A PLUCKY GERMAN
[Illustration: T] Two weeks later a strapping six-foot German, who was
in charge of another camp further down the line, came for a visit.
Shortly after his arrival, he proposed that we should go hunting, to
which I agreed.
That morning, as usual, the men called for their liquor, and among
them was a long lanky fellow with red hair and bushy beard. He
certainly had the appearance of an outlaw. He had received one glass
of grog and came for the second which I refused him. Without a word I
was on my back. At that point the German came in and caught him with
the left hand in the same locality. Suffering with pain and crazed
with liquor, he left the store, secured his revolvers and returned. I
was behind the counter at the time with my back to the door. The first
thing I knew I heard the report of a revolver and a bullet whizzed
past my ear and buried itself in a can of tomatoes not six inches
from my head. As I turned around, I saw the fellow being propelled
through the door by the German's right. At that point the contractor
came in and after being told of what had happened, he discharged the
fellow. He wished to retain his revolvers, but his request was not
granted. He had an old-fashioned army musket and begged to be allowed
to keep that. I told Mr. A---- not to let him have it for I was
satisfied from the blow he gave me that he was a bad actor; but Mr.
A----, being good natured and kind hearted, consented. He ordered four
days' rations put up for him and he left camp in an ugly mood and was
given no further thought.
After grub, the German proposed that we flip a coin to see who should
go for the horses. The visitor losing, he at once started for the
canyon below where the horses were grazing. Shortly after I heard a
shot and then many more, but gave it no heed as it was a common
occurrence there. Half an hour later one of the men came in and told
me that the German lay dead in the canyon below. I, with the others in
camp, proceeded to the point indicated, where we found the poor fellow
lying on his back. A bullet from that villian's musket had pierced his
heart. His watch, belt of cartridges, revolvers, and repeating carbine
were gone. After we returned with the body, Mr. A---- had the mill
whistle blown calling all hands to quarters and for three days and
nights with little sleep or rest we searched those hills and trails
leading to Salt Lake and Denver. We picketed men on each trail to
search all passing trains; but the demon gave us the slip, and cheated
that maddened crowd of a lynching, or something worse; perhaps a tug
of war between two wild bronchos, which we had in camp, with that
man's body as the connecting link.
I can to this day remember just how that poor fellow looked; cold in
death, far from home and loved ones, with no mother to weep at his
bier. With uncovered heads we lowered him in earth, in a rough box, at
the foot of one of the tall sentinels of the hills, and placed a slab
to mark the spot, that his friends might some day claim all that
remained of as brave and honest a German as ever lived.
A WATCHFUL PROVIDENCE
Thus by the toss of a coin was my life again spared. This last narrow
escape from death was the fourteenth of which I positively knew, and
how many more that I did not know of, it is impossible to tell; so I
made up my mind to get out of the country alive, if possible. I
informed Mr. A---- of my intentions and the following day closed my
business and at dusk that evening I started, unaccompanied, on a two
hundred mile ride over a trail watched by hundreds of blood-thirsty
Indians. I knew that no Indian pony could overtake my fleet runner,
and all that was to be feared was a surprise or have my horse shot
from under me. I camped far from the trail, with lariat fastened to my
wrist, never closing my eyes until my faithful animal had laid down
for the day. His first move at dusk awoke me, and, after feed, we
were off with the wind at breakneck speed.
At the close of the second day, while I lay sleeping on the desert
sands with the saddle blanket for a pillow, and dreaming of my far
away home, it seemed as if something of a slimy nature was slowly
crawling over the calf of my bare leg. On gaining partial
consciousness, too quickly did I realize that it was a reality and not
a dream. A rattlesnake's long slimy body was crossing that bridge of
flesh, squirming along for a couple of inches, then raising its
repulsive body a foot or more and turning its insignificant head,
would look straight towards my partly closed eyes and, with its
hideous mouth agap, would dart its poisonous arrow-like tongue in and
out like lightning, then lowering itself, it would resume the same
tactics as before. How many times it repeated this, I shall never
know. No words have ever been formed that can adequately express the
feeling that took possession of me. I seemed powerless to move a
muscle or twitch an eye-lid. The suspense was terrible, expecting
each time that the slimy body descended the viper would thrust his
poisonous lance into my leg and all would be over. The horror of it
all cannot be imagined, and to this day, when I recall the incident,
it sends a shiver through my entire body. As the coarse rattles of his
tail left the bare flesh of my leg, my senses seemed to return; but it
was only for a moment, for through the pant of my right leg I felt
that same crawling sensation and I knew in an instant that it was a
mate following the one that had just passed over the bridge of flesh.
As soon as it reached the bare leg the dirty reptile went through the
same horrible stunts as the first one. The agony seemed impossible to
bear and when at last the thing had completed its journey and was at a
safe distance away, I leaped into the air--how far I shall leave the
reader to surmise. Crazed with anger and trembling from head to foot,
I rushed for my revolvers and fired at random. I was considered a good
shot in those days, but in this excited condition I would not have
been able to hit a barn. I ran for my Henry Carbine and, grasping it
by the barrel, made short work of ridding the earth of the cause that
had produced the most terrifying scare experience during my western
life.
[Illustration: BILLIE! BILLIE!]
THE FAITHFUL HORSE
For the first time during the excitement my thoughts turned to my
faithful horse, but he was nowhere to be seen. The horror of the
situation began to dawn upon me and I realized at once that I was lost
on that desolate plain--one hundred miles from any camp that I knew of
and apparently alone. I cried out, "My God, what can be done!" The
thought was enough to drive one crazy. Can I ever forget it? I think
not; nor could anyone. Even to see or talk to an Indian would have
been a comfort. Driven to agonizing despair I ran for my field glass
and scanned the rolling ground in every direction. Buffalo, deer,
antelope, coyote, and a small party of horsemen were visible, but the
latter too far away to make out if they were United States Cavalrymen
or Indians. Looking again, without my glass, I discovered my horse
standing on a high knoll not more than a half mile away with head and
tail erect; the breath from his dilated nostrils ascending heavenward
in the cold October air and presenting a picture for an artist. I
called loudly, "Billie, Billie," and with outstretched hand walked
slowly toward him, but he looked not in my direction. All of a sudden
he made a quick bound and was off. My heart seemed to stop beating. A
minute seemed an hour; but I kept walking after him and he finally
stopped, turned around and faced me. That look can never be forgotten.
With ears thrown back, he came slowly toward me. Again, I called
"Billie, Billie," and held out both hands and with a whinner he came
on a gallop, trembling in every muscle, seemingly as frightened as
myself. I patted his neck, straightened out his rich heavy mane,
rubbed his face and nose and kissed him. He licked my cheek and hand
in appreciation of my welcome; moisture gathered in his large eyes and
I cried with joy--like a child that I was--and then we both felt
better. I coiled up the lariat and placed my right arm over his
perfectly formed neck and slowly walked to our little camp. I rubbed
him down until he was perfectly dry; then curried, brushed and rubbed
until I could almost see myself in his coat of silky hair. Then I made
him lay down and did the same thing myself, using his withers and mane
for a pillow. When I awoke the moon shown full in our faces. I patted
his neck and soon those large eyes were looking affectionately into
mine. I sprang to my feet and he did the same. After brushing off the
side on which he had laid, I placed the saddle blanket, buckled taut
the saddle, gathered up my small camp kit and fastened it to the rear
of the saddle, coiled the lariat and hung it on the pommel of the
saddle, fastened on my spurs--from which he had never felt even the
slightest touch--threw my field glass over my left shoulder, buckled
on my cartridge belt and revolvers, swung my canteen and Henry Carbine
over my right shoulder, and with a leap, landed astride the saddle,
and was off with the wind in search of the trail two full miles away.
THE INDIANS CAPTURE A FRIEND
Early on the morning of the third day, I stopped at a stage station,
where I met the assistant wagon boss who was with the bull train
during my first trip across the plains. He was a genuine Missouri
Bushwacker and a desperate fellow. Like all others of his class he
wore his hair long, making it a much coveted prize for the Indians.
After the days visit and relating our experience of western life, he
told me that he was on his way to the Black Hills. I reluctantly
volunteered the information to him that I did not think he would ever
reach there on the old skate he was riding, and that he should not
venture on the trail until after dark, but he knew it all and started
at sundown. I was sure the fellow would never reach the Hills, nor was
I mistaken, for in less than an hour the Salt Lake Coach rolled up to
the door of the station, and the driver asked if a horseman had put up
at the place, and being informed that there had, told us the Indians
had captured him and tied him to one of their own ponies and was
rapidly going north, leaving his old nag to be picked up by any one
who would care for it. Not a day passed that the unwelcome savages
were not to be seen, and we were chased many times, but the faithful
animal reached Denver in safety.
The Union Pacific railroad had then reached Julesburg and I conceived
the hazardous idea of reaching that point by navigating the Platte
River--a distance of three hundred miles--so I at once ordered a flat
bottomed boat built of material in the rough.
A CUNNING SCHEMER
I next went in quest of my aged chum, the ex-pig dealer, who, when
found, revealed by a twinkle in his eye another dare-devil scheme,
which he was quite capable of concocting when alone in his warehouse
den. He exclaimed, with much feeling and a forced tear, that he was
right down glad to see me safely back and gave me little rest until I
had related my experiences in the hills. He then unfolded his
diabolical scheme, whereby both of us could lay a foundation for a
fortune. I was in need of the latter, without any question, but not by
this method.
Cheyenne had just been surveyed, mapped and laid out, and the
proposition was for him to furnish a man, two mule teams, wagons,
tents, provisions and all other necessities; and this man and myself
were to go there and squat or take possession of two sections of
Government land, consisting of one hundred and sixty acres each,
located just outside the city limits. The offer was promptly rejected,
and it destroyed the last particle of friendship that had existed
between us as far as I was concerned. I had just been through that
part of the country and had narrowly escaped death many times, and for
us to carry out this scheme, I knew would be impossible, for the
tricky redskins would be certain to capture us. I cannot recollect the
exact reply that I made him, but am positive I requested him to go to
Hades by the shortest possible route. We parted in anger after three
long years of friendship. The old major's love for the almighty dollar
was the cause. I never did have a very strong desire to furnish
material to the cruel savages for one of their home scalp dances, and
besides my mind was made up to leave Colorado, which I did.
I afterwards made the acquaintance of a young fellow, a college
graduate who had been unable to secure a position to his liking and
was anxious to return to the States. After a few days of good
fellowship, and finding him of the right material, I made my plans
known to him. He at once fell in with them, and a week later we
embarked on our perilous journey. We started at full moon drifting
with a comparatively strong current using paddles to guide our roughly
constructed craft. We made nightly rides of about fifty miles, and at
dawn would land on one of the small islands of the river, conceal
ourselves and the boat in the tall grass from which we were able to
see all that passed by trail and bluffs, and not be seen ourselves.
Our greatest danger was in being discovered by the Indians on the high
bluffs, or a visit from them to the island we occupied. The first
scare we had was when a party of a dozen or more rode to the bank of
the river for the purpose, as we supposed, of crossing. They seemed,
however, undecided as to their course, but finally urged their ponies
down the bank and into the river. To describe our feelings would be
impossible. Just then, to us, a minute seemed an hour. Cold beads of
perspiration stood out on both, not exactly from fear, but a sort of
yearning to be elsewhere; and I wondered, after all that I had passed
through, if I was to be cut down on my homeward journey by those
fiendish red devils. "Saved!" whispered my friend, "they are leaving
the river." And sure enough those little prairie ponies were climbing
the bank on a dead run for the bluffs.
[Illustration: HOME RIDE DOWN THE PLATTE RIVER]
The last night of that eventful ride lasted long until after the sun
was up. The large Concord coach filled with passengers passed close
to the river bank a short time before, and from the driver we learned
we were ten miles from Julesburg. We proceeded, keeping close to the
bank, and with field glass continually swept the valley and bluffs in
every direction. We were facing a mild and depressing wind. All of a
sudden dismal sounds reached our ears, and as the noiseless current of
the river rounded the projecting points in its banks, it bore our
staunch old craft to a place of safety, or ourselves to a cruel death,
we knew not which. The sounds became more distinct until both of us
were satisfied that the Indians had captured the overland coach with
its load of human freight. As we rounded the next bend the river took
a straight course, but there was no island in sight.
"No island in sight," said my friend. "Where can we go?" And turning
around I discovered he was as white as a sheet. As for myself, I was
hanging to the edge of the bank trying hard to collect my wits and
recover from a fainting spell. We finally managed to get the boat back
and around the bend where we lay concealed for some time, suffering
the torture of Hades. I finally crawled to the top of the bank and
with field glass surveyed the locality in every direction. No life was
visible, still the unearthly noise kept up, and the feeling of those
two lone travelers would be impossible to describe. The thought at
last came to me that we must be somewhere in the vicinity of the old
California Crossing. I crawled back to the boat and told my companion
to go ahead, while I continually used the field glass. After fifteen
minutes, I discovered a white speck in the eastern horizon. We were
soon over our fright, and with light hearts were sailing over the
rippling waters of the old Platte feeling assured that we would soon
reach a place of safety, as far as the Indians were concerned.
On arriving at the crossing, which it proved to be, we found one of
those large white covered prairie schooners stalled in the middle of
the stream, and fifty Greasers, as the Mexican drivers were called,
and as many yoke of oxen trying to haul it out.
FAREWELL TO THE PLAINS
We sailed merrily along and at two P. M. reached Julesburg, the then
terminus of the Union Pacific railroad and overland shipping point for
all territory west, north and south. The Union Pacific railroad, when
under construction, made a terminus every two or three hundred miles.
The houses were built in sections, so they were easily taken apart,
loaded on flat freight cars, and taken to the next terminus completely
deserting the former town, Julesburg was rightfully named "The
Portable Hell of the Plains." My finer feelings cannot, if words
could, attempt a description. Suffice to say that during the three
days we were there four men and women were buried in their street
costumes. The fourth day we boarded a Union Pacific train and were
whirled to its Eastern terminus, Omaha, thence home, arriving safely
after an absence of four years.
The habits formed during those western years were hard to change, and
the fight of my life to live a semblance of the proper life, required
a will power as irresistible as the crystal quartz taken from the
lofty snow capped mountain sides, taking tons of weight to crush it,
that the good might be separated from the worthless.
[Illustration]
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Original spelling has been preserved. Some illustrations have been
moved to avoid breaking up the text. The following typos have been
corrected:
Contents: Markmanship changed to Marksmanship:
(Chapter V--A Proof of Markmanship)
Page 12: Holliday changed to Holiday:
(We at once called at the Ben Holliday Stage Office).
Page 104: ther changed to their:
(had ther tribal laws and customs).
Page 106: added closing quotes:
(I'll get out of this one in some way.)
Page 128: added comma after Charlie:
("At least, Charlie" said Patrick, "Let's give them a decent).
Page 137: added comma after second Billie:
(loudly, "Billie, Billie" and with outstretched hand walked).
End of Project Gutenberg's Dangers of the Trail in 1865, by Charles E Young