ON TO LEAVENWORTH
[Illustration: T] The next summer I was not very well, and so I made a
trip to Leavenworth, Kansas, by the Southern or Smoky Hill route. We
made the trip by mule train of twenty wagons with six mules hitched to
each. The driver rode the nigh mule and with one line guided the team.
If he wanted the leaders to go to the right he simply jerked fast or
slow, depending on how quick he wanted to make the turn; if to the
left, a steady or quick pull. The Indians on this trail were more
numerous than on the Platte and scarcely a day passed that they were
not to be seen, and continually trying to drive off our stock. We did
not receive any great scare until we reached the Big Blue River where
on the fourth day of July at ten o'clock in the morning a large
Concord coach filled with passengers and a small guard of the United
States soldiers, which had previously passed us, were awaiting our
arrival before daring to proceed. On reaching the crest of the bluff
leading to the valley of the river we saw hundreds of Sioux Indians,
in war paint and feathers, camped on the opposite side in the
underbrush and woods, and in the main trail directly in our path.
We at once went into corral. Thirty men against a horde of savages, if
they were there to dispute our right of progress, was not a pleasant
position to be placed in nor a fitting manner in which to celebrate
the glorious Fourth. Consultations were numerous and all took part.
The redskins, camped in plain sight, were hurrying to and fro,
evidently in council like ourselves. To the right of the trail was a
dense wood close to the river bank; on the left was a high
perpendicular bluff, its sides unscalable, so our route was a genuine
death trap, should they attack us. After grub all gathered in a circle
and with pipes we proceeded with our last council. The situation was
talked over from every point as to what the Indians might do or might
not do. We finally arrived to the conclusion that they had the best of
us whatever move we made. A majority vote decided to proceed with
every man for himself in case of attack. Our wagons were empty which
was a little in our favor as we could go on a mule trot or gallop. The
coach filled with passengers was placed in the lead; and, being the
youngest of the party, they were considerate enough to let me follow,
and I did so as closely as possible. On reaching the river bottom, the
driver of the coach started his horses on a run and the lash was put
to every mule. We were all yelling like demons and on our approach the
Indians left the trail and took to the river, thinking that we were a
hundred or more strong. All passed safely through that valley of what
might have been a horrible massacre. The unearthly racket we made was
undoubtedly our salvation, but we were not out of danger by any means
and continued our flight until eleven P. M. when we went into corral
for food and rest. At three A. M. we again struck the trail and it is
well that we did, for those blood-thirsty redskins laid death and
destruction in their wake and came very near overtaking us a day
later. Arriving at Leavenworth, I boarded a Missouri River palace for
St. Louis, thence to New Orleans.
A FALSE FRIEND
On returning to St. Louis, I met a Westerner that I knew only by
sight, and by him was induced to remain over a few days and take in
the city. I did and was scooped. On the third morning I went through
my pockets and the bed, piece by piece, dumping its contents in the
center of the room, but my roll was gone. At once I sought my friend,
but he was nowhere to be found. Plain case of misplaced confidence. He
had made a touch. In my desperation, I made a confident of the
caretaker of the hotel register. Being of a sympathetic nature, he
consoled me with an invitation to stimulate, which I did. Being
without a trunk, I was informed on my arrival it was customary to pay
as you enter; fortunately I had a meal to my credit. I was in good
condition, having had sufficient victuals to last the day, after which
I proceeded to the river front and here discovered a boat bound for
Omaha. I boarded her, sought out the steward, and applied for a
position. He replied that he did not want any help.
"Well, I suppose you will let a fellow work his way, won't you?"
His answer was "Get off this craft," and without further talk, in not
a very gentlemanly manner he assisted me.
On landing, I was mad clear through, and made up my mind I was going
on that boat, and I did go. Just before the gang plank was pulled in I
walked on board, keeping a sharp lookout for the steward. After I had
avoided him for an hour and just as I was on the point of
congratulating myself, I bumped into him.
"You on board?"
"It looks very much as if I were in evidence."
He grabbed me by the coat collar and hustled me before the captain. I
told a straight story, and he, being a man, told the steward to take
me up to the kitchen and set me to work. He did, and had his revenge
in seeing that it was nearly continuous. After supper I worked the
dish racket until twelve o'clock. At three the next morning he awoke
me out of a sound sleep and set me to cleaning the woodwork of the
cabin. Another of my desirable duties was to wash and polish the
silver, throwing the water over the sides of the boat.
AN ALERT STEWARD
After dinner of the second day I proceeded with the tin bucket to the
side of the boat and overboard went its contents, including three
silver spoons. The spoons had no sooner left the bucket than I felt
something of great force come in contact with the seat of my trousers.
For a moment I thought surely perpetual motion had been discovered.
Turning I was face to face with that infernal steward. Nor did that
end my troubles for during the entire trip that particular locality of
my person was the target for that fellow's boot. With a terrible
oath, he informed me that my landing would be reached about midnight a
day later and was called Wood Pile Landing. A short time before
reaching the place, I was hustled from my bunk by the steward and in
no gentle manner forced to the bow of the boat. The night was pitch
dark, and produced a decidedly lonesome feeling in the one that was to
be put off at a Wood Pile on the edge of an immense forest and
undoubtedly miles from a dwelling. As the boat reached the bank, not
even waiting for the gang plank to be shoved out, the old sinner gave
me a push and at the same time applied the now familiar boot. I
reached the earth on all fours. My first thought was to present him
with a rock, but I curbed my temper, for I had no idea of deserting
the old ship.
In those days the boilers of the boats were fired with cord wood
purchased of the planters and delivered on the bank of the river. All
boats plying on the Missouri River at that time were flat bottom with
paddle wheel at the stern. Two long heavy poles were carried at the
bow and worked with a windlass, being used to raise the bow of the
boat when becoming fast on a sand bar. The pilot was obliged to keep a
continuous lookout for these bars, as the channel was treacherous and
changed often.
On approaching the river bank one of the deck hands would jump off
with the bow line and make fast to a stump or tree, then the stern
line was thrown to him and similarly connected. Then the negro deck
hands would proceed to carry on the wood on their bare shoulders to
the tune of a Southern plantation melody. When ready to start the bow
line was cast off, the paddle wheel was started by the engine, and by
means of the steering gear the craft was swung out into the stream,
then the stern line was thrown aship, and the boat was off--but not
without the steward's victim. No sooner had the colored gentlemen
reached the deck, than I followed. Waiting until all was quiet aboard,
I sought my berth. The next morning I proceeded with my work as if
nothing had happened. I anticipated the steward's next move would be
to throw me overboard, and in that belief told the cook of what he had
done the previous night. At that point he came in, and on discovering
me said, "You here again," his face purple with rage. His right foot
at once became restless, he made a rush for me, but the cook with
butcher-knife in hand prevented the action of said foot, and my
troubles with that gentleman were over.
ARRIVAL AT LEAVENWORTH
We soon reached Leavenworth, and I left the boat without regret, but a
much wiser youth. I went to the First National Bank of Leavenworth,
drew my money, and after a few days' rest, I again embarked for Denver
astride a mule. We saw plenty of Indians, but as the train was a long
one they did not molest us.
On reaching the city of the plains I at once hunted up my old friend,
the Major, who introduced me to the head of a firm of contractors, who
were at that time engaged in getting out ties in the "Black Hills,"
for a portion of the Union Pacific railroad, then under construction.
He told me that he wanted a man to go there and straighten out a set
of books that a former employee had left badly mixed. He also took the
trouble to inform me that the country was alive with Indians, and that
the man who went there took big chances; and, if I were at all timid,
I had better not accept the position. My friend gave me a strong
recommend and I clinched the matter by telling the gentleman that I
was not afraid of man, ghost or Indian. He replied that I was just the
man he was in search of, and would give me five hundred dollars in
gold, a good horse and pay all expenses; that I should get my traps
and be at the Planter's Hotel for dinner.
He expected his two partners from the east to inspect the camp and
business, and everything was to be in readiness to depart on their
arrival. Our conveyance was a full sized Concord coach with six good
mules to draw it. The boot of the coach contained the best of
everything to eat and drink--the latter being just as essential in
that country as gun and ammunition. The partners were detained en
route, and did not arrive until the second day, when they wished to
rest and see the western sights, so we did not leave until the fourth
day. Two Denverites accompanied us, making six in the party.
The first afternoon we made thirty-two miles, and camped near a stage
station, where they keep, for the weary pilgrims, supplies and the
rankest kind of corn juice known to the professional drinker.
The following morning we made an early start, and before noon rolled
into La Port, on the Cachella Pondre River, the only settlement on the
trail to the hills. We put up at the stage station for the night.
There we met a drover, and a party of cow boys with one thousand head
of California bronchos bound for the States. Those cowboys were as
wild as western life could make them, yet, a jolly good lot.
During the evening, at the suggestion of someone, a poker game was
started which lasted all night, and in the morning those who had
indulged in the game were not feeling any too good--especially the
losers--but, nevertheless, they all strolled over to the large adobe
corral to see our party off. Mr. A----, the head of the firm of
contractors, had his large winnings safely concealed in a chamois bag
placed close to his hide, where all wise men of the West carried their
money in those days.
The drover had been a heavy but good loser. When about ready to hitch
up our mules he called out to Mr. A----, "I'll go you six of my best
bronchos against five hundred dollars that you haven't a man in your
outfit that can drive the d----d brutes a mile and return."
The contractor approached me and asked if I thought I could do it. I
told him that I was willing to take the chance.
Without another word he walked over to where the drover was standing
and informed him that he would take the bet, provided he would have
his cowpunchers hitch the little devils to the coach.
"Agreed," shouted the old fellow in no uncertain language.
The boys turned to the work with a will; for the fun expected, even if
I received a broken neck for my daredevil recklessness, excited them
to the highest pitch.
The reader has undoubtedly seen in the Wild West circuses the
old-fashioned overland coach hung by heavy springs from front to rear
axle. One of the most uncomfortable conveyances to ride in ever
invented, especially for the driver, for, if the coach was not heavily
loaded, when the front wheels dropped into a hole the old ramshackle
thing was liable to topple over on the animals; and, if the driver was
not securely strapped to the seat when the rear wheels reached the
hole, he would land some distance in the rear. The contractor had the
old ark properly balanced before starting, so I had no excuse to worry
from that source.
The cowpunchers selected one broncho each and after a half hour's
hawling, pulling and coaxing succeeded in hitching them to the coach.
I climbed to the seat and was securely strapped with a large leather
apron. Then I gathered up the lines and placed myself solidly for the
start.
The whip socket contained a hickory stick five feet long with a lash
twelve feet in length attached to one end. I gave the word to let them
go, but the little bronchos thought different and balked. The number
of times they bucked and threw themselves, started and bucked again,
would be impossible to say. Finally the contractor accused the drover
of being in collusion with his cowpuncher in order to win the wager by
holding the bronchos back and a volley of words of not very mild
character ensued, after which the six cowboys, three on either side of
the team, stood off six feet. The noise made by the cracking of their
whips their everlasting yelping made the excitement stronger than
before, and I was off on the wildest ride I ever took. A hurdle jumper
would not stand much of a chance with one of those wild bronchos.
A DANGEROUS RIDE
It was a lovely June morning and the bracing air of Colorado made me
feel as wild as the young animals that were fast wheeling me over the
dangerous trail and possibly into a camp of hostile Indians. I gave no
thought to danger for I was too busy keeping the fiery little beasts
to the trail. They were going at breakneck speed with no sign of
tiring, so I let them go enjoying the sport even more than they. My
hat went flying with the wind, I looked back, but could not see the
ranch. How far I had left it behind, or what distance I had covered, I
knew not.
At last I came to myself and realized for the first time what terrible
danger I was in. Slowly turning the team to the right, I began a
circle, hardly perceptible at first, but finally again reaching the
trail. On the return trip, I plied the long lash to the leading pair.
They shot forward faster than ever, all steaming with foam and covered
with lather. At a great distance to the south I could see a party of
Indians riding in the same direction. This additional danger seemed
fairly to intoxicate me and I plied the whip with all my strength. The
corral loomed up and then the stage station. The others, with hands
in their pockets and mouth agap, were holding their breath; and, as we
wheeled past them, the cowboys lashing the bronchos, a mighty shout
went up. I had won the wager and was the lion of the day.
We did not make a start until the following morning. We fastened the
bronchos together and tied the leader to the rear of the coach, and
thus resumed our journey to the hills, where we safely arrived two
days later, but minus four of the treacherous brutes. At night we
always picketed them with the mules and the four that were lost had
pulled their picket irons and undoubtedly gone to join the much read
of "wild horses of the plains."
The camp in the hills consisted of shanties for fifteen hundred men,
saw mill, and outfit store. The latter included in its stock plenty of
the best kind of liquor. Each man was allowed three drinks a day and
no more.
I had the books straightened out in due time and one day the
contractor discovered he would soon be out of flour, and the nearest
point at which it could be purchased was La Port, seventy-five miles
distant. The Indians were troublesome, and each man who was asked
refused to go, with one exception. The contractor finally made me a
tempting offer to accompany a driver of a six mule team. I accepted,
and at break of day the next morning we started. My companion on that
dangerous trip was a plucky son of the Emerald Isle. We camped that
night on Lodge Pole Creek. On the opposite side was an adobe ranch,
and an immense stockade owned by a Frenchman with a Sioux squaw for a
wife.
In our hurried start we had forgotten our tobacco, and without it my
companion seemed lost. After grub I mounted my horse, and crossed over
the creek to procure some. On making my wants known, I was freely
supplied with tobacco, and was also informed that before we arrived
they had been fighting the Indians for some time; that one of the
cowboys had an arm badly shattered; and that they feared another
attack the next morning. I returned to camp and told my companion of
our danger.
A WELCOME HAVEN
After giving the animals plenty of feed and rest, we again took the
trail at 4:30 A. M. As the day dawned, with the aid of a field glass,
I discovered Indians swooping down on the ranch with the stockade at
breakneck speed, and others coming in our direction. I told Patrick to
urge the mules to a gallop. He suspected the cause and did so at once.
Over the rolling ground we flew until the sun was well up in the
heavens, and as each hour passed the redskins gained on us, until at
last they could be seen with the naked eye. The harsh and cruel
war-whoop of those blood-thirsty savages echoed and re-echoed back
from the distant hills, and over the desolate plains until men and
beasts were crazed to desperation. The lash was put to the already
tired mules, and we strained every nerve to reach the crest of the
next knoll, hoping against hope for succor. On they came, their
warwhoops for scalps and the white man's blood was now continuous. The
long feared report of their rifles was at last heard; bullets pierced
our canvas covered wagon. We made a last desperate effort and reached
the summit of the bluff. Not a half a mile from its base was a large
corral of white covered wagons. Down the incline we flew, looking
neither to the right nor the left, and, on reaching the corral, both
men and beasts fell into a heap exhausted.
The red devils rode to the top of the hill, and the warwhoop of anger
they sent up rings in my ears at times to this very day.
That evening we again took the trail and made the remainder of the
trip by night drives. Reaching La Port the third morning, we secured
our load and after giving the animals a much needed rest we started on
the return trip. The fourth morning we arrived at the ranch with the
stockade. Three mornings after we reached the foot of the hills where
the company had a log cabin for their hunters and trappers, who, with
their trusty rifles, furnished antelope, deer and buffalo meat for
their small army of employees. On entering, a sight met our gaze too
revolting to pass from memory. Upon the earthy floor lay two of those
sturdy and warm-hearted dwellers of the plains and rockies, cold in
death, scalped and mutilated almost beyond recognition--a deed
committed by those dastardly red fiends of the Far West. Both were
friends of mine and with uncovered head, in the presence of that
gritty son of old Ireland, I vowed vengeance.
"At least, Charlie," said Patrick, "Let's give them a decent burial
and move on."
We did so, reaching camp that evening just as the sun, with its
beautiful tints of carmine, was bidding plains and hills goodnight, as
if in memory of those stalwart and brave men who made the settlement
and civilization of the West possible.