A PROOF OF MARKSMANSHIP
[Illustration: W] We took with us a Mr. Baker, who was conceded to be
one of the best guides, hunters, trappers and interpreters of that
day, with a heart as large as an American bison, and as tender as a
child's. But when his anger was aroused by danger or treachery, the
very devil seemed to possess him; he had the courage of a lion, and
was a dead shot. We had been friends for a long time, and on more than
one occasion he had proved a true one.
The park was an ideal summer resort, an extended plateau with acres of
fresh green grass, wild flowers, and virgin soil. In the center was a
beautiful lake, its ice cold water well stocked with the finny tribe
of speckled mountain trout, the delight of the angler. The park was
inclosed by mountains of great height and grandeur, their rocky
slopes were dotted with spruce, pine, and cottonwood, and capped with
ages of crystal snow, presenting a sight more pleasing to the eye than
the Falls of Niagara, and a perfect haven for an Indian maiden's love
dream.
We had been in camp but a few days when Mr. Baker informed me that the
young bucks, as the men of the tribe were called, wanted us to join in
shooting at a target. After Mr. Baker and myself had made a few bull's
eyes, they proposed we two should choose sides, and we did so. The
teams were very evenly matched, making the game interesting. In the
meantime, I had been presented to the chief in true Indian fashion and
in turn was made known by him to his squaw, young bucks and maidens.
The Indians had their tribal laws and customs as well as the white man
and were required to live up to them. The maidens were two in number,
their ages fourteen and seventeen moons respectively; the latter a
picture of Indian beauty, perfect in every feature, form and carriage,
a rare model for an artist. They were nearly always found together.
At first they were quite reserved, but finally we became fast friends;
we would ramble, hunt, fish from canoes and sail the placid waters of
the little lake.
Early on the morning of the tenth day Mr. Baker entered my tent with a
troubled look. I bade him good-morning and inquired the cause. Without
fencing, he asked me if I wanted to be a squaw man. I asked him what
the devil he was getting at.
AN OFFER OF MATRIMONY
He replied, "All there is to it, the old chief has taken a great
liking to you, and wants you to marry Weenouah, his oldest daughter.
He has plenty of money, and his horses and cattle run into four
figures."
"That is no inducement," I said, "and it could never be."
Mr. Baker asked, "How are you going to get out of it?"
I replied, "I have been in lots of tight places, as you know, and have
always managed to squeeze through, and I'll get out of this one in
some way."
Little did either of us dream at that time of the manner, or rather
the sacrifice, that one of us was doomed to bear, for me to escape the
wrath of the old chief, when informed I would not marry his daughter.
Fate decreed he was never to be so informed, but instead, a most cruel
and unfortunate accident was to provide the means.
That afternoon the young bucks were again anxious to test their skill
at the target. We all used the same carbine, which contained seven
cartridges, one in the gun barrel and six in a magazine in the butt of
the gun. Mr. Baker and I always tossed up a pebble to see who had
first shot. As Mr. Baker won the first chance, he took aim and pulled
the trigger and such an explosion as took place will never be
forgotten. Everyone was stunned by its force. When the smoke had
cleared, poor Baker's body was found lying on the ground with the
lower jaw torn from its place. On recovering from the shock the young
bucks fairly flew for the Indian medicine man. I quickly reached the
corral and informed the wagon boss of the accident. He at once ordered
the mules brought up. The light wagon was supplied with straw,
blankets, commissary bottle and grub. Six of the fastest mules were
hitched to the wagon and selecting two of the mulewhackers gave
instruction for his care en route. I took the lines and quickly drove
to the spot where poor Baker had fallen. Just as soon as the flow of
blood had been checked and his wounds dressed we raised him gently and
placed him in the wagon. Without a word I mounted the driver's box and
drove for all there was in those six mules, reaching Denver late the
following night. Some who read this narrative may be skeptical, but it
is a fact, nevertheless, that poor Baker recovered for I saw him a
year later, but he could partake of liquid food only. The once
stalwart form of that brave man, now emaciated and wasted to a mere
skeleton, still stood erect.
THE TOLL OF THE PLAINS
My whole heart went out to him who, in years past, had hunted the
antelope, deer, elk and buffalo; fought the cowardly savages and
desperadoes on the thirsty plains and amidst the ragged slopes of the
Rocky Mountains; penetrated the silent recesses of the dismal canyons
and caves; crossed the snow covered divides; faced danger of every
conceivable nature; and at last, although maimed for life, was
grateful that he had escaped death and thankful in the thought that he
had done his share in the settlement of the then Far West. As I gazed
into his once keen eyes and beheld that shriveled face, my heart wrung
with remorse, for I knew he had keenly suffered. Tears filled my eyes
and trickled down my weather-beaten and sun-tanned boyish face, and I
knew he accepted it as an emblem of my sorrow for being the innocent
cause, in a measure, of his cruel misfortune. Thus, by the flip of a
pebble was my life spared, but at the expense of a true friend.