In the spring of 1868 I obtained employment with a man named Powell
who owned a store at Baxter Springs, Kas. Powell owned a train of six
wagons, all drawn by four-mule teams, which he kept on the road
hauling lumber and supplies from Leavenworth to Baxter. Much has been
written about Dodge City, Caldwell and Abilene as wild and woolly
towns in frontier days. None of them was livelier than Baxter Springs,
especially after the completion of the railroad to that point. Baxter
was the northern terminus of a trail from Texas across Indian
Territory, Indian Territory was infested by the most desperate class
of men I ever saw, most of whom were citizens of that lawless country.
Baxter Springs supplied in abundance all that the most dissipated
character could wish for in the way of whisky, women, gambling and
fighting. The story of the early days at Baxter would make a
fascinating book.
At Baxter I saw the battleground where Quantrell, the guerrilla,
captured General Blunt's supply train in 1864. The capture was
virtually a horrible massacre by this blood-thirsty "partisan ranger"
and his men. I was told that Quantrell got General Blunt's uniform,
and afterwards wore it. I could still see the bullet marks on the
trees where the fight took place.
I remember with Powell most of that summer, hauling from Kansas City
part of the time. I was still bent upon getting further west. I
thirsted for adventure, but as yet had seen only the mere fringe of
it. At the end of several months, I went to Leavenworth with a lot of
freighters, and there met up with a man named Cox who was hiring men
to go with a mule train to Fort Hays. I hired to Cox, as did Sam
Harkness, a companion with whom I had worked all summer. To our great
satisfaction, we found that the mules, which had been shipped from
Missouri and Kentucky, were all broke, and by no means the desperate
"shave-tails" that confronted me when I started from Leavenworth for
the first time.
These were exciting times. The very air buzzed with news of Indian
depredations. The Government was rushing troops and supplies to the
front, as if the world were coming to an end. The Indians had broke
out again, and were leaving a trail of blood and ashes in the valley
of the Solomon, where settlements were in abject terror, not knowing
at what moment a swiftly moving war party might descend and murder the
inhabitants, burn the buildings and drive off the livestock. Worst of
all was the nature of the cruelties inflicted by the Indians upon all
who fell into their clutches. The outrages upon women were too
horrible to be described. The forays extended into the Saline valley.
The Indians had kept the treaty that had been made at Medicine Lodge
the previous year only until the moment the grass was green enough to
feed their ponies and bring back the buffaloes. The Indian was able to
live and flourish solely upon buffalo meat, and so long as he had
buffalo meat he would eat no other, not even venison, antelope or wild
turkey.
Cox loaded his six hundred mules and his drivers aboard train and we
started over the Kansas Pacific for Fort Hays. This railroad now
extended as far west as Denver. We reached Fort Hays October 15, 1868.
The fall was cold and disagreeable with lots of rain. To add to our
discomfort, really our misery, we found that all the mules, big
fellows from Missouri and Kentucky, were as wild as wolves, not one of
them having been broke. Worst of all there was no time to break them.
The Government wanted supplies rushed forward with all possible haste
to what was known as Camp of Supply, afterwards Camp Supply, a
military garrison, at the junction of Beaver and Wolf Creek in what is
now Woodward County, Oklahoma.
The "wild west" performances in recent years were tame affairs
compared with the handling of those mules. It was with a feeling of
desperation that each man crawled out of his warm bed in the half
light of early morning, ate his breakfast and then went out into the
raw, drizzly cold to harness his mules. Kicking, squealing and
bucking, they wore out a man's patience, and he was tempted to use his
six-shooter on the devilish animals. To get them harnessed and hitched
and the wagons strung out was a Napoleonic job. Once on the road,
however, there was little to do beyond holding the mules in line, as
the wagons were too heavily loaded for the mules to run away. When
everything was moving, there were one hundred wagons and six hundred
mules going down the trail. Our discomfort was increased by the fact
that much of the time the ground was covered with snow. Our supplies
were to equip Custer's command that later was to fight the battle of
the Washita and wipe out Black Kettle and his band, to be followed
still later by General Sheridan's going south and whipping the
hostiles so badly that they never fully recovered their courage. The
Indians were subdued mostly by the fact that the Government made a
winter campaign, something that the Indians had never experienced.
They were caught between the guns of the soldiers and the necessity of
having food, shelter and warmth for their families and feed for their
ponies. Defeat was inevitable under such dire circumstances.
The first day out we got to Smoky Hill River and camped for the night.
We then pulled to Walnut Creek, and the third day brought us to Pawnee
Fork. Between this place and what is now the town of Buckner, Kas., we
had a stampede that for real excitement beat anything I had ever seen.
The mules ran in every possible direction, overturning wagons, and
outfit colliding with outfit until it looked as if there would never
be a pound of freight delivered at Supply. Many of the wagons were so
badly demolished that they had to be abandoned and left behind. Their
loads were piled on other wagons and carried forward.
Our route carried us past Saw Log Creek, Fort Dodge--there was no
Dodge City at that time--Mulberry Creek, and thence to Bluff Creek.
Here we sighted buffalo, the first we had seen on the trip. As we
advanced further from the border of civilization buffalo grew more
plentiful, so plentiful that between Bluff Creek and the Cimarron a
big herd of stampeding buffaloes bore squarely down upon our train.
Things looked squally, as there was danger, not only of being run over
by the buffaloes but of our mules running away, a disaster that would
have been costly. A troop of cavalry was deployed to drive back or
turn the oncoming herd. Every man in the outfit got out his gun, and
we were able to give the buffaloes a reception that brought many of
them to the ground, saved the mule train, and filled our pots and
skillets with fine meat.
We reached Camp Supply at the end of a twelve days' journey. The
supplies were unloaded on the ground and covered with tarpaulins. The
site had been chosen by General Sully, upon the recommendation of an
old scout, "Uncle John" Smith, who had been on the frontier about
thirty years, and is said to have been the first white man that ever
visited the country bordering the two Canadians. We did not see a
single Indian during the trip to Supply.
[Illustration: _Wood-hauler Found Scalped Near Fort Dodge._]
Returning to Fort Hays, we made a second trip down without mishap. But
trouble was in store for us on our way back. The unloaded wagons were
comparatively light, and the mules could easily pull them. We were
driving two wagons abreast. Nobody ever knew what scared one of the
rear teams, but it certainly got scared, and that particular outfit
was soon going in the direction of Missouri and Kentucky at the rate
of about thirty miles an hour. The rattling and banging and jolting of
the wagon, and the shouting and swearing of the driver caused a tumult
that spread panic among other teams and the stampede quickly reached
the lead teams. So here we went, in every possible direction. It was
impossible to hold the mules. Wagons were overturned, broken and
scattered over the prairie for miles, and some of the mules were so
badly crippled that they had to be shot. Some tore themselves loose
from their harness and ran so far away that they were never found. The
spectacle of those six hundred mules running away with their one
hundred wagons was the most remarkable I ever witnessed.
One outfit, including both the wagon and the six mules, disappeared
completely. I found them in 1871 when I was hunting buffaloes on that
range. The wagon and the carcasses of the mules were in a draw or
small canyon, about 12 miles from where the stampede began. In their
headlong course, the mules could not stop when they came to the brink
of the draw, so in they went, with the wagon piling on top of them.
They were still hitched to the wagon, but badly tangled in the
harness. In the wagon was an Army needle-gun, which showed that I was
the first person to reach the spot.
After this experience, the mules were harder than ever to control, and
would "run at the drop of the hat" or the flip of a prairie dog's
tail.
Fort Hays, at this time was the supply point for all the Government
forts to the south, and remained as such until the Santa Fe railroad
came through in the fall of 1872. I remained at Fort Hays until the
fall of 1869, and this was my last work for the Government until 1874,
when I was employed as a scout and guide under General Miles. During
the five years I had been making my own way in the world, I had worked
for the Government most of the time.
I was now eighteen years old, in perfect health, strong and muscular,
with keen eyesight, a natural aptitude for outdoor life, an excellent
shot, and had a burning desire to experience every phase of adventure
to be found on the Plains. I had worked all the summer of 1869 with
George Smith and Tom Campbell, and liked them so well that we had
planned fitting up an outfit to hunt and trap that winter. So along in
November the three of us bought a good team and wagon, traps and
provisions, and guns and ammunition and started north along the Saline
River. Campbell was an old trapper and knew how to take beaver, which
were fairly plentiful along the streams.
My happiness now seemed complete, and I enjoyed to the fullest every
moment of my life. Storm nor darkness nor hunger nor toil cooled my
ardor in the slightest degree. We caught not only beaver, but several
otter. Wolves abounded everywhere, and we trapped a large number.
Their pelts were worth from $2.50 to $3 each. In this way we put in
the winter, and made good money. We had a warm, comfortable dugout,
with plenty of wood and water. I had no wish to return to a city. At
intervals we would take a load of game to Hays City, where there was a
ready market. Once we took in a load of elk, and got twenty dollars
apiece for the carcasses.
The hunting of buffaloes for their hides began in the spring of 1870.
That was also the beginning of the destruction of the buffalo. As I
remember, the hunting was started by a firm of eastern hide-buyers
whose agents came to Hays City and other towns near the buffalo range
and offered prices, that made hide-hunting a profitable occupation.
We were in the very heart of the best buffalo country between the
Dominion of Canada and the Rio Grande, and quickly abandoned trapping
for buffalo hunting. The first offers were $1 each for cowhides and $2
each for bull hides, which enabled us to make money rapidly. As the
slaughter increased, and the buffaloes grew scarcer prices were
advanced, until $4 was being paid for bull hides by the fall of 1872.
During the winter of 1870 we ranged all over western Kansas, but
principally along the Republican River and its tributaries. Generally,
there were three or four men in an outfit, each having contributed his
share for necessary expenses. They went where the range was best, and
buffaloes most plentiful. A dugout was built and occupied as permanent
headquarters camp, the hunters ranging for miles through the
surrounding country. The only kind of dugout worth having was one with
a big, open fire-place, near the edge of a stream of good water, with
plenty of wood along its banks. We often occupied the same dugout for
a month or more. Then, as the buffaloes grew less plentiful, we
shifted our camp and built a new dugout, which was easily and quickly
done.
From where the buffaloes were killed in the range, we hauled the hides
to camp, where we dried them and hauled them to market. Though I was
not quite eighteen years of age, there were very few men who could
excel me in marksmanship, which possibly was a natural gift
supplemented by more or less constant practice.
I always did my own killing, and generally had two experienced men to
do the skinning. A capable man could skin fifty buffaloes a day, and
usually was paid $50 a month. I have paid as much as twenty-five cents
a hide to a good skinner. We often killed the buffaloes the day before
they were to be skinned.
During the fall, Smith and Campbell grew tired of the business and
wanted to quit. I bought the outfit, and straightway hired two men to
work for me, and started out killing buffaloes more energetically than
ever. One of my skinners was a Mexican and the other a man named
Perkins.
Up to this time I had hunted north of the Kansas Pacific railroad, and
as far west as Fort Wallace. As the fall advanced, I began ranging
further south, as the buffaloes were becoming somewhat scarce. I was
moving toward a country of future trouble--trouble with Indians--and
to a region where in time I should meet with more adventure than I had
ever dreamed of.
We moved south of Hays City about ten miles and came to a boiling
spring that flowed from an opening in solid rock. Here we decided to
make our permanent camp for the winter, so we built a picket house and
a big dugout, expecting to dry a lot of buffalo meat for market, but
finally abandoned this scheme. Our camp was on a main-traveled road
leading to Hays City. Freighters and hunters urged me to establish a
road ranch or store, where such supplies as were used in that country
could be purchased in reasonable quantities. Having some spare money,
I stocked up with tobacco, whisky and a general line of groceries, and
employed a man named Billy Reynolds to run the place for me, while I
devoted my time to killing buffaloes. Many a jolly company gathered at
the road ranch at the boiling spring. The sale of whisky was a common
practice in those days, as whisky was freely used by frontiersmen, and
its sale was expected as a matter of course. Other conditions were too
hard and too pressing for the question of the morals of the traffic to
be raised as it was in later years, when the country became more
thickly settled, and an entirely new order of things was established.
I was well acquainted with Reynolds, and liked him, having formed his
acquaintance on the Custer expedition to Camp Supply in 1868 when he
was a mule-driver. He was a friendly, whole-souled kind of fellow, and
knew just how to treat men to get their trade. I made good money out
of this venture until 1871 when the income abruptly and permanently
ceased--during my absence Reynolds sold the whole outfit and skipped
the country, without even telling me good bye. I had been absent two
weeks when I returned one day to find only the empty building. I never
again heard of Billy Reynolds. I doubt that his robbing me was ever to
his final advantage. Money obtained in that way never brought good
luck, even in the Plains country, where men were judged by rougher
standards than prevailed further east.
I formed another partnership with a man named Finn, who was square and
honest, and sold him an interest in the business. I had known him a
number of years. He added another good team to the outfit. He had been
a Government teamster and had served in the Civil War. He was a good
story-teller, and when the day's work was done, and we were
comfortably seated around the fire, nothing pleased me more than to
get Finn started telling stories. He was a native of Ireland, which
gave a fine spice to his tales.
Finn and I hunted together about a year. During this time I had for a
skinner another Irishman, a man named Mike McCabe. Mike had red hair,
and a fiery temper. But he was a fine fellow, and I thought a great
deal of him. He was one of the best workers I ever saw. Mike would
fight at the drop of the hat, and again would sulk for weeks at a time
over a fancied wrong. The men nicknamed him "Cranky" or "Fighting"
McCabe. When he was in good humor a livelier fellow could not be
found, but the moment he got a grouch he clouded up like a Panhandle
thunderstorm.
The only thing in the world McCabe was afraid of was an Indian, of
which I shall write later. Though small in size, McCabe would fight a
man twice his size, and always give a good account of himself. His
consuming passion was gambling, and when he struck town he invariably
lost everything he had at the card table. He worked for me, off and
on, for three years, and was with me at the fight at Adobe Walls.
During the time McCabe was with my outfit the two of us got along
amicably, save when he would imagine that the world was against him,
whereupon in a great huff he would quit, draw all his pay, and strike
out for the nearest town--and its first gambling house within his
reach. There he would remain until his last dollar was gone. Some fine
morning McCabe would show up with beaming face and good-natured
blarney, take his old job, and work even better than before.
Once he had been sulking for almost a week and had not spoken to a man
in camp. When we started hunting, we decided to pull out and leave him
at the ranch alone, which we did. After making our kill of buffaloes,
we started back. When we got in sight of the ranch we were astonished
at seeing McCabe dancing on a dry buffalo robe stretched on the
ground. He was giving all the fancy steps and dancing as if a full
orchestra were playing. Upon seeing us, he stopped dancing, and seemed
chagrined. He had been entertaining himself. His conduct was rather
laughable.
I rarely ever made a full settlement with McCabe, as he preferred to
draw his pay in installments. I paid him fifty dollars a month.
Sometimes he would have several hundred dollars ahead, and again he
would be considerably overdrawn. Finally, he decided he would quit for
good. Getting down to the job of a settlement, I carefully figured
each item and found that just two dollars were due him, whereupon he
said, with a twinkle in his eye, "It beats the devil that a man should
work three long years and get just two dollars." He went away in good
humor, and we were always warm friends.
Finn and I were together until the next fall. He then took a notion to
go back east and visit his folks, whom he had not seen since the Civil
War. He was a frugal man, and did not smoke, chew tobacco nor drink
whisky. His share of the year's work amounted to $5,000, which gave
him a pretty good stake. He went to Rochester, New York, invested his
money and was soon doing a profitable business. Several years
afterwards he wrote to me saying that he longed to come back to the
Plains country and its free life, but he never came.
Before Finn went away we had taken into partnership a man named Jack
Callahan, who had been a Government wagonmaster at Fort Hays. Jack
never saw the dark side of things, and was a delightful companion.
During the winter of 1871 Jack and I were hunting on the headwaters of
Pawnee Fork, drifting back and forth from there to Smoky Hill and
Walnut Creek and their tributaries. Our permanent camp was on
Hackberry Creek, a branch of Pawnee Fork. Along in November we had one
of the worst blizzards I ever saw. It was this terrible storm that
caught a wagon train loaded with cordwood for Hays City. This was
Snuffer's bull train. All the cattle froze to death. The men were in a
frightful condition when found. The outfit had been to Camp Supply
with freight, and on the return trip had loaded up with cordwood on
Walnut Creek.
The storm struck them just as they went into camp for the night, after
the stock had been turned loose to graze. When the storm broke, every
man turned out to help hold the stock, and many of them were soon lost
in the blinding swirl. One man, the cook, managed to find his way back
to camp; he was found dead in his wagon, frozen stiff. Where he had
tried to make a fire in the bottom of the wagon could be plainly seen.
He had burned the endgate in his vain efforts. The wind blew with such
terrific force that the fire was blown away in all directions. Though
surrounded with enormous quantities of wood, all within easy reach,
the poor fellow perished for want of fire.
There was hardly a man in this ill-fated, outfit who did not suffer
the loss of a hand, a foot, or a limb. The men were camped in Five
Mile Hollow, five miles from Hays City, and when news of the affair
reached town next day, all the citizens turned out to search for the
missing men, gathering them up and taking them to the hospital at Hays
City. Some of the bewildered men wandered to my road-ranch, where
Billy Reynolds was in charge, and there found shelter and protection
from the storm.
A few days after the storm had abated I decided to make a trip to Hays
City, and bring back supplies for the outfit, so I hooked four mules
to a wagon and hitched my saddle horse to the side. I rarely ever went
out on the road without my saddle horse. The mules seemed to be more
contented when accompanied by a horse, and in case of trouble I stood
a better show of getting away on horseback.
Our camp was on Hackberry, and I went prepared to stay all night with
Reynolds at the road-ranch, the first night out. When I got there I
found the place deserted. I could not imagine why Reynolds was not
there and did not learn the reason until I reached Hays, driving there
that night. I saw Snuffer's wagons corralled at Five Mile Hollow when
I passed that place, but heard nothing of what had happened until I
got to Hays. Here I learned the no less surprising news that Reynolds
had sold everything at the road-ranch and had skipped the country.
The day after I reached town the express agent came into the hotel
office where I was stopping and asked if a man could be found who
would take a load of express to Fort Dodge or Camp Supply, saying that
there was a lot of express for both places. As I had a good team, and
there was no great need of my hurrying back to headquarters, I told
him I would go. I also wanted to look that country over for buffaloes.
I loaded and started for Fort Dodge with fifteen hundred pounds of
express, making Walnut Creek the first night and staying at a
road-ranch run by Johnny Quinn, afterwards killed at that place. The
weather was bitter cold when I started next morning, and by 10 o'clock
it was spitting snow and getting colder every minute. I walked part of
the time to keep warm. My load was bulky rather than heavy. I felt the
cold driving into my very bones, and realized my danger. I was
determined that I would not permit myself to sink into drowsiness, as
this meant death. Reaching a long divide, I dropped down the slope
with my mules in a gallop, and luckily was soon in sight of a
road-ranch kept by John O'Loughlin. I was scarcely able to speak when
I drove up and found half a dozen men coming to meet me, all eager to
hear the news from town, whatever it might be. In answer to their
questions I merely shook my head. My jaws were set like a vice. I
could not speak a word. They saw instantly my condition. Running into
the dugout they began piling wood into the fireplace, and the room was
soon as hot as an oven. I thawed gradually, burning like a live coal
one moment and shivering the next as if I had a fit of ague. This was
my first experience with killing cold. In later days, after I became a
Government scout, I had many similar experiences. I once made a ride
with dispatches, and became so stiff with cold by the time I had
reached the end of my journey that I could not dismount from my
horse--I simply let go and fell off.
In the Pawnee Fork and Saw Log country I had seen lots of buffaloes, a
sight which always held me with endless fascination. When I got to
Fort Dodge the third night out I heard that the buffaloes had drifted
in by thousands during the blizzard, and that the garrisons had to
fire a piece of artillery to keep them from breaking down the
buildings and corrals.
Next day I mounted my horse and struck off up the Arkansas to look
over the country, traveling up the valley for about thirty-five miles.
There had certainly been an enormous number of buffaloes in the
country. I could see where the grass had been flattened and the willow
thickets cropped close by the tired and hungry animals. In every
direction could be seen the spots where the buffaloes had bedded down
for the night. But now there was not a buffalo in sight.
Lured on by the hope of catching sight of the vast multitude that had
passed that way, I kept on up the valley, but without success. Then I
determined to proceed to the Plains, which I did. Riding to a high
point I turned my eyes across the plains. I held my breath in my
astonishment at the wonderful sight. As far as I could see there was a
solid mass of buffalo, quietly grazing on the curly mesquite, now
brown with winter. At no other time in my life did I ever see such a
vast number of buffaloes. For miles in every direction the country was
alive with them.
At this point I want to say that in all my experience in the buffalo
country I never saw one die of old age and exhaustion, and can
remember seeing only one "on the lift"--that is, in a situation where
he could go no further. This one, an old bull, had got fast in a bog
on the Canadian, and was unable to get out. Riding up to him, I threw
my lariat over his head, after I had given my lariat a hitch over the
horn of my saddle, and pulled the old fellow to firm ground. I left
him grazing contentedly on the bank. The buffalo was a hardy animal,
and though they often got very thin during a hard winter, yet they
never became so thin and starved as to go off their feet like cattle.
I returned to Fort Dodge fully satisfied with my day's ride, and next
day started on my return trip to Fort Hays. By the time I reached Fort
Hays, a considerable number of hunters had been driven in by the
storm. I told them of the black ocean of buffaloes I had seen
northwest of Fort Dodge, which was good news to them, and set every
man to overhauling his outfit.
I was impatient to reach my camp, so I loaded up with supplies and
pulled out. I found the boys in good shape and glad to see me. Next
day we made a scout out west of Hackberry, and found thousands of
buffaloes. It was plain that the big herd had drifted a long way
during the blizzard, and had been as far south as the Arkansas. When
the weather moderated they worked back to their old range.
Along in May, 1872, we moved our camp from Hackberry to a point north
of the Kansas Pacific railroad.
While in camp on Hackberry I met with an experience which rarely ever
happened to me--I got completely lost, so badly that I had no idea of
direction. Perkins and I had been out all day killing and skinning
buffaloes. We had worked late, and it had grown cloudy and dark when
we started for camp. Both were afoot. In moving from each fallen
buffalo to another we had wandered further than we suspected. Each
thought camp was in a different direction. So positive was Perkins
that he was right that I followed him for a time.
I was relying mostly upon the direction of the buffalo trails and when
I found that we were crossing them instead of following them, I was
convinced that we had lost our bearings. I called Perkin's attention
to the trails. He insisted that he was going in the right direction.
Perkins was a windy story-teller, and was relating a war tale. I
disliked to interrupt him. Finally, however, I said that unless the
wind had changed we were certainly going in the wrong direction.
"Oh, the wind has changed," he replied: "I knew it would this
morning."
About this time we reached the head of a draw, on which we thought our
camp was situated. At that moment the clouds drifted from the face of
the moon, and we saw a bunch of buffaloes that had bedded down for the
night. This convinced me that Perkins was "going it wild," as I was
sure that buffalo would not stay that close to our camp.
Rovers that we were, with sails turned for every wind, we decided to
kill some of the buffaloes, as they would be conveniently at hand, for
skinning next morning, and we shot five or six.
Pursuing our way down the draw, I was soon positive that we were lost.
Perkins put up a lively argument to prove that he was not mistaken.
When we reached another bunch of buffaloes that had bedded, Perkins
threw up the sponge. Four bulls were lying together. We blazed into
them, made a warm bed of two hides, with the hair turned inside, and
made a dry camp for the night. We slept as warm as if we were in a
feather bed, though the night was cold.
In after years I thought many times of that night on the Plains. Of
how tired we were, of how the wind whistled past us, of how the cold
seemed to come down out of the sky, heavy and chill, and of how icily
the moon shone as she sailed westward. Save for the occasional howling
of wolves and coyotes, the night was supernaturally silent. It was the
stillness of the primeval solitude. It was the stuff that makes a man
in a warm bed under a roof feel like getting up to saddle his horse
and ride away to this Land of Nowhere. Once in the blood, it can never
be lost. Home-sickness for the Plains and their free, open life stings
like a hornet.
Perkins and I slept late next morning. The sun was shining in my face
when I heard something scratching and clawing on the hide with which
we were covered. There were lots of skunks in the country, and lately
several men had been bitten by them. I thought of skunks, of which I
stood in dread, as I would have preferred being bitten by a
rattlesnake.
Bracing myself, I kicked the hide with all my might, to throw it as
far as possible from both of us. Instead of a skunk, I was astonished
to see a big eagle that had been trying to get his breakfast by
picking the meat off the fresh hide. That eagle was so badly scared
that I am sure he must have had an attack of heart failure. He flopped
around before he could get up enough steam to take wing, and even then
he hovered in the air as if uncertain which way to fly. I could have
killed him with the butt of my gun. I had no wish to do this, however,
and watched him recover his wits and soar away.
I do not believe that I exaggerate when I say that Perkins jumped five
feet into the air when I kicked off the buffalo hide. He told me that
he was sure Indians had nailed us, and that his scalp-lock twitched
all day.
Coming out of the draw where we had made our bed, we ascended a high
point and scanned the surrounding country, hoping to locate our camp.
Nothing looked familiar to us. We struck out in the direction we
thought camp ought to be. We walked until nearly night before we got
back to camp.
By noon I was growing ravenously hungry. I suggested to Perkins that
we kill a buffalo and broil some of the meat. We shot a 2-year-old
heifer, and soon had a hump steak sizzling on the fire. No meal ever
gave me greater satisfaction, though we had no salt or bread.
We were fagged and footsore when we reached camp. James Donnelly, the
man we had left in camp, had given us up as dead, confident that we
had been killed by Indians. He had packed the outfit, harnessed the
mules and was just at the point of pulling out for Hays City when we
hailed him. We would have been left in bad shape had he gone. During
the morning a band of twelve or fifteen Indians had passed in sight of
camp, and as we had been missing two days and one night, Donnelly
naturally concluded that the Indians had killed us. After he saw the
Indians he made up his mind that the best thing for him to do was to
leave as quickly as possible for the Fort.
During the summer of 1872 we hunted along the Saline and Solomon,
frequently encountering small bands of Indians. Generally, they were
going north or south, and though they were supposed to be friendly, we
watched them closely. Occasionally, we heard of a hunter being killed,
but this did not bother us, so long as we were not molested.
Sometimes, Indians came into our camp. They were always hungry. We
always fed them. They love sugar and coffee, and for either were
willing to trade anything they had. The Kiowas were especially fond of
sugar. The liking for sweet things was not peculiar to the white man.