied
ambition of the leaders of the conspiracy did not long permit them
to remain inactive. A second and still more dangerous conspiracy was
formed. The most powerful and influential men in the State favoured the
design, and even the officers of State and the priests gave their
aid and counsel. The people everywhere, in the towns, villages, and
settlements, were exhorted to arm and equip themselves; to strike for
their faith, their religion, and their altars; and drive the "heretics,"
the "unjust invaders of the country," from their soil, and with fire and
sword pursue them to annihilation. On the 18th of January this rebellion
broke out in every part of the State simultaneously.

On the 14th of January, Governor Bent, believing the conspiracy
completely crushed, with an escort of five persons--among whom were the
sheriff and circuit attorney--had left Santa Fe to visit his family, who
resided at Fernandez.

On the 19th, he was early roused from sleep by the populace, who, with
the aid of the Pueblos of Taos, were collected in front of his dwelling
striving to gain admittance. While they were effecting an entrance,
he, with an axe, cut through an adobe wall into another house; and
the Mexican wife of the occupant, a clever though shiftless Canadian,
hearing him, with all her strength rendered him assistance. He
retreated to a room, but, seeing no way of escaping from the infuriated
assailants, who fired upon him from a window, he spoke to his weeping
wife and trembling children, and, taking paper from his pocket,
endeavoured to write; but fast losing strength, he commended them to God
and his brothers and fell, pierced by a ball from a Pueblo. Then rushing
in and tearing off his gray-haired scalp, the Indians bore it away in
triumph.

The circuit attorney, T. W. Leal, was scalped alive and dragged through
the streets, his relentless persecutors pricking him with lances. After
hours of suffering, they threw him aside in the inclement weather, he
imploring them earnestly to kill him to end his misery. A compassionate
Mexican at last closed the tragic scene by shooting him. Stephen
Lee, brother to the general, was killed on his own housetop. Narcisse
Beaubien, son of the presiding judge of the district, hid in an outhouse
with his Indian slave, at the commencement of the massacre, under a
straw-covered trough. The insurgents on the search, thinking that they
had escaped, were leaving, but a woman servant of the family, going to
the housetop, called to them, "Kill the young ones, and they will never
be men to trouble us." They swarmed back and, by cruelly putting to
death and scalping him and his slave, added two more to the list of
unfortunate victims.

The Pueblos and Mexicans, after their cruelties at Fernandez de Taos,
attacked and destroyed Turley's Ranch on the Arroyo Hondo[27] twelve
miles from Fernandez, or Taos. Arroyo Hondo runs along the base of a
ridge of a mountain of moderate elevation, which divides the valley of
Taos from that of the Rio Colorado, or Red River, both flowing into
the Del Norte. The trail from one place to the other passes over the
mountain, which is covered with pine, cedar, and a species of dwarf oak;
and numerous little streams run through the many canyons.

On the bank of one of the creeks was a mill and distillery belonging
to an American named Turley, who did a thriving business. He possessed
herds of goats, and hogs innumerable; his barns were filled with grain,
his mill with flour, and his cellars with whiskey. He had a Mexican wife
and several children, and he bore the reputation of being one of the
most generous and kind-hearted of men. In times of scarcity, no one ever
sought his aid to be turned away empty-handed; his granaries were always
open to the hungry, and his purse to the poor.

When on their road to Turley's, the Pueblos murdered two men, named
Harwood and Markhead. Markhead was one of the most successful trappers
and daring men among the old mountaineers. They were on their way to
Taos with their pack-animals laden with furs, when the savages, meeting
them, after stripping them of their goods, and securing their arms by
treachery, made them mount their mules under pretence of conducting
them to Taos, where they were to be given up to the leaders of the
insurrection. They had hardly proceeded a mile when a Mexican rode up
behind Harwood and discharged his gun into his back; he called out to
Markhead that he was murdered, and fell to the ground dead.

Markhead, seeing that his own fate was sealed, made no struggle, and
was likewise shot in the back with several bullets. Both men were then
stripped naked, scalped, and horribly mutilated; their bodies thrown
into the brush to be devoured by the wolves.

These trappers were remarkable men; Markhead, particularly, was
celebrated in the mountains for his courage, reckless daring, and many
almost miraculous escapes when in the very hands of the Indians. When
some years previously he had accompanied Sir William Drummond Stewart on
one of his expeditions across the Rockies, it happened that a half-breed
Indian employed by Sir William absconded one night with some animals,
which circumstance annoyed the nobleman so much, as it disturbed all his
plans, that he hastily offered, never dreaming that he would be taken
up, to give five hundred dollars for the scalp of the thief. The very
next evening Markhead rode into camp with the hair of the luckless
horse-thief dangling at the muzzle of his rifle.

The wild crowd of rebels rode on to Turley's mill. Turley had been
warned of the impending uprising, but had treated the report with
indifference, until one morning a man in his employ, who had been
despatched to Santa Fe with several mule-loads of whiskey a few days
before, made his appearance at the gate on horseback, and hastily
informing the inmates of the mill that the New Mexicans had risen and
massacred Governor Bent and other Americans, galloped off. Even
then Turley felt assured that he would not be molested; but at the
solicitation of his men, he agreed to close the gate of the yard
around which were the buildings of the mill and distillery, and make
preparations for defence.

A few hours afterward a large crowd of Mexicans and Pueblo Indians
made their appearance, all armed with guns and bows and arrows, and,
advancing with a white flag, summoned Turley to surrender his house and
the Americans in it, guaranteeing that his own life should be saved,
but that every other American in the valley must be destroyed; that the
governor and all the Americans at Fernandez had been killed, and that
not one was to be left alive in all New Mexico.

To this summons Turley answered that he would never surrender his house
nor his men, and that if they wanted it or them, they must take them.

The enemy then drew off, and, after a short consultation, commenced the
attack. The first day they numbered about five hundred, but were hourly
reinforced by the arrival of parties of Indians from the more distant
Pueblos, and New Mexicans from Fernandez, La Canada, and other places.

The building lay at the foot of a gradual slope in the sierra, which was
covered with cedar bushes. In front ran the stream of the Arroyo Hondo,
about twenty yards from one side of the square, and the other side was
broken ground which rose abruptly and formed the bank of the ravine. In
the rear and behind the still-house was some garden ground enclosed by a
small fence, into which a small wicket-gate opened from the corral.

As soon as the attack was determined upon, the assailants scattered
and concealed themselves under cover of the rocks and bushes which
surrounded the house. From these they kept up an incessant fire upon
every exposed portion of the building where they saw preparations for
defence.

The Americans, on their part, were not idle; not a man but was an
old mountaineer, and each had his trusty rifle, with a good store of
ammunition. Whenever one of the besiegers exposed a hand's-breadth of
his person, a ball from an unerring barrel whistled. The windows had
been blockaded, loopholes having been left, and through these a lively
fire was maintained. Already several of the enemy had bitten the dust,
and parties were seen bearing off the wounded up the banks of the
Canada. Darkness came on, and during the night a continual fire was kept
up on the mill, whilst its defenders, reserving their ammunition, kept
their posts with stern and silent determination. The night was spent
in casting balls, cutting patches, and completing the defences of the
building. In the morning the fight was renewed, and it was found that
the Mexicans had effected a lodgment in a part of the stables, which
were separated from the other portions of the building by an open space
of a few feet. The assailants, during the night, had sought to break
down the wall, and thus enter the main building, but the strength of the
adobe and logs of which it was composed resisted effectually all their
attempts.

Those in the stable seemed anxious to regain the outside, for their
position was unavailable as a means of annoyance to the besieged, and
several had darted across the narrow space which divided it from the
other part of the building, which slightly projected, and behind which
they were out of the line of fire. As soon, however, as the attention of
the defenders was called to this point, the first man who attempted to
cross, who happened to be a Pueblo chief, was dropped on the instant,
and fell dead in the centre of the intervening space. It appeared to be
an object to recover the body, for an Indian immediately dashed out to
the fallen chief, and attempted to drag him within the shelter of the
wall. The rifle which covered the spot again poured forth its deadly
contents, and the Indian, springing into the air, fell over the body
of his chief. Another and another met with a similar fate, and at last
three rushed to the spot, and, seizing the body by the legs and head,
had already lifted it from the ground, when three puffs of smoke blew
from the barricaded windows, followed by the sharp cracks of as many
rifles, and the three daring Indians were added to the pile of corpses
which now covered the body of the dead chief.

As yet the besieged had met with no casualties; but after the fall of
the seven Indians, the whole body of the assailants, with a shout
of rage, poured in a rattling volley, and two of the defenders fell
mortally wounded. One, shot through the loins, suffered great agony,
and was removed to the still-house, where he was laid on a large pile of
grain, as being the softest bed that could be found.

In the middle of the day the attack was renewed more fiercely than
before. The little garrison bravely stood to the defence of the mill,
never throwing away a shot, but firing coolly, and only when a fair mark
was presented to their unerring aim. Their ammunition, however, was fast
failing, and to add to the danger of their situation, the enemy set fire
to the mill, which blazed fiercely, and threatened destruction to the
whole building. Twice they succeeded in overcoming the flames, and,
while they were thus occupied, the Mexicans and Indians charged into the
corral, which was full of hogs and sheep, and vented their cowardly rage
upon the animals, spearing and shooting all that came in their way. No
sooner were the flames extinguished in one place than they broke out
more fiercely in another; and as a successful defence was perfectly
hopeless, and the numbers of the assailants increased every moment, a
council of war was held by the survivors of the little garrison, when
it was determined, as soon as night approached, that every one should
attempt to escape as best he could.

Just at dusk a man named John Albert and another ran to the wicket-gate
which opened into a kind of enclosed space, in which were a number of
armed Mexicans. They both rushed out at the same moment, discharging
their rifles full in the face of the crowd. Albert, in the confusion,
threw himself under the fence, whence he saw his companion shot down
immediately, and heard his cries for mercy as the cowards pierced him
with knives and lances. He lay without motion under the fence, and
as soon as it was quite dark he crept over the logs and ran up the
mountain, travelled by day and night, and, scarcely stopping or resting,
reached the Greenhorn, almost dead with hunger and fatigue. Turley
himself succeeded in escaping from the mill and in reaching the mountain
unseen. Here he met a Mexican mounted on a horse, who had been a most
intimate friend of his for many years. To this man Turley offered his
watch for the use of the horse, which was ten times more than it was
worth, but was refused. The inhuman wretch, however, affected pity
and consideration for the fugitive, and advised him to go to a certain
place, where he would bring or send him assistance; but on reaching the
mill, which was a mass of fire, he immediately informed the Mexicans of
Turley's place of concealment, whither a large party instantly proceeded
and shot him to death.

Two others escaped and reached Santa Fe in safety. The mill and Turley's
house were sacked and gutted, and all his hard-earned savings, which
were concealed in gold about the house, were discovered, and, of course,
seized upon by the victorious Mexicans.

The following account is taken from Governor Prince's chapter on the
fight at Taos, in his excellent and authentic _History of New Mexico_:--

The startling news of the assassination of the governor was
swiftly carried to Santa Fe, and reached Colonel Price the
next day. Simultaneously, letters were discovered calling
on the people of the Rio Abajo to secure Albuquerque and
march northward to aid the other insurgents; and news
speedily followed that a united Mexican and Pueblo force of
large magnitude was marching down the Rio Grande valley
toward the capital, flushed with the success of the revolt
at Taos. Very few troops were in Santa Fe; in fact, the
number remaining in the whole territory was very small,
and these were scattered at Albuquerque, Las Vegas, and
other distant points. At the first-named town were Major
Edmonson and Captain Burgwin; the former in command of the
town, and the latter with a company of the First Dragoons.

Colonel Price lost no time in taking such measures as his
limited resources permitted. Edmonson was directed to come
immediately to Santa Fe to take command of the capital; and
Burgwin to follow Price as fast as possible to the scene
of hostilities. The colonel himself collected the few
troops at Santa Fe, which were all on foot, but fortunately
included the little battalion which under Captain Aubrey
had made such extraordinary marches on the journey across
the plains as to almost outwalk the cavalry. With these
was a volunteer company formed of nearly all of the American
inhabitants of the city, under the command of Colonel Ceran
St. Vrain, who happened to be in Santa Fe, together with
Judge Beaubien, at the time of the rising at Taos.
With this little force, amounting in all to three hundred
and ten men, Colonel Price started to march to Taos, or at
all events to meet the army which was coming toward the
capital from the north and which grew as it marched by
constant accessions from the surrounding country.
The city of Santa Fe was left in charge of a garrison under
Lieutenant-Colonel Willock. While the force was small
and the volunteers without experience in regular warfare,
yet all were nerved to desperation by the belief, since
the Taos murders, that the only alternative was victory
or annihilation.

The expedition set out on January 23d, and the next day
the Mexican army, under command of General Montoya as
commander-in-chief, aided by Generals Tafoya and Chavez,
was found occupying the heights commanding the road near
La Canada (Santa Cruz), with detachments in some strong
adobe houses near the river banks. The advance had been
seen shortly before at the rocky pass, on the road from
Pojuaque; and near there and before reaching the river, the
San Juan Pueblo Indians, who had joined the revolutionists
reluctantly and under a kind of compulsion, surrendered and
were disarmed by removing the locks from their guns.
On arriving at the Canada, Price ordered his howitzers to
the front and opened fire; and after a sharp cannonade,
directed an assault on the nearest houses by Aubrey's
battalion. Meanwhile an attempt by a Mexican detachment
to cut off the American baggage-wagons, which had not yet
come up, was frustrated by the activity of St. Vrain's
volunteers. A charge all along the line was then ordered
and handsomely executed; the houses, which, being of adobe,
had been practically so many ready-made forts, were
successively carried, and St. Vrain started in advance to
gain the Mexican rear. Seeing this manoeuvre, and fearing
its effects, the Mexicans retreated, leaving thirty-six
dead on the field. Among those killed was General Tafoya,
who bravely remained on the field after the remainder had
abandoned it, and was shot.

Colonel Price pressed on up the river as fast as possible,
passing San Juan, and at Los Luceros, on the 28th, his
little army was rejoiced at the arrival of reinforcements,
consisting of a mounted company of cavalry, Captain Burgwin's
company, which had been pushed up by forced marches on foot
from Albuquerque, and a six-pounder brought by Lieutenant
Wilson. Thus enlarged, the American force consisted of
four hundred and eighty men, and continued its advance up
the valley to La Joya, which was as far as the river road at
that time extended. Meanwhile the Mexicans had established
themselves in a narrow pass near Embudo, where the forest
was dense, and the road impracticable for wagons or cannon,
the troops occupying the sides of the mountains on both
sides of the canyon. Burgwin was sent with three companies
to dislodge them and open a passage--no easy task.
But St. Vrain's company took the west slope, and another
the right, while Burgwin himself marched through the gorge
between. The sharp-shooting of these troops did such
terrible execution that the pass was soon cleared, though
not without the display of great heroism, and some loss;
and the Americans entered Embudo without further opposition.
The difficulties of this campaign were greatly increased by
the severity of the weather, the mountains being thickly
covered with snow, and the cold so intense that a number
of men were frost-bitten and disabled. The next day Burgwin
reached Las Trampas, where Price arrived with the remainder
of the American army on the last day of January, and all
together they marched into Chamisal.

Notwithstanding the cold and snow they pressed on over the
mountain, and on the 3d of February reached the town of
Fernandez de Taos, only to find that the Mexican and Pueblo
force had fortified itself in the celebrated Pueblo of Taos,
about three miles distant. That force had diminished
considerably during the retreat from La Canada, many of the
Mexicans returning to their homes, and its greater part
now consisting of Pueblo Indians. The American troops were
worn out with fatigue and exposure, and in most urgent need
of rest; but their intrepid commander, desiring to give his
opponents no more time to strengthen their works, and full
of zeal and energy, if not of prudence, determined to
commence an immediate attack.

The two great buildings at this Pueblo, certainly the most
interesting and extraordinary inhabited structures in
America, are well known from descriptions and engravings.
They are five stories high and irregularly pyramidal in
shape, each story being smaller than the one below, in order
to allow ingress to the outer rooms of each tier from the
roofs. Before the advent of artillery these buildings were
practically impregnable, as, when the exterior ladders were
drawn up, there were no means of ingress, the side walls
being solid without openings, and of immense thickness.
Between these great buildings, each of which can accommodate
a multitude of men, runs the clear water of the Taos Creek;
and to the west of the northerly building stood the old
church, with walls of adobe from three to seven and a half
feet in thickness. Outside of all, and having its northwest
corner just beyond the church, ran an adobe wall, built for
protection against hostile Indians and which now answered
for an outer earthwork. The church was turned into a
fortification, and was the point where the insurgents
concentrated their strength; and against this Colonel Price
directed his principal attack. The six-pounder and the
howitzer were brought into position without delay, under
the command of Lieutenant Dyer, then a young graduate of
West Point, and since then chief of ordnance of the
United States army, and opened a fire on the thick adobe
walls. But cannon-balls made little impression on the
massive banks of earth, in which they embedded themselves
without doing damage; and after a fire of two hours,
the battery was withdrawn, and the troops allowed to return
to the town of Taos for their much-needed rest.

Early the next morning, the troops, now refreshed and ready
for the combat, advanced again to the Pueblo, but found
those within equally prepared. The story of the attack and
capture of this place is so interesting, both on account
of the meeting here of old and new systems of warfare--of
modern artillery with an aboriginal stronghold--and because
the precise localities can be distinguished by the modern
tourist from the description, that it seems best to insert
the official report as presented by Colonel Price.
Nothing could show more plainly how superior strong
earthworks are to many more ambitious structures of defence,
or more forcibly display the courage and heroism of those
who took part in the battle, or the signal bravery of the
accomplished Captain Burgwin which led to his untimely death.
Colonel Price writes:

"Posting the dragoons under Captain Burgwin about two
hundred and sixty yards from the western flank of the church,
I ordered the mounted men under Captains St. Vrain and Slack
to a position on the opposite side of the town, whence they
could discover and intercept any fugitives who might attempt
to escape toward the mountains, or in the direction of
San Fernando. The residue of the troops took ground about
three hundred yards from the north wall. Here, too,
Lieutenant Dyer established himself with the six-pounder
and two howitzers, while Lieutenant Hassendaubel, of Major
Clark's battalion, light artillery, remained with Captain
Burgwin, in command of two howitzers. By this arrangement
a cross-fire was obtained, sweeping the front and eastern
flank of the church. All these arrangements being made,
the batteries opened upon the town at nine o'clock A.M.
At eleven o'clock, finding it impossible to breach the
walls of the church with the six-pounder and howitzers,
I determined to storm the building. At a signal, Captain
Burgwin, at the head of his own company and that of Captain
McMillin, charged the western flank of the church, while
Captain Aubrey, infantry battalion, and Captain Barber and
Lieutenant Boon, Second Missouri Mounted Volunteers, charged
the northern wall. As soon as the troops above mentioned
had established themselves under the western wall of the
church, axes were used in the attempt to breach it, and a
temporary ladder having been made, the roof was fired.
About this time, Captain Burgwin, at the head of a small
party, left the cover afforded by the flank of the church,
and penetrating into the corral in front of that building,
endeavoured to force the door. In this exposed situation,
Captain Burgwin received a severe wound, which deprived me
of his valuable services, and of which he died on the
7th instant. Lieutenants McIlvaine, First United States
Dragoons, and Royall and Lackland, Second Regiment
Volunteers, accompanied Captain Burgwin into the corral,
but the attempt on the church door proved fruitless, and
they were compelled to retire behind the wall. In the
meantime, small holes had been cut in the western wall, and
shells were thrown in by hand, doing good execution.
The six-pounder was now brought around by Lieutenant Wilson,
who, at the distance of two hundred yards, poured a heavy
fire of grape into the town. The enemy, during all of
this time, kept up a destructive fire upon our troops.
About half-past three o'clock, the six-pounder was run up
within sixty yards of the church, and after ten rounds,
one of the holes which had been cut with the axes was
widened into a practicable breach. The storming party,
among whom were Lieutenant Dyer, of the ordnance, and
Lieutenant Wilson and Taylor, First Dragoons, entered and
took possession of the church without opposition.
The interior was filled with dense smoke, but for which
circumstance our storming party would have suffered great
loss. A few of the enemy were seen in the gallery,
where an open door admitted the air, but they retired
without firing a gun. The troops left to support the
battery on the north side were now ordered to charge on
that side.

"The enemy then abandoned the western part of the town.
Many took refuge in the large houses on the east, while
others endeavoured to escape toward the mountains.
These latter were pursued by the mounted men under Captains
Slack and St. Vrain, who killed fifty-one of them, only two
or three men escaping. It was now night, and our troops
were quietly quartered in the house which the enemy had
abandoned. On the next morning the enemy sued for peace,
and thinking the severe loss they had sustained would prove
a salutary lesson, I granted their supplication, on the
condition that they should deliver up to me Tomas, one of
their principal men, who had instigated and been actively
engaged in the murder of Governor Bent and others.
The number of the enemy at the battle of Pueblo de Taos
was between six and seven hundred, and of these one hundred
and fifty were killed, wounded not known. Our own loss was
seven killed and forty-five wounded; many of the wounded
have since died."

The capture of the Taos Pueblo practically ended the main
attempt to expel the Americans from the Territory.
Governor Montoya, who was a very influential man in the
conspiracy and styled himself the "Santa Ana of the North,"
was tried by court-martial, convicted, and executed on
February 7th, in the presence of the army. Fourteen others
were tried for participating in the murder of Governor Bent
and the others who were killed on the 19th of January, and
were convicted and executed. Thus, fifteen in all were
hung, being an equal number to those murdered at Taos, the
Arroyo Hondo, and Rio Colorado. Of these, eight were
Mexicans and seven were Pueblo Indians. Several more were
sentenced to be hung for treason, but the President very
properly pardoned them, on the ground that treason against
the United States was not a crime of which a Mexican
citizen could be found guilty, while his country was
actually at war with the United States.

There are several thrilling, as well as laughable, incidents
connected with the Taos massacre, and the succeeding trial of the
insurrectionists; in regard to which I shall quote freely from
_Wah-to-yah_, whose author, Mr. Lewis H. Garrard, accompanied Colonel
St. Vrain across the plains in 1846, and was present at the trial and
execution of the convicted participants.

One Fitzgerald, who was a private in Captain Burgwin's company of
Dragoons, in the fight at the Pueblo de Taos, killed three Mexicans with
his own hand, and performed heroic work with the bombs that were thrown
into that strong Indian fortress. He was a man of good feeling, but
his brother having been killed, or rather murdered by Salazar, while a
prisoner in the Texan expedition against Santa Fe, he swore vengeance,
and entered the service with the hope of accomplishing it. The day
following the fight at the Pueblo, he walked up to the alcalde, and
deliberately shot him down. For this act he was confined to await a
trial for murder.

One raw night, complaining of cold to his guard, wood was brought,
which he piled up in the middle of the room. Then mounting that, and
succeeding in breaking through the roof, he noiselessly crept to the
eaves, below which a sentinel, wrapped in a heavy cloak, paced to
and fro, to prevent his escape. He watched until the guard's back was
turned, then swung himself from the wall, and with as much ease as
possible, walked to a mess-fire, where his friends in waiting supplied
him with a pistol and clothing. When day broke, the town of Fernandez
lay far beneath him in the valley, and two days after he was safe in our
camp.

Many a hand-to-hand encounter ensued during the fight at Taos, one of
which was by Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, whom I knew intimately; a grand
old gentleman, now sleeping peacefully in the quaint little graveyard at
Mora, New Mexico, where he resided for many years. The gallant colonel,
while riding along, noticed an Indian with whom he was well acquainted
lying stretched out on the ground as if dead. Confident that this
particular red devil had been especially prominent in the hellish acts
of the massacre, the colonel dismounted from his pony to satisfy himself
whether the savage was really dead or only shamming. He was far from
being a corpse, for the colonel had scarcely reached the spot, when the
Indian jumped to his feet and attempted to run a long, steel-pointed
lance through the officer's shoulder. Colonel St. Vrain was a large,
powerfully built man; so was the Indian, I have been told. As each of
the struggling combatants endeavoured to get the better of the other,
with the savage having a little the advantage, perhaps, it appears that
"Uncle Dick" Wooton, who was in the chase after the rebels, happened to
arrive on the scene, and hitting the Indian a terrific blow on the head
with his axe, settled the question as to his being a corpse.

Court for the trial of the insurrectionists assembled at nine o'clock.
On entering the room, Judges Beaubien and Houghton were occupying their
official positions. After many dry preliminaries, six prisoners were
brought in--ill-favoured, half-scared, sullen fellows; and the jury of
Mexicans and Americans having been empanelled, the trial commenced.
It certainly did appear to be a great assumption on the part of
the Americans to conquer a country, and then arraign the revolting
inhabitants for treason. American judges sat on the bench. New Mexicans
and Americans filled the jury-box, and American soldiery guarded the
halls. It was a strange mixture of violence and justice--a middle ground
between the martial and common law.

After an absence of a few minutes, the jury returned with a verdict of
"guilty in the first degree"--five for murder, one for treason. Treason,
indeed! What did the poor devil know about his new allegiance? But so it
was; and as the jail was overstocked with others awaiting trial, it
was deemed expedient to hasten the execution, and the culprits were
sentenced to be hung on the following Friday--hangman's day.

Court was daily in session; five more Indians and four Mexicans were
sentenced to be hung on the 30th of April. In the court room, on the
occasion of the trial of these nine prisoners, were Senora Bent the late
governor's wife, and Senora Boggs, giving their evidence in regard to
the massacre, of which they were eye-witnesses. Mrs. Bent was quite
handsome; a few years previously she must have been a beautiful woman.
The wife of the renowned Kit Carson also was in attendance. Her style
of beauty was of the haughty, heart-breaking kind--such as would lead a
man, with a glance of the eye, to risk his life for one smile.

The court room was a small, oblong apartment, dimly lighted by two
narrow windows; a thin railing keeping the bystanders from contact
with the functionaries. The prisoners faced the judges, and the three
witnesses--Senoras Bent, Boggs, and Carson--were close to them on a
bench by the wall. When Mrs. Bent gave her testimony, the eyes of the
culprits were fixed sternly upon her; when she pointed out the Indian
who had killed the governor, not a muscle of the chief's face twitched
or betrayed agitation, though he was aware her evidence settled his
death warrant; he sat with lips gently closed, eyes earnestly fixed
on her, without a show of malice or hatred--a spectacle of Indian
fortitude, and of the severe mastery to which the emotions can be
subjected.

Among the jurors was a trapper named Baptiste Brown, a Frenchman, as
were the majority of the trappers in the early days of the border.
He was an exceptionally kind-hearted man when he first came to the
mountains, and seriously inclined to regard the Indians with that
mistaken sentimentality characterizing the average New England
philanthropist, who has never seen the untutored savage on his native
heath. His ideas, however, underwent a marked change as the years rolled
on and he became more familiar with the attributes of the noble red man.
He was with Kit Carson in the Blackfeet country many years before the
Taos massacre, when his convictions were thus modified, and it was
from the famous frontiersman himself I learned the story of Baptiste's
conversion.

It was late one night in their camp on one of the many creeks in the
Blackfoot region, where they had been established for several weeks, and
Baptiste was on duty, guarding their meat and furs from the incursions
of a too inquisitive grizzly that had been prowling around, and the
impertinent investigations of the wolves. His attention was attracted to
something high up in a neighbouring tree, that seemed restless, changing
its position constantly like an animal of prey. The Frenchman drew a
bead upon it, and there came tumbling down at his feet a dead savage,
with his war-paint and other Indian paraphernalia adorning his body.
Baptiste was terribly hurt over the circumstance of having killed an
Indian, and it grieved him for a long time. One day, a month after the
incident, he was riding alone far away from our party, and out of sound
of their rifles as well, when a band of Blackfeet discovered him and
started for his scalp. He had no possible chance for escape except by
the endurance of his horse; so a race for life began. He experienced no
trouble in keeping out of the way of their arrows--the Indians had no
guns then--and hoped to make camp before they could possibly wear out
his horse. Just as he was congratulating himself on his luck, right in
front of him there suddenly appeared a great gorge, and not daring to
stop or to turn to the right or left, the only thing to do was to make
his animal jump it. It was his only chance; it was death if he missed
it, and death by the most horrible torture if the Indians captured him.
So he drove his heels into his horse's sides, and essayed the awful
leap. His willing animal made a desperate effort to carry out the desire
of his daring rider, but the dizzy chasm was too wide, and the pursuing
savages saw both horse and the coveted white man dash to the bottom
of the frightful canyon together. Believing that their hated enemy
had eluded them forever, they rode back on their trail, disgusted and
chagrined, without even taking the trouble of looking over the precipice
to learn the fate of Baptiste.

The horse was instantly killed, and the Frenchman had both of his legs
badly broken. Far from camp, with the Indians in close proximity, he did
not dare discharge his rifle--the usual signal when a trapper is lost
or in danger--or to make any demonstration, so he was compelled to lie
there and suffer, hoping that his comrades, missing him, would start
out to search for him. They did so, but more than twenty-four hours had
elapsed before they found him, as the bottom of the canyon was the last
place they thought of.

Doctors, in the wild region where their camp was located, were as
impossible as angels; so his companions set his broken bones as well as
they could, while Baptiste suffered excruciating torture. When they had
completed their crude surgery, they improvised a litter of poles, and
rigged it on a couple of pack-mules, and thus carried him around with
them from camp to camp until he recovered--a period extending over three
months.

This affair completely cured Baptiste of his original sentimentality in
relation to the Indian, and he became one of their worst haters.

When acting as a juror in the trials of rebel Mexicans and Indians, he
was asleep half the time, and never heard much of the evidence, and that
portion which he did was so much Greek to him. In the last nine cases,
in which the Indian who had murdered Governor Bent was tried, Baptiste,
as soon as the jury room was closed, sang out: "Hang 'em, hang 'em,
sacre enfans des garces, dey dam gran rascale!" "But wait," suggested
one of the cooler members; "let's look at the evidence and find out
whether they are really guilty." Upon this wise caution, Baptiste got
greatly excited, paced the floor, and cried out: "Hang de Indian anyhow;
he may not be guilty now--mais he vare soon will be. Hang 'em all,
parceque dey kill Monsieur Charles; dey take son topknot, vot you call
im--scalp. Hang 'em, hang 'em--sa-a-cre-e!"

On Friday the 9th, the day for the execution, the sky was unspotted,
save by hastily fleeting clouds; and as the rising sun loomed over
the Taos Mountain, the bright rays, shining on the yellow and white
mud-houses, reflected cheerful hues, while the shades of the toppling
peaks, receding from the plain beneath, drew within themselves. The
humble valley wore an air of calm repose. The Plaza was deserted;
woe-begone burros drawled forth sacrilegious brays, as the warm sunbeams
roused them from hard, grassless ground, to scent their breakfast among
straw and bones.

Poor Mexicans hurried to and fro, casting suspicious glances around;
los Yankees at El casa Americano drank their juleps, and puffed their
cigarettes in silence.

The sheriff, Metcalf, formerly a mountaineer, was in want of the
wherewithal to hang the condemned criminals, so he borrowed some rawhide
lariats and picket-ropes of a teamster.

"Hello, Met," said one of the party present, "these reatas are mighty
stiff--won't fit; eh, old feller?"

"I've got something to make 'em fit--good 'intment--don't emit very
sweet perfume; but good enough for Greasers," said the sheriff,
producing a dollar's worth of Mexican soft soap. "This'll make 'em slip
easy--a long ways too easy for them, I 'spect."

The prison apartment was a long chilly room, badly ventilated by one
small window and the open door, through which the sun lit up the
earth floor, and through which the poor prisoners wistfully gazed.
Two muscular Mexicans basked in its genial warmth, a tattered serape
interposing between them and the ground. The ends, once fringed but
now clear of pristine ornament, were partly drawn over their breasts,
disclosing in the openings of their fancifully colored shirts--now
glazed with filth and faded with perspiration--the bare skin, covered
with straight black hair. With hands under their heads, in the mass of
stringy locks rusty-brown from neglect, they returned the looks of
their executioners with an unmeaning stare, and unheedingly received the
salutation of--"Como le va!"

Along the sides of the room, leaning against the walls, were crowded the
poor wretches, miserable in dress, miserable in features, miserable
in feelings--a more disgusting collection of ragged, greasy, unwashed
prisoners were, probably, never before congregated within so small a
space as the jail of Taos.

About nine o'clock, active preparations were made for the execution, and
the soldiery mustered. Reverend padres in long black gowns, with meek
countenances, passed the sentinels, intent on spiritual consolation, or
the administration of the Blessed Sacrament.

Lieutenant-Colonel Willock, commanding the military, ordered every
American under arms. The prison was at the edge of the town; no houses
intervened between it and the fields to the north. One hundred and fifty
yards distant, a gallows was erected.

The word was passed, at last, that the criminals were coming. Eighteen
soldiers received them at the gate, with their muskets at "port arms";
the six abreast, with the sheriff on the right--nine soldiers on each
side.

The poor prisoners marched slowly, with downcast eyes, arms tied behind,
and bare heads, with the exception of white cotton caps stuck on the
back, to be pulled over the face as the last ceremony.

The roofs of the houses in the vicinity were covered with women and
children, to witness the first execution by hanging in the valley of
Taos, save that of Montojo, the insurgent leader. No men were near; a
few stood afar off, moodily looking on.

On the flat jail roof was placed a mountain howitzer, loaded and ranging
the gallows. Near was the complement of men to serve it, one holding in
his hand a lighted match. The two hundred and thirty soldiers, less the
eighteen forming the guard, were paraded in front of the jail, and
in sight of the gibbet, so as to secure the prisoners awaiting trial.
Lieutenant-Colonel Willock, on a handsome charger, commanded a view of
the whole.

When within fifteen paces of the gallows, the side-guard, filing off to
the right, formed, at regular distances from each other, three sides of
a hollow square; the mountaineers composed the fourth and front side, in
full view of the trembling prisoners, who marched up to the tree under
which was a government wagon, with two mules attached. The driver and
sheriff assisted them in, ranging them on a board, placed across the
hinder end, which maintained its balance, as they were six--an even
number--two on each extremity, and two in the middle. The gallows was
so narrow that they touched. The ropes, by reason of their size
and stiffness, despite the soaping given them, were adjusted with
difficulty; but through the indefatigable efforts of the sheriff and
a lieutenant who had accompanied him, all preliminaries were arranged,
although the blue uniform looked sadly out of place on a hangman.

With rifles at a "shoulder," the military awaited the consummation
of the tragedy. There was no crowd around to disturb; a death-like
stillness prevailed. The spectators on the roofs seemed scarcely to
move--their eyes were directed to the doomed wretches, with harsh
halters now encircling their necks.

The sheriff and his assistant sat down; after a few moments of intense
expectation, the heart-wrung victims said a few words to their people.
Only one of them admitted he had committed murder and deserved death.
In their brief but earnest appeals, the words "mi padre, mi madre"--"my
father, my mother"--were prominent. The one sentenced for treason
showed a spirit of patriotism worthy of the cause for which he died--the
liberty of his country; and instead of the cringing recantation of the
others, his speech was a firm asseveration of his own innocence, the
unjustness of his trial, and the arbitrary conduct of his murderers. As
the cap was pulled over his face, the last words he uttered between his
teeth with a scowl were "Carajo, los Americanos!"

At a word from the sheriff, the mules were started, and the wagon drawn
from under the tree. No fall was given, and their feet remained on the
board till the ropes drew tight. The bodies swayed back and forth, and
while thus swinging, the hands of two came together with a firm grasp
till the muscles loosened in death.

After forty minutes' suspension, Colonel Willock ordered his command to
quarters, and the howitzer to be taken from its place on the roof of the
jail. The soldiers were called away; the women and population in general
collecting around the rear guard which the sheriff had retained for
protection while delivering the dead to their weeping relatives.

While cutting a rope from one man's neck--for it was in a hard knot--the
owner, a government teamster standing by waiting, shouted angrily, at
the same time stepping forward:

"Hello there! don't cut that rope; I won't have anything to tie my mules
with."

"Oh! you darned fool," interposed a mountaineer, "the dead men's ghosts
will be after you if you use them lariats--wagh! They'll make meat of
you sartain."

"Well, I don't care if they do. I'm in government service; and if them
picket-halters was gone, slap down goes a dollar apiece. Money's scarce
in these diggin's, and I'm going to save all I kin to take home to the
old woman and boys."

CHAPTER IX. FIRST OVERLAND MAIL.

On the summit of one of the highest plateaus bordering the Missouri
River, surrounded by a rich expanse of foliage, lies Independence, the
beautiful residence suburb of Kansas City, only ten miles distant.

Tradition tells that early in this century there were a few pioneers
camping at long distances from each other in the seemingly interminable
woods; in summer engaged in hunting the deer, elk, and bear, and in
winter in trapping. It is a well-known fact that the Big Blue was once
a favourite resort of the beaver, and that even later their presence in
great numbers attracted many a veteran trapper to its waters.

Before that period the quaint old cities of far-off Mexico were
forbidden to foreign traders, excepting to the favoured few who were
successful in obtaining permits from the Spanish government. In 1821,
however, the rebellion of Iturbide crushed the power of the mother
country, and established the freedom of Mexico. The embargo upon foreign
trade was at once removed, and the Santa Fe Trail, for untold ages
only a simple trace across the continent, became the busy highway of a
relatively great commerce.

In 1817 the navigation of the Mississippi River was begun. On the 2d of
August of that year the steamer _General Pike_ arrived at St. Louis.
The first boat to ascend the Missouri River was the _Independence_; she
passed Franklin on the 28th of May, 1819, where a dinner was given to
her officers. In the same and the following month of that year, the
steamers _Western Engineer Expedition_ and _R. M. Johnson_ came
along, carrying Major Long's scientific exploring party, bound for the
Yellowstone.

The Santa Fe trade having been inaugurated shortly after these important
events, those engaged in it soon realized the benefits of river
navigation--for it enabled them to shorten the distance which their
wagons had to travel in going across the plains--and they began to look
out for a suitable place as a shipping and outfitting point higher up
the river than Franklin, which had been the initial starting town.

By 1827 trading-posts had been established at Blue Mills, Fort Osage,
and Independence. The first-mentioned place, which is situated about
six miles below Independence, soon became the favourite landing, and the
exchange from wagons to boats settled and defied all efforts to
remove the headquarters of the trade from there for several years.
Independence, however, being the county seat and the larger place,
succeeded in its claims to be the more suitable locality, and as early
as 1832 it was recognized as the American headquarters and the great
outfitting point for the Santa Fe commerce, which it continued to be
until 1846, when the traffic was temporarily suspended by the breaking
out of the Mexican War.

Independence was not only the principal outfitting point for the Santa
Fe traders, but also that of the great fur companies. That powerful
association used to send out larger pack-trains than any other parties
engaged in the traffic to the Rocky Mountains; they also employed wagons
drawn by mules, and loaded with goods for the Indians with whom their
agents bartered, which also on their return trip transported the skins
and pelts of animals procured from the savages. The articles intended
for the Indian trade were always purchased in St. Louis, and usually
shipped to Independence, consigned to the firm of Aull and Company, who
outfitted the traders with mules and provisions, and in fact anything
else required by them.

Several individual traders would frequently form joint caravans, and
travel in company for mutual protection from the Indians. After having
reached a fifty-mile limit from the State line, each trader had control
of his own men; each took care of a certain number of the pack-animals,
loaded and unloaded them in camp, and had general supervision of them.

Frequently there would be three hundred mules in a single caravan,
carrying three hundred pounds apiece, and very large animals more.
Thousands of wagons were also sent out from Independence annually,
each drawn by twelve mules or six yoke of oxen, and loaded with general
merchandise.

There were no packing houses in those days nearer than St. Louis, and
the bacon and beef used in the Santa Fe trade were furnished by the
farmers of the surrounding country, who killed their meat, cured it,
and transported it to the town where they sold it. Their wheat was
also ground at the local mills, and they brought the flour to market,
together with corn, dried fruit, beans, peas, and kindred provisions
used on the long route across the plains.

Independence very soon became the best market west of St. Louis
for cattle, mules, and wagons; the trade of which the place was the
acknowledged headquarters furnishing employment to several thousand men,
including the teamsters and packers on the Trail. The wages paid varied
from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and rations. The price charged
for hauling freight to Santa Fe was ten dollars a hundred pounds, each
wagon earning from five to six hundred dollars every trip, which was
made in eighty or ninety days; some fast caravans making quicker time.

The merchants and general traders of Independence in those days reaped a
grand harvest. Everything to eat was in constant demand; mules and oxen
were sold in great numbers every month at excellent prices and always
for cash; while any good stockman could readily make from ten to fifty
dollars a day.

One of the largest manufacturers and most enterprising young men in
Independence at that time was Hiram Young, a coloured man. Besides
making hundreds of wagons, he made all the ox-yokes used in the entire
traffic; fifty thousand annually during the '50's and until the breaking
out of the war. The forward yokes were sold at an average of one dollar
and a quarter, the wheel yokes a dollar higher.

The freight transported by the wagons was always very securely loaded;
each package had its contents plainly marked on the outside. The wagons
were heavily covered and tightly closed. Every man belonging to the
caravan was thoroughly armed, and ever on the alert to repulse an attack
by the Indians.

Sometimes at the crossing of the Arkansas the quicksands were so bad
that it was necessary to get the caravan over in a hurry; then forty or
fifty yoke of oxen were hitched to one wagon and it was quickly yanked
through the treacherous ford. This was not always the case, however; it
depended upon the stage of water and recent floods.

After the close of the war with Mexico, the freight business across the
plains increased to a wonderful degree. The possession of the country by
the United States gave a fresh impetus to the New Mexico trade, and
the traffic then began to be divided between Westport and Kansas City.
Independence lost control of the overland commerce and Kansas City
commenced its rapid growth. Then came the discovery of gold in
California, and this gave an increased business westward; for thousands
of men and their families crossed the plains and the Rocky Mountains,
seeking their fortunes in the new El Dorado. The Old Trail was the
highway of an enormous pilgrimage, and both Independence and Kansas City
became the initial point of a wonderful emigration.

In Independence may still be seen a few of the old landmarks when it was
the headquarters of the Santa Fe trade.

An overland mail was started from the busy town as early as 1849. In an
old copy of the Missouri _Commonwealth_, published there under the date
of July, 1850, which I found on file in the Kansas State Historical
Society, there is the following account of the first mail stage
westward:--

We briefly alluded, some days since, to the Santa Fe line
of mail stages, which left this city on its first monthly
journey on the 1st instant. The stages are got up in
elegant style, and are each arranged to convey eight
passengers. The bodies are beautifully painted, and made
water-tight, with a view of using them as boats in ferrying
streams. The team consists of six mules to each coach.
The mail is guarded by eight men, armed as follows: Each man
has at his side, fastened in the stage, one of Colt's
revolving rifles; in a holster below, one of Colt's long
revolvers, and in his belt a small Colt's revolver, besides
a hunting-knife; so that these eight men are ready, in case
of attack, to discharge one hundred and thirty-six shots
without having to reload. This is equal to a small army,
armed as in the ancient times, and from the looks of this
escort, ready as they are, either for offensive or defensive
warfare with the savages, we have no fears for the safety
of the mails.

The accommodating contractors have established a sort of
base of refitting at Council Grove, a distance of one
hundred and fifty miles from this city, and have sent out
a blacksmith, and a number of men to cut and cure hay, with
a quantity of animals, grain, and provisions; and we
understand they intend to make a sort of traveling station
there, and to commence a farm. They also, we believe,
intend to make a similar settlement at Walnut Creek next
season. Two of their stages will start from here the
first of every month.

The old stage-coach days were times of Western romance and adventure,
and the stories told of that era of the border have a singular
fascination in this age of annihilation of distance.

Very few, if any, of the famous men who handled the "ribbons" in those
dangerous days of the slow journey across the great plains are among
the living; like the clumsy and forgotten coaches they drove, they have
themselves been mouldering into dust these many years.

In many places on the line of the Trail, where the hard hills have not
been subjected to the plough, the deep ruts cut by the lumbering Concord
coaches may yet be distinctly traced. Particularly are they visible from
the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe track, as the cars thunder rapidly
toward the city of Great Bend, in Kansas, three miles east of that town.
Let the tourist as he crosses Walnut Creek look out of his window toward
the east at an angle of about thirty-five degrees, and on the flint
hills which slope gradually toward the railroad, he will observe, very
distinctly, the Old Trail, where it once drew down from the divide to
make the ford at the little stream.

The monthly stages started from each end of the route at the same time;
later the service was increased to once a week; after a while to three
times, until in the early '60's daily stages were run from both ends of
the route, and this was continued until the advent of the railroad.

Each coach carried eleven passengers, nine closely stowed inside--three
on a seat--and two on the outside on the boot with the driver. The fare
to Santa Fe was two hundred and fifty dollars, the allowance of baggage
being limited to forty pounds; all in excess of that cost half a dollar
a pound. In this now seemingly large sum was included the board of the
travellers, but they were not catered to in any extravagant manner;
hardtack, bacon, and coffee usually exhausted the menu, save that at
times there was an abundance of antelope and buffalo.

There was always something exciting in those journeys from the Missouri
to the mountains in the lumbering Concord coach. There was the constant
fear of meeting the wily red man, who persistently hankered after
the white man's hair. Then there was the playfulness of the sometimes
drunken driver, who loved to upset his tenderfoot travellers in some
arroya, long after the moon had sunk below the horizon.

It required about two weeks to make the trip from the Missouri River to
Santa Fe, unless high water or a fight with the Indians made it several
days longer. The animals were changed every twenty miles at first, but
later, every ten, when faster time was made. What sleep was taken could
only be had while sitting bolt upright, because there was no laying
over; the stage continued on night and day until Santa Fe was reached.

After a few years, the company built stations at intervals varying
from ten miles to fifty or more; and there the animals and drivers
were changed, and meals furnished to travellers, which were always
substantial, but never elegant in variety or cleanliness.

Who can ever forget those meals at the "stations," of which you were
obliged to partake or go hungry: biscuit hard enough to serve as
"round-shot," and a vile decoction called, through courtesy, coffee--but
God help the man who disputed it!

Some stations, however, were notable exceptions, particularly in the
mountains of New Mexico, where, aside from the bread--usually only
tortillas, made of the blue-flint corn of the country--and coffee
composed of the saints may know what, the meals were excellent. The
most delicious brook trout, alternating with venison of the black-tailed
deer, elk, bear, and all the other varieties of game abounding in the
region cost you one dollar, but the station-keeper a mere trifle; no
wonder the old residents and ranchmen on the line of the Old Trail
lament the good times of the overland stage!

Thirteen years ago I revisited the once well-known Kosloskie's Ranch,
a picturesque cabin at the foot of the Glorieta Mountains, about half a
mile from the ruins on the Rio Pecos. The old Pole was absent, but his
wife was there; and, although I had not seen her for fifteen years, she
remembered me well, and at once began to deplore the changed condition
of the country since the advent of the railroad, declaring it had ruined
their family with many others. I could not disagree with her view of
the matter, as I looked on the debris of a former relative greatness
all around me. I recalled the fact that once Kosloskie's Ranch was the
favourite eating station on the Trail; where you were ever sure of a
substantial meal--the main feature of which was the delicious brook
trout, which were caught out of the stream which ran near the door while
you were washing the dust out of your eyes and ears.

The trout have vacated the Pecos; the ranch is a ruin, and stands in
grim contrast with the old temple and church on the hill; and both are
monuments of civilizations that will never come again.

Weeds and sunflowers mark the once broad trail to the quaint Aztec city,
and silence reigns in the beautiful valley, save when broken by the
passage of "The Flyer" of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railway, as
it struggles up the heavy grade of the Glorieta Mountains a mile or more
distant.

Besides the driver, there was another employee--the conductor or
messenger, as he was called. He had charge of the mail and express
matter, collected the fares, and attended generally to the requirements
of those committed to his care during the tedious journey; for he was
not changed like the driver, but stayed with the coach from its starting
to its destination. Sometimes fourteen individuals were accommodated in
case of emergency; but it was terribly crowded and uncomfortable riding,
with no chance to stretch your limbs, save for a few moments at stations
where you ate and changed animals.

In starting from Independence, powerful horses were attached to the
coach--generally four in number; but at the first station they were
exchanged for mules, and these animals hauled it the remainder of the
way. Drivers were changed about eight times in making the trip to
Santa Fe; and some of them were comical fellows, but full of nerve and
endurance, for it required a man of nerve to handle eight frisky mules
through the rugged passes of the mountains, when the snow was drifted
in immense masses, or when descending the curved, icy declivities to
the base of the range. A cool head was highly necessary; but frequently
accidents occurred and sometimes were serious in their results.

A snowstorm in the mountains was a terrible thing to encounter by the
coach; all that could be done was to wait until it had abated, as there
was no going on in the face of the blinding sheets of intensely cold
vapour which the wind hurled against the sides of the mountains.
All inside of the coach had to sit still and shake with the freezing
branches of the tall trees around them. A summer hailstorm was much more
to be dreaded, however; for nowhere else on the earth do the hailstones
shoot from the clouds of greater size or with greater velocity than in
the Rocky Mountains. Such an event invariably frightened the mules and
caused them to stampede; and, to escape death from the coach rolling
down some frightful abyss, one had to jump out, only to be beaten to
a jelly by the masses of ice unless shelter could be found under some
friendly ledge of rock or the thick limbs of a tree.

Nothing is more fatiguing than travelling for the first day and night
in a stage-coach; after that, however, one gets used to it and the
remainder of the journey is relatively comfortable.

The only way to alleviate the monotony of riding hour after hour was
to walk; occasionally this was rendered absolutely necessary by some
accident, such as breaking a wheel or axle, or when an animal gave out
before a station was reached. In such cases, however, no deduction was
made from the fare, that having been collected in advance, so it cost
you just as much whether you rode or walked. You could exercise your
will in the matter, but you must not lag behind the coach; the savages
were always watching for such derelicts, and your hair was the forfeit!

In the worst years, when the Indians were most decidedly on the
war-trail, the government furnished an escort of soldiers from the
military posts; they generally rode in a six-mule army-wagon, and were
commanded by a sergeant or corporal; but in the early days, before the
army had concentrated at the various forts on the great plains,
the stage had to rely on the courage and fighting qualities of its
occupants, and the nerve and the good judgment of the driver. If the
latter understood his duty thoroughly and was familiar with the methods
of the savages, he always chose the cover of darkness in which to travel
in localities where the danger from Indians was greater than elsewhere;
for it is a rare thing in savage warfare to attack at night. The early
morning seemed to be their favourite hour, when sleep oppresses most
heavily; and then it was that the utmost vigilance was demanded.

One of the most confusing things to the novice riding over the great
plains is the idea of distance; mile after mile is travelled on the
monotonous trail, with a range of hills or a low divide in full sight,
yet hours roll by and the objects seem no nearer than when they were
first observed. The reason for this seems to be that every atom of
vapour is eliminated from the air, leaving such an absolute clearness
of atmosphere, such an indescribable transparency of space through which
distant objects are seen, that they are magnified and look nearer than
they really are. Consequently, the usual method of calculating distance
and areas by the eye is ever at fault until custom and familiarity force
a new standard of measure.

Mirages, too, were of frequent occurrence on the great plains; some
of them wonderful examples of the refracting properties of light. They
assumed all manner of fantastic, curious shapes, sometimes ludicrously
distorting the landscape; objects, like a herd of buffalo for instance,
though forty miles away, would seem to be high in air, often reversed,
and immensely magnified in their proportions.

Violent storms were also frequent incidents of the long ride. I well
remember one night, about thirty years ago, when the coach in which I
and one of my clerks were riding to Fort Dodge was suddenly brought to
a standstill by a terrible gale of wind and hail. The mules refused to
face it, and quickly turning around nearly overturned the stage, while
we, with the driver and conductor, were obliged to hold on to the wheels
with all our combined strength to prevent it from blowing down into
a stony ravine, on the brink of which we were brought to a halt.
Fortunately, these fearful blizzards did not last very long; the wind
ceased blowing so violently in a few moments, but the rain usually
continued until morning.

It usually happened that you either at once took a great liking for your
driver and conductor, or the reverse. Once, on a trip from Kansas City,
nearly a third of a century ago, when I and another man were the only
occupants of the coach, we entertained quite a friendly feeling for
our driver; he was a good-natured, jolly fellow, full of anecdote
and stories of the Trail, over which he had made more than a hundred
sometimes adventurous journeys.

When we arrived at the station at Plum Creek, the coach was a little
ahead of time, and the driver who was there to relieve ours commenced to
grumble at the idea of having to start out before the regular hour. He
found fault because we had come into the station so soon, and swore he
could drive where our man could not "drag a halter-chain," as he claimed
in his boasting. We at once took a dislike to him, and secretly wished
that he would come to grief, in order to cure him of his boasting. Sure
enough, before we had gone half a mile from the station he incontinently
tumbled the coach over into a sandy arroya, and we were delighted at the
accident. Finding ourselves free from any injury, we went to work
and assisted him to right the coach--no small task; but we took great
delight in reminding him several times of his ability to drive where our
old friend could not "drag a halter-chain." It was very dark; neither
moon or star visible, the whole heavens covered with an inky blackness
of ominous clouds; so he was not so much to be blamed after all.

The very next coach was attacked at the crossing of Cow Creek by a band
of Kiowas. The savages had followed the stage all that afternoon, but
remained out of sight until just at dark, when they rushed over the
low divide, and mounted on their ponies commenced to circle around
the coach, making the sand dunes resound with echoes of their infernal
yelling, and shaking their buffalo-robes to stampede the mules, at the
same time firing their guns at the men who were in the coach, all of
whom made a bold stand, but were rapidly getting the worst of it, when
fortunately a company of United States cavalry came over the Trail from
the west, and drove the savages off. Two of the men in the coach were
seriously wounded, and one of the soldiers killed; but the Indian loss
was never determined, as they succeeded in carrying off both their dead
and wounded.

Mr. W. H. Ryus, a friend of mine now residing in Kansas City, who was a
driver and messenger thirty-five years, and had many adventures, told me
the following incidents:

I have crossed the plains sixty-five times by wagon and
coach. In July, 1861, I was employed by Barnum, Vickery,
and Neal to drive over what was known as the Long Route,
that is, from Fort Larned to Fort Lyon, two hundred and
forty miles, with no station between. We drove one set of
mules the whole distance, camped out, and made the journey,
in good weather, in four or five days. In winter we
generally encountered a great deal of snow, and very cold
air on the bleak and wind-swept desert of the Upper Arkansas,
but we employees got used to that; only the passengers did
any kicking. We had a way of managing them, however,
when they got very obstreperous; all we had to do was to
yell Indians! and that quieted them quicker than forty-rod
whiskey does a man.

We gathered buffalo-chips, to boil our coffee and cook our
buffalo and antelope steak, smoked for a while around the
smouldering fire until the animals were through grazing,
and then started on our lonely way again.

Sometimes the coach would travel for a hundred miles through
the buffalo herds, never for a moment getting out of sight
of them; often we saw fifty thousand to a hundred thousand
on a single journey out or in. The Indians used to call
them their cattle, and claimed to own them. They did not,
like the white man, take out only the tongue, or hump, and
leave all the rest to dry upon the prairie, but ate every
last morsel, even to the intestines. They said the whites
were welcome to all they could eat or haul away, but they
did not like to see so much meat wasted as was our custom.

The Indians on the plains were not at all hostile in 1861-62;
we could drive into their villages, where there were tens
of thousands of them, and they would always treat us to
music or a war-dance, and set before us the choicest of
their venison and buffalo. In July of the last-mentioned
year, Colonel Leavenworth, Jr., was crossing the Trail in
my coach. He desired to see Satanta, the great Kiowa chief.
The colonel's father[28] was among the Indians a great deal
while on duty as an army officer, while the young colonel
was a small boy. The colonel said he didn't believe that
old Satanta would know him.

Just before the arrival of the coach in the region of the
Indian village, the Comanches and the Pawnees had been
having a battle. The Comanches had taken some scalps,
and they were camping on the bank of the Arkansas River,
where Dodge City is now located. The Pawnees had killed
five of their warriors, and the Comanches were engaged in
an exciting war-dance; I think there were from twenty to
thirty thousand Indians gathered there, men, women, and
children of the several tribes--Comanches, Kiowas, Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, and others.

When we came in sight of their camp, the colonel knew, by
the terrible noise they were making, that a war-dance was
going on; but we did not know then whether it was on account
of troubles among themselves, or because of a fight with
the whites, but we were determined to find out. If he could
get to the old chief, all would be right. So he and I
started for the place whence the noise came. We met a savage
and the colonel asked him whether Satanta was there, and
what was going on. When he told us that they had had
a fight and it was a scalp-dance, our hair lowered; for we
knew that if it was in consequence of trouble with the
whites, we stood in some danger of losing our own scalps.

The Indian took us in, and the situation, too; and conducted
us into the presence of Satanta, who stood in the middle
of the great circle, facing the dancers. It was out on an
island in the stream; the chief stood very erect, and eyed
us closely for a few seconds, then the colonel told his
own name that the Indians had known him by when he was a boy.
Satanta gave one bound--he was at least ten feet from where
we were waiting--grasped the colonel's hand and excitedly
kissed him, then stood back for another instant, gave him
a second squeeze, offered his hand to me, which I,
of course, shook heartily, then he gazed at the man he had
known as a boy so many years ago, with a countenance
beaming with delight. I never saw any one, even among
the white race, manifest so much joy as the old chief did
over the visit of the colonel to his camp.

He immediately ordered some of his young men to go out and
herd our mules through the night, which they brought back
to us at daylight. He then had the coach hauled to the
front of his lodge, where we could see all that was going on
to the best advantage. We had six travellers with us on
this journey, and it was a great sight for the tenderfeet.

It was about ten o'clock at night when we arrived at
Satanta's lodge, and we saw thousands of squaws and bucks
dancing and mourning for their dead warriors. At midnight
the old chief said we must eat something at once. So he
ordered a fire built, cooked buffalo and venison, setting
before us the very best that he had, we furnishing canned
fruit, coffee, and sugar from our coach mess. There we sat,
and talked and ate until morning; then when we were ready
to start off, Satanta and the other chiefs of the various
tribes escorted us about eight miles on the Trail, where
we halted for breakfast, they remaining and eating with us.

Colonel Leavenworth was on his way to assume command of one of the
military posts in New Mexico; the Indians begged him to come back and
take his quarters at either Fort Larned or Fort Dodge. They told him
they were afraid their agent was stealing their goods and selling them
back to them; while if the Indians took anything from the whites, a war
was started.

Colonel A. G. Boone had made a treaty with these same Indians in 1860,
and it was agreed that he should be their agent. It was done, and the
entire savage nations were restful and kindly disposed toward the whites
during his administration; any one could then cross the plains without
fear of molestation. In 1861, however, Judge Wright, of Indiana, who
was a member of Congress at the time, charged Colonel Boone with
disloyalty.[29] He succeeded in having him removed.

Majors Russel and Waddell, the great government freight contractors
across the plains, gave Colonel Boone fourteen hundred acres of land,
well improved, with some fine buildings on it, about fifteen miles east
of Pueblo, Colorado. It was christened Booneville, and the colonel moved
there. In the fall of 1862, fifty influential Indians of the various
tribes visited Colonel Boone at his new home, and begged that he would
come back to them and be their agent. He told the chiefs that the
President of the United States would not let him. Then they offered to
sell their horses to raise money for him to go to Washington to tell
the Great Father what their agent was doing; and to have him removed, or
there was going to be trouble. The Indians told Colonel Boone that
many of their warriors would be on the plains that fall, and they were
declaring they had as much right to take something to eat from the
trains as their agent had to steal goods from them.

Early in the winter of the next year, a small caravan of eight or ten
wagons travelling to the Missouri River was overhauled at Nine Mile
Ridge, about fifty miles west of Fort Dodge, by a band of Indians, who
asked for something to eat. The teamsters, thinking them to be hostile,
believed it would be a good thing to kill one of them anyhow; so they
shot an inoffensive warrior, after which the train moved on to its camp
and the trouble began. Every man in the whole outfit, with the exception
of one teamster, who luckily got to the Arkansas River and hid, was
murdered, the animals all carried away, and the wagons and contents
destroyed by fire.

This foolish act by the master of the caravan was the cause of a long
war, causing hundreds of atrocious murders and the destruction of a
great deal of property along the whole Western frontier.

That fall, 1863, Mr. Ryus was the messenger or conductor in charge of
the coach running from Kansas City to Santa Fe. He said:

It then required a month to make the round trip, about
eighteen hundred miles. On account of the Indian war
we had to have an escort of soldiers to go through the most
dangerous portions of the Trail; and the caravans all
joined forces for mutual safety, besides having an escort.

My coach was attacked several times during that season, and
we had many close calls for our scalps. Sometimes the
Indians would follow us for miles, and we had to halt and
fight them; but as for myself, I had no desire to kill one
of the miserable, outraged creatures, who had been swindled
out of their just rights.

I know of but one occasion when we were engaged in a fight
with them when our escort killed any of the attacking
savages; it was about two miles from Little Coon Creek
Station, where they surrounded the coach and commenced
hostilities. In the fight one officer and one enlisted man
were wounded. The escort chased the band for several miles,
killed nine of them, and got their horses.

CHAPTER X. CHARLES BENT.

Almost immediately after the ratification of the purchase of New Mexico
by the United States under the stipulations of the "Guadalupe-Hidalgo
Treaty," the Utes, one of the most powerful tribes of mountain
Indians, inaugurated a bloody and relentless war against the civilized
inhabitants of the Territory. It was accompanied by all the horrible
atrocities which mark the tactics of savage hatred toward the white
race. It continued for several years with more or less severity; its
record a chapter of history whose pages are deluged with blood, until
finally the Indians were subdued by the power of the military.

Along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, they were frequently in
conjunction with the Apaches, and their depredations and atrocities
were very numerous; they attacked fearlessly freight caravans,
private expeditions, and overland stage-coaches, robbing and murdering
indiscriminately.

In January, 1847, the mail and passenger stage left Independence,
Missouri, for Santa Fe on one of its regular trips across the plains. It
had its full complement of passengers, among whom were a Mr. White and
family, consisting of his wife, one child, and a coloured nurse.

Day after day the lumbering Concord coach rolled on, with nothing to
disturb the monotony of the vast prairies, until it had left them far
behind and crossed the Range into New Mexico. Just about dawn, as the
unsuspecting travellers were entering the "canyon of the Canadian,"[30]
and probably waking up from their long night's sleep, a band of Indians,
with blood-curdling yells and their terrific war-whoop, rode down upon
them.

In that lonely and rock-sheltered gorge a party of the hostile savages,
led by "White Wolf," a chief of the Apaches, had been awaiting the
arrival of the coach from the East; the very hour it was due was well
known to them, and they had secreted themselves there the night before
so as to be on hand should it reach their chosen ambush a little before
the schedule time.

Out dashed the savages, gorgeous in their feathered war-bonnets, but
looking like fiends with their paint-bedaubed faces. Stopping the
frightened mules, they pulled open the doors of the coach and,
mercilessly dragging its helpless and surprised inmates to the ground,
immediately began their butchery. They scalped and mutilated the dead
bodies of their victims in their usual sickening manner, not a single
individual escaping, apparently, to tell of their fiendish acts.

If the Indians had been possessed of sufficient cunning to cover up the
tracks of their horrible atrocities, as probably white robbers would
have done, by dragging the coach from the road and destroying it by fire
or other means, the story of the murders committed in the deep canyon
might never have been known; but they left the tell-tale remains of
the dismantled vehicle just where they had attacked it, and the naked
corpses of its passengers where they had been ruthlessly killed.

At the next stage station the employees were anxiously waiting for the
arrival of the coach, and wondering what could have caused the delay;
for it was due there at noon on the day of the massacre. Hour after hour
passed, and at last they began to suspect that something serious had
occurred; they sat up all through the night listening for the familiar
rumbling of wheels, but still no stage. At daylight next morning,
determined to wait no longer, as they felt satisfied that something out
of the usual course had happened, a party hurriedly mounted their horses
and rode down the broad trail leading to the canyon.

Upon entering its gloomy mouth after a quick lope of an hour, they
discovered the ghastly remains of twelve mutilated bodies. These were
gathered up and buried in one grave, on the top of the bluff overlooking
the narrow gorge.

They could not be sure of the number of passengers the coach had brought
until the arrival of the next, as it would have a list of those carried
by its predecessor; but it would not be due for several days. They
naturally supposed, however, that the twelve dead lying on the ground
were its full complement.

Not waiting for the arrival of the next stage, they despatched a
messenger to the last station east that the one whose occupants had been
murdered had passed, and there learned the exact number of passengers
it had contained. Now they knew that Mrs. White, her child, and the
coloured nurse had been carried off into a captivity worse than death;
for no remains of a woman were found with the others lying in the
canyon.

The terrible news of the massacre was conveyed to Taos, where were
stationed several companies of the Second United States Dragoons,
commanded by Major William Greer; but as the weather had grown intensely
cold and stormy since the date of the massacre, it took nearly a
fortnight for the terrible story to reach there. The Major acted
promptly when appealed to to go after and punish the savages concerned
in the outrage, but several days more were lost in getting an expedition
ready for the field. It was still stormy while the command was preparing
for its work; but at last, one bright morning, in a piercing cold wind,
five troops of the dragoons, commanded by Major Greer in person, left
their comfortable quarters to attempt the rescue of Mrs. White, her
child, and nurse.

Kit Carson, "Uncle Dick" Wooten, Joaquin Leroux, and Tom Tobin were
the principal scouts and guides accompanying the expedition, having
volunteered their services to Major Greer, which he had gladly accepted.

The massacre having occurred three weeks before the command had
arrived at the canyon of the Canadian, and snow having fallen almost
continuously ever since, the ground was deeply covered, making it almost
impossible to find the trail of the savages leading out of the gorge. No
one knew where they had established their winter camp--probably hundreds
of miles distant on some tributary of the Canadian far to the south.

Carson, Wooton, and Leroux, after scanning the ground carefully at every
point, though the snow was ten inches deep, in a way of which only men
versed in savage lore are capable, were rewarded by discovering certain
signs, unintelligible to the ordinary individual[31]--that the murderers
had gone south out of the canyon immediately after completing their
bloody work, and that their camp was somewhere on the river, but how far
off none could tell.

The command followed up the trail discovered by the scouts for nearly
four hundred miles. Early one morning when that distance had been
rounded, and just as the men were about to break camp preparatory to
the day's march, Carson went out on a little reconnoissance on his own
account, as he had noticed a flock of ravens hovering in the air when he
first got out of his blankets at dawn, which was sufficient indication
to him that an Indian camp was located somewhere in the vicinity; for
that ominous bird is always to be found in the region where the savages
take up an abode, feeding upon the carcasses of the many varieties of
game killed for food. He had not proceeded more than half a mile
from the camp when he discovered two Indians slowly riding over a low
"divide," driving a herd of ponies before them. The famous scout was
then certain their village could not be very far away. The savages did
not observe him, as he took good care they should not; so he returned
quickly to where Major Greer was standing by his camp-fire and reported
the presence of a village very close at hand.

The Major having sent for Tom Tobin and Uncle Dick Wooton, requested
them to go and find the exact location of the savages. These scouts came
back in less than half an hour, and reported a large number of teepees
in a thick grove of timber a mile away.

It was at once determined to surprise the savages in their winter
quarters by charging right among their lodges without allowing them time
to mount their ponies, as the gallant Custer rode, at the head of his
famous troopers of the Seventh Cavalry, into the camp of the celebrated
chief "Black Kettle" on the Washita, in the dawn of a cold November
morning twenty years afterward.

The command succeeded in getting within good charging distance of the
village without its occupants having any knowledge of its proximity; but
at this moment Major Greer was seized with an idea that he ought to have
a parley with the Indians before he commenced to fight them, and for
that purpose he ordered a halt, just as the soldiers were eager for the
sound of the "Charge!"

Never were a body of men more enraged. Carson gave vent to his wrath
in a series of elaborately carved English oaths, for which he was noted
when young; Leroux, whose naturally hot blood was roused, swore at the
Major in a curious mixture of bad French and worse mountain dialect,
and it appeared as if the battle would begin in the ranks of the troops
instead of those of the savages; for never was a body of soldiers so
disgusted at the act of any commanding officer.

This delay gave the Indians, who could be seen dodging about among their
lodges and preparing for a fight that was no longer a surprise, time
to hide their women and children, mount their ponies, and get down into
deep ravines, where the soldiers could not follow them. While the Major
was trying to convince his subordinates that his course was the proper
one, the Indians opened fire without any parley, and it happened that
at the first volley a bullet struck him in the breast, but a suspender
buckle deflected its course and he was not seriously wounded.

The change in the countenance of their commanding officer caused by the
momentary pain was just the incentive the troopers wanted, and without
waiting for the sound of the trumpet, they spurred their horses, dashed
in, and charged the thunderstruck savages with the shock of a tornado.

In two successful charges of the gallant and impatient troopers more
than a hundred of the Indians were killed and wounded, but the time lost
had permitted many to escape, and the pursuit of the stragglers would
have been unavailing under the circumstances; so the command turned back
and returned to Taos. In the village was found the body of Mrs. White
still warm, with three arrows in her breast. Had the charge been made as
originally expected by the troopers, her life would have been saved. No
trace of the child or of the coloured nurse was ever discovered, and it
is probable that they were both killed while en route from the canyon
to the village, as being valueless to keep either as slaves or for other
purposes.

The fate of the Apache chief, "White Wolf," who was the leader in the
outrages in the canyon of the Canadian, was fitting for his devilish
deeds. It was Lieutenant David Bell's fortune to avenge the murder
of Mrs. White and her family, and in an extraordinary manner.[32] The
action was really dramatic, or romantic; he was on a scout with his
company, which was stationed at Fort Union, New Mexico, having about
thirty men with him, and when near the canyon of the Canadian they
met about the same number of Indians. A parley was in order at once,
probably desired by the savages, who were confronted with an equal
number of troopers. Bell had assigned the baggage-mules to the care of
five or six of his command, and held a mounted interview with the chief,
who was no other than the infamous White Wolf of the Jicarilla Apaches.
As Bell approached, White Wolf was standing in front of his Indians, who
were on foot, all well armed and in perfect line. Bell was in advance
of his troopers, who were about twenty paces from the Indians, exactly
equal in number and extent of line; both parties were prepared to use
firearms.

The parley was almost tediously long and the impending duel was
arranged, White Wolf being very bold and defiant.

At last the leaders exchanged shots, the chief sinking on one knee and
aiming his gun, Bell throwing his body forward and making his horse
rear. Both lines, by command, fired, following the example of their
superiors, the troopers, however, spurring forward over their enemies.
The warriors, or nearly all of them, threw themselves on the ground, and
several vertical wounds were received by horse and rider. The dragoons
turned short about, and again charged through and over their enemies,
the fire being continuous. As they turned for a third charge, the
surviving Indians were seen escaping to a deep ravine, which, although
only one or two hundred paces off, had not previously been noticed. A
number of the savages thus escaped, the troopers having to pull up at
the brink, but sending a volley after the descending fugitives.

In less than fifteen minutes twenty-one of the forty-six actors in this
strange combat were slain or disabled. Bell was not hit, but four or
five of his men were killed or wounded. He had shot White Wolf several
times, and so did others after him; but so tenacious of life was the
Apache that, to finish him, a trooper got a great stone and mashed his
head.

This was undoubtedly the greatest duel of modern times; certainly
nothing like it ever occurred on the Santa Fe Trail before or since.

The war chief of the Kiowa nation in the early '50's was Satank, a most
unmitigated villain; cruel and heartless as any savage that ever robbed
a stage-coach or wrenched off the hair of a helpless woman. After
serving a dozen or more years with a record for hellish atrocities
equalled by few of his compeers, he was deposed for alleged cowardice,
as his warriors claimed, under the following circumstances:--

The village of his tribe was established in the large bottoms, eight
miles from the Great Bend of the Arkansas, and about the same distance
from Fort Zarah.[33] All the bucks were absent on a hunting expedition,
excepting Satank and a few superannuated warriors. The troops were out
from Fort Larned on a grand scout after marauding savages, when they
suddenly came across the village and completely took the Kiowas by
surprise. Seeing the soldiers almost upon them, Satank and other
warriors jumped on their ponies and made good their escape. Had they
remained, all of them would have been killed or at least captured;
consequently Satank, thinking discretion better than valour at that
particular juncture, incontinently fled. His warriors in council,
however, did not agree with him; they thought that it was his duty to
have remained at the village in defence of the women and children, as he
had been urged to refrain from going on the hunt for that very purpose.

Some time before Satank lost his office of chief, there was living on
Cow Creek, in a rude adobe building, a man who was ostensibly an Indian
trader, but whose traffic, in reality, consisted in selling whiskey to
the Indians, and consequently the United States troops were always after
him. He was obliged to cache his liquor in every conceivable manner so
that the soldiers should not discover it, and, of course, he dreaded
the incursions of the troops much more than he did raids of the Indian
marauders that were constantly on the Trail.

Satank and this illicit trader, whose name was Peacock, were great
chums. One day while they were indulging in a general good time
over sundry drinks of most villanous liquor, Satank said to Peacock:
"Peacock, I want you to write me a letter; a real nice one, that I can
show to the wagon-bosses on the Trail, and get all the 'chuck' I want.
Tell them I am Satank, the great chief of the Kiowas, and for them to
treat me the best they know how."

"All right, Satank," said Peacock; "I'll do so." Peacock then sat down
and wrote the following epistle:--

"The bearer of this is Satank. He is the biggest liar, beggar, and thief
on the plains. What he can't beg of you, he'll steal. Kick him out of
camp, for he is a lazy, good-for-nothing Indian."

Satank began at once to make use of the supposed precious document,
which he really believed would assure him the dignified treatment and
courtesy due to his exalted rank. He presented it to several caravans
during the ensuing week, and, of course, received a very cool reception
in every instance, or rather a very warm one.

One wagon-master, in fact, black-snaked him out of his camp. After
these repeated insults he sought another white friend, and told of his
grievances. "Look here," said Satank, "I asked Peacock to write me a
good letter, and he gave me this; but I don't understand it! Every time
I hand it to a wagon-boss, he gives me the devil! Read it to me and tell
me just what it does say."

His friend read it over, and then translated it literally to Satank. The
savage assumed a countenance of extreme disgust, and after musing for a
few moments, said: "Well, I understand it all now. All right!"

The next morning at daylight, Satank called for some of his braves and
with them rode out to Peacock's ranch. Arriving there, he called out
to Peacock, who had not yet risen: "Peacock, get up, the soldiers are
coming!" It was a warning which the illicit trader quickly obeyed, and
running out of the building with his field-glass in his hand, he started
for his lookout, but while he was ascending the ladder with his back to
Satank the latter shot him full of holes, saying, as he did so: "There,
Peacock, I guess you won't write any more letters."

His warriors then entered the building and killed every man in it, save
one who had been gored by a buffalo bull the day before, and who was
lying in a room all by himself. He was saved by the fact that the Indian
has a holy dread of small-pox, and will never enter an apartment where
sick men lie, fearing they may have the awful disease.

Satanta (White Bear) was the most efficient and dreaded chief of all who
have ever been at the head of the Kiowa nation. Ever restlessly active
in ordering or conducting merciless forays against an exposed frontier,
he was the very incarnation of deviltry in his determined hatred of the
whites, and his constant warfare against civilization.

He also possessed wonderful oratorical powers; he could hurl the most
violent invectives at those whom he argued with, or he could be equally
pathetic when necessary. He was justly called "The Orator of the
Plains," rivalling the historical renown of Tecumseh or Pontiac.

He was a short, bullet-headed Indian, full of courage and well versed in
strategy. Ordinarily, when on his visits to the various military posts
he wore a major-general's full uniform, a suit of that rank having been
given to him in the summer of 1866 by General Hancock. He also owned
an ambulance, a team of mules, and a set of harness, the last stolen,
maybe, from some caravan he had raided on the Trail. In that ambulance,
with a trained Indian driver, the wily chief travelled, wrapped in a
savage dignity that was truly laughable. In his village, too, he assumed
a great deal of style. He was very courteous to his white guests, if at
the time his tribe were at all friendly with the government; nothing
was too good for them. He always laid down a carpet on the floor of his
lodge in the post of honour, on which they were to sit. He had large
boards, twenty inches wide and three feet long, ornamented with brass
tacks driven all around the edges, which he used for tables. He also had
a French horn, which he blew vigorously when meals were ready.

His friendship was only dissembling. During all the time that General
Sheridan was making his preparations for his intended winter campaign
against the allied plains tribes, Satanta made frequent visits to the
military posts, ostensibly to show the officers that he was heartily for
peace, but really to inform himself of what was going on.

At that time I was stationed at Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill. One
evening, General Sheridan, who was my guest, was sitting on the verandah
of my quarters, smoking and chatting with me and some other officers
who had come to pay him their respects, when one of my men rode up and
quietly informed me that Satanta had just driven his ambulance into the
fort, and was getting ready to camp near the mule corral. On receiving
this information, I turned to the general and suggested the propriety of
either killing or capturing the inveterate demon. Personally I believed
it would be right to get rid of such a character, and I had men under
my command who would have been delighted to execute an order to that
effect.

Sheridan smiled when I told him of Satanta's presence and the excellent
chance to get rid of him. But he said: "That would never do; the
sentimentalists in the Eastern States would raise such a howl that the
whole country would be horrified!"

Of course, in these "piping times of peace" the reader, in the quiet of
his own room, will think that my suggestion was brutal, and without any
palliation; my excuse, however, may be found in General Washington's own
motto: Exitus acta probat. If the suggestion had been acted upon, many
an innocent man and woman would have escaped torture, and many a maiden
a captivity worse than death.

As a specimen of Satanta's oratory, I offer the following, to show the
hypocrisy of the subtle old villain, and his power over the minds of
too sensitive auditors. Once Congress sent out to the central plains a
commission from Washington to inquire into the causes of the continual
warfare raging with the savages on the Kansas border; to learn what
the grievances of the Indians were; and to find some remedy for the
wholesale slaughter of men, women, and children along the line of the
Old Trail.

Satanta was sent for by the commission as the leading spirit of the
formidable Kiowa nation. When he entered the building at Fort Dodge in
which daily sessions were held, he was told by the president to speak
his mind without any reservation; to withhold nothing, but to truthfully
relate what his tribe had to complain of on the part of the whites.
The old rascal grew very pathetic as he warmed up to his subject. He
declared that he had no desire to kill the white settlers or emigrants
crossing the plains, but that those who came and lived on the land of
his tribe ruthlessly slaughtered the buffalo, allowing their carcasses
to rot on the prairie; killing them merely for the amusement it afforded
them, while the Indian only killed when necessity demanded. He also
stated that the white hunters set out fires, destroying the grass, and
causing the tribe's horses to starve to death as well as the buffalo;
that they cut down and otherwise destroyed the timber on the margins of
the streams, making large fires of it, while the Indian was satisfied to
cook his food with a few dry and dead limbs. "Only the other day," said
he, "I picked up a little switch on the Trail, and it made my heart
bleed to think that so small a green branch, ruthlessly torn out of the
ground and thoughtlessly destroyed by some white man, would in time have
grown into a stately tree for the use and benefit of my children and
grandchildren."

After the pow-wow had ended, and Satanta had got a few drinks of red
liquor into him, his real, savage nature asserted itself, and he said to
the interpreter at the settler's store: "Now didn't I give it to those
white men who came from the Great Father? Didn't I do it in fine style?
Why, I drew tears from their eyes! The switch I saw on the Trail made my
heart glad instead of sad; for I new there was a tenderfoot ahead of me,
because an old plainsman or hunter would never have carried anything
but a good quirt or a pair of spurs. So I said to my warriors, 'Come on,
boys; we've got him!' and when we came in sight, after we had followed
him closely on the dead run, he threw away his rifle and held tightly on
to his hat for fear he should lose it!"

Another time when Satanta had remained at Fort Dodge for a very long
period and had worn out his welcome, so that no one would give him
anything to drink, he went to the quarters of his old friend, Bill
Bennett, the overland stage agent, and begged him to give him some
liquor. Bill was mixing a bottle of medicine to drench a sick mule. The
moment he set the bottle down to do something else, Satanta seized it
off the ground and drank most of the liquid before quitting. Of course,
it made the old savage dreadfully sick as well as angry. He then started
for a certain officer's quarters and again begged for something to cure
him of the effects of the former dose; the officer refused, but Satanta
persisted in his importunities; he would not leave without it. After
a while, the officer went to a closet and took a swallow of the most
nauseating medicine, placing the bottle back on its shelf. Satanta
watched his chance, and, as soon as the officer left the room, he
snatched the bottle out of the closet and drank its contents without
stopping to breathe. It was, of course, a worse dose than the
horse-medicine. The next day, very early in the morning, he assembled
a number of his warriors, crossed the Arkansas, and went south to
his village. Before leaving, however, he burnt all of the government
contractor's hay on the bank of the river opposite the post. He then
continued on to Crooked Creek, where he murdered three wood-choppers,
all of which, he said afterward, he did in revenge for the attempt to
poison him at Fort Dodge.

At the Comanche agency, where several of the government agents were
assembled to have a talk with chiefs of the various plains tribes,
Satanta said in his address: "I would willingly take hold of that part
of the white man's road which is represented by the breech-loading
rifles; but I don't like the corn rations--they make my teeth hurt!"

Big Tree was another Kiowa chief. He was the ally and close friend of
Satanta, and one of the most daring and active of his warriors. The
sagacity and bravery of these two savages would have been a credit to
that of the most famous warriors of the old French and Indian Wars. Both
were at last taken, tried, and sent to the Texas penitentiary for life.
Satanta was eventually pardoned; but before he was made aware of the
efforts that were being taken for his release, he attempted to escape,
and, in jumping from a window, fell and broke his neck. His
pardon arrived the next morning. Big Tree, through the work of the
sentimentalists of Washington, was set free and sent to the Kiowa
Reservation--near Fort Sill in the Indian Territory.

The next most audacious and terrible scourge of the plains was
"Ta-ne-on-koe" (Kicking Bird). He was a great warrior of the Kiowas,
and was the chief actor in some of the bloodiest raids on the Kansas
frontier in the history of its troublous times.

One of his captures was that of a Miss Morgan and Mrs. White. They were
finally rescued from the savages by General Custer, under the following
circumstances: Custer, who was advancing with his column of invincible
cavalrymen--the famous Seventh United States--in search of the two
unfortunate women, had arrived near the head waters of one of the
tributaries of the Washita, and, with only his guide and interpreter,
was far in advance of the column, when, on reaching the summit of an
isolated bluff, they suddenly saw a village of the Kiowas, which
turned out to be that of Kicking Bird, whose handsome lodge was easily
distinguishable from the rest. Without waiting for his command, the
general and his guide rode boldly to the lodge of the great chief,
and both dismounted, holding cocked revolvers in their hands; Custer
presented his at Kicking Bird's head. In the meantime, Custer's column
of troopers, whom the Kiowas had good reason to remember for their
bravery in many a hard-fought battle, came in full view of the
astonished village. This threw the startled savages into the utmost
consternation, but the warriors were held in check by signs from Kicking
Bird. As the cavalry drew nearer, General Custer demanded the immediate
release of the white women. Their presence in the village was at first
denied by the lying chief, and not until he had been led to the limb of
a huge cottonwood tree near the lodge, with a rope around his neck, did
he acknowledge that he held the women and consent to give them up.

This well-known warrior, with a foreknowledge not usually found in the
savage mind, seeing the beginning of the end of Indian sovereignty
on the plains, voluntarily came in and surrendered himself to the
authorities, and stayed on the reservation near Fort Sill.

In June, 1867, a year before the breaking out of the great Indian war on
the central plains, the whole tribe of Kiowas, led by him, assembled at
Fort Larned. He was the cynosure of all eyes, as he was without question
one of the noblest-looking savages ever seen on the plains. On that
occasion he wore the full uniform of a major-general of the United
States army. He was as correctly moulded as a statue when on horseback,
and when mounted on his magnificent charger the morning he rode out with
General Hancock to visit the immense Indian camp a few miles above
the fort on Pawnee Fork, it would have been a difficult task to have
determined which was the finer-looking man.

After Kicking Bird had abandoned his wicked career, he was regarded
by every army officer with whom he had a personal acquaintance as a
remarkably good Indian; for he really made the most strenuous efforts to
initiate his tribe into the idea that it was best for it to follow the
white man's road. He argued with them that the time was very near when
there would no longer be any region where the Indians could live as
they had been doing, depending on the buffalo and other game for the
sustenance of their families; they must adapt themselves to the methods
of their conquerors.

In July, 1869, he became greatly offended with the government for
its enforced removal of his tribe from its natural and hereditary
hunting-grounds into the reservation allotted to it. At that time
many of his warriors, together with the Comanches, made a raid on the
defenceless settlements of the northern border of Texas, in which the
savages were disastrously defeated, losing a large number of their most
beloved warriors. On the return of the unsuccessful expedition, a great
council was held, consisting of all the chiefs and head men of the two
tribes which had suffered so terribly in the awful fight, to consider
the best means of avenging the loss of so many braves and friends.
Kicking Bird was summoned before that council and condemned as a coward;
they called him a squaw, because he had refused to go with the warriors
of the combined tribes on the raid into Texas.

He told a friend of mine some time afterward that he had intended never
again to go against the whites; but the emergency of the case, and his
severe condemnation by the council, demanded that he should do something
to re-establish himself in the good graces of his tribe. He then made
one of the most destructive raids into Texas that ever occurred in the
history of its border warfare, which successfully restored him to the
respect of his warriors.

In that raid Kicking Bird carried off vast herds of horses and a large
number of scalps. Although his tribe fairly worshipped him, he was not
at all satisfied with himself. He could look into the future as well
as any one, and from that time on to his tragic death he laboured most
zealously and earnestly in connection with the Indian agents to
bring his people to live on the reservation which the government had
established for them in the Territory.

At the inauguration of the so-called "Quaker Policy" by President Grant,
that sect was largely intrusted with the management of Indian affairs,
particularly in the selection of agents for the various tribes. A Mr.
Tatham was appointed agent for the Kiowas in 1869. He at once gained
the confidence of Kicking Bird, who became very valuable to him as
an assistant in controlling the savages. It was through that chief's
influence that Thomas Batty, another Quaker, was allowed to take up
his residence with the tribe, the first white man ever accorded that
privilege. Batty was permitted to erect three tents, which were staked
together, converting them into an ample schoolhouse. In that crude,
temporary structure he taught the Kiowa youth the rudiments of an
education. This very successful innovation shows how earnest the former
dreaded savage was in his efforts to promote the welfare of his people,
by trying to induce them to "take the white man's road."

Batty succeeded admirably for a year in his office of teacher, the chief
all the time nobly withstanding the taunts and jeers of his warriors and
their threats of taking his life, for daring to allow a white man within
the sacred precincts of their village--a thing unparalleled in the
annals of the tribe.

At last trouble came; the dissatisfied members of the tribe, the
ambitious and restless young men, eager for renown, made another
unsuccessful raid into Texas. The result was that they lost nearly the
whole of the band, among which was the favourite son of Lone Wolf, a
noted chief.[34] After the death of his son, he declared that he must
and would have the scalp of a white man in revenge for the untimely
taking off of the young warrior. Of course, the most available white
man at this juncture was Batty, the Quaker teacher, and he was chosen by
Lone Wolf as the victim of savage revenge. Here the noble instincts of
Kicking Bird developed themselves. He very plainly told Lone Wolf, who
was constantly threatening and thirsting for blood, that he could not
kill Batty until he first killed him and all his band. But Lone Wolf
had fully determined to have the hair of the innocent Quaker; so Kicking
Bird, to avert any collision between the two bands of Indians, kidnapped
Batty and ran him off to the agency, arriving at Fort Sill about an hour
before Lone Wolf's band of avengers overtook them, and thus the Quaker
teacher was saved.

One day, long after these occurrences, a friend of mine was in the
sutler's store at Fort Sill. In there was a stranger talking to Mr. Fox,
the agent of the Indians. Soon Kicking Bird entered the establishment,
and the stranger asked Mr. Fox who that fine-looking Indian was. He was
told, and then he begged the agent to say to him that he would like to
have a talk with him; for he it was who led that famous raid into Texas.
"I never saw better generalship in the field in all my experience. He
had three horses killed under him. I was the surgeon of the rangers and
was, of course, in the fight."[35]

When Kicking Bird was told that the Texas doctor desired to talk with
him, he replied with great dignity that he did not want to revive those
troublous times. "Tell him, though," said Kicking Bird, "that was my
last raid against the whites; that I am a changed man."

The President of the United States sent for Kicking Bird to come to
Washington, and to bring with him such other influential Indians as
he thought might aid in inducing the Kiowas to cease their continual
raiding on the border of Texas.

In due time Kicking Bird left for the capital, taking with him Lone
Wolf, Big Bow, and Sun Boy of the Kiowas, together with several of the
head men of the Comanches. When the deputation of savages arrived in
Washington, it was received at the presidential mansion by the chief
magistrate himself. So much more attention was given to Kicking Bird
than to the others, that they became very jealous, particularly when the
President announced to them the appointment of Kicking Bird as the
head chief of the tribe.[36] But Lone Wolf would never recognize his
authority, constantly urging the young men to raid the settlements. Lone
Wolf was a genuine savage, without one redeeming trait, and his hatred
of the white race was unparalleled in its intensity. He was never known
to smile. No other Indian can show such a record of horrible massacres
as he is responsible for. His orders were rigidly obeyed, for he brooked
no disobedience on the part of his warriors.

In the summer of 1876, a party of English gentlemen left Fort Harker
for a buffalo hunt. They soon exhausted all their rations and started
a four-mule team back to the post for more. Some of Lone Wolf's band of
cut-throats came across the unfortunate teamster, killed him, and ran
off the team. After the occurrence, Kicking Bird came into the agency at
Fort Sill and told Mr. Haworth, the agent, that he had given his word
to the Great Father at Washington he would do all he could to bring in
those Indians who had been raiding by order of Lone Wolf, particularly
the two who had killed the Englishmen's driver.

He succeeded in bringing in twelve Indians in all, among them the
murderers of the driver. They, with Lone Wolf and Satank, were sent to
the Dry Tortugas for life. The morning they started on their journey
Satank talked very feelingly to Kicking Bird, with tears in his eyes.
He said that they might look for his bones along the road, for he would
never go to Florida. The savages were loaded into government wagons.
Satank was inside of one with a soldier on each side of him, their
legs hanging outside. Somehow the crafty villain managed to slip the
handcuffs off his wrists, at the same instant seizing the rifle of one
of his guards, and then shoved the two men out with his feet. He tried
to work the lever of the rifle, but could not move it, and one of the
soldiers, coming around the wagon to where he was still trying to get
the gun so as he could use it, shot him down, and then threw his body on
the Trail. Thus Satank made good his vow that he would never be taken to
Florida. He met his death only a mile from the post.

After the departure of the condemned savages, the feeling in the tribe
against Kicking Bird increased to an alarming extent. Several times
the most incensed warriors tried to kill him by shooting at him from
an ambush. After he became fully aware that his life was in danger, he
never left his lodge without his carbine. He was as brave as a lion,
fearing none of the members of Lone Wolf's band; but he often said it
was only a question of a short time when he would be gotten rid of; he
did not allow the matter, however, to worry him in the least, saying
that he was conscious he had done his duty by his tribe and the Great
Father.

In a bend of Cash Creek, about half a mile below the mill, about half
a dozen of the Kiowas had their lodges, that of their chief being among
them. At ten o'clock one Monday in June, 1876, Mr. Haworth, the agent,
came in haste to the shops, called the master mechanic, Mr. Wykes, out,
told him to jump into the carriage quickly; that Kicking Bird was dead.

When they arrived at the home of the great chief, sure enough he was
dead, and some of the women were engaged in folding his body in robes.
Other squaws were cutting themselves in a terrible manner, as is their
custom when a relative dies, and were also breaking everything breakable
about the lodge. Kicking Bird had always been scrupulously clean and
neat in the care of his home; it was adorned with the most beautifully
dressed buffalo robes and the finest furs, while the floor was covered
with matting.

It seems that Kicking Bird, after visiting Mr. Wykes that morning, went
immediately to his lodge, and sat down to eat something, but just as he
had finished a cup of coffee, he fell over, dead. He had in his service
a Mexican woman, and she had been bribed to poison him.

An expensive coffin was made at the agency for his remains, fashioned
out of the finest black walnut to be found in the country where that
timber grows to such a luxuriant extent. It was eight feet long and four
feet deep, but even then it did not hold one-half of his effects, which
were, according to the savage custom, interred with his body.

The cries and lamentations of the warriors and women of his band were
heartrending; such a manifestation of grief was never before witnessed
at the agency. A handsome fence was erected around his grave, in the
cemetery at Fort Sill, and the government ordered a beautiful marble
monument to be raised over it; but I do not know whether it was ever
done.

Kicking Bird was only forty years old at the time of his sudden taking
off, and was very wealthy for an Indian. He knew the uses of money and
was a careful saver of it. A great roll of greenbacks was placed in his
coffin, and that fact having leaked out, it was rumoured that his grave
was robbed; but the story may not have been true.

One of the greatest terrors of the Old Santa Fe Trail was the half-breed
Indian desperado Charles Bent. His mother was a Cheyenne squaw, and his
father the famous trader, Colonel Bent. He was born at the base of
the Rocky Mountains, and at a very early age placed in one of the best
schools that St. Louis afforded. His venerable sire, with only a limited
education himself, was determined that his boy should profit by the
culture and refinement of civilization, so he was not allowed to return
to his mountain home at Bent's Fort, and the savage conditions under
which he was born, until he had attained his majority. He then spoke no
language but English. His mother died while he was absent at school, and
his father continued to live at the old fort, where Charles, after he
had reached the age of twenty-one, joined him.

Some Washington sentimentalist, philosophizing on the Indian character,
his knowledge being based on Cooper's novels probably, has said:
"Civilization has very marked effects upon an Indian. If he once learns
to speak English, he will soon forget all his native cunning and pride
of race." Let us see how this theory worked with Charley Bent.

As soon as the educated half-breed set his foot on his native heath
he readily found enough ambitious young bucks of his own age who were
willing to look on him as their leader. They loved him, too, if such a
thing were possible, as Fra Diavolo was loved by his wild followers.
His band was known as the "Dog-Soldiers"; a sort of a semi-military
organization, consisting of the most daring, blood-thirsty young men
of the tribe; and sometimes "squaw-men," that is, renegade white men
married to squaws, attached themselves to his command of cut-throats.

At the head of this collection of the worst savages, hardly ever
numbering over a hundred, Charles Bent robbed ranches, attacked
wagon-trains, overland coaches, and army caravans. He stole and murdered
indiscriminately. The history of his bloody work will never be wholly
revealed, for dead men have no tongues.

He would visit all alone, in the guise of plainsman, hunter, or
cattleman, the emigrant trains crossing the continent, always, however,
those which had only small escorts or none at all. Feigning hunger,
while his needs were being kindly furnished, he would glance around him
to learn what kind of an outfit it was; its value, its destination, and
how well guarded. Then he would take his leave with many thanks, rejoin
his band, and with it dash down on the train and kill every human being
unfortunate enough not to have escaped before he arrived.

He was indefatigable in his efforts to kill off the whole corps of army
scouts. He would pass himself off as a fellow-scout, as a deserter
from some military post, or as an Indian trader, for he was a wonderful
actor, and would have achieved histrionic honours had he chosen the
stage as a profession.

He would always time his actions so as to be found apparently asleep
by a little camp-fire on the bank of Pawnee Fork, Crooked, Mulberry, or
Walnut creeks, all of which streams intercepted the trails running north
and south between the several military posts during the Indian war, when
he would seem delighted and astonished, or else simulate suspicion. Then
he would either murder the unsuspecting scout with his own hands, or
deliver him to the red fiends of his band to be tormented.

The government offered a reward of five thousand dollars for Bent's
capture, dead or alive. It was reported currently that he was at last
killed in a battle with some deputy United States marshals, and that
they received the reward; but the whole thing was manufactured out of
whole cloth, and if the marshals received the money, Uncle Sam was most
outrageously swindled.

The facts are that he died of malarial fever superinduced by a wound
received in a fight with the Kaws, near the mouth of the Walnut and not
far from Fort Zarah. His "Dog-Soldiers" were whipped by the Kaws, and
his band driven off. Bent lingered for some time and died.

CHAPTER XI. LA GLORIETA.

New Mexico, at the breaking out of the Civil War, was abandoned by the
government at Washington, or at least so overlooked that the charge of
neglect was merited. In the report of the committee on the Conduct of
the War, under date of July 15, 1862, Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel B.
S. Roberts of the regular army, major of the Third Cavalry, who was
stationed in the Territory in 1861, says:

It appears to me to be the determination of General Thomas[37]
not to acknowledge the service of the officers who saved
the Territory of New Mexico; and the utter neglect of the
adjutant-general's department for the last year to
communicate in any way with the commanding officer of the
department of New Mexico, or to answer his urgent appeals
for reinforcements, for money and other supplies, in
connection with his repudiation of the services of all the
army there, convinces me that he is not gratified at their
loyalty and their success in saving that Territory to
the Union.

If space could be given to the story of the carefully prepared plans of
the leaders of secession for the conquest of all the territory south of
a line drawn from Maryland directly west to the Pacific coast, in which
were California, Arizona, and New Mexico, it would reveal some startling
facts, and prove beyond question that it was the intention of Jefferson
Davis to precipitate the rebellion a decade before it actually occurred.
The basis of the scheme was to inaugurate a war between Texas--which,
when admitted into the Union, claimed all that part of New Mexico east
of the Rio Grande--and the United States, in which conflict Mississippi
and some of the other Southern States were to become participants. The
plan fell flat, because, in 1851, Mr. Davis failed of a re-election to
the governorship of Mississippi.

So confident were many of Mr. Davis' allies in regard to the
contemplated rebellion, that they boasted to their friends of the North,
upon leaving Washington, that when they met again, it would be upon a
Southern battle-field.

I have alluded incidentally to what is known as the Texas Santa Fe
Expedition, inaugurated by the President of what was then the republic
of Texas, Mirabeau B. Lamar. It was given out to the world that it was
merely one of commercial interest--to increase the trade between the two
countries; but that it was intended for the conquest of New Mexico, no
one now, in the light of history, doubts. It resulted in disaster,
and is a story well worthy the examination of the student of American
politics.[38]

In 1861 General Twiggs commanded the military department of which Texas
was an important part. It will be remembered that he surrendered to the
Confederate government the troops, the munitions of war, the forts, or
posts as they were properly termed, and everything pertaining to the
United States army under his control. It was the intention of the
Confederacy to use this region as a military base from which to continue
its conquests westward, and capture the various forts in New Mexico.
Particularly they had their eyes upon Fort Union, where there was an
arsenal, which John B. Floyd, Secretary of War, had taken especial care
to have well stocked previously to the act of secession.

But the conspirators had reckoned without their host; they imagined
the native Mexicans would eagerly accept their overtures, and readily
support the Southern Confederacy. Mr. Davis and his coadjutors had
evidently forgotten the effect of the Texas Santa Fe Expedition, in
1841, upon the people of the Province of New Mexico; but the natives
themselves had not. Besides the loyalty of the Mexicans, there was a
factor which the Confederate leaders had failed to consider, which was
that the majority of the American pioneers had come from loyal States.

Of course, there were many secessionists both in Colorado and New Mexico
who were watching the progress of rebellion in eager anticipation; and
it is claimed that in Denver a rebel flag was raised--but how true that
is I do not know.

John B. Floyd, Secretary of War, was one of the leading spirits of the
Confederacy. A year before the Civil War he placed in command of the
department of New Mexico a North Carolinian, Colonel Loring, who was
in perfect sympathy with his superior, and willing to carry out his
well-defined plans. In 1861 he ordered Colonel G. B. Crittenden on an
expedition against the Apaches. This officer at once tried to induce his
troops to attach themselves to the rebel army in Texas, but he was met
with an indignant refusal by Colonel Roberts and the regular soldiers
under him. The loyal colonel told Crittenden, in the most forcible
language, that he would resist any such attempt on his part, and
reported the action of Colonel Crittenden to the commander of the
department at Santa Fe. Of course, Colonel Loring paid no attention
to the complaint of disloyalty, and then Colonel Roberts conveyed the
tidings to the commanding officers of several military posts in the
Territory, whom he knew were true to the Union, and only one man out
of nearly two thousand regular soldiers renounced his flag. Some of the
officers stationed at New Mexico were of a different mind, and one of
them, Major Lynde, commanding Fort Filmore, surrendered to a detachment
of Texans, who paroled the enlisted men, as they firmly refused to join
the rebel forces.

Upon the desertion of Colonel Loring to the Southern Confederacy,
General Edward R. S. Canby was assigned to the command of the
department; next in rank was the loyal Roberts. At this perilous
juncture in New Mexico, there were but a thousand regulars all told,
but the Territory furnished two regiments of volunteers, commanded by
officers whose names had been famous on the border for years. Among
these was Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, who had been conspicuous in the
suppression of the Mexican insurrection of 1847, fifteen years before.
Kit Carson was lieutenant-colonel; J. F. Chaves, major; and the most
prominent of the line officers Captain Albert H. Pfeiffer, with a record
as an Indian fighter equal to that of Carson.

At the same time Colorado was girding on her armour for the impending
conflict. The governor of the prosperous Territory was William Gilpin,
an old army officer, who had spent a large part of his life on the
frontier, and had accompanied Colonel Doniphan, as major of his
regiment, across the plains, on the expedition to New Mexico in 1846.

Colonel Gilpin at once responded to the pleadings of New Mexico for
help, by organizing two companies at first, quickly following with a
full regiment. This Colorado regiment was composed of as fine material
as any portion of the United States could furnish. John P. Slough, a
war Democrat and a lawyer, was its colonel. He afterwards became chief
justice of New Mexico, and was brutally murdered in that Territory.

John M. Chivington, a strict Methodist and a presiding elder of that
church, was offered the chaplaincy, but firmly declined, and, like many
others who wore the clerical garb, he quickly doffed it and put on the
attire of a soldier; so he was made major, and his record as a fighter
was equal to the best.

The commanding general knew well the plans of the rebels as to their
intended occupation of New Mexico, and, notwithstanding the weakness
of his force, determined to frustrate them if within the limits of
possibility. To that end he concentrated his little army, comprising a
thousand regular soldiers, the two regiments of New Mexico volunteers,
two companies of Colorado troops, and a portion of the territorial
militia, at Fort Craig, on the Rio Grande, to await the approach of the
Confederate troops, under the command of General H. H. Sibley, an old
regular army officer, a native of Louisiana, and the inventor of the
comfortable tent named after him.

Sibley's brigade comprised some three thousand men, the majority of them
Texans, and he expected that many more would flock to his standard as
he moved northward. On the 19th of February, 1862, he crossed the Rio
Grande below Fort Craig, not daring to attack Canby in his intrenched
position. The Union commander, in order to keep the Texas troops from
gaining the high points overlooking the fort, placed portions of the
Fifth, Seventh, and Tenth Regulars, together with Carson's and Pino's
volunteers, on the other side of the river. No collision occurred that
day, but the next afternoon Major Duncan, with his cavalry and Captain
M'Rae's light battery, having been sent across to reinforce the
infantry, a heavy artillery fire was immediately opened upon them by the
Texans. The men under Carson behaved splendidly, but the other volunteer
regiments became a little demoralized, and the general was compelled to
call back the force into the fort. Sibley's force, both men and animals,
suffered much from thirst, the latter stampeding, and many, wandering
into our lines, were caught by the scouts of the Union forces. The next
morning early Colonel Roberts was ordered to proceed about seven miles
up the river to keep the Texans away from the water at a point where
it was alone accessible, on account of the steepness of the banks
everywhere else.

The gallant Roberts, on arriving at the ford, planted a battery there,
and at once opened fire. This was the battle of Valverde, the details
of which, however, do not belong to this book, having been only
incidentally referred to in order to lead the reader intelligently up
to that of La Glorieta, Apache Canyon, or Pigeon's Ranch, as it is
indifferently called.

Valverde was lost to the Union troops, but never did men fight more
valiantly, with the exception of a few who did not act the part of the
true soldier. The brave M'Rae mounted one of the guns of his battery,
choosing to die rather than surrender.

General Sibley, after his doubtful victory at Valverde, continued on
to Albuquerque and Santa Fe. The old city offered no resistance to his
occupation; in fact, some of the most influential Mexicans were pleased,
their leaning being strongly toward the Southern Confederacy; but the
common people were as loyal to the Union as those of any of the Northern
States, a feeling intensified by their hatred for the Texans on account
of the expedition of conquest in 1841, twenty-one years before. They
contributed of their means to aid the United States troops, but have
never received proper credit for their action in those days of trouble
in the neglected Territory.

The Confederate general was disappointed at the way in which affairs
were going, for he had based great hopes upon the defection of the
native residents; but he determined to march forward to Fort Union,
where his friend Floyd had placed such stores as were likely to be
needed in the campaign which he had designed.

From Santa Fe to Fort Union, where the arsenal was located, the road
runs through the deep, rocky gorge known as Apache Canyon. It is one of
the wildest spots in the mountains, the walls on each side rising from
one to two thousand feet above the Trail, which is within the range
of ordinary cannon from every point, and in many places of point-blank
rifle-shot. Granite rocks and sands abound, and the hills are covered
with long-leafed pine. It is a gateway which, in the hands of a
skilful engineer and one hundred resolute men, can be made perfectly
impregnable.

The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway passes directly through this
picturesque chasm, every foot of which is classic ground, and in the
season of the mountain freshets constant care is needed to keep its
bridges in place.

At its eastern entrance is a large residence, known as Pigeon's Ranch,
from which the battle to be described derives its name, though, as
stated, it is also known as that of Apache Canyon, and La Glorieta,[39]
the latter, perhaps, the most classical, from the range of mountains
enclosing the rent in the mighty hills.

The following detailed account of this battle I have taken from the
_History of Colorado_,[40] an admirable work:

The sympathizers with and abettors of the Southern
Confederacy inaugurated their plans by posting handbills
in all conspicuous places between Denver and the
mining-camps, designating certain localities where the
highest prices would be paid for arms of every description,
and for powder, lead, shot, and percussion caps.
Simultaneously, a small force was collected and put under
discipline to co-operate with parties expected from Arkansas
and Texas who were to take possession, first of Colorado,
and subsequently of New Mexico, anticipating the easy
capture of the Federal troops and stores located there.
Being apprised of the movement, the governor immediately
decided to enlist a full regiment of volunteers.
John P. Slough was appointed colonel, Samuel F. Tappan
lieutenant-colonel, and John J. M. Chivington major.

Without railroads or telegraphs nearer than the Missouri
River, and wholly dependent upon the overland mail coach
for communication with the States and the authorities at
Washington, news was at least a week old when received.
Thus the troops passed the time in a condition of doubt
and extreme anxiety, until the 6th of January, 1862, when
information arrived that an invading force under General
H. H. Sibley, from San Antonio, Texas, was approaching
the southern border of New Mexico, and had already captured
Forts Fillmore and Bliss, making prisoners of their
garrisons without firing a gun, and securing all their
stock and supplies.

Immediately upon receipt of this intelligence, efforts
were made to obtain the consent of, or orders from, General
Hunter, commanding the department at Fort Leavenworth,
Kansas, for the regiment to go to the relief of General
Canby, then in command of the department of New Mexico.
On the 20th of February, orders came from General Hunter,
directing Colonel Slough and the First Regiment of Colorado
Volunteers to proceed with all possible despatch to
Fort Union, or Santa Fe, New Mexico, and report to General
Canby for service.

Two days thereafter, the command marched out of Camp Weld
two miles up the Platte River, and in due time encamped
at Pueblo, on the Arkansas River. At this point further
advices were received from Canby, stating that he had
encountered the enemy at Valverde, ten miles north of
Fort Craig, but, owing to the inefficiency of the newly
raised New Mexican volunteers, was compelled to retire.
The Texans under Sibley marched on up the Rio Grande,
levying tribute upon the inhabitants for their support.
The Colorado troops were urged to the greatest possible
haste in reaching Fort Union, where they were to unite
with such regular troops as could be concentrated at that
post, and thus aid in saving the fort and its supplies
from falling into Confederate hands. Early on the
following morning the order was given to proceed to Union
by forced marches, and it is doubtful if the same number of
men ever marched a like distance in the same length of time.

When the summit of Raton Pass was reached, another courier
from Canby met the command, who informed Colonel Slough
that the Texans had already captured Albuquerque and
Santa Fe with all the troops stationed at those places,
together with the supplies stored there, and that they
were then marching on Fort Union.

Arriving at Red River about sundown, the regiment was
drawn up in line and this information imparted to the men.
The request was then made for all who were willing to
undertake a forced march at night to step two paces to
the front, when every man advanced to the new alignment.
After a hasty supper the march was resumed, and at sunrise
the next morning they reached Maxwell's Ranch on the
Cimarron, having made sixty-four miles in less than
twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock on the second night
thereafter, the command entered Fort Union. It was there
discovered that Colonel Paul, in charge of the post, had
mined the fort, giving orders for the removal of the women
and children, and was preparing to blow up all the supplies
and march to Fort Garland or some other post to the
northward, on the first approach of the Confederates.

The troops remained at Union from the 13th to the 22d of
March, when by order of Colonel Slough they proceeded in
the direction of Santa Fe. The command consisted of
the First Colorado Volunteers; two Light Batteries,
one commanded by Captain Ritter and the other by Captain
Claflin; Ford's Company of Colorado Volunteers unattached;
two companies of the Fifth Regular Infantry; and two
companies of the Seventh United States Cavalry.

The force encamped at Bernal Springs, where Colonel Slough
determined to organize a detachment to enter Santa Fe by
night with the view of surprising the enemy, spiking his
guns, and after doing what other damage could be accomplished
without bringing on a general action, falling back on the
main body. The detachment chosen comprised sixty men each
from Companies A, D, and E of the Colorado regiment, with
Company F of the same mounted, and thirty-seven men each
from the companies of Captains Ford and Howland, and of
the Seventh Cavalry, the whole commanded by Major Chivington.

At sundown on the 25th of March it reached Kosloskie's Ranch,
where Major Chivington was informed that the enemy's pickets
were in the vicinity. He went into camp at once, and about
nine o'clock of the same evening sent out Lieutenant Nelson
of the First Colorado with thirty men of Company F, who
captured the Texan pickets while they were engaged in a game
of cards at Pigeon's Ranch, and before daylight on the
morning of the 26th, reported at camp with his prisoners.
After breakfast, the major, being apprised of the enemy's
whereabouts, proceeded cautiously, keeping his advance
guard well to the front. While passing near the summit
of the hill, the officer in command of the advance met
the Confederate advance, consisting of a first lieutenant
and thirty men, captured them without firing a gun, and
returning met the main body and turned them over to the
commanding officer. The Confederate lieutenant declared
that they had received no intimation of the advance from
Fort Union, but themselves expected to be there four days
later.

Descending Apache Canyon for the distance of half a mile,
Chivington's force observed the approaching Texans, about
six hundred strong, with three pieces of artillery, who,
on discovering the Federals, halted, formed line and battery,
and opened fire.

Chivington drew up his cavalry as a reserve under cover,
deployed Company D under Captain Downing to the right,
and Companies A and E under Captains Wynkoop and Anthony
to the left, directing them to ascend the mountain-side
until they were above the elevation of the enemy's artillery
and thus flank him, at the same time directing Captain
Howland, he being the ranking cavalry officer, to closely
observe the enemy, and when he retreated, without further
orders to charge with the cavalry. This disposition of
the troops proved wise and successful. The Texans soon
broke battery and retreated down the canyon a mile or more,
but from some cause Captain Howland failed to charge as
ordered, which enabled the Confederates to take up a new
and strong position, where they formed battery, threw their
supports well up the sides of the mountain, and again
opened fire.

Chivington dismounted Captains Howland and Lord with their
regulars, leaving their horses in charge of every fourth
man, and ordered them to join Captain Downing on the left,
taking orders from him. Our skirmishers advanced, and,
flanking the enemy's supports, drove them pell-mell down
the mountain-side, when Captain Samuel Cook, with Company F,
First Colorado, having been signalled by the major, made
as gallant and successful a charge through the canyon,
through the ranks of the Confederates and back, as was
ever performed. Meanwhile, our infantry advanced rapidly;
when the enemy commenced his retreat a second time, they
were well ahead of him on the mountain-sides and poured
a galling fire into him, which thoroughly demoralized and
broke him up, compelling the entire body to seek shelter
among the rocks down the canyon and in some cabins that
stood by the wayside.

After an hour spent in collecting the prisoners, and
caring for the wounded, both Federal and Confederate,
the latter having left in killed, wounded, and prisoners
a number equal to our whole force in the field, the first
baptism by fire of our volunteers terminated. The victory
was decided and complete. Night intervening, and there
being no water in the canyon, the little command fell back
to Pigeon's Ranch, whence a courier was despatched to
Colonel Slough, advising him of the engagement and its
result, and requesting him to bring forward the main
command as rapidly as possible, as the enemy with all his
forces had moved from Santa Fe toward Fort Union.

After interring the dead and making a comfortable hospital
for the wounded, on the afternoon of the 27th Chivington
fell back to the Pecos River at Kosloskie's Ranch and
encamped. On receiving the news from Apache Canyon,
Colonel Slough put his forces in motion, and at eleven
o'clock at night of the 27th joined Chivington at Kosloskie's.

At daybreak on the 28th, the assembly was sounded, and
the entire command resumed its march. Five miles out
from their encampment Major Chivington, in command of
a detachment composed of Companies A, B, H, and E of the
First Colorado, and Captain Ford's Company unattached,
with Captain Lewis' Company of the Fifth Regular Infantry,
was ordered to take the Galisteo road, and by a detour
through the mountains to gain the enemy's rear, if possible,
at the west end of Apache Canyon, while Slough advanced
slowly with the main body to gain his front about the
same time; thus devising an attack in front and rear.

About ten o'clock, while making his way through the scrub
pine and cedar brush in the mountains, Major Chivington
and his command heard cannonading to their right, and
were thereby apprised that Colonel Slough and his men
had met the enemy. About twelve o'clock he arrived with
his men on the summit of the mountain which overlooked
the enemy's supply wagons, which had been left in the
charge of a strong guard with one piece of artillery mounted
on an elevation commanding the camp and mouth of the canyon.
With great difficulty Chivington descended the precipitous
mountain, charged, took, and spiked the gun, ran together
the enemy's supply wagons of commissary, quartermaster,
and ordnance stores, set them on fire, blew and burnt
them up, bayoneted his mules in corral, took the guard
prisoners and reascended the mountain, where about dark
he was met by Lieutenant Cobb, aide-de-camp on Colonel
Slough's staff, with the information that Slough and his
men had been defeated and had fallen back to Kosloskie's.
Upon the supposition that this information was correct,
Chivington, under the guidance of a French Catholic priest,
in the intensest darkness, with great difficulty made
his way with his command through the mountains without
a road or trail, and joined Colonel Slough about midnight.

Meanwhile, after Chivington and his detachment had left
in the morning, Colonel Slough with the main body proceeded
up the canyon, and arriving at Pigeon's Ranch, gave orders
for the troops to stack arms in the road and supply their
canteens with water, as that would be the last opportunity
before reaching the further end of Apache Canyon.
While thus supplying themselves with water and visiting
the wounded in the hospital at Pigeon's Ranch, being
entirely off their guard, they were suddenly startled by
a courier from the advance column dashing down the road
at full speed and informing them that the enemy was close
at hand. Orders were immediately given to fall in and
take arms, but before the order could be obeyed the enemy
had formed battery and commenced shelling them.
They formed as quickly as possible, the colonel ordering
Captain Downing with Company D, First Colorado Volunteers,
to advance on the left, and Captain Kerber with Company I
First Colorado, to advance on the right. In the meantime
Ritter and Claflin opened a return fire on the enemy with
their batteries. Captain Downing advanced and fought
desperately, meeting a largely superior force in point
of numbers, until he was almost overpowered and surrounded;
when, happily, Captain Wilder of Company G of the First
Colorado, with a detachment of his command, came to his
relief, and extricated him and that portion of his Company
not already slaughtered. While on the opposite side,
the right, Company I had advanced into an open space,
feeling the enemy, and ambitious of capturing his battery,
when they were surprised by a detachment which was concealed
in an arroya, and which, when Kerber and his men were
within forty feet of it, opened a galling fire upon them.
Kerber lost heavily; Lieutenant Baker, being wounded,
fell back. In the meantime the enemy masked, and made
five successive charges on our batteries, determined to
capture them as they had captured Canby's at Valverde.
At one time they were within forty yards of Slough's
batteries, their slouch hats drawn down over their faces,
and rushing on with deafening yells. It seemed inevitable
that they would make the capture, when Captain Claflin
gave the order to cease firing, and Captain Samuel Robbins
with his company, K of the First Colorado, arose from the
ground like ghosts, delivering a galling fire, charged
bayonets, and on the double-quick put the rebels to flight.

During the whole of this time the cavalry, under Captain
Howland, were held in reserve, never moving except to
fall back and keep out of danger, with the exception of
Captain Cook's men, who dismounted and fought as infantry.
From the opening of the battle to its close the odds were
against Colonel Slough and his forces; the enemy being
greatly superior in numbers, with a better armament of
artillery and equally well armed otherwise. But every inch
of ground was stubbornly contested. In no instance did
Slough's forces fall back until they were in danger of
being flanked and surrounded, and for nine hours, without
rest or refreshment, the battle raged incessantly.
At one time Claflin gave orders to double-shot his guns,
they being nothing but little brass howitzers, and he
counted, "One, two, three, four," until one of his own
carriages capsized and fell down into the gulch; from which
place Captain Samuel Robbins and his company, K, extricated
it and saved it from falling into the enemy's hands.

Having been compelled to give ground all day, Colonel Slough,
between five and six o'clock in the afternoon, issued
orders to retreat. About the same time General Sibley
received information from the rear of the destruction of
his supply trains, and ordered a flag of truce to be sent
to Colonel Slough, which did not reach him, however, until
he arrived at Kosloskie's. A truce was entered into until
nine o'clock the next morning, which was afterward extended
to twenty-four hours, and under which Sibley with his
demoralized forces fell back to Santa Fe, laying that town
under tribute to supply his forces.

The 29th was spent in burying the dead, as well as those
of the Confederates which they left on the field, and
caring for the wounded. Orders were received from General
Canby directing Colonel Slough to fall back to Fort Union,
which so incensed him that while obeying the order he
forwarded his resignation, and soon after left the command.

Thus ended the battle of La Glorieta.

CHAPTER XII.[41] THE BUFFALO.

The ancient range of the buffalo, according to history and tradition,
once extended from the Alleghanies to the Rocky Mountains, embracing
all that magnificent portion of North America known as the Mississippi
valley; from the frozen lakes above to the "Tierras Calientes" of
Mexico, far to the south.

It seems impossible, especially to those who have seen them, as
numerous, apparently, as the sands of the seashore, feeding on the
illimitable natural pastures of the great plains, that the buffalo
should have become almost extinct.

When I look back only twenty-five years, and recall the fact that they
roamed in immense numbers even then, as far east as Fort Harker, in
Central Kansas, a little more than two hundred miles from the Missouri
River, I ask myself, "Have they all disappeared?"

An idea may be formed of how many buffalo were killed from 1868 to
1881, a period of only thirteen years, during which time they were
indiscriminately slaughtered for their hides. In Kansas alone there was
paid out, between the dates specified, two million five hundred thousand
dollars for their bones gathered on the prairies, to be utilized by
the various carbon works of the country, principally in St. Louis. It
required about one hundred carcasses to make one ton of bones, the price
paid averaging eight dollars a ton; so the above-quoted enormous sum
represented the skeletons of over thirty-one millions of buffalo.[42]
These figures may appear preposterous to readers not familiar with the
great plains a third of a century ago; but to those who have seen the
prairie black from horizon to horizon with the shaggy monsters, they
are not so. In the autumn of 1868 I rode with Generals Sheridan, Custer,
Sully, and others, for three consecutive days, through one continuous
herd, which must have contained millions. In the spring of 1869 the
train on the Kansas Pacific Railroad was delayed at a point between
Forts Harker and Hays, from nine o'clock in the morning until five
in the afternoon, in consequence of the passage of an immense herd of
buffalo across the track. On each side of us, and to the west as far as
we could see, our vision was only limited by the extended horizon of the
flat prairie, and the whole vast area was black with the surging mass of
affrighted buffaloes as they rushed onward to the south.

In 1868 the Union Pacific Railroad and its branch in Kansas was nearly
completed across the plains to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains,
the western limit of the buffalo range, and that year witnessed the
beginning of the wholesale and wanton slaughter of the great ruminants,
which ended only with their practical extinction seventeen years
afterward. The causes of this hecatomb of animals on the great plains
were the incursion of regular hunters into the region, for the hides of
the buffalo, and the crowds of tourists who crossed the continent for
the mere pleasure and novelty of the trip. The latter class heartlessly
killed for the excitement of the new experience as they rode along in
the cars at a low rate of speed, often never touching a particle of the
flesh of their victims, or possessing themselves of a single robe. The
former, numbering hundreds of old frontiersmen, all expert shots, with
thousands of novices, the pioneer settlers on the public domain, just
opened under the various land laws, from beyond the Platte to far south
of the Arkansas, within transporting distance of two railroads, day
after day for years made it a lucrative business to kill for the robes
alone, a market for which had suddenly sprung up all over the country.

On either side of the track of the two lines of railroads running
through Kansas and Nebraska, within a relatively short distance and for
nearly their whole length, the most conspicuous objects in those
days were the desiccated carcasses of the noble beasts that had been
ruthlessly slaughtered by the thoughtless and excited passengers on
their way across the continent. On the open prairie, too, miles away
from the course of legitimate travel, in some places one could walk
all day on the dead bodies of the buffaloes killed by the hide-hunters,
without stepping off them to the ground.

The best robes, in their relation to thickness of fur and lustre, were
those taken during the winter months, particularly February, at which
period the maximum of density and beauty had been reached. Then,
notwithstanding the sudden and fitful variations of temperature incident
to our mid-continent climate, the old hunters were especially active,
and accepted unusual risks to procure as many of the coveted skins
as possible. A temporary camp would be established under the friendly
shelter of some timbered stream, from which the hunters would radiate
every morning, and return at night after an arduous day's work, to
smoke their pipes and relate their varied adventures around the fire of
blazing logs.

Sometimes when far away from camp a blizzard would come down from the
north in all its fury without ten minutes' warning, and in a few seconds
the air, full of blinding snow, precluded the possibility of finding
their shelter, an attempt at which would only result in an aimless
circular march on the prairie. On such occasions, to keep from perishing
by the intense cold, they would kill a buffalo, and, taking out its
viscera, creep inside the huge cavity, enough animal heat being retained
until the storm had sufficiently abated for them to proceed with safety
to their camp.

Early in March, 1867, a party of my friends, all old buffalo hunters,
were camped in Paradise valley, then a famous rendezvous of the animals
they were after. One day when out on the range stalking, and widely
separated from each other, a terrible blizzard came up. Three of the
hunters reached their camp without much difficulty, but he who was
farthest away was fairly caught in it, and night overtaking him, he was
compelled to resort to the method described in the preceding paragraph.
Luckily, he soon came up with a superannuated bull that had been
abandoned by the herd; so he killed him, took out his viscera and
crawled inside the empty carcass, where he lay comparatively comfortable
until morning broke, when the storm had passed over and the sun shone
brightly. But when he attempted to get out, he found himself a prisoner,
the immense ribs of the creature having frozen together, and locked him
up as tightly as if he were in a cell. Fortunately, his companions, who
were searching for him, and firing their rifles from time to time,
heard him yell in response to the discharge of their pieces, and thus
discovered and released him from the peculiar predicament into which he
had fallen.

At another time, several years before the acquisition of New Mexico by
the United States, two old trappers were far up on the Arkansas near the
Trail, in the foot-hills hunting buffalo, and they, as is generally the
case, became separated. In an hour or two one of them killed a fat young
cow, and, leaving his rifle on the ground, went up and commenced to skin
her. While busily engaged in his work, he suddenly heard right behind
him a suppressed snort, and looking around he saw to his dismay a
monstrous grizzly ambling along in that animal's characteristic gait,
within a few feet of him.

In front, only a few rods away, there happened to be a clump of scrubby
pines, and he incontinently made a break for them, climbing into the
tallest in less time than it takes to tell of it. The bear deliberately
ate a hearty meal off the juicy hams of the cow, so providentially
fallen in his way, and when he had satiated himself, instead of going
away, he quietly stretched himself alongside of the half-devoured
carcass, and went to sleep, keeping one eye open, however, on the
movements of the unlucky hunter whom he had corralled in the tree. In
the early evening his partner came to the spot, and killed the impudent
bear, that, being full of tender buffalo meat, was sluggish and unwary,
and thus became an easy victim to the unerring rifle; when the unwilling
prisoner came down from his perch in the pine, feeling sheepish enough.
The last time I saw him he told me he still had the bear's hide, which
he religiously preserved as a memento of his foolishness in separating
himself from his rifle, a thing he has never been guilty of before or
since.

Kit Carson, when with Fremont on his first exploring expedition, while
hunting for the command, at some point on the Arkansas, left a buffalo
which he had just killed and partly cut up, to pursue a large bull that
came rushing by him alone. He chased his game for nearly a quarter of a
mile, not being able, however, to gain on it rapidly, owing to the blown
condition of his horse. Coming up at length to the side of the fleeing
beast, Carson fired, but at the same instant his horse stepped into a
prairie-dog hole, fell down and threw Kit fully fifteen feet over his
head. The bullet struck the buffalo low under the shoulder, which only
served to enrage him so that the next moment the infuriated animal was
pursuing Kit, who, fortunately not much hurt, was able to run toward the
river. It was a race for life now, Carson using his nimble legs to
the utmost of their capacity, accelerated very much by the thundering,
bellowing bull bringing up the rear. For several minutes it was nip and
tuck which should reach the stream first, but Kit got there by a scratch
a little ahead. It was a big bend of the river, and the water was deep
under the bank, but it was paradise compared with the hades plunging at
his back; so Kit leaped into the water, trusting to Providence that the
bull would not follow. The trust was well placed, for the bull did
not continue the pursuit, but stood on the bank and shook his head
vehemently at the struggling hunter who had preferred deep waves to the
horns of a dilemma on shore.

Kit swam around for some time, carefully guarded by the bull, until
his position was observed by one of his companions, who attacked the
belligerent animal successfully with a forty-four slug, and then Kit
crawled out and--skinned the enemy!

He once killed five buffaloes during a single race, and used but four
balls, having dismounted and cut the bullet from the wound of the
fourth, and thus continued the chase. He it was, too, who established
his reputation as a famous hunter by shooting a buffalo cow during an
impetuous race down a steep hill, discharging his rifle just as the
animal was leaping on one of the low cedars peculiar to the region.
The ball struck a vital spot, and the dead cow remained in the jagged
branches. The Indians who were with him on that hunt looked upon the
circumstance as something beyond their comprehension, and insisted that
Kit should leave the carcass in the tree as "Big Medicine." Katzatoa
(Smoked Shield), a celebrated chief of the Kiowas many years ago,
who was over seven feet tall, never mounted a horse when hunting the
buffalo; he always ran after them on foot and killed them with his
lance.

Two Lance, another famous chief, could shoot an arrow entirely through a
buffalo while hunting on horseback. He accomplished this remarkable feat
in the presence of the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia, who was under the
care of Buffalo Bill, near Fort Hays, Kansas.

During one of Fremont's expeditions, two of his chasseurs, named
Archambeaux and La Jeunesse,[43] had a curious adventure on a
buffalo-hunt. One of them was mounted on a mule, the other on a horse;
they came in sight of a large band of buffalo feeding upon the open
prairie about a mile distant. The mule was not fleet enough, and the
horse was too much fatigued with the day's journey, to justify a
race, and they concluded to approach the herd on foot. Dismounting and
securing the ends of their lariats in the ground, they made a slight
detour, to take advantage of the wind, and crept stealthily in the
direction of the game, approaching unperceived until within a few
hundred yards. Some old bulls forming the outer picket guard slowly
raised their heads and gazed long and dubiously at the strange objects,
when, discovering that the intruders were not wolves, but two hunters,
they gave a significant grunt, turned about as though on pivots, and in
less than no time the whole herd--bulls, cows, and calves--were making
the gravel fly over the prairie in fine style, leaving the hunters to
their discomfiture. They had scarcely recovered from their surprise,
when, to their great consternation, they beheld the whole company of
the monsters, numbering several thousand, suddenly shape their course
to where the riding animals were picketed. The charge of the stampeded
buffalo was a magnificent one; for the buffalo, mistaking the horse
and the mule for two of their own species, came down upon them like a
tornado. A small cloud of dust arose for a moment over the spot where
the hunter's animals had been left; the black mass moved on with
accelerated speed, and in a few seconds the horizon shut them all from
view. The horse and mule, with all their trappings, saddles, bridles,
and holsters, were never seen or heard of afterward.

Buffalo Bill, in less than eighteen months, while employed as hunter
of the construction company of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, in 1867-68,
killed nearly five thousand buffalo, which were consumed by the twelve
hundred men employed in track-laying. He tells in his autobiography
of the following remarkable experience he had at one time with his
favourite horse Brigham, on an impromptu buffalo hunt:--

One day we were pushed for horses to work on our scrapers,
so I hitched up Brigham, to see how he would work. He was
not much used to that kind of labour, and I was about giving
up the idea of making a work horse of him, when one of the
men called to me that there were some buffaloes coming over
the hill. As there had been no buffaloes seen anywhere
in the vicinity of the camp for several days, we had become
rather short of meat. I immediately told one of our men
to hitch his horses to a wagon and follow me, as I was going
out after the herd, and we would bring back some fresh meat
for supper. I had no saddle, as mine had been left at camp
a mile distant, so taking the harness from Brigham I mounted
him bareback, and started out after the game, being armed
with my celebrated buffalo killer Lucretia Borgia--a newly
improved breech-loading needle-gun, which I had obtained
from the government.

While I was riding toward the buffaloes, I observed five
horsemen coming out from the fort, who had evidently seen
the buffaloes from the post, and were going out for a chase.
They proved to be some newly arrived officers in that part
of the country, and when they came up closer I could see
by the shoulder-straps that the senior was a captain,
while the others were lieutenants.

"Hello! my friend," sang out the captain; "I see you are
after the same game we are."

"Yes, sir; I saw those buffaloes coming over the hill,
and as we were about out of fresh meat I thought I would
go and get some," said I.
They scanned my cheap-looking outfit pretty closely, and
as my horse was not very prepossessing in appearance, having
on only a blind bridle, and otherwise looking like a work
horse, they evidently considered me a green hand at hunting.

"Do you expect to catch those buffaloes on that Gothic
steed?" laughingly asked the captain.

"I hope so, by pushing on the reins hard enough," was
my reply.

"You'll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow,"
said the captain. "It requires a fast horse to overtake
the animals on the prairie."

"Does it?" asked I, as if I didn't know it.

"Yes; but come along with us, as we are going to kill them
more for pleasure than anything else. All we want are the
tongues and a piece of tenderloin, and you may have all
that is left," said the generous man.

"I am much obliged to you, captain, and will follow you,"
I replied.

There were eleven buffaloes in the herd, and they were not
more than a mile ahead of us. The officers dashed on as if
they had a sure thing on killing them all before I could
come up with them; but I had noticed that the herd was
making toward the creek for water, and as I knew buffalo
nature, I was perfectly aware that it would be difficult
to turn them from their direct course. Thereupon, I started
toward the creek to head them off, while the officers
came up in the rear and gave chase.

The buffaloes came rushing past me not a hundred yards
distant, with the officers about three hundred yards in
the rear. Now, thought I, is the time to "get my work in,"
as they say; and I pulled off the blind bridle from my
horse, who knew as well as I did that we were out after
buffaloes, as he was a trained hunter. The moment the
bridle was off he started at the top of his speed, running
in ahead of the officers, and with a few jumps he brought me
alongside the rear buffalo. Raising old Lucretia Borgia
to my shoulder, I fired, and killed the animal at the
first shot. My horse then carried me alongside the next
one, not ten feet away, and I dropped him at the next fire.

As soon as one of the buffalo would fall, Brigham would
take me so close to the next that I could almost touch it
with my gun. In this manner I killed the eleven buffaloes
with twelve shots; and as the last animal dropped, my horse
stopped. I jumped off to the ground, knowing that he would
not leave me--it must be remembered that I had been riding
him without bridle, reins, or saddle--and, turning around
as the party of astonished officers rode up, I said to them:--

"Now, gentlemen, allow me to present to you all the tongues
and tenderloins you wish from these buffaloes."

Captain Graham, for such I soon learned was his name,
replied: "Well, I never saw the like before. Who under
the sun are you, anyhow?"

"My name is Cody," said I.
Captain Graham, who was considerable of a horseman,
greatly admired Brigham, and said: "That horse of yours
has running points."

"Yes, sir; he has not only got the points, he is a runner
and knows how to use the points," said I.
"So I noticed," said the captain.

They all finally dismounted, and we continued chatting
for some little time upon the different subjects of horses,
buffaloes, hunting, and Indians. They felt a little sore
at not getting a single shot at the buffaloes; but the way
I had killed them, they said, amply repaid them for their
disappointment. They had read of such feats in books,
but this was the first time they had ever seen anything
of the kind with their own eyes. It was the first time,
also, that they had ever witnessed or heard of a white man
running buffaloes on horseback without a saddle or bridle.

I told them that Brigham knew nearly as much about the
business as I did, and if I had twenty bridles they would
have been of no use to me, as he understood everything,
and all that he expected of me was to do the shooting.
It is a fact that Brigham would stop if a buffalo did not
fall at the first fire, so as to give me a second chance;
but if I did not kill the animal then, he would go on, as
if to say, "You are no good, and I will not fool away my
time by giving you more than two shots." Brigham was the
best horse I ever saw or owned for buffalo chasing.

At one time an old, experienced buffalo hunter was following at the
heels of a small herd with that reckless rush to which in the excitement
of the chase men abandon themselves, when a great bull just in front of
him tumbled into a ravine. The rider's horse fell also, throwing the old
hunter over his head sprawling, but with strange accuracy right between
the bull's horns! The first to recover from the terrible shock and to
regain his legs was the horse, which ran off with wonderful alacrity
several miles before he stopped. Next the bull rose, and shook himself
with an astonished air, as if he would like to know "how that was done?"
The hunter was on the great brute's back, who, perhaps, took the affair
as a good practical joke; but he was soon pitched to the ground, as the
buffalo commenced to jump "stiff-legged," and the latter, giving the
hunter one lingering look, which he long remembered, with remarkable
good nature ran off to join his companions. Had the bull been wounded,
the rider would have been killed, as the then enraged animal would have
gored and trampled him to death.

An officer of the old regular army told me many years ago that in
crossing the plains a herd of buffalo were fired at by a twelve-pound
howitzer, the ball of which wounded and stunned an immense bull.
Nevertheless, heedless of a hundred shots that had been fired at him,
and of a bulldog belonging to one of the officers, which had fastened
himself to his lips, the enraged beast charged upon the whole troop of
dragoons, and tossed one of the horses like a feather. Bull, horse, and
rider all fell in a heap. Before the dust cleared away, the trooper,
who had hung for a moment to one of the bull's horns by his waistband,
crawled out safe, while the horse got a ball from a rifle through his
neck while in the air and two great rips in his flank from the bull.

In 1839 Kit Carson and Hobbs were trapping with a party on the Arkansas
River, not far from Bent's Fort. Among the trappers was a green
Irishman, named O'Neil, who was quite anxious to become proficient in
hunting, and it was not long before he received his first lesson. Every
man who went out of camp after game was expected to bring in "meat" of
some kind. O'Neil said that he would agree to the terms, and was ready
one evening to start out on his first hunt alone. He picked up his rifle
and stalked after a small herd of buffalo in plain sight on the prairie
not more than five or six hundred yards from camp.

All the trappers who were not engaged in setting their traps or cooking
supper were watching O'Neil. Presently they heard the report of his
rifle, and shortly after he came running into camp, bareheaded, without
his gun, and with a buffalo bull close upon his heels; both going at
full speed, and the Irishman shouting like a madman,--

"Here we come, by jabers. Stop us! For the love of God, stop us!"

Just as they came in among the tents, with the bull not more than six
feet in the rear of O'Neil, who was frightened out of his wits and
puffing like a locomotive, his foot caught in a tent-rope, and over
he went into a puddle of water head foremost, and in his fall capsized
several camp-kettles, some of which contained the trappers' supper. But
the buffalo did not escape so easily; for Hobbs and Kit Carson jumped
for their rifles, and dropped the animal before he had done any further
damage.

The whole outfit laughed heartily at O'Neil when he got up out of the
water, for a party of old trappers would show no mercy to any of their
companions who met with a mishap of that character; but as he stood
there with dripping clothes and face covered with mud, his mother-wit
came to his relief and he declared he had accomplished the hunter's
task: "For sure," said he, "haven't I fetched the mate into camp? and
there was no bargain whether it should be dead or alive!"

Upon Kit's asking O'Neil where his gun was,--

"Sure," said he, "that's more than I can tell you."

Next morning Carson and Hobbs took up O'Neil's tracks and the buffalo's,
and after hunting an hour or so found the Irishman's rifle, though he
had little use for it afterward, as he preferred to cook and help around
camp rather than expose his precious life fighting buffaloes.

A great herd of buffaloes on the plains in the early days, when one
could approach near enough without disturbing it to quietly watch its
organization and the apparent discipline which its leaders seemed to
exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features of the
spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the immense mass of
shaggy animals moved; there was constancy of action indicating a degree
of intelligence to be found only in the most intelligent of the brute
creation. Frequently the single herd was broken up into many smaller
ones, that travelled relatively close together, each led by an
independent master. Perhaps a few rods only marked the dividing-line
between them, but it was always unmistakably plain, and each moved
synchronously in the direction in which all were going.

The leadership of a herd was attained only by hard struggles for the
place; once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized, and
kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he became
superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his inevitable
fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves.

In the event of a stampede, every animal of the separate, yet
consolidated, herds rushed off together, as if they had all gone mad at
once; for the buffalo, like the Texas steer, mule, or domestic
horse, stampedes on the slightest provocation; frequently without any
assignable cause. The simplest affair, sometimes, will start the whole
herd; a prairie-dog barking at the entrance to his burrow, a shadow of
one of themselves or that of a passing cloud, is sufficient to make them
run for miles as if a real and dangerous enemy were at their heels.

Like an army, a herd of buffaloes put out vedettes to give the alarm in
case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels were always
to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six, at some distance from
the main body. When they perceived something approaching that the herd
should beware of or get away from, they started on a run directly for
the centre of the great mass of their peacefully grazing congeners.
Meanwhile, the young bulls were on duty as sentinels on the edge of
the main herd watching the vedettes; the moment the latter made for the
centre, the former raised their heads, and in the peculiar manner of
their species gazed all around and sniffed the air as if they could
smell both the direction and source of the impending danger. Should
there be something which their instinct told them to guard against, the
leader took his position in front, the cows and calves crowded in the
centre, while the rest of the males gathered on the flanks and in the
rear, indicating a gallantry that might be emulated at times by the
genus homo.

Generally buffalo went to their drinking-places but once a day, and that
late in the afternoon. Then they ambled along, following each other in
single file, which accounts for the many trails on the plains, always
ending at some stream or lake. They frequently travelled twenty or
thirty miles for water, so the trails leading to it were often worn to
the depth of a foot or more.

That curious depression so frequently seen on the great plains, called
a buffalo-wallow, is caused in this wise: The huge animals paw and lick
the salty, alkaline earth, and when once the sod is broken the loose
dirt drifts away under the constant action of the wind. Then, year
after year, through more pawing, licking, rolling, and wallowing by
the animals, the wind wafts more of the soil away, and soon there is a
considerable hole in the prairie.

Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following a
buffalo-trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo-wallows
retain usually a great quantity of water, and they have often saved the
lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses.

There was, however, a stranger and more wonderful spectacle to be seen
every recurring spring during the reign of the buffalo, soon after
the grass had started. There were circles trodden bare on the plains,
thousands, yes, millions of them, which the early travellers, who did
not divine their cause, called fairy-rings. From the first of April
until the middle of May was the wet season; you could depend upon its
recurrence almost as certainly as on the sun and moon rising at their
proper time. This was also the calving period of the buffalo, as
they, unlike our domestic cattle, only rutted during a single month;
consequently, the cows all calved during a certain time; this was the
wet month, and as there were a great many gray wolves that roamed singly
and in immense packs over the whole prairie region, the bulls, in their
regular beats, kept guard over the cows while in the act of parturition,
and drove the wolves away, walking in a ring around the females at a
short distance, and thus forming the curious circles.

In every herd at each recurring season there were always ambitious young
bulls that came to their majority, so to speak, and these were ever
ready to test their claims for the leadership, so that it may be safely
stated that a month rarely passed without a bloody battle between them
for the supremacy; though, strangely enough, the struggle scarcely ever
resulted in the death of either combatant.

Perhaps there is no animal in which maternal love is so wonderfully
developed as the buffalo cow; she is as dangerous with a calf by her
side as a she-grizzly with cubs, as all old mountaineers know.

The buffalo bull that has outlived his usefulness is one of the most
pitiable objects in the whole range of natural history. Old age has
probably been decided in the economy of buffalo life as the unpardonable
sin. Abandoned to his fate, he may be discovered, in his dreary
isolation, near some stream or lake, where it does not tax him too
severely to find good grass; for he is now feeble, and exertion an
impossibility. In this new stage of his existence he seems to have
completely lost his courage. Frightened at his own shadow, or the
rustling of a leaf, he is the very incarnation of nervousness and
suspicion. Gregarious in his habits from birth, solitude, foreign to
his whole nature, has changed him into a new creature; and his inherent
terror of the most trivial things is intensified to such a degree
that if a man were compelled to undergo such constant alarm, it would
probably drive him insane in less than a week. Nobody ever saw one of
these miserable and helplessly forlorn creatures dying a natural death,
or ever heard of such an occurrence. The cowardly coyote and the gray
wolf had already marked him for their own; and they rarely missed their
calculations.

Riding suddenly to the top of a divide once with a party of friends in
1866, we saw standing below us in the valley an old buffalo bull, the
very picture of despair. Surrounding him were seven gray wolves in the
act of challenging him to mortal combat. The poor beast, undoubtedly
realizing the utter hopelessness of his situation, had determined to
die game. His great shaggy head, filled with burrs, was lowered to the
ground as he confronted his would-be executioners; his tongue, black and
parched, lolled out of his mouth, and he gave utterance at intervals to
a suppressed roar.

The wolves were sitting on their haunches in a semi-circle immediately
in front of the tortured beast, and every time that the fear-stricken
buffalo would give vent to his hoarsely modulated groan, the wolves
howled in concert in most mournful cadence.

After contemplating his antagonists for a few moments, the bull made a
dash at the nearest wolf, tumbling him howling over the silent prairie;
but while this diversion was going on in front, the remainder of the
pack started for his hind legs, to hamstring him. Upon this the poor
brute turned to the point of attack only to receive a repetition of it
in the same vulnerable place by the wolves, who had as quickly turned
also and fastened themselves on his heels again. His hind quarters
now streamed with blood and he began to show signs of great physical
weakness. He did not dare to lie down; that would have been instantly
fatal. By this time he had killed three of the wolves or so maimed them
that they were entirely out of the fight.

At this juncture the suffering animal was mercifully shot, and the
wolves allowed to batten on his thin and tough carcass.

Often there are serious results growing out of a stampede, either
by mules or a herd of buffalo. A portion of the Fifth United States
Infantry had a narrow escape from a buffalo stampede on the Old Trail,
in the early summer of 1866. General George A. Sykes, who commanded the
Division of Regulars in the Army of the Potomac during the Civil War,
was ordered to join his regiment, stationed in New Mexico, and was
conducting a body of recruits, with their complement of officers,
to fill up the decimated ranks of the army stationed at the various
military posts, in far-off Greaser Land.

The command numbered nearly eight hundred, including the subaltern
officers. These recruits, or the majority of them at least, were
recruits in name only; they had seen service in many a hard campaign of
the Rebellion. Some, of course, were beardless youths just out of their
teens, full of that martial ardour which induced so many young men of
the nation to follow the drum on the remote plains and in the fastnesses
of the Rocky Mountains, where the wily savages still held almost
undisputed sway, and were a constant menace to the pioneer settlers.

One morning, when the command had just settled itself in careless repose
on the short grass of the apparently interminable prairie at the first
halt of the day's march, a short distance beyond Fort Larned, a strange
noise, like the low muttering of thunder below the horizon, greeted the
ears of the little army.

All were startled by the ominous sound, unlike anything they had heard
before on their dreary tour. The general ordered his scouts out to learn
the cause; could it be Indians? Every eye was strained for something out
of the ordinary. Even the horses of the officers and the mules of the
supply-train were infected by something that seemed impending; they grew
restless, stamped the earth, and vainly essayed to stampede, but were
prevented by their hobbles and picket-pins.

Presently one of the scouts returned from over the divide, and reported
to the general that an immense herd of buffalo was tearing down toward
the Trail, and from the great clouds of dust they raised, which obscured
the horizon, there must have been ten thousand of them. The roar wafted
to the command, and which seemed so mysterious, was made by their hoofs
as they rattled over the dry prairie.

The sound increased in volume rapidly, and soon a black, surging mass
was discovered bearing right down on the Trail. Behind it could be seen
a cavalcade of about five hundred Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas, who
had maddened the shaggy brutes, hoping to capture the train without an
attack by forcing the frightened animals to overrun the command.

Luckily, something caused the herd to open before it reached the foot
of the divide, and it passed in two masses, leaving the command between,
not two hundred feet from either division of the infuriated beasts.

The rage of the savages was evident when they saw that their attempt to
annihilate the troops had failed, and they rode off sullenly into the
sand hills, as the number of soldiers was too great for them to think of
charging.

Cody tells of a buffalo stampede which he witnessed in his youth on
the plains, when he was a wagon-master. The caravan was on its way
with government stores for the military posts in the mountains, and the
wagons were hauled by oxen.

He says: The country was alive with buffalo, and besides killing
quite a number we had a rare day for sport. One morning
we pulled out of camp, and the train was strung out to a
considerable length along the Trail, which ran near the foot
of the sand hills, two miles from the river. Between the
road and the river we saw a large herd of buffalo grazing
quietly, they having been down to the stream to drink.
Just at this time we observed a party of returning
Californians coming from the west. They, too, noticed
the buffalo herd, and in another moment they were dashing
down upon them, urging their horses to their greatest speed.
The buffalo herd stampeded at once, and broke down the sides
of the hills; so hotly were they pursued by the hunters
that about five hundred of them rushed pell-mell through
our caravan, frightening both men and oxen. Some of the
wagons were turned clear around and many of the terrified
oxen attempted to run to the hills with the heavy wagons
attached to them. Others were turned around so short
that they broke the tongues off. Nearly all the teams
got entangled in their gearing and became wild and unruly,
so that the perplexed drivers were unable to manage them.

The buffalo, the cattle, and the men were soon running
in every direction, and the excitement upset everybody
and everything. Many of the oxen broke their yokes and
stampeded. One big buffalo bull became entangled in one
of the heavy wagon-chains, and it is a fact that in his
desperate efforts to free himself, he not only snapped
the strong chain in two, but broke the ox-yoke to which
it was attached, and the last seen of him he was running
toward the hills with it hanging from his horns.

Stampedes were a great source of profit to the Indians of the plains.
The Comanches were particularly expert and daring in this kind of
robbery. They even trained their horses to run from one point to another
in expectation of the coming of the trains. When a camp was made that
was nearly in range, they turned their trained animals loose, which at
once flew across the prairie, passing through the herd and penetrating
the very corrals of their victims. All of the picketed horses and mules
would endeavour to follow these decoys, and were invariably led right
into the haunts of the Indians, who easily secured them. Young horses
and mules were easily frightened; and, in the confusion which generally
ensued, great injury was frequently done to the runaways themselves.

At times when the herd was very large, the horses scattered over the
prairie and were irrevocably lost; and such as did not become wild fell
a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the lot of stampeded
horses bred in the States, they not having been trained by a prairie
life to take care of themselves. Instead of stopping and bravely
fighting off the blood-thirsty beasts, they would run. Then the whole
pack were sure to leave the bolder animals and make for the runaways,
which they seldom failed to overtake and despatch.

On the Old Trail some years ago one of these stampedes occurred of a
band of government horses, in which were several valuable animals. It
was attended, however, with very little loss, through the courage and
great exertion of the men who had them in charge; many were recovered,
but none without having sustained injuries.

Hon. R. M. Wright, of Dodge City, Kansas, one of the pioneers in the
days of the Santa Fe trade, and in the settlement of the State, has had
many exciting experiences both with the savages of the great plains, and
the buffalo. In relation to the habits of the latter, no man is better
qualified to speak.

He was once owner of Fort Aubrey, a celebrated point on the Trail, but
was compelled to abandon it on account of constant persecution by the
Indians, or rather he was ordered to do so by the military authorities.
While occupying the once famous landmark, in connection with others, had
a contract to furnish hay to the government at Fort Lyon, seventy-five
miles further west. His journal, which he kindly placed at my disposal,
says:

While we were preparing to commence the work, a vast herd
of buffalo stampeded through our range one night, and
took off with them about half of our work cattle. The next
day a stage-driver and conductor on the Overland Route told
us they had seen a number of our oxen twenty-five miles east
of Aubrey, and this information gave me an idea in which
direction to hunt for the missing beasts. I immediately
started after them, while my partner took those that
remained and a few wagons and left with them for Fort Lyon.

Let me explain here that while the Indians were supposed to
be peaceable, small war-parties of young men, who could not
be controlled by their chiefs, were continually committing
depredations, and the main body of savages themselves were
very uneasy, and might be expected to break out any day.
In consequence of this unsettled state of affairs, there
had been a brisk movement among the United States troops
stationed at the various military posts, a large number of
whom were believed to be on the road from Denver to Fort Lyon.

I filled my saddle-bags with jerked buffalo, hardtack and
ground coffee, and took with me a belt of cartridges,
my rifle and six-shooter, a field-glass and my blankets,
prepared for any emergency. The first day out, I found a
few of the lost cattle, and placed them on the river-bottom,
which I continued to do as fast as I recovered them, for a
distance of about eighty-five miles down the Arkansas.
There I met a wagon-train, the drivers of which told me
that I would find several more of my oxen with a train
that had arrived at the Cimarron crossing the day before.
I came up with this train in eight or ten hours' travel
south of the river, got my cattle, and started next morning
for home.

I picked up those I had left on the Arkansas as I went
along, and after having made a very hard day's travel,
about sundown I concluded I would go into camp. I had
only fairly halted when the oxen began to drop down,
so completely tired out were they, as I believed. Just as
it was growing dark, I happened to look toward the west,
and I saw several fires on a big island, near what was
called "The Lone Tree," about a mile from where I had
determined to remain for the night.

Thinking the fires were those of the soldiers that I had
heard were on the road from Denver, and anticipating and
longing for a cup of good coffee, as I had had none for
five days, knowing, too, that the troops would be full of
news, I felt good and determined to go over to their camp.

The Arkansas was low, but the banks steep, with high,
rank grass growing to the very water's edge. I found
a buffalo-trail cut through the deep bank, narrow and
precipitous, and down this I went, arriving in a short time
within a little distance of my supposed soldiers' camp.
When I had reached the middle of another deep cut in the
bank, I looked across to the island, and, great Caesar!
saw a hundred little fires, around which an aggregation
of a thousand Indians were huddled!

I slid backwards off my horse, and by dint of great exertion,
worked him up the river-bank as quietly and quickly as
possible, then led him gently away out on the prairie.
My first impulse was not to go back to the cattle; but as
we needed them very badly, I concluded to return, put them
all on their feet, and light out mighty lively, without
making any noise. I started them, and, oh dear! I was
afraid to tread upon a weed, lest it would snap and bring
the Indians down on my trail. Until I had put several
miles between them and me, I could not rest easy for
a moment. Tired as I was, tired as were both my horse
and the cattle, I drove them twenty-five miles before
I halted. Then daylight was upon me. I was at what is
known as Chouteau's Island, a once famous place in the
days of the Old Santa Fe Trail.

Of course, I had to let the oxen and my horse rest and fill
themselves until the afternoon, and I lay down, and fell
asleep, but did not sleep long, as I thought it dangerous
to remain too near the cattle. I rose and walked up a big,
dry sand creek that opened into the river, and after I had
ascended it for a couple of miles, found the banks very
steep; in fact, they rose to a height of eighteen or twenty
feet, and were sharply cut up by narrow trails made by
the buffalo.

The whole face of the earth was covered by buffalo, and
they were slowly grazing toward the Arkansas. All at once
they became frightened at something, and stampeded pell-mell
toward the very spot on which I stood. I quickly ran into
one of the precipitous little paths and up on the prairie,
to see what had scared them. They were making the ground
fairly tremble as their mighty multitude came rushing on
at full speed, the sound of their hoofs resembling thunder,
but in a continuous peal. It appeared to me that they must
sweep everything in their path, and for my own preservation
I rushed under the creek-bank, but on they came like a
tornado, with one old bull in the lead. He held up a second
to descend the narrow trail, and when he had got about
halfway down I let him have it; I was only a few steps from
him and over he tumbled. I don't know why I killed him;
out of pure wantonness, I expect, or perhaps I thought
it would frighten the others back. Not so, however;
they only quickened their pace, and came dashing down in
great numbers. Dozens of them stumbled and fell over the
dead bull; others fell over them. The top of the bank
was fairly swarming with them; they leaped, pitched, and
rolled down. I crouched as close to the bank as possible,
but many of them just grazed my head, knocking the sand
and gravel in great streams down my neck; indeed I was
half buried before the herd had passed over. That old bull
was the last buffalo I ever shot wantonly, excepting once,
from an ambulance while riding on the Old Trail, to please
a distinguished Englishman, who had never seen one shot;
then I did it only after his most earnest persuasion.

One day a stage-driver named Frank Harris and myself started
out after buffalo; they were scarce, for a wonder, and
we were very hungry for fresh meat. The day was fine and
we rode a long way, expecting sooner or later a bunch would
jump up, but in the afternoon, having seen none, we gave
it up and started for the ranch. Of course, we didn't
care to save our ammunition, so shot it away at everything
in sight, skunks, rattlesnakes, prairie-dogs, and gophers,
until we had only a few loads left. Suddenly an old bull
jumped up that had been lying down in one of those
sugar-loaf-shaped sand hills, whose tops are hollowed out
by the action of the wind. Harris emptied his revolver
into him, and so did I; but the old fellow sullenly stood
still there on top of the sand hill, bleeding profusely
at the nose, and yet absolutely refusing to die, although
he would repeatedly stagger and nearly tumble over.

It was getting late and we couldn't wait on him, so Harris
said: "I will dismount, creep up behind him, and cut his
hamstrings with my butcher-knife." The bull having now
lain down, Harris commenced operations, but his movement
seemed to infuse new life into the old fellow; he jumped
to his feet, his head lowered in the attitude of fight,
and away he went around the outside of the top of the
sand hill! It was a perfect circus with one ring; Harris,
who was a tall, lanky fellow, took hold of the enraged
animal's tail as he rose to his feet, and in a moment his
legs were flying higher than his head, but he did not dare
let go of his hold on the bull's tail, and around and
around they went; it was his only show for life. I could
not assist him a particle, but had to sit and hold his horse,
and be judge of the fight. I really thought that old bull
would never weaken. Finally, however, the "ring" performance
began to show symptoms of fatigue; slower and slower the
actions of the bull grew, and at last Harris succeeded
in cutting his hamstrings and the poor beast went down.
Harris said afterward, when the danger was all over, that
the only thing he feared was that perhaps the bull's tail
would pull out, and if it did, he was well aware that he
was a goner. We brought his tongue, hump, and a hindquarter
to the ranch with us, and had a glorious feast and a big
laugh that night with the boys over the ridiculous adventure.

General Richard Irving Dodge, United States army, in his work on the big
game of America, says:

It is almost impossible for a civilized being to realize
the value to the plains Indian of the buffalo. It furnished
him with home, food, clothing, bedding, horse equipment--
almost everything.

From 1869 to 1873 I was stationed at various posts along
the Arkansas River. Early in spring, as soon as the dry
and apparently desert prairie had begun to change its coat
of dingy brown to one of palest green, the horizon would
begin to be dotted with buffalo, single or in groups of two
or three, forerunners of the coming herd. Thick and thicker,
and in large groups they come, until by the time the grass
is well up, the whole vast landscape appears a mass of
buffalo, some individuals feeding, others lying down, but
the herd slowly moving to the northward; of their number,
it was impossible to form a conjecture.

Determined as they are to pursue their journey northward,
yet they are exceedingly cautious and timid about it,
and on any alarm rush to the southward with all speed,
until that alarm is dissipated. Especially is this the case
when any unusual object appears in their rear, and so
utterly regardless of consequences are they, that an old
plainsman will not risk a wagon-train in such a herd,
where rising ground will permit those in front to get
a good view of their rear.

In May, 1871, I drove in a buggy from old Fort Zarah
to Fort Larned, on the Arkansas River. The distance is
thirty-four miles. At least twenty-five miles of that
distance was through an immense herd. The whole country
was one mass of buffalo, apparently, and it was only when
actually among them, that the seemingly solid body was
seen to be an agglomeration of countless herds of from
fifty to two hundred animals, separated from the surrounding
herds by a greater or less space, but still separated.

The road ran along the broad valley of the Arkansas.
Some miles from Zarah a low line of hills rises from the
plain on the right, gradually increasing in height and
approaching road and river, until they culminate in
Pawnee Rock.

So long as I was in the broad, level valley, the herds
sullenly got out of my way, and, turning, stared stupidly
at me, some within thirty or forty yards. When, however,
I had reached a point where the hills were no more than
a mile from the road, the buffalo on the crests, seeing an
unusual object in their rear, turned, stared an instant,
then started at full speed toward me, stampeding and
bringing with them the numberless herds through which
they passed, and pouring down on me, no longer separated
but compacted into one immense mass of plunging animals,
mad with fright, irresistible as an avalanche.

The situation was by no means pleasant. There was but
one hope of escape. My horse was, fortunately, a quiet
old beast, that had rushed with me into many a herd, and
been in at the death of many a buffalo. Reining him up,
I waited until the front of the mass was within fifty yards,
then, with a few well-directed shots, dropped some of
the leaders, split the herd and sent it off in two streams
to my right and left. When all had passed me, they stopped,
apparently satisfied, though thousands were yet within
reach of my rifle. After my servant had cut out the
tongues of the fallen, I proceeded on my journey, only to
have a similar experience within a mile or two, and this
occurred so often that I reached Fort Larned with twenty-six
tongues, representing the greatest number of buffalo that
I can blame myself with having murdered in one day.

Some years, as in 1871, the buffalo appeared to move
northward in one immense column, oftentimes from twenty
to fifty miles in width, and of unknown depth from front
to rear. Other years the northward journey was made
in several parallel columns moving at the same rate and
with their numerous flankers covering a width of a hundred
or more miles.

When the food in one locality fails, they go to another,
and toward fall, when the grass of the high prairies
becomes parched by the heat and drought, they gradually
work their way back to the south, concentrating on the
rich pastures of Texas and the Indian Territory, whence,
the same instinct acting on all, they are ready to start
together again on their northward march as soon as spring
starts the grass.

Old plainsmen and the Indians aver that the buffalo never
return south; that each year's herd was composed of animals
which had never made the journey before, and would never
make it again. All admit the northern migration, that
being too pronounced for any one to dispute, but refuse
to admit the southern migration. Thousands of young calves
were caught and killed every spring that were produced
during this migration, and accompanied the herd northward;
but because the buffalo did not return south in one vast
body as they went north, it was stoutly maintained that
they did not go south at all. The plainsman could give
no reasonable hypothesis of his "No-return theory" on which
to base the origin of the vast herds which yearly made
their march northward. The Indian was, however, equal
to the occasion. Every plains Indian firmly believed that
the buffalo were produced in countless numbers in a country
under ground; that every spring the surplus swarmed,
like bees from a hive, out of the immense cave-like opening
in the region of the great Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain
of Texas. In 1879 Stone Calf, a celebrated chief, assured
me that he knew exactly where the caves were, though he had
never seen them; that the good God had provided this
means for the constant supply of food for the Indian, and
however recklessly the white men might slaughter, they could
never exterminate them. When last I saw him, the old man
was beginning to waver in this belief, and feared that
the "Bad God" had shut the entrances, and that his tribe
must starve.

The old trappers and plainsmen themselves, even as early as the
beginning of the Santa Fe trade, noticed the gradual disappearance of
the buffalo, while they still existed in countless numbers. One veteran
French Canadian, an employee of the American Fur Company, way back in
the early '30's, used to mourn thus: "Mais, sacre! les Amarican, dey go
to de Missouri frontier, de buffalo he ron to de montaigne; de trappaire
wid his fusil, he follow to de Bayou Salade, he ron again. Dans les
Montaignes Espagnol, bang! bang! toute la journee, toute la journee, go
de sacre voleurs. De bison he leave, parceque les fusils scare im vara
moche, ici là de sem-sacré!"

CHAPTER XIII. INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS.

Thirty-five miles before arriving at Bent's Fort, at which point the
Old Trail crossed the Arkansas, the valley widens and the prairie falls
toward the river in gentle undulations. There for many years the
three friendly tribes of plains Indians--Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and
Kiowas--established their winter villages, in order to avail themselves
of the supply of wood, to trade with the whites, and to feed their herds
of ponies on the small limbs and bark of the cottonwood trees growing
along the margin of the stream for four or five miles. It was called Big
Timbers, and was one of the most eligible places to camp on the whole
route after leaving Council Grove. The grass, particularly on the south
side of the river, was excellent; there was an endless supply of fuel,
and cool water without stint.

In the severe winters that sometimes were fruitful of blinding
blizzards, sweeping from the north in an intensity of fury that was
almost inconceivable, the buffalo too congregated there for shelter, and
to browse on the twigs of the great trees.

The once famous grove, though denuded of much of its timber, may still
be seen from the car windows as the trains hurry mountainward.

Garrard, in his _Taos Trail_, presents an interesting and amusing
account of a visit to the Cheyenne village with old John Smith, in 1847,
when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, and that with the various
tribes of savages in its golden days.

Toward the middle of the day, the village was in a great
bustle. Every squaw, child, and man had their faces
blackened--a manifestation of joy.[44]

Pell-mell they went--men, squaws, and dogs--into the icy
river. Some hastily jerked off their leggings, and held
moccasins and dresses high out of the water. Others, too
impatient, dashed the stream from beneath their impetuous
feet, scarce taking time to draw more closely the always
worn robe. Wondering what caused all this commotion, and
looking over the river, whither the yelling, half-frantic
savages were so speedily hurrying, we saw a band of Indians
advancing toward us. As the foremost braves reined their
champing barbs on the river-bank, mingled whoops of triumph
and delight and the repeated discharge of guns filled
the air. In the hands of three were slender willow wands,
from the smaller points of which dangled as many scalps--
the single tuft of hair on each pronouncing them Pawnees.[45]

These were raised aloft, amid unrestrained bursts of joy
from the thrice-happy, blood-thirsty throng. Children ran
to meet their fathers, sisters their brothers, girls their
lovers, returning from the scene of victorious strife;
decrepit matrons welcomed manly sons; and aged chiefs their
boys and braves. It was a scene of affection, and a proud
day in the Cheyenne annals of prowess. That small but
gallant band were relieved of their shields and lances by
tender-hearted squaws, and accompanied to their respective
homes, to repose by the lodge-fire, consume choice meat,
and to be the heroes of the family circle.

The drum at night sent forth its monotony of hollow sound,
and my Mexican Pedro and I, directed by the booming,
entered a lodge, vacated for the purpose, full of young men
and squaws, following one another in a continuous circle,
keeping the left knee stiff and bending the right with a
half-forward, half-backward step, as if they wanted to go on
and could not, accompanying it, every time the right foot
was raised, with an energetic, broken song, which, dying
away, was again and again sounded--"hay-a, hay-a, hay-a,"
they went, laying the emphasis on the first syllable.
A drum, similar to, though larger than a tambourine, covered
with parflêche,[46] was beaten upon with a stick, producing
with the voices a sound not altogether disagreeable.

Throughout the entire night and succeeding day the voices
of the singers and heavy notes of the drum reached us,
and at night again the same dull sound lulled me to sleep.
Before daylight our lodge was filled with careless dancers,
and the drum and voices, so unpleasing to our wearied ears,
were giving us the full benefit of their compass. Smith,
whose policy it was not to be offended, bore the infliction
as best he could, and I looked on much amused. The lodge
was so full that they stood without dancing, in a circle
round the fire, and with a swaying motion of the body
kept time to their music.

During the day the young men, except the dancers, piled up
dry logs in a level open space near, for a grand demonstration.
At night, when it was fired, I folded my blanket over my
shoulders, comme les sauvages, and went out. The faces
of many girls were brilliant with vermilion; others were
blacked, their robes, leggings, and skin dresses glittering
with beads and quill-work. Rings and bracelets of shining
brass encircled their taper arms and fingers, and shells
dangled from their ears. Indeed, all the finery collectable
was piled on in barbarous profusion, though a few, in good
taste through poverty, wore a single band and but few rings,
with jetty hair parted in the middle, from the forehead
to the neck, terminating in two handsome braids.

The young men who can afford the expense trade for dollars
and silver coin of less denomination--coin as a currency
is not known among them--which they flatten thin, and fasten
to a braid of buffalo hair, attached to the crown lock,
which hangs behind, outside of the robe, and adds much to
the handsome appearance of the wearer.

The girls, numbering two hundred, fell into line together,
and the men, of whom there were two hundred and fifty,
joining, a circle was formed, which travelled around with
the same shuffling step already described. The drummers
and other musicians--twenty or twenty-five of them--marched
in a contrary direction to and from and around the fire,
inside the large ring; for at the distance kept by the
outsiders the area was one hundred and fifty feet in diameter.
The Apollonian emulators chanted the great deeds performed
by the Cheyenne warriors. As they ended, the dying strain
was caught up by the hundreds of the outside circle, who,
in fast-swelling, loud tones, poured out the burden of
their song. At this juncture the march was quickened,
the scalps of the slain were borne aloft and shaken with
wild delight, and shrill war-notes, rising above the
furious din, accelerated the pulsation and strung high
the nerves. Time-worn shields, careering in mad holders'
hands, clashed; and keen lances, once reeking in Pawnee
blood, clanged. Braves seized one another with an iron
grip, in the heat of excitement, or chimed more tenderly
in the chant, enveloped in the same robe with some maiden
as they approvingly stepped through one of their own
original polkas.

Thirty of the chiefs and principal men were ranged by the
pile of blazing logs. By their invitation, I sat down with
them and smoked death and its concomitant train of evils to
those audacious tribes who doubt the courage or supremacy
of the brave, the great and powerful, Cheyenne nation.

It is Indian etiquette that the first lodge a stranger enters on
visiting a village is his home as long as he remains the guest of the
tribe. It is all the same whether he be invited or not. Upon going in,
it is customary to place all your traps in the back part, which is the
most honoured spot. The proprietor always occupies that part of his
home, but invariably gives it up to a guest. With the Cheyennes, the
white man, when the tribe was at peace with him, was ever welcome, as
in the early days of the border he generally had a supply of coffee, of
which the savage is particularly fond--Mok-ta-bo-mah-pe, as they call
it. Their salutation to the stranger coming into the presence of the
owner of a lodge is "Hook-ah-hay! Num-whit,"--"How do you do? Stay with
us." Water is then handed by a squaw, as it is supposed a traveller is
thirsty after riding; then meat, for he must be hungry, too. A pipe is
offered, and conversation follows.

The lodge of the Cheyennes is formed of seventeen poles, about three
inches thick at the end which rests on the ground, slender in shape,
tapering symmetrically, and eighteen feet or more in length. They are
tied together at the small ends with buffalo-hide, then raised until
the frame resembles a cone, over which buffalo-skins are placed, very
skilfully fitted and made soft by having been dubbed by the women--that
is, scraped to the requisite thinness, and made supple by rubbing with
the brains of the animal that wore it. They are sewed together with
sinews of the buffalo, generally of the long and powerful muscle that
holds up the ponderous head of the shaggy beast, a narrow strip running
towards the bump. In summer the lower edges of the skin are rolled up,
and the wind blowing through, it is a cool, shady retreat. In winter
everything is closed, and I know of no more comfortable place than a
well-made Indian lodge. The army tent known as the Sibley is modelled
after it, and is the best winter shelter for troops in the field that
can be made. Many times while the military post where I had been ordered
was in process of building, I have chosen the Sibley tent in preference
to any other domicile.

When a village is to be moved, it is an interesting sight. The young and
unfledged boys drive up the herd of ponies, and then the squaws catch
them. The women, too, take down the lodges, and, tying the poles in two
bundles, fasten them on each side of an animal, the long ends dragging
on the ground. Just behind the pony or mule, as the case may be, a
basket is placed and held there by buffalo-hide thongs, and into these
novel carriages the little children are put, besides such traps as are
not easily packed on the animal's back.

The women do all the work both in camp and when moving. They are doomed
to a hopeless bondage of slavery, the fate of their sex in every savage
race; but they accept their condition stoically, and there is as much
affection among them for their husbands and children as I have ever
witnessed among the white race. Here are two instances of their
devotion, both of which came under my personal observation, and I could
give hundreds of others.

Late in the fall of 1858, I was one of a party on the trail of a band of
Indians who had been committing some horrible murders in a mining-camp
in the northern portion of Washington Territory. On the fourth day out,
just about dusk, we struck their moccasin tracks, which we followed all
night, and surprised their camp in the gray light of the early morning.
In less than ten minutes the fight was over, and besides the killed we
captured six prisoners. Then as the rising sun commenced to gild the
peaks of the lofty range on the west, having granted our captives half
an hour to take leave of their families, the ankles of each were bound;
they were made to kneel on the prairie, a squad of soldiers, with loaded
rifles, were drawn up eight paces in front of them, and at the instant
the signal--a white handkerchief--was dropped the savages tumbled over
on the sod a heap of corpses. The parting between the condemned men and
their young wives and children, I shall never forget. It was the
most perfect exhibition of marital and filial love that I have ever
witnessed. Such harsh measures may seem cruel and heartless in the
light of to-day, but there was none other than martial law then in the
wilderness of the Northern Pacific coast, and the execution was a stern
necessity.

The other instance was ten years later. During the Indian campaign in
the winter of 1868-69 I was riding with a party of officers and enlisted
men, south of the Arkansas, about fourty miles from Fort Dodge. We were
watching some cavalrymen unearth three or four dead warriors who had
been killed by two scouts in a fierce unequal fight a few weeks before,
and as we rode into a small ravine among the sand hills, we suddenly
came upon a rudely constructed Cheyenne lodge. Entering, we discovered
on a rough platform, fashioned of green poles, a dead warrior in full
war-dress; his shield of buffalo-hide, pipe ornamented with eagles'
feathers, and medicine bag, were lying on the ground beside him. At his
head, on her knees, with hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, was a
squaw frozen to death. Which had first succumbed, the wounded chief, or
the devoted wife in the awful cold of that winter prairie, will never be
known, but it proved her love for the man who had perhaps beaten her a
hundred times. Such tender and sympathetic affection is characteristic
of the sex everywhere, no less with the poor savage than in the dominant
white race.

To return to our description of the average Indian village: Each lodge
at the grand encampment of Big Timbers in the era of traffic with the
nomads of the great plains, owned its separate herd of ponies and mules.
In the exodus to some other favoured spot, two dozen or more of these
individual herds travelled close to each other but never mixed, each
drove devotedly following its bell-mare, as in a pack-train. This useful
animal is generally the most worthless and wicked beast in the entire
outfit.

The animals with the lodge-pole carriages go as they please, no special
care being taken to guide them, but they too instinctively keep
within sound of the leader. I will again quote Garrard for an accurate
description of the moving camp when he was with the Cheyennes in 1847:--

The young squaws take much care of their dress and horse
equipments; they dash furiously past on wild steeds,
astride of the high-pommelled saddles. A fancifully
coloured cover, worked with beads or porcupine quills,
making a flashy, striking appearance, extended from withers
to rump of the horse, while the riders evinced an admirable
daring, worthy of Amazons. Their dresses were made of
buckskin, high at the neck, with short sleeves, or rather
none at all, fitting loosely, and reaching obliquely to
the knee, giving a Diana look to the costume; the edges
scalloped, worked with beads, and fringed. From the knee
downward the limb was encased in a tightly fitting legging,
terminating in a neat moccasin--both handsomely wrought
with beads. On the arms were bracelets of brass, which
glittered and reflected in the radiant morning sun, adding
much to their attractions. In their pierced ears, shells
from the Pacific shore were pendent; and to complete the
picture of savage taste and profusion, their fine
complexions were eclipsed by a coat of flaming vermilion.

Many of the largest dogs were packed with a small quantity
of meat, or something not easily injured. They looked
queerly, trotting industriously under their burdens; and,
judging from a small stock of canine physiological
information, not a little of the wolf was in their
composition.

We crossed the river on our way to the new camp. The alarm
manifested by the children in the lodge-pole drays, as they
dipped in the water, was amusing. The little fellows,
holding their breath, not daring to cry, looked imploringly
at their inexorable mothers, and were encouraged by words
of approbation from their stern fathers.

After a ride of two hours we stopped, and the chiefs,
fastening their horses, collected in circles to smoke their
pipe and talk, letting their squaws unpack the animals,
pitch the lodges, build the fires, and arrange the robes.
When all was ready, these lords of creation dispersed to
their several homes, to wait until their patient and
enduring spouses prepared some food. I was provoked, nay,
angry, to see the lazy, overgrown men do nothing to help
their wives; and when the young women pulled off their
bracelets and finery to chop wood, the cup of my wrath was
full to overflowing, and, in a fit of honest indignation,
I pronounced them ungallant and savage in the true sense
of the word.

The treatment of Indian children, particularly boys, is something
startling to the gentle sentiments of refined white mothers. The girls
receive hardly any attention from their fathers. Implicit obedience is
the watchword of the lodge with them, and they are constantly taught
to appreciate their inferiority of sex. The daughter is a mere slave;
unnoticed and neglected--a mere hewer of wood and drawer of water. With
a son, it is entirely different; the father from his birth dotes on him
and manifests his affection in the most demonstrative manner.

Garrard tells of two instances that came under his observation while
staying at the chief's lodge, and at John Smith's, in the Cheyenne
village, of the discipline to which the boys are subjected.

In Vi-po-nah's lodge was his grandson, a boy six or seven
months old. Every morning his mother washed him in cold
water, and set him out in the air to make him hardy;
he would come in, perfectly nude, from his airing, about
half-frozen. How he would laugh and brighten up, as he felt
the warmth of the fire!

Smith's son Jack took a crying fit one cold night, much to
the annoyance of four or five chiefs, who had come to our
lodge to talk and smoke. In vain did the mother shake and
scold him with the severest Cheyenne words, until Smith,
provoked beyond endurance, took the squalling youngster in
his hands; he shu-ed and shouted and swore, but Jack had
gone too far to be easily pacified. He then sent for a
bucket of water from the river and poured cupful after
cupful on Jack, who stamped and screamed and bit in his
tiny rage. Notwithstanding, the icy stream slowly descended
until the bucket was emptied, another was sent for, and
again and again the cup was replenished and emptied on the
blubbering youth. At last, exhausted with exertion and
completely cooled down, he received the remaining water
in silence, and, with a few words of admonition, was
delivered over to his mother, in whose arms he stifled his
sobs, until his heartbreaking grief and cares were drowned
in sleep. What a devilish mixture Indian and American
blood is!

The Indians never chastise a boy, as they think his spirit would be
broken and cowed down; instead of a warrior he would be a squaw--a
harsh epithet indicative of cowardice--and they resort to any method but
infliction of blows to subdue a refractory scion.

Before most of the lodges is a tripod of three sticks, about seven feet
in length and an inch in diameter, fastened at the top, and the lower
ends brought out, so that it stands alone. On this is hung the
shield and a small square bag of parflêche, containing pipes, with an
accompanying pendent roll of stems, carefully wrapped in blue or red
cloth, and decorated with beads and porcupine quills. This collection is
held in great veneration, for the pipe is their only religion. Through
its agency they invoke the Great Spirit; through it they render homage
to the winds, to the earth, and to the sky.

Every one has his peculiar notion on this subject; and, in passing the
pipe, one must have it presented stem downward, another the reverse;
some with the bowl resting on the ground; and as this is a matter
of great solemnity, their several fancies are respected. Sometimes I
required them to hand it to me, when smoking, in imitation of their
custom; on this, a faint smile, half mingled with respect and pity for
my folly in tampering with their sacred ceremony, would appear on their
faces, and with a slow negative shake of the head, they would ejaculate,
"I-sto-met-mah-son-ne-wah-hein"--"Pshaw! that's foolish; don't do so."

Religion the Cheyennes have none, if, indeed, we except the respect paid
to the pipe; nor do we see any sign or vestige of spiritual worship;
except one remarkable thing--in offering the pipe, before every fresh
filling, to the sky, the earth, and the winds, the motion made in so
doing describes the form of a cross; and, in blowing the first four
whiffs, the smoke is invariably sent in the same four directions. It is
undoubtedly void of meaning in reference to Christian worship, yet it is
a superstition, founded on ancient tradition. This tribe once lived
near the head waters of the Mississippi; and, as the early Jesuit
missionaries were energetic zealots, in the diffusion of their religious
sentiments, probably to make their faith more acceptable to the Indians,
the Roman Catholic rites were blended with the homage shown to the pipe,
which custom of offering, in the form of a cross, is still retained by
them; but as every custom is handed down by tradition merely, the true
source has been forgotten.

In every tribe in whose country I have been stationed, which comprises
nearly all the continent excepting the extreme southwestern portion,
his pipe is the Indian's constant companion through life. It is his
messenger of peace; he pledges his friends through its stem and its
bowl, and when he is dead, it has a place in his solitary grave, with
his war-club and arrows--companions on his journey to his long-fancied
beautiful hunting-grounds. The pipe of peace is a sacred thing; so held
by all Indian nations, and kept in possession of chiefs, to be smoked
only at times of peacemaking. When the terms of treaty have been agreed
upon, this sacred emblem, the stem of which is ornamented with eagle's
quills, is brought forward, and the solemn pledge to keep the peace is
passed through the sacred stem by each chief and warrior drawing the
smoke once through it. After the ceremony is over, the warriors of the
two tribes unite in the dance, with the pipe of peace held in the left
hand of the chief and in his other a rattle.

Thousands of years ago, the primitive savage of the American continent
carried masses of pipe-stone from the sacred quarry in Minnesota across
the vast wilderness of plains, to trade with the people of the far
Southwest, over the same route that long afterward became the Santa Fe
Trail; therefore, it will be consistent with the character of this work
to relate the history of the quarry from which all the tribes procured
their material for fashioning their pipes, and the curious legends
connected with it. I have met with the red sandstone pipes on the
remotest portions of the Pacific coast, and east, west, north and south,
in every tribe that it has been my fortune to know.

The word "Dakotah" means allied or confederated, and is the family
name now comprising some thirty bands, numbering about thirty thousand
Indians. They are generally designated Sioux, but that title is seldom
willingly acknowledged by them. It was first given to them by the
French, though its original interpretation is by no means clear. The
accepted theory, because it is the most plausible, is that it is a
corruption or rather an abbreviation of "Nadouessioux," a Chippewa word
for enemies.

Many of the Sioux are semi-civilized; some are "blanket-Indians," so
called, but there are no longer any murderous or predatory bands, and
all save a few stragglers are on the reservations. From 1812 to 1876,
more than half a century, they were the scourge of the West and the
Northwest, but another outbreak is highly improbable. They once
occupied the vast region included between the Mississippi and the Rocky
Mountains, and were always migratory in their methods of living. Over
fifty years ago, when the whites first became acquainted with them, they
were divided into nearly fifty bands of families, each with its
separate chief, but all acknowledging a superior chief to whom they were
subordinate. They were at that time the happiest and most wealthy tribe
on the continent, regarded from an Indian standpoint; but then the great
plains were stocked with buffalo and wild horses, and that fact alone
warrants the assertion of contentment and riches. No finer-looking tribe
existed; they could then muster more than ten thousand warriors,
every one of whom would measure six feet, and all their movements were
graceful and elastic.

According to their legends, they came from the Pacific and encountered
the Algonquins about the head waters of the Mississippi, where they
were held in check, a portion of them, however, pushing on through
their enemies and securing a foothold on the shores of Lake
Michigan. This bold band was called by the Chippewas Winnebagook
(men-from-the-salt-water). In their original habitat on the great
northern plains was located the celebrated "red pipe-stone quarry," a
relatively limited area, owned by all tribes, but occupied permanently
by none; a purely neutral ground--so designated by the Great
Spirit--where no war could possibly occur, and where mortal enemies
might meet to procure the material for their pipes, but the hatchet was
invariably buried during that time on the consecrated spot.

The quarry has long since passed out of the control and jurisdiction
of the Indians and is not included in any of their reservations, though
near the Sisseton agency. It is located on the summit of the high divide
between the Missouri and St. Peter's rivers in Minnesota, at a point not
far from where the ninety-seventh meridian of longitude (from Greenwich)
intersects the forty-fifth parallel of latitude. The divide was named
by the French Coteau des Prairies, and the quarry is near its southern
extremity. Not a tree or bush could be seen from the majestic mound
when I last was there, some twenty years ago--nothing but the apparently
interminable plains, until they were lost in the deep blue of the
horizon.

The luxury of smoking appears to have been known to all the tribes on
the continent in their primitive state, and they indulge in the habit
to excess; any one familiar with their life can assert that the American
savage smokes half of his time. Where so much attention is given to a
mere pleasure, it naturally follows that he would devote his leisure and
ingenuity to the construction of his pipe. The bowls of these were, from
time immemorial, made of the peculiar red stone from the famous quarry
referred to, which, until only a little over fifty years ago, was never
visited by a white man, its sanctity forbidding any such sacrilege.

That the spot should have been visited for untold centuries by all the
Indian nations, who hid their weapons as they approached it, under fear
of the vengeance of the Great Spirit, will not seem strange when the
religion of the race is understood. One of the principal features of the
quarry is a perpendicular wall of granite about thirty feet high, facing
the west, and nearly two miles long. At the base of the wall there is
a level prairie, running parallel to it, half a mile wide. Under this
strip of land, after digging through several slaty layers of rock, the
red sandstone is found. Old graves, fortifications, and excavations
abound, all confirmatory of the traditions clustering around the weird
place.

Within a few rods of the base of the wall is a group of immense gneiss
boulders, five in number, weighing probably many hundred tons each, and
under these are two holes in which two imaginary old women reside--the
guardian spirits of the quarry--who were always consulted before any
pipe-stone could be dug up. The veneration for this group of boulders
was something wonderful; not a spear of grass was broken or bent by his
feet within sixty or seventy paces from them, where the trembling Indian
halted, and throwing gifts to them in humble supplication, solicited
permission to dig and take away the red stone for his pipes.

Near this spot, too, on a high mound, was the "Thunder's nest," where
a very small bird sat upon her eggs during fair weather. When the skies
were rent with thunder at the approach of a storm, she was hatching her
brood, which caused the terrible commotion in the heavens. The bird was
eternal. The "medicine men" claimed that they had often seen her, and
she was about as large as a little finger. Her mate was a serpent whose
fiery tongue destroyed the young ones as soon as they were born, and the
awful noise accompanying the act darted through the clouds.

On the wall of rocks at the quarry are thousands of inscriptions and
paintings, the totems and arms of various tribes who have visited there;
but no idea can be formed of their antiquity.

Of the various traditions of the many tribes, I here present a few. The
Great Spirit at a remote period called all the Indian nations together
at this place, and, standing on the brink of the precipice of red-stone
rock, broke from its walls a piece and fashioned a pipe by simply
turning it in his hands. He then smoked over them to the north, the
south, the east, and the west, and told them the stone was red, that it
was their flesh, that they must use it for their pipes of peace, that
it belonged to all alike, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must
never be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head
went into a great cloud, and the whole surface of the ledge for miles
was melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two
women--the guardian spirits of the place--entered them in a blaze of
fire, and they are heard there yet answering to the conjurations of the
medicine men, who consult them when they visit the sacred place.

The legend of the Knis-te-neu's tribe (Crees), a very small band in the
British possessions, in relation to the quarry is this: In the time of
a great freshet that occurred years ago and destroyed all the nations of
the earth, every tribe of Indians assembled on the top of the Coteau des
Prairies to get out of the way of the rushing and seething waters. When
they had arrived there from all parts of the world, the water continued
to rise until it covered them completely, forming one solid mass of
drowned Indians, and their flesh was converted by the Great Spirit into
red pipe-stone; therefore, it was always considered neutral ground,
belonging to all tribes alike, and all were to make their pipes out of
it and smoke together. While they were drowning together, a young woman,
Kwaptan, a virgin, caught hold of the foot of a very large bird that was
flying over at the time, and was carried to the top of a hill that was
not far away and above the water. There she had twins, their father
being the war-eagle that had carried her off, and her children have
since peopled the earth. The pipe-stone, which is the flesh of their
ancestors, is smoked by them as the symbol of peace, and the eagle
quills decorate the heads of their warriors.

Severed about seven or eight feet from the main wall of the quarry by
some convulsion of nature ages ago, there is an immense column just
equal in height to the wall, seven feet in diameter and beautifully
polished on its top and sides. It is called The Medicine, or Leaping
Rock, and considerable nerve is required to jump on it from the main
ledge and back again. Many an Indian's heart, in the past, has sighed
for the honour of the feat without daring to attempt it. A few,
according to the records of the tribes, have tried it with success, and
left their arrows standing up in its crevice; others have made the leap
and reached its slippery surface only to slide off, and suffer instant
death on the craggy rocks in the awful chasm below. Every young man of
the many tribes was ambitious to perform the feat, and those who had
successfully accomplished it were permitted to boast of it all their
lives.

CHAPTER XIV. TRAPPERS.

The initial opening of the trade with New Mexico from the Missouri
River, as has been related, was not direct to Santa Fe. The limited
number of pack-trains at first passed to the north of the Raton Range,
and travelled to the Spanish settlements in the valley of Taos.

On this original Trail, where now is situated the beautiful city of
Pueblo, the second place of importance in Colorado, there was a little
Indian trading-post called "the Pueblo," from which the present thriving
place derives its name. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad
practically follows the same route that the traders did to reach Pueblo,
as it also does that which the freight caravans later followed from the
Missouri River direct to Santa Fe.

The old Pueblo fort, as nearly as can be determined now, was built as
early as 1840, or not later than 1842, and, as one authority asserts, by
George Simpson and his associates, Barclay and Doyle. Beckwourth claims
to have been the original projector of the fort, and to have given the
general plan and its name, in which I am inclined to believe that he is
correct; perhaps Barclay, Doyle, and Simpson were connected with him, as
he states that there were other trappers, though he mentions no names.
It was a square fort of adobe, with circular bastions at the corners, no
part of the walls being more than eight feet high. Around the inside of
the plaza, or corral, were half a dozen small rooms inhabited by as many
Indian traders and mountain-men.

One of the earlier Indian agents, Mr. Fitzpatrick, in writing from
Bent's Fort in 1847, thus describes the old Pueblo:--

About seventy-five miles above this place, and immediately
on the Arkansas River, there is a small settlement, chiefly
composed of old trappers and hunters; the male part of it
are mostly Americans (Missourians), French Canadians, and
Mexicans. It numbers about one hundred and fifty, and of
this number about sixty men have wives, and some have two.
These wives are of various Indian tribes, as follows; viz.
Blackfeet, Assiniboines, Sioux, Arapahoes, Cheyennes,
Snakes, and Comanches. The American women are Mormons,
a party of Mormons having wintered there, and then departed
for California.

The old trappers and hunters of the Pueblo fort lived entirely upon
game, and a greater part of the year without bread. As soon as their
supply of meat was exhausted, they started to the mountains with two
or three pack-animals, and brought back in two or three days loads of
venison and buffalo.

The Arkansas at the Pueblo is a clear, rapid river about a hundred yards
wide. The bottom, which is enclosed on each side by high bluffs, is
about a quarter of a mile across. In the early days of which I write,
the margin of the stream was heavily timbered with cottonwood, and the
tourist to-day may see the remnant of the primitive great woods, in the
huge isolated trees scattered around the bottom in the vicinity of the
Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad station of the charming mountain
city.

On each side vast rolling prairies stretch away for hundreds of miles,
gradually ascending on the side towards the mountains, where the
highlands are sparsely covered with pinyon and cedar. The lofty
banks through which the Arkansas occasionally passes are of shale and
sandstone, rising precipitously from the water. Ascending the river the
country is wild and broken, until it enters the mountain region, where
the scenery is incomparably grand and imposing. The surrounding prairies
are naturally arid and sterile, producing but little vegetation, and
the primitive grass, though of good quality, is thin and scarce. Now,
however, under a competent system of irrigation, the whole aspect of the
landscape is changed from what it was thirty years ago, and it has all
the luxuriance of a garden.

The whole country, it is claimed, was once possessed by the Shos-shones,
or Snake Indians, of whom the Comanches of the Southern plains are a
branch; and, although many hundred miles divide their hunting-grounds,
they were once, if not the same people, tribes or bands of that great
and powerful nation. They retain a language in common, and there is also
a striking analogy in many of their religious rites and ceremonies,
in their folk-lore, and in some of their everyday customs. These facts
prove, at least, that there was at one time a very close alliance which
bound the two tribes together. Half a century ago they were, in point of
numbers, the two most powerful nations in all the numerous aggregations
of Indians in the West; the Comanches ruling almost supreme on the
Eastern plains, while the Shos-shones were the dominant tribe in the
country beyond the Rocky Mountains, and in the mountains themselves.
Once, many years ago, before the problem of the relative strength of the
various tribes was as well solved as now, the Shos-shones were supposed
to be the most powerful, and numerically the most populous, tribe of
Indians on the North American continent.

In the immediate vicinity of the old Pueblo fort at the time of its
greatest business prosperity, game was scarce; the buffalo had for some
years deserted the neighbouring prairies, but they were always to be
found in the mountain-valleys, particularly in one known as "Bayou
Salado," which forty-five years ago abounded in elk, bear, deer, and
antelope.

The fort was situated a few hundred yards above the mouth of the
"Fontaine qui Bouille" River,[47] so called from two springs of mineral
water near its head, under Pike's Peak, about sixty miles above its
mouth.

As is the case with all the savage races of the world, the American
Indians possess hereditary legends, accounting for all the phenomena
of nature, or any occurrence which is beyond their comprehension. The
Shos-shones had the following story to account for the presence of these
wonderful springs in the midst of their favourite hunting-ground. The
two fountains, one pouring forth the sweetest water imaginable, the
other a stream as bitter as gall, are intimately connected with the
cause of the separation of the two tribes. Their legend thus runs: Many
hundreds of winters ago, when the cottonwoods on the big river were no
higher than arrows, and the prairies were crowded with game, the red
men who hunted the deer in the forests and the buffalo on the plains
all spoke the same language, and the pipe of peace breathed its soothing
cloud whenever two parties of hunters met on the boundless prairie.

It happened one day that two hunters of different nations met on the
bank of a small rivulet, to which both had resorted to quench their
thirst. A small stream of water, rising from a spring on a rock within
a few feet of the bank, trickled over it and fell splashing into the
river. One hunter sought the spring itself; the other, tired by his
exertions in the chase, threw himself at once to the ground, and plunged
his face into the running stream.

The latter had been unsuccessful in the hunt, and perhaps his bad
fortune, and the sight of the fat deer which the other threw from his
back before he drank at the crystal spring, caused a feeling of jealousy
and ill-humour to take possession of his mind. The other, on the
contrary, before he satisfied his thirst, raised in the hollow of his
hand a portion of the water, and, lifting it toward the sun, reversed
his hand, and allowed it to fall upon the ground, as a libation to the
Great Spirit, who had vouch-safed him a successful hunt and the blessing
of the refreshing water with which he was about to quench his thirst.

This reminder that he had neglected the usual offering only increased
the feeling of envy and annoyance which filled the unsuccessful hunter's
heart. The Evil Spirit at that moment entering his body, his temper
fairly flew away, and he sought some pretence to provoke a quarrel with
the other Indian.

"Why does a stranger," he asked, rising from the stream, "drink at the
spring-head, when one to whom the fountain belongs contents himself with
the water that runs from it?"

"The Great Spirit places the cool water at the spring," answered the
other hunter, "that his children may drink it pure and undefiled. The
running water is for the beasts which scour the plains. Ausaqua is a
chief of the Shos-shones; he drinks at the head water."

"The Shos-shones is but a tribe of the Comanches," returned the other:
"Wacomish leads the whole nation. Why does a Shos-shone dare to drink
above him?"

"When the Manitou made his children, whether Shos-shone or Comanche,
Arapaho, Cheyenne, or Pawnee, he gave them buffalo to eat, and the pure
water of the fountain to quench their thirst. He said not to one, 'Drink
here,' and to another, 'Drink there'; but gave the crystal spring to
all, that all might drink."

Wacomish almost burst with rage as the other spoke; but his coward heart
prevented him from provoking an encounter with the calm Shos-shone. The
latter, made thirsty by the words he had spoken--for the Indian is ever
sparing of his tongue--again stooped down to the spring to drink, when
the subtle warrior of the Comanches suddenly threw himself upon the
kneeling hunter and, forcing his head into the bubbling water, held him
down with all his strength until his victim no longer struggled; his
stiffened limbs relaxed, and he fell forward over the spring, drowned.

Mechanically the Comanche dragged the body a few paces from the water,
and, as soon as the head of the dead Indian was withdrawn, the spring
was suddenly and strangely disturbed. Bubbles sprang up from the bottom,
and, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. A thin vapour
arose, and, gradually dissolving, displayed to the eyes of the trembling
murderer the figure of an aged Indian, whose long, snowy hair and
venerable beard, blown aside from his breast, discovered the well-known
totem of the great Wankanaga, the father of the Comanche and Shos-shone
nation.

Stretching out a war-club toward the Comanche, the figure thus addressed
him:--

"Accursed murderer! While the blood of the brave Shos-shone cries to
the Great Spirit for vengeance, may the water of thy tribe be rank
and bitter in their throats!" Thus saying, and swinging his ponderous
war-club round his head, he dashed out the brains of the Comanche, who
fell headlong into the spring, which from that day to this remains rank
and nauseous, so that not even when half dead with thirst, can one drink
from it.

The good Wankanaga, however, to perpetuate the memory of the Shos-shone
warrior, who was renowned in his tribe for valour and nobleness of
heart, struck with the same avenging club a hard, flat rock which
overhung the rivulet, and forthwith a round clear basin opened, which
instantly filled with bubbling, sparkling water, sweet and cool.

From that day the two mighty tribes of the Shos-shones and Comanches
have remained severed and apart, although a long and bloody war followed
the treacherous murder.

The Indians regarded these wonderful springs with awe. The Arapahoes,
especially, attributed to the Spirit of the springs the power of
ordaining the success or failure of their war expeditions. As their
warriors passed by the mysterious pools when hunting their hereditary
enemies, the Utes, they never failed to bestow their votive offerings
upon the spring, in order to propitiate the Manitou of the strange
fountain, and insure a fortunate issue to their path of war. As late as
twenty-five years ago, the visitor to the place could always find the
basin of the spring filled with beads and wampum, pieces of red cloth
and knives, while the surrounding trees were hung with strips of
deerskin, cloth, and moccasins. Signs were frequently observed in the
vicinity of the waters unmistakably indicating that a war-dance had
been executed there by the Arapahoes on their way to the Valley of Salt,
occupied by the powerful Utes.

Never was there such a paradise for hunters as this lone and solitary
spot in the days when the region was known only to them and the trappers
of the great fur companies. The shelving prairie, at the bottom of which
the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by rugged mountains
and contained two or three acres of excellent grass, affording a safe
pasture for their animals, which hardly cared to wander from such
feeding and the salt they loved to lick.

The trappers of the Rocky Mountains belonged to a genus that has
disappeared. Forty years ago there was not a hole or corner in the vast
wilderness of the far West that had not been explored by these hardy
men. From the Mississippi to the mouth of the Colorado of the West, from
the frozen regions of the north to the Gila in Mexico, the beaver hunter
has set his traps in every creek and stream. The mountains and waters,
in many instances, still retain the names assigned them by those rude
hunters, who were veritable pioneers paving the way for the settlement
of the stern country.

A trapper's camp in the old days was quite a picture, as were all its
surroundings. He did not always take the trouble to build a shelter,
unless in the winter. A couple of deerskins stretched over a willow
frame was considered sufficient to protect him from the storm. Sometimes
he contented himself with a mere "breakwind," the rocky wall of a
canyon, or large ravine. Near at hand he set up two poles, in the crotch
of which another was laid, where he kept, out of reach of the hungry
wolf and coyote, his meat, consisting of every variety afforded by the
region in which he had pitched his camp. Under cover of the skins of
the animals he had killed hung his old-fashioned powder-horn and
bullet-pouch, while his trusty rifle, carefully defended from the damp,
was always within reach of his hand. Round his blazing fire at night his
companions, if he had any, were other trappers on the same stream; and,
while engaged in cleaning their arms, making and mending moccasins, or
running bullets, they told long yarns, until the lateness of the hour
warned them to crawl under their blankets.

Not far from the camp, his animals, well hobbled, fed in sight; for
nothing did a hunter dread more than a visit from horse-stealing
Indians, and to be afoot was the acme of misery.

Some hunters who had married squaws carried about with them regular
buffalo-skin lodges, which their wives took care of, according to Indian
etiquette.

The old-time trappers more nearly approximated the primitive savage,
perhaps, than any other class of civilized men. Their lives being spent
in the remote wilderness of the mountains, frequently with no other
companion than Nature herself, their habits and character often assumed
a most singular cast of simplicity, mingled with ferocity, that appeared
to take its colouring from the scenes and objects which surrounded them.
Having no wants save those of nature, their sole concern was to provide
sufficient food to support life, and the necessary clothing to protect
them from the sometimes rigorous climate.

The costume of the average trapper was a hunting-shirt of dressed
buckskin, with long, fringed trousers of the same material, decorated
with porcupine quills. A flexible hat and moccasins covered his
extremities, and over his left shoulder and under his right arm hung his
powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which he also carried flint, steel, and
other odds and ends. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which was stuck
a large knife in a sheath of buffalo-hide, made fast to the belt by a
chain or guard of steel. It also supported a little buckskin case, which
contained a whetstone, a very necessary article; for in taking off the
hides of the beaver a sharp knife was required. His pipe-holder hung
around his neck, and was generally a gage d'amour, a triumph of squaw
workmanship, wrought with beads and porcupine quills, often made in the
shape of a heart.

Necessarily keen observers of nature, they rivalled the beasts of prey
in discovering the haunts and habits of game, and in their skill and
cunning in capturing it outwitted the Indian himself. Constantly exposed
to perils of all kinds, they became callous to any feeling of danger,
and were firm friends or bitter enemies. It was a "word and a blow," the
blow often coming first. Strong, active, hardy as bears, expert in the
use of their weapons, they were just what an uncivilized white man
might be supposed to be under conditions where he must depend upon his
instincts for the support of life.

Having determined upon the locality of his trapping-ground, the hunter
started off, sometimes alone, sometimes three or four of them in
company, as soon as the breaking of the ice in the streams would permit,
if he was to go very far north. Arriving on the spot he has selected
for his permanent camp, the first thing to be done, after he had settled
himself, was to follow the windings of the creeks and rivers, keeping
a sharp lookout for "signs." If he saw a prostrate cottonwood tree, he
carefully examined it to learn whether it was the work of beaver, and
if so whether thrown for the purpose of food, or to dam the stream.
The track of the animal on the mud or sand under the banks was also
examined; if the sign was fresh, he set his trap in the run of the
animal, hiding it under water, and attaching it by a stout chain to a
picket driven in the bank, or to a bush or tree. A float-stick was made
fast to the trap by a cord a few feet long, which, if the animal carried
away the trap, would float on the water and point out its position. The
trap was baited with "medicine," an oily substance obtained from the
beaver. A stick was dipped in this and planted over the trap, and
the beaver, attracted by the smell, put his leg into the trap and was
caught.

When a beaver lodge was discovered, the trap was set at the edge of the
dam, at a point where the animal passed from deep to shoal water, and
always under the surface. Early in the morning, the hunter mounted his
mule and examined all his traps.

The beaver is exceedingly wily, and if by scent or sound or sight he
had any intimation of the presence of a trapper, he put at defiance all
efforts to capture him, consequently it was necessary to practise great
caution when in the neighbourhood of one of their lodges. The trapper
then avoided riding for fear the sound of his horse's feet might strike
dismay among the furry inhabitants under the water, and, instead of
walking on the ground, he waded in the stream, lest he should leave a
scent behind by which he might be discovered.

In the days of the great fur companies, trappers were of two kinds--the
hired hand and the free trapper. The former was hired by the company,
which supplied him with everything necessary, and paid him a certain
price for his furs and peltries. The other hunted on his own hook, owned
his animals and traps, went where he pleased, and sold to whom he chose.

During the hunting season, regardless of the Indians, the fearless
trapper wandered far and near in search of signs. His nerves were in a
state of tension, his mind always clear, and his head cool. His trained
eye scrutinized every part of the country, and in an instant he could
detect anything that was strange. A turned leaf, a blade of grass
pressed down, the uneasiness of wild animals, the actions of the birds,
were all to him paragraphs written in Nature's legible hand.

All the wits of the wily savage were called into play to gain an
advantage over the plucky white man; but with the resources natural to
a civilized mind, the hunter seldom failed, under equal chance, to
circumvent the cunning of the red man. Sometimes, following his trail
for weeks, the Indian watched him set his traps on some timbered stream,
and crawling up the bed of it, so that he left no tracks, he lay in
the bushes until his victim came to examine his traps. Then, when he
approached within a few feet of the ambush, whiz! flew the home-drawn
arrow, which never failed at such close quarters to bring the
unsuspecting hunter to the ground. But for one white scalp that dangled
in the smoke of an Indian's lodge, a dozen black ones, at the end of the
season, ornamented the camp-fires of the rendezvous where the furs were
sold.

In the camp, if he was a very successful hunter, all the appliances for
preparing the skins for market were at hand; if he had a squaw for a
wife, she did all the hard work, as usual. Close to the entrance of
their skin lodge was the "graining-block," a log of wood with the bark
stripped off and perfectly smooth, set obliquely in the ground, on which
the hair was removed from the deerskins which furnished moccasins and
dresses for both herself and her husband. Then there were stretching
frames on which the skins were placed to undergo the process of
"dubbing"; that is, the removal of all flesh and fatty particles
adhering to the skin. The "dubber" was made of the stock of an elk's
horn, with a piece of iron or steel inserted in the end, forming a sharp
knife. The last process the deerskin underwent before it was soft and
pliable enough for making into garments, was the "smoking." This was
effected by digging a round hole in the ground, and lighting in it an
armful of rotten wood or punk; then sticks were planted around the hole,
and their tops brought together and tied. The skins were placed on this
frame, and all openings by which the smoke might escape being carefully
stopped, in ten or twelve hours they were thoroughly cured and ready for
immediate use.

The beaver was the main object of the hunter's quest; its skins were
once worth from six to eight dollars a pound; then they fell to only one
dollar, which hardly paid the expenses of traps, animals, and equipment
for the hunt, and was certainly no adequate remuneration for the
hardships, toil, and danger undergone by the trappers.

The beaver was once found in every part of North America, from Canada
to the Gulf of Mexico, but has so retired from the encroachments of
civilized man, that it is only to be met with occasionally on some
tributary to the remote mountain streams.

The old trappers always aimed to set their traps so that the beaver
would drown when taken. This was accomplished by sinking the trap
several inches under water, and driving a stake through a ring on the
end of the chain into the bottom of the creek. When the beaver finds
himself caught, he pitches and plunges about until his strength is
exhausted, when he sinks down and is drowned, but if he succeeds in
getting to the shore, he always extricates himself by gnawing off the
leg that is in the jaws of the trap.

The captured animals were skinned, and the tails, which are a great
dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin was then stretched over
a hoop or framework of willow twigs and allowed to dry, the flesh and
fatty substance adhering being first carefully scraped off. When dry, it
was folded into a square sheet, the fur turned inwards, and the bundle,
containing twenty skins, tightly pressed and tied, was ready for
transportation. The beaver after the hide is taken off weighs about
twelve pounds, and its flesh, although a little musky, is very fine. Its
tail which is flat and oval in shape, is covered with scales about the
size of those of a salmon. It was a great delicacy in the estimation of
the old trapper; he separated it from the body, thrust a stick in one
end of it, and held it before the fire with the scales on. In a few
moments large blisters rose on the surface, which were very easily
removed. The tail was then perfectly white, and delicious. Next to the
tail the liver was another favourite of the trapper, and when properly
cooked it constituted a delightful repast.

After the season was over, or the hunter had loaded all his
pack-animals, he proceeded to the "rendezvous," where the buyers were to
congregate for the purchase of the fur, the locality of which had been
agreed upon when the hunters started out on their expedition. One of
these was at Bent's old fort and one at Pueblo; another at "Brown's
Hole" on Green River, and there were many more on the great streams
and in the mountains. There the agents of the fur companies and traders
waited for the arrival of the trappers, with such an assortment of goods
as the hardy men required, including, of course, an immense supply of
whiskey. The trappers dropped in day after day, in small bands, packing
their loads of beaver-skins, not infrequently to the value of a thousand
dollars each, the result of one hunt.

The rendezvous was frequently a continuous scene of gambling, brawling,
and fighting, so long as the improvident trapper's money lasted. Seated
around the large camp-fires, cross-legged in Indian fashion, with
a blanket or buffalo-robe spread before them, groups were playing
cards--euchre, seven-up, and poker, the regular mountain games. The
usual stakes were beaver-skins, which were current as coin. When their
fur was all gone, their horses, mules, rifles, shirts, hunting packs,
and trousers were staked. Daring professional gamblers made the rounds
of the camps, challenging each other to play for the trapper's highest
stakes--his horse, or his squaw, if he had one--and it is told of one
great time that two old trappers played for one another's scalps! "There
goes hoss and beaver," was a common mountain expression when any severe
loss was sustained, and shortly "hoss and beaver" found their way into
the pockets of the unconscionable gamblers.

Frequently a trapper would squander the entire product of his hunt,
amounting to hundreds of dollars, in a couple of hours. Then, supplied
with another outfit, he left the rendezvous for another expedition,
which had the same result time after time, although one good hunt
would have enabled him to return to the settlements and live a life of
comparative ease.

It is told of one old Canadian trapper, who had received as much as
fifteen thousand dollars for beaver during his life in the mountains,
extending over twenty years, that each season he had resolved in his
mind to go back to Canada, and with this object in view always converted
his furs into cash; but a fortnight at the rendezvous always "cleaned
him out," and at the end of the twenty years he had not even enough
credit to get a plug of tobacco.

Trading with the Indians in the primitive days of the border was just
what the word signifies in its radical interpretation--a system of
barter exclusively. No money was used in the transaction, as it was long
afterward before the savages began to learn something of the value
of currency from their connection with the sutler's and agency stores
established on reservations and at military posts on the plains and in
the mountains. In the early days, if an Indian by any chance happened to
get possession of a piece of money (only gold or silver was recognized
as a medium of exchange in the remote West), he would immediately
fashion it into some kind of an ornament with which to adorn his person.
Some tribes, however, did indulge in a sort of currency, worthless
except among themselves. This consisted of rare shells, such as the
Oligachuck, so called, of the Pacific coast nations, used by them within
my own recollection, as late as 1858.

The poor Indian, as might have been expected, was generally outrageously
swindled; in fact, I am inclined to believe, always. I never was present
on an occasion when he was not.

The savage's idea of values was very crude until the government, in
attempting to civilize and make a gentleman of him, has transformed him
into a bewildered child. Very soon after his connection with the white
trader, he learned that a gun was more valuable than a knife; but of
their relative cost to manufacture he had no idea. For these reasons,
obviously, he was always at the mercy of the unscrupulous trader who
came to his village, or met him at the rendezvous to barter for his
furs. I know that the price of every article he desired was fixed by the
trader, and never by the Indian, consequently he rarely got the best of
the bargain.

Uncle John Smith, Kit Carson, L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, and a
host of other well-known Indian traders, long since dead, have often
told me that the first thing they did on entering a village with a
pack-load of trinkets to barter, in the earlier days before the whites
had encroached to any great extent, was to arrange a schedule of prices.
They would gather a large number of sticks, each one representing an
article they had brought. With these crude symbols the Indian
made himself familiar in a little while, and when this preliminary
arrangement had been completed, the trading began. The Indian, for
instance, would place a buffalo-robe on the ground; then the trader
commenced to lay down a number of the sticks, representing what he was
willing to give for the robe. The Indian revolved the transaction in his
mind until he thought he was getting a fair equivalent according to his
ideas, then the bargain was made. It was claimed by these old traders,
when they related this to me, that the savage generally was not
satisfied, always insisting upon having more sticks placed on the pile.
I suspect, however, that the trader was ever prepared for this, and
never gave more than he originally intended. The price of that initial
robe having been determined on, it governed the price of all the rest
for the whole trade, regardless of size or fineness, for that day. What
was traded for was then placed by the Indian on one side of the lodge,
and the trader put what he was to give on the other. After prices had
been agreed upon, business went on very rapidly, and many thousand
dollars' worth of valuable furs were soon collected by the successful
trader, which he shipped to St. Louis and converted into gold.

In a few years, relatively, the Indian began to appreciate the value of
our medium of exchange and the power it gave him to secure at the stores
in the widely scattered hamlets and at the military posts on the plains,
those things he coveted, at a fairer equivalent than in the uncertain
and complicated method of direct barter. It was not very long after the
advent of the overland coaches on the Santa Fe Trail, that our currency,
even the greenbacks, had assumed a value to the savage, which he at
least partially understood. Whenever the Indians successfully raided the
stages the mail sacks were no longer torn to pieces or thrown aside
as worthless, but every letter was carefully scrutinized for possible
bills.

I well remember, when the small copper cent, with its spread eagle
upon it, was first issued, about the year 1857, how the soldiers of a
frontier garrison where I was stationed at the time palmed them off
upon the simple savages as two dollar and a half gold pieces, which they
resembled as long as they retained their brightness, and with which
the Indians were familiar, as many were received by the troops from
the paymaster every two months, the savages receiving them in turn for
horses and other things purchased of them by the soldiers.

I have known of Indians who gave nuggets of gold for common calico
shirts costing two dollars in that region and seventy-five cents in the
States, while the lump of precious metal was worth, perhaps, five or
seven dollars. As late as twenty-eight years ago, I have traded for
beautifully smoke-tanned and porcupine-embroidered buffalo-robes for my
own use, giving in exchange a mere loaf of bread or a cupful of brown
sugar.

Very early in the history of the United States, in 1786, the government,
under the authority of Congress, established a plan of trade with the
Indians. It comprised supplying all their physical wants without profit;
factories, or stations as they were called, were erected at points
that were then on the remote frontier; where factors, clerks, and
interpreters were stationed. The factors furnished goods of all kinds to
the Indians, and received from them in exchange furs and peltries. There
was an officer in charge of all these stations called the superintendent
of Indian trade, appointed by the President. As far back as 1821,
there were stations at Prairie du Chien, Fort Edward, Fort Osage, with
branches at Chicago, Green Bay in Arkansas, on the Red River, and other
places in the then far West. These stations were movable, and changed
from time to time to suit the convenience of the Indians. In 1822 the
whole system was abolished by act of Congress, and its affairs wound up,
the American Fur Company, the Missouri Fur Company, and a host of others
having by that time become powerful. Like the great corporations of
to-day, they succeeded in supplanting the government establishments. Of
course, the Indians of the remote plains, which included all the
vast region west of the Missouri River, never had the benefits of the
government trading establishments, but were left to the tender mercies
of the old plainsmen and trappers.

Until the railroad reached the mountains, when the march of a wonderful
immigration closely followed, usurping the lands claimed by the savages,
and the latter were driven, perforce, upon reservations, the winter
camps of the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes were strung along the
Old Trail for miles, wherever a belt of timber on the margin of the
Arkansas, or its tributaries, could be found large enough to furnish
fuel for domestic purposes and cottonwood bark for the vast herds of
ponies in the severe snow-storms.

At these various points the Indians congregated to trade with the
whites. As stated, Bent's Fort, the Pueblo Fort, and Big Timbers were
favourite resorts, and the trappers and old hunters passed a lively
three or four months every year, indulging in the amusements I have
referred to. They were also wonderful story-tellers, and around their
camp-fires many a tale of terrible adventure with Indians and vicious
animals was nightly related.

Baptiste Brown was one of the most famous trappers. Few men had seen
more of wild life in the great prairie wilderness. He had hunted with
nearly every tribe of Indians on the plains and in the mountains, was
often at Bent's Fort, and his soul-stirring narratives made him a most
welcome guest at the camp-fire.

He lived most of his time in the Wind River Mountains, in a beautiful
little valley named after him "Brown's Hole." It has a place on the maps
to-day, and is on what was then called Prairie River, or Sheetskadee,
by the Indians; it is now known as Green River, and is the source of the
great Colorado.

The valley, which is several thousand feet above the sea-level, is about
fifteen miles in circumference, surrounded by lofty hills, and is aptly,
though not elegantly, characterized as a "hole." The mountain-grass is
of the most nutritious quality; groves of cottonwood trees and willows
are scattered through the sequestered spot, and the river, which enters
it from the north, is a magnificent stream; in fact, it is the very
ideal of a hunter's headquarters.

The temperature is very equable, and at one time, years ago, hundreds
of trappers made it their winter quarters. Indians, too, of all the
northern tribes, but more especially the Arapahoes, frequented it to
trade with the white men.

Baptiste Brown was a Canadian who spoke villanous French and worse
English; his vocabulary being largely interspersed with "enfant de
garce," "sacre," "sacre enfant," and "damn" until it was a difficult
matter to tell what he was talking about.

He was married to an Arapahoe squaw, and his strange wooing and winning
of the dusky maiden is a thrilling love-story.

Among the maidens who came with the Arapahoes, when that tribe made a
visit to "Brown's Hole" one winter for the purpose of trading with the
whites, was a young, merry, and very handsome girl, named "Unami," who
after a few interviews completely captured Baptiste's heart. Nothing was
more common, as I have stated, than marriages between the trappers and a
beautiful redskin. Isolated absolutely from women of his own colour, the
poor mountaineer forgets he is white, which, considering the embrowning
influence of constant exposure and sunlight, is not so marvellous after
all. For a portion of the year there is no hunting, and then idleness is
the order of the day. At such times the mountaineer visits the lodges
of his dark neighbours for amusement, and in the spirited dance many
a heart is lost to the squaws. The young trapper, like other enamoured
ones of his sex in civilization, lingers around the house of his fair
sweetheart while she transforms the soft skin of the doe into moccasins,
ornamenting them richly with glittering beads or the coloured quills
of the porcupine, all the time lightening the long hours with the
plain-songs of their tribe. It was upon an occasion of this character
that Baptiste, then in the prime of his youthful manhood, first loved
the dark-eyed Arapahoe.

The course open to him was to woo and win her; but alas! savage papas
are just like fathers in the best civilization--the only difference
between them is that the former are more open and matter-of-fact, since
in savage etiquette a consideration is required in exchange for the
daughter, which belongs exclusively to the parent, and must be of equal
marketable value to the girl.

The usual method is to select your best horse, take him to the lodge
of your inamorata's parents, tie him to a tree, and walk away. If
the animal is considered a fair exchange, matters are soon settled
satisfactorily; if not, other gifts must be added.

At this juncture poor Baptiste was in a bad fix; he had disposed of
all his season's earnings for his winter's subsistence, much of which
consisted of an ample supply of whiskey and tobacco; so he had nothing
left wherewith to purchase the indispensable horse. Without the animal
no wife was to be had, and he was in a terrible predicament; for the
hunting season was long since over, and it wanted a whole month of the
time for a new starting out.

Baptiste was a very determined man, however, and he shouldered his
rifle, intent on accomplishing by a laborious prosecution of the chase
the means of winning his loved one from her parents, notwithstanding
that the elements and the times were against him. He worked
industriously, and after many days was rewarded by a goodly supply of
beavers, otters, and mink which he had trapped, besides many a deerskin
whose wearer he had shot. Returning to his lodge, where he cached his
peltry, he again started out for the forest with hope filling his heart.
Three weeks passed in indifferent success, when one morning, having
entered a deep canyon, which evidently led out to an open prairie where
he thought game might be found, while busy cutting his way through a
thicket of briers with his knife, he suddenly came upon a little valley,
where he saw what caused him to retrace his footsteps into the thicket.

And here it is necessary to relate a custom peculiar to all Indian
tribes. No young man, though his father were the greatest chief in the
nation, can range himself among the warriors, be entitled to enter the
marriage state, or enjoy any other rights of savage citizenship until
he shall have performed some act of personal bravery and daring, or
be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies. In the early springtime,
therefore, all the young men who are of the proper age band themselves
together and take to the forest in search--like the knight-errant of
old--of adventure and danger. Having decided upon a secluded and secret
spot, they collect a number of poles from twenty to thirty feet in
length, and, lashing them together at the small ends, form a huge
conical lodge, which they cover with grass and boughs. Inside they
deposit various articles, with which to "make medicine," or as a
propitiatory offering to the Great Spirit; generally a green buffalo
head, kettles, scalps, blankets, and other things of value, of which the
most prominent and revered is the sacred pipe. The party then enters the
lodge and the first ceremony is smoking this pipe. One of the young men
fills it with tobacco and herbs, places a coal on it from the fire
that has been already kindled in the lodge, and, taking the stem in his
mouth, inhales the smoke and expels it through his nostrils. The ground
is touched with the bowl, the four points of the compass are in turn
saluted, and with various ceremonies it makes the round of the lodge.
After many days of feasting and dancing the party is ready for a
campaign, when they abandon the lodge, and it is death for any one
else to enter, or by any means to desecrate it while its projectors are
absent.

It was upon one of these mystic lodges that Baptiste had accidentally
stumbled, and strange thoughts flashed through his mind; for within the
sacred place were articles, doubtless, of value more than sufficient
to purchase the necessary horse with which he could win the fair Unami.
Baptiste was sorely tempted, but there was an instinctive respect for
religion in the minds of the old trappers, and Brown had too much honour
to think of robbing the Indian temple, although he distinctly remembered
a time when a poor white trapper, having been robbed of his poncho at
the beginning of winter, made free with a blanket he had found in one
of these Arapahoe sacred lodges. When he was brought before the medicine
men of the tribe, charged with the sacrilege, his defence, that, having
been robbed, the Great Spirit took pity on him and pointed out the
blanket and ordered him to clothe himself, was considered good, on the
theory that the Great Spirit had an undoubted right to give away his own
property; consequently the trapper was set free.

Brown, after considering the case, was about to move away, when a hand
was laid on his shoulder, and turning round there stood before him an
Indian in full war-paint.

The greeting was friendly, for the young savage was the brother of
Baptiste's love, to whom he had given many valuable presents during the
past season.

"My white brother is very wakeful; he rises early."

Baptiste laughed, and replied: "Yes, because my lodge is empty. If I
had Unami for a wife, I would not have to get out before the sun; and
I would always have a soft seat for her brother; he will be a great
warrior."

The young brave shook his head gravely, as he pointed to his belt, where
not a scalp was to be seen, and said: "Five moons have gone to sleep and
the Arapahoe hatchet has not been raised. The Blackfeet are dogs, and
hide in their holes."

Without adding anything to this hint that none of the young men had been
able to fulfil their vows, the disconsolate savage led the way to the
camp of the other Arapahoes, his companions in the quest for scalps.
Baptiste was very glad to see the face of a fellow-creature once more,
and he cheerfully followed the footsteps of the young brave, which were
directed away from the medicine lodge toward the rocky canyon which he
had already travelled that morning, where in the very centre of the dark
defile, and within twenty feet of where he had recently passed, was
the camp of the disappointed band. Baptiste was cordially received,
and invited to share the meal of which the party were about to partake,
after which the pipe was passed around. In a little while the Indians
began to talk among themselves by signs, which made Baptiste feel
somewhat uncomfortable, for it was apparent that he was the object of
their interest.

They had argued that Brown's skin indicated that he belonged to the
great tribe of their natural enemies, and with the blood of a white
on their garments, they would have fulfilled the terms of their vow to
their friends and the Great Spirit.

Noticing the trend of the debate, which would lead his friend into
trouble, the brother of Unami arose, and waving his hand said:--

"The Arapahoe is a warrior; his feet outstrip the fleetest horse; his
arrow is as the lightning of the Great Spirit; he is very brave. But a
cloud is between him and the sun; he cannot see his enemy; there is yet
no scalp in his lodge. The Great Spirit is good; he sends a victim, a
man whose skin is white, but his heart is very red; the pale-face is a
brother, and his long knife is turned from his friends, the Arapahoes;
but the Great Spirit is all-powerful. My brother"--pointing to
Baptiste--"is very full of blood; he can spare a little to stain the
blankets of the young men, and his heart shall still be warm; I have
spoken."

As Baptiste expressed it: "Sacre enfant de garce; damn, de ting vas agin
my grain, but de young Arapahoe he have saved my life."

Loud acclamation followed the speech of Unami's brother, and many of
those most clamorous against the white trapper, being actuated by the
earnest desire of returning home with their vow accomplished, when they
would be received into the list of warriors, and have wives and other
honours, were unanimous in agreeing to the proposed plan.

A flint lancet was produced, Baptiste's arm was bared, and the blood
which flowed from the slight wound was carefully distributed, and
scattered over the robes of the delighted Arapahoes.

The scene which followed was quite unexpected to Baptiste, who was
only glad to escape the death to which the majority had doomed him. The
Indians, perfectly satisfied that their vow of shedding an enemy's blood
had been fulfilled, were all gratitude; and to testify that gratitude in
a substantial manner each man sought his pack, and laid at the feet of
the surprised Baptiste a rich present. One gave an otter skin, another
that of a buffalo, and so on until his wealth in furs outstripped his
most sanguine expectations from his hunt. The brother of Unami stood
passively looking on until all the others had successively honoured
his guest, when he advanced toward Baptiste, leading by its bridle a
magnificent horse, fully caparisoned, and a large pack-mule. To refuse
would have been the most flagrant breach of Indian etiquette, and
beside, Brown was too alive to the advantage that would accrue to him to
be other than very thankful.

The camp was then broken up, and the kind savages were soon lost to
Baptiste's sight as they passed down the canyon; and he, as soon as he
had gained a little strength, for he was weak from the blood he had shed
in the good cause, mounted his horse, after loading the mule with
his gifts, and made the best of his way to his lonely lodge, where he
remained several days. He then sold his furs at a good price, as it was
so early in the season, bartered for a large quantity of knives, beads,
powder, and balls, and returned to the Arapahoe village, where the horse
was considered a fair exchange for the pretty Unami; and from that day,
for over thirty years, they lived as happy as any couple in the highest
civilization.

The fate of the Pueblo, where the trappers and hunters had such good
times in the halcyon days of the border, like that which befell nearly
all the trading-posts and ranches on the Old Santa Fe Trail, was to
be partially destroyed by the savages. During the early months of the
winter of 1854, the Utes swept down through the Arkansas valley, leaving
a track of blood behind them, and frightening the settlers so thoroughly
that many left the country never to return. The outbreak was as sudden
as it was devastating. The Pueblo was captured by the savages, and every
man, woman, and child in it murdered, with the exception of one aged
Mexican, and he was so badly wounded that he died in a few days.

His story was that the Utes came to the gates of the fort on Christmas
morning, professing the greatest friendship, and asking permission to be
allowed to come inside and hold a peace conference. All who were in
the fort at the time were Mexicans, and as their cupidity led them to
believe that they could do some advantageous trading with the Indians,
they foolishly permitted the whole band to enter. The result was that
a wholesale massacre followed. There were seventeen persons in all
quartered there, only one of whom escaped death--the old man referred
to--and a woman and her two children, who were carried off as captives;
but even she was killed before the savages had gone a mile from the
place. What became of the children was never known; they probably met
the same fate.

CHAPTER XV. UNCLE JOHN SMITH.

Many of the men of the border were blunt in manners, rude in speech,
driven to the absolute liberty of the far West with better natures
shattered and hopes blasted, to seek in the exciting life of the
plainsman and mountaineer oblivion of some incidents of their youthful
days, which were better forgotten. Yet these aliens from society, these
strangers to the refinements of civilization, who would tear off a
bloody scalp even with grim smiles of satisfaction, were fine fellows,
full of the milk of human kindness, and would share their last slapjack
with a hungry stranger.

Uncle John Smith, as he was known to every trapper, trader, and hunter
from the Yellowstone to the Gila, was one of the most famous and
eccentric men of the early days. In 1826, as a boy, he ran away from St.
Louis with a party of Santa Fe traders, and so fascinated was he with
the desultory and exciting life, that he chose to sit cross-legged,
smoking the long Indian pipe, in the comfortable buffalo-skin teepee,
rather than cross legs on the broad table of his master, a tailor to
whom he had been apprenticed when he took French leave from St. Louis.

He spent his first winter with the Blackfeet Indians, but came very
near losing his scalp in their continual quarrels, and therefore allied
himself with the more peaceable Sioux. Once while on the trail of a
horse-stealing band of Arapahoes near the head waters of the Arkansas,
the susceptible young hunter fell in love with a very pretty Cheyenne
squaw, married her, and remained true to the object of his early
affection during all his long and eventful life, extending over a period
of forty years. For many decades he lived with his dusky wife as the
Indians did, having been adopted by the tribe. He owned a large number
of horses, which constituted the wealth of the plains Indians, upon the
sale of which he depended almost entirely for his subsistence. He became
very powerful in the Cheyenne nation; was regarded as a chief, taking
an active part in the councils, and exercising much authority. His
excellent judgment as a trader with the various bands of Indians while
he was employed by the great fur companies made his services invaluable
in the strange business complications of the remote border. Besides
understanding the Cheyenne language as well as his native tongue, he
also spoke three other Indian dialects, French, and Spanish, but
with many Western expressions that sometimes grated harshly upon the
grammatical ear.

He became a sort of autocrat on the plains and in the mountains; and
for an Indian or Mexican to attempt to effect a trade without Uncle John
Smith having something to say about it, and its conditions, was hardly
possible. The New Mexicans often came in small parties to his Indian
village, their burros packed with dry pumpkin, corn, etc., to trade
for buffalo-robes, bearskins, meat, and ponies; and Smith, who knew his
power, exacted tribute, which was always paid. At one time, however,
when for some reason a party of strange Mexicans refused, Uncle John
harangued the people of the village, and called the young warriors
together, who emptied every sack of goods belonging to the cowering
Mexicans on the ground, Smith ordering the women and children to help
themselves, an order which was obeyed with alacrity. The frightened
Mexicans left hurriedly for El Valle de Taos, whence they had come,
crossing themselves and uttering thanks to Heaven for having retained
their scalps. This and other similar cases so intimidated the poor
Greasers, and impressed them so deeply with a sense of Smith's power,
that, ever after, his permission to trade was craved by a special
deputation of the parties, accompanied by peace-offerings of corn,
pumpkin, and pinole. At one time, when Smith was journeying by himself a
day's ride from the Cheyenne village, he was met by a party of forty
or more corn traders, who, instead of putting such a bane to their
prospects speedily out of the way, gravely asked him if they could
proceed, and offered him every third robe they had to accompany them,
which he did. Indeed, he became so regardless of justice, in his
condescension to the natives of New Mexico, that the governor of that
province offered a reward of five hundred dollars for him alive or dead,
but fear of the Cheyennes was so prevalent that his capture was never
even attempted.

During Sheridan's memorable winter campaign against the allied tribes
in 1868-69, the old man, for he was then about sixty, was my guide and
interpreter. He shared my tent and mess, a most welcome addition to the
few who sat at my table, and beguiled many a weary hour at night, after
our tedious marches through the apparently interminable sand dunes and
barren stretches of our monotonous route, with his tales of that period,
more than half a century ago, when our mid-continent region was as
little known as the topography of the planet Mars.

At the close of December, 1868, a few weeks after the battle of the
Washita, I was camping with my command on the bank of that historic
stream in the Indian Territory, waiting with an immense wagon-train of
supplies for the arrival of General Custer's command, the famous Seventh
Cavalry, and also the Nineteenth Kansas, which were supposed to be lost,
or wandering aimlessly somewhere in the region south of us.

I had been ordered to that point by General Sheridan, with instructions
to keep fires constantly burning on three or four of the highest peaks
in the vicinity of our camp, until the lost troops should be guided to
the spot by our signals. These signals were veritable pillars of fire
by night and pillars of cloud by day; for there was an abundance of wood
and hundreds of men ready to feed the hungry flames.

It was more than two weeks before General Custer and his famished
troopers began to straggle in. During that period of anxious waiting
we lived almost exclusively on wild turkey, and longed for nature's
meat--the buffalo; but there were none of the shaggy beasts at that time
in the vicinity, so we had to content ourselves with the birds, of which
we became heartily tired.

For several days after our arrival on the creek, the men had been urging
Uncle John to tell them another story of his early adventures; but the
old trapper was in one of his silent moods--he frequently had them--and
could not be persuaded to emerge from his shell of reticence despite
their most earnest entreaties. I knew it would be of no use for me
to press him. I could, of course, order him to any duty, and he would
promptly obey; but his tongue, like the hand of Douglas, was his own. I
knew, also, that when he got ready, which would be when some incident of
camp-life inspired him, he would be as garrulous as ever.

One evening just before supper, a party of enlisted men who had been up
the creek to catch fish, but had failed to take anything owing to the
frozen condition of the stream, returned with the skeleton of a
Cheyenne Indian which they had picked up on the battle-ground of a month
previously--one of Custer's victims in his engagement with Black Kettle.
This was the incentive Uncle John required. As he gazed on the bleached
bones of the warrior, he said: "Boys, I'm going to tell you a good long
story to-night. Them Ingin's bones has put me in mind of it. After we've
eat, if you fellows wants to hear it, come down to headquarters tent,
and I'll give it to you."

Of course word was rapidly passed from one to another, as the whole camp
was eager to hear the old trapper again. In a short time, every man not
on guard or detailed to keep up the signals on the hills gathered around
the dying embers of the cook's fire in front of my tent; the enlisted
men and teamsters in groups by themselves, the officers a little closer
in a circle, in the centre of which Uncle John sat.

The night was cold, the sky covered with great fleecy patches, through
which the full moon, just fairly risen, appeared to be racing, under the
effect of that optical illusion caused by the rapidly moving clouds. The
coyotes had commenced their nocturnal concert in the timbered recesses
of the creek not far away, and on the battle-field a short distance
beyond, as they battened and fought over the dead warriors and the
carcasses of twelve hundred ponies killed in that terrible slaughter by
the intrepid Custer and his troopers. The signals on the hills leaped
into the crisp air like the tongues of dragons in the myths of the
ancients; in fact, the whole aspect of the place, as we sat around the
blazing logs of our camp-fire, was weird and uncanny.

Every one was eager for the veteran guide to begin his tale; but as I
knew he could not proceed without smoking, I passed him my pouch of Lone
Jack--the brand par excellence in the army at that time.

Uncle John loaded his corn-cob, picked up a live coal, and, pressing
it down on the tobacco with his thumb, commenced to puff vigorously. As
soon as his withered old face was half hidden in a cloud of smoke, he
opened his story in his stereotyped way. I relate it just as he told it,
but divested of much of its dialect, so difficult to write:--

"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago, in June, 1845, if I don't
disremember. I was about forty-three, and had been in the mountains and
on the plains more than nineteen seasons. You see, I went out there in
1826. There warn't no roads, nuthin' but the Santa Fe Trail, in them
days, and Ingins and varmints.

"There was four of us. Me, Bill Comstock, Dick Curtis, and Al Thorpe.
Dick was took in by the Utes two years afterwards at the foot of the
Spanish Peaks, and Al was killed by the Apaches at Pawnee Rock, in 1847.

"We'd been trapping up on Medicine Bow for more than three years
together, and had a pile of beaver, otter, mink, and other varmint's
skins cached in the hills, which we know'd was worth a heap of money; so
we concluded to take them to the river that summer. We started from our
trapping camp in April, and 'long 'bout the middle of June reached the
Arkansas, near what is know'd as Point o' Rocks. You all know where them
is on the Trail west of Fort Dodge, and how them rocks rises up out of
the prairie sudden-like. We was a travelling 'long mighty easy, for
we was all afoot, and had hoofed it the whole distance, more than six
hundred miles, driving five good mules ahead of us. Our furs was packed
on four of them, and the other carried our blankets, extry ammunition,
frying-pan, coffee-pot, and what little grub we had, for we was obliged
to depend upon buffalo, antelope, and jack-rabbits; but, boys, I tell
you there was millions of 'em in them days.

"We had just got into camp at Point o' Rocks. It was 'bout four o'clock
in the afternoon; none of us carried watches, we always reckoned time
by the sun, and could generally guess mighty close, too. It was powerful
hot, I remember. We'd hobbled our mules close to the ledge, where the
grass was good, so they couldn't be stampeded, as we know'd we was in
the Pawnee country, and they was the most ornery Ingins on the plains.
We know'd nothing that was white ever came by that part of the Trail
without having a scrimmage with the red devils.

"Well, we hadn't more than took our dinner, when them mules give a
terrible snort, and tried to break and run, getting awful oneasy all to
once. Them critters can tell when Ingins is around. They's better than a
dozen dogs. I don't know how they can tell, but they just naturally do.

"In less than five minutes after them mules began to worry, stopped
eating, and had their ears pricked up a trying to look over the ledge
towards the river, we heard a sharp firing down on the Trail, which
didn't appear to be more than a hundred yards off. You ought to seen us
grab our rifles sudden, and run out from behind them rocks, where we was
a camping, so comfortable-like, and just going to light our pipes for a
good smoke. It didn't take us no time to get down on to the Trail, where
we seen a Mexican bull train, that we know'd must have come from Santa
Fe, and which had stopped and was trying to corral. More than sixty
painted Pawnees was a circling around the outfit, howling as only them
can howl, and pouring a shower of arrows into the oxen. Some was shaking
their buffalo-robes, trying to stampede the critters, so they could kill
the men easier.

"We lit out mighty lively, soon as we seen what was going on, and
reached the head of the train just as the last wagon, that was
furtherest down the Trail, nigh a quarter of a mile off, was cut out
by part of the band. Then we seen a man, a woman, and a little boy jump
out, and run to get shet of the Ingins what had cut out the wagon from
the rest of the train. One of the red devils killed the man and scalped
him, while the other pulled the woman up in front of him, and rid off
into the sand hills, and out of sight in a minute. Then the one what had
killed her husband started for the boy, who was a running for the train
as fast as his little legs could go. But we was nigh enough then;
and just as the Ingin was reaching down from his pony for the kid, Al
Thorpe--he was a powerful fine shot--draw'd up his gun and took the
red cuss off his critter without the paint-bedaubed devil know'n' what
struck him.

"The boy, seeing us, broke and run for where we was, and I reckon the
rest of the Ingins seen us then for the first time, too. We was up with
the train now, which was kind o' halfway corralled, and Dick Curtis
picked up the child--he warn't more than seven years old--and throw'd
him gently into one of the wagons, where he'd be out of the way; for we
know'd there was going to be considerable more fighting before night.
We know'd, too, we Americans would have to do the heft of it, as them
Mexican bull-whackers warn't much account, nohow, except to cavort
around and swear in Spanish, which they hadn't done nothing else since
we'd come up to the train; besides, their miserable guns warn't much
better than so many bows and arrows.

"We Americans talked together for a few moments as to what was best to
be did, while the Ingins all this time was keeping up a lively fire for
them. We made as strong a corral of the wagons as we could, driving out
what oxen the Mexicans had put in the one they had made, but you can't
do much with only nine wagons, nohow. Fortunately, while we was fixing
things, the red cusses suddenly retreated out of the range of our
rifles, and we first thought they had cleared out for good. We soon
discovered, however, they were only holding a pow-wow; for in a few
minutes back they come, mounted on their ponies, with all their fixin's
and fresh war-paint on.

"Then they commenced to circle around us again, coming a little
nearer--Ingin fashion--every time they rid off and back. It wasn't
long before they got in easy range, when they slung themselves on the
off-side of their ponies and let fly their arrows and balls from under
their critters' necks. Their guns warn't much 'count, being only old
English muskets what had come from the Hudson Bay Fur Company, so
they didn't do no harm that round, except to scare the Mexicans, which
commenced to cross themselves and pray and swear.

"We four Americans warn't idle when them Ingins come a charging up; we
kept our eye skinned, and whenever we could draw a bead, one of
them tumbled off his pony, you bet! When they'd come back for their
dead--we'd already killed three of them--we had a big advantage, wasted
no shots, and dropped four of them; one apiece, and you never heard
Ingins howl so. It was getting kind o' dark by this time, and the
varmints didn't seem anxious to fight any more, but went down to the
river and scooted off into the sand hills on the other side. We waited
more than half an hour for them, but as they didn't come back, concluded
we'd better light out too. We told the Mexicans to yoke up, and as good
luck would have it they found all the cattle close by, excepting them
what pulled the wagon what the Ingins had cut out, and as it was way
down the Trail, we had to abandon it; for it was too dark to hunt it up,
as we had no time to fool away.

"We put all our outfit into the train; it wasn't loaded, but going empty
to the Missouri, to fetch back a sawmill for New Mexico. Then we made a
soft bed in the middle wagon out of blankets for the kid, and rolled
out 'bout ten o'clock, meaning to put as many miles between us and them
Ingins as the oxen could stand. We four hoofed it along for a while,
then rid a piece, catching a nap now and then as best we could, for
we was monstrous tired. By daylight we'd made fourteen miles, and was
obliged to stop to let the cattle graze. We boiled our coffee, fried
some meat, and by that time the little boy waked. He'd slept like a top
all night and hadn't no supper either; so when I went to the wagon where
he was to fetch him out, he just put them baby arms of his'n around my
neck, and says, 'Where's mamma?'

"I tell you, boys, that nigh played me out. He had no idee, 'cause he
was too young to realize what had happened; we know'd his pa was killed,
but where his ma was, God only know'd!"

Here the old man stopped short in his narrative, made two or three
efforts as if to swallow something that would not go down, while his
eyes had a far-away look. Presently he picked up a fresh coal from the
fire, placed it on his pipe, which had gone out, then puffing vigorously
for a few seconds, until his head was again enveloped in smoke, he
continued:--

"After I'd washed the little fellow's face and hands, I gave him a
tin cup of coffee and some meat. You'd ought to seen him eat; he
was hungrier than a coyote. Then while the others was a watering and
picketing the mules, I sot down on the grass and took the kid into
my lap to have a good look at him; for until now none of us had had a
chance.

"He was the purtiest child I'd ever seen; great black eyes, and
eyelashes that laid right on to his cheeks; his hair, too, was black,
and as curly as a young big-horn. I asked him what his name was, and he
says, 'Paul.' 'Hain't you got no other name?' says I to him again, and
he answered, 'Yes, sir,' for he was awful polite; I noticed that. 'Paul
Dale,' says he prompt-like, and them big eyes of his'n looked up into
mine, as he says 'What be yourn?' I told him he must call me 'Uncle
John,' and then he says again, as he put his arms around my neck, his
little lips all a quivering, and looking so sorrowful, 'Uncle John,
where's mamma; why don't she come?'

"Boys, I don't really know what I did say. A kind o' mist came before
my eyes, and for a minute or two I didn't know nothing. I come to in a
little while, and seeing Thorpe bringing up the mules from the river,
where he'd been watering them, I says to Paul, to get his mind on to
something else besides his mother, 'Don't you want to ride one of them
mules when we pull out again?' The little fellow jumped off my lap,
clapped his hands, forgetting his trouble all at once, child-like, and
replied, 'I do, Uncle John, can I?'

"After we'd camped there 'bout three hours, the cattle full of grass and
all laying down chewing their cud, we concluded to move on and make a
few miles before it grow'd too hot, and to get further from the Ingins,
which we expected would tackle us again, as soon as they could get back
from their camp, where we felt sure they had gone for reinforcements.

"While the Mexicans was yoking up, me and Thorpe rigged an easy saddle
on one of the mules, out of blankets, for the kid to ride on, and when
we was all ready to pull out, I histed him on, and you never see a
youngster so tickled.

"We had to travel mighty slow; couldn't make more than eighteen miles a
day with oxen, and that was in two drives, one early in the morning, and
one in the evening when it was cool, a laying by and grazing when it
was hot. We Americans walked along the Trail, and mighty slow walking
it was; 'bout two and a half miles an hour. I kept close to Paul, for I
began to set a good deal of store by him; he seemed to cotton to me more
than he did to the rest, wanting to stick near me most of the time as he
rid on the mule. I wanted to find out something 'bout his folks, where
they'd come from; so that when we got to Independence, perhaps I could
turn him over to them as ought to have him; though in my own mind I was
ornery enough to wish I might never find them, and he'd be obliged to
stay with me. The boy was too young to tell what I wanted to find out;
all I could get out of him was they'd been living in Santa Fe since
he was a baby, and that his papa was a preacher. I 'spect one of them
missionaries 'mong the heathenish Greasers. He said they was going back
to his grandma's in the States, but he could not tell where. I couldn't
get nothing out of them Mexican bull-whackers neither--what they know'd
wasn't half as much as the kid--and I had to give it up.

"Well, we kept moving along without having any more trouble for a week;
them Ingins never following us as we 'lowed they would. I really enjoyed
the trip such as I never had before. Paul he was so 'fectionate and
smart, that he 'peared to fill a spot in my heart what had always been
hollow until then. When he'd got tired of riding the mule or in one
of the wagons, he'd come and walk along the Trail with me, a picking
flowers, chasing the prairie-owls and such, until his little legs 'bout
played out, when I'd hist him on his mule again. When we'd go into camp,
Paul, he'd run and pick up buffalo-chips for the fire, and wanted to
help all he could. Then when it came time to go to sleep, the boy would
always get under my blankets and cuddle up close to me. He'd be sure to
say his prayers first, though; but it seemed so strange to me who hadn't
heard a prayer for thirty years. I never tried to stop him, you may be
certain of that. He'd ask God to bless his pa and ma, and wind up
with 'Bless Uncle John too.' Then I couldn't help hugging him right up
tighter; for it carried me back to Old Missouri, to the log-cabin in the
woods where I was born, and used to say 'Now I lay me,' and 'Our Father'
at my ma's knee, when I was a kid like him. I tell you, boys, there
ain't nothing that will take the conceit out of a man here on the
plains, like the company of a kid what has been brought up right.

"I reckon we'd been travelling about ten days since we left Point o'
Rocks, and was on the other side of the Big Bend of the Arkansas, near
the mouth of the Walnut, where Fort Zarah is now. We had went into camp
at sundown, close to a big spring that's there yet. We drawed up the
wagons into a corral on the edge of the river where there wasn't
no grass for quite a long stretch; we done this to kind o' fortify
ourselves, for we expected to have trouble with the Ingins there, if
anywhere, as we warn't but seventeen miles from Pawnee Rock, the worst
place on the whole Trail for them; so we picked out that bare spot where
they couldn't set fire to the prairie. It was long after dark when we
eat our supper; then we smoked our pipes, waiting for the oxen to fill
themselves, which had been driven about a mile off where there was good
grass. The Mexicans was herding them, and when they'd eat all they could
hold, and was commencing to lay down, they was driven into the corral.
Then all of us, except Comstock and Curtis, turned in; they was to stand
guard until 'bout one o'clock, when me and Thorpe was to change places
with them and stay up until morning; for, you see, we was afraid to
trust them Mexicans.

"It seemed like we hadn't been asleep more than an hour when me and
Thorpe was called to take our turn on guard. We got out of our blankets,
I putting Paul into one of the wagons, then me and Thorpe lighted our
pipes and walked around, keeping our eyes and ears open, watching the
heavy fringe of timber on the creek mighty close, I tell you. Just as
daylight was coming, we noticed that our mules, what was tied to a wagon
in the corral, was getting uneasy, a pawing and snorting, with their
long ears cocked up and looking toward the Walnut. Before I could finish
saying to Thorpe, 'Them mules smells Ingins,' half a dozen or more of
the darned cusses dashed out of the timber, yelling and shaking their
robes, which, of course, waked up the whole camp. Me and Thorpe sent a
couple of shots after them, that scattered the devils for a minute; but
we hadn't hit nary one, because it was too dark yet to draw a bead on
them. We was certain there was a good many more of them behind the first
that had charged us; so we got all the men on the side of the corral
next to the Trail. The Ingins we know'd couldn't get behind us, on
account of the river, and we was bound to make them fight where we
wanted them to, if they meant to fight at all.

"In less than a minute, quicker than I can tell you, sure enough, out
they came again, only there was 'bout eighty of them this time. They
made a dash at once, and their arrows fell like a shower of hail on
the ground and against the wagon-sheets as the cusses swept by on their
ponies. There wasn't anybody hurt, and our turn soon came. Just as they
circled back, we poured it into them, killing six and wounding two. You
see them Mexican guns had did some work that we didn't expect, and then
we Americans felt better. Well, boys, them varmints made four charges
like that on to us before we could get shet of them; but we killed as
many as sixteen or eighteen, and they got mighty sick of it and quit;
they had only knocked over one Mexican, and put an arrow into Thorpe's
arm.

"I was amused at little Paul all the time the scrimmage was going on.
He stood up in the wagon where I'd put him, a looking out of the hole
behind where the sheet was drawed together, and every time an Ingin
was tumbled off his pony, he would clap his hands and yell, 'There goes
another one, Uncle John!'

"After their last charge, they rode off out of range, where they stood
in little bunches talking to each other, holding some sort of a pow-wow.
It riled us to see the darned cusses keep so far away from our rifles,
because we wanted to lay a few more of them out, but was obliged to keep
still and watch out for some new deviltry. We waited there until it
was plumb night, not daring to move out yet; but we managed to boil our
coffee and fry slap-jacks and meat.

"The oxen kept up a bellowing and pawing around the corral, for they was
desperate hungry and thirsty, hadn't had nothing since the night before;
yet we couldn't help them any, as we didn't know whether we was shet of
the Ingins or not. We staid, patient-like, for two or three hours more
after dark to see what the Ingins was going to do, as while we sot round
our little fire of buffalo-chips, smoking our pipes, we could still hear
the red devils a howling and chanting, while they picked up their dead
laying along the river-bottom.

"As soon as morning broke--we'd ketched a nap now and then during the
night--we got ready for another charge of the Ingins, their favourite
time being just 'bout daylight; but there warn't hide or hair of an
Ingin in sight. They'd sneaked off in the darkness long before the
first streak of dawn; had enough of fighting, I expect. As soon as we
discovered they'd all cleared out, we told the drivers to hitch up, and
while they was yoking and watering, me 'n' Curtis and Comstock buried
the dead Mexican on the bank of the river, as we didn't want to leave
his bones to be picked by the coyotes, which was already setting on the
sand hills watching and waiting for us to break camp. By the time we'd
finished our job, and piled some rocks on his grave, so as the varmints
couldn't dig him up, the train was strung out on the Trail, and then we
rolled out mighty lively for oxen; for the critters was hungry, and we
had to travel three or four miles the other side of the Walnut, where
the grass was green, before they could feed. The oxen seen it on the
hills and they lit out almost at a trot. It was 'bout sun-up when we got
there, when we turned the animals loose, corralled, and had breakfast.

"After we'd had our smoke, all we had to do was to put in the time until
five o'clock; for we couldn't move before then, as it would be too hot
by the time the oxen got filled. Paul and me went down to the creek
fishing; there was tremendous cat in the Walnut them days, and by noon
we'd ketched five big beauties, which we took to camp and cooked for
dinner. After I'd had my smoke, Paul and me went back to the creek,
where we stretched ourselves under a good-sized box-elder tree--there
wasn't no shade nowhere else--and took a sleep, while Comstock and
Curtis went jack-rabbit hunting across the river, as we was getting
scarce of meat.

"Thorpe, who was hit in the arm with an arrow, couldn't do much but
nuss his wound; so him and the Mexicans stood guard, a looking out for
Ingins, as we didn't know but what the cusses might come back and make
another raid on us, though we really didn't expect they would have the
gall to bother us any more--least not the same outfit what had fought us
the day before. That evening, 'bout six o'clock, we rolled out again and
went into camp late, having made twelve miles, and didn't see a sign of
Ingins.

"In ten days more we got to Independence without having no more trouble
of no kind, and was surprised at our luck. At Independence we Americans
left the train, sold our furs, got a big price, too--each of us had a
shot-bag full of gold and silver, more money than we know'd what to do
with. Me, Curtis, and Thorpe concluded we'd buy a new outfit, consisting
of another six-mule wagon, and harness, so we'd have a full team,
meaning to go back to the mountains with the first big caravan what
left.

"All the folks in the settlement what seen Paul took a great fancy to
him. Some wanted to adopt him, and some said I'd ought to take him to
St. Louis and place him in an orphan asylum; but I 'lowed if there was
going to be any adopting done, I'd do it myself, 'cause the kid seemed
now just as if he was my own; besides the little fellow I know'd loved
me and didn't want me to leave him. I had kin-folks in Independence, an
old aunt, and me and Paul staid there. She had a young gal with her, and
she learned Paul out of books; so he picked up considerable, as we had
to wait more than two months before Colonel St. Vrain's caravan was
ready to start for New Mexico.

"I bought Paul a coal-black pony, and had a suit of fine buckskin made
for him out of the pelt of a black-tail deer I'd shot the winter before
on Powder River. The seams of his trousers was heavily fringed, and with
his white sombrero, a riding around town on his pony, he looked like one
of them Spanish Dons what the papers nowadays has pictures of; only he
was smarter-looking than any Don I ever see in my life.

"It was 'bout the last of August when we pulled out from Independence.
Comstock staid with us until we got ready to go, and then lit out
for St. Louis, and I hain't never seen him since. The caravan had
seventy-five six-mule teams in it, without counting ours, loaded with
dry-goods and groceries for Mora, New Mexico, where Colonel St. Vrain,
the owner, lived and had a big store. We had no trouble with the Ingins
going back across the plains; we seen lots, to be sure, hanging on our
trail, but they never attacked us; we was too strong for them.

"'Bout the last of September we reached Bent's Old Fort, on the
Arkansas, where the Santa Fe Trail crosses the river into New Mexico,
and we camped there the night we got to it.

"I know'd they had cows up to the fort; so just before we was ready for
supper, I took Paul and started to see if we couldn't get some milk for
our coffee. It wasn't far, and we was camped a few hundred yards from
the gate, just outside the wall. Well, we went into the kitchen, Paul
right alongside of me, and there I seen a white woman leaning over the
adobe hearth a cooking--they had always only been squaws before. She
naturally looked up to find out who was coming in, and when she seen the
kid, all at once she give a scream, dropped the dish-cloth she had
in her hand, made a break for Paul, throw'd her arms around him,
nigh upsetting me, and says, while she was a sobbing and taking on
dreadful,--

"'My boy! My boy! Then I hain't prayed and begged the good Lord all
these days and nights for nothing!' Then she kind o' choked again, while
Paul, he says, as he hung on to her,--

"'O mamma! O mamma! I know'd you'd come back! I know'd you'd come back!'

"Well, there, boys, I just walked out of that kitchen a heap faster
than I'd come into it, and shut the door. When I got outside, for a few
minutes I couldn't see nothing, I was worked up so. As soon as I come
to, I went through the gate down to camp as quick as my legs would carry
me, to tell Thorpe and Curtis that Paul had found his ma. They wanted to
know all about it, but I couldn't tell them nothing, I was so dumfounded
at the way things had turned out. We talked among ourselves a moment,
then reckoned it was the best to go up to the fort together, and ask the
woman how on earth she'd got shet of the Ingins what had took her off,
and how it come she was cooking there. We started out and when we got
into the kitchen, there was Paul and Mrs. Dale, and you never see no
people so happy. They was just as wild as a stampeded steer; she seemed
to have growed ten years younger than when I first went up there, and as
for Paul, he was in heaven for certain.

"First we had to tell her how we'd got the kid, and how we'd learned to
love him. All the time we was telling of it, and our scrimmages with
the Ingins, she was a crying and hugging Paul as if her heart was broke.
After we'd told all we know'd, we asked her to tell us her story, which
she did, and it showed she was a woman of grit and education.

"She said the Ingins what had captured her took her up to their camp on
the Saw Log, a little creek north of Fort Dodge--you all know where
it is--and there she staid that night. Early in the morning they all
started for the north. She watched their ponies mighty close as they
rid along that day, so as to find out which was the fastest; for she had
made up her mind to make her escape the first chance she got. She looked
at the sun once in a while, to learn what course they was taking; so
that she could go back when she got ready, strike the Sante Fe Trail,
and get to some ranch, as she had seen several while passing through the
foot-hills of the Raton Range when she was with the Mexican train.

"It was on the night of the fourth day after they had left Saw Log,
and had rid a long distance--was more than a hundred miles on their
journey--when she determined to try and light out. The whole camp was
fast asleep, for the Ingins was monstrous tired. She crawled out of the
lodge where she'd been put with some old squaws, and going to where the
ponies had been picketed, she took a little iron-gray she'd had her eye
on, jumped on his back, with only the lariat for a bridle and without
any saddle, not even a blanket, took her bearings from the north star,
and cautiously moved out. She started on a walk, until she'd got 'bout
four miles from camp, and then struck a lope, keeping it up all night.
By next morning she'd made some forty miles, and then for the first time
since she'd left her lodge, pulled up and looked back, to see if any of
the Ingins was following her. When she seen there wasn't a living thing
in sight, she got off her pony, watered him out of a small branch, took
a drink herself, but not daring to rest yet, mounted her animal again
and rid on as fast as she could without wearing him out too quickly.

"Hour after hour she rid on, the pony appearing to have miraculous
endurance, until sundown. By that time she'd crossed the Saline, the
Smoky Hill, and got to the top of the divide between that river and the
Arkansas, or not more than forty miles from the Santa Fe Trail. Then her
wonderful animal seemed to weaken; she couldn't even make him trot, and
she was so nearly played out herself, she could hardly set steady. What
to do, she didn't know. The pony was barely able to move at a slow walk.
She was afraid he would drop dead under her, and she was compelled
to dismount, and in almost a minute, as soon as she laid down on the
prairie, was fast asleep.

"She had no idee how long she had slept when she woke up. The sun was
only 'bout two hours high. Then she know'd she had been unconscious
since sundown of the day before, or nigh twenty-four hours. Rubbing her
eyes, for she was kind o' bewildered, and looking around, there she saw
her pony as fresh, seemingly, as when she'd started. He'd had plenty to
eat, for the grass was good, but she'd had nothing. She pulled a little
piece of dried buffalo-meat out of her bosom, which she'd brought along,
all she could find at the lodge, and now nibbled at that, for she was
mighty hungry. She was terribly sore and stiff too, but she mounted at
once and pushed on, loping and walking him by spells. Just at daylight
she could make out the Arkansas right in front of her in the dim gray
of the early morning, not very far off. On the west, the Raton Mountains
loomed up like a great pile of blue clouds, the sight of which cheered
her; for she know'd she would soon reach the Trail.

"It wasn't quite noon when she struck the Santa Fe Trail. When she got
there, looking to the east, she saw in the distance, not more than three
miles away, a large caravan coming, and then, almost wild with delight,
she dismounted, sot down on the grass, and waited for it to arrive. In
less than an hour, the train come up to where she was, and as good luck
would have it, it happened to be an American outfit, going to Taos with
merchandise. As soon as the master of the caravan seen her setting on
the prairie, he rid up ahead of the wagons, and she told him her story.
He was a kind-hearted man; had the train stop right there on the bank of
the river, though he wasn't half through his day's drive, so as to make
her comfortable as possible, and give her something to eat; for she was
'bout played out. He bought the Ingin pony, giving her thirty dollars
for it, and after she had rested for some time, the caravan moved out.
She rid in one of the wagons, on a bed of blankets, and the next evening
arrived at Bent's Old Fort. There she found women-folks, who cared for
her and nussed her; for she was dreadfully sore and tired after her long
ride. Then she was hired to cook, meaning to work until she'd earned
enough to take her back to Pennsylvany, to her mother's, where she had
started for when the Ingins attackted the train.

"That night, after listening to her mirac'lous escape, we made up a
'pot' for her, collecting 'bout eight hundred dollars. The master of
Colonel St. Vrain's caravan, what had come out with us, told her he was
going back again to the river in a couple of weeks, and he'd take her
and Paul in without costing her a cent; besides, she'd be safer than
with any other outfit, as his train was a big one, and he had all
American teamsters.

"Next morning the caravan went on to Mora, and after we'd bid good-by to
Mrs. Dale and Paul, before which I give the boy two hundred dollars
for himself, me, Thorpe, and Curtis pulled out with our team north for
Frenchman's Creek, and I never felt so miserable before nor since as I
did parting with the kid that morning. I hain't never seen him since;
but he must be nigh forty now. Mebby he went into the war and was
killed; mebby he got to be a general, but I hain't forgot him."

Uncle John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and without saying another
word went into the tent. In a few moments the camp was as quiet as a
country village on Sunday, excepting the occasional howling of a hungry
wolf down in the timbered recesses of the Washita, or the crackling and
sputtering of the signal fires on the hilltops.

In a few days afterward, we were camping on Hackberry Creek, in the
Indian Territory. We had been living on wild turkey, as before for some
time, and still longed for a change. At last one of my hunters succeeded
in bagging a dozen or more quails. Late that evening, when my cook
brought the delicious little birds, beautifully spitted and broiled on
peeled willow twigs, into my tent, I passed one to Uncle John. Much to
the surprise of every one, he refused. He said, "Boys, I don't eat no
quail!"

We looked at him in astonishment; for he was somewhat of a gourmand, and
prided himself upon the "faculty," as he termed it, of being able to
eat anything, from a piece of jerked buffalo-hide to the juiciest young
antelope steak.

I remonstrated with the venerable guide; said to him, "You are making a
terrible mistake, Uncle John. Tomorrow I expect to leave here, and as we
are going directly away from the buffalo country, we don't know when
we shall strike fresh meat again. You'd better try one," and I again
proffered one of the birds.

"Boys," said he again, "I don't tech quail; I hain't eat one for more
than twenty years. One of the little cusses saved my life once, and I
swore right thar and then that I would starve first; and I have kept my
oath, though I've seen the time mighty often sence I could a killed 'em
with my quirt, when all I had to chaw on for four days was the soles of
a greasy pair of old moccasins.

"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago--in June, if I don't
disremember, 1847. We was a coming in from way up in Cache le Poudre and
from Yellowstone Lake, whar we'd been a trapping for two seasons. We was
a working our way slowly back to Independence, Missouri, where we was
a going to get a new outfit. Let's see, there was me, and a man by the
name of Boyd, and Lew Thorp--Lew was a working for Colonel Boone at
the time--and two more men, whose names I disremember now, and a nigger
wench we had for a cook. We had mighty good luck, and had a big pile
of skins; and the Indians never troubled us till we got down on Pawnee
Bottom, this side of Pawnee Rock. We all of us had mighty good ponies,
but Thorp had a team and wagon, which he was driving for Colonel Boone.

"We had went into camp on Pawnee Bottom airly in the afternoon, and I
told the boys to look out for Ingins--for I knowed ef we was to have any
trouble with them it would be somewhere in that vicinity. But we didn't
see a darned redskin that night, nor the sign of one.

"The wolves howled considerable, and come pretty close to the fire for
the bacon rinds we'd throwed away after supper.

"You see the buffalo was scurse right thar then--it was the wrong time
o' year. They generally don't get down on to the Arkansas till about
September, and when they're scurse the wolves and coyotes are mighty
sassy, and will steal a piece of bacon rind right out of the pan, if
you don't watch 'em. So we picketed our ponies a little closer before we
turned in, and we all went to sleep except one, who sort o' kept watch
on the stock.

"I was out o' my blankets mighty airly next morning, for I was kind o'
suspicious. I could always tell when Ingins was prowling around, and I
had a sort of present'ment something was going to happen--I didn't like
the way the coyotes kept yelling--so I rested kind o' oneasy like, and
was out among the ponies by the first streak o' daylight.

"About the time I could see things, I discovered three or four buffalo
grazing off on the creek bottom, about a half-mile away, and I started
for my rifle, thinking I would examine her.

"Pretty soon I seed Thorp and Boyd crawl out o' their blankets, too,
and I called their attention to the buffalo, which was still feeding
undisturbed.

"We'd been kind o' scurse of fresh meat for a couple of weeks--ever
since we left the Platte--except a jack-rabbit or cottontail, and I
knowed the boys would be wanting to get a quarter or two of a good fat
cow, if we could find one in the herd, so that was the reason I pointed
'em out to 'em.

"The dew, you see, was mighty heavy, and the grass in the bottom was as
wet as if it had been raining for a month, and I didn't care to go down
whar the buffalo was just then--I knowed we had plenty of time, and as
soon as the sun was up it would dry right off. So I got on to one of
the ponies and led the others down to the spring near camp to water them
while the wench was a getting breakfast, and some o' the rest o' the
outfit was a fixing the saddles and greasing the wagon.

"Just as I was coming back--it had growed quite light then--I seed
Boyd and Thorp start out from camp with their rifles and make for the
buffalo; so I picketed the ponies, gets my rifle, and starts off too.

"By the time I'd reached the edge of the bottom, Thorp and Boyd was a
crawling up on to a young bull way off to the right, and I lit out for a
fat cow I seen bunched up with the rest of the herd on the left.

"The grass was mighty tall on some parts of the Arkansas bottom in them
days, and I got within easy shooting range without the herd seeing me.

"The buffalo was now between me and Thorp and Boyd, and they was
furtherest from camp. I could see them over the top of the grass kind
o' edging up to the bull, and I kept a crawling on my hands and knees
toward the cow, and when I got about a hundred and fifty yards of her, I
pulled up my rifle and drawed a bead.

"Just as I was running my eyes along the bar'l, a darned little quail
flew right out from under my feet and lit exactly on my front sight and
of course cut off my aim--we didn't shoot reckless in those days; every
shot had to tell, or a man was the laughing-stock for a month if he
missed his game.

"I shook the little critter off and brought up my rifle again when, durn
my skin, if the bird didn't light right on to the same place; at the
same time my eyes grow'd kind o' hazy-like and in a minute I didn't know
nothing.

"When I come to, the quail was gone, I heerd a couple of rifle shots,
and right in front of where the bull had stood and close to Thorp and
Boyd, half a dozen Ingins jumped up out o' the tall grass and, firing
into the two men, killed Thorp instantly and wounded Boyd.

"He and me got to camp--keeping off the Ingins, who knowed I was
loaded--when we, with the rest of the outfit, drove the red devils away.

"They was Apaches, and the fellow that shot Thorp was a half-breed
nigger and Apache. He scalped Thorp and carred off the whole upper part
of his skull with it. He got Thorp's rifle and bullet-pouch too, and his
knife.

"We buried Thorp in the bottom there, and some of the party cut their
names on the stones that they covered his body up with, to keep the
coyotes from eating up his bones.

"Boyd got on to the river with us all right, and I never heerd of him
after we separated at Booneville. We pulled out soon after the Indians
left, but we didn't get no buffalo-meat.

"You see, boys, if I'd a fired into that cow, the devils would a had me
before I could a got a patch on my ball--didn't have no breech-loaders
in them days, and it took as much judgment to know how to load a rifle
properly as it did to shoot it.

"Them Ingins knowed all that--they knowed I hadn't fired, so they kept
a respectable distance. I would a fired, but the quail saved my life by
interfering with my sight--and that's the reason I don't eat no quail. I
hain't superstitious, but I don't believe they was meant to be eat."

Uncle John stuck to his text, I believe, until he died, and you could
never disabuse his mind of the idea that the quail lighting on his rifle
was not a special interposition of Providence.

Only four years after he told his story, in 1872, one of the newly
established settlers, living a few miles west of Larned on Pawnee
Bottom, having observed in one of his fields a singular depression,
resembling an old grave, determined to dig down and see if there was any
special cause for the strange indentation on his land.

A couple of feet below the surface he discovered several flat pieces
of stone, on one of which the words "Washington" and "J. Hildreth"
were rudely cut, also a line separating them, and underneath: "December
tenth" and "J. M., 1850." On another was carved the name "J. H. Shell,"
with other characters that could not be deciphered. On a third stone
were the initials "H. R., 1847"; underneath which was plainly cut "J.
R. Boyd," and still beneath "J. R. Pring." At the very bottom of the
excavation were found the lower portion of the skull, one or two ribs,
and one of the bones of the leg of a human being. The piece of skull was
found near the centre of the grave, for such it certainly was.

At the time of the discovery I was in Larned, and I immediately
consulted my book of notes and memoranda taken hurriedly at intervals on
the plains and in the mountains, during more than half my lifetime, to
see if I could find anything that would solve the mystery attached to
the quiet prairie-grave and its contents, and I then recalled Uncle
John Smith's story of the quail as related to me at my camp. I also
met Colonel A. G. Boone that winter in Washington; he remembered the
circumstances well. Thorp was working for him, as Smith had said, and
was killed by an Apache, who, in scalping him, tore the half of his head
away, and it was thus found mutilated, so many years afterward.

Uncle John was in one of his garrulous moods that night, and as we were
not by any means tired of hearing the veteran trapper talk, without much
urging he told us the following tale:--

"Well, boys, thirty years ago, beaver, mink, and otter was found in
abundacious quantities on all the streams in the Rocky Mountains. The
trade in them furs was a paying business, for the little army of us
fellows called trappers. They ain't any of 'em left now, no mor'n the
animals we used to hunt. We had to move about from place to place, just
as if we was so many Ingins. Sometimes we'd construct little cabins in
the timber, or a dugout where the game was plenty, where we'd stay maybe
for a month or two, and once in a while--though not often--a whole year.

"The Ingins was our mortal enemies; they'd get a scalp from our fellows
occasionally, but for every one they had of ours we had a dozen of
theirs.

"In the summer of 1846, there was a little half dugout, half cabin,
opposite the mouth of Frenchman's Creek, put up by Bill Thorpe, Al Boyd,
and Rube Stevens. Bill and Al was men grown, and know'd more 'bout the
prairies and timber than the Ingins themselves. They'd hired out to the
Northwest Fur Company when they was mere kids, and kept on trapping
ever since. Rube--'Little Rube' as all the old men called him--was
'bout nineteen, and plumb dumb; he could hear well enough though, for
he wasn't born that way. When he was seventeen his father moved from his
farm in Pennsylvany, to take up a claim in Oregon, and the whole family
was compelled to cross the plains to get there; for there wasn't no
other way. While they was camped in the Bitter-Root valley one evening,
just 'bout sundown, a party of Blackfeet surprised the outfit, and
massacred all of them but Rube. They carried him off, kept him as a
slave, and, to make sure of him, cut out his tongue at the roots. But
some of the women who wasn't quite so devilish as their husbands, and
who took pity on him, went to work and cured him of his awful wound. He
was used mighty mean by the bucks of the tribe, and made up his mind to
get away from them or kill himself; for he could not live under their
harsh treatment. After he'd been with them for mor'n a year, the tribe
had a terrible battle with the Sioux, and in the scrimmage Rube stole
a pony and lit out. He rode on night and day until he came across the
cabin of the two trappers I have told you 'bout, and they, of course,
took the poor boy in and cared for him.

"Rube was a splendid shot with the rifle, and he swore to himself that
he would never leave the prairies and do nothing for the rest of
his life but kill Ingins, who had made him a homeless orphan, and so
mutilated him.

"After Rube had been with Boyd and Thorpe a year, they was all one day
in the winter examining their traps which was scattered 'long the stream
for miles. After re-baiting them, they concluded to hunt for meat, which
was getting scarce at the cabin; they let Rube go down to the creek
where it widened out lake-like, to fish through a hole in the ice, and
Al and Bill took their rifles and hunted in the timber for deer. They
all got separated of course, Rube being furtherest away, while Al and
Bill did not wander so far from each other that they could not be heard
if one wanted his companion.

"Al shot a fat black-tail deer, and just as he was going to stoop down
to cut its throat, Bill yelled out to him:--

"'Drop everything Al, for God's sake, and let's make for the dugout;
they're coming, a whole band of Sioux!'

"'If we can get to the cabin,' replied Al, 'we can keep off the whole
nation. I wonder where Rube is? I hope he'll get here and save his
scalp.'

"At this instant, poor Rube dashed up to them, an Ingin close upon his
tracks; he had unfortunately forgotten to take his rifle with him when
he went to the creek, and now he was at the mercy of the savage; at
least both he and his pursuer so thought. But before the Ingin had
fairly uttered his yell of exultation, Al who with Bill had held his
rifle in readiness for an emergency, lifted the red devil off his feet,
and he fell dead without ever knowing what had struck him.

"Rube, thus delivered from a sudden death, ran at the top of his speed
with his two friends for the cabin, for, if they could reach it, they
did not fear a hundred paint-bedaubed savages.

"Luckily they arrived in time. Where they lived was part dugout and part
cabin. It was about ten feet high, and right back of it was a big ledge
of rock, which made it impossible for any one to get into it from that
side. The place had no door; they did not dare to put one there when
it was built, for they were likely to be surprised at any moment by
a prowling band, so the only entrance was a square hole in the roof,
through which one at a time had to crawl to enter.

"The boys got inside all right just as the Ingins came a yelling up.
Bill looked out of a hole in the wall and counted thirty of the devils,
and said at once: 'Off with your coats; don't let them have anything
to catch hold of but our naked bodies if they get in, and we can handle
ourselves better.'

"'Thirty to three,' said Al. 'Whew! this ain't going to be any boy's
play; we've got to fight for all there is in it, and the chances are
mightily agin us.'

"Rube he took an axe, and stood right under the hole in the roof, so
that if any of the devils got in he could brain them. In a minute five
rifles cracked; for the Ingins was pretty well armed for them times, and
their bullets rattled agin the logs like hail agin a tent. Some of 'em
was on top the roof by this time, and soon the leader of the party, a
big painted devil, thrust his ugly face into the hole; but he had hardly
got a good look before Bill dropped him by a well-directed shot and he
tumbled in on the floor.

"'You darned fool,' said Bill, as he saw the effect of his shot; 'did
you think we was asleep?'

"There was one opening that served for air, and a savage, seeing the
boys had forgotten to barricade it, tried to push himself through, an'
not succeeding, tried to back out, but at that instant Bill caught him
by the wrist--Bill was a powerful man--and picking up a beaver-trap that
laid on the floor, actually beat his brains out with it.

"While this circus was going on inside, three more of the Ingins got on
the roof and wrenched off a couple of the logs that covered it; but in a
minute they came tumbling down and lay dead on the floor.

"'That leaves only twenty-five, don't it?' inquired Al, as he mopped his
face with his shirt-sleeve.

"'Howl, you red devils,' said Bill, as the Ingins commenced their awful
yelling when they saw their comrades fall into the room. 'Don't you
know, you blame fools, you've fell in with experienced hands at the
shooting business?'

"Spat! Something hit Al, and he was the first wounded, but it was only a
scratch, and he kept right on attending to business.

"'By gosh! look at Rube, will you?' said Al. The dumb boy had in his
grasp the very chief of the band, who had just then discovered the hole
in the roof made by the three Ingins who had passed in their checks for
their impudence, and was trying his best to push himself down. Rube had
made a strike at him with an axe, but the edge was turned aside, and the
savage was getting the better of the boy; he had grappled Rube by the
hair and one arm, and they was flying 'round like a wild cat and a
hound. Bill tried three times to sink his knife into the old chief, but
there was such a cavortin' in the wrastle between him and the boy, he
was afraid to try any more, for fear it might hit Rube instead. Suddenly
the Ingin fell to the floor as dead as a trapped beaver what's been
drowned; Rube had struck his buckhorn-handled hunting-knife right into
the heart of the brute.

"'Set him agin the hole in the side of the building,' said Bill; 'he
ain't fit for nothing else than to stop a gap'; so Rube set him agin the
hole, and pinned him there with half a dozen knives what was lying round
loose.

"Just as they had fastened the dead body of the old chief to the side
of the cabin, a perfect shower of bullets came rattling round like a
hailstorm. 'All right, let's have your waste lead,' said Bill.

"'A few more of these dead Ingins and we can make a regular fort of this
old cabin; we want two for that chunk,' said Al, as he pointed with his
rifle to a large gap on the west side of the wall; but before he had
fairly got the words out of his mouth, two of the attacking party jumped
down into the room. Al, being a regular giant, as soon as they landed,
surprised them by seizing one with each hand by the throat, and he
actually held them at arm's-length till he had squeezed the very life
out of them, and they both fell corpses.

"While Al was performing his two-Ingin act, a great light burst into the
cabin, and by the time he had choked his enemies to death, he saw, while
the Ingins outside gave a terrible yell of exultation, that they had
fired the place.

"'Damn 'em,' shouted Bill, as he pitched the corpse of the chief from
the gap where Rube had set him. 'Fellows, we've got to get out of here
right quick; follow me, boys!'

"Holding their rifles in hand, and clutching a hunting-knife also, they
stepped out into the brush surrounding the place, and started on a run
for the heavy timber on the bank of the creek.

"They had reckoned onluckily; a wild war-whoop greeted the flying men as
they reached the edge of the forest, and without being able to use their
arms, they were taken prisoners. Bill and Al, fastened with their backs
against each other, and Little Rube by himself, were bound to separate
trees, but not so far apart that they could not speak to each other,
and some of the Ingins began to gather sticks and pile them around the
trees.

"'What are they going to do with us?' anxiously inquired Bill of Al.

"'Roast us, you bet,' replied the other. 'They'll find me tough enough,
anyhow.'

"'It must be a painful death,' soliloquized Bill.

"'Well, it isn't the most pleasant one, you can gamble on that,' said
Al, turning his looks toward Bill; 'but see what the devils are doing to
poor Rube.'

"Bill cast his eyes in the direction of the dumb boy, who was fastened
to a small pine, about a hundred feet distant. Standing directly in
front of it was a gigantic Ingin, flourishing his scalping-knife within
an inch of Rube's head, trying to make the boy flinch. But the young
fellow merely scowled at him in a rage, his muscles never quivering for
an instant.

"While the men were trying to console each other, two of the savages,
who had gone away for a short time, returned, bearing the carcass of the
deer that Al had killed in the morning, and commenced to cut it up. They
had made several small fires, and roasting the meat before them, began
to gorge themselves, Indian fashion, with the savoury morsels. The men
were awfully hungry, too, but not a mouthful did they get of their own
game.

"The Ingins were more'n an hour feasting, while their prisoners kept a
looking for some help to get 'em out of the scrape they was in.

"'Bout a mile down the creek, me and six other trappers had a camp, and
that morning, being scarce of meat, we all went a hunting. We had killed
two or three elk and was 'bout going back to camp with our game, when we
heard firing, and supposed it was a party of hunters, like ourselves,
so we did not pay any attention to it at first; but when it kept up so
long, and there was such a constant volley, I told our boys it might be
a scrimmage with a party of red devils, and we concluded to go and see.

"We left our elk where they were, and started in the direction of the
shooting, taking mighty good care not to be surprised ourselves. We
crept carefully on, and a little before sundown seen a camp-fire burning
in the timber quite a smart piece ahead of us. We stopped then, and Ike
Pettet and myself crept on cautiously on our hands and knees through the
brush to learn what the fire meant. In a little while we seen it was an
Ingin camp, and we counted twenty-two warriors seated 'round their fires
a eating as unconcernedly as if we warn't nowhere near 'em. We didn't
feel like tackling so many, so just as we was 'bout to crawl away and
leave 'em in ondisturbed possession of their camp, we heard some parties
talking in English. Then we pricked up our ears and listened mighty
interested I tell you. Looking 'round, we seen the men tied to the trees
and the wood piled against 'em, and then we knowed what was up. We had
to be mighty wary, for if we snapped a twig even, it was all day with us
and the prisoners too; so we dragged ourselves back, and after getting
out of sound of the Ingins, we just got up and lit out mighty lively for
the place we'd left our companions. We met them coming slowly on 'bout
two miles from the Ingin camp, and telling 'em what was up we started to
help the trappers what the devils was agoing to burn. We wasn't half so
long in getting at the camp as Ike and me was in going, and we soon come
within good range for our rifles.

"The Ingins was still unsuspicious, and we spread ourselves in a sort
of half circle so as to kind o' surround them, and at a signal I give,
seven rifles cracked at once, and as many of the Injins was dropped
right in their tracks; a second volley, for the red devils had not got
their senses yet, tumbled seven more corpses upon the pile, and then we
white men jumped in with our knives and clubbed rifles, and there was
a lively scrimmage for a few minutes. The few Ingins what wasn't killed
fought like devils, but as we was getting the best of 'em every second
they turned tail and ran.

"We'd heard the firing of the fight at the cabin just in time; and as
we cut the rawhide strings that bound the fellows to the trees, Ike, who
was a right fine shot and had killed three at one time, said: 'I always
like to get two or three of the red devils in a line before I pull the
trigger; it saves lead.'

"Then we all went back to our camp and made a night of it, feasting on
the elk we had killed, and talking over the wonderful escape of the boys
and Little Rube."

CHAPTER XVI. KIT CARSON.

Of the famous men whose lives are so interwoven with the history of the
Old Santa Fe Trail that the story of the great highway is largely made
up of their individual exploits and acts of bravery, it has been my
fortune to have known nearly all intimately, during more than a third of
a century passed on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains.

First of all, Christopher, or Kit, Carson, as he is familiarly known
to the world, stands at the head and front of celebrated frontiersmen,
trappers, scouts, guides, and Indian fighters.

I knew him well through a series of years, to the date of his death in
1868, but I shall confine myself to the events of his remarkable career
along the line of the Trail and its immediate environs. In 1826 a party
of Santa Fe traders passing near his father's home in Howard County,
Missouri, young Kit, who was then but seventeen years old, joined the
caravan as hunter. He was already an expert with the rifle, and thus
commenced his life of adventure on the great plains and in the Rocky
Mountains.

His first exhibition of that nerve and coolness in the presence of
danger which marked his whole life was in this initial trip across the
plains. When the caravan had arrived at the Arkansas River, somewhere
in the vicinity of the great bend of that stream, one of the teamsters,
while carelessly pulling his rifle toward him by the barrel, discharged
the weapon and received the ball in his arm, completely crushing the
bones. The blood from the wound flowed so copiously that he nearly lost
his life before it could be arrested. He was fixed up, however, and the
caravan proceeded on its journey, the man thinking no more seriously
of his injured arm. In a few days, however, the wound began to indicate
that gangrene had set in, and it was determined that only by an
amputation was it possible for him to live beyond a few days. Every
one of the older men of the caravan positively declined to attempt the
operation, as there were no instruments of any kind. At this juncture
Kit, realizing the extreme necessity of prompt action, stepped forward
and offered to do the job. He told the unfortunate sufferer that he had
had no experience in such matters, but that as no one else would do
it, he would take the chances. All the tools that Kit could find were
a razor, a saw, and the king-bolt of a wagon. He cut the flesh with the
razor, sawed through the bone as if it had been a piece of joist, and
seared the horrible wound with the king-bolt, which he had heated to a
white glow, for the purpose of stopping the flow of blood that naturally
followed such rude surgery. The operation was a complete success; the
man lived many years afterward, and was with his surgeon in many an
expedition.

In the early days of the commerce of the prairies, Carson was the hunter
at Bent's Fort for a period of eight years. There were about forty men
employed at the place; and when the game was found in abundance in the
mountains, it was a relatively easy task and just suited to his love of
sport, but when it grew scarce, as it often did, his prowess was tasked
to its utmost to keep the forty mouths from crying for food. He became
such an unerring shot with the rifle during that time that he was called
the "Nestor of the Rocky Mountains." His favourite game was the buffalo,
although he killed countless numbers of other animals.

All of the plains tribes of Indians, as did the powerful Utes of the
mountains, knew him well; for he had often visited in their camps, sat
in their lodges, smoked the pipe, and played with their little boys. The
latter fact may not appear of much consequence, but there are no people
on earth who have a greater love for their boy children than the savages
of America. The Indians all feared him, too, at the same time that they
respected his excellent judgment, and frequently were governed by his
wise counsel. The following story will show his power in this direction.
The Sioux, one of the most numerous and warlike tribes at that time,
had encroached upon the hunting-grounds of the southern Indians, and the
latter had many a skirmish with them on the banks of the Arkansas along
the line of the Trail. Carson, who was in the upper valley of the river,
was sent for to come down and help them drive the obnoxious Sioux back
to their own stamping-ground. He left Fort Bent, and went with the party
of Comanche messengers to the main camp of that tribe and the Arapahoes,
with whom they had united. Upon his arrival, he was told that the Sioux
had a thousand warriors and many rifles, and the Comanches and Arapahoes
were afraid of them on account of the great disparity of numbers, but
that if he would go with them on the war-path, they felt assured they
could overcome their enemies. Carson, however, instead of encouraging
the Comanches and Arapahoes to fight, induced them to negotiate with
the Sioux. He was sent as mediator, and so successfully accomplished his
mission that the intruding tribe consented to leave the hunting-grounds
of the Comanches as soon as the buffalo season was over; which they did,
and there was no more trouble.

After many adventures in California with Fremont, Carson, with his
inseparable friend, L. B. Maxwell, embarked in the wool-raising
industry. Shortly after they had established themselves on their ranch,
the Apaches made one of their frequent murdering and plundering raids
through Northern New Mexico, killing defenceless women and children,
running off stock of all kinds, and laying waste every little ranch they
came across in their wild foray. Not very far from the city of Santa Fe,
they ruthlessly butchered a Mr. White and his son, though three of their
number were slain by the brave gentlemen before they were overpowered.
Other of the blood-thirsty savages carried away the women and children
of the desolated home and took them to their mountain retreat in the
vicinity of Las Vegas. Mr. White was a highly respected merchant, and
news of this outrage spreading rapidly through the settlements, it was
determined that the savages should not go without punishment this time,
at least. Carson's reputation as an Indian fighter was at its height, so
the natives of the country sent for him, and declined to move until he
came. For some unexplained reason, after he arrived at Las Vegas, he
was not placed in charge of the posse, that position having already
been given to a Frenchman. Carson, as was usual with him, never murmured
because he was assigned to a subordinate position, but took his place,
ready to do his part in whatever capacity.

The party set out for the stronghold of the savages, and rode night and
day on the trail of the murderers, hoping to surprise them and recapture
the women and children; but so much time had been wasted in delays,
that Carson feared they would only find the mutilated bodies of the
poor captives. In a few days after leaving Las Vegas, the retreat of the
savages was discovered in the fastness of the mountains, where they had
fortified themselves in such a manner that they could resist ten times
the number of their pursuers. Carson, as soon as he saw them, without
a second's hesitation, and giving a characteristic yell, dashed in,
expecting, of course, that the men would follow him; but they only stood
in gaping wonderment at his bravery, not daring to venture after him.
He did not discover his dilemma until he had advanced so far alone that
escape seemed impossible. But here his coolness, which always served him
in the moment of supreme danger, saved his scalp. As the savages turned
on him, he threw himself on the off side of his horse, Indian fashion,
for he was as expert in a trick of that kind as the savages themselves,
and rode back to the little command. He had six arrows in his horse and
a bullet through his coat!

The Indians in those days were poorly armed, and did not long follow up
the pursuit after Carson; for, observing the squad of mounted Mexicans,
they retreated to the top of a rocky prominence, from which point they
could watch every movement of the whites. Carson was raging at the
apathy, not to say cowardice, of the men who had sent for him to join
them, but he kept his counsel to himself; for he was anxious to save
the captured women and children. He talked to the men very earnestly,
however, exhorting them not to flinch in the duty they had come so
far to perform, and for which he had come at their call. This had
the desired effect; for he induced them to make a charge, which was
gallantly performed, and in such a brave manner that the Indians fled,
scarcely making an effort to defend themselves. Five of their number
were killed at the furious onset of the Mexicans, but unfortunately, as
he anticipated, only the murdered corpses of the women and children were
the result of the victory.

President Polk appointed Carson to a second lieutenancy,[48] and his
first official duty was conducting fifty soldiers under his command
through the country of the Comanches, who were then at war with the
whites. A fight occurred at a place known as Point of Rocks,[49] where
on arriving, Carson found a company of volunteers for the Mexican War,
and camped near them. About dawn the next morning, all the animals of
the volunteers were captured by a band of Indians, while the herders
were conducting them to the river-bottom to graze. The herders had no
weapons, and luckily, in the confusion attending the bold theft, ran
into Carson's camp; and as he, with his men, were ready with their
rifles, they recaptured the oxen, but the horses were successfully
driven off by their captors.

Several of the savages were mortally wounded by Carson's prompt charge,
as signs after they had cleared out proved; but the Indian custom of
tying the wounded on their ponies precluded the chance of taking any
scalps. The wily Comanche, like the Arab of the desert, is generally
successful in his sudden assaults, but Carson, who was never surprised,
was always equal to his tactics.

One of the two soldiers whose turn it had been to stand guard that
morning was discovered to have been asleep when the alarm of Indians was
given, and Carson at once administered the Indian method of punishment,
making the man wear the dress of a squaw for that day. Then going on, he
arrived at Santa Fe, where he turned over his little command.

While there, he heard that a gang of those desperadoes so frequently the
nuisance of a new country had formed a conspiracy to murder and rob two
wealthy citizens whom they had volunteered to accompany over the Trail
to the States. The caravan was already many miles on its way when Carson
was informed of the plot. In less than an hour he had hired sixteen
picked men and was on his march to intercept them. He took a short cut
across the mountains, taking especial care to keep out of the way of
the Indians, who were on the war-path, but as to whose movements he
was always posted. In two days he came upon a camp of United States
recruits, en route to the military posts in New Mexico, whose commander
offered to accompany him with twenty men. Carson accepted the generous
proposal, by forced marches soon overtook the caravan of traders, and
at once placed one Fox, the leader of the gang, in irons, after which he
informed the owners of the caravan of the escape they had made from the
wretches whom they were treating so kindly. At first the gentlemen were
astounded at the disclosures made to them, but soon admitted that
they had noticed many things which convinced them that the plot really
existed, and but for the opportune arrival of the brave frontiersman it
would shortly have been carried out.

The members of the caravan who were perfectly trustworthy were then
ordered to corral the rest of the conspirators, thirty-five in number,
and they were driven out of camp, with the exception of Fox, the leader,
whom Carson conveyed to Taos. He was imprisoned for several months, but
as a crime in intent only could be proved against him, and as the adobe
walls of the house where he was confined were not secure enough to
retain a man who desired to release himself, he was finally liberated,
and cleared out.

The traders were profuse in their thanks to Carson for his timely
interference, but he refused every offer of remuneration. On their
return to Santa Fe from St. Louis, however, they presented him with
a magnificent pair of pistols, upon whose silver mounting was an
inscription commemorating his brave deed and the gratitude of the
donors.

The following summer was spent in a visit to St. Louis, and early in the
fall he returned over the Trail, arriving at the Cheyenne village on
the Upper Arkansas without meeting with any incident worthy of note. On
reaching that point, he learned that the Indians had received a terrible
affront from an officer commanding a detachment of United States troops,
who had whipped one of their chiefs; and that consequently the whole
tribe was enraged, and burning for revenge upon the whites. Carson was
the first white man to approach the place since the insult, and so
many years had elapsed since he was the hunter at Bent's Fort, and
so grievously had the Indians been offended, that his name no longer
guaranteed safety to the party with whom he was travelling, nor even
insured respect to himself, in the state of excitement existing in the
village. Carson, however, deliberately pushed himself into the presence
of a war council which was just then in session to consider the question
of attacking the caravan, giving orders to his men to keep close
together, and guard against a surprise.

The savages, supposing that he could not understand their language,
talked without restraint, and unfolded their plans to capture his party
and kill them all, particularly the leader. After they had reached this
decision, Carson coolly rose and addressed the council in the Cheyenne
language, informing the Indians who he was, of his former associations
with and kindness to their tribe, and that now he was ready to render
them any assistance they might require; but as to their taking his
scalp, he claimed the right to say a word.

The Indians departed, and Carson went on his way; but there were
hundreds of savages in sight on the sand hills, and, though they made
no attack, he was well aware that he was in their power, nor had they
abandoned the idea of capturing his train. His coolness and deliberation
kept his men in spirit, and yet out of the whole fifteen, which was the
total number of his force, there were only two or three on whom he could
place any reliance in case of an emergency.

When the train camped for the night, the wagons were corralled, and
the men and mules all brought inside the circle. Grass was cut with
sheath-knives and fed to the animals, instead of their being picketed
out as usual, and as large a guard as possible detailed. When the camp
had settled down to perfect quiet, Carson crawled outside it, taking
with him a Mexican boy, and after explaining to him the danger which
threatened them all, told him that it was in his power to save the lives
of the company. Then he sent him on alone to Rayedo, a journey of nearly
three hundred miles, to ask for an escort of United States troops to be
sent out to meet the train, impressing upon the brave little Mexican
the importance of putting a good many miles between himself and the
camp before morning. And so he started him, with a few rations of food,
without letting the rest of his party know that such measures were
necessary. The boy had been in Carson's service for some time, and was
known to him as a faithful and active messenger, and in a wild country
like New Mexico, with the outdoor life and habits of its people, such a
journey was not an unusual occurrence.

Carson now returned to the camp, to watch all night himself, and at
daybreak all were on the Trail again. No Indians made their appearance
until nearly noon, when five warriors came galloping up toward the
train. As soon as they came close enough to hear his voice, Carson
ordered them to halt, and going up to them, told how he had sent a
messenger to Rayedo the night before to inform the troops that their
tribe were annoying him, and that if he or his men were molested,
terrible punishment would be inflicted by those who would surely come
to his relief. The savages replied that they would look for the moccasin
tracks, which they undoubtedly found, and the whole village passed away
toward the hills after a little while, evidently seeking a place of
safety from an expected attack by the troops.

The young Mexican overtook the detachment of soldiers whose officer had
caused all the trouble with the Indians, to whom he told his story; but
failing to secure any sympathy, he continued his journey to Rayedo, and
procured from the garrison of that place immediate assistance. Major
Grier, commanding the post, at once despatched a troop of his regiment,
which, by forced marches, met Carson twenty-five miles below Bent's
Fort, and though it encountered no Indians, the rapid movement had
a good effect upon the savages, impressing them with the power and
promptness of the government.

Early in the spring of 1865, Carson was ordered, with three companies,
to put a stop to the depredations of marauding bands of Cheyennes,
Kiowas, and Comanches upon the caravans and emigrant outfits travelling
the Santa Fe Trail. He left Fort Union with his command and marched
over the Dry or Cimarron route to the Arkansas River, for the purpose of
establishing a fortified camp at Cedar Bluffs, or Cold Spring, to afford
a refuge for the freight trains on that dangerous part of the Trail. The
Indians had for some time been harassing not only the caravans of
the citizen traders, but also those of the government, which carried
supplies to the several military posts in the Territory of New Mexico.
An expedition was therefore planned by Carson to punish them, and he
soon found an opportunity to strike a blow near the adobe fort on the
Canadian River. His force consisted of the First Regiment of New Mexican
Volunteer Cavalry and seventy-five friendly Indians, his entire
command numbering fourteen commissioned officers and three hundred
and ninety-six enlisted men. With these he attacked the Kiowa village,
consisting of about one hundred and fifty lodges. The fight was a very
severe one, and lasted from half-past eight in the morning until after
sundown. The savages, with more than ordinary intrepidity and boldness,
made repeated stands against the fierce onslaughts of Carson's
cavalrymen, but were at last forced to give way, and were cut down as
they stubbornly retreated, suffering a loss of sixty killed and wounded.
In this battle only two privates and one noncommissioned officer were
killed, and one non-commissioned officer and thirteen privates, four of
whom were friendly Indians, wounded. The command destroyed one hundred
and fifty lodges, a large amount of dried meats, berries, buffalo-robes,
cooking utensils, and also a buggy and spring-wagon, the property of
Sierrito,[50] the Kiowa chief.

In his official account of the fight, Carson states that he found
ammunition in the village, which had been furnished, no doubt, by
unscrupulous Mexican traders.

He told me that he never was deceived by Indian tactics but once in his
life. He said that he was hunting with six others after buffalo, in
the summer of 1835; that they had been successful, and came into
their little bivouac one night very tired, intending to start for the
rendezvous at Bent's Fort the next morning. They had a number of dogs,
among them some excellent animals. These barked a good deal, and seemed
restless, and the men heard wolves.

"I saw," said Kit, "two big wolves sneaking about, one of them quite
close to us. Gordon, one of my men, wanted to fire his rifle at it, but
I did not let him, for fear he would hit a dog. I admit that I had a
sort of an idea that those wolves might be Indians; but when I noticed
one of them turn short around, and heard the clashing of his teeth as he
rushed at one of the dogs, I felt easy then, and was certain that they
were wolves sure enough. But the red devil fooled me, after all, for
he had two dried buffalo bones in his hands under the wolfskin, and he
rattled them together every time he turned to make a dash at the dogs!
Well, by and by we all dozed off, and it wasn't long before I was
suddenly aroused by a noise and a big blaze. I rushed out the first
thing for our mules, and held them. If the savages had been at all
smart, they could have killed us in a trice, but they ran as soon as
they fired at us. They killed one of my men, putting five bullets in his
body and eight in his buffalo-robe. The Indians were a band of Sioux on
the war-trail after a band of Snakes, and found us by sheer accident.
They endeavoured to ambush us the next morning, but we got wind of their
little game and killed three of them, including the chief."

Carson's nature was made up of some very noble attributes. He was
brave, but not reckless like Custer; a veritable exponent of Christian
altruism, and as true to his friends as the needle to the pole. Under
the average stature, and rather delicate-looking in his physical
proportions, he was nevertheless a quick, wiry man, with nerves of
steel, and possessing an indomitable will. He was full of caution,
but showed a coolness in the moment of supreme danger that was good to
witness.

During a short visit at Fort Lyon, Colorado, where a favourite son of
his was living, early in the morning of May 23, 1868, while mounting his
horse in front of his quarters (he was still fond of riding), an
artery in his neck was suddenly ruptured, from the effects of which,
notwithstanding the medical assistance rendered by the fort surgeons, he
died in a few moments.

His remains, after reposing for some time at Fort Lyon, were taken to
Taos, so long his home in New Mexico, where an appropriate monument was
erected over them. In the Plaza at Santa Fe, his name also appears cut
on a cenotaph raised to commemorate the services of the soldiers of the
Territory. As an Indian fighter he was matchless. The identical rifle
used by him for more than thirty-five years, and which never failed him,
he bequeathed, just before his death, to Montezuma Lodge, A. F. & A. M.,
Santa Fe, of which he was a member.

James Bridger, "Major Bridger," or "Old Jim Bridger," as we was called,
another of the famous coterie of pioneer frontiersmen, was born in
Washington, District of Columbia, in 1807. When very young, a mere boy
in fact, he joined the great trapping expedition under the leadership
of James Ashley, and with it travelled to the far West, remote from the
extreme limit of border civilization, where he became the compeer and
comrade of Carson, and certainly the foremost mountaineer, strictly
speaking, the United States has produced.

Having left behind him all possibilities of education at such an
early age, he was illiterate in his speech and as ignorant of the
conventionalities of polite society as an Indian; but he possessed a
heart overflowing with the milk of human kindness, was generous in the
extreme, and honest and true as daylight.

He was especially distinguished for the discovery of a defile through
the intricate mazes of the Rocky Mountains, which bears his name,
Bridger's Pass. He rendered important services as guide and scout during
the early preliminary surveys for a transcontinental railroad, and for a
series of years was in the employ of the government, in the old regular
army on the great plains and in the mountains, long before the breaking
out of the Civil War. To Bridger also belongs the honour of having seen,
first of all white men, the Great Salt Lake of Utah, in the winter of
1824-25.

After a series of adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and terrible
encounters with the Indians, in 1856 he purchased a farm near Westport,
Missouri; but soon left it in his hunger for the mountains, to return
to it only when worn-out and blind, to be buried there without even the
rudest tablet to mark the spot.

"I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country
churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets." This quotation came to
my mind one Sunday morning two or three years ago, as I mused over
Bridger's neglected grave among the low hills beyond the quaint old town
of Westport. I thought I knew, as I stood there, that he whose bones
were mouldering beneath the blossoming clover at my feet, would have
wished for his last couch a more perfect solitude and isolation from the
wearisome world's busy sound than even the immortal Burke.

The grassy mound, over which there was no stone to record the name
of its occupant, covered the remains of the last of his class, a type
vanished forever, for the border is a thing of the past; and upon the
gentle breeze of that delightful morning, like the droning of bees in
a full flowered orchard, was wafted to my ears the hum of Kansas City's
civilization, only three or four miles distant, in all of which I
was sure there was nothing that would have been congenial to the old
frontiersman.

At one time early in the '60's, while the engineers of the proposed
Union Pacific Railway were temporarily in Denver, then an insignificant
mushroom-hamlet, they became somewhat confused as to the most
practicable point in the range over which to run their line. After
debating the question, they determined, upon a suggestion from some of
the old settlers, to send for Jim Bridger, who was then visiting in St.
Louis. A pass, via the overland stage, was enclosed in a letter to him,
and he was urged to start for Denver at once, though nothing of the
business for which his presence was required was told him in the text.

In about two weeks the old man arrived, and the next morning, after he
had rested, asked why he had been sent for from such a distance.

The engineers then began to explain their dilemma. The old mountaineer
waited patiently until they had finished, when, with a look of disgust
on his withered countenance, he demanded a large piece of paper,
remarking at the same time,--

"I could a told you fellers all that in St. Louis, and saved you the
expense of bringing me out here."

He was handed a sheet of manilla paper, used for drawing the details of
bridge plans. The veteran pathfinder spread it on the ground before him,
took a dead coal from the ashes of the fire, drew a rough outline map,
and pointing to a certain peak just visible on the serrated horizon,
said,--

"There's where you fellers can cross with your road, and nowhere else,
without more diggin' an' cuttin' than you think of."

That crude map is preserved, I have been told, in the archives of the
great corporation, and its line crosses the main spurs of the Rocky
Mountains, just where Bridger said it could with the least work.

The resemblance of old John Smith, another of the coterie, to President
Andrew Johnson was absolutely astonishing. When that chief magistrate,
in his "swinging around the circle," had arrived at St. Louis, and was
riding through the streets of that city in an open barouche, he was
pointed out to Bridger, who happened to be there. But the venerable
guide and scout, with supreme disgust depicted on his countenance at the
idea of any one attempting to deceive him, said to his informant,--

"H---l! Bill, you can't fool me! That's old John Smith."

At one time many years ago, during Bridger's first visit to St. Louis,
then a relatively small place, a friend accidentally came across him
sitting on a dry-goods box in one of the narrow streets, evidently
disgusted with his situation. To the inquiry as to what he was doing
there all alone, the old man replied,--

"I've been settin' in this infernal canyon ever sence mornin', waitin'
for some one to come along an' invite me to take a drink. Hundreds of
fellers has passed both ways, but none of 'em has opened his head. I
never seen sich a onsociable crowd!"

Bridger had a fund of most remarkable stories, which he had drawn upon
so often that he really believed them to be true.

General Gatlin,[51] who was graduated from West Point in the early
'30's, and commanded Fort Gibson in the Cherokee Nation over sixty years
ago, told me that he remembered Bridger very well; and had once asked
the old guide whether he had ever been in the great canyon of the
Colorado River.

"Yes, sir," replied the mountaineer, "I have, many a time. There's where
the oranges and lemons bear all the time, and the only place I was ever
at where the moon's always full!"

He told me and also many others, at various times, that in the winter
of 1830 it began to snow in the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and
continued for seventy days without cessation. The whole country was
covered to a depth of seventy feet, and all the vast herds of buffalo
were caught in the storm and died, but their carcasses were perfectly
preserved.

"When spring came, all I had to do," declared he, "was to tumble 'em
into Salt Lake, an' I had pickled buffalo enough for myself and the
whole Ute Nation for years!"

He said that on account of that terrible storm, which annihilated them,
there have been no buffalo in that region since.

Bridger had been the guide, interpreter, and companion of that
distinguished Irish sportsman, Sir George Gore, whose strange tastes
led him in 1855 to abandon life in Europe and bury himself for over two
years among the savages in the wildest and most unfrequented glens of
the Rocky Mountains.

The outfit and adventures of this titled Nimrod, conducted as they were
on the largest scale, exceeded anything of the kind ever before seen
on this continent, and the results of his wanderings will compare
favourably with those of Gordon Cumming in Africa.

Some idea may be formed of the magnitude of his outfit when it is
stated that his retinue consisted of about fifty individuals, including
secretaries, steward, cooks, fly-makers, dog-tenders, servants, etc.
He was borne over the country with a train of thirty wagons, besides
numerous saddle-horses and dogs.

During his lengthened hunt he killed the enormous aggregate of forty
grizzly bears and twenty-five hundred buffalo, besides numerous antelope
and other small game.

Bridger said of Sir George that he was a bold, dashing, and successful
hunter, and an agreeable gentleman. His habit was to lie in bed until
about ten or eleven o'clock in the morning, then he took a bath, ate his
breakfast, and set out, generally alone, for the day's hunt, and it was
not unusual for him to remain out until ten at night, seldom returning
to the tents without augmenting the catalogue of his beasts. His
dinner was then served, to which he generally extended an invitation to
Bridger, and after the meal was over, and a few glasses of wine had been
drunk, he was in the habit of reading from some book, and eliciting
from Bridger his comments thereon. His favourite author was Shakespeare,
which Bridger "reckin'd was too highfalutin" for him; moreover he
remarked, "thet he rather calcerlated that thar big Dutchman, Mr.
Full-stuff, was a leetle too fond of lager beer," and thought it would
have been better for the old man if he had "stuck to Bourbon whiskey
straight."

Bridger seemed very much interested in the adventures of Baron
Munchausen, but admitted after Sir George had finished reading them,
that "he be dog'oned ef he swallered everything that thar Baron
Munchausen said," and thought he was "a darned liar," yet he
acknowledged that some of his own adventures among the Blackfeet woul be
equally marvellous "if writ down in a book."

A man whose one act had made him awe-inspiring was Belzy Dodd. Uncle
Dick Wooton, in relating the story, says: "I don't know what his first
name was, but Belzy was what we called him. His head was as bald as a
billiard ball, and he wore a wig. One day while we were all at Bent's
Fort, while there were a great number of Indians about, Belzy concluded
to have a bit of fun. He walked around, eying the Indians fiercely
for some time, and finally, dashing in among them, he gave a series of
war-whoops which discounted a Comanche yell, and pulling off his wig,
threw it down at the feet of the astonished and terror-stricken red men.

"The savages thought the fellow had jerked off his own scalp, and not
one of them wanted to stay and see what would happen next. They left the
fort, running like so many scared jack-rabbits, and after that none of
them could be induced to approach anywhere near Dodd."

They called him "The-white-man-who-scalps-himself," and Uncle Dick said
that he believed he could have travelled across the plains alone with
perfect safety.

Jim Baker was another noted mountaineer and hunter of the same era as
Carson, Bridger, Wooton, Hobbs, and many others. Next to Kit Carson,
Baker was General Fremont's most valued scout.

He was born in Illinois, and lived at home until he was eighteen years
of age, when he enlisted in the service of the American Fur Company,
went immediately to the Rocky Mountains, and remained there until his
death. He married a wife according to the Indian custom, from the Snake
tribe, living with her relatives many years and cultivating many of
their habits, ideas, and superstitions. He firmly believed in the
efficacy of the charms and incantations of the medicine men in curing
diseases, divining where their enemy was to be found, forecasting
the result of war expeditions, and other such ridiculous matters.
Unfortunately, too, Baker would sometimes take a little more whiskey
than he could conveniently carry, and often made a fool of himself, but
he was a generous, noble-hearted fellow, who would risk his life for a
friend at any time, or divide his last morsel of food.

Like mountaineers generally, Baker was liberal to a fault, and eminently
improvident. He made a fortune by his work, but at the annual rendezvous
of the traders, at Bent's Fort or the old Pueblo, would throw away the
earnings of months in a few days' jollification.

He told General Marcy, who was a warm friend of his, that after one
season in which he had been unusually successful in accumulating a large
amount of valuable furs, from the sale of which he had realized the
handsome sum of nine thousand dollars, he resolved to abandon his
mountain life, return to the settlements, buy a farm, and live
comfortably during the remainder of his days. He accordingly made ready
to leave, and was on the eve of starting when a friend invited him to
visit a monte-bank which had been organized at the rendezvous. He was
easily led away, determined to take a little social amusement with his
old comrade, whom he might never see again, and followed him; the result
of which was that the whiskey circulated freely, and the next morning
found Baker without a cent of money; he had lost everything. His entire
plans were thus frustrated, and he returned to the mountains, hunting
with the Indians until he died.

Jim Baker's opinions of the wild Indians of the great plains and
the mountains were very decided: "That they are the most onsartinist
varmints in all creation, an' I reckon thar not more'n half human; for
you never seed a human, arter you'd fed an' treated him to the best
fixin's in your lodge, jis turn round and steal all your horses, or ary
other thing he could lay his hands on. No, not adzactly. He would feel
kind o' grateful, and ask you to spread a blanket in his lodge ef you
ever came his way. But the Injin don't care shucks for you, and is ready
to do you a lot of mischief as soon as he quits your feed. No, Cap.,"
he said to Marcy when relating this, "it's not the right way to make 'em
gifts to buy a peace; but ef I war gov'nor of these United States, I'll
tell what I'd do. I'd invite 'em all to a big feast, and make 'em think
I wanted to have a talk; and as soon as I got 'em together, I'd light in
and raise the har of half of 'em, and then t'other half would be mighty
glad to make terms that would stick. That's the way I'd make a treaty
with the dog'oned red-bellied varmints; and as sure as you're born,
Cap., that's the only way."

The general, when he first met Baker, inquired of him if he had
travelled much over the settlements of the United States before he came
to the mountains; to which he said: "Right smart, right smart, Cap."
He then asked whether he had visited New York or New Orleans. "No, I
hasn't, Cap., but I'll tell you whar I have been. I've been mighty nigh
all over four counties in the State of Illinois!"

He was very fond of his squaw and children, and usually treated them
kindly; only when he was in liquor did he at all maltreat them.

Once he came over into New Mexico, where General Marcy was stationed at
the time, and determined that for the time being he would cast aside
his leggings, moccasins, and other mountain dress, and wear a civilized
wardrobe. Accordingly, he fitted himself out with one. When Marcy met
him shortly after he had donned the strange clothes, he had undergone
such an entire change that the general remarked he should hardly have
known him. He did not take kindly to this, and said: "Consarn these
store butes, Cap.; they choke my feet like h---l." It was the first time
in twenty years that he had worn anything on his feet but moccasins, and
they were not ready for the torture inflicted by breaking in a new pair
of absurdly fitting boots. He soon threw them away, and resumed the
softer foot-gear of the mountains.

Baker was a famous bear hunter, and had been at the death of many a
grizzly. On one occasion he was setting his traps with a comrade on the
head waters of the Arkansas, when they suddenly met two young grizzly
bears about the size of full-grown dogs. Baker remarked to his friend
that if they could "light in and kill the varmints" with their knives,
it would be a big thing to boast of. They both accordingly laid aside
their rifles and "lit in," Baker attacking one and his comrade the
other. The bears immediately raised themselves on their haunches, and
were ready for the encounter. Baker ran around, endeavouring to get in a
blow from behind with his long knife; but the young brute he had tackled
was too quick for him, and turned as he went around so as always to
confront him face to face. He knew if he came within reach of his claws,
that although young, he could inflict a formidable wound; moreover, he
was in fear that the howls of the cubs would bring the infuriated mother
to their rescue, when the hunters' chances of getting away would be
slim. These thoughts floated hurriedly through his mind, and made him
desirous to end the fight as soon as he could. He made many vicious
lunges at the bear, but the animal invariably warded them off with his
strong fore legs like a boxer. This kind of tactics, however, cost the
lively beast several severe cuts on his shoulders, which made him
the more furious. At length he took the offensive, and with his month
frothing with rage, bounded toward Baker, who caught and wrestled with
him, succeeding in giving him a death-wound under the ribs.

While all this was going on, his comrade had been furiously engaged with
the other bear, and by this time had become greatly exhausted, with the
odds decidedly against him. He entreated Baker to come to his assistance
at once, which he did; but much to his astonishment, as soon as he
entered the second contest his comrade ran off, leaving him to fight
the battle alone. He was, however, again victorious, and soon had the
satisfaction of seeing his two antagonists stretched out in front of
him, but as he expressed it, "I made my mind up I'd never fight nary
nother grizzly without a good shootin'-iron in my paws."

He established a little store at the crossing of Green River, and
had for some time been doing a fair business in trafficking with the
emigrants and trading with the Indians; but shortly a Frenchman came to
the same locality and set up a rival establishment, which, of course,
divided the limited trade, and naturally reduced the income of Baker's
business.

This engendered a bitter feeling of hostility, which soon culminated in
a cessation of all social intercourse between the two men. About this
time General Marcy arrived there on his way to California, and he
describes the situation of affairs thus:--

"I found Baker standing in his door, with a revolver loaded and cocked
in each hand, very drunk and immensely excited. I dismounted and
asked him the cause of all this disturbance. He answered: 'That thar
yaller-bellied, toad-eatin' Parly Voo, over thar, an' me, we've been
havin' a small chance of a scrimmage to-day. The sneakin' pole-cat, I'll
raise his har yet, ef he don't quit these diggins'!'

"It seems that they had an altercation in the morning, which ended in
a challenge, when they ran to their cabins, seized their revolvers, and
from the doors, which were only about a hundred yards from each other,
fired. Then they retired to their cabins, took a drink of whiskey,
reloaded their revolvers, and again renewed the combat. This strange
duel had been going on for several hours when I arrived, but,
fortunately for them, the whiskey had such an effect on their nerves
that their aim was very unsteady, and none of the shots had as yet taken
effect.

"I took away Baker's revolvers, telling him how ashamed I was to find a
man of his usually good sense making such a fool of himself. He gave in
quietly, saying that he knew I was his friend, but did not think I would
wish to have him take insults from a cowardly Frenchman.

"The following morning at daylight Jim called at my tent to bid me
good-by, and seemed very sorry for what had occurred the day before.
He stated that this was the first time since his return from New Mexico
that he had allowed himself to drink whiskey, and when the whiskey was
in him he had 'nary sense.'"

Among the many men who have distinguished themselves as mountaineers,
traders, and Indian fighters along the line of the Old Trail, was one
who eventually became the head chief of one of the most numerous
and valorous tribes of North American savages--James P. Beckwourth.
Estimates of him vary considerably. Francis Parkman, the historian, who
I think never saw him and writes merely from hearsay, says: "He is a
ruffian of the worst class; bloody and treacherous, without honor or
honesty; such, at least, is the character he bears on the great plains.
Yet in his case the standard rules of character fail; for though he will
stab a man in his slumber, he will also do the most desperate and daring
acts."

I never saw Beckwourth, but I have heard of him from those of my
mountaineer friends who knew him intimately; I think that he died long
before Parkman made his tour to the Rocky Mountains. Colonel Boone, the
Bents, Carson, Maxwell, and others ascribed to him no such traits as
those given by Parkman, and as to his honesty, it is an unquestioned
fact that Beckwourth was the most honest trader among the Indians of all
who were then engaged in the business. As Kit Carson and Colonel Boone
were the only Indian agents whom I ever knew or heard of that dealt
honestly with the various tribes, as they were always ready to
acknowledge, and the withdrawal of the former by the government was the
cause of a great war, so also Beckwourth was an honest Indian trader.

He was a born leader of men, and was known from the Yellowstone to the
Rio Grande, from Santa Fe to Independence, and in St. Louis. From the
latter town he ran away when a boy with a party of trappers, and himself
became one of the most successful of that hardy class. The woman who
bore him had played in her childhood beneath the palm trees of Africa;
his father was a native of France, and went to the banks of the wild
Mississippi of his own free will, but probably also from reasons of
political interest to his government.

In person Beckwourth was of medium height and great muscular power,
quick of apprehension, and with courage of the highest order. Probably
no man ever met with more personal adventures involving danger to life,
even among the mountaineers and trappers who early in the century
faced the perils of the remote frontier. From his neck he always wore
suspended a perforated bullet, with a large oblong bead on each side of
it, tied in place by a single thread of sinew. This amulet he obtained
while chief of the Crows,[52] and it was his "medicine," with which he
excited the superstition of his warriors.

His success as a trader among the various tribes of Indians has never
been surpassed; for his close intimacy with them made him know what
would best please their taste, and they bought of him when other traders
stood idly at their stockades, waiting almost hopelessly for customers.

But Beckwourth himself said: "The traffic in whiskey for Indian property
was one of the most infernal practices ever entered into by man. Let the
most casual thinker sit down and figure up the profits on a forty-gallon
cask of alcohol, and he will be thunderstruck, or rather whiskey-struck.
When it was to be disposed of, four gallons of water were added to each
gallon of alcohol. In two hundred gallons there are sixteen hundred
pints, for each one of which the trader got a buffalo-robe worth five
dollars. The Indian women toiled many long weeks to dress those sixteen
hundred robes. The white traders got them for worse than nothing; for
the poor Indian mother hid herself and her children until the effect of
the poison passed away from the husband and father, who loved them when
he had no whiskey, and abused and killed them when he had. Six thousand
dollars for sixty gallons of alcohol! Is it a wonder with such profits
that men got rich who were engaged in the fur trade? Or was it a miracle
that the buffalo were gradually exterminated?--killed with so little
remorse that the hides, among the Indians themselves, were known by the
appellation of 'A pint of whiskey.'"

Beckwourth claims to have established the Pueblo where the beautiful
city of Pueblo, Colorado, is now situated. He says: "On the 1st of
October, 1842, on the Upper Arkansas, I erected a trading-post and
opened a successful business. In a very short time I was joined by from
fifteen to twenty free trappers, with their families. We all united
our labour and constructed an adobe fort sixty yards square. By the
following spring it had grown into quite a little settlement, and we
gave it the name of Pueblo."

CHAPTER XVII. UNCLE DICK WOOTON.

Immediately after Kit Carson, the second wreath of pioneer laurels, for
bravery and prowess as an Indian fighter, and trapper, must be conceded
to Richens Lacy Wooton, known first as "Dick," in his younger days on
the plains, then, when age had overtaken him, as "Uncle Dick."

Born in Virginia, his father, when he was but seven years of age,
removed with his family to Kentucky, where he cultivated a tobacco
plantation. Like his predecessor and lifelong friend Carson, young
Wooton tired of the monotony of farming, and in the summer of 1836 made
a trip to the busy frontier town of Independence, Missouri, where he
found a caravan belonging to Colonel St. Vrain and the Bents, already
loaded, and ready to pull out for the fort built by the latter, and
named for them.

Wooton had a fair business education, and was superior in this respect
to his companions in the caravan to which he had attached himself. It
was by those rough, but kind-hearted, men that he was called "Dick," as
they could not readily master the more complicated name of "Richens."

When he started from Independence on his initial trip across the plains,
he was only nineteen, but, like all Kentuckians, perfectly familiar with
a rifle, and could shoot out a squirrel's eye with the certainty which
long practice and hardened nerves assures.

The caravan, in which he was employed as a teamster, was composed of
only seven wagons; but a larger one, in which were more than fifty, had
preceded it, and as that was heavily laden, and the smaller one only
lightly, it was intended to overtake the former before the dangerous
portions of the Trail were reached, which it did in a few days and was
assigned a place in the long line.

Every man had to take his turn in standing guard, and the first night
that it fell to young Wooton was at Little Cow Creek, in the Upper
Arkansas valley. Nothing had occurred thus far during the trip to
imperil the safety of the caravan, nor was any attack by the savages
looked for.

Wooton's post comprehended the whole length of one side of the corral,
and his instructions were to shoot anything he saw moving outside of
the line of mules farthest from the wagons. The young sentry was
very vigilant. He did not feel at all sleepy, but eagerly watched for
something that might possibly come within the prescribed distance,
though not really expecting such a contingency.

About two o'clock he heard a slight noise, and saw something moving
about, sixty or seventy yards from where he was lying on the ground, to
which he had dropped the moment the strange sound reached his ears.
Of course, his first thoughts were of Indians, and the more he peered
through the darkness at the slowly moving object, the more convinced he
was that it must be a blood-thirsty savage.

He rose to his feet and blazed away, the shot rousing everbody, and all
came rushing with their guns to learn what the matter was.

Wooton told the wagon-master that he had seen what he supposed was an
Indian trying to slip up to the mules, and that he had killed him. Some
of the men crept very circumspectly to the spot where the supposed
dead savage was lying, while young Wooton remained at his post eagerly
waiting for their report. Presently he heard a voice cry out: "I'll be
d---d ef he hain't killed 'Old Jack!'"

"Old Jack" was one of the lead mules of one of the wagons. He had torn
up his picket-pin and strayed outside of the lines, with the result
that the faithful brute met his death at the hands of the sentry. Wooton
declared that he was not to be blamed; for the animal had disobeyed
orders, while he had strictly observed them![53]

At Pawnee Fork, a few days later, the caravan had a genuine tussle with
the Comanches. It was a bright moonlight night, and about two hundred
of the mounted savages attacked them. It was a rare thing for Indians
to begin a raid after dark, but they swept down on the unsuspecting
teamsters, yelling like a host of demons. They were armed with bows and
arrows generally, though a few of them had fusees.[54] They received a
warm greeting, although they were not expected, the guard noticing the
savages in time to prevent a stampede of the animals, which evidently
was the sole purpose for which they came, as they did not attempt to
break through the corral to get at the wagons. It was the mules they
were after. They charged among the men, vainly endeavouring to frighten
the animals and make them break loose, discharging showers of arrows as
they rode by. The camp was too hot for them, however, defended as it was
by old teamsters who had made the dangerous passage of the plains many
times before, and were up to all the Indian tactics. They failed to get
a single mule, but paid for their temerity by leaving three of their
party dead, just where they had been tumbled off their horses, not even
having time to carry the bodies off, as they usually do.

Wooton passed some time during the early days of his career at Bent's
Fort, in 1836-37. He was a great favourite with both of the proprietors,
and with them went to the several Indian villages, where he learned the
art of trading with the savages.

The winters of the years mentioned were noted for the incursions of the
Pawnees into the region of the fort. They always pretended friendship
for the whites, when any of them were inside of its sacred precincts,
but their whole manner changed when they by some stroke of fortune
caught a trapper or hunter alone on the prairie or in the foot-hills; he
was a dead man sure, and his scalp was soon dangling at the belt of his
cowardly assassins. Hardly a day passed without witnessing some poor
fellow running for the fort with a band of the red devils after him;
frequently he escaped the keen edge of their scalping-knife, but every
once in a while a man was killed. At one time, two herders who were with
their animals within fifty yards of the fort, going out to the grazing
ground, were killed and every hoof of stock run off.

A party from the fort, comprising only eight men, among whom was young
Wooton, made up for lost time with the Indians, at the crossing of
Pawnee Fork, the same place where he had had his first fight. The men
had set out from the fort for the purpose of meeting a small caravan of
wagons from the East, loaded with supplies for the Bents' trading post.
It happened that a band of sixteen Pawnees were watching for the arrival
of the train, too.[55] Wooton's party were well mounted, while the
Pawnees were on foot, and although the savages were two to one, the
advantage was decidedly in favour of the whites.

The Indians were armed with bows and arrows only, and while it was
an easy matter for the whites to keep out of the way of the shower of
missiles which the Indians commenced to hurl at them, the latter became
an easy prey to the unerring rifles of their assailants, who killed
thirteen out of the sixteen in a very short time. The remaining three
took French leave of their comrades at the beginning of the conflict,
and abandoning their arms rushed up to the caravan, which was just
appearing over a small divide, and gave themselves up. The Indian
custom was observed in their case,[56] although it was rarely that any
prisoners were taken in these conflicts on the Trail. Another curious
custom was also followed.[57] When the party encamped they were well
fed, and the next morning supplied with rations enough to last them
until they could reach one of their villages, and sent off to tell their
head chief what had become of the rest of his warriors.

Wooton had an adventure once while he was stationed at Bent's Fort
during a trading expedition with the Utes, on the Purgatoire, or
Purgatory River,[58] about ten or twelve miles from Trinidad. He had
taken with him, with others, a Shawnee Indian. Only a short time before
their departure from the fort, an Indian of that tribe had been murdered
by a Ute, and one day this Shawnee who was with Wooton spied a Ute, when
revenge inspired him, and he forthwith killed his enemy. Knowing that as
soon as the news of the shooting reached the Ute village, which was not
a great distance off, the whole tribe would be down upon him, Wooton
abandoned any attempt to trade with them and tried to get out of their
country as quickly as he could.

As he expected, the Utes followed on his trail, and came up with his
little party on a prairie where there was not the slightest chance to
ambush or hide. They had to fight, because they could not help it,
but resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible, as the Utes
outnumbered them twenty to one; Wooton having only eight men with him,
including the Shawnee.

The pack-animals, of which they had a great many, loaded with the goods
intended for the savages, were corralled in a circle, inside of which
the men hurried themselves and awaited the first assault of the foe.
In a few moments the Utes began to circle around the trappers and open
fire. The trappers promptly responded, and they made every shot count;
for all of the men, not even excepting the Shawnee, were experts with
the rifle. They did not mind the arrows which the Utes showered upon
them, as few, if any, reached to where they stood. The savages had a few
guns, but they were of the poorest quality; besides, they did not know
how to handle them then as they learned to do later, so their bullets
were almost as harmless as their arrows.

The trappers made terrible havoc among the Utes' horses, killing so many
of them that the savages in despair abandoned the fight and gave Wooton
and his men an opportunity to get away, which they did as rapidly as
possible.

The Raton Pass, through which the Old Trail ran, was a relatively fair
mountain road, but originally it was almost impossible for anything
in the shape of a wheeled vehicle to get over the narrow rock-ribbed
barrier; saddle horses and pack-mules could, however, make the trip
without much difficulty. It was the natural highway to southeastern
Colorado and northeastern New Mexico, but the overland coaches could not
get to Trinidad by the shortest route, and as the caravans also desired
to make the same line, it occurred to Uncle Dick that he would undertake
to hew out a road through the pass, which, barring grades, should be as
good as the average turnpike. He could see money in it for him, as he
expected to charge toll, keeping the road in repair at his own expense,
and he succeeded in procuring from the legislatures of Colorado and New
Mexico charters covering the rights and privileges which he demanded for
his project.

In the spring of 1866, Uncle Dick took up his abode on the top of the
mountains, built his home, and lived there until two years ago, when he
died at a very ripe old age.

The old trapper had imposed on himself anything but an easy task in
constructing his toll-road. There were great hillsides to cut out,
immense ledges of rocks to blast, bridges to build by the dozen, and
huge trees to fell, besides long lines of difficult grading to engineer.

Eventually Uncle Dick's road was a fact, but when it was completed, how
to make it pay was a question that seriously disturbed his mind. The
method he employed to solve the problem I will quote in his own words:
"Such a thing as a toll-road was unknown in the country at that time.
People who had come from the States understood, of course, that the
object of building a turnpike was to enable the owner to collect toll
from those who travelled over it, but I had to deal with a great many
people who seemed to think that they should be as free to travel over my
well-graded and bridged roadway as they were to follow an ordinary cow
path.

"I may say that I had five classes of patrons to do business with. There
was the stage company and its employees, the freighters, the military
authorities, who marched troops and transported supplies over the road,
the Mexicans, and the Indians.

"With the stage company, the military authorities, and the American
freighters I had no trouble. With the Indians, when a band came through
now and then, I didn't care to have any controversy about so small a
matter as a few dollars toll! Whenever they came along, the toll-gate
went up, and any other little thing I could do to hurry them on was done
promptly and cheerfully. While the Indians didn't understand anything
about the system of collecting tolls, they seemed to recognize the fact
that I had a right to control the road, and they would generally ride up
to the gate and ask permission to go through. Once in a while the chief
of a band would think compensation for the privilege of going through
in order, and would make me a present of a buckskin or something of that
sort.

"My Mexican patrons were the hardest to get along with. Paying for the
privilege of travelling over any road was something they were totally
unused to, and they did not take to it kindly. They were pleased with my
road and liked to travel over it, until they came to the toll-gate. This
they seemed to look upon as an obstruction that no man had a right to
place in the way of a free-born native of the mountain region. They
appeared to regard the toll-gate as a new scheme for holding up
travellers for the purpose of robbery, and many of them evidently
thought me a kind of freebooter, who ought to be suppressed by law.

"Holding these views, when I asked them for a certain amount of money,
before raising the toll-gate, they naturally differed with me very
frequently about the propriety of complying with the request.

"In other words, there would be at such times probably an honest
difference of opinion between the man who kept the toll-gate and the man
who wanted to get through it. Anyhow, there was a difference, and such
differences had to be adjusted. Sometimes I did it through diplomacy,
and sometimes I did it with a club. It was always settled one way,
however, and that was in accordance with the toll schedule, so that I
could never have been charged with unjust discrimination of rates."

Soon after the road was opened a company composed of Californians and
Mexicans, commanded by a Captain Haley, passed Uncle Dick's toll-gate
and house, escorting a large caravan of about a hundred and fifty
wagons. While they stopped there, a non-commissioned officer of the
party was brutally murdered by three soldiers, and Uncle Dick came very
near being a witness to the atrocious deed.

The murdered man was a Mexican, and his slayers were Mexicans too. The
trouble originated at Las Vegas, where the privates had been bound
and gagged, by order of the corporal, for creating a disturbance at a
fandango the evening before.

The name of the corporal was Juan Torres, and he came down to Uncle
Dick's one evening while the command was encamped on the top of the
mountain, accompanied by the three privates, who had already plotted to
kill him, though he had not the slightest suspicion of it.

Uncle Dick, in telling the story, said: "They left at an early hour,
going in an opposite direction from their camp, and I closed my doors
soon after, for the night. They had not been gone more than half an
hour, when I heard them talking not far from my house, and a few seconds
later I heard the half-suppressed cry of a man who has received his
death-blow.

"I had gone to bed, and lay for a minute or two thinking whether I
should get up and go to the rescue or insure my own safety by remaining
where I was.

"A little reflection convinced me that the murderers were undoubtedly
watching my house, to prevent any interference with the carrying out
of their plot, and that if I ventured out I should only endanger my own
life, while there was scarcely a possibility of my being able to save
the life of the man who had been assailed.

"In the morning, when I got up, I found the dead body of the corporal
stretched across Raton Creek, not more than a hundred yards from my
house.

"As I surmised, he had been struck with a heavy club or stone, and it
was at that time that I heard his cry. After that his brains had been
beaten out, and the body left where I had found it.

"I at once notified Captain Haley of the occurrence, and identified the
men who had been in company with the corporal, and who were undoubtedly
his murderers.

"They were taken into custody, and made a confession, in which they
stated that one of their number had stood at my door on the night of the
murder to shoot me if I had ventured out to assist the corporal. Two of
the scoundrels were hung afterward at Las Vegas, and the third sent to
prison for life."

The corporal was buried near where the soldiers were encamped at
the time of the tragedy, and it is his lonely grave which frequently
attracts the attention of the passengers on the Atchison, Topeka, and
Santa Fe trains, just before the Raton tunnel is reached, as they travel
southward.

In 1866-67 the Indians broke out, infesting all the most prominent
points of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and watching an opportunity to rob and
murder, so that the government freight caravans and the stages had to
be escorted by detachments of troops. Fort Larned was the western limit
where these escorts joined the outfits going over into New Mexico.

There were other dangers attending the passage of the Trail to
travellers by the stage besides the attacks of the savages. These were
the so-called road agents--masked robbers who regarded life as of little
worth in the accomplishment of their nefarious purposes. Particularly
were they common after the mines of New Mexico began to be operated by
Americans. The object of the bandits was generally the strong box of
the express company, which contained money and other valuables. They
did not, of course, hesitate to take what ready cash and jewelry the
passengers might happen to have upon their persons, and frequently their
hauls amounted to large sums.

When the coaches began to travel over Uncle Dick's toll-road, his house
was made a station, and he had many stage stories. He said:--

"Tavern-keepers in those days couldn't choose their guests, and we
entertained them just as they came along. The knights of the road would
come by now and then, order a meal, eat it hurriedly, pay for it,
and move on to where they had arranged to hold up a stage that night.
Sometimes they did not wait for it to get dark, but halted the stage,
went through the treasure box in broad daylight, and then ordered the
driver to move on in one direction, while they went off in another.

"One of the most daring and successful stage robberies that I remember
was perpetrated by two men, when the east-bound coach was coming up on
the south side of the Raton Mountains, one day about ten o'clock in the
forenoon.

"On the morning of the same day, a little after sunrise, two rather
genteel-looking fellows, mounted on fine horses, rode up to my house and
ordered breakfast. Being informed that breakfast would be ready in a few
minutes, they dismounted, hitched their horses near the door, and came
into the house.

"I knew then, just as well as I do now, they were robbers, but I had no
warrant for their arrest, and I should have hesitated about serving it
if I had, because they looked like very unpleasant men to transact that
kind of business with.

"Each of them had four pistols sticking in his belt and a repeating
rifle strapped on to his saddle. When they dismounted, they left their
rifles with the horses, but walked into the house and sat down at the
table, without laying aside the arsenal which they carried in their
belts.

"They had little to say while eating, but were courteous in their
behaviour, and very polite to the waiters. When they had finished
breakfast, they paid their bills, and rode leisurely up the mountain.

"It did not occur to me that they would take chances on stopping the
stage in daylight, or I should have sent some one to meet the incoming
coach, which I knew would be along shortly, to warn the driver and
passengers to be on the lookout for robbers.

"It turned out, however, that a daylight robbery was just what they had
in mind, and they made a success of it.

"About halfway down the New Mexico side of the mountain, where the
canyon is very narrow, and was then heavily wooded on either side, the
robbers stopped and waited for the coach. It came lumbering along by and
by, neither the driver nor the passengers dreaming of a hold-up.

"The first intimation they had of such a thing was when they saw two men
step into the road, one on each side of the stage, each of them holding
two cocked revolvers, one of which was brought to bear on the passengers
and the other on the driver, who were politely but very positively told
that they must throw up their hands without any unnecessary delay, and
the stage came to a standstill.

"There were four passengers in the coach, all men, but their hands went
up at the same instant that the driver dropped his reins and struck an
attitude that suited the robbers.

"Then, while one of the men stood guard, the other stepped up to the
stage and ordered the treasure box thrown off. This demand was
complied with, and the box was broken and rifled of its contents, which
fortunately were not of very great value.

"The passengers were compelled to hand out their watches and other
jewelry, as well as what money they had in their pockets, and then the
driver was directed to move up the road. In a minute after this the
robbers had disappeared with their booty, and that was the last seen of
them by that particular coach-load of passengers.

"The men who planned and executed that robbery were two cool,
level-headed, and daring scoundrels, known as 'Chuckle-luck' and
'Magpie.' They were killed soon after this occurrence, by a member of
their own band, whose name was Seward. A reward of a thousand dollars
had been offered for their capture, an this tempted Seward to kill them,
one night when they were asleep in camp.

"He then secured a wagon, into which he loaded the dead robbers,
and hauled them to Cimarron City, where he turned them over to the
authorities and received his reward."

Among the Arapahoes Wooton was called "Cut Hand," from the fact that he
had lost two fingers on his left hand by an accident in his childhood.
The tribe had the utmost veneration for the old trapper, and he was
perfectly safe at any time in their villages or camps; it had been the
request of a dying chief, who was once greatly favoured by Wooton, that
his warriors should never injure him although the nation might be at war
with all the rest of the whites in the world.

Uncle Dick died a few seasons ago, at the age of nearly ninety. He was
blind for some time, but a surgical operation partly restored his sight,
which made the old man happy, because he could look again upon the
beautiful scenery surrounding his mountain home, really the grandest in
the entire Raton Range. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad
had one of its freight locomotives named "Uncle Dick," in honour of the
veteran mountaineer, past whose house it hauled the heavy-laden trains
up the steep grade crossing into the valley beyond. At the time of its
baptism, now fifteen or sixteen years ago, it was the largest freight
engine in the world.

Old Bill Williams was another character of the early days of the Trail,
and was called so when Carson, Uncle Dick Wooton, and Maxwell were
comparatively young in the mountains. He was, at the time of their
advent in the remote West, one of the best known men there, and had been
famous for years as a hunter and trapper. Williams was better acquainted
with every pass in the Rockies than any other man of his time, and
only surpassed by Jim Bridger later. He was with General Fremont on his
exploring expedition across the continent; but the statement of the old
trappers, and that of General Fremont, in relation to his services then,
differ widely. Fremont admits Williams' knowledge of the country over
which he had wandered to have been very extensive, but when put to the
test on the expedition, he came very near sacrificing the lives of all.
This was probably owing to Williams' failing intellect, for when he
joined the great explorer he was past the meridian of life. Now the
old mountaineers contend that if Fremont had profited by the old man's
advice, he would never have run into the deathtrap which cost him three
men, and in which he lost all his valuable papers, his instruments,
and the animals which he and his party were riding. The expedition had
followed the Arkansas River to its source, and the general had selected
a route which he desired to pursue in crossing the mountains. It
was winter, and Williams explained to him that it was perfectly
impracticable to get over at that season. The general, however, ignoring
the statement, listened to another of his party, a man who had no such
experience but said that he could pilot the expedition. Before they had
fairly started, they were caught in one of the most terrible snowstorms
the region had ever witnessed, in which all their horses and mules were
literally frozen to death. Then, when it was too late, they turned
back, abandoning their instruments, and able only to carry along a
very limited stock of food. The storm continued to rage, so that even
Williams failed to prevent them from getting lost, and they wandered
about aimlessly for many days before they luckily arrived at Taos,
suffering seriously from exhaustion and hunger. Three of the men were
frozen to death on the return trip, and the remaining fifteen were
little better than dead when Uncle Dick Wooton happened to run across
them and piloted them into the village. It was immediately after
this disaster that the three most noted men in the mountains--Carson,
Maxwell, and Dick Owens--became the guides of the pathfinder, with whom
he had no trouble, and to whom he owed more of his success than history
has given them credit for.

At one period of his eventful career, while he lived in Missouri,
before he wandered to the mountains, Old Bill Williams was a Methodist
preacher; of which fact he boasted frequently while he trapped and
hunted with other pioneers. Whenever he related that portion of his
early life, he declared that he "was so well known in his circuit,
that the chickens recognized him as he came riding by the scattered
farmhouses, and the old roosters would crow 'Here comes Parson Williams!
One of us must be made ready for dinner.'"

Upon leaving the States, he travelled very extensively among the various
tribes of Indians who roamed over the great plains and in the mountains.
When sojourning with a certain band, he would invariably adopt their
manners and customs. Whenever he grew tired of that nation, he would
seek another and live as they lived. He had been so long among the
savages that he looked and talked like one, and had imbibed many of
their strange notions and curious superstitions.

To the missionaries he was very useful. He possessed the faculty of
easily acquiring languages that other white men failed to learn, and
could readily translate the Bible into several Indian dialects. His own
conduct, however, was in strange contrast with the precepts of the Holy
Book with which he was so familiar.

To the native Mexicans he was a holy terror and an unsolvable riddle.
They thought him possessed of an evil spirit. He at one time took up
his residence among them and commenced to trade. Shortly after he had
established himself and gathered in a stock of goods, he became involved
in a dispute with some of his customers in relation to his prices. Upon
this he apparently took an intense dislike to the people whom he had
begun to traffic with, and in his disgust tossed his whole mass of
goods into the street, and, taking up his rifle, left at once for the
mountains.

Among the many wild ideas he had imbibed from his long association with
the Indians, was faith in their belief in the transmigration of souls.
He used so to worry his brain for hours cogitating upon this intricate
problem concerning a future state, that he actually pretended to know
exactly the animal whose place he was destined to fill in the world
after he had shaken off this mortal human coil.

Uncle Dick Wooton told how once, when he, Old Bill Williams, and many
other trappers, were lying around the camp-fire one night, the strange
fellow, in a preaching style of delivery, related to them all how he was
to be changed into a buck elk and intended to make his pasture in the
very region where they then were. He described certain peculiarities
which would distinguish him from the common run of elk, and was very
careful to caution all those present never to shoot such an animal,
should they ever run across him.

Williams was regarded as a warm-hearted, brave, and generous man. He was
at last killed by the Indians, while trading with them, but has left his
name to many mountain peaks, rivers, and passes discovered by him.

Tom Tobin, one of the last of the famous trappers, hunters, and Indian
fighters to cross the dark river, flourished in the early days, when the
Rocky Mountains were a veritable terra incognita to nearly all excepting
the hardy employees of the several fur companies and the limited number
of United States troops stationed in their remote wilds.

Tom was an Irishman, quick-tempered, and a dead shot with either rifle,
revolver, or the formidable bowie-knife. He would fight at the drop of
the hat, but no man ever went away from his cabin hungry, if he had a
crust to divide; or penniless, if there was anything remaining in his
purse.

He, like Carson, was rather under the average stature, red-faced, and
lacking much of being an Adonis, but whole-souled, and as quick in his
movements as an antelope.

Tobin played an important rôle in avenging the death of the Americans
killed in the Taos massacre, at the storming of the Indian pueblo, but
his greatest achievement was the ending of the noted bandit Espinosa's
life, who, at the height of his career of blood, was the terror of the
whole mountain region.

At the time of the acquisition of New Mexico by the United States,
Espinosa, who was a Mexican, owning vast herds of cattle and sheep,
resided upon his ancestral hacienda in a sort of barbaric luxury, with a
host of semi-serfs, known as Peons, to do his bidding, as did the other
"Muy Ricos," the "Dons," so called, of his class of natives. These
self-styled aristocrats of the wild country all boasted of their
Castilian blue blood, claiming descent from the nobles of Cortez'
army, but the fact is, however, with rare exceptions, that their male
ancestors, the rank and file of that army, intermarried with the Aztec
women, and they were really only a mixture of Indian and Spanish.

It so happened that Espinosa met an adventurous American, who, with
hundreds of others, had been attached to the "Army of Occupation" in the
Mexican War, or had emigrated from the States to seek their fortunes in
the newly acquired and much over-rated territory.

The Mexican Don and the American became fast friends, the latter making
his home with his newly found acquaintance at the beautiful ranch in the
mountains, where they played the rôle of a modern Damon and Pythias.

Now with Don Espinosa lived his sister, a dark-eyed, bewitchingly
beautiful girl about seventeen years old, with whom the susceptible
American fell deeply in love, and his affection was reciprocated by the
maiden, with a fervour of which only the women of the race from which
she sprang are capable.

The fascinating American had brought with him from his home in one of
the New England States a large amount of money, for his parents were
rich, and spared no indulgence to their only son. He very soon unwisely
made Espinosa his confidant, and told him of the wealth he possessed.

One night after the American had retired to his chamber, adjoining that
of his host, he was surprised, shortly after he had gone to bed, by
discovering a man standing over him, whose hand had already grasped the
buckskin bag under his pillow which contained a considerable portion of
his gold and silver. He sprang from his couch and fired his pistol at
random in the darkness at the would-be robber.

Espinosa, for it was he, was wounded slightly, and, being either enraged
or frightened, he stabbed with his keen-pointed stiletto, which all
Mexicans then carried, the young man whom he had invited to become
his guest, and the blade entered the American's heart, killing him
instantly.

The report of the pistol-shot awakened the other members of the
household, who came rushing into the room just as the victim was
breathing his last. Among them was the sister of the murderer, who,
throwing herself on the body of her dead lover, poured forth the most
bitter curses upon her brother.

Espinosa, realizing the terrible position in which he had placed
himself, then and there determined to become an outlaw, as he could
frame no excuse for his wicked deed. He therefore hid himself at once
in the mountains, carrying with him, of course, the sack containing the
murdered American's money.

Some time necessarily passed before he could get together a sufficient
number of cut-throats and renegades from justice to enable him wholly
to defy the authorities; but at last he succeeded in rallying a strong
force to his standard of blood, and became the terror of the whole
region, equalling in boldness and audacity the terrible Joaquin, of
California notoriety in after years.

His headquarters were in the almost impregnable fastnesses of the Sangre
de Cristo Mountains, from which he made his invariably successful raids
into the rich valleys below. There was nothing too bloody for him to
shrink from; he robbed indiscriminately the overland coaches to Santa
Fe, the freight caravans of the traders and government, the ranches of
the Mexicans, or stole from the poorer classes, without any compunction.
He ran off horses, cattle, sheep--in fact, anything that he could
utilize. If murder was necessary to the completion of his work, he never
for a moment hesitated. Kidnapping, too, was a favourite pastime; but he
rarely carried away to his rendezvous any other than the most beautiful
of the New Mexican young girls, whom he held in his mountain den until
they were ransomed, or subjected to a fate more terrible.

In 1864 the bandit, after nearly ten years of unparalleled outlawry, was
killed by Tobin. Tom had been on his trail for some time, and at last
tracked him to a temporary camp in the foot-hills, which he accidentally
discovered in a grove of cottonwoods, by the smoke of the little
camp-fire as it curled in light wreaths above the trees.

Tobin knew that at the time there was but one of Espinosa's followers
with him, as he had watched them both for some days, waiting for an
opportunity to get the drop on them. To capture the pair of outlaws
alive never entered his thoughts; he was as cautious as brave, and to
get them dead was much safer and easier; so he crept up to the grove on
his belly, Indian fashion, and lying behind the cover of a friendly log,
waited until the noted desperado stood up, when he pulled the trigger
of his never-erring rifle, and Espinosa fell dead. A second shot
quickly disposed of his companion, and the old trapper's mission was
accomplished.

To be able to claim the reward offered by the authorities, Tom had to
prove, beyond the possibility of doubt, that those whom he had killed
were the dreaded bandit and one of his gang. He thought it best to cut
off their heads, which he deliberately did, and packing them on his mule
in a gunny-sack, he brought them into old Fort Massachusetts, afterward
Fort Garland, where they were speedily recognized; but whether Tom ever
received the reward, I have my doubts, as he never claimed that he did.
Tobin died only a short time ago, gray, grizzled, and venerable, his
memory respected by all who had ever met him.

James Hobbs, among all the men of whom I have presented a hurried
sketch, had perhaps a more varied experience than any of his colleagues.
During his long life on the frontier, he was in turn a prisoner among
the savages, and held for years by them; an excellent soldier in the war
with Mexico; an efficient officer in the revolt against Maximilian, when
the attempt of Napoleon to establish an empire on this continent, with
that unfortunate prince at its head, was defeated; an Indian fighter; a
miner; a trapper; a trader, and a hunter.

Hobbs was born in the Shawnee nation, on the Big Blue, about
twenty-three miles from Independence, Missouri. His early childhood was
entrusted to one of his father's slaves. Reared on the eastern limit of
the border, he very soon became familiar with the use of the rifle and
shot-gun; in fact, he was the principal provider of all the meat which
the family consumed.

In 1835, when only sixteen, he joined a fur-trading expedition under
Charles Bent, destined for the fort on the Arkansas River built by him
and his brothers.

They arrived at the crossing of the Santa Fe Trail over Pawnee Fork
without special adventure, but there they had the usual tussle with
the savages, and Hobbs killed his first Indian. Two of the traders were
pierced with arrows, but not seriously hurt, and the Pawnees--the tribe
which had attacked the outfit--were driven away discomfited, not having
been successful in stampeding a single animal.

When the party reached the Caches, on the Upper Arkansas, a smoke rising
on the distant horizon, beyond the sand hills south of the river, made
them proceed cautiously; for to the old plainsmen, that far-off wreath
indicated either the presence of the savages, or a signal to others at a
greater distance of the approach of the trappers.

The next morning, nothing having occurred to delay the march, buffalo
began to appear, and Hobbs killed three of them. A cow, which he had
wounded, ran across the Trail in front of the train, and Hobbs dashed
after her, wounding her with his pistol, and then she started to swim
the river. Hobbs, mad at the jeers which greeted him from the men at his
missing the animal, started for the last wagon, in which was his rifle,
determined to kill the brute that had enraged him. As he was riding
along rapidly, Bent cried out to him,--

"Don't try to follow that cow; she is going straight for that smoke, and
it means Injuns, and no good in 'em either."

"But I'll get her," answered Hobbs, and he called to his closest
comrade, John Baptiste, a boy of about his own age, to go and get his
pack-mule and come along. "All right," responded John; and together the
two inexperienced youngsters crossed the river against the protests of
the veteran leader of the party.

After a chase of about three miles, the boys came up with the cow, but
she turned and showed fight. Finally Hobbs, by riding around her, got
in a good shot, which killed her. Jumping off their animals, both boys
busied themselves in cutting out the choice pieces for their supper,
packed them on the mule, and started back for the train. But it had
suddenly become very dark, and they were in doubt as to the direction of
the Trail.

Soon night came on so rapidly that neither could they see their own
tracks by which they had come, nor the thin fringe of cottonwoods that
lined the bank of the stream. Then they disagreed as to which was the
right way. John succeeded in persuading Hobbs that he was correct, and
the latter gave in, very much against his own belief on the subject.

They travelled all night, and when morning came, were bewilderingly
lost. Then Hobbs resolved to retrace the tracks by which, now that the
sun was up, he saw that they had been going south, right away from the
Arkansas. Suddenly an immense herd of buffalo, containing at least two
thousand, dashed by the boys, filling the air with the dust raised by
their clattering hoofs, and right behind them rode a hundred Indians,
shooting at the stampeded animals with their arrows.

"Get into that ravine!" shouted Hobbs to his companion. "Throw away that
meat, and run for your life!"

It was too late; just as they arrived at the brink of the hollow, they
looked back, and close behind them were a dozen Comanches.

The savages rode up, and one of the party said in very good English,
"How d' do?"

"How d' do?" Hobbs replied, thinking it would be better to be as polite
as the Indian, though the state of the latter's health just then was a
matter of small concern.

"Texas?" inquired the Indian. The Comanches had good reasons to hate the
citizens of that country, and it was a lucky thing for Hobbs that he had
heard of their prejudice from the trappers, and possessed presence
of mind to remember it. He replied promptly: "No, friendly; going to
establish a trading-post for the Comanches."

"Friendly? Better go with us, though. Got any tobacco?"

Hobbs had some of the desired article, and he was not long in handing it
over to his newly found friend.

Both of the boys were escorted to the temporary camp of the savages, but
the original number of their captors was increased to over a thousand
before they arrived there. They were supplied with some dried
buffalo-meat, and then taken to the lodge of Old Wolf, the head chief of
the tribe.

A council was called immediately to consider what disposition should be
made of them, but nothing was decided upon, and the assembly of warriors
adjourned until morning. Hobbs told me that it was because Old Wolf had
imbibed too much brandy, a bottle of which Baptiste had brought with
him from the train, and which the thirsty warrior saw suspended from
his saddle-bow as they rode up to the chief's lodge; the aged rascal got
beastly drunk.

About noon of the next day, after the dispersion of the council,
the boys were informed that if they were not Texans, would behave
themselves, and not attempt to run away, they might stay with the
Indians, who would not kill them; but a string of dried scalps was
pointed out, hanging on a lodge pole, of some Mexicans whom they had
captured and put to herding their ponies, and who had tried to get away.
They succeeded in making a few miles; the Indians chased them, after
deciding in council, that, if caught, only their scalps were to be
brought back. The moral of this was that the same fate awaited the boys
if they followed the example of the foolish Mexicans.

Hobbs had excellent sense and judgment, and he knew that it would be the
height of folly for him and Baptiste, mere boys, to try and reach either
Bent's Fort or the Missouri River, not having the slightest knowledge of
where they were situated.

Hobbs grew to be a great favourite with the Comanches; was given the
daughter of Old Wolf in marriage, became a great chief, fought many hard
battles with his savage companions, and at last, four years after, was
redeemed by Colonel Bent, who paid Old Wolf a small ransom for him
at the Fort, where the Indians had come to trade. Baptiste, whom the
Indians never took a great fancy to, because he did not develop into
a great warrior, was also ransomed by Bent, his price being only an
antiquated mule.

At Bent's Fort Hobbs went out trapping under the leadership of Kit
Carson, and they became lifelong friends. In a short time Hobbs earned
the reputation of being an excellent mountaineer, trapper, and as an
Indian fighter he was second to none, his education among the Comanches
having trained him in all the strategy of the savages.

After going through the Mexican War with an excellent record, Hobbs
wandered about the country, now engaged in mining in old Mexico, then
fighting the Apaches under the orders of the governor of Chihuahua, and
at the end of the campaign going back to the Pacific coast, where he
entered into new pursuits. Sometimes he was rich, then as poor as one
can imagine. He returned to old Mexico in time to become an active
partisan in the revolt which overthrew the short-lived dynasty of
Maximilian, and was present at the execution of that unfortunate prince.
Finally he retired to the home of his childhood in the States, where he
died a few months ago, full of years and honours.

William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," is one of the famous plainsmen, of
later days, however, than Carson, Bridger, John Smith, Maxwell, and
others whom I have mentioned. The mantle of Kit Carson, perhaps, fits
more perfectly the shoulders of Cody than those of any other of the
great frontiersman's successors, and he has had some experiences that
surpassed anything which fell to their lot.

He was born in Iowa, in 1845, and when barely seven years old his father
emigrated to Kansas, then far remote from civilization.

Thirty-six years ago, he was employed as guide and scout in an
expedition against the Kiowas and Comanches, and his line of duty took
him along the Santa Fe Trail all one summer when not out as a scout,
carrying despatches between Fort Lyon and Fort Larned, the most
important military posts on the great highway as well as to far-off Fort
Leavenworth on the Missouri River, the headquarters of the department.
Fort Larned was the general rendezvous of all the scouts on the Kansas
and Colorado plains, the chief of whom was a veteran interpreter and
guide, named Dick Curtis.

When Cody first reported there for his responsible duty, a large camp of
the Kiowas and Comanches was established within sight of the fort,
whose warriors had not as yet put on their war-paint, but were evidently
restless and discontented under the restraint of their chiefs. Soon
those leading men, Satanta, Lone Wolf, Satank, and others of lesser
note, grew rather impudent and haughty in their deportment, and they
were watched with much concern. The post was garrisoned by only two
companies of infantry and one of cavalry.

General Hazen, afterward chief of the signal service in Washington, was
at Fort Larned at the time, endeavouring to patch up a peace with the
savages, who seemed determined to break out. Cody was special scout to
the general, and one morning he was ordered to accompany him as far as
Fort Zarah, on the Arkansas, near the mouth of Walnut Creek, in what
is now Barton County, Kansas, the general intending to go on to Fort
Harker, on the Smoky Hill. In making these trips of inspection, with
incidental collateral duties, the general usually travelled in an
ambulance, but on this journey he rode in a six-mule army-wagon,
escorted by a detachment of a score of infantry. It was a warm August
day, and an early start was made, which enabled them to reach Fort
Zarah, over thirty miles distant, by noon. After dinner, the general
proposed to go on to Fort Harker, forty-one miles away, without any
escort, leaving orders for Cody to return to Fort Larned the next day,
with the soldiers. But Cody, ever impatient of delay when there was work
to do, notified the sergeant in charge of the men that he was going back
that very afternoon. I tell the story of his trip as he has often told
it to me, and as he has written it in his autobiography.

"I accordingly saddled up my mule and set out for Fort Larned. I
proceeded on uninterruptedly until I got about halfway between the
two posts, when, at Pawnee Rock, I was suddenly jumped by about forty
Indians, who came dashing up to me, extending their hands and saying,
'How! How!' They were some of the Indians who had been hanging around
Fort Larned in the morning. I saw they had on their war-paint, and were
evidently now out on the war-path.

"My first impulse was to shake hands with them, as they seemed so
desirous of it. I accordingly reached out my hand to one of them, who
grasped it with a tight grip, and jerked me violently forward;
then pulled my mule by the bridle, and in a moment I was completely
surrounded. Before I could do anything at all, they had seized my
revolvers from the holsters, and I received a blow on the head from a
tomahawk which nearly rendered me senseless. My gun, which was lying
across the saddle, was snatched from its place, and finally the Indian
who had hold of the bridle started off toward the Arkansas River,
leading the mule, which was being lashed by the other Indians, who were
following. The savages were all singing, yelling, and whooping, as only
Indians can do, when they are having their little game all their own
way. While looking toward the river, I saw on the opposite side an
immense village moving along the bank, and then I became convinced that
the Indians had left the post and were now starting out on the war-path.
My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the
shallow water they continued to lash the mule and myself. Finally they
brought me before an important-looking body of Indians, who proved to be
the chiefs and principal warriors. I soon recognized old Satanta among
them, as well as others whom I knew, and supposed it was all over with
me.

"The Indians were jabbering away so rapidly among themselves that I
could not understand what they were saying. Satanta at last asked me
where I had been. As good luck would have it, a happy thought struck me.
I told him I had been after a herd of cattle, or 'whoa-haws,' as they
called them. It so happened that the Indians had been out of meat for
several weeks, as the large herd of cattle which had been promised them
had not yet arrived, although they expected them.

"The moment I mentioned that I had been searching for 'whoa-haws,' old
Satanta began questioning me in a very eager manner. He asked me where
the cattle were, and I replied that they were back a few miles, and
that I had been sent by General Hazen to inform him that the cattle
were coming, and that they were intended for his people. This seemed
to please the old rascal, who also wanted to know if there were any
soldiers with the herd, and my reply was that there were. Thereupon the
chiefs held a consultation, and presently Satanta asked me if General
Hazen had really said that they should have the cattle. I replied in the
affirmative, and added that I had been directed to bring the cattle to
them. I followed this up with a very dignified inquiry, asking why his
young men had treated me so. The old wretch intimated that it was only a
'freak of the boys'; that the young men wanted to see if I was brave; in
fact, they had only meant to test me, and the whole thing was a joke.

"The veteran liar was now beating me at my own game of lying, but I
was very glad, as it was in my favour. I did not let him suspect that
I doubted his veracity, but I remarked that it was a rough way to treat
friends. He immediately ordered his young men to give back my arms, and
scolded them for what they had done. Of course, the sly old dog was now
playing it very fine, as he was anxious to get possession of the cattle,
with which he believed there was a 'heap' of soldiers coming. He had
concluded it was not best to fight the soldiers if he could get the
cattle peaceably.

"Another council was held by the chiefs, and in a few minutes old
Satanta came and asked me if I would go to the river and bring the
cattle down to the opposite side, so that they could get them. I
replied, 'Of course; that's my instruction from General Hazen.'

"Satanta said I must not feel angry at his young men, for they had
only been acting in fun. He then inquired if I wished any of his men to
accompany me to the cattle herd. I replied that it would be better
for me to go alone, and then the soldiers could keep right on to Fort
Larned, while I could drive the herd down on the bottom. Then wheeling
my mule around, I was soon recrossing the river, leaving old Satanta
in the firm belief that I had told him a straight story, and that I was
going for the cattle which existed only in my imagination.

"I hardly knew what to do, but thought that if I could get the river
between the Indians and myself, I would have a good three-quarters of a
mile the start of them, and could then make a run for Fort Larned, as my
mule was a good one.

"Thus far my cattle story had panned out all right; but just as I
reached the opposite bank of the river, I looked behind me and saw that
ten or fifteen Indians, who had begun to suspect something crooked, were
following me. The moment that my mule secured a good foothold on the
bank, I urged him into a gentle lope toward the place where, according
to my statement, the cattle were to be brought. Upon reaching a little
ridge and riding down the other side out of view, I turned my mule and
headed him westward for Fort Larned. I let him out for all that he was
worth, and when I came out on a little rise of ground, I looked back and
saw the Indian village in plain sight. My pursuers were now on the ridge
which I had passed over, and were looking for me in every direction.

"Presently they spied me, and seeing that I was running away, they
struck out in swift pursuit, and in a few minutes it became painfully
evident they were gaining on me. They kept up the chase as far as Ash
Creek, six miles from Fort Larned. I still led them half a mile, as
their horses had not gained much during the last half of the race. My
mule seemed to have gotten his second wind, and as I was on the old
road, I played the spurs and whip on him without much cessation; the
Indians likewise urged their steeds to the utmost.

"Finally, upon reaching the dividing ridge between Ash Creek and Pawnee
Fork, I saw Fort Larned only four miles away. It was now sundown, and I
heard the evening gun. The troops of the small garrison little dreamed
there was a man flying for his life and trying to reach the post. The
Indians were once more gaining on me, and when I crossed the Pawnee Fork
two miles from the post, two or three of them were only a quarter of a
mile behind me. Just as I gained the opposite bank of the stream, I
was overjoyed to see some soldiers in a government wagon only a short
distance off. I yelled at the top of my voice, and riding up to them,
told them that the Indians were after me.

"'Denver Jim,' a well-known scout, asked me how many there were, and
upon my informing him that there were about a dozen, he said: 'Let's
drive the wagon into the trees, and we'll lay for 'em.' The team was
hurriedly driven among the trees and low box-elder bushes, and there
secreted.

"We did not have to wait long for the Indians, who came dashing up,
lashing their ponies, which were panting and blowing. We let two of them
pass by, but we opened a lively fire on the next three or four, killing
two of them at the first crack. The others following discovered that
they had run into an ambush, and whirling off into the brush, they
turned and ran back in the direction whence they had come. The two who
had passed by heard the firing and made their escape. We scalped the two
that we had killed, and appropriated their arms and equipments; then,
catching their ponies, we made our way into the Post."

CHAPTER XVIII. MAXWELL'S RANCH.

One of the most interesting and picturesque regions of all New Mexico is
the immense tract of nearly two million acres known as Maxwell's Ranch,
through which the Old Trail ran, and the title to which was some years
since determined by the Supreme Court of the United States in favour of
an alien company.[59] Dead long ago, Maxwell belonged to a generation
and a class almost completely extinct, and the like of which will, in
all probability, never be seen again; for there is no more frontier to
develop them.

Several years prior to the acquisition of the territory by the United
States, the immense tract comprised in the geographical limits of
the ranch was granted to Carlos Beaubien and Guadalupe Miranda, both
citizens of the province of New Mexico, and agents of the American Fur
Company. Attached to the company as an employer, a trapper, and hunter,
was Lucien B. Maxwell, an Illinoisan by birth, who married a daughter
of Beaubien. After the death of the latter Maxwell purchased all the
interest of the joint proprietor, Miranda, and that of the heirs of
Beaubien, thus at once becoming the largest landowner in the United
States.

At the zenith of his influence and wealth, during the War of the
Rebellion, when New Mexico was isolated and almost independent of
care or thought by the government at Washington, he lived in a sort of
barbaric splendour, akin to that of the nobles of England at the time of
the Norman conquest.

The thousands of arable acres comprised in the many fertile valleys of
his immense estate were farmed in a primitive, feudal sort of way, by
native Mexicans principally, under the system of peonage then existing
in the Territory. He employed about five hundred men, and they were as
much his thralls as were Gurth and Wamba of Cedric of Rotherwood, only
they wore no engraved collars around their necks bearing their names and
that of their master. Maxwell was not a hard governor, and his people
really loved him, as he was ever their friend and adviser.

His house was a palace when compared with the prevailing style of
architecture in that country, and cost an immense sum of money. It was
large and roomy, purely American in its construction, but the manner of
conducting it was strictly Mexican, varying between the customs of the
higher and lower classes of that curious people.

Some of its apartments were elaborately furnished, others devoid of
everything except a table for card-playing and a game's complement of
chairs. The principal room, an extended rectangular affair, which might
properly have been termed the Baronial Hall, was almost bare except
for a few chairs, a couple of tables, and an antiquated bureau. There
Maxwell received his friends, transacted business with his vassals, and
held high carnival at times.

I have slept on its hardwood floor, rolled up in my blanket, with the
mighty men of the Ute nation lying heads and points all around me, as
close as they could possibly crowd, after a day's fatiguing hunt in the
mountains. I have sat there in the long winter evenings, when the
great room was lighted only by the cheerful blaze of the crackling
logs roaring up the huge throats of its two fireplaces built diagonally
across opposite corners, watching Maxwell, Kit Carson, and half a dozen
chiefs silently interchange ideas in the wonderful sign language, until
the glimmer of Aurora announced the advent of another day. But not a
sound had been uttered during the protracted hours, save an occasional
grunt of satisfaction on the part of the Indians, or when we white men
exchanged a sentence.

Frequently Maxwell and Carson would play the game of seven-up for hours
at a time, seated at one of the tables. Kit was usually the victor, for
he was the greatest expert in that old and popular pastime I have
ever met. Maxwell was an inveterate gambler, but not by any means in a
professional sense; he indulged in the hazard of the cards simply for
the amusement it afforded him in his rough life of ease, and he could
very well afford the losses which the pleasure sometimes entailed. His
special penchant, however, was betting on a horse race, and his own stud
comprised some of the fleetest animals in the Territory. Had he lived in
England he might have ruled the turf, but many jobs were put up on
him by unscrupulous jockeys, by which he was outrageously defrauded of
immense sums.

He was fond of cards, as I have said, both of the purely American game
of poker, and also of old sledge, but rarely played except with personal
friends, and never without stakes. He always exacted the last cent he
had won, though the next morning, perhaps, he would present or loan his
unsuccessful opponent of the night before five hundred or a thousand
dollars, if he needed it; an immensely greater sum, in all probability,
than had been gained in the game.

The kitchen and dining-rooms of his princely establishment were detached
from the main residence. There was one of the latter for the male
portion of his retinue and guests of that sex, and another for the
female, as, in accordance with the severe, and to us strange, Mexican
etiquette, men rarely saw a woman about the premises, though there were
many. Only the quick rustle of a skirt, or a hurried view of a reboso,
as its wearer flashed for an instant before some window or half-open
door, told of their presence.

The greater portion of his table-service was solid silver, and at his
hospitable board there were rarely any vacant chairs. Covers were laid
daily for about thirty persons; for he had always many guests, invited
or forced upon him in consequence of his proverbial munificence, or
by the peculiar location of his manor-house which stood upon a
magnificently shaded plateau at the foot of mighty mountains, a short
distance from a ford on the Old Trail. As there were no bridges over
the uncertain streams of the great overland route in those days, the
ponderous Concord coaches, with their ever-full burden of passengers,
were frequently water-bound, and Maxwell's the only asylum from the
storm and flood; consequently he entertained many.

At all times, and in all seasons, the group of buildings, houses,
stables, mill, store, and their surrounding grounds, were a constant
resort and loafing-place of Indians. From the superannuated chiefs, who
revelled lazily during the sunny hours in the shady peacefulness of the
broad porches; the young men of the tribe, who gazed with covetous eyes
upon the sleek-skinned, blooded colts sporting in the spacious corrals;
the squaws, fascinated by the gaudy calicoes, bright ribbons, and
glittering strings of beads on the counters or shelves of the large
store, to the half-naked, chubby little pappooses around the kitchen
doors, waiting with expectant mouths for some delicious morsel of refuse
to be thrown to them--all assumed, in bearing and manner, a vested right
of proprietorship in their agreeable environment.

To this motley group, always under his feet, as it were, Maxwell was
ever passively gracious, although they were battening in idleness on his
prodigal bounty from year to year.

His retinue of servants, necessarily large, was made up of a
heterogeneous mixture of Indians, Mexicans, and half-breeds. The
kitchens were presided over by dusky maidens under the tutelage of
experienced old crones, and its precincts were sacred to them; but the
dining-rooms were forbidden to women during the hours of meals, which
were served by boys.

Maxwell was rarely, as far as my observation extended, without a large
amount of money in his possession. He had no safe, however, his only
place of temporary deposit for the accumulated cash being the bottom
drawer of the old bureau in the large room to which I have referred,
which was the most antiquated concern of common pine imaginable. There
were only two other drawers in this old-fashioned piece of furniture,
and neither of them possessed a lock. The third, or lower, the one that
contained the money, did, but it was absolutely worthless, being one of
the cheapest pattern and affording not the slightest security; besides,
the drawers above it could be pulled out, exposing the treasure
immediately beneath to the cupidity of any one.

I have frequently seen as much as thirty thousand dollars--gold, silver,
greenbacks, and government checks--at one time in that novel depository.
Occasionally these large sums remained there for several days, yet there
was never any extra precaution taken to prevent its abstraction; doors
were always open and the room free of access to every one, as usual.

I once suggested to Maxwell the propriety of purchasing a safe for
the better security of his money, but he only smiled, while a strange,
resolute look flashed from his dark eyes, as he said: "God help the man
who attempted to rob me and I knew him!"

The sources of his wealth were his cattle, sheep, and the products of
his area of cultivated acres--barley, oats, and corn principally--which
he disposed of to the quartermaster and commissary departments of the
army, in the large military district of New Mexico. His wool-clip must
have been enormous, too; but I doubt whether he could have told the
number of animals that furnished it or the aggregate of his vast herds.
He had a thousand horses, ten thousand cattle, and forty thousand sheep
at the time I knew him well, according to the best estimates of his
Mexican relatives.

He also possessed a large and perfectly appointed gristmill, which was
a great source of revenue, for wheat was one of the staple crops of his
many farms.

Maxwell was fond of travelling all over the Territory, his equipages
comprising everything in the shape of a vehicle, through all their
varieties, from the most plainly constructed buckboard to the lumbering,
but comfortable and expensive, Concord coach, mounted on thorough braces
instead of springs, and drawn by four or six horses. He was perfectly
reckless in his driving, dashing through streams, over irrigating
ditches, stones, and stumps like a veritable Jehu, regardless of
consequences, but, as is usually the fortune of such precipitate
horsemen, rarely coming to grief.

The headquarters of the Ute agency were established at Maxwell's Ranch
in early days, and the government detailed a company of cavalry to camp
there, more, however, to impress the plains tribes who roamed along the
Old Trail east of the Raton Range, than for any effect on the Utes, whom
Maxwell could always control, and who regarded him as a father.

On the 4th of July, 1867, Maxwell, who owned an antiquated and rusty
six-pound field howitzer, suggested to the captain of the troop
stationed there the propriety of celebrating the day. So the old piece
was dragged from its place under a clump of elms, where it had been
hidden in the grass and weeds ever since the Mexican War probably,
and brought near the house. The captain and Maxwell acted the rôle
of gunners, the former at the muzzle, the latter at the breech; the
discharge was premature, blowing out the captain's eye and taking off
his arm, while Maxwell escaped with a shattered thumb. As soon as the
accident occurred, a sergeant was despatched to Fort Union on one of the
fastest horses on the ranch, the faithful animal falling dead the moment
he stopped in front of the surgeon's quarters, having made the journey
of fifty-five miles in little more than four hours.

The surgeon left the post immediately, arriving at Maxwell's late that
night, but in time to save the officer's life, after which he dressed
Maxwell's apparently inconsiderable wound. In a few days, however, the
thumb grew angry-looking; it would not yield to the doctor's careful
treatment, so he reluctantly decided that amputation was necessary.
After an operation was determined upon, I prevailed upon Maxwell to come
to the fort and remain with me, inviting Kit Carson at the same time,
that he might assist in catering to the amusement of my suffering guest.
Maxwell and Carson arrived at my quarters late in the day, after a
tedious ride in the big coach, and the surgeon, in order to allow a
prolonged rest on account of Maxwell's feverish condition, postponed the
operation until the following evening.

The next night, as soon as it grew dark--we waited for coolness, as the
days were excessively hot--the necessary preliminaries were arranged,
and when everything was ready the surgeon commenced. Maxwell declined
the anaesthetic prepared for him, and sitting in a common office chair
put out his hand, while Carson and myself stood on opposite sides, each
holding an ordinary kerosene lamp. In a few seconds the operation was
concluded, and after the silver-wire ligatures were twisted in their
places, I offered Maxwell, who had not as yet permitted a single sigh to
escape his lips, half a tumblerful of whiskey; but before I had fairly
put it to his mouth, he fell over, having fainted dead away, while great
beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, indicative of the pain he
had suffered, as the amputation of the thumb, the surgeon told us then,
was as bad as that of a leg.

He returned to his ranch as soon as the surgeon pronounced him well, and
Carson to his home in Taos. I saw the latter but once more at Maxwell's;
but he was en route to visit me at Fort Harker, in Kansas, when he was
taken ill at Fort Lyon, where he died.

A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

How true it now seems to me, as the recollections of my boyish days,
when I read of the exploits of Kit Carson, crowd upon my memory! I
firmly believed him to be at least ten feet tall, carrying a rifle
so heavy that, like Bruce's sword, it required two men to lift it. I
imagined he drank out of nothing smaller than a river, and picked the
carcass of a whole buffalo as easily as a lady does the wing of a quail.
Ten years later I made the acquaintance of the foremost frontiersman,
and found him a delicate, reticent, under-sized, wiry man, as perfectly
the opposite of the type my childish brain had created as it is possible
to conceive.

At Fort Union our mail arrived every morning by coach over the Trail,
generally pulling up at the sutler's store, whose proprietor was
postmaster, about daylight. While Maxwell and Kit were my guests, I
sauntered down after breakfast one morning to get my mail, and while
waiting for the letters to be distributed, happened to glance at some
papers lying on the counter, among which I saw a new periodical--the
_Day's Doings_, I think it was--that had a full-page illustration of a
scene in a forest. In the foreground stood a gigantic figure dressed in
the traditional buckskin; on one arm rested an immense rifle; his other
arm was around the waist of the conventional female of such sensational
journals, while in front, lying prone upon the ground, were half a
dozen Indians, evidently slain by the singular hero in defending the
impossibly attired female. The legend related how all this had been
effected by the famous Kit Carson. I purchased the paper, returned with
it to my room, and after showing it to several officers who had called
upon Maxwell, I handed it to Kit. He wiped his spectacles, studied the
picture intently for a few seconds, turned round, and said: "Gentlemen,
that thar may be true, but I hain't got no recollection of it."

I passed a delightful two weeks with Maxwell, late in the summer of
1867, at the time that the excitement over the discovery of gold on his
ranch had just commenced, and adventurers were beginning to congregate
in the hills and gulches from everywhere. The discovery of the precious
metal on his estate was the first cause of his financial embarrassment.
It was the ruin also of many other prominent men in New Mexico, who
expended their entire fortune in the construction of an immense ditch,
forty miles in length--from the Little Canadian or Red River--to supply
the placer diggings in the Moreno valley with water, when the melted
snow of Old Baldy range had exhausted itself in the late summer. The
scheme was a stupendous failure; its ruins may be seen to-day in the
deserted valleys, a monument to man's engineering skill, but the wreck
of his hopes.

For some years previous to the discovery of gold in the mountains and
gulches of Maxwell's Ranch, it was known that copper existed in the
region; several shafts had been sunk and tunnels driven in various
places, and gold had been found from time to time, but was kept a secret
for many months. Its presence was at last revealed to Maxwell by a party
of his own miners, who were boring into the heart of Old Baldy for a
copper lead that had cropped out and was then lost.

Of course, to keep the knowledge of the discovery of gold from the
world is an impossibility; such was the case in this instance, and soon
commenced that squatter immigration out of which, after the ranch was
sold and Maxwell died, grew that litigation which has resulted in favour
of the company who purchased from or through the first owners after
Maxwell's death.

He was a representative man of the border of the same class as his
compeers--"wild-civilized men," to borrow an expressive term from John
Burroughs--of strong local attachments, and overflowing with the milk of
human kindness. To such as he there was an unconquerable infatuation in
life on the remote plains and in the solitude of the mountains. There
was never anything of the desperado in their character, while the
adventurers who at times have made the far West infamous, since the
advent of the railroad, were bad men originally.

Occasionally such men turn up everywhere, and become a terror to the
community, but they are always wound up sooner or later; they die with
their boots on; Western graveyards are full of them.

Maxwell, under contract with the Interior Department, furnished live
beeves to the Ute nation, the issue of which was made weekly from his
own vast herds. The cattle, as wild as those from the Texas prairies,
were driven by his herders into an immense enclosed field, and there
turned loose to be slaughtered by the savages.

Once when at the ranch I told Maxwell I should like to have a horse
to witness the novel sight. He immediately ordered a Mexican groom to
procure one; but I did not see the peculiar smile that lighted up
his face, as he whispered something to the man which I did not catch.
Presently the groom returned leading a magnificent gray, which I
mounted, Maxwell suggesting that I should ride down to the large field
and wait there until the herd arrived. I entered the great corral,
patting my horse on the neck now and then, to make him familiar with
my touch, and attempted to converse with some of the chiefs, who were
dressed in their best, painted as if for the war-path, gaily bedecked
with feathers and armed with rifles and gaudily appointed bows and
arrows; but I did not succeed very well in drawing them from their
normal reticence. The squaws, a hundred of them, were sitting on the
ground, their knives in hand ready for the labour which is the fate
of their sex in all savage tribes, while their lords' portion of the
impending business was to end with the more manly efforts of the chase.

Suddenly a great cloud of dust rose on the trail from the mountains, and
on came the maddened animals, fairly shaking the earth with their
mighty tread. As soon as the gate was closed behind them, and uttering a
characteristic yell that was blood-curdling in its ferocity, the Indians
charged upon the now doubly frightened herd, and commenced to discharge
their rifles, regardless of the presence of any one but themselves. My
horse became paralyzed for an instant and stood poised on his hind legs,
like the steed represented in that old lithographic print of Napoleon
crossing the Alps; then taking the bit in his teeth, he rushed aimlessly
into the midst of the flying herd, while the bullets from the guns of
the excited savages rained around my head. I had always boasted of my
equestrian accomplishments--I was never thrown but once in my life, and
that was years afterward--but in this instance it taxed all my powers to
keep my seat. In less than twenty minutes the last beef had fallen;
and the warriors, inflated with the pride of their achievement, rode
silently out of the field, leaving the squaws to cut up and carry away
the meat to their lodges, more than three miles distant, which they soon
accomplished, to the last quivering morsel.

As I rode leisurely back to the house, I saw Maxwell and Kit standing
on the broad porch, their sides actually shaking with laughter at my
discomfiture, they having been watching me from the very moment the herd
entered the corral. It appeared that the horse Maxwell ordered the groom
to bring me was a recent importation from St. Louis, had never before
seen an Indian, and was as unused to the prairies and mountains as a
street-car mule. Kit said that my mount reminded him of one that his
antagonist in a duel rode a great many years ago when he was young.
If the animal had not been such "a fourth-of-July" brute, his opponent
would in all probability have finished him, as he was a splendid shot;
but Kit fortunately escaped, the bullet merely grazing him under the
ear, leaving a scar which he then showed me.

One night Kit Carson, Maxwell, and I were up in the Raton Mountains
above the Old Trail, and having lingered too long, were caught above
the clouds against our will, darkness having overtaken us before we were
ready to descend into the valley. It was dangerous to undertake the trip
over such a precipitous and rocky trail, so we were compelled to make
the best of our situation. It was awfully cold, and as we had brought no
blankets, we dared not go to sleep for fear our fire might go out,
and we should freeze. We therefore determined to make a night of it by
telling yarns, smoking our pipes, and walking around at times. After
sitting awhile, Maxwell pointed toward the Spanish Peaks, whose
snow-white tops cast a diffused light in the heavens above them, and
remarked that in the deep canyon which separates them, he had had one of
the "closest calls" of his life, willingly complying when I asked him to
tell us the story.

"It was in 1847. I came down from Taos with a party to go to the
Cimarron crossing of the Santa Fe Trail to pick up a large herd of
horses for the United States Quartermaster's Department. We succeeded in
gathering about a hundred and started back with them, letting them graze
slowly along, as we were in no hurry. When we arrived at the foot-hills
north of Bent's Fort, we came suddenly upon the trail of a large
war-band of Utes, none of whom we saw, but from subsequent developments
the savages must have discovered us days before we reached the
mountains. I knew we were not strong enough to cope with the whole Ute
nation, and concluded the best thing for us to do under the ticklish
circumstances was to make a detour, and put them off our trail. So we
turned abruptly down the Arkansas, intending to try and get to Taos
in that direction, more than one hundred and fifty miles around. It
appeared afterward that the Indians had been following us all the way.
When we found this out, some of the men believed they were another
party, and not the same whose trail we came upon when we turned down
the river, but I always insisted they were. When we arrived within a few
days' drive of Taos, we were ambushed in one of the narrow passes of the
range, and had the bloodiest fight with the Utes on record. There were
thirteen of us, all told, and two little children whom we were escorting
to their friends at Taos, having received them at the Cimarron crossing.

"While we were quietly taking our breakfast one morning, and getting
ready to pull out for the day's march, perfectly unsuspicious of the
proximity of any Indians, they dashed in upon us, and in less than a
minute stampeded all our stock--loose animals as well as those we were
riding. While part of the savages were employed in running off the
animals, fifty of their most noted warriors, splendidly mounted and
horribly painted, rushed into the camp, around the fire of which the men
and the little children were peacefully sitting, and, discharging their
guns as they rode up, killed one man and wounded another.

"Terribly surprised as we were, it did not turn the heads of the old
mountaineers, and I immediately told them to make a break for a clump of
timber near by, and that we would fight them as long as one of us could
stand up. There we fought and fought against fearful odds, until all
were wounded except two. The little children were captured at the
beginning of the trouble and carried off at once. After a while the
savages got tired of the hard work, and, as is frequently the case, went
away of their own free will; but they left us in a terrible plight. All
were sore, stiff, and weak from their many wounds; on foot, and without
any food or ammunition to procure game with, having exhausted our supply
in the awfully unequal battle; besides, we were miles from home, with
every prospect of starving to death.

"We could not remain where we were, so as soon as darkness came on, we
started out to walk to some settlement. We dared not show ourselves by
daylight, and all through the long hours when the sun was up, we were
obliged to hide in the brush and ravines until night overtook us again,
and we could start on our painful march.

"We had absolutely nothing to eat, and our wounds began to fester, so
that we could hardly move at all. We should undoubtedly have perished,
if, on the third day, a band of friendly Indians of another tribe had
not gone to Taos and reported the fight to the commanding officer of the
troops there. These Indians had heard of our trouble with the Utes, and
knowing how strong they were, and our weakness, surmised our condition,
and so hastened to convey the bad news.

"A company of dragoons was immediately sent to our rescue, under the
guidance of Dick Wooton, who was and has ever been a warm personal
friend of mine. They came upon us about forty miles from Taos, and never
were we more surprised; we had become so starved and emaciated that
we had abandoned all hope of escaping what seemed to be our inevitable
fate.

"When the troops found us, we had only a few rags, our clothes having
been completely stripped from our bodies while struggling through the
heavy underbrush on our trail, and we were so far exhausted that we
could not stand on our feet. One more day, and we would have been laid
out.

"The little children were, fortunately, saved from the horror of that
terrible march after the fight, as the Indians carried them to their
winter camp, where, if not absolutely happy, they were under shelter and
fed; escaping the starvation which would certainly have been their fate
if they had remained with us. They were eventually ransomed for a cash
payment by the government, and altogether had not been very harshly
treated."

CHAPTER XIX. BENT'S FORTS.

The famous Bent brothers, William, George, Robert, and Charles, were
French-Canadian hunters and trappers, and had been employed almost from
boyhood, in the early days of the border, by the American Fur Company in
the mountains of the Northwest.

In 1826, almost immediately after the transference of the fur trade to
the valley of the Arkansas, when the commerce of the prairies was fairly
initiated, the three Bents and Ceran St. Vrain, also a French-Canadian
and trapper, settled on the Upper Arkansas, where they erected a
stockade. It was, of course, a rude affair, formed of long stakes or
pickets driven into the ground, after the Mexican style known as jacal.
The sides were then ceiled and roofed, and it served its purpose of a
trading-post. This primitive fort was situated on the left or north
bank of the river, about halfway between Pueblo and Canyon City, those
beautiful mountain towns of to-day.

Two years afterward, in 1828, the proprietors of the primitive stockade
in the remote wilderness found it necessary to move closer to the
great hunting-grounds lower down the valley. There, about twelve miles
northeast of the now thriving town of Las Animas, the Bents commenced
the construction of a relatively large and more imposing-looking
structure than the first. The principal material used in the new
building, or rather in its walls, was adobe, or sun-dried brick, so
common even to-day in New Mexican architecture. Four years elapsed
before the new fort was completed, during which period its owners, like
other trappers, lived in tents or teepees fashioned of buffalo-skins,
after the manner of the Indians.

When at last the new station was completed, it was named Fort William,
in honour of Colonel William Bent, who was the leader of the family
and the most active trader among the four partners in the concern.
The colonel frequently made long trips to the remote villages of the
Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Comanches, which were situated far to
the south and east, on the Canadian River and its large tributaries. His
miscellaneous assortment of merchandise he transported upon pack-mules
to the Indian rendezvous, bringing back to the fort the valuable furs
he had exchanged for the goods so eagerly coveted by the savages. It was
while on one of his trading expeditions to the Cheyenne nation that
the colonel married a young squaw of that tribe, the daughter of the
principal chief.

William Bent for his day and time was an exceptionally good man. His
integrity, his truthfulness on all occasions, and his remarkable courage
endeared him to the red and white man alike, and Fort William prospered
wonderfully under his careful and just management. Both his brothers
and St. Vrain had taken up their residence in Taos, and upon the colonel
devolved the entire charge of the busy establishment. It soon became
the most popular rendezvous of the mountaineers and trappers, and in
its immediate vicinity several tribes of Indians took up their temporary
encampment.

In 1852 Fort William was destroyed under the following strange
circumstances: It appears that the United States desired to purchase it.
Colonel Bent had decided upon a price--sixteen thousand dollars--but
the representatives of the War Department offered only twelve thousand,
which, of course, Bent refused. Negotiations were still pending, when
the colonel, growing tired of the red-tape and circumlocution of the
authorities, and while in a mad mood, removed all his valuables from the
structure, excepting some barrels of gunpowder, and then deliberately
set fire to the old landmark. When the flames reached the powder, there
was an explosion which threw down portions of the walls, but did not
wholly destroy them. The remains of the once noted buildings stand
to-day, melancholy relics of a past epoch.

In the same year the indefatigable and indomitable colonel determined
upon erecting a much more important structure. He selected a site on
the same side of the Arkansas, in the locality known as Big Timbers.
Regarding this new venture, Colonel or Judge Moore of Las Animas, a
son-in-law of William Bent, tells in a letter to the author of the
history of Colorado the following facts:--

Leaving ten men in camp to get out stone for the new post,
Colonel Bent took a part of his outfit and went to a Kiowa
village, about two hundred miles southwest, and remained
there all winter, trading with the Kiowas and Comanches.
In the spring of 1853 he returned to Big Timbers, when
the construction of the new post was begun, and the work
continued until completed in the summer of 1854; and it
was used as a trading-post until the owner leased it to
the government in the autumn of 1859. Colonel Sedgwick had
been sent out to fight the Kiowas that year, and in the fall
a large quantity of commissary stores had been sent him.
Colonel Bent then moved up the river to a point just above
the mouth of the Purgatoire, and built several rooms of
cottonwood pickets, and there spent the winter. In the
spring of 1860, Colonel Sedgwick began the construction of
officers' buildings, company quarters, corrals, and stables,
all of stone, and named the place Fort Wise, in honour of
Governor Wise of Virginia. In 1861 the name was changed to
Fort Lyon, in honour of General Lyon, who was killed at the
battle of Wilson Creek, Missouri. In the spring of 1866,
the Arkansas River overflowed its banks, swept up into the
fort, and, undermining the walls, rendered it untenable for
military purposes. The camp was moved to a point twenty
miles below, and the new Fort Lyon established. The old
post was repaired, and used as a stage station by Barlow,
Sanderson, and Company, who ran a mail, express, and
passenger line between Kansas City and Santa Fe.

The contiguous region to Fort William was in the early days a famous
hunting-ground. It abounded in nearly every variety of animal indigenous
to the mountains and plains, among which were the panther--the so-called
California lion of to-day--the lynx, erroneously termed wild cat, white
wolf, prairie wolf, silver-gray fox, prairie fox, antelope, buffalo,
gray, grizzly and cinnamon bears, together with the common brown and
black species, the red deer and the black-tail, the latter the finest
venison in the world. Of birds there were wild turkeys, quail, and
grouse, besides an endless variety of the smaller-sized families, not
regarded as belonging to the domain of game in a hunter's sense. It was
a veritable paradise, too, for the trappers. Its numerous streams and
creeks were famous for beaver, otter, and mink.

Scarcely an acre of the surrounding area within the radius of hundreds
of miles but has been the scene of many deadly encounters with the
wily red man, stories of which are still current among the few old
mountaineers yet living.

The fort was six hundred and fifty miles west of Fort Leavenworth, in
latitude thirty-eight degrees and two minutes north, and longitude one
hundred and three degrees and three minutes west, from Greenwich. The
exterior walls of the fort, whose figure was that of a parallelogram,
were fifteen feet high and four feet thick. It was a hundred and
thirty-five feet wide and divided into various compartments. On the
northwest and southeast corners were hexagonal bastions, in which were
mounted a number of cannon. The walls of the building served as the
walls of the rooms, all of which faced inwards on a plaza, after the
general style of Mexican architecture. The roofs of the rooms were made
of poles, on which was a heavy layer of dirt, as in the houses of native
Mexicans to-day. The fort possessed a billiard table, that visitors
might amuse themselves, and in the office was a small telescope with a
fair range of seven miles.

The occupants of the far-away establishment, in its palmy days (for
years it was the only building between Council Grove and the mountains),
were traders, Indians, hunters, and French trappers, who were the
employees of the great fur companies. Many of the latter had Indian
wives. Later, after a stage line had been put in operation across the
plains to Santa Fe, the fort was relegated to a mere station for
the overland route, and with the march of civilization in its course
westward, the trappers, hunters, and traders vanished from the once
famous rendezvous.

The walls were loopholed for musketry, and the entrance to the plaza, or
corral, was guarded by large wooden gates. During the war with Mexico,
the fort was headquarters for the commissary department, and many
supplies were stored there, though the troops camped below on the
beautiful river-bottom. In the centre of the corral, in the early days
when the place was a rendezvous of the trappers, a large buffalo-robe
press was erected. When the writer first saw the famous fort, now over a
third of a century ago, one of the cannon, that burst in firing a salute
to General Kearney, could be seen half buried in the dirt of the plaza.

By barometrical measurements taken by the engineer officers of the army
at different times, the height of Bent's Fort above the ocean level is
approximately eight thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight feet, and
the fall of the Arkansas River from the fort to the great bend of that
stream, about three hundred and eleven miles east, is seven feet and
four-tenths per mile.

It was in a relatively fair state of preservation thirty-three years
ago, but now not a vestige of it remains, excepting perhaps a mound
of dirt, the disintegration of the mud bricks of which the historical
structure was built.

The Indians whose villages were located a few miles below the fort, or
at least the chief men of the various tribes, passed much of their time
within the shelter of the famous structure. They were bountifully fed,
and everything they needed furnished them. This was purely from policy,
however; for if their wishes were not gratified, their hunters would not
bring in their furs to trade. The principal chiefs never failed to
be present when a meal was announced as ready, and however scarce
provisions might be, the Indians must be fed.

The first farm in the fertile and now valuable lands of the valley of
the Rio de las Animas[60] was opened by the Bents. The area selected for
cultivation was in the beautiful bottom between the fort and the ford,
a strip about a mile in length, and from one hundred and fifty to six
hundred feet in width. Nothing could be grown without irrigation, and
to that end an acequia, as the Mexicans call the ditch through which the
water flows, was constructed, and a crop put in. Before the enterprising
projectors of the scheme could reap a harvest, the hostile savages
dashed in and destroyed everything.

Uncle John Smith was one of the principal traders back in the '30's,
and he was very successful, perhaps because he was undoubtedly the
most perfect master of the Cheyenne language at that time in the whole
mountain region.

Among those who frequently came to the fort were Kit Carson, L. B.
Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, Baptiste Brown, Jim Bridger, Old Bill
Williams, James Beckwourth, Shawnee Spiebuck, Shawnee Jake--the latter
two, noted Indian trappers--besides a host of others.

The majority of the old trappers, to a stranger, until he knew their
peculiar characteristics, were seemingly of an unsociable disposition.
It was an erroneous idea, however; for they were the most genial
companions imaginable, generous to a fault, and to fall into one of
their camps was indeed a lucky thing for the lost traveller. Everything
the host had was at his guest's disposal, and though coffee and sugar
were the dearest of his luxuries, often purchased with a whole season's
trapping, the black fluid was offered with genuine free-heartedness,
and the last plug of tobacco placed at the disposition of his chance
visitor, as though it could be picked up on the ground anywhere.

Goods brought by the traders to the rendezvous for sale to the trappers
and hunters, although of the most inferior quality, were sold at
enormously high prices.

Coffee, by the pint-cup, which was the usual measure for everything,
cost from a dollar and twenty cents to three dollars; tobacco a dollar
and a half a plug; alcohol from two dollars to five dollars a pint;
gunpowder one dollar and sixty cents a pint-cup, and all other articles
at proportionably exorbitant rates.

The annual gatherings of the trappers at the rendezvous were often the
scene of bloody duels; for over their cups and cards no men were more
quarrelsome than the old-time mountaineers. Rifles at twenty paces
settled all difficulties, and, as may be imagined, the fall of one or
the other of the combatants was certain, or, as sometimes happened, both
fell at the word "Fire!"

The trapper's visits to the Mexican settlements, or to the lodges of
a tribe of Indians, for the purpose of trading, often resulted in his
returning to his quiet camp with a woman to grace his solitary home,
the loving and lonely couple as devoted to each other in the midst of
blood-thirsty enemies, howling wolves, and panthers, as if they were in
some quiet country village.

The easy manners of the harum-scarum, reckless trappers at the
rendezvous, and the simple, unsuspecting hearts of those nymphs of the
mountains, the squaws, caused their husbands to be very jealous of the
attentions bestowed upon them by strangers. Often serious difficulties
arose, in the course of which the poor wife received a severe whipping
with the knot of a lariat, or no very light lodge-poling at the hands of
her imperious sovereign. Sometimes the affair ended in a more tragical
way than a mere beating, not infrequently the gallant paying the penalty
of his interference with his life.

Garrard, a traveller on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains
half a century ago, from whose excellent diary I have frequently quoted,
passed many days and nights at Bent's Fort fifty years ago, and his
quaint description of life there in that remote period of the extreme
frontier is very amusing. Its truth has often been confirmed by Uncle
John Smith, who was my guide and interpreter in the Indian expedition of
1868-69, only two decades after Garrard's experience.

Rosalie, a half-breed French and Indian squaw, wife of the carpenter,
and Charlotte, the culinary divinity, were, as a Missouri teamster
remarked, "the only female women here." They were nightly led to the
floor to trip the light fantastic toe, and swung rudely or gently in the
mazes of the contra-dance, but such a medley of steps is seldom seen
out of the mountains--the halting, irregular march of the war-dance,
the slipping gallopade, the boisterous pitching of the Missouri
backwoodsman, and the more nice gyrations of the Frenchman; for
all, irrespective of rank, age, or colour, went pell-mell into
the excitement, in a manner that would have rendered a leveller of
aristocracies and select companies frantic with delight. And the airs
assumed by the fair ones, more particularly Charlotte, who took pattern
from life in the States, were amusing. She acted her part to perfection;
she was the centre of attraction, the belle of the evening. She treated
the suitors for the pleasure of the next set with becoming ease and
suavity of manner; she knew her worth, and managed accordingly. When the
favoured gallant stood by her side waiting for the rudely scraped tune
from a screeching fiddle, satisfaction, joy, and triumph over his rivals
were pictured on his radiant face.

James Hobbs, of whom I have already spoken, once gave me a graphic
description of the annual feast of the Comanches, Cheyennes, and
Arapahoes, which always took place at Big Timbers, near Fort William.

Hobbs was married to the daughter of Old Wolf, the chief of the
Comanches, a really beautiful Indian girl, with whom he lived faithfully
many years. In the early summer of 1835, he went with his father-in-law
and the rest of the tribe to the great feast of that season. He stated
that on that occasion there were forty thousand Indians assembled, and
consequently large hunting parties were sent out daily to procure food
for such a vast host. The entertainment was kept up for fifteen days,
enlivened by horse races, foot races, and playing ball. In these races
the tribes would bet their horses on the result, the Comanches generally
winning, for they are the best riders in the world. By the time the
feast was ended, the Arapahoes and Cheyennes usually found themselves
afoot, but Old Wolf, who was a generous fellow, always gave them back
enough animals to get home with.

The game of ball was played with crooked sticks, and is very much like
the American boys' "shinny." The participants are dressed in a simple
breech-cloth and moccasins. It is played with great enthusiasm and
affords much amusement.

At these annual feasts a council of the great chiefs of the three tribes
is always held, and at the one during the season referred to, Hobbs said
the Cheyenne chiefs wanted Old Wolf to visit Bent's Fort, where he had
never been. Upon the arrival of the delegation there, it was heartily
welcomed by all the famous men who happened to be at the place, among
whom were Kit Carson, Old John Smith, and several noted trappers.
Whiskey occupied a prominent place in the rejoicing, and "I found it
hard work," said Hobbs, "to stand the many toasts drank to my good
health." The whole party, including Old Wolf and his companion the
Cheyenne chief, got very much elated, and every person in the fort smelt
whiskey, if they did not get their feet tangled with it.

About midnight a messenger came inside, reporting that a thousand
Comanche warriors were gathering around the fort. They demanded their
leaders, fearing treachery, and desired to know why their chief had
not returned. Hobbs went out and explained that he was safe; but
they insisted on seeing him, so he and Hobbs showed themselves to the
assembled Indians, and Old Wolf made a speech, telling them that he and
the Cheyenne chief were among good friends to the Indians, and presents
would be given to them the next morning. The warriors were pacified with
these assurances, though they did not leave the vicinity of the fort.

It was at this time that Hobbs was ransomed by Colonel Bent, who gave
Old Wolf, for him, six yards of red flannel, a pound of tobacco, and an
ounce of beads.

The chief was taken in charge by a lieutenant, who showed him all over
the fort, letting him see the rifle port-holes, and explaining how the
place could stand a siege against a thousand Indians. Finally, he was
taken out on the parapet, where there was a six-pounder at each angle.
The old savage inquired how they could shoot such a thing, and at Hobbs'
request, a blank cartridge was put in the piece and fired. Old Wolf
sprang back in amazement, and the Indians on the outside, under the
walls, knowing nothing of what was going on, ran away as fast as their
legs could carry them, convinced that their chief must be dead now and
their own safety dependent upon flight. Old Wolf and Hobbs sprang upon
the wall and signalled and shouted to them, and they returned, asking in
great astonishment what kind of a monstrous gun it was.

About noon trading commenced. The Indians wished to come into the fort,
but Bent would not let any enter but the chiefs. At the back door the
colonel displayed his goods, and the Indians brought forward their
ponies, buffalo-robes, deer and other skins, which they traded for
tobacco, beads, calico, flannel, knives, spoons, whistles, jews'-harps,
etc.

Whiskey was sold to them the first day, but as it caused several fights
among them before night, Bent stopped its sale, at Hobbs' suggestion and
with Old Wolf's consent. Indians, when they get drunk, do not waste time
by fighting with fists, like white men, but use knives and tomahawks;
so that a general scrimmage is a serious affair. Two or three deaths
resulted the first day, and there would have been many more if the sale
of whiskey had not been stopped.

The trading continued for eight days, and Colonel Bent reaped a rich
harvest of what he could turn into gold at St. Louis. Old Wolf slept
in the fort each night except one during that time, and every time his
warriors aroused him about twelve o'clock and compelled him to show
himself on the walls to satisfy them of his safety.

About a hundred trappers were in the employ of Bent and his partners.
Sometimes one-half of the company were off on a hunt, leaving but a
small force at the fort for its protection, but with the small battery
there its defence was considered sufficient.

One day a trapping party, consisting of Kit Carson, "Peg-leg" Smith, and
James Hobbs, together with some Shawnee Indians, all under the lead of
Carson, started out from Bent's Fort for the Picketwire to trap beaver.

Grizzlies were very abundant in that region then, and one of the party,
named McIntire, having killed an elk the evening before, said to Hobbs
that they might stand a good chance to find a grizzly by the elk he had
shot but had not brought in. Hobbs said that he was willing to go with
him, but as McIntire was a very green man in the mountains, Hobbs had
some doubts of depending on him in case of an attack by a grizzly bear.

The two men left for the ravine in which McIntire had killed the elk
very early in the morning, taking with them tomahawks, hunting-knives,
rifles, and a good dog. On arriving at the ravine, Hobbs told McIntire
to cross over to the other side and climb the hill, but on no account
to go down into the ravine, as a grizzly is more dangerous when he has
a man on the downhill side. Hobbs then went to where he thought the elk
might be if he had died by the bank of the stream; but as soon as he
came near the water, he saw that a large grizzly had got there before
him, having scented the animal, and was already making his breakfast.

The bear was in thick, scrubby oak brush, and Hobbs, making his dog lie
down, crawled behind a rock to get a favourable shot at the beast. He
drew a bead on him and fired, but the bear only snarled at the wound
made by the ball and started tearing through the brush, biting furiously
at it as he went. Hobbs reloaded his rifle carefully, and as quickly as
he could, in order to get a second shot; but, to his amazement, he saw
the bear rushing down the ravine chasing McIntire, who was only about
ten feet in advance of the enraged beast, running for his life, and
making as much noise as a mad bull. He was terribly scared, and Hobbs
hastened to his rescue, first sending his dog ahead.

Just as the dog reached the bear, McIntire darted behind a tree and
flung his hat in the bear's face, at the same time sticking his rifle
toward him. The old grizzly seized the muzzle of the gun in his teeth,
and, as it was loaded and cocked, it either went off accidentally or
otherwise and blew the bear's head open, just as the dog had fastened
on his hindquarters. Hobbs ran to the assistance of his comrade with all
haste, but he was out of danger and had sat down a few rods away, with
his face as white as a sheet, a badly frightened man.

After that fearful scare, McIntire would cook or do anything, but said
he never intended to make a business of bear-hunting; he had only wished
for one adventure, and this one had satisfied him.

CHAPTER XX. PAWNEE ROCK.

That portion of the great central plains which radiates from Pawnee
Rock, including the Big Bend of the Arkansas, thirteen miles distant,
where that river makes a sudden sweep to the southeast, and the
beautiful valley of the Walnut, in all its vast area of more than a
million square acres, was from time immemorial a sort of debatable land,
occupied by none of the Indian tribes, but claimed by all to hunt in;
for it was a famous pasturage of the buffalo.

None of the various bands had the temerity to attempt its permanent
occupancy; for whenever hostile tribes met there, which was of frequent
occurrence, in their annual hunt for their winter's supply of meat, a
bloody battle was certain to ensue. The region referred to has been the
scene of more sanguinary conflicts between the different Indians of the
plains, perhaps, than any other portion of the continent. Particularly
was it the arena of war to the death, when the Pawnees met their
hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes.

Pawnee Rock was a spot well calculated by nature to form, as it has
done, an important rendezvous and ambuscade for the prowling savages of
the prairies, and often afforded them, especially the once powerful and
murderous Pawnees whose name it perpetuates, a pleasant little retreat
or eyrie from which to watch the passing Santa Fe traders, and dash down
upon them like hawks, to carry off their plunder and their scalps.

Through this once dangerous region, close to the silent Arkansas, and
running under the very shadow of the rock, the Old Trail wound its
course. Now, at this point, it is the actual road-bed of the Atchison,
Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, so strangely are the past and present
transcontinental highways connected here.

Who, among bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten
that most sensational of all the miserably executed illustrations in
the geographies of fifty years ago, "The Santa Fe Traders attacked by
Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock,
which formed a sort of nondescript shadow in the background of a crudely
drawn representation of the dangers of the Trail.

If this once giant sentinel[61] of the plains might speak, what a story
it could tell of the events that have happened on the beautiful prairie
stretching out for miles at its feet!

In the early fall, when the rock was wrapped in the soft amber haze
which is a distinguishing characteristic of the incomparable Indian
summer on the plains; or in the spring, when the mirage weaves its
mysterious shapes, it loomed up in the landscape as if it were a huge
mountain, and to the inexperienced eye appeared as if it were the abrupt
ending of a well-defined range. But when the frost came, and the mists
were dispelled; when the thin fringe of timber on the Walnut, a few
miles distant, had doffed its emerald mantle, and the grass had grown
yellow and rusty, then in the golden sunlight of winter, the rock sank
down to its normal proportions, and cut the clear blue of the sky with
sharply marked lines.

In the days when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, the Pawnees
were the most formidable tribe on the eastern central plains, and the
freighters and trappers rarely escaped a skirmish with them either at
the crossing of the Walnut, Pawnee Rock, the Fork of the Pawnee, or at
Little and Big Coon creeks. To-day what is left of the historic hill
looks down only upon peaceful homes and fruitful fields, whereas for
hundreds of years it witnessed nothing but battle and death, and almost
every yard of brown sod at its base covered a skeleton. In place of the
horrid yell of the infuriated savage, as he wrenched off the reeking
scalp of his victim, the whistle of the locomotive and the pleasant
whirr of the reaping-machine is heard; where the death-cry of the
painted warrior rang mournfully over the silent prairie, the waving
grain is singing in beautiful rhythm as it bows to the summer breeze.

Pawnee Rock received its name in a baptism of blood, but there are
many versions as to the time and sponsors. It was there that Kit Carson
killed his first Indian, and from that fight, as he told me himself, the
broken mass of red sandstone was given its distinctive title.

It was late in the spring of 1826; Kit was then a mere boy, only
seventeen years old, and as green as any boy of his age who had never
been forty miles from the place where he was born. Colonel Ceran St.
Vrain, then a prominent agent of one of the great fur companies, was
fitting out an expedition destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains, the
members of which, all trappers, were to obtain the skins of the buffalo,
beaver, otter, mink, and other valuable fur-bearing animals that then
roamed in immense numbers on the vast plains or in the hills, and were
also to trade with the various tribes of Indians on the borders of
Mexico.

Carson joined this expedition, which was composed of twenty-six mule
wagons, some loose stock, and forty-two men. The boy was hired to help
drive the extra animals, hunt game, stand guard, and to make himself
generally useful, which, of course, included fighting Indians if any
were met with on the long route.

The expedition left Fort Osage one bright morning in May in excellent
spirits, and in a few hours turned abruptly to the west on the broad
Trail to the mountains. The great plains in those early days were
solitary and desolate beyond the power of description; the Arkansas
River sluggishly followed the tortuous windings of its treeless banks
with a placidness that was awful in its very silence; and whoso traced
the wanderings of that stream with no companion but his own thoughts,
realized in all its intensity the depth of solitude from which Robinson
Crusoe suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as the ocean, the
weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of the horizon, and
the mirage created weird pictures in the landscape, distorted distances
and objects which continually annoyed and deceived. Despite its
loneliness, however, there was then, and ever has been for many men, an
infatuation for those majestic prairies that once experienced is never
lost, and it came to the boyish heart of Kit, who left them but with
life, and full of years.

There was not much variation in the eternal sameness of things during
the first two weeks, as the little train moved day after day through
the wilderness of grass, its ever-rattling wheels only intensifying
the surrounding monotony. Occasionally, however, a herd of buffalo was
discovered in the distance, their brown, shaggy sides contrasting with
the never-ending sea of verdure around them. Then young Kit, and two or
three others of the party who were detailed to supply the teamsters and
trappers with meat, would ride out after them on the best of the extra
horses which were always kept saddled and tied together behind the
last wagon for services of this kind. Kit, who was already an excellent
horseman and a splendid shot with the rifle, would soon overtake them,
and topple one after another of their huge fat carcasses over on the
prairie until half a dozen or more were lying dead. The tender humps,
tongues, and other choice portions were then cut out and put in a wagon
which had by that time reached them from the train, and the expedition
rolled on.

So they marched for about three weeks, when they arrived at the crossing
of the Walnut, where they saw the first signs of Indians. They had
halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted,
and the men just about to indulge in their refreshing coffee, when
suddenly half a dozen Pawnees, mounted on their ponies, hideously
painted and uttering the most demoniacal yells, rushed out of the tall
grass on the river-bottom, where they had been ambushed, and swinging
their buffalo-robes, attempted to stampede the herd picketed near the
camp. The whole party were on their feet in an instant with rifles in
hand, and all the savages got for their trouble were a few well-deserved
shots as they hurriedly scampered back to the river and over into the
sand hills on the other side, soon to be out of sight.

The expedition travelled sixteen miles next day, and camped at
Pawnee Rock, where, after the experience of the evening before, every
precaution was taken to prevent a surprise by the savages. The wagons
were formed into a corral, so that the animals could be secured in the
event of a prolonged fight; the guards were drilled by the colonel, and
every man slept with his rifle for a bed-fellow, for the old trappers
knew that the Indians would never remain satisfied with their defeat on
the Walnut, but would seize the first favourable opportunity to renew
their attack.

At dark the sentinels were placed in position, and to young Kit fell
the important post immediately in front of the south face of the Rock,
nearly two hundred yards from the corral; the others being at prominent
points on top, and on the open prairie on either side. All who were not
on duty had long since been snoring heavily, rolled up in their blankets
and buffalo-robes, when at about half-past eleven, one of the guard gave
the alarm, "Indians!" and ran the mules that were nearest him into the
corral. In a moment the whole company turned out at the report of a
rifle ringing on the clear night air, coming from the direction of the
rock. The men had gathered at the opening to the corral, waiting for
developments, when Kit came running in, and as soon as he was near
enough, the colonel asked him whether he had seen any Indians. "Yes,"
Kit replied, "I killed one of the red devils; I saw him fall!"

The alarm proved to be false; there was no further disturbance that
night, so the party returned to their beds, and the sentinels to their
several posts, Kit of course to his place in front of the Rock.

Early the next morning, before breakfast even, all were so anxious to
see Kit's dead Indian, that they went out en masse to where he was still
stationed, and instead of finding a painted Pawnee, as was expected,
they found the boy's riding mule dead, shot right through the head.

Kit felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, and it was a
long time before he heard the last of his midnight adventure and his
raid on his own mule. But he always liked to tell the "balance of the
story," as he termed it, and this is his version: "I had not slept
any the night before, for I stayed awake watching to get a shot at the
Pawnees that tried to stampede our animals, expecting they would return;
and I hadn't caught a wink all day, as I was out buffalo hunting, so
I was awfully tired and sleepy when we arrived at Pawnee Rock that
evening, and when I was posted at my place at night, I must have gone
to sleep leaning against the rocks; at any rate, I was wide enough awake
when the cry of Indians was given by one of the guard. I had picketed
my mule about twenty steps from where I stood, and I presume he had been
lying down; all I remember is that the first thing I saw after the alarm
was something rising up out of the grass, which I thought was an Indian.
I pulled the trigger; it was a centre shot, and I don't believe the mule
ever kicked after he was hit!"

The next morning about daylight, a band of Pawnees attacked the train in
earnest, and kept the little command busy all that day, the next night,
and until the following midnight, nearly three whole days, the mules all
the time being shut in the corral without food or water. At midnight of
the second day the colonel ordered the men to hitch up and attempt to
drive on to the crossing of Pawnee Fork, thirteen miles distant.[62]
They succeeded in getting there, fighting their way without the loss of
any of their men or animals. The Trail crossed the creek in the shape of
a horseshoe, or rather, in consequence of the double bend of the stream
as it empties into the Arkansas, the road crossed it twice. In making
this passage, dangerous on account of its crookedness, Kit said many
of the wagons were badly mashed up; for the mules were so thirsty that
their drivers could not control them. The train was hardly strung out on
the opposite bank when the Indians poured in a volley of bullets and
a shower of arrows from both sides of the Trail; but before they could
load and fire again, a terrific charge was on them, led by Colonel St.
Vrain and Carson. It required only a few moments more to clean out the
persistent savages, and the train went on. During the whole fight the
little party lost four men killed and seven wounded, and eleven mules
killed (not counting Kit's), and twenty badly wounded.

A great many years ago, very early in the days of the trade with New
Mexico, seven Americans were surprised by a large band of Pawnees in
the vicinity of the Rock and were compelled to retreat to it for safety.
There, without water, and with but a small quantity of provisions, they
were besieged by their blood-thirsty foes for two days, when a party of
traders coming on the Trail relieved them from their perilous situation
and the presence of their enemy. There were several graves on its summit
when I first saw Pawnee Rock; but whether they contained the bones of
savages or those of white men, I do not know.

Carson related to me another terrible fight that took place at the rock,
when he first became a trapper. He was not a participant, but knew the
parties well. About twenty-nine years ago, Kit, Jack Henderson, who
was agent for the Ute Indians, Lucien B. Maxwell, General Carleton and
myself were camped halfway up the rugged sides of Old Baldy, in the
Raton Range. The night was intensely cold, although in midsummer, and
we were huddled around a little fire of pine knots, more than seven
thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit.

Kit, or "the General," as every one called him, was in a good humour for
talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out; for
usually he was the most reticent of men in relating his own exploits.
A casual remark made by Maxwell opened Carson's mouth, and he said he
remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever got into.[63] So he
made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette, and related the following; but the
names of the old trappers who were the principals in the fight I have
unfortunately forgotten.

Two men had been trapping in the Powder River country during one winter
with unusually good luck, and they got an early start with their furs,
which they were going to take to Weston, on the Missouri, one of the
principal trading points in those days. They walked the whole distance,
driving their pack-mules before them, and experienced no trouble
until they struck the Arkansas valley at Pawnee Rock. There they were
intercepted by a war-party of about sixty Pawnees. Both of the trappers
were notoriously brave and both dead shots. Before they arrived at the
rock, to which they were finally driven, they killed two of the Indians,
and had not themselves received a scratch. They had plenty of powder, a
pouch full of balls each, and two good rifles. They also had a couple of
jack-rabbits for food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls
of the front of the rock made them a natural fortification, an almost
impregnable one against Indians.

They succeeded in securely picketing their animals at the side of the
rock, where they could protect them by their unerring rifles from being
stampeded. After the Pawnees had "treed" the two trappers on the rock,
they picked up their dead, and packed them off to their camp at the
mouth of a little ravine a short distance away. In a few moments back
they all came, mounted on fast ponies, with their war-paint and other
fixings on, ready to renew the fight. They commenced to circle around
the place, coming closer, Indian fashion, every time, until they got
within easy rifle-range, when they slung themselves on the opposite
sides of their horses, and in that position opened fire. Their arrows
fell like a hailstorm, but as good luck would have it, none of them
struck, and the balls from their rifles were wild, as the Indians in
those days were not very good shots; the rifle was a new weapon to them.
The trappers at first were afraid the savages would surely try to kill
the mules, but soon reflected that the Indians believed they had the
"dead-wood" on them, and the mules would come handy after they had been
scalped; so they felt satisfied their animals were safe for a while
anyhow. The men were taking in all the chances, however; both kept their
eyes skinned, and whenever one of them saw a stray leg or head, he drew
a bead on it and when he pulled the trigger, its owner tumbled over with
a yell of rage from his companions.

Whenever the savages attempted to carry off their dead,[64] the two
trappers took advantage of the opportunity, and poured in their shots
every time with telling effect.

By this time night had fallen, and the Indians did not seem anxious to
renew the fight after dark; but they kept their mounted patrols on
every side of the rock, at a respectable distance from such dead shots,
watching to prevent the escape of the besieged. As they were hungry,
one of the men went down under cover of the darkness to get a few
buffalo-chips with which to cook their rabbit, and to change the animals
to where they could get fresh grass. He returned safely to the summit of
the rock, where a little fire was made and their supper prepared. They
had to go without water all the time, and so did the mules; the men
did not mind the want of it themselves, but they could not help pitying
their poor animals that had had none since they left camp early that
morning. It was no use to worry, though; the nearest water was at the
river, and it would have been certain death to have attempted to go
there unless the savages cleared out, and from all appearances they had
no idea of doing that.

What gave the trappers more cause for alarm than anything else, was
the fear that the Indians would fire the prairie in the morning, and
endeavour to smoke them out or burn them up. The grass was in just the
condition to make a lively blaze, and they might escape the flames, and
then they might not. It can well be imagined how eagerly they watched
for the dawn of another day, perhaps the last for them.

The first gray streaks of light had hardly peeped above the horizon,
when, with an infernal yell, the Indians broke for the rock, and the
trappers were certain that some new project had entered their heads. The
wind was springing up pretty freshly, and nature seemed to conspire with
the red devils, if they really meant to burn the trappers out; and from
the movements of the savages, that was what they expected. The Indians
kept at a respectful distance from the range of the trappers' rifles,
who chafed because they could not stop some of the infernal yelling with
a few well-directed bullets, but they had to choke their rage, and
watch events closely. During a temporary lull in hostilities, one of the
trappers took occasion to crawl down to where the mules were, and shift
them to the west side of the rock, where the wall was the highest; so
that the flame and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much
danger as where they were picketed before. He had just succeeded in
doing this, and, tearing up the long grass for several yards around the
animals, was in the act of going back, when his partner yelled out to
him: "Look out! D---n 'em, they've fired the prairie!" He was back on
the top of the rock in another moment, and took in at a glance what was
coming.

The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand; the sun was
shining with all the power of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke as
they rolled down from the north, tinting them a glorious crimson.
The two trappers had barely time to get under the shelter of a large
projecting point of the rocky wall, when the wind and smoke swept down
to the ground, and instantly they were enveloped in the darkness of
midnight. They could not discern a single object; neither Indians,
horses, the prairie, nor the sun; and what a terrible wind!

The trappers stood breathless, clinging to the projections of rock, and
did not realize the fire was so near them until they were struck in the
face by pieces of burning buffalo-chips that were carried toward them
with the rapidity of the awful wind. They were now badly scared, for
it seemed as if they were to be suffocated. They were saved, however,
almost miraculously; the sheet of flame passed them twenty yards away,
as the wind fortunately shifted at the moment the fire reached the foot
of the rock. The darkness was so intense that they did not discover the
flame; they only knew that they were saved as the clear sky greeted them
from behind the dense smoke-cloud.

Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap, and
perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side of the
rock, so as to steal around to the other side where the mules were, and
either cut them loose or crawl up on the trappers while bewildered in
the smoke and kill them, if they were not already dead. But they had
proceeded only a few rods on their little expedition, when the terrible
darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them and soon the flames, from
which there was no possible escape.

All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too.
Only a few buffalo were visible in that region before the fire, but
even they were killed. The path of the flames, as was discovered by the
caravans that passed over the Trail a few days afterward, was marked
with the crisp and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys,
grouse, and every variety of small birds indigenous to the region.
Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it had met escaped its fury.
The fire assumed such gigantic proportions, and moved with such rapidity
before the wind, that even the Arkansas River did not check its path for
a moment; it was carried as readily across as if the stream had not been
in its way.

The first thought of the trappers on the rock was for their poor mules.
One crawled to where they were, and found them badly singed, but not
seriously injured. The men began to brighten up again when they knew
that their means of transportation were relatively all right, and
themselves also, and they took fresh courage, beginning to believe they
should get out of their bad scrape after all.

In the meantime the Indians, with the exception of three or four left
to guard the rock, so as to prevent the trappers from getting away, had
gone back to their camp in the ravine, and were evidently concocting
some new scheme for the discomfort of the besieged trappers. The latter
waited patiently two or three hours for the development of events,
snatching a little sleep by turns, which they needed much; for both
were worn out by their constant watching. At last when the sun was about
three hours high, the Indians commenced their infernal howling again,
and then the trappers knew they had decided upon something; so they were
on the alert in a moment to discover what it was, and euchre them if
possible.

The devils this time had tied all their ponies together, covered them
with branches of trees that they had gone up on the Walnut for, packed
some lodge-skins on these, and then, driving the living breastworks
before them, moved toward the rock. They proceeded cautiously but
surely, and matters began to look very serious for the trappers. As the
strange cavalcade approached, a trapper raised his rifle, and a masked
pony tumbled over on the scorched sod dead. As one of the Indians ran
to cut him loose, the other trapper took him off his feet by a
well-directed shot; he never uttered a groan. The besieged now saw their
only salvation was to kill the ponies and so demoralize the Indians that
they would have to abandon such tactics, and quicker than I can tell it,
they had stretched four more out on the prairie, and made it so hot for
the savages that they ran out of range and began to hold a council of
war.

Finding that their plan would not work--for as the last pony was shot,
the rest stampeded and were running wild over the prairie--the Indians
soon went back to their camp again, and the trappers now had a few spare
moments in which to take an account of stock. They discovered, much to
their chagrin, that they had used up all their ammunition except three
or four loads, and despair hovered over them once more.

The Indians did not reappear that evening, and the cause was apparent;
for in the distance could be seen a long line of wagons, one of the
large American caravans en route to Santa Fe. The savages had seen
it before the trappers, and had cleared out. When the train arrived
opposite the rock, the relieved men came down from their little
fortress, joined the caravan, and camped with the Americans that night
on the Walnut. While they were resting around their camp-fire, smoking
and telling of their terrible experience on the top of the rock, the
Indians could be heard chanting the death-song while they were burying
their warriors under the blackened sod of the prairie.

I witnessed a spirited encounter between a small band of Cheyennes and
Pawnees in the fall of 1867. It occurred on the open prairie north of
the mouth of the Walnut, and not a great distance from Pawnee Rock. Both
tribes were hunting buffalo, and when they, by accident, discovered the
presence of each other, with a yell that fairly shook the sand dunes on
the Arkansas, they rushed at once into the shock of battle.

That night, in a timbered bend of the Walnut, the victors had a grand
dance, in which scalps, ears, and fingers of their enemies, suspended by
strings to long poles, were important accessories to their weird orgies
around their huge camp-fires.[65]

One of the most horrible massacres in the history of the Trail occurred
at Little Cow Creek in the summer of 1864. In July of that year a
government caravan, loaded with military stores for Fort Union in New
Mexico, left Fort Leavenworth for the long and dangerous journey of more
than seven hundred miles over the great plains, which that season were
infested by Indians to a degree almost without precedent in the annals
of freight traffic.

The train was owned by a Mr. H. C. Barret, a contractor with the
quartermaster's department; but he declined to take the chances of the
trip unless the government would lease the outfit in its entirety, or
give him an indemnifying bond as assurance against any loss. The chief
quartermaster executed the bond as demanded, and Barret hired his
teamsters for the hazardous journey; but he found it a difficult matter
to induce men to go out that season.

Among those whom he persuaded to enter his employ was a mere boy, named
McGee, who came wandering into Leavenworth a few weeks before the train
was ready to leave, seeking work of any description. His parents had
died on their way to Kansas, and on his arrival at Westport Landing, the
emigrant outfit that had extended to him shelter and protection in his
utter loneliness was disbanded; so the youthful orphan was thrown on his
own resources. At that time the Indians of the great plains, especially
along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, were very hostile, and continually
harassing the freight caravans and stage-coaches of the overland route.
Companies of men were enlisting and being mustered into the United
States service to go out after the savages, and young Robert McGee
volunteered with hundreds of others for the dangerous duty. The
government needed men badly, but McGee's youth militated against
him, and he was below the required stature; so he was rejected by the
mustering officer.

Mr. Barret, in hunting for teamsters to drive his caravan, came across
McGee, who, supposing that he was hiring as a government employee,
accepted Mr. Barret's offer.

By the last day of June the caravan was all ready, and on the morning of
the next day, July 1, the wagons rolled out of the fort, escorted by a
company of United States troops, from the volunteers referred to.

The caravan wound its weary way over the lonesome Trail with nothing
to relieve the monotony save a few skirmishes with the Indians; but no
casualties occurred in these insignificant battles, the savages being
afraid to venture too near on account of the presence of the military
escort.

On the 18th of July, the caravan arrived in the vicinity of Fort Larned.
There it was supposed that the proximity of that military post would be
a sufficient guarantee from any attack of the savages; so the men of
the train became careless, and as the day was excessively hot, they went
into camp early in the afternoon, the escort remaining in bivouac about
a mile in the rear of the train.

About five o'clock, a hundred and fifty painted savages, under the
command of Little Turtle of the Brule Sioux, swooped down on the
unsuspecting caravan while the men were enjoying their evening meal. Not
a moment was given them to rally to the defence of their lives, and of
all belonging to the outfit, with the exception of one boy, not a soul
came out alive.

The teamsters were every one of them shot dead and their bodies horribly
mutilated. After their successful raid, the savages destroyed everything
they found in the wagons, tearing the covers into shreds, throwing
the flour on the trail, and winding up by burning everything that was
combustible.

On the same day the commanding officer of Fort Larned had learned from
some of his scouts that the Brule Sioux were on the war-path, and
the chief of the scouts with a handful of soldiers was sent out to
reconnoitre. They soon struck the trail of Little Turtle and followed it
to the scene of the massacre on Cow Creek, arriving there only two hours
after the savages had finished their devilish work. Dead men were lying
about in the short buffalo-grass which had been stained and matted by
their flowing blood, and the agonized posture of their bodies told far
more forcibly than any language the tortures which had come before a
welcome death. All had been scalped; all had been mutilated in that
nameless manner which seems to delight the brutal instincts of the North
American savage.

Moving slowly from one to the other of the lifeless forms which still
showed the agony of their death-throes, the chief of the scouts came
across the bodies of two boys, both of whom had been scalped and
shockingly wounded, besides being mutilated, yet, strange to say, both
of them were alive. As tenderly as the men could lift them, they were
conveyed at once back to Fort Larned and given in charge of the post
surgeon. One of the boys died in a few hours after his arrival in the
hospital, but the other, Robert McGee, slowly regained his strength, and
came out of the ordeal in fairly good health.

The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was
able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not lost
consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected by the
savages.

He was compelled to witness the tortures inflicted on his wounded and
captive companions, after which he was dragged into the presence of the
chief, Little Turtle, who determined that he would kill the boy with his
own hands. He shot him in the back with his own revolver, having first
knocked him down with a lance handle. He then drove two arrows through
the unfortunate boy's body, fastening him to the ground, and stooping
over his prostrate form ran his knife around his head, lifting
sixty-four square inches of his scalp, trimming it off just behind his
ears.

Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim; but
the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not resist
their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives into him,
and bored great holes in his body with their lances.

After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could
contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the
reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundreds of mules
they had captured.

When the tragedy was ended, the soldiers, who had from their
vantage-ground witnessed the whole diabolical transaction, came up
to the bloody camp by order of their commander, to learn whether the
teamsters had driven away their assailants, and saw too late what their
cowardice had allowed to take place. The officer in command of the
escort was dismissed the service, as he could not give any satisfactory
reason for not going to the rescue of the caravan he had been ordered to
guard.

CHAPTER XXI. FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS.

The Wagon Mound, so called from its resemblance to a covered army-wagon,
is a rocky mesa forty miles from Point of Rocks, westwardly. The stretch
of the Trail from the latter to the mound has been the scene of some
desperate encounters, only exceeded in number and sanguinary results by
those which have occurred in the region of Pawnee Rock, the crossing of
the Walnut, Pawnee Fork, and Cow Creek.

One of the most remarkable stories of this Wagon Mound country dealt
with the nerve and bravery exhibited by John L. Hatcher in defence of
his life, and those of the men in his caravan, about 1858.

Hatcher was a noted trader and merchant of New Mexico. He was also
celebrated as an Indian fighter, and his name was a terror to the
savages who infested the settlements of New Mexico and raided the Trail.

He left Taos, where he then resided, in the summer, with his caravan
loaded with furs and pelts destined for Westport Landing; to be
forwarded from there to St. Louis, the only market for furs in the far
West. His train was a small one, comprising about fifteen wagons and
handled by about as many men, including himself. At the date of his
adventure the Indians were believed to be at peace with everybody; a
false idea, as Hatcher well knew, for there never was such a condition
of affairs as absolute immunity from their attacks. While it might be
true that the old men refrained for a time from starting out on the
war-path, there were ever the vastly greater number of restless young
warriors who had not yet earned their eagle feathers, who could not be
controlled by their chiefs, and who were always engaged in marauding,
either among the border settlements or along the line of the Trail.

When Hatcher was approaching the immediate vicinity of Wagon Mound,[66]
with his train strung out in single column, to his great astonishment
there suddenly charged on him from over the hill about three hundred
savages, all feather-bedecked and painted in the highest style of Indian
art. As they rode toward the caravan, they gave the sign of peace,
which Hatcher accepted for the time as true, although he knew them well.
However, he invited the head men to some refreshment, as was usual on
such occasions in those days, throwing a blanket on the ground, on which
sugar in abundance was served out. The sweet-toothed warriors helped
themselves liberally, and affected much delight at the way they were
being treated; but Hatcher, with his knowledge of the savage character,
was firm in the belief that they came for no other purpose than to rob
the caravan and kill him and his men.

They were Comanches, and one of the most noted chiefs of the tribe was
in command of the band, with some inferior chiefs under him. I think it
was Old Wolf, a very old man then, whose raids into Texas had made his
name a terror to the Mexicans living on the border.

While the chiefs were eating their saccharine lunch, Hatcher was losing
no time in forming his wagons into a corral, but he told his friends
afterward that he had no idea that either he or any of his men would
escape; only fifteen or sixteen men against over three hundred merciless
savages, and those the worst on the continent, and a small corral--the
chances were totally hopeless! Nothing but a desperate action could
avail, and maybe not even that.[67] Hatcher, after the other head men
had finished eating, asked the old chief to send his young warriors away
over the hill. They were all sitting close to one of the wagons, Old
Wolf, in fact, leaning against the wheel resting on his blanket, with
Hatcher next him on his right. Hatcher was so earnest in his appeal to
have the young men sent away, that both the venerable villain and his
other chiefs rose and were standing. Without a moment's notice or the
slightest warning, Hatcher reached with his left hand and grabbed Old
Wolf by his scalp-lock, and with his right drew his butcher-knife from
its scabbard and thrust it at the throat of the chief. All this was
done in an instant, as quick as lightning; no one had time to move. The
situation was remarkable. The little, wiry man, surrounded by eight or
nine of the most renowned warriors of the dreaded Comanches, stood firm;
everybody was breathless; not a word did the savages say. Hatcher then
said again to Old Wolf, in the most determined manner: "Send your
young men over the hill at once, or I'll kill you right where you are!"
holding on to the hair of the savage with his left hand and keeping the
knife at his throat.

The other Indians did not dare to make a move; they knew what kind of a
man Hatcher was; they knew he would do as he had said, and that if they
attempted a rescue he would kill their favourite chief in a second.

Old Wolf shook his head defiantly in the negative. Hatcher repeated his
order, getting madder all the time: "Send your young men over the hill;
I tell you!" Old Wolf was still stubborn; he shook his head again.
Hatcher gave him another chance: "Send your young men over the hill, I
tell you, or I'll scalp you alive as you are!" Again the chief shook his
head. Then Hatcher, still holding on the hair of his stubborn victim,
commenced to make an incision in the head of Old Wolf, for the
determined man was bound to carry out his threat; but he began very
slowly.

As the chief felt the blood trickle down his forehead, he weakened. He
ordered his next in command to send the young men over the hill and out
of sight. The order was repeated immediately to the warriors, who were
astonished spectators of the strange scene, and they quickly mounted
their horses and rode away over the hill as fast as they could thump
their animals' sides with their legs, leaving only five or six chiefs
with Old Wolf and Hatcher.

Hatcher held on like grim death to the old chief's head, and immediately
ordered his men to throw the robes out of the wagons as quickly as they
could, and get inside themselves. This was promptly obeyed, and when
they were all under the cover of the wagon sheets, Hatcher let go of his
victim's hair, and, with a last kick, told him and his friends that they
could leave. They went off, and did not return.

Some laughable incidents have enlivened the generally sanguinary history
of the Old Santa Fe Trail, but they were very serious at the time to
those who were the actors, and their ludicrousness came after all was
over.

In the late summer of 1866, a thieving band of Apaches came into the
vicinity of Fort Union, New Mexico, and after carefully reconnoitring
the whole region and getting at the manner in which the stock belonging
to the fort was herded, they secreted themselves in the Turkey Mountains
overlooking the entire reservation, and lay in wait for several days,
watching for a favourable moment to make a raid into the valley and
drive off the herd.

Selecting an occasion when the guard was weak and not very alert, they
in broad daylight crawled under the cover of a hill, and, mounting their
horses, dashed out with the most unearthly yells and down among the
animals that were quietly grazing close to the fort, which terrified
these so greatly that they broke away from the herders, and started at
their best gait toward the mountains, closely followed by the savages.

The astonished soldiers used every effort to avert the evident loss of
their charge, and many shots were exchanged in the running fight that
ensued; but the Indians were too strong for them, and they were forced
to abandon the chase.

Among the herders was a bugler boy, who was remarkable for his bravery
in the skirmish and for his untiring endeavours to turn the animals back
toward the fort, but all without avail; on they went, with the savages,
close to their heels, giving vent to the most vociferous shouts of
exultation, and directing the most obscene and insulting gesticulations
to the soldiers that were after them.

While this exciting contest for the mastery was going on, an old Apache
chief dashed in the rear of the bold bugler boy, and could, without
doubt, easily have killed the little fellow; but instead of doing
this, from some idea of a good joke, or for some other incomprehensible
reason, his natural blood-thirsty instinct was changed, and he merely
knocked the bugler's hat from his head with the flat of his hand, and
at the same time encouragingly stroked his hair, as much as to say: "You
are a brave boy," and then rode off without doing him any harm.

Thirty years ago last August, I was riding from Fort Larned to Fort
Union, New Mexico, in the overland coach. I had one of my clerks with
me; we were the only passengers, and arrived at Fort Dodge, which was
the commencement of the "long route," at midnight. There we changed
drivers, and at the break of day were some twenty-four miles on our
lonely journey. The coach was rattling along at a breakneck gait, and I
saw that something was evidently wrong. Looking out of one of the doors,
I noticed that our Jehu was in a beastly state of intoxication. It was a
most dangerous portion of the Trail; the Indians were not in the best
of humours, and an attack was not at all improbable before we arrived at
the next station, Fort Lyon.

I said to my clerk that something must be done; so I ordered the
driver to halt, which he did willingly, got out, and found that,
notwithstanding his drunken mood, he was very affable and disposed to
be full of fun. I suggested that he get inside the coach and lie down
to sleep off his potations, to which he readily assented, while I and
my clerk, after snugly fixing him on the cushions, got on the boot, I
taking the lines, he seizing an old trace-chain, with which he pounded
the mules along; for we felt ourselves in a ticklish predicament should
we come across any of the brigands of the plains, on that lonely route,
with the animals to look out for, and only two of us to do the fighting.

Suddenly we saw sitting on the bank of the Arkansas River, about a dozen
rods from the Trail, an antiquated-looking savage with his war-bonnet
on, and armed with a long lance and his bow and arrows. We did not care
a cent for him, but I thought he might be one of the tribe's runners,
lying in wait to discover the condition of the coach--whether it had an
escort, and how many were riding in it, and that then he would go and
tell how ridiculously small the outfit was, and swoop down on us with
a band of his colleagues, that were hidden somewhere in the sand hills
south of the river. He rose as we came near, and made the sign, after
he had given vent to a series of "How's!" that he wanted to talk; but
we were not anxious for any general conversation with his savage majesty
just then, so my clerk applied the trace-chain more vigorously to the
tired mules, in order to get as many miles between him and the coach as
we could before he could get over into the sand hills and back.

It was, fortunately, a false alarm; the old warrior perhaps had no
intentions of disturbing us. We arrived at Fort Lyon in good season,
with our valorous driver absolutely sobered, requesting me to say
nothing about his accident, which, of course, I did not.

As has been stated, the caravans bound for Santa Fe and the various
forts along the line of the Old Trail did not leave the eastern end of
the route until the grass on the plains, on which the animals depended
solely for subsistence the whole way, grew sufficiently to sustain them,
which was usually about the middle of May. But a great many years
ago, one of the high officials of the quartermaster's department at
Washington, who had never been for a moment on duty on the frontier
in his life, found a good deal of fault with what he thought the
dilatoriness of the officer in charge at Fort Leavenworth, who
controlled the question of transportation for the several forts
scattered all over the West, for not getting the freight caravans
started earlier, which the functionary at the capital said must and
should be done. He insisted that they must leave the Missouri River by
the middle of April, a month earlier than usual, and came out himself
to superintend the matter. He made the contracts accordingly, easily
finding contractors that suited him. He then wrote to headquarters in
a triumphant manner that he had revolutionized the whole system of army
transportation of supplies to the military posts. Delighted with his
success, he rode out about the second week of May to Salt Creek, only
three miles from the fort, and, very much to his astonishment, found his
teams, which he had believed to be on the way to Santa Fe a month ago,
snugly encamped. They had "started," just as was agreed.

There are, or rather were, hundreds of stories current thirty-five years
ago of stage-coach adventures on the Trail; a volume could be filled
with them, but I must confine myself to a few.

John Chisholm was a famous ranchman a long while ago, who had so many
cattle that it was said he did not know their number himself. At one
time he had a large contract to furnish beef to an Indian agency in
Arizona; he had just delivered an immense herd there, and very wisely,
after receiving his cash for them, sent most of it on to Santa Fe in
advance of his own journey. When he arrived there, he started for the
Missouri River with a thousand dollars and sufficient small change to
meet his current expenses on the road.

The very first night out from Santa Fe, the coach was halted by a band
of men who had been watching Chisholm's movements from the time he
left the agency in Arizona. The instant the stage came to a standstill,
Chisholm divined what it meant, and had time to thrust a roll of money
down one of the legs of his trousers before the door was thrown back and
he was ordered to fork over what he had.

He invited the robbers to search him, and to take what they might find,
but said he was not in a financial condition at that juncture to turn
over much. The thieves found his watch, took that, and then began to
search him. As luck would have it, they entirely missed the roll that
was down his leg, and discovered but a two-dollar bill in his vest.
When he told them it was all he had to buy grub on the road, one of the
robbers handed him a silver dollar, remarking as he did so: "That a man
who was mean enough to travel with only two dollars ought to starve, but
he would give him the dollar just to let him know that he was dealing
with gentlemen!"

One of the essentials to the comfort of the average soldier is tobacco.
He must have it; he would sooner forego any component part of his ration
than give it up.

In November, 1865, a detachment of Company L, of the Eleventh Kansas
Volunteers, and of the Second Colorado were ordered from Fort Larned
to Fort Lyon on a scouting expedition along the line of the Trail, the
savages having been very active in their raids on the freight caravans.

In a short time their tobacco began to run low, and as there was no
settlement of any kind between the two military posts, there was no
chance to replenish their stock. One night, while encamped on the
Arkansas, the only piece that was left in the whole command, about half
a plug, was unfortunately lost, and there was dismay in the camp when
the fact was announced. Hours were spent in searching for the missing
treasure. The next morning the march was delayed for some time, while
further diligent search was instituted by all hands, but without result,
and the command set out on its weary tramp, as disconsolate as may well
be imagined by those who are victims to the habit of chewing the weed.

Arriving at Fort Lyon, to their greater discomfort it was learned that
the sutler at that post was entirely out of the coveted article, and
the troops began their return journey more disconsolate than ever.
Dry leaves, grass, and even small bits of twigs, were chewed as a
substitute, until, reaching the spot where they had lost the part of
a plug, they determined to remain there that night and begin a more
vigorous hunt for the missing piece. Just before dark their efforts were
rewarded; one of the men found it, and such a scramble occurred for even
the smallest nibble at it! Enormous prices were given for a single chew.
It opened at one dollar for a mere sliver, rose to five, and closed at
ten dollars when the last morsel was left.

CHAPTER XXII. A DESPERATE RIDE.

In the Rocky Mountains and on the great plains along the line of the Old
Trail are many rude and widely separated graves. The sequestered little
valleys, the lonely gulches, and the broad prairies through which the
highway to New Mexico wound its course, hide the bones of hundreds of
whom the world will never have any more knowledge. The number of these
solitary, and almost obliterated mounds is small when compared with the
vast multitude in the cemeteries of our towns, though if the host of
those whose bones are mouldering under the short buffalo-grass and tall
blue-stem of the prairies between the Missouri and the mountains were
tabulated, the list would be appalling. Their aggregate will never be
known; for the once remote region of the mid-continent, like the ocean,
rarely gave up its victims. Lives went out there as goes an expiring
candle, suddenly, swiftly, and silently; no record was kept of time or
place. All those who thus died are graveless and monumentless, the great
circle of the heavens is the dome of their sepulchre, and the recurring
blossoms of springtime their only epitaph.

Sometimes the traveller over the Old Trail will suddenly, in the most
unexpected places, come across a little mound, perhaps covered with
stones, under which lie the mouldering bones of some unfortunate
adventurer. Above, now on a rude board, then on a detached rock, or
maybe on the wall of a beetling canyon, he may frequently read, in crude
pencilling or rougher carving, the legend of the dead man's ending.

The line of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, which
practically runs over the Old Trail for nearly its whole length to
the mountains, is a fertile field of isolated graves. The savage and
soldier, the teamster and scout, the solitary trapper or hunter,
and many others who have gone down to their death fighting with the
relentless nomad of the plains, or have been otherwise ruthlessly cut
off, mark with their last resting-places that well-worn pathway across
the continent.

The tourist, looking from his car-window as he is whirled with the speed
of a tornado toward the snow-capped peaks of the "Great Divide," may
see as he approaches Walnut Creek, three miles east of the town of Great
Bend in Kansas, on the beautiful ranch of Hon. D. Heizer, not far from
the stream, and close to the house, a series of graves, numbering,
perhaps, a score. These have been most religiously cared for by the
patriotic proprietor of the place during all the long years since 1864,
as he believes them to be the last resting-place of soldiers who were
once a portion of the garrison of Fort Zarah, the ruins of which (now
a mere hole in the earth) are but a few hundred yards away, on the
opposite side of the railroad track, plainly visible from the train.

The Walnut debouches into the Arkansas a short distance from where the
railroad crosses the creek, and at this point, too, the trail from Fort
Leavenworth merges into the Old Santa Fe. The broad pathway is very
easily recognized here; for it runs over a hard, flinty, low divide,
that has never been disturbed by the plough, and the traveller has
only to cast his eyes in a northeasterly direction in order to see it
plainly.

The creek is fairly well timbered to-day, as it has been ever since
the first caravan crossed the clear water of the little stream. It was
always a favourite place of ambush by the Indians, and many a conflict
has occurred in the beautiful bottom bounded by a margin of trees on two
sides, between the traders, trappers, troops, and the Indians, and also
between the several tribes that were hereditary enemies, particularly
the Pawnees and the Cheyennes. It is only about sixteen miles east of
Pawnee Rock, and included in that region of debatable ground where no
band of Indians dared establish a permanent village; for it was claimed
by all the tribes, but really owned by none.

In 1864 the commerce of the great plains had reached enormous
proportions, and immense caravans rolled day after day toward the blue
hills which guard the portals of New Mexico, and the precious freight
constantly tempted the wily savages to plunder.

To protect the caravans on their monotonous route through the "Desert,"
as this portion of the plains was then termed, troops were stationed,
a mere handful relatively, at intervals on the Trail, to escort the
freighters and mail coaches over the most exposed and dangerous portions
of the way.

On the bank of the Walnut, at this time, were stationed three hundred
unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command
of Captain Conkey. This point was rightly regarded as one of the most
important on the whole overland route; for near it passed the favourite
highway of the Indians on their yearly migrations north and south, in
the wake of the strange elliptical march of the buffalo far beyond the
Platte, and back to the sunny knolls of the Canadian.

This primitive cantonment which grew rapidly in strategical importance,
was two years later made quite formidable defensively, and named Fort
Zarah, in memory of the youngest son of Major General Curtis, who
was killed by guerillas somewhere south of Fort Scott, Kansas, while
escorting General James G. Blunt, of frontier fame during the Civil War.

Captain Henry Booth, during the year above mentioned, was chief of
cavalry and inspecting officer of the military district of the Upper
Arkansas, the western geographical limits of which extended to the
foot-hills of the mountains.

One day he received an order from the head-quarters of the department to
make a special inspection of all the outposts on the Santa Fe Trail.
He was stationed at Fort Riley at the time, and the evening the order
arrived, active preparations were immediately commenced for his extended
and hazardous trip across the plains. Lieutenant Hallowell, of the Ninth
Wisconsin Battery, was to accompany him, and both officers went at once
to their quarters, took down from the walls, where they had been hanging
idly for weeks, their rifles and pistols, and carefully examined and
brushed them up for possible service in the dreary Arkansas bottom.
Camp-kettles, until late in the night, sizzled and sputtered over
crackling log-fires; for their proposed ride beyond the settlements
demanded cooked rations for many a weary day. All the preliminaries
arranged, the question of the means of transportation was determined,
and, curiously enough, it saved the lives of the two officers in the
terrible gauntlet they were destined to run.

Hallowell was a famous whip, and prided himself upon the exceptionally
fine turnout which he daily drove among the picturesque hills around the
fort.

"Booth," said he in the evening, "let's not take a great lumbering
ambulance on this trip; if you will get a good way-up team of mules
from the quartermaster, we'll use my light rig, and we'll do our own
driving."

To this proposition Booth readily assented, procured the mules, and, as
it turned out, they were a "good way-up team."

Hallowell had a set of bows fitted to his light wagon, over which was
thrown an army-wagon-sheet, drawn up behind with a cord, similar to
those of the ordinary emigrant outfit to be seen daily on the roads of
the Western prairies. A round hole was necessarily left in the rear end,
serving the purpose of a lookout.

Two grip-sacks, containing their dress uniforms, a box of crackers and
cheese, meat and sardines, together with a bottle of anti-snake bite,
made up the principal freight for the long journey, and in the clear
cold of the early morning they rolled out of the gates of the fort,
escorted by Company L, of the Eleventh Kansas, commanded by Lieutenant
Van Antwerp.

The company of one hundred mounted men acting as escort was too
formidable a number for the Indians, and not a sign of one was seen as
the dangerous flats of Plum Creek and the rolling country beyond were
successively passed, and early in the afternoon the cantonment on Walnut
Creek was reached. At this important outpost Captain Conkey's command
was living in a rude but comfortable sort of a way, in the simplest of
dugouts, constructed along the right bank of the stream; the officers, a
little more in accordance with military dignity, in tents a few rods in
rear of the line of huts.

A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity for two hundred and
fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up by the men in the fall
to carry the animals through the winter.

Captain Conkey was a brusque but kind-hearted man, and with him were
stationed other officers, one of whom was a son of Admiral Goldsborough.
The morning after the arrival of the inspecting officers a rigid
examination of all the appointments and belongings of the place
was made, and, as an immense amount of property had accumulated
for condemnation, when evening came the books and papers were still
untouched; so that branch of the inspection had to be postponed until
the next morning.

After dark, while sitting around the camp-fire, discussing the war,
telling stories, etc., Captain Conkey said to Booth: "Captain, it won't
require more than half an hour in the morning to inspect the papers and
finish up what you have to do; why don't you start your escort out very
early, so it won't be obliged to trot after the ambulance, or you to
poke along with it? You can then move out briskly and make time."

Booth, acting upon what he thought at the time an excellent suggestion,
in a few moments went over the creek to Lieutenant Van Antwerp's camp,
to tell him that he need not wait for the wagon in the morning, but to
start out early, at half-past six, in advance.

According to instructions, the escort marched out of camp at daylight
next morning, while Booth and Hallowell remained to finish their
inspection. It was soon discovered, however, that either Captain
Conkey had underrated the amount of work to be done, or misjudged the
inspecting officers' ability to complete it in a certain time; so almost
three hours elapsed after the cavalry had departed before the task
ended.

At last everything was closed up, much to Hallowell's satisfaction, who
had been chafing under the vexatious delay ever since the escort left.
When all was in readiness, the little wagon drawn up in front of the
commanding officer's quarters, and farewells said, Hallowell suggested
to Booth the propriety of taking a few of the troops stationed there
to go with them until they overtook their own escort, which must now be
several miles on the Trail to Fort Larned. Booth asked Captain Conkey
what he thought of Hallowell's suggestion. Captain Conkey replied:
"Oh! there's not the slightest danger; there hasn't been an Indian seen
around here for over ten days."

If either Booth or Hallowell had been as well acquainted with the
methods and character of the plains Indians then as they afterward
became, they would have insisted upon an escort; but both were satisfied
that Captain Conkey knew what he was talking about, so they concluded to
push on.

Jumping into their wagon, Lieutenant Hallowell took the reins and away
they went rattling over the old log bridge that used to span the Walnut
at the crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail, as light of heart as if
riding to a dance.

The morning was bright and clear with a stiff breeze blowing from the
northwest, and the Trail was frozen hard in places, which made it very
rough, as it had been cut up by the travel of the heavily laden caravans
when it was wet. Booth sat on the left side of Hallowell with the whip
in his hand, now and then striking the mules, to keep up their speed.
Hallowell started up a tune--he was a good singer--and Booth joined in
as they rolled along, as oblivious of any danger as though they were in
their quarters at Fort Riley.

After they had proceeded some distance, Hallowell remarked to Booth:
"The buffalo are grazing a long way from the road to-day; a circumstance
that I think bodes no good." He had been on the plains the summer
before, and was better acquainted with the Indians and their
peculiarities than Captain Booth; but the latter replied that he
thought it was because their escort had gone on ahead, and had probably
frightened them off.

The next mile or two was passed, and still they saw no buffalo between
the Trail and the Arkansas, though nothing more was said by either
regarding the suspicious circumstance, and they rode rapidly on.

When they had gone about five or six miles from the Walnut, Booth,
happening to glance toward the river, saw something that looked
strangely like a flock of turkeys. He watched them intently for a
moment, when the objects rose up and he discovered they were horsemen.
He grasped Hallowell by the arm, directing his attention to them, and
said, "What are they?" Hallowell gave a hasty look toward the point
indicated, and replied, "Indians! by George!" and immediately turning
the mules around on the Trail, started them back toward the cantonment
on the Walnut at a full gallop.[68]

"Hold on!" said Booth to Hallowell when he understood the latter's
movement; "maybe it's part of our escort."

"No! no!" replied Hallowell. "I know they are Indians; I've seen too
many of them to be mistaken."

"Well," rejoined Booth, "I'm going to know for certain"; so, stepping
out on the foot-board, and with one hand holding on to the front bow,
he looked back over the top of the wagon-sheet. They were Indians, sure
enough; they had fully emerged from the ravine in which they had hidden,
and while he was looking at them they were slipping off their buffalo
robes from their shoulders, taking arrows out of their quivers, drawing
up their spears, and making ready generally for a red-hot time.

While Booth was intently regarding the movements of the savages,
Hallowell inquired of him: "They're Indians, aren't they, Booth?"

"Yes," was Booth's answer, "and they're coming down on us like a
whirlwind."

"Then I shall never see poor Lizzie again!" said Hallowell. He had been
married only a few weeks before starting out on this trip, and his young
wife's name came to his lips.

"Never mind Lizzie," responded Booth; "let's get out of here!" He was
as badly frightened as Hallowell, but had no bride at Riley, and, as he
tells it, "was selfishly thinking of himself only, and escape."

In answer to Booth's remark, Hallowell, in a firm, clear voice, said:
"All right! You do the shooting, and I'll do the driving," and suiting
the action to the words, he snatched the whip out of Booth's hand,
slipped from the seat to the front of the wagon, and commenced lashing
the mules furiously.

Booth then crawled back, pulled out one of his revolvers, crept, or
rather fell, over the "lazy-back" of the seat, and reaching the hole
made by puckering the wagon-sheet, looked out of it, and counted the
Indians; thirty-four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed savages, as
vicious a set as ever scalped a white man, swooping down on them like a
hawk upon a chicken.

Hallowell, between his yells at the mules, cried out, "How far are they
off now, Booth?" for of course he could see nothing of what was going on
in his rear.

Booth replied as well as he could judge of the distance, while Hallowell
renewed his yelling at the animals and redoubled his efforts with the
lash.

Noiselessly the Indians gained on the little wagon, for they had not as
yet uttered a whoop, and the determined driver, anxious to know how far
the red devils were from him, again asked Booth. The latter told him how
near they were, guessing at the distance, from which Hallowell gathered
inspiration for fresh cries and still more vigorous blows with his whip.

Booth, all this time, was sitting on the box containing the crackers
and sardines, watching the rapid approach of the cut-throats, and seeing
with fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon the little
mules.

Once more Hallowell made his stereotyped inquiry of Booth; but before
the latter could reply, two shots were fired from the rifles of the
Indians, accompanied by a yell that was demoniacal enough to cause the
blood to curdle in one's veins. Hallowell yelled at the mules, and Booth
yelled too; for what reason he could not tell, unless to keep company
with his comrade, who plied the whip more mercilessly than ever upon
the poor animals' backs, and the wagon flew over the rough road, nearly
upsetting at every jump.

In another moment the bullets from two of the Indians' rifles passed
between Booth and Hallowell, doing no damage, and almost instantly the
savages charged upon them, at the same time dividing into two parties,
one going on one side and one on the other, both delivering a volley of
arrows into the wagon as they rode by.

Just as the savages rushed past the wagon, Hallowell cried out to Booth,
"Cap, I'm hit!" and turning around to look, Booth saw an arrow sticking
in Hallowell's head above his right ear. His arm was still plying the
whip, which was going on unceasingly as the sails of a windmill, and his
howling at the mules only stopped long enough to answer, "Not much!" in
response to Booth's inquiry of "Does it hurt?" as he grabbed the arrow
and pulled it out of his head.

The Indians had by this time passed on, and then, circling back,
prepared for another charge. Down they came, again dividing as before
into two bands, and delivering another shower of arrows. Hallowell
ceased his yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit once more, Cap!"
Looking at the plucky driver, Booth saw this time an arrow sticking over
his left ear, and hanging down his back. He snatched it out, inquiring
if it hurt, but received the same answer: "No, not much."

Both men were now yelling at the top of their voices; and the mules were
jerking the wagon along the rough trail at a fearful rate, frightened
nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the terrible
shouting and whipping of the driver.

Booth crawled to the back end of the wagon again, looked out of the hole
in the cover, and saw the Indians moving across the Trail, preparing
for another charge. One old fellow, mounted on a black pony, was
jogging along in the centre of the road behind them, but near enough and
evidently determined to send an arrow through the puckered hole of the
sheet. In a moment the savage stopped his pony and let fly. Booth
dodged sideways--the arrow sped on its course, and whizzing through
the opening, struck the black-walnut "lazy-back" of the seat, the
head sticking out on the other side, and the sudden check causing the
feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing sound. With a quick
blow Booth struck it, and broke the shaft from the head, leaving the
latter embedded in the wood.

As quickly as possible, Booth rushed to the hole and fired his revolver
at the old devil, but failed to hit him. While he was trying to get in
another shot, an arrow came flying through from the left side of the
Trail, and striking him on the inside of the elbow, or "crazy-bone," so
completely benumbed his hand that he could not hold on to the pistol,
and it dropped into the road with one load still in its chamber. Just
then the mules gave an extraordinary jump to one side, which jerked
the wagon nearly from under him, and he fell sprawling on the end-gate,
evenly balanced, with his hands on the outside, attempting to clutch at
something to save himself! Seeing his predicament, the Indians thought
they had him sure, so they gave a yell of exultation, supposing he must
tumble out, but he didn't; he fortunately succeeded in grabbing one of
the wagon-bows with his right hand and pulled himself in; but it was a
close call.

While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by the
Indians; about a dozen of them had devoted their time to him, but he
never flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and drawn his
second revolver from its holster, Hallowell yelled to him: "Right off to
your right, Cap, quick!"

Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, and, clutching at a wagon-bow
to steady himself, he saw, "off to the right," an Indian who was in the
act of letting an arrow drive at Hallowell; it struck the side of the
box, and at the same instant Booth fired, scaring the red devil badly.

Back over the seat again he rushed to guard the rear, only to find a
young buck riding close to the side of the wagon, his pony running
in the deep path made by the ox-drivers in walking alongside of their
teams. Putting his left arm around one of the wagon-bows to prevent his
being jerked out, Booth quietly stuck his revolver through the hole in
the sheet; but before he could pull the trigger, the Indian flopped over
on the off side of his pony, and nothing could be seen of him excepting
one arm around his animal's neck and from the knee to the toes of one
leg. Booth did not wait for him to ride up; he could almost hit the
pony's head with his hand, so close was he to the wagon. Booth struck at
the beast several times, but the Indian kept him right up in his place
by whipping him on the opposite of his neck. Presently the plucky
savage's arm began to move. Booth watched him intently, and saw that he
had fixed an arrow in his bow under the pony's shoulder; just as he was
on the point of letting go the bowstring, with the head of the arrow not
three feet from Booth's breast as he leaned out of the hole, the latter
struck frantically at the weapon, dodged back into the wagon, and up
came the Indian. Whenever Booth looked out, down went the Indian on the
other side of his pony, to rise again in a moment, and Booth, afraid to
risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game of hide and
seek, drew suddenly back as the Indian went down the third time, and
in a second came up; but this was once too often. Booth had not dodged
completely into the wagon, nor dropped his revolver, and as the Indian
rose he fired.

The savage was naked to the waist; the ball struck him in the left
nipple, the blood spirted out of the wound, his bow and arrows and
lariat, with himself, rolled off the pony, falling heavily on the
ground, and with one convulsive contraction of his legs and an "Ugh!" he
was as dead as a stone.

"I've killed one of 'em!" called out Booth to Hallowell, as he saw his
victim tumble from his pony.

"Bully for you, Cap!" came Hallowell's response as he continued his
shouting, and the blows of that tireless whip fell incessantly on the
backs of the poor mules.

After he had killed the warrior, Booth kept his seat on the cracker
box, watching to see what the Indians were going to do next, when he was
suddenly interrupted by Hallowell's crying out to him: "Off to the right
again, Cap, quick!" and, whirling around instantly, he saw an Indian
within three feet of the wagon, with his bow and arrow almost ready to
shoot; there was no time to get over the seat, and as he could not fire
so close to Hallowell, he cried to the latter: "Hit him with the
whip! Hit him with the whip!" The lieutenant diverted one of the blows
intended for the mules, and struck the savage fairly across the face.
The whip had a knot in the end of it to prevent its unravelling, and
this knot must have hit the Indian squarely in the eye; for he dropped
his bow, put both hands up to his face, rubbed his eyes, and digging his
heels into his pony's sides was soon out of range of a revolver; but,
nevertheless, he was given a parting shot as a sort of salute.

A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused both Booth and
Hallowell to look around, and the latter to inquire: "What's the matter
now, Booth?" "They are coming down on us like lightning," said he; and,
sure enough, those who had been prancing around their dead comrade were
tearing along the Trail toward the wagon with a more hideous noise than
when they began.

Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules more furiously
still, but the Indians gained upon them as easily as a blooded racer on
a common farm plug. Separating as before, and passing on each side of
the wagon, they delivered another volley of bullets and arrows as they
rushed on.

When this charge was made, Booth drew away from the hole in the rear and
turned toward the Indians, but forgot that as he was sitting, with his
back pressed against the sheet, his body was plainly outlined on the
canvas.

When the Indians dashed by Hallowell cried out, "I'm hit again, Cap!"
and Booth, in turning around to go to his relief, felt something pulling
at him; and glancing over his left shoulder he discovered an arrow
sticking into him and out through the wagon-sheet. With a jerk of his
body, he tore himself loose, and going to Hallowell, asked him where
he was hit. "In the back," was the reply; where Booth saw an arrow
extending under the "lazy-back" of the seat. Taking hold of it, Booth
gave a pull, but Hallowell squirmed so that he desisted. "Pull it out!"
cried the plucky driver. Booth thereupon took hold of it again, and
giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was thoroughly frightened as he
saw it leave the lieutenant's body; it seemed to have entered at least
six inches, and the wound appeared to be a dangerous one. Hallowell,
however, did not cease for a moment belabouring the mules, and his yells
rang out as clear and defiant as before.

After extracting the arrow from Hallowell's back, Booth turned again to
the opening in the rear of the wagon to see what new tricks the devils
were up to, when Hallowell again called out, "Off to the left, Cap,
quick!"

Rushing to the front as soon as possible, Booth saw one of the savages
in the very act of shooting at Hallowell from the left side of the
wagon, not ten feet away. The last revolver was empty, but something
had to be done at once; so, levelling the weapon at him, Booth shouted
"Bang! you son-of-a-gun!" Down the Indian ducked his head; rap, rap,
went his knees against his pony's sides, and away he flew over the
prairie!

Back to his old place in the rear tumbled Booth, to load his
revolver. The cartridges they used in the army in those days were the
old-fashioned kind made of paper. Biting off one end, he endeavoured
to pour the powder into the chamber of the pistol; but as the wagon was
tumbling from side to side, and jumping up and down, as it fairly flew
over the rough Trail, more fell into the bottom of the wagon than into
the revolver. Just as he was inserting a ball, Hallowell yelled, "To the
left, Cap, quick!"

Over the seat Booth piled once more, and there was another Indian with
his bow and arrow all ready to pinion the brave lieutenant. Pointing his
revolver at him, Booth yelled as he had at the other, but this savage
had evidently noticed the first failure, and concluded there were no
more loads left; so, instead of taking a hasty departure, he grinned
demoniacally and endeavoured to fix the arrow in his bow. Booth rose up
in the wagon, and grasping hold of one of its bows with his left hand,
seized the revolver by the muzzle, and with all the force he could
muster hurled it at the impudent brute. It was a Remington, its barrel
octagon-shaped, with sharp corners, and when it was thrown, it turned
in the air, and striking the Indian muzzle-first on the ribs, cut a long
gash.

"Ugh!" he grunted, as, dropping his bow and spear, he flung himself over
the side of his pony, and away he went across the prairie.

Only one revolver remaining now, and that empty, with the savages still
howling around the apparently doomed men like so many demons! Booth fell
over the seat, as was his usual fate whenever he attempted to get to the
back of the wagon, picked up the empty revolver, and tried to load it;
but before he could bite the end of a cartridge, Hallowell yelled,

"Cap, I'm hit again!"

"Where this time?" inquired Booth, anxiously. "In the hand," replied
Hallowell; and, looking around, Booth noticed that although his right
arm was still thrashing at the now lagging mules with as much energy
as ever, through the fleshy part of the thumb was an arrow, which was
flopping up and down as he raised and lowered his hand in ceaseless
efforts to keep up the speed of the almost exhausted animals.

"Let me pull it out," said Booth, as he came forward to do so.

"No, never mind," replied Hallowell; "can't stop! can't stop!" and up
and down went the arm, and flip, flap, went the arrow with it, until
finally it tore through the flesh and fell to the ground.

Along they bowled, the Indians yelling, and the occupants of the little
wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth continued to struggle
desperately with that empty pistol, in his vain efforts to load it. In
another moment Hallowell shouted, "Booth, they are trying to crowd the
mules into the sunflowers!"

Alongside of the Trail huge sunflowers had grown the previous summer,
and now their dry stalks stood as thick as a cane-brake; if the wagon
once got among them, it would be impossible for the mules to keep up
their gallop. The savages seemed to realize this; for one huge old
fellow kept riding alongside the off mule, throwing his spear at him and
then jerking it back with the thong, one end of which was fastened to
his wrist. The near mule was constantly pushed further and further from
the Trail by his mate, which was jumping frantically, scared out of his
senses by the Indian.

At this perilous juncture, Booth stepped out on the foot-board of the
wagon, and, holding on by a bow, commenced to kick the frightened mule
vigorously, while Hallowell pulled on one line, whipping and yelling at
the same time; so together they succeeded in forcing the animals back
into the Trail.

The Indians kept close to the mules in their efforts to force them into
the sunflowers, and Booth made several attempts to scare the old fellow
that was nearest by pointing his empty revolver at him, but he would not
scare; so in his desperation Booth threw it at him. He missed the old
brute, but hit his pony just behind its rider's leg, which started the
animal into a sort of a stampede; his ugly master could not control him,
and thus the immediate peril from the persistent cuss was delayed.

Now the pair were absolutely without firearms of any kind, with nothing
left except their sabres and valises, and the savages came closer and
closer. In turn the two swords were thrown at them as they came almost
within striking distance; then followed the scabbards, as the
howling fiends surrounded the wagon and attempted to spear the mules.
Fortunately their arrows were exhausted.

The cantonment on the Walnut was still a mile and a half away, and there
was nothing for our luckless travellers to do but whip and kick, both
of which they did most vigorously. Hallowell sat as immovable as the
Sphinx, excepting his right arm, which from the moment they had started
on the back trail had not once ceased its incessant motion.

Happening to cast his eyes back on the Trail, Booth saw to his dismay
twelve or fifteen of the savages coming up on the run with fresh energy,
their spears poised ready for action, and he felt that something must
be done very speedily to divert them; for if these added their number to
those already surrounding the wagon, the chances were they would succeed
in forcing the mules into the sunflowers, and his scalp and Hallowell's
would dangle at the belt of the leader.

Glancing around in the bottom of the wagon for some kind of weapon, his
eye fell on the two valises containing the dress-suits. He snatched up
his own, and threw it out while the pursuers were yet five or six rods
in the rear. The Indians noticed this new trick with a great yell of
satisfaction, and the moment they arrived at the spot where the valise
lay, all dismounted; one of them, seizing it by the two handles, pulled
with all his strength to open it, and when he failed, another drew a
long knife from under his blanket and ripped it apart. He then put his
hand in, pulling out a sash, which he began to wind around his head,
like a negress with a bandanna, letting the tassels hang down his back.
While he was thus amusing himself, one of the others had taken out a
dress-coat, a third a pair of drawers, and still another a shirt, which
they proceeded to put on, meanwhile dancing around and howling.

Booth told Hallowell of the sacrifice of the valise, and said, "I'm
going to throw out yours." "All right," replied Hallowell; "all we want
is time." So out it went on the Trail, and shared the same fate as the
other.

The lull in hostilities caused by their outstripping their pursuers gave
the almost despairing men time to talk over their situation. Hallowell
said he did not propose to be captured and then butchered or burned at
the pleasure of the Indians. He said to Booth: "If they kill one of the
mules, and so stop us, let's kick, strike, throw dirt or anything, and
compel them to kill us on the spot." So it was agreed, if the worst came
to the worst, to stand back to back and fight.

During this discussion the arm of Hallowell still plied the effective
lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the camp, and as they caught the
first glimpse of its tents and dugouts, hope sprang up within them.
The mules were panting like a hound after a deer; wherever the harness
touched them, it was white with lather, and it was evident they could
keep on their feet but a short time longer. Would they hold out until
the bridge was reached? The whipping and the kicking had but little
effect on them now. They still continued their gallop, but it was slower
and more laboured than before.

The Indians who had torn open the valises had not returned to the chase,
and although there were still a sufficient number of the fiends pursuing
to make it interesting, they did not succeed in spearing the mules, as
at every attempt the plucky animals would jump sideways or forward and
evade the impending blow.

The little log bridge was reached; the savages had all retreated, but
the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at their fastest pace. The bridge
was constructed of half-round logs, and of course was extremely rough;
the wagon bounded up and down enough to shake the teeth out of one's
head as the little animals went flying over it. Booth called out to
Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast now, the Indians have all left us";
but he replied, "I ain't going to stop until I get across"; and down
came the whip, on sped the mules, not breaking their short gallop until
they were pulled up in front of Captain Conkey's quarters.

The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation the
garrison had of its return.

The officers came running out of their tents, the enlisted men poured
out of their dugouts like a lot of ants, and Booth and Hallowell were
surrounded by their friends in a moment. Captain Conkey ordered his
bugler to sound "Boots and Saddles," and in less than ten minutes ninety
troopers were mounted, and with the captain at their head started after
the Indians.

When Hallowell tried to rise from his seat so as to get out every effort
only resulted in his falling back. Some one stepped around to the
other side to assist him, when it was discovered that the skirt of his
overcoat had worked outside of the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge,
and that three or four of the arrows fired at him by the savages had
struck the side of the wagon, and, passing through the flap of his coat,
had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows out and helped him up; he
was pretty stiff from sitting in his cramped position so long, and his
right arm dropped by his side as if paralysed.

Booth stood looking on while his comrade's wounds were being dressed,
when the adjutant asked him: "What makes you shrug your shoulder so?" He
answered, "I don't know; something makes it smart." The officer looked
at him and said, "Well, I don't wonder; I should think it would smart;
here's an arrow-head sticking into you," and he tried to pull it out,
but it would not come. Captain Goldsborough then attempted it, but was
not any more successful. The doctor then told them to let it alone,
and he would attend to Booth after he had done with Hallowell. When he
examined Booth's shoulder, he found that the arrow-head had struck the
thick portion of the shoulder-blade, and had made two complete turns,
wrapping itself around the muscles, which had to be cut apart before the
sharp point could be withdrawn.

Booth was not seriously hurt. Hallowell, however, had received two
severe wounds; the arrow that had lodged in his back had penetrated
almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was very painful, not
so much from the simple impact of the arrow as from the tearing away of
the muscle by the shaft while he was whipping his mules; his right arm,
too, was swollen terribly, and so stiff from the incessant use of it
during the drive that for more than a month he required assistance in
dressing and undressing.

The mules who had saved their lives were of small account after their
memorable trip; they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and
their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out to look at
them the next morning, as they hobbled around the corral, and from the
bottom of their hearts wished them well.

Captain Conkey's command returned to the cantonment about midnight. But
one Indian had been seen, and he was south of the Arkansas in the sand
hills.

The next morning a scouting-party of forty men, under command of a
sergeant, started out to scour the country toward Cow Creek, northeast
from the Walnut.

As I have stated, the troopers stationed at the cantonment on the Walnut
were mostly recruits. Now the cavalry recruit of the old regular army on
the frontier, thirty or forty years ago, mounted on a great big American
horse and sent out with well-trained comrades on a scout after the
hostile savages of the plains, was the most helpless individual
imaginable. Coming fresh from some large city probably, as soon as he
arrived at his station he was placed on the back of an animal of whose
habits he knew as little as he did of the differential calculus; loaded
down with a carbine, the muzzle of which he could hardly distinguish
from the breech; a sabre buckled around his waist; a couple of enormous
pistols stuck in his holsters; his blankets strapped to the cantle of
his saddle, and, to complete the hopelessness of his condition in a
possible encounter with a savage enemy who was ever on the alert, he was
often handicapped by a camp-kettle or two, a frying-pan, and ten days'
rations. No wonder this doughty representative of Uncle Sam's power was
an easy prey for "Poor Lo," who, when he caught the unfortunate soldier
away from his command and started after him, must have laughed at the
ridiculous appearance of his enemy, with both hands glued to the pommel
of his saddle, his hair on end, his sabre flying and striking his horse
at every jump as the animal tore down the trail toward camp, while the
Indian, rapidly gaining, in a few minutes had the scalp of the hapless
rider dangling at his belt, and another of the "boys in blue" had joined
the majority.

The scouting-party had proceeded about four or five miles, when one of
the corporals asked permission for himself and a recruit to go over to
the Upper Walnut to find out whether they could discover any signs of
Indians.

While they were carelessly riding along the big curve which the northern
branch of the Walnut makes at that point, there suddenly sprang from
their ambush in the timber on the margin of the stream about three
hundred Indians, whooping and yelling. The two troopers of course,
immediately whirled their horses and started down the creek toward the
camp, hotly pursued by the howling savages.

The corporal was an excellent rider; a well-trained and disciplined
soldier, having seen much service on the plains. He led in the flight,
closely followed by the unfortunate recruit, who had been enlisted but a
short time. Not more than an eighth of a mile had been covered, when the
corporal heard his companion exclaim,--

"Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

Looking back, the corporal saw that the poor recruit was losing ground
rapidly; his horse was rearing and plunging, making very little headway,
while his rider was jerking and pulling on the bit, a curb of the
severest kind. Perceiving the strait his comrade was in, the corporal
reined up for a moment and called out,--

"Let him go! Let him go! Don't jerk on the bit so!"

The Indians were gaining ground rapidly, and in another moment the
corporal heard the recruit again cry out,--

"Oh! Don't--"

Realizing that it would be fatal to delay, and that he could be of
no assistance to his companion, already killed and scalped, he leaned
forward on his horse, and sinking his spurs deep in the animal's flanks
fairly flew down the valley, with the three hundred savages close in his
wake.

The officers at the camp were sitting in their tents when the sentinel
on post No. 1 fired his piece, upon which all rushed out to learn the
cause of the alarm; for there was no random shooting in those days
allowed around camp or in garrison. Looking up the valley of the Walnut,
they could see the lucky corporal, with his long hair streaming in the
wind, and his heels rapping his horse's sides, as he dashed over the
brown sod of the winter prairie.

The corporal now slackened his pace, rode up to the commanding officer's
tent, reported the affair, and then was allowed to go to his own
quarters for the rest he so much needed.

Captain Conkey immediately ordered a mounted squad, accompanied by an
ambulance, to go up the creek to recover the body of the unfortunate
recruit. The party were absent a little over an hour, and brought back
with them the remains of the dead soldier. He had been shot with
an arrow, the point of which was still sticking out through his
breast-bone. His scalp had been torn completely off, and the lapels of
his coat and the legs of his trousers carried away by the savages.
He was buried the next morning with military honours, in the little
graveyard on the bank of the Walnut, where his body still rests in the
dooryard of the ranch.

CHAPTER XXIII. HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION.

In the spring of 1867, General Hancock, who then commanded the military
division of the Missouri, with headquarters at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas,
organized an expedition against the Indians of the great plains, which
he led in person. With him was General Custer, second ranking officer,
from whom I quote the story of the march and some of the incidents of
the raid.

General Hancock, with the artillery and six companies of infantry,
arrived at Fort Riley, Kansas, the last week in March, where he was
joined by four companies of the Seventh Cavalry, commanded by the
intrepid Custer.

From Fort Riley the expedition marched to Fort Harker, seventy-two miles
farther west, on the Smoky Hill, where the force was increased by the
addition of two more troops of cavalry. Remaining there only long enough
to replenish their commissary supplies, the march was directed to
Fort Larned on the Old Santa Fe Trail. On the 7th of April the command
reached the latter post, accompanied by the agent of the Comanches and
Kiowas; at the fort the agent of the Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Apaches
was waiting for the arrival of the general. The agent of the three
last-mentioned tribes had already sent runners to the head chiefs,
inviting them to a grand council which was to assemble near the fort on
the 10th of the month, and he requested General Hancock to remain at the
fort with his command until that date.

On the 9th of April a terrible snow-storm came on while the troops
were encamped waiting for the head men of the various tribes to arrive.
Custer says:

It was our good fortune to be in camp rather than on the
march; had it been otherwise, we could not well have escaped
without loss of life. The cavalry horses suffered severely,
and were only preserved by doubling their rations of oats,
while to prevent their being frozen during the intensely
cold night which followed, the guards were instructed to
pass along the picket lines with a whip, and keep the
horses moving constantly. The snow was eight inches deep.
The council, which was to take place the next day, had to be
postponed until the return of good weather. Now began the
display of a kind of diplomacy for which the Indian is
peculiar. The Cheyennes and a band of Sioux were encamped
on Pawnee Fork, about thirty miles above Fort Larned.
They neither desired to move nearer to us or have us
approach nearer to them. On the morning of the 11th,
they sent us word that they had started to visit us, but,
discovering a large herd of buffalo near their camp,
they had stopped to procure a supply of meat. This message
was not received with much confidence, nor was a buffalo
hunt deemed of sufficient importance to justify the Indians
in breaking their engagement. General Hancock decided,
however, to delay another day, when, if the Indians still
failed to come in, he would move his command to the vicinity
of their village and hold the conference there.

Orders were issued on the evening of the 12th for the march
to be resumed on the following day. Late in the evening
two chiefs of the "Dog-Soldiers," a band composed of the
most warlike and troublesome Indians on the plains,
chiefly made up of Cheyennes, visited our camp. They were
accompanied by a dozen warriors, and expressed a desire to
hold a conference with General Hancock, to which he assented.
A large council-fire was built in front of the general's
tent, and all the officers of his command assembled there.
A tent had been erected for the accommodation of the chiefs
a short distance from the general's. Before they could
feel equal to the occasion, and in order to obtain time to
collect their thoughts, they desired that supper might be
prepared for them, which was done. When finally ready,
they advanced from their tent to the council-fire in single
file, accompanied by their agent and an interpreter.
Arrived at the fire, another brief delay ensued. No matter
how pressing or momentous the occasion, an Indian invariably
declines to engage in a council until he has filled his pipe
and gone through with the important ceremony of a smoke.
This attended to, the chiefs announced that they were ready
"to talk." They were then introduced to the principal
officers of the group, and seemed much struck with the
flashy uniforms of the few artillery officers, who were
present in all the glory of red horsehair plumes,
aiguillettes, etc. The chiefs seemed puzzled to determine
whether these insignia designated chieftains or medicine men.
General Hancock began the conference by a speech, in which
he explained to the Indians his purpose in coming to see
them, and what he expected of them in the future.
He particularly informed them that he was not there to make
war, but to promote peace. Then, expressing his regrets
that more of the chiefs had not visited him, he announced
his intention of proceeding on the morrow with his command
to the vicinity of their village, and there holding a
council with all the chiefs. Tall Bull, a fine, warlike-looking
chieftain, replied to General Hancock, but his speech
contained nothing important, being made up of allusions to
the growing scarcity of the buffalo, his love for the white
man, and the usual hint that a donation in the way of
refreshments would be highly acceptable; he added that he
would have nothing new to say at the village.

Rightly concluding that the Indians did not intend to come
to our camp, as they had at first agreed to, it was decided
to move nearer their village. On the morning following the
conference our entire force, therefore, marched from
Fort Larned up Pawnee Fork in the direction of the main
village, encamping the first night about twenty-one miles
from Larned. Several parties of Indians were seen in our
advance during the day, evidently watching our movements,
while a heavy smoke, seen to rise in the direction of the
Indian village, indicated that something more than usual
was going on. The smoke, we afterward learned, arose from
burning grass. The Indians, thinking to prevent us from
encamping in their vicinity, had set fire to and burned all
the grass for miles in the direction from which they
expected us. Before we arrived at our camping-ground,
we were met by several chiefs and warriors belonging to the
Cheyennes and Sioux. Among the chiefs were Pawnee Killer,
of the Sioux, and White Horse, of the Cheyennes. It was
arranged that these chiefs should accept our hospitality
and remain with us during the night, and in the morning all
the chiefs of the two tribes then in the village were to
come to General Hancock's head-quarters and hold a council.
On the morning of the 14th, Pawnee Killer left our camp at
an early hour, as he said for the purpose of going to the
village to bring in the other chiefs to the council.
Nine o'clock had been agreed upon as the time at which the
council should assemble. The hour came, but the chiefs
did not. Now an Indian council is not only often an
important, but always an interesting, occasion. At this
juncture, Bull Bear, an influential chief among the
Cheyennes, came in and reported that the chiefs were on
their way to our camp, but would not be able to reach it
for some time. This was a mere artifice to secure delay.
General Hancock informed Bull Bear that, as the chiefs
could not arrive for some time, he would move his forces
up the stream nearer the village, and the council could be
held at our camp that night. To this proposition Bull Bear
gave his consent.

At 11 A.M. we resumed the march, and had proceeded but a few
miles when we witnessed one of the finest and most imposing
military displays, according to the Indian art of war,
which it has been my lot to behold. It was nothing more
nor less than an Indian line of battle drawn directly
across our line of march, as if to say, "Thus far and no
further." Most of the Indians were mounted; all were
bedecked in their brightest colours, their heads crowned
with the brilliant war-bonnet, their lances bearing the
crimson pennant, bows strung, and quivers full of barbed
arrows. In addition to these weapons, which, with the
hunting-knife and tomahawk, are considered as forming the
armament of the warrior, each one was supplied with either
a breech-loading rifle or revolver, sometimes with both-
the latter obtained through the wise forethought and strong
love of fair play which prevails in the Indian department,
which, seeing that its wards are determined to fight,
is equally determined that there shall be no advantage taken,
but that the two sides shall be armed alike; proving, too,
in this manner, the wonderful liberality of our government,
which is not only able to furnish its soldiers with the
latest style of breech-loaders to defend it and themselves,
but is equally able and willing to give the same pattern
of arms to the common foe. The only difference is, that if
the soldier loses his weapon, he is charged double price
for it, while to avoid making any such charge against the
Indian, his weapons are given him without conditions attached.

In the line of battle before us there were several hundred
Indians, while further to the rear and at different
distances were other organized bodies, acting apparently
as reserves. Still further behind were small detachments
who seemed to perform the duty of couriers, and were held
in readiness to convey messages to the village. The ground
beyond was favourable for an extended view, and as far as
the eye could reach, small groups of individuals could be
seen in the direction of the village; these were evidently
parties of observation, whose sole object was to learn the
result of our meeting with the main body and hasten with
the news to the village.

For a few moments appearances seemed to foreshadow anything
but a peaceable issue. The infantry was in the advance,
followed closely by the artillery, while my command,
the cavalry, was marching on the flank. General Hancock,
who was riding with his staff at the head of the column,
coming suddenly in view of the wild, fantastic battle array,
which extended far to our right and left, and was not more
than half a mile in our front, hastily sent orders to the
infantry, artillery, and cavalry to form in line of battle,
evidently determined that, if war was intended, we should be
prepared. The cavalry being the last to form on the right,
came into line on a gallop, and without waiting to align
the ranks carefully, the command was given to "Draw sabre."
As the bright blades flashed from their scabbards into the
morning sunlight, and the infantry brought their muskets
to a carry, a contrast was presented which, to a military
eye, could but be striking. Here in battle array, facing
each other, were the representatives of civilized and
barbarous warfare. The one, with few modifications, stood
clothed in the same rude style of dress, bearing the same
patterned shield and weapon that his ancestors had borne
centuries before; the other confronted him in the dress
and supplied with the implements of war which an advanced
stage of civilization had pronounced the most perfect.
Was the comparative superiority of these two classes to be
subjected to the mere test of war here? All was eager
anxiety and expectation. Neither side seemed to comprehend
the object or intentions of the other; each was waiting
for the other to deliver the first blow. A more beautiful
battle-ground could not have been chosen. Not a bush or
even the slightest irregularity of ground intervened between
the two lines, which now stood frowning and facing each other.
Chiefs could be seen riding along the line, as if directing
and exhorting their braves to deeds of heroism.

After a few moments of painful suspense, General Hancock,
accompanied by General A. J. Smith and other officers,
rode forward, and through an interpreter invited the chiefs
to meet us midway for the purpose of an interview.
In response to this invitation, Roman Nose, bearing a white
flag, accompanied by Bull Bear, White Horse, Gray Beard,
and Medicine Wolf, on the part of the Cheyennes, and Pawnee
Killer, Bad Wound, Tall-Bear-That-Walks-under-the-Ground,
Left Hand, Little Bear, and Little Bull, on the part of the
Sioux, rode forward to the middle of the open space between
the two lines. Here we shook hands with all the chiefs,
most of them exhibiting unmistakable signs of gratification
at this apparently peaceful termination of our rencounter.
General Hancock very naturally inquired the object of the
hostile attitude displayed before us, saying to the chiefs
that if war was their object, we were ready then and there
to participate. Their immediate answer was that they did
not desire war, but were peacefully disposed. They were
then told that we would continue our march toward the
village, and encamp near it, but would establish such
regulations that none of the soldiers would be permitted
to approach or disturb them. An arrangement was then
effected by which the chiefs were to assemble at General
Hancock's headquarters as soon as our camp was pitched.
The interview then terminated, and the Indians moved off
in the direction of their village, we following leisurely
in the rear.

A march of a few miles brought us in sight of the village,
which was situated in a beautiful grove on the bank of the
stream up which we had been marching. It consisted of
upwards of three hundred lodges, a small fraction over half
belonging to the Cheyennes, the remainder to the Sioux.
Like all Indian encampments, the ground chosen was a most
romantic spot, and at the same time fulfilled in every
respect the requirements of a good camping-ground; wood,
water, and grass were abundant. The village was placed on
a wide, level plateau, while on the north and west, at a
short distance off, rose high bluffs, which admirably served
as a shelter against the cold winds which at that season of
the year prevail from those directions. Our tents were
pitched within a mile of the village. Guards were placed
between to prevent intrusion upon our part. We had scarcely
pitched our tents when Roman Nose, Bull Bear, Gray Beard,
and Medicine Wolf, all prominent chiefs of the Cheyenne
nation, came into camp with the information that upon our
approach their women and children had all fled from the
village, alarmed by the presence of so many soldiers, and
imagining a second Chivington massacre to be intended.
General Hancock insisted that they should all return,
promising protection and good treatment to all; that if
the camp was abandoned, he would hold it responsible.
The chiefs then stated their belief in their ability to
recall the fugitives, could they be furnished with horses
to overtake them. This was accordingly done, and two of
them set out mounted on two of our horses. An agreement
was also entered into at the same time, that one of our
interpreters, Ed Gurrier, a half-breed Cheyenne, who was in
the employ of the government, should remain in the village
and report every two hours as to whether any Indians were
leaving there. This was about seven o'clock in the evening.
At half-past nine the half-breed returned to head-quarters
with the intelligence that all the chiefs and warriors were
saddling up to leave, under circumstances showing that they
had no intention of returning, such as packing up every
article that could be carried with them, and cutting and
destroying their lodges--this last being done to obtain
small pieces for temporary shelter.

I had retired to my tent, which was some few hundred yards
from that of General Hancock, when a messenger from the
latter awakened me with the information that the general
desired my presence in his tent. He briefly stated the
situation of affairs, and directed me to mount my command
as quickly and as silently as possible, surround the Indian
village, and prevent the departure of its inhabitants.
Easily said, but not so easily done. Under ordinary
circumstances, silence not being necessary, I could have
returned to my camp, and by a few blasts from the trumpet,
placed every soldier on his saddle almost as quickly as it
has taken time to write this short sentence. No bugle calls
must be sounded; we were to adopt some of the stealth of the
Indians--how successfully remained to be seen. By this time
every soldier and officer was in his tent sound asleep.
First going to the tent of the adjutant and arousing him,
I procured an experienced assistant in my labours. Next the
captains of companies were awakened and orders imparted
to them. They in turn transmitted the order to the first
sergeant, who similarly aroused the men. It has often
surprised me to observe the alacrity with which disciplined
soldiers, experienced in campaigning, will hasten to prepare
themselves for the march in an emergency like this.
No questions are asked, no time is wasted. A soldier's
toilet, on an Indian campaign, is a simple affair, and
requires little time for arranging. His clothes are
gathered up hurriedly, no matter how, so long as he retains
possession of them. The first object is to get his horse
saddled and bridled, and until this is done his own dress
is a matter of secondary importance, and one button or hook
must do the duty of half a dozen. When his horse is ready
for the mount, the rider will be seen completing his own
equipment; stray buttons will receive attention, arms will
be overhauled, spurs restrapped; then, if there still remain
a few spare moments, the homely black pipe is filled and
lighted, and the soldier's preparation is complete.

The night was all that could be desired for the success of
our enterprise. The air was mild and pleasant; the moon,
although nearly full, kept almost constantly behind the
clouds, as if to screen us in our hazardous undertaking.
I say hazardous, because none of us imagined for one moment
that if the Indians discovered us in our attempt to surround
them and their village, we should escape without a fight--
a fight, too, in which the Indians, sheltered behind the
trunks of the stately forest trees under which their lodges
were pitched, would possess all the advantage. General
Hancock, anticipating that the Indians would discover our
approach, and that a fight would ensue, ordered the
artillery and infantry under arms, to await the result of
our moonlight adventure. My command was soon in the saddle,
and silently making its way toward the village.
Instructions had been given forbidding all conversation
except in a whisper. Sabres were disposed of to prevent
clanging. Taking a camp-fire which we could see in the
village as our guiding point, we made a detour so as to
place the village between ourselves and the infantry.
Occasionally the moon would peep out from the clouds and
enable us to catch a hasty glance at the village. Here and
there under the thick foliage we could see the white,
conical-shaped lodges. Were the inmates slumbering,
unaware of our close proximity, or were their dusky defenders
concealed, as well they might have been, along the banks of
the Pawnee, quietly awaiting our approach, and prepared to
greet us with their well-known war-whoop? These were
questions that were probably suggested to the mind of each
individual of my command. If we were discovered approaching
in the stealthy, suspicious manner which characterized our
movements, the hour being midnight, it would require a more
confiding nature than that of the Indian to assign a
friendly or peaceful motive to our conduct. The same
flashes of moonlight which gave us hurried glimpses of the
village enabled us to see our own column of horsemen
stretching its silent length far into the dim darkness, and
winding its course, like some huge anaconda about to envelop
its victim.

The method by which it was determined to establish a cordon
of armed troopers about the fated village, was to direct
the march in a circle, with the village in the centre,
the commanding officer of each rear troop halting his
command at the proper point, and deploying his men similarly
to a line of skirmishers--the entire circle, when thus formed,
facing toward the village, and, distant from it perhaps a
few hundred yards. No sooner was our line completely formed
than the moon, as if deeming darkness no longer essential
to our success, appeared from behind her screen and lighted
up the entire scene. And beautiful it was! The great
circle of troops, each individual of which sat on his steed
silent as a statue, the dense foliage of the cotton trees
sheltering the bleached, skin-clad lodges of the red men,
the little stream in the midst murmuring undisturbedly in
its channel, all combined to produce an artistic effect,
as striking as it was interesting. But we were not there
to study artistic effects. The next step was to determine
whether we had captured an inhabited village, involving
almost necessarily a severe conflict with its savage
occupants, or whether the red man had again proven too
wily and crafty for his more civilized brothers.

Directing the entire line of troopers to remain mounted
with carbines held at the "Advance," I dismounted, and
taking with me Gurrier, the half-breed, Dr. Coates, one of
our medical staff, and Lieutenant Moylan, the adjutant,
we proceeded on our hands and knees toward the village.
The prevailing opinion was that the Indians were still
asleep. I desired to approach near enough to the lodges
to enable the half-breed to hail the village in the Indian
tongue, and if possible establish friendly relations at once.
It became a question of prudence with us, which we discussed
in whispers as we proceeded on our "Tramp, tramp, tramp,
the boys are creeping," how far from our horses and how
near to the village we dared to go. If so few of us were
discovered entering the village in this questionable manner,
it was more than probable that, like the returners of stolen
property, we should be suitably rewarded and no questions
asked. The opinion of Gurrier, the half-breed, was eagerly
sought for and generally deferred to. His wife,
a full-blooded Cheyenne, was a resident of the village.
This with him was an additional reason for wishing a peaceful
termination to our efforts. When we had passed over
two-thirds of the distance between our horses and the
village, it was thought best to make our presence known.
Thus far not a sound had been heard to disturb the stillness
of the night. Gurrier called out at the top of his voice
in the Cheyenne tongue. The only response came from the
throats of a score or more of Indian dogs which set up a
fierce barking. At the same time one or two of our party
asserted that they saw figure moving beneath the trees.
Gurrier repeated his summons, but with no better results
than before.

A hurried consultation ensued. The presence of so many dogs
in the village was regarded by the half-breed as almost
positive assurance that the Indians were still there.
Yet it was difficult to account for their silence. Gurrier
in a loud tone repeated who he was, and that our mission was
friendly. Still no answer. He then gave it as his opinion
that the Indians were on the alert, and were probably
waiting in the shadow of the trees for us to approach nearer,
when they would pounce upon us. This comforting opinion
induced another conference. We must ascertain the truth of
the matter; our party could do this as well as a larger
number, and to go back and send another party in our stead
could not be thought of.

Forward! was the verdict. Each one grasped his revolver,
resolved to do his best, whether it was in running or
fighting. I think most of us would have preferred to take
our own chances at running. We had approached near enough
to see that some of the lodges were detached some distance
from the main encampment. Selecting the nearest of these,
we directed our advance on it. While all of us were full
of the spirit of adventure, and were further encouraged
with the idea that we were in the discharge of our duty,
there was scarcely one of us who would not have felt more
comfortable if we could have got back to our horses without
loss of pride. Yet nothing, under the circumstances, but
a positive order would have induced any one to withdraw.

Cautiously approaching, on all fours, to within a few yards
of the nearest lodge, occasionally halting and listening to
discover whether the village was deserted or not, we finally
decided that the Indians had fled before the arrival of the
cavalry, and that none but empty lodges were before us.
This conclusion somewhat emboldened as well as accelerated
our progress. Arriving at the first lodge, one of our party
raised the curtain or mat which served as a door, and the
doctor and myself entered. The interior of the lodge was
dimly lighted by the dying embers of a small fire built in
the centre. All around us were to be seen the usual
adornments and articles which constitute the household
effects of an Indian family. Buffalo-robes were spread like
carpets over the floor; head-mats, used to recline on, were
arranged as if for the comfort of their owners; parflêches,
a sort of Indian band-box, with their contents apparently
undisturbed, were carefully stowed away under the edges or
borders of the lodge. These, with the door-mats, paint-bags,
rawhide ropes, and other articles of Indian equipment,
were left as if the owners had only absented themselves for
a brief period. To complete the picture of an Indian lodge,
over the fire hung a camp-kettle, in which, by means of the
dim light of the fire, we could see what had been intended
for the supper of the late occupants of the lodge.
The doctor, ever on the alert to discover additional items
of knowledge, whether pertaining to history or science,
snuffed the savoury odours which arose from the dark
recesses of the mysterious kettle. Casting about the lodge
for some instrument to aid him in his pursuit of knowledge,
he found a horn spoon, with which he began his investigation
of the contents, finally succeeding in getting possession
of a fragment which might have been the half of a duck or
rabbit, judging from its size merely. "Ah!" said the doctor,
in his most complacent manner, "here is the opportunity I
have long been waiting for. I have often desired to test
the Indian mode of cooking. What do you suppose this is?"
holding up the dripping morsel. Unable to obtain the
desired information, the doctor, whose naturally good
appetite had been sensibly sharpened by his recent exercise,
set to with a will and ate heartily of the mysterious
contents of the kettle. He was only satisfied on one point,
that it was delicious--a dish fit for a king. Just then
Gurrier, the half-breed, entered the lodge. He could solve
the mystery, having spent years among the Indians. To him
the doctor appealed for information. Fishing out a huge
piece, and attacking it with the voracity of a hungry wolf,
he was not long in determining what the doctor had supped
heartily upon. His first words settled the mystery: "Why,
this is dog." I will not attempt to repeat the few but
emphatic words uttered by the heartily disgusted member of
the medical fraternity as he rushed from the lodge.

Other members of our small party had entered other lodges,
only to find them, like the first, deserted. But little of
the furniture belonging to the lodges had been taken,
showing how urgent and hasty had been the flight of the
owners. To aid in the examination of the village,
reinforcements were added to our party, and an exploration
of each lodge was determined upon. At the same time a
messenger was despatched to General Hancock, informing him
of the flight of the Indians. Some of the lodges were
closed by having brush or timber piled up against the
entrance, as if to preserve the contents. Others had huge
pieces cut from their sides, these pieces evidently being
carried away to furnish temporary shelter for the fugitives.
In most of the lodges the fires were still burning. I had
entered several without discovering anything important.
Finally, in company with the doctor, I arrived at one the
interior of which was quite dark, the fire having almost
died out. Procuring a lighted fagot, I prepared to explore it,
as I had done the others; but no sooner had I entered the
lodge than my fagot failed me, leaving me in total darkness.
Handing it to the doctor to be relighted, I began to feel
my way about the interior of the lodge. I had almost made
the circuit when my hand came in contact with a human foot;
at the same time a voice unmistakably Indian, and which
evidently came from the owner of the foot, convinced me that
I was not alone. My first impressions were that in their
hasty flight the Indians had gone off, leaving this one
asleep. My next, very naturally, related to myself.
I would gladly have placed myself on the outside of the
lodge, and there matured plans for interviewing its occupant;
but unfortunately to reach the entrance of the lodge, I must
either pass over or around the owner of the before-mentioned
foot and voice. Could I have been convinced that among
its other possessions there was neither tomahawk nor
scalping-knife, pistol nor war-club, or any similar article
of the noble red-man's toilet, I would have risked an attempt
to escape through the low narrow opening of the lodge;
but who ever saw an Indian without one or all of these
interesting trinkets? Had I made the attempt, I should
have expected to encounter either the keen edge of the
scalping-knife or the blow of the tomahawk, and to have
engaged in a questionable struggle for life. This would
not do. I crouched in silence for a few moments, hoping
the doctor would return with the lighted fagot. I need not
say that each succeeding moment spent in the darkness of
that lodge seemed an age. I could hear a slight movement
on the part of my unknown neighbour, which did not add to
my comfort. Why does not the doctor return? At last I
discovered the approach of a light on the outside. When it
neared the entrance, I called the doctor and informed him
that an Indian was in the lodge, and that he had better
have his weapons ready for a conflict. I had, upon
discovering the foot, drawn my hunting-knife from its
scabbard, and now stood waiting the denouement. With his
lighted fagot in one hand and cocked revolver in the other,
the doctor cautiously entered the lodge. And there directly
between us, wrapped in a buffalo-robe, lay the cause of my
anxiety--a little Indian girl, probably ten years old;
not a full-blood, but a half-breed. She was terribly
frightened at finding herself in our hands, with none of
her people near. Other parties in exploring the deserted
village found an old, decrepit Indian of the Sioux tribe,
who had also been deserted, owing to his infirmities and
inability to travel with the tribe. Nothing was gleaned
from our search of the village which might indicate the
direction of the flight. General Hancock, on learning the
situation of affairs, despatched some companies of infantry
with orders to replace the cavalry and protect the village
and its contents from disturbance until its final disposition
could be determined upon, and it was decided that with eight
troops of cavalry I should start in pursuit of the Indians
at early dawn on the following morning.

The Indians, after leaving their village, went up on the
Smoky Hill, and committed the most horrible depredations
upon the scattered settlers in that region. Upon this news,
General Hancock issued the following order:--

"As a punishment of the bad faith practised by the Cheyennes
and Sioux who occupied the Indian village at this place, and
as a chastisement for murders and depredations committed
since the arrival of the command at this point, by the
people of these tribes, the village recently occupied by
them, which is now in our hands, will be utterly destroyed."

The Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Apaches had been united under
one agency; the Kiowas and Comanches under another.
As General Hancock's expedition had reference to all these
tribes, he had invited both the agents to accompany him
into the Indian country and be present at all interviews
with the representatives of these tribes, for the purpose,
as the invitation stated, of showing the Indians "that the
officers of the government are acting in harmony."

In conversation with the general the agents admitted that
Indians had been guilty of all the outrages charged against
them, but each asserted the innocence of the particular
tribes under his charge, and endeavoured to lay their crimes
at the door of their neighbours.

Here was positive evidence from the agents themselves that
the Indians against whom we were operating were deserving
of severe punishment. The only conflicting portion of the
testimony was as to which tribe was most guilty. Subsequent
events proved, however, that all of the five tribes named,
as well as the Sioux, had combined for a general war
throughout the plains and along our frontier. Such a war
had been threatened to our post commanders along the
Arkansas on many occasions during the winter. The movement
of the Sioux and Cheyennes toward the north indicated that
the principal theatre of military operations during the
summer would be between the Smoky Hill and Platte rivers.
General Hancock accordingly assembled the principal chiefs
of the Kiowas and Arapahoes in council at Fort Dodge,
hoping to induce them to remain at peace and observe their
treaty obligations.

The most prominent chiefs in council were Satanta, Lone Wolf,
and Kicking Bird of the Kiowas, and Little Raven and Yellow
Bear of the Arapahoes. During the council extravagant
promises of future good behaviour were made by these chiefs.
So effective and convincing was the oratorical effort of
Satanta, that at the termination of his address, the
department commander and his staff presented him with the
uniform coat, sash, and hat of a major-general. In return
for this compliment, Satanta, within a few weeks, attacked
the post at which the council was held, arrayed in his
new uniform.

In the spring of 1878, the Indians commenced a series of depredations
along the Santa Fe Trail and against the scattered settlers of the
frontier, that were unparalleled in their barbarity. General Alfred
Sully, a noted Indian fighter, who commanded the district of the Upper
Arkansas, early concentrated a portion of the Seventh and Tenth Cavalry
and Third Infantry along the line of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and kept
out small expeditions of scouting parties to protect the overland
coaches and freight caravans; but the troops effected very little in
stopping the devilish acts of the Indians, who were now fully determined
to carry out their threats of a general war, which culminated in the
winter expedition of General Sheridan, who completely subdued them, and
forced all the tribes on reservations; since which time there has never
been any trouble with the plains Indians worthy of mention.[69]

General Sully, about the 1st of September, with eight companies of the
Seventh Cavalry and five companies of infantry, left Fort Dodge, on the
Arkansas, on a hurried expedition against the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and
Cheyennes. The command marched in a general southeasterly direction, and
reached the sand hills of the Beaver and Wolf rivers, by a circuitous
route, on the fifth day. When nearly through that barren region, they
were attacked by a force of eight hundred of the allied tribes under the
leadership of the famous Kiowa chief, Satanta. A running fight was kept
up with the savages on the first day, in which two of the cavalry were
killed and one wounded.

That night the savages came close enough to camp to fire into it (an
unusual proceeding in Indian warfare, as they rarely molest troops
during the night), I now quote from Custer again:

The next day General Sully directed his march down the
valley of the Beaver; but just as his troops were breaking
camp, the long wagon-train having already "pulled out," and
the rear guard of the command having barely got into their
saddles, a party of between two and three hundred warriors,
who had evidently in some inexplicable manner contrived to
conceal themselves until the proper moment, dashed into the
deserted camp within a few yards of the rear of the troops,
and succeeded in cutting off a few led horses and two of
the cavalrymen who, as is often the case, had lingered a
moment behind the column.

Fortunately, the acting adjutant of the cavalry, Brevet
Captain A. E. Smith, was riding at the rear of the column
and witnessed the attack of the Indians. Captain Hamilton,[70]
of the Seventh Cavalry, was also present in command of the
rear guard. Wheeling to the rightabout, he at once prepared
to charge the Indians and attempt the rescue of the two
troopers who were being carried off before his very eyes.
At the same time, Captain Smith, as representative of the
commanding officer of the cavalry, promptly took the
responsibility of directing a squadron of the cavalry to
wheel out of column and advance in support of Captain
Hamilton's guard. With this hastily formed detachment,
the Indians, still within pistol-range, but moving off with
their prisoners, were gallantly charged and so closely
pressed that they were forced to relinquish one of their
prisoners, but not before shooting him through the body and
leaving him on the ground, as they supposed, mortally wounded.
The troops continued to charge the retreating Indians,
upon whom they were gaining, determined, if possible,
to effect the rescue of their remaining comrade. They were
advancing down one slope while the Indians, just across
a ravine, were endeavouring to escape with their prisoner
up the opposite ascent, when a peremptory order reached the
officers commanding the pursuing force to withdraw their men
and reform the column at once. The terrible fate awaiting
the unfortunate trooper carried off by the Indians spread
a deep gloom throughout the command. All were too familiar
with the horrid customs of the savages to hope for a moment
that the captive would be reserved for aught but a slow,
lingering death, from tortures the most horrible and painful
which blood-thirsty minds could suggest. Such was the truth
in his case, as we learned afterwards when peace (?) was
established with the tribes then engaged in war.

The expedition proceeded down the valley of the Beaver,
the Indians contesting every step of the way. In the
afternoon, about three o'clock, the troops arrived at
a ridge of sand hills a few miles southeast of the
presentsite of Camp Supply, where quite a determined
engagement took place between the command and the three
tribes, Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas, the Indians
being the assailants. The Indians seemed to have reserved
their strongest efforts until the troops and train had
advanced well into the sand hills, when a most obstinate
resistance--and well conducted, too--was offered the
farther advance of the troops. It was evident that the
troops were probably nearing the Indian villages, and that
this opposition to further advance was to save them. The
character of the country immediately about the troops was
not favourable to the operations of cavalry; the surface
of the rolling plain was cut up by irregular and closely
located sand hills, too steep and sandy to allow cavalry
to move with freedom, yet capable of being easily cleared
of savages by troops fighting on foot. The Indians took
post on the hilltops and began a harassing fire on the
troops and train. Captain Yates, with a single troop of
cavalry, was ordered forward to drive them away. This was
a proceeding which did not seem to meet with favour from
the savages. Captain Yates could drive them wherever he
encountered them, but they appeared in increased numbers
at some other threatened point. After contending in this
non-effective manner for a couple of hours, the impression
arose in the minds of some that the train could not be
conducted through the sand hills in the face of the strong
opposition offered by the Indians. The order was issued
to turn about and withdraw. The order was executed, and
the troop and train, followed by the exultant Indians,
retired a few miles to the Beaver, and encamped for the
night on the ground afterward known as Camp Supply.

Captain Yates had caused to be brought off the field, when
his troop was ordered to retire, the body of one of his men,
who had been slain in the fight. As the troops were to
continue their backward march next day, and it was impossible
to transport the dead body further, Captain Yates ordered
preparations made for interring it in camp that night.
Knowing that the Indians would thoroughly search the deserted
camp-ground almost before the troops should get out of sight,
and would be quick, with their watchful eyes, to detect a
grave, and, if successful in discovering it, would unearth
the body in order to get the scalp, directions were given
to prepare the grave after nightfall; and the spot selected
would have baffled any one but an Indian. The grave was
dug under the picket line to which the seventy or eighty
horses of the troop would be tethered during the night,
so that their constant tramping and pawing should completely
cover up and obliterate all traces. The following morning,
even those who had performed the sad rites of burial to
their fallen comrade could scarcely have indicated the exact
location of the grave. Yet when we returned to that point
a few weeks later, it was discovered that the wily savages
had found the place, unearthed the body, and removed the
scalp of their victim on the day following the interment.[71]

After leaving the camp at Supply, the Indians gradually increased their
force, until they mustered about two thousand warriors. For four days
and nights they hovered around the command, and by the time it reached
Mulberry Creek there were not one thousand rounds of ammunition left in
the whole force of troopers and infantrymen. At the creek, the incessant
charges of the now infuriated savages compelled the troops to use this
small amount held in reserve, and they found themselves almost at the
mercy of the Indians. But before they were absolutely defenceless,
Colonel Keogh had sent a trusty messenger in the night to Fort Dodge
for a supply of cartridges to meet the command at the creek, which
fortunately arrived there in time to save that spot from being a
veritable "last ditch."

The savages, in the little but exciting encounter at the creek before
the ammunition arrived, would ride up boldly toward the squadrons of
cavalry, discharge the shots from their revolvers, and then, in their
rage, throw them at the skirmishers on the flanks of the supply-train,
while the latter, nearly out of ammunition, were compelled to sit
quietly in their saddles, idle spectators of the extraordinary
scene.[72]

Many of the Indians were killed on their ponies, however, by those
who were fortunate enough to have a few cartridges left; but none
were captured, as the savages had taken their usual precaution to tie
themselves to their animals, and as soon as dead were dragged away by
them.

CHAPTER XXIV. INVASION OF THE RAILROAD.

The tourist who to-day, in a palace car, surrounded by all the
conveniences of our American railway service, commences his tour of the
prairies at the Missouri River, enters classic ground the moment the
train leaves the muddy flood of that stream on its swift flight toward
the golden shores of the Pacific.

He finds a large city at the very portals of the once far West, with all
the bustle and energy which is so characteristic of American enterprise.

Gradually, as he is whirled along the iron trail, the woods lessen; he
catches views of beautiful intervales; a bright little stream flashes
and foams in the sunlight as the trees grow fewer, and soon he emerges
on the broad sea of prairie, shut in only by the great circle of the
heavens.

Dotting this motionless ocean everywhere, like whitened sails, are quiet
homes, real argosies ventured by the sturdy and industrious people who
have fought their way through almost insurmountable difficulties to the
tranquillity which now surrounds them.

A few miles west of Topeka, the capital of Kansas, when the train
reaches the little hamlet of Wakarusa, the track of the railroad
commences to follow the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail. At that point,
too, the Oregon Trail branches off for the heavily timbered regions of
the Columbia. Now begins the classic ground of the once famous highway
to New Mexico; nearly every stream, hill, and wooded dell has its
story of adventure in those days when the railroad was regarded as an
impossibility, and the region beyond the Missouri as a veritable desert.

After some hours' rapid travelling, if our tourist happens to be a
passenger on the "California Limited," the swift train that annihilates
distance, he will pass by towns, hamlets, and immense cattle ranches,
stopping only at county-seats, and enter the justly famous Arkansas
valley at the city of Hutchinson. The Old Trail now passes a few miles
north of this busy place, which is noted for its extensive salt works,
nor does the railroad again meet with it until the site of old Fort
Zarah is reached, forty-seven miles west of Hutchinson, though it runs
nearly parallel to the once great highway at varying distances for the
whole detour.

The ruins of the once important military post may be seen from the
car-windows on the right, as the train crosses the iron bridge spanning
the Walnut, and here the Old Trail exactly coincides with the railroad,
the track of the latter running immediately on the old highway.

Three miles westward from the classic little Walnut the Old Trail ran
through what is now the Court House Square of the town of Great Bend;
it may be seen from the station, and on that very spot occurred the
terrible fight of Captains Booth and Hallowell in 1864.

Thirteen miles further mountainward, on the right of the railroad, not
far from the track, stands all that remains of the once dreaded Pawnee
Rock. It lies just beyond the limits of the little hamlet bearing its
name. It would not be recognized by any of the old plainsmen were they
to come out of their isolated graves; for it is only a disintegrated,
low mass of sandstone now, utilized for the base purposes of a corral,
in which the village herd of milch cows lie down at night and chew
their cuds, such peaceful transformation has that great civilizer, the
locomotive, wrought in less than two decades.

Another five or six miles, and the train crosses Ash Creek, which, too,
was once one of the favourite haunts of the Pawnee and Comanche on their
predatory excursions, in the days when the mules and horses of passing
freight caravans excited their cupidity. A short whirl again, and the
town of Larned, lying peacefully on the Arkansas and Pawnee Fork, is
reached. Immediately opposite the centre of the street through which the
railroad runs, and which was also the course of the Old Trail, lying
in the Arkansas River, close to its northern bank, is a small
thickly-wooded island, now reached by a bridge, that is famous as the
battle-ground of a terrible conflict thirty years ago, between the
Pawnees and Cheyennes, hereditary enemies, in which the latter tribe was
cruelly defeated.

The railroad bridge crosses Pawnee Fork at the precise spot where the
Old Trail did. This locality has been the scene of some of the bloodiest
encounters between the various tribes of savages themselves, and between
them and the freight caravans, the overland coaches, and every other
kind of outfit that formerly attempted the passage of the now peaceful
stream. In fact, the whole region from Walnut Creek to the mouth of the
Pawnee, which includes in its area Ash Creek and Pawnee Rock, seemed to
be the greatest resort for the Indians, who hovered about the Santa Fe
Trail for the sole purpose of robbery and murder; it was a very lucky
caravan or coach, indeed, that passed through that portion of the route
without being attacked.

All the once dangerous points of the Old Trail having been successively
passed--Cow Creek, Big and Little Coon, and Ash Creek, Fort Dodge,
Fort Aubrey,[73] and Point of Rocks--the tourist arrives at last at the
foot-hills. At La Junta the railroad separates into two branches; one
going to Denver, the other on to New Mexico. Here, a relatively short
distance to the northwest, on the right of the train, may be seen the
ruins of Bent's Fort, the tourist having already passed the site of
the once famous Big Timbers, a favourite winter camping-ground of the
Cheyennes and Arapahoes; but everywhere around him there reigns such
perfect quiet and pastoral beauty, he might imagine that the peaceful
landscape upon which he looks had never been a bloody arena.

I suggest to the lover of nature that he should cross the Raton Range
in the early morning, or late in the afternoon; for then the magnificent
scenery of the Trail over the high divide into New Mexico assumes its
most beautiful aspect.

In approaching the range from the Old Trail, or now from the railroad,
their snow-clad peaks may be seen at a distance of sixty miles. In the
era of caravans and pack-trains, for hour after hour, as they moved
slowly toward the goal of their ambition, the summit of the fearful
pathway on the divide, the huge forms of the mountains seemed to recede,
and yet ascend higher. On the next day's journey their outlines appeared
more irregular and ragged. Drawing still nearer, their base presented a
long, dark strip stretching throughout their whole course, ever widening
until it seemed like a fathomless gulf, separating the world of reality
from the realms of imagination beyond.

Another weary twenty miles of dusty travel, and the black void slowly
dissolved, and out of the shadows lines of broken, sterile, ferruginous
buttes and detached masses of rocks, whose soilless surface refuses
sustenance, save to a few scattered, stunted pines and lifeless mosses,
emerged to view.

The progress of the weary-footed mules or oxen was now through ravines
and around rocks; up narrow paths which the melting snows have washed
out; sometimes between beetling cliffs, often to their very edge, where
hundreds of feet below the Trail the tall trees seemed diminished into
shrubs. Then again the road led over an immense broad terrace, for
thousands of yards around, with a bright lake gleaming in the refracted
light, and brilliant Alpine plants waving their beautiful flowers on its
margin. Still the coveted summit appeared so far off as to be beyond the
range of vision, and it seemed as if, instead of ascending, the entire
mass underneath had been receding, like the mountains of ice over which
Arctic explorers attempt to reach the pole. Now the tortuous
Trail passed through snow-wreaths which the winds had eddied into
indentations; then over bright, glassy surfaces of ice and fragments
of rocks, until the pinnacle was reached. Nearer, along the broad
successive terraces of the opposite mountains, the evergreen pine, the
cedar, with its stiff, angular branches, and the cottonwood, with its
varied curves and bright colours, were crowded into bunches or strung
into zigzag lines, interspersed with shrubs and mountain plants, among
which the flaming cactus was conspicuous. To the right and left, the
bare cones of the barren peaks rose in multitude, with their calm, awful
forms shrouded in snow, and their dark shadows reflected far into the
valleys, like spectres from a chaotic world.

In going through the Raton Pass, the Old Santa Fe Trail meandered up a
steep valley, enclosed on either side by abrupt hills covered with
pine and masses of gray rock. The road ran along the points of varying
elevations, now in the stony bed of Raton Creek, which it crossed
fifty-three times, the sparkling, flitting waters of the bubbling stream
leaping and foaming against the animals' feet as they hauled the great
wagons of the freight caravans over the tortuous passage. The creek
often rushed rapidly under large flat stones, lost to sight for a
moment, then reappearing with a fresh impetus and dashing over
its flinty, uneven bed until it mingled with the pure waters of Le
Purgatoire.

Still ascending, the scenery assumed a bolder, rougher cast; then sudden
turns gave you hurried glimpses of the great valley below. A gentle dell
sloped to the summit of the pass on the west, then, rising on the
east by a succession of terraces, the bald, bare cliff was reached,
overlooking the whole region for many miles, and this is Raton Peak.[74]

The extreme top of this famous peak was only reached after more than
an hour's arduous struggle. On the lofty plateau the caravans and
pack-trains rested their tired animals. Here, too, the lonely trapper,
when crossing the range in quest of beaver, often chose this lofty
spot on which to kindle his little fire and broil juicy steaks of the
black-tail deer, the finest venison in the world; but before he indulged
in the savoury morsels, if he was in the least superstitious or devout,
or inspired by the sublime scene around him, he lighted his pipe, and
after saluting the elevated ridge on which he sat by the first whiff of
the fragrant kinnikinick, Indian-fashion, he in turn offered homage
in the same manner to the sky above him, the earth beneath, and to
the cardinal points of the compass, and was then prepared to eat his
solitary meal in a spirit of thankfulness.

Far below this magnificent vantage-ground lies the valley of the Rio
Las Animas Perdidas. On the other verge of the great depression rise
the peerless, everlastingly snow-wreathed Spanish Peaks,[75] whose giant
summits are grim sentinels that for untold ages have witnessed hundreds
of sanguinary conflicts between the wily nomads of the vast plains
watered by the silent Arkansas.

All around you snow-clad mountains lift their serrated crowns above
the horizon, dim, white, and indistinct, like icebergs seen at sea by
moonlight; others, nearer, more rugged, naked of verdure, and irregular
in contour, seem to lose their lofty summits in the intense blue of the
sky.

Fisher's Peak, which is in full view from the train, was named from the
following circumstance: Captain Fisher was a German artillery officer
commanding a battery in General Kearney's Army of the West in the
conquest of New Mexico and was encamped at the base of the peak to which
he involuntarily gave his name. He was intently gazing at the lofty
summit wrapped in the early mist, and not being familiar with the
illusory atmospheric effects of the region, he thought that to go there
would be merely a pleasant promenade. So, leaving word that he would
return to breakfast, he struck out at a brisk walk for the crest. That
whole day, the following night, and the succeeding day, dragged their
weary hours on, but no tidings of the commanding officer were received
at the battery, and ill rumours were current of his death by Indians
or bears, when, just as his mess were about to take their seats at the
table for the evening meal, their captain put in an appearance, a very
tired but a wiser man. He started to go to the peak, and he went there!

On the summit of another rock-ribbed elevation close by, the tourist
will notice the shaft of an obelisk. It is over the grave of George
Simpson, once a noted mountaineer in the days of the great fur
companies. For a long time he made his home there, and it was his dying
request that the lofty peak he loved so well while living should be his
last resting-place. The peak is known as "Simpson's Rest," and is one of
the notable features of the rugged landscape.

Pike's Peak, far away to the north, intensely white and silvery in the
clear sky, hangs like a great dome high in the region of the clouds, a
marked object, worthy to commemorate the indefatigable efforts of the
early voyageur whose name it bears.

In this wonderful locality, both Pike's Peak and the snowy range over
two hundred miles from our point of observation really seem to the
uninitiated as if a brisk walk of an hour or two would enable one to
reach them, so deceptive is the atmosphere of these elevated regions.

About two miles from the crest of the range, yet over seven thousand
feet above the sea-level, in a pretty little depression about as large
as a medium-sized corn-field in the Eastern States, Uncle Dick Wooton
lived, and here, too, was his toll-gate. The veteran mountaineer erected
a substantial house of adobe, after the style of one of the old-time
Southern plantation residences, a memory, perhaps, of his youth, when he
raised tobacco in his father's fields in Kentucky.[76]

The most charming hour in which to be on the crest of Raton Range is in
the afternoon, when the weather is clear and calm. As the night comes
on apace in the distant valley beneath, the evening shadows drop down,
pencilled with broad bands of rosy light as they creep slowly across
the beautiful landscape, while the rugged vista below is enveloped in a
diffused haze like that which marks the season of the Indian summer
in the lower great plains. Above, the sky curves toward the relatively
restricted horizon, with not a cloud to dim its intense blue, nowhere so
beautiful as in these lofty altitudes.

The sun, however, does not always shine resplendently; there are times
when the most terrific storms of wind, hail, and rain change the entire
aspect of the scene. Fortunately, these violent bursts never last long;
they vanish as rapidly as they come, leaving in their wake the most
phenomenally beautiful rainbows, whose trailing splendours which they
owe to the dry and rare air of the region, and its high refractory
power, are gorgeous in the extreme.

In 1872 the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad entered the valley
of the Upper Arkansas. Twenty-four years ago, on a delicious October
afternoon, I stood on the absolutely level plateau at the mouth of
Pawnee Fork where that historic creek debouches into the great river.
The remembrance of that view will never pass from my memory, for it
showed a curious temporary blending of two distinct civilizations. One,
the new, marking the course of empire in its restless march westward;
the other, that of the aboriginal, which, like a dissolving view, was
soon to fade away and be forgotten.

The box-elders and cottonwoods thinly covering the creek-bottom were
gradually donning their autumn dress of russet, and the mirage had
already commenced its fantastic play with the landscape. On the sides
and crests of the sparsely grassed sand hills south of the Arkansas a
few buffaloes were grazing in company with hundreds of Texas cattle,
while in the broad valley beneath, small flocks of graceful antelope
were lying down, quietly ruminating their midday meal.

In the distance, far eastwardly, a train of cars could be seen
approaching; as far as the eye could reach, on either side of the track,
the virgin sod had been turned to the sun; the "empire of the plough"
was established, and the march of immigration in its hunger for the
horizon had begun.

Half a mile away from the bridge spanning the Fork, under the grateful
shade of the largest trees, about twenty skin lodges were irregularly
grouped; on the brown sod of the sun-cured grass a herd of a hundred
ponies were lazily feeding, while a troop of dusky little children were
chasing the yellow butterflies from the dried and withered sunflower
stalks which once so conspicuously marked the well-worn highway to the
mountains. These Indians, the remnant of a tribe powerful in the years
of savage sovereignty, were on their way, in charge of their agent,
to their new homes, on the reservation just allotted to them by the
government, a hundred miles south of the Arkansas.

Their primitive lodges contrasted strangely with the peaceful little
sod-houses, dugouts, and white cottages of the incoming settlers on the
public lands, with the villages struggling into existence, and above
all with the rapidly moving cars; unmistakable evidences that the new
civilization was soon to sweep the red men before it like chaff before
the wind.

Farther to the west, a caravan of white-covered wagons loaded with
supplies for some remote military post, the last that would ever travel
the Old Trail, was slowly crawling toward the setting sun. I watched it
until only a cloud of dust marked its place low down on the horizon,
and it was soon lost sight of in the purple mist that was rapidly
overspreading the far-reaching prairie.

It was the beginning of the end; on the 9th of February, 1880, the first
train over the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad arrived at Santa
Fe and the Old Trail as a route of commerce was closed forever. The once
great highway is now only a picture in the memory of the few who
have travelled its weary course, following the windings of the silent
Arkansas, on to the portals that guard the rugged pathway leading to the
shores of the blue Pacific.

FOOTNOTES.

[Footnote 1: The whole country watered by the Mississippi and Missouri was called
Florida at that time.]

[Footnote 2: The celebrated Jesuit, author of _The History of New France_,
_Journals of a Voyage to North America_, _Letters to the Duchess_, etc.]

[Footnote 3: Otoes.]

[Footnote 4: Iowas.]

[Footnote 5: Boulevard, Promenade.]

[Footnote 6: Notes of a Military Reconnoissance from Fort Leavenworth, in
Missouri, to San Diego, in California, including parts of the Arkansas,
Del Norte, and Gila Rivers. Brevet Major W. H. Emory, Corps of
Topographical Engineers, United States Army, 1846.]

[Footnote 7: Hon. W. F. Arny, in his Centennial Celebration Address at Santa Fe,
July 4, 1876.]

[Footnote 8: Edwards, _Conquest of New Mexico_.]

[Footnote 9: I think this is Bancroft's idea.]

[Footnote 10: _Historical Sketches of New Mexico_, L. Bradford Prince, late Chief
Justice of New Mexico, 1883.]

[Footnote 11: D. H. Coyner, 1847.]

[Footnote 12: He was travelling parallel to the Old Santa Fe Trail all the time,
but did not know it until he was overtaken by a band of Kaw Indians.]

[Footnote 13: McKnight was murdered south of the Arkansas by the Comanches in the
winter of 1822.]

[Footnote 14: Chouteau's Island.]

[Footnote 15: _Hennepin's Journal_.]

[Footnote 16: The line between the United States and Mexico (or New Spain, as
it was called) was defined by a treaty negotiated in 1819, between the
Chevalier de Onis, then Spanish minister at Washington, and John Quincy
Adams, Secretary of State. According to its provisions, the boundary
between Mexico and Louisiana, which had been added to the Union,
commenced with the river Sabine at its entrance into the Gulf of Mexico,
at about the twenty-ninth degree of north latitude and the ninety-fourth
degree of longitude, west from Greenwich, and followed it as far as its
junction with the Red River of Natchitoches, which then served to mark
the frontier up to the one hundredth degree of west longitude, where the
line ran directly north to the Arkansas, which it followed to its source
at the forty-second degree of north latitude, whence another straight
line was drawn up the same parallel to the Pacific coast.]

[Footnote 17: This tribe kept up its reputation under the dreaded Satanta, until
1868--a period of forty years--when it was whipped into submission by
the gallant Custer. Satanta was its war chief, one of the most cruel
savages the great plains ever produced. He died a few years ago in the
state prison of Texas.]

[Footnote 18: McNess Creek is on the old Cimarron Trail to Santa Fe, a little
east of a line drawn south from Bent's Fort.]

[Footnote 19: Mr. Bryant, of Kansas, who died a few years ago, was one of the
pioneers in the trade with Santa Fe. Previous to his decease he wrote
for a Kansas newspaper a narrative of his first trip across the great
plains; an interesting monograph of hardship and suffering. For the use
of this document I am indebted to Hon. Sol. Miller, the editor of
the journal in which it originally appeared. I have also used very
extensively the notes of Mr. William Y. Hitt, one of the Bryant party,
whose son kindly placed them at my disposal, and copied liberally from
the official report of Major Bennett Riley--afterward the celebrated
general of Mexican War fame, and for whom the Cavalry Depot in Kansas is
named; as also from the journal of Captain Philip St. George Cooke, who
accompanied Major Riley on his expedition.]

[Footnote 20: Chouteau's Island, at the mouth of Sand Creek.]

[Footnote 21: Valley of the Upper Arkansas.]

[Footnote 22: About three miles east of the town of Great Bend, Barton County,
Kansas.]

[Footnote 23: The Old Santa Fe Trail crosses the creek some miles north of
Hutchinson, and coincides with the track again at the mouth of Walnut
Creek, three miles east of Great Bend.]

[Footnote 24: There are many conflicting accounts in regard to the sum Don
Antonio carried with him on that unfortunate trip. Some authorities put
it as high as sixty thousand; I have taken a mean of the various
sums, and as this method will suffice in mathematics, perhaps we can
approximate the truth in this instance.]

[Footnote 25: General Emory of the Union army during the Civil War. He made
an official report of the country through which the Army of the West
passed, accompanied by maps, and his _Reconnoissance in New Mexico and
California_, published by the government in 1848, is the first authentic
record of the region, considered topographically and geologically.]

[Footnote 26: _Doniphan's Expedition, containing an account of the Conquest
of New Mexico_, etc. John T. Hughes, A.B., of the First Regiment of
Missouri Cavalry. 1850.]

[Footnote 27: Deep Gorge.]

[Footnote 28: Colonel Leavenworth, for whom Fort Leavenworth is named, and who
built several army posts in the far West.]

[Footnote 29: Colonel A. G. Boone, a grandson of the immortal Daniel, was one of
the grandest old mountaineers I ever knew. He was as loyal as anybody,
but honest in his dealings with the Indians, and that was often a fault
in the eyes of those at Washington who controlled these agents. Kit
Carson was of the same honest class as Boone, and he, too, was removed
for the same cause.]

[Footnote 30: A narrow defile on the Trail, about ninety miles east of Fort
Union. It is called the "canyon of the Canadian, or Red, River," and
is situated between high walls of earth and rock. It was once a very
dangerous spot on account of the ease and rapidity with which the
savages could ambush themselves.]

[Footnote 31: Carson, Wooton, and all other expert mountaineers, when following
a trail, could always tell just what time had elapsed since it was
made. This may seem strange to the uninitiated, but it was part of their
necessary education. They could tell what kind of a track it was, which
way the person or animal had walked, and even the tribe to which the
savage belonged, either by the shape of the moccasin or the arrows which
were occasionally dropped.]

[Footnote 32: Lieutenant Bell belonged to the Second Dragoons. He was conspicuous
in extraordinary marches and in action, and also an accomplished
horseman and shot, once running and killing five buffalo in a quarter
of a mile. He died early in 1861, and his death was a great loss to the
service.]

[Footnote 33: Known to this day as "The Cheyenne Bottoms."]

[Footnote 34: Lone Wolf was really the head chief of the Kiowas.]

[Footnote 35: The battle lasted three days.]

[Footnote 36: Kicking Bird was ever afterward so regarded by the authorities of
the Indian department.]

[Footnote 37: Lorenzo Thomas, adjutant-general of the United States army.]

[Footnote 38: Kendall's _Santa Fe Expedition_ may be found in all the large
libraries.]

[Footnote 39: A summer-house, bower, or arbour.]

[Footnote 40: Frank Hall, Chicago, 1885.]

[Footnote 41: The greater portion of this chapter I originally wrote for
_Harper's Weekly_. By the kind permission of the publishers, I am
permitted to use it here.]

[Footnote 42: These statistics I have carefully gathered from the freight
departments of the railroads, which kept a record of all the bones that
were shipped, and from the purchasers of the carbon works, who paid out
the money at various points. Some of the bones, however, may have been
on the ground for a longer time, as decay is very slow in the dry air of
the plains.]

[Footnote 43: La Jeunesse was one of the bravest of the old French Canadian
trappers. He was a warm friend of Kit Carson and was killed by the
Indians in the following manner. They were camping one night in the
mountains; Kit, La Jeunesse, and others had wrapped themselves up in
their blankets near the fire, and were sleeping soundly; Fremont sat
up until after midnight reading letters he had received from the United
States, after finishing which, he, too, turned in and fell asleep.
Everything was quiet for a while, when Kit was awakened by a noise that
sounded like the stroke of an axe. Rising cautiously, he discovered
Indians in the camp; he gave the alarm at once, but two of his
companions were dead. One of them was La Jeunesse, and the noise he had
heard was the tomahawk as it buried itself in the brave fellow's head.]

[Footnote 44: This black is made from a species of plumbago found on the hills of
the region.]

[Footnote 45: The Pawnees and Cheyennes were hereditary enemies, and they
frequently met in sanguinary conflict.]

[Footnote 46: A French term Anglicised, as were many other foreign words by the
trappers in the mountains. Its literal meaning is, arrow fender, for
from it the plains Indians construct their shields; it is buffalo-hide
prepared in a certain manner.]

[Footnote 47: Boiling Spring River.]

[Footnote 48: For some reason the Senate refused to confirm the appointment, and
he had consequently no connection with the regular army.]

[Footnote 49: Point of Rocks is six hundred and forty seven miles from
Independence, and was always a favourite place of resort for the Indians
of the great plains; consequently it was one of the most dangerous
camping-spots for the freight caravans on the Trail. It comprises a
series of continuous hills, which project far out on the prairie in
bold relief. They end abruptly in a mass of rocks, out of which gushes a
cold, refreshing spring, which is, of course, the main attraction of the
place. The Trail winds about near this point, and many encounters with
the various tribes have occurred there.]

[Footnote 50: "Little Mountain."]

[Footnote 51: General Gatlin was a North Carolinian, and seceded with his State
at the breaking out of the Rebellion, but refused to leave his native
heath to fight, so indelibly was he impressed with the theory of
State rights. He was willing to defend the soil of North Carolina, but
declined to step across its boundary to repel invasion in other States.]

[Footnote 52: The name of "Crow," as applied to the once powerful nation of
mountain Indians, is a misnomer, the fault of some early interpreter.
The proper appellation is "Sparrowhawks," but they are officially
recognized as "Crows."]

[Footnote 53: Kit Carson, ten years before, when on his first journey, met with
the same adventure while on post at Pawnee Rock.]

[Footnote 54: The fusee was a fire-lock musket with an immense bore, from which
either slugs or balls could be shot, although not with any great degree
of accuracy.]

[Footnote 55: The Indians always knew when the caravans were to pass certain
points on the Trail, by their runners or spies probably.]

[Footnote 56: It was one of the rigid laws of Indian hospitality always to
respect the person of any one who voluntarily entered their camps
or temporary halting-places. As long as the stranger, red or white,
remained with them, he enjoyed perfect immunity from harm; but after
he had left, although he had progressed but half a mile, it was just as
honourable to follow and kill him.]

[Footnote 57: In their own fights with their enemies one or two of the defeated
party are always spared, and sent back to their tribe to carry the news
of the slaughter.]

[Footnote 58: The story of the way in which this name became corrupted into
"Picketwire," by which it is generally known in New Mexico, is this:
When Spain owned all Mexico and Florida, as the vast region of the
Mississippi valley was called, long before the United States had an
existence as a separate government, the commanding officer at Santa Fe
received an order to open communication with the country of Florida. For
this purpose an infantry regiment was selected. It left Santa Fe rather
late in the season, and wintered at a point on the Old Trail now known
as Trinidad. In the spring, the colonel, leaving all camp-followers
behind him, both men and women, marched down the stream, which flows
for many miles through a magnificent canyon. Not one of the regiment
returned or was ever heard of. When all hope had departed from the
wives, children, and friends left behind at Trinidad, information was
sent to Santa Fe, and a wail went up through the land. The priests and
people then called this stream "El Rio de las Animas Perditas" ("The
river of lost souls"). Years after, when the Spanish power was weakened,
and French trappers came into the country under the auspices of the
great fur companies, they adopted a more concise name; they called
the river "Le Purgatoire." Then came the Great American Bull-Whacker.
Utterly unable to twist his tongue into any such Frenchified expression,
he called the stream with its sad story "Picketwire," and by that name
it is known to all frontiersmen, trappers, and the settlers along its
banks.]

[Footnote 59: The ranch is now in charge of Mr. Harry Whigham, an English
gentleman, who keeps up the old hospitality of the famous place.]

[Footnote 60: "River of Souls." The stream is also called Le Purgatoire,
corrupted by the Americans into Picketwire.]

[Footnote 61: Pawnee Rock is no longer conspicuous. Its material has been torn
away by both the railroad and the settlers in the vicinity, to
build foundations for water-tanks, in the one instance, and for the
construction of their houses, barns, and sheds, in the other. Nothing
remains of the once famous landmark; its site is occupied as a cattle
corral by the owner of the claim in which it is included.]

[Footnote 62: The crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail at Pawnee Fork is now
within the corporate limits of the pretty little town of Larned, the
county-seat of Pawnee County. The tourist from his car-window may look
right down upon one of the worst places for Indians that there was in
those days of the commerce of the prairies, as the road crosses the
stream at the exact spot where the Trail crossed it.]

[Footnote 63: This was a favourite expression of his whenever he referred to any
trouble with the Indians.]

[Footnote 64: Indians will risk the lives of a dozen of their best warriors to
prevent the body of any one of their number from falling into the white
man's possession. The reason for this is the belief, which prevails
among all tribes, that if a warrior loses his scalp he forfeits his hope
of ever reaching the happy hunting-ground.]

[Footnote 65: It was in this fight that the infamous Charles Bent received his
death-wound.]

[Footnote 66: The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad track runs very close
to the mound, and there is a station named for the great mesa.]

[Footnote 67: The venerable Colonel A. S. Johnson, of Topeka, Kansas, the first
white child born on the great State's soil, who related to me this
adventure of Hatcher's, knew him well. He says that he was a small man,
full of muscle, and as fearless as can be conceived.]

[Footnote 68: The place where they turned is about a hundred yards east of the
Court House Square, in the present town of Great Bend; it may be seen
from the cars.]

[Footnote 69: See Sheridan's _Memoirs_, Custer's _Life on the Plains_,
and Buffalo Bill's book, in which all the stirring events of that
campaign--nearly every fight of which was north or far south of the
Santa Fe Trail--are graphically told.]

[Footnote 70: A grandson of Alexander Hamilton; killed at the battle of the
Washita, in the charge on Black Kettle's camp under Custer.]

[Footnote 71: This ends Custer's narrative. The following fight, which occurred
a few days afterward, at the mouth of Mulberry Creek, twelve miles below
Fort Dodge, and within a stone's throw of the Old Trail, was related
to me personally by Colonel Keogh, who was killed at the Rosebud, in
Custer's disastrous battle with Sitting Bull. We were both attached to
General Sully's staff.]

[Footnote 72: It was in this fight that Colonel Keogh's celebrated horse Comanche
received his first wound. It will be remembered that Comanche and a Crow
Indian were the only survivors of that unequal contest in the valley of
the Big Horn, commonly called the battle of the Rosebud, where Custer
and his command was massacred.]

[Footnote 73: Now Kendall, a little village in Hamilton County, Kansas.]

[Footnote 74: Raton is the name given by the early Spaniards to this range,
meaning both mouse and squirrel. It had its origin either in the fact
that one of its several peaks bore a fanciful resemblance to a squirrel,
or because of the immense numbers of that little rodent always to be
found in its pine forests.]

[Footnote 75: In the beautiful language of the country's early conquerors, "Las
Cumbres Espanolas," or "Las dos Hermanas" (The Two Sisters), and in the
Ute tongue, "Wahtoya" (The Twins).]

[Footnote 76: The house was destroyed by fire two or three years ago.]

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Old Santa Fe Trail: The Story of a Great Highway" ***

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