TURNING PROSPECTOR--TRADING HORSES.
Had N. C. Creede remained a poor prospector all his days, these pages
would never have been printed. That is a cold, hard statement; but
it is true. Shortly after the fickle Goddess of Fortune sat up a
flirtation with the patient prospector, the writer met with a gentleman
who had served on the plains with the man of whom you are reading, and
he told some interesting stories. We became very well acquainted and
my interest in the hunter, scout, prospector and miner increased with
every new tale told by his companion on the plains. Those who know this
silent man of the mountains are well aware of his inborn modesty and
of the reticence he manifests when questioned about his own personal
experiences. Hence, the writer as well as the reader must rely largely
upon the stories told by his old comrade, the first of which was this:
A large body of Sioux Indians were camped near North Platte, Nebraska,
having come there to meet some peace commissioners sent out from
Washington. We were camped about eight miles below them, quietly
resting during the cessation of hostilities, yet constantly on the
alert to guard against a foray from our foes above. The Sioux and the
Pawnees were bitter enemies, constantly at war with each other, and as
we knew they were aware of the existence of our camp, we feared some of
them might run down and endeavor to capture our stock. Our best scouts
were sent out every evening in the direction of North Platte to note
any evidences of a night raid that might appear, and our Indians were
instructed to have their arms in perfect order and in easy reach when
they rolled up in their blankets for sleep.
Creede’s horse had become lame and was next to useless for field work.
We did not have an extra animal in camp, and for three or four days he
tried hard to trade the crippled horse to an Indian scout for a good
one. He offered extravagant odds for a trade, but the Indians knew too
well the near proximity of a natural enemy and would take no risks on
being without a mount should trouble come.
We were sitting in the tent one evening, taking a good-night smoke,
when some one began to chaff Creede about his “three-legged horse.”
Nick took it all good-naturedly, smiling in his own quiet way at our
remarks, and soon he sat with his eyes bent on the ground, as if in
deep reflection. Suddenly he arose, buckled on his pistols, picked up
his rifle and started from the tent without a word.
“Where are you going, Nick?” some one asked.
“Going to see that the pickets are out all right,” he replied, as the
tent flap closed behind him.
[Illustration]
This seemed natural enough, and we soon turned into our blankets and
thought no more of the matter. When we rolled out at daybreak next
morning, it was noticed that Creede’s blankets had not been used and
that he was not in the tent. One of the boys remarked that he had
lain down out in the grass to sleep and would put in an appearance at
breakfast time, and we all accepted this as the true explanation of
his absence. Half an hour later, when we were about to eat breakfast,
one of the pickets came in and reported something coming from up the
river. Our field-glasses soon demonstrated the fact that it was a
man riding one horse and leading four others. As he came closer, we
recognized Creede, and he soon rode in, dismounted and began to uncinch
his saddle, with the quiet remark:
“Guess I ought to get one good mount out of this bunch.”
“Where did you get them?” Major North asked.
“Up the river a little ways.”
“How did you get up there? Walk?”
“Not much I didn’t. I rode my lame horse.”
“What did you do with your own horse?”
“Traded him for these even up.”
He had gone alone in the night, stolen into the herd of the Sioux near
North Platte, unsaddled his lame horse and placed the saddle on an
Indian’s, and, leading four others, got away unobserved and reached
camp safely. It was a bold and desperate undertaking, but one entirely
in keeping with his adventurous spirit.