UTE, BIG WARRIOR--NO PLOW.
The diuturnal petticoat of snow which clothed the mountain was getting
shorter and shorter as the diurnal sun crept farther and farther north
on his summer ascension. The beavers were busy, tooth and tail, building
new dams and repairing old ones. The Ute ponies were getting fat on new
buffalo and bunch grass, and the tender-eyed does were seeking higher
altitudes when Jack again reached the old trail leading to the Indian
village on Rock Creek.
Chiquita spied the lone horseman long before he was aware of his
proximity to the old camping ground.
"Chiquita heap glad to see Jack." She made her welcome, palms to the
front, raised high in the air.
"How! How!" replied Jack and he looked askance at Chiquita in wonderment
that she should be so far from the village. "Jack no sabe," he
continued, and looked from one point of the compass to another for a
familiar landmark.
"Chiquita know, see Jack, old trail behind big peak, new trail this way,
when Jack go where sun rise, ground covered with heap big snow--no see
this trail."
"Me sabe. Where Yamanatz, Colorow, Antelope?"
Chiquita smiled at the first, became grave at the second and a flash
shot from her eyes at the word Antelope, then her face saddened as she
looked into Jack's very soul. "Yamanatz well, Colorow gone to Agency,
Antelope ready for big pony race--Susan want Antelope, Antelope no like
Susan, like--mebbe so Jack knows," she said with an arch look. "Antelope
get up big race when white man come from Hot Sulphur Springs with heap
fast pony to race Ute ponies--mebbe so Ute win ponies--white man walk
back, Antelope heap smart. Plan big race, big dance and big games among
the braves. Susan she put Antelope up to it, beat all Indians and white
men, win Susan for his wife, carry her off to his tepee where she sing
songs in twilight. But Antelope tell Chiquita he no race--just make
believe. Antelope wait for Chiquita, but"--and she stopped abruptly with
the frightened look of a startled deer as she gazed again into Jack's
face.
"When race?" he asked.
"Three moons."
"About August," said Jack to himself. Then aloud, as a bright thought
came to him, "Does Chiquita sabe name of white man's ponies?"
"Me sabe one," she replied.
"Jack sabe one heap fast pony in Middle Park. 'Brown Dick,'--run like
the forked lightning out of the clouds."
Chiquita looked surprised and interrogatively answered, "Mebbe so 'Brown
Dick' beat 'em Ute ponies, white man ride back?"
At which Jack laughed heartily. Chiquita continued: "That is the pony
Antelope think no run much, heap fast, but Ute beat him. Antelope bet
money, beads, buckskin, two ponies and other Utes bet heap lot."
"Has Yamanatz bet anything yet?" asked Jack.
"Yamanatz don't know--wait Jack come--Jack tell Yamanatz what to do."
Jack knew the horse well and all the people interested in the races and
decided to stay and see the sport. Even had Yamanatz desired to go to
the big mine, they would go later. On reference to his calendar he found
a total eclipse of the sun would take place in August and he desired to
see the Indians under this phenomenon as well as in their sports, and
witness the struggles for the hand of Susan.
Upon arrival at the Indian village Yamanatz greeted Jack in the
customary fashion. It was not long before they arranged to wait for the
August festivities, then start for the desert mine from the Agency, to
which point the Rock Creek village moved a short time after Jack's
arrival.
During the three months Jack spent his time prospecting, hunting, and
studying Indian character. Chiquita made rapid strides in her studies
under his tutorship and by the time set for the races she could converse
very well in English and read ordinary words. Jack watched the ponies
and the athletic braves as preparation was made for the great event.
For days the frontiersmen along the reservation border had been wending
their way to the Agency. Gamblers and confidence men from the nearest
mining camps ran over to gather in a few dollars which would be "easy
money." The Government's long delayed annuities and rations were to be
distributed the week before the contest, so every Indian had money to
bet or to buy plunder with. Groups of Indians, squatting on their
haunches or kneeling beside a big blanket spread upon the ground as a
table, gambled or traded their wares in common with the visitors.
On a big Navajo blanket sat Chiquita, making beaded moccasins, while
near by on another blanket rested Susan, engaged in beading a buckskin
shirt. Off at the side with bridle reins dragging, four ponies fed on
the stubby grass as their owners, two Indians and two cowmen, played
Spanish monte. The cowmen wore heavily fringed buckskin shirts and
broad-brimmed hats, each hat having a leather band and leather string
which passed back of the ears and under the back of the head to keep the
hat from blowing off. Their feet were clad in high-topped boots, from
which clanked the cruel Mexican spurs with tinkling bells. Each--and, in
fact, every man on the reservation, had six-shooters--some four, and
nearly all carried some make of rifle, not that they feared any evil,
but it was second nature to be prepared for game of any kind. Another
mark of civilization was the red bandanna handkerchief tied loosely
around nearly every man's throat.
Oaths of the most curdling nature bellowed their way incessantly into
the ears of the onlooker. A brightly painted Indian with eagle feathered
bonnet and a string of grizzly claws around his neck, won a mule
skinner's money. The latter turned loose a wild yell and a string of
hair-raising adjectives, accompanied by the pistol-like crack of his
fifteen-foot whip, and stalked off to his mules, swearing "agin the
Gov'n'ment, the redskin and hisself"--chiefly in the end "agin hisself."
Jack hailed him.
"Pard, I've seen you before."
"Mebbe so, stranger; I've lived in these hills many snows," answered the
freighter.
"Didn't you lose some blankets about a year ago in the Wet Mountain
valley, near Buena Vista?" asked Jack without mincing matters.
"That's what I did, but I got 'em back and--well"--and he stopped as
Jack commenced to smile. "What pleases you, stranger?"
"I was picturing in my mind what that fellow's wife, if he had one, and
she could have seen him, would have said after you fellows got through
heaving him into that dirty pond instead of hanging him."
The man of mules and wagons broke into a long guffaw that echoed back
from the woods, and circled his long whip about his head, allowing the
big broad cracker to settle lightly the length of the lash from him as
daintily as an expert caster lets his flies settle into a riffle where
the big trout hide, then with a fierce backward motion and overhand
shoot to the front the long sinuous black snake straightened out with a
vicious snap that made Jack wince, for it told the rest of the tale of
what happened to the blanket thief before "court" adjourned. Then the
freighter finished his remark.
"Well, that onery cuss that stole my blanket has got my mark on his
hide, made like that."
"Yes, I think he must have about fifteen of them the way the whips
cracked as he ran the gauntlet between about thirty of you. Did he
live?"
"Oh, yes. That is he was alive when we left him on the prairie, headed
for the Missouri River."
"I was on my way to Leadville. Buena Vista was the end of the railroad
and in looking after some freight at the depot I saw the preliminaries
of opening 'court' and execution of 'judgment' against the prisoner,"
explained Jack. To which the grizzled teamster replied:
"It looks cruel to one not familiar with frontier life. It seems a
crime, the justice which overtakes horse thieves and camp prowlers,
while those who commit greater crimes go free. But there are no two
things so essential to life on the border as blankets and horses. We
have to sleep and travel. Hotels don't pop up for the asking, with warm
beds on a winter's night, nor do horses grow out of a pine bough when a
man is miles away from any habitation. If men be too onery and sassy and
get to be too handy in their gun play with each other we make no fuss if
both 'go over the range with their boots on'--a-killing of them fellers
does not necessitate an honest man's freezing to death. We never hang a
man, nor shoot him, if he steals our grub or watch, or even gets our
gun, but blankets and horses are sacred property. But what be you doin'
in here?"
"Came over to see the Ute races and study Indians," replied Jack.
"So did I, but to make it more binding I brought in a train of
government plunder for the Agency, some plows and mowin' machines and
school house desks. Say, but I'd like to see some of these redskins
trying to cut a furrer down that sage brush flat or sittin' at one of
them desks doin' sums in 'rithmetic. More'n likely they'll be makin'
pictures of Parson Meeker crossing the divide on a sulky plow under
escort of Uncle Sam's cavalry," at which the freighter turned his
gigantic laugh loose again.
Just then two men in "store clothes" picked their way around the various
groups of horses and Indians, stopping a short distance from Jack and
the freighter, whose sobriquet was "Cal." As the new comers faced square
about Cal eyed them a moment and then said to Jack:
"You see that red-faced, black mustached feller standin' there? Well,
that's Sam Tupper, the graveyard starter of the Animas and Wet Mountain
valleys. I seen him make the first corpse in Silver Cliff. Wonder what
he's doin' up here. Sure as gun's made of iron he's up here for
mischief. It was October and the first blizzard of the season caught us
all with short wood and no pitch hot. Every prospector around the cliff
made for 'Nigger Barber's' place--afterward it got a regular name, the
'slaughter house,' kase 'Nigger,'--he was half Indian, half Mexican and
balance coyote--had two great big stoves to keep us warm. Four fellers
rode into the Cliff about 10 o'clock, cold and hungry, and expected to
find a tavern started, but they were a little early, for the camp was
right young, so they got permission to use some feller's tent near
by--one of the four was Charley Rogers"--
"Owner of 'Brown Dick,'" interrupted Jack, in surprise.
"Yes; and Frank Mitchell, Les McAvoy and Paddy Dinslow. Les was a bad
man, no mistake. His daddy was a judge in one of the northern counties
and when Les was a kid the old man would take the youngster to some of
the faro banks, hold him on his knee and seem to think it cute if the
little gambler picked up a 'sleeper' and sold it to the barkeep for
lumps of sugar or a bottle of pop. Well, Les got pretty tough. Worked
some, but liked his 'licker' and was allus waitin' to pick a fuss. He
was nervy and could fight with fists, stove pokers, 'toad stabbers' or
six-shooters, it was all the same to him. Sam and 'Nigger' both knew him
of old in Trinidad and Silverton. The first night after the boys got
into the Cliff they dropped into 'Nigger's' and got into a game of faro.
Les piled his stack of reds above the limit and Sam there, who was
lookout, told Les to take 'em down. Les lost on the turn, but before the
dealer could rake in the chips Les snatched the extra ones off the top
of the pile. If he won, the dealer only paid the limit, and then Les
would talk bad. All of 'em were scared of Les and no one wanted to make
a beginning, so they humored him, but the next night they laid for him.
I met Frank and Charley durin' the day and they said Les had been run
out of Silverton, and he remarked as he came into the Cliff, 'Boys,
mebbe it's my time to die with my boots on in this very camp, but I'm
game.'
"It was almost 8 o'clock and 'Nigger's' was jammed. There was a big
crowd at the table near the end of the bar. I sat at a table parallel to
it, the big red hot stove making the apex of a triangle about the same
distance as the tables were apart. The deal which old Colonel Crumpy was
making came to an end. I was winner and thumbing my chips, when bang
went a gun at the other table. Say, but did you ever see two hundred and
fifty crazy, desperate men push and crowd out of gun play range? Well,
there was lots of tenderfeet in that gang. They jumped onto the
'mustang' table and then to the hazard table and into the crowd,
pell-mell, out of windows. One feller was so scar't he never stopped to
open it, but went kersmash through glass and all. Durin' this I backed
away keerful like to the wall between two windows. I knew if any of 'em
started to run it would be in the middle of the room and I didn't feel
like risking my back to that crowd. My gun hung handy in case of a free
get-away, or die a doin' it. As I felt the cold green boards rub my
spine I seen the rest of the show. It don't take a man a lifetime to
move when guns are speakin'.
"It seems a kid, with sickly taller-like face and pinched cheeks, a
young feller from the States lookin' for a gold mine, who got broke and
nothing to do but clean spit-kits in 'Nigger's' and tend bar, had been
exercised a little with the cards, dealing faro, and they put him on
watch with a big Colt's old-fashioned navy on his lap, all cocked and
ready for business, with instructions that if Les did any more funny
work to plug him. Les had bet his stack as high as he could pile 'em and
lost, grabbed the extra chips, and to the dealer's 'You--put them chips
back,' Les slid up the back of his chair. He was keepin' cases and had
his back to me, reachin' fer his gun. He had on a pair of blue overalls,
and the hammer of that six-shooter got caught in the corner of his
pocket. I seen him tuggin' to get it out, and the dealer, whose name was
Bert Lillis, had lifted the big cannon, the muzzle half way across the
table, and with both hands pulled the trigger, got scared, dropped the
gun and was trying to skin under the table. He turned his head sideways
to keep from scratching his nose, and just then Les got into action. He
leaned on his left hand over the middle of the faro layout, put the
muzzle of his gun against the eye of the dealer as he was sliding down
and fired. As Les was doin' this Sam Tupper was busy, but Les had his
eye on the lookout, who dared not move his hand for fear Les would git
him first. As quick as Les made his play at the dealer, Sam reached for
a drawer about six inches from his hand and grabbed a pearl-handled,
silver-plated gun. As Les turned with uplifted arm, cocking his weapon,
Sam stepped to the edge of the drygoods box on which the lookout's chair
was placed, his weapon pointing straight at Les's heart. Before Les
could fire there was a flash--a report. The smoke from the pearl-handled
gun wreathed around Les's head as he turned convulsively, frantically
trying to get the muzzle of his pistol on a line with Sam, who stood
with the least perceptible smile waiting for the eye of his opponent to
catch his own, but as Les's body slowly swayed and pivoted the gambler
knew that in a moment more all would be over. The fingers which tightly
gripped the murderous firearm now slackened, gripped again, then the
pistol dropped to the floor; a body straightened up its full height, the
head thrown back in defiance and with eyes rolling upward, Les McAvoy
fell prone to the floor backwards. As he fell that man standing there
stepped off the box with the pearl-handled gun cocked for a second shot,
and hissed between those white teeth of his, 'You got it that time.' The
jury heard no evidence of any shots but Lillis' and the one Les
fired--no bullet was found from a Colt's navy, round ball. A conical
ball rested just beneath the skin in the small of the back. The jury
said, 'Justifiable homicide at the hands of Bert Lillis,' and I heard
that Lillis died the next day."
"And that is the man who did the deed?" asked Jack, as he gazed at a
real bad man; "one of those who make the history of every country black
with their infamous deeds, which they plan and then inveigle innocent
people to execute."
"Yes," said Cal, "and these redskins are not much to blame for goin' on
the warpath the way they are bamboozled about. The trouble is, them
cusses in Washington, who never see an Injun and who don't know what a
real live one is, pass laws and send commissioners and army officers and
agents out here to investigate. Some are preachers, some cunning lawyers
and some statesmen--they call 'em so. The investigation drags along
while the poor devils go hungry. Rations are held back, blankets rot for
want of transportation, and somebody back in the woodpile is getting
rich all the time. Then the Injun takes it out of a party of prospectors
or some poor rancher, or like as not holds up a train of mules and the
mule-skinners 'bite the dust' after defending their own property. But I
suppose in the end it is all for the benefit of what they call
civilization. Let's go and see them ponies over there."
"Look," said Jack; "must have been a bunch of folks come in last night,"
pointing to a regular settlement of new tents and camping outfits.
"Well, durn my pictures," ejaculated Cal. "Throw a rope on that
blaze-faced, lop-eared son of Israel with a pack on his back and let's
see his brand. Guess you find them everywhere except in Jerusalem.
Hello, Isaac; where's Abraham?"
"Who'd you mean, my brodder or my fadder? My name is Cohen, and I gome
to make a locashun for a cloding store. Dis will be a fine blace for a
town, und Cohen will be der bioneer merchant, ain't it?"
"Git out, you hook-nosed Jew; this is Injun reservation, and yer 'Uncle
Sam' don't allow no storekeepers here, except his own pets!"
"What iss dot? I got no Ungel Sam; I got un Ungel Moses und Ungel
Solomon, but no Ungel Sam. Ain'd dis a new town? Don' the shentlemans
wand a negdie or hangerchief? I haf a"--but Jack and Cal had turned a
deaf ear to the would-be "bioneer."
As Jack stepped around the trunk of a big pine the noose of a lariat
circled around and settled over his head and arms; a short jerk and he
was brought up standing. Cal looked on wonderingly, for at the other end
of the rope sat a buckskin-clad cow-puncher mounted on a thoroughbred
cow-pony.
"Now will you be good?" The bronzed face of "Happy Jack" broke into
wreaths of smiles and happy laughter.
"Hello, Jack!"
"Hello yourself."
"Shake, old man--put her thar, Jack. Glad ter see yer. Never thought to
see yer over here among the Utes."
"When did you leave Roaring Forks?"
"About a week ago; been looking for some horses that are missing."
"Jack, shake hands with Cal Wagner. No, not the minstrel man, but his
equal just the same."
"Cal, this is 'Happy Jack' of the Bar E Ranch over in the Grand River
country."
Both men, thus introduced, shook hands, and after a few exchanges of the
day "Happy Jack" coiled up his lariat and, lifting his bridle reins,
said, "I must look around this camp a while afore the races. May find
some signs, but I'll see yer both again--adios."
The spurs jingled and his pony loped off toward the valley. Cal looked
at the disappearing cow-puncher and turned to Jack, who said:
"He's as good one as ever straddled a broncho. He sure is a character
and his name is well earned. One of the happiest men I ever met. I'll
tell you about him as we take a smoke and watch the Indians. Down on
Roaring Forks of the Grand River a young fellow from the east by the
name of Eads took up a ranch. He was staked by some rich relative, and
after buying a bunch of steers and some American-bred horses, drove them
over the Tennessee pass to the Bar E ranch, five miles above the big Hot
Springs[A] where the Forks empties into the Grand. He hired 'Happy Jack'
as boss of the outfit, and with two or three other cow-punchers he
started in and built a log house, and when I was there seemed to be
doing well. I was on a hunting trip from Middle Park and heard about the
Bar E ranch and the Springs, so our party made the place our camping
ground for a week. The grass was fine and all the stock rolling fat. His
horses were in two bands--one 'used' on one side of the Forks and the
other band grazed on the opposite side. They rounded up the horses once
a week at least, and the range riders never let the stock get away very
far.
"One evening just after grub one of the boys came down to the cabin from
the corral and said, 'Old Martha has pulled her picket pin and
vamoosed.' 'Martha' was stake mare. Jack said, 'I guess not,' and bolted
up the bank to the open bench which run for half a mile back to the
cedars and pinons, where the branding pens and corrals were. He walked
out to where he had picketed the mare and pulled up the pin with about
ten feet of rope left where it had been cut. It was just before sundown,
and a bunch of horses which had been run into the corral when the stake
horse was changed had not gotten far away. Jack yelled 'Thief!' and for
the boys to hustle and see if some of the bunch could be gotten back
into the corral--a feat, you know, next to impossible when no one is
mounted. As luck would have it, four went in when the rest broke, but we
managed to get the bars up before they turned. It was but a few seconds'
work to rope a 'saddle-wise' one and cinch him up. Jack had taken off
his belt and it lay on the ground with his six-shooters back at the
cabin. He pointed at mine and said, 'Give me that gun.' Throwing himself
into the saddle, he was off like a streak of lightning. The mare's
hoofprints were plainly visible in the trail leading toward the Grand
River. About 9:30 o'clock we heard a yell and went up to the corral.
Jack had the mare. Not a word was uttered, except 'She was in the middle
of the ford just above where the Forks go into the Grand.' Both horses
were covered with ridges of dry sweat and looked jaded, as though every
inch of ten miles had been run in a death-race struggle. On the off side
of 'Martha' a dirty red streak mingled with the sweat. As we went slowly
back to the cabin, after picketing both horses, Jack handed me my belt
and gun--a Colt's .41 double action. Two empty cartridge shells told the
story of a tragedy. A week later one of our party found the body of a
man on the bank of the Grand five miles below the Forks with two bullet
holes in his back.
"Jack had one habit that city boys think belong to themselves"--
"Midnight lunches?" asked Cal.
"Yes; but Jack generally had his hungry spell about 2 a. m. Every night
that our party was at the Bar E ranch Jack would wake us up and every
one had to 'break bread' with him--only it was flapjacks instead of
bread. Jack would do all the work, and he was an artist with the frying
pan. He would turn those big cakes by tossing them out of the pan in the
air, you know, and catch them after the flop. After our lunch a smoke,
and while we smoked a few deals of Spanish monte and a story or two,
then back to bunks. Yes, 'Happy Jack' is a character."
As Jack finished his story of "Happy Jack" a shout announced the
beginning of the trials of strength, endurance and courage, which would
probably proclaim the victor for the hand of Susan. Standing erect with
arms folded over his breast, Red Plume watched with seeming indifference
the trials. Susan, seated upon her blanket, appeared even more so; in
fact when it became apparent that Antelope was not to be one of the
contestants she shook her head and disconsolately continued her
beadwork.
The braves vied with each other in feats of running, wrestling, jumping,
swinging from one tree to another, riding in all manner of positions on
bareback, bridleless ponies; throwing knives at each other's heads, arms
and necks in endeavors to pinion the victim to a tree without doing him
any bodily harm; torturing themselves with cruel whips; gashing and
lacerating the flesh; being suspended from a pole or bar by means of
thongs thrust under the muscles of the shoulders, and other
blood-curdling deeds original with the savage.
Old chiefs watched the young bucks, and as the games proceeded these old
ones shook their heads or nodded in assent as success or failure
rewarded the contestants.
All were in gala dress. War bonnets of elaborate manufacture bedecked
some, while single feathers adorned others. Small hoops fastened to long
sticks were held aloft displaying portions of a human scalp, the hair
floating naturally from one side while the other side of the scalp was
painted a bright red. Every Indian lovingly carried his pipe, the red
slender bowl made from pipestone mined from quarries hundreds of miles
away and guarded carefully from reckless souvenir and market hunters.
As a successful contestant received his reward and led his bride away,
the onlookers rent the air with piercing yells; rattle-boxes split the
ear with their characteristic din, and tom-toms bellowed their dull
intonations with a certain amount of regularity which produced that same
agonizing monotony of sound found in a healthy foghorn.
In a group not far from the racing strip was Yamanatz, and thither Jack
and Cal bent their way. Charley Rogers and his companions were making
bets with anyone who would risk ammunition, money, clothes, ponies,
blankets, guns, pistols or knives; and even war bonnets were staked.
Yamanatz was about the only Ute who did not bet against "Brown Dick."
Few of the white gamblers, who had come to fleece the Indians with their
special style of confidence games, cared to risk their coin against
Indian ponies or wampum. They wanted cash, and as the Indians had plenty
to do to meet all the demands of Jack and his friends and Charley Rogers
and his following, the gamblers saw little prospect of a coup.
The level, well-beaten, straight-away course stretched along between
rows of tents, tepees and lodges out into the plain beyond. Indian races
are not upon oval tracks and are not confined entirely to one dash over
the course, but include a certain distance and back over the same
ground, the finish being at the starting point. Other races are run
where the contestant must lean from the pony's back and pick up a quirt
or hat as the animal dashes past.
But the time for the great race on which the bets are made has arrived,
and the restless, anxious animals have to be guided to the starting
place by their riders and arranged in line with heads opposite the
direction in which the race is to be run. Bare-skinned warriors on
bridleless, saddleless ponies, a small, finely-braided lariat attached
to the horse's jaw, sit like graven images upon their favorite steeds.
"Brown Dick," whose rider is his owner, steps along jauntily, champing
in eager fashion the silver-ringed bit supported by a silver ornamented
Mexican braided-leather bridle, the loose reins held almost listlessly
by the man in blue shirt and buckskin trousers seated on an English
racing saddle. A little moisture around the roots of the delicately
pointed ears shows that "Brown Dick" has been exercised. The muscles of
the forelegs play beneath the skin as step by step he approaches the
line; the veins in his arched neck stand out like small ropes, and the
dilated nostrils reveal the pink membranes as each deep breath is
inhaled. Charley has maneuvered for position, timing his arrival to such
a nicety that the last slow step of his well-trained racer falls exactly
as the pistol belches forth the signal to start. Simultaneously he
utters a shrill "Go" and presses his knees violently into his horse's
sides, leaning far out in the saddle and throwing his weight against the
reins on the faithful horse's neck, who rears aloft, pivots in beautiful
fashion and leaps in one bound clear of the line of frantic ponies, and
amid the warwhoops of Indians, the yells of the frenzied and the fear of
defeat piercing his ears he dashes on to victory. The struggle is not
long, and the spoils won from the vanquished nearly bankrupt the entire
tribe until the next annuities replace their losses.
There are no imprecations nor villainous mutterings. An Indian is a good
loser and bears defeat in a philosophical, stoical manner. Immediately
after the exciting races come the feasts given to the successful
competitors, and the following day finds the erstwhile holiday-arrayed
village desolate and uninteresting.
Yamanatz, Jack and Chiquita began preparations for the trip to
"Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water," and soon followed the crowd of visitors
making their way to the nearest railroad.
The last one to bid Chiquita "adios" was Antelope. He had little to say,
but averred he would continually seek the aid of all the Ute gods, big
and little, to bring the heart of Chiquita to Antelope's tepee.
"Antelope will wait many, many snows and take no other maiden," were his
parting words.
The restraining influence which Chiquita and Yamanatz exerted vanished
very soon with their departure from the reservation. Susan at once
commenced to be vindictive, as jealousy and revenge gnawed at her heart.
Chagrined and disappointed at the turn of affairs in the competition by
the young bucks for their brides, she coquetted with Johnson, well
knowing that in him she would find an acquiescent if not an aggressive
leader. Furthermore, he was the brother-in-law of Ouray and considered
one of the greatest of Douglas' band of great warriors and fighters. She
soon became, in fact, Johnson's squaw, and no one in all the Ute tribe
was more regal in dress nor feared more as an enemy than Susan. Her
silver girdles, beaded buckskins, elk-tooth necklaces and other feminine
accessories were the envy of squaws, whose chiefs were also envious of
Johnson--aye, even of any one of Douglas's band of braves.
While the races and general carnival were in progress at the Agency a
portion of this renegade band had wandered far out in the plains one
hundred miles east of Denver, near Cheyenne Wells, where they quarreled
with and murdered Joe McLane, of Chicago, and fled back to the
reservation through Middle Park--Colorow, Washington, Shavano and Piah.
Washington was wounded and had his arm in a sling when they met the
outgoing party, of which Charley Rogers, Jack, Yamanatz and Chiquita
were members, then camped on the Frazier River. Colorow offered no
explanation of whence they came nor their object, but all four were in a
hurry and hastened along through the Park.
Arriving on the Blue, where old man Elliott peaceably conducted a ranch
and with whom the Indians had been on good terms for years, they
murdered him in cold blood and left immediately for the Agency.
Upon their arrival it did not take long to start the undercurrent of
open revolt. Susan enlisted the sympathies of Jane, a vicious squaw,
whose husband had a great many ponies. Jane had selected a fine piece of
pasture land and under the rights of an Indian "squatted" upon the land
in question. It was the best land near the Agency, and Meeker decided to
use it for cultivation and to "school" the Utes in the use of the plow.
Jane objected, and quarrel after quarrel took place, Douglas even going
so far as to assault Agent Meeker in his (Meeker's) own home.
A compromise was seemingly effected by which Jane was to get another
piece of land for her pasture and Meeker again set the plow to going,
only to have the man in charge of the work shot at by two bucks who were
concealed in the sage brush. Meeker had repeatedly asked aid of both
state and Federal government. He begged for troops, as the lives of the
white people were in peril. As the aged philanthropist listened to the
council held in a smoke-smothered lodge, where warrior after warrior
gave utterance to his opinion in a language absolutely unintelligible to
any but a Ute, and when at last Douglas made his measured, forcible,
irresistible appeal to his brother savages to resist the onward march of
the white people, he (Meeker) must have known his doom was at hand.
Signal fires were constantly seen as night came on, and the murmur of
discontent increased with the uncertainty.
Finally word came that troops were on the way. Captain Payne with
colored, and Major Thornburg with white troops had been despatched to
the Agency. The morning of September 30, 1879, saw the White River
plateau under sunny skies--the air was warm and inviting. Twenty or
thirty bucks of Douglas's band sauntered forth as though in quest of
venison, others of the various bands had been out among the hills on
similar errands, and it was not unusual for the majority of the whole
Ute nation to be scattered throughout the reservation even beyond the
lines for short periods.
Susan, Jane, Antelope and a few others wandered about the Agency
buildings laughing, chattering and in the best of spirits. All seemed
happy, Susan especially, and Antelope had not been so gay for a long
time.
Still there was an ominous phase to their very good humor. It had that
practical joke fatality which foreboded evil in every smile and made the
heart sick for those who watched the sage-covered mesa and feathery
clouds which floated from range to range. But a few miles away toward
the Red Canon on Milk Creek the troops were hastening. As the advance
line swung up to the narrow gorge a few Indians in warpaint suddenly
came into view. The cavalry made an attempt to flank the defile and thus
saved the entire command from being literally shot to pieces by Indians
surrounding the open death trap into which they would have marched.
Hostilities were begun at once by the Indians. Major Thornburg in his
attempt to cut through to the main body was killed, with thirteen
others. The rest of the troops reached a place of safety, and with the
dead bodies of their comrades, the carcasses of dead horses and mules
and the wagons, formed a temporary shelter until breastworks could be
thrown up. The command was not relieved until the 5th of October.
Runners carried the news of the ambuscade to the Agency, reaching there
at noon of the same day. During the excitement which followed and the
shots directed first at the men who were putting a roof on a building,
the venerable agent was killed and a barrel stave driven down his
throat, log chains placed around his neck, and subsequently the savages
in their fury held up the dead man's legs, imitating a man plowing.
[Illustration: ANTELOPE, THE CIVILIAN, 1902.]
The women were taken by Douglas, Johnson and other Utes to the old Rock
Creek village and there held as prisoners until the middle of October.
Susan was left at the Agency and did not know that her brave warrior had
taken unto himself a new squaw under penalty of blowing her brains out,
nor that Douglas threatened another with death unless she, too, became
his Ute squaw, while the other Indians jeered, scoffed and insulted the
wives of the men who lay dead at the Agency. Yet these bucks dared do
nothing but taunt the poor, helpless women, as Douglas and Johnson were
big chiefs, and the women owed their personal safety to the declaration
that they were respectively Douglas's and Johnson's squaws.
Upon the body of Major Thornburg was found a picture of Colorow, this
signifying that the death-dealing bullet that killed the officer had
been fired by that crafty old savage.
After a tedious examination of both Johnson and Douglas by
commissioners, Douglas was confined in the prison at Fort Leavenworth
for one year. Colorow never was taken into custody.
When Susan learned that her wily spouse (Johnson) had been unfaithful to
her, she started at once for Rock Creek with the intention of murdering
the white woman; but she was too late, as the prisoners had been led
away and delivered to their friends in a place of safety.
The Utes were afterward moved to the Uintah Reservation[B] in Utah, but
many of them visit the old Agency grounds, and at this writing (1902)
Antelope again favored the White River people with his presence and his
photograph in civilized attire.
[Footnote A: "Hot Springs"--now Glenwood Springs.--EDITOR.]
[Footnote B: For authentic documents on the Meeker massacre see Chicago
Tribune, Oct. 2-15, 1879; Denver papers of same date; Bancroft's History
of Colorado; U.S. House Documents, 1879-1880 (Indian Commission).]