LOYAL IN FRIENDSHIP, TRUE TO A TRUST--A CRUEL CAPTAIN.
N. C. Creede, the Prince of Prospectors and new-made millionaire,
is one of the gentlest men I have ever met, notwithstanding most of
his life has been spent in scenes not conducive to gentleness. His
friendship is loyal and lasting; and he is as true to a trust as the
sunflower is to the sun. Although a daring scout and fearless Indian
fighter, he is as tender and sympathetic as the hero of the “_Light of
Asia_.”
Creede and I were traveling by the same train one day, when he asked me
if I knew a certain soldier-man--a Captain Somebody; and I said, “No.”
“I raised my rifle to kill him one day and an Indian saved his life,”
said he, musingly.
I looked at the sad face of my companion in great surprise. I could
hardly believe him capable of taking a human life, and I asked him to
tell me the story.
“It was in ’65, I believe,” he began. “We had just captured a village
on a tributary of the Yellowstone, and were returning to our quarters
on Pole Creek. Just before going into camp, we came upon five stray
Sioux, who had been hunting and were returning to their camp on foot.
Two of the Sioux were killed and three captured. On the following
morning, General Augur, who was in command, gave orders to my Captain
to take thirty picked scouts and go on an exploring trip, and to take
the three captives with us, giving special orders to see that none of
the prisoners escaped.
“When everything was in readiness, the three Sioux were brought out
and placed on unsaddled ponies, with their hands tied behind them.
Not a word could they utter that we could understand; but O, the mute
pleading and silent prayers of those poor captives! It was a dreary
April morning; the clouds hung low and the very heavens seemed ready to
weep for the poor, helpless Indians.
“I don’t know why they did, but every few moments, as we rode slowly
and silently across the dank plain, they would turn their sad eyes to
me, so full of voiceless pleading that I found it was impossible to
hold my peace longer. Riding up to the side of the Captain, I asked him
what he intended to do with the captives. ‘Wait and you will see,’ was
his answer. ‘What,’ said I, ‘you don’t mean to kill them? That would
be cold-blooded murder.’ ‘I’ll see that they don’t get away,’ said
the cruel Captain. I thought if he would only give them a show, and
suggested that we let them go two hundred yards, untie their hands and
tell them to fly; but to this proposition he made no reply. Then we
went on silently, the poor captives riding with bowed heads, dreaming
day-dreams, no doubt, of leafy arboles and running streams; of the
herds of buffalo that were bounding away o’er the distant plain.
“The scouts were all Pawnees, and their hatred for the Sioux dated from
the breaking of a treaty by the latter, some time previous. After the
treaty had been completed, the two tribes started on a buffalo hunt.
When they arrived at the Republican River, and the Pawnees had partly
crossed, and the rest were in the stream, the Sioux opened fire upon
them and slew them without mercy. The Pawnee were divided into three
bands by this treacherous slaughter and never got together afterward.
The bitterest hatred existed between the two tribes, and the Government
was using one to suppress the other.
“The three captives would never have surrendered to the Pawnees had
they not seen the white men, to whom they looked for mercy. How
unworthy they were of this confidence, we shall soon see.
“The Pawnees were by no means merciful. I have heard them tell often,
how they skinned a man alive at Rawhide, a little stream in Nebraska,
with all the gruesome and blood-curdling gestures. The white man, the
victim of the skinners, had made a threat that he would kill the first
Indian he saw. It happened to be a squaw; but the man kept his word.
His rifle cracked and the squaw dropped dead. The train had gone but
a few miles when the Indians overtook the wagons and forced them to
return to the scene of the shooting, where they formed a circle, led
the victim to the center, and actually skinned him alive, while his
companions were compelled to look on.”
I agreed that all this was interesting; but insisted upon hearing the
story of the cruel Captain and the captives.
[Illustration]
“Oh, yes,” said the prospector. “Well, I had dropped back a few feet,
two of the naked Indians were riding in front of the Captain, when
he lifted his pistol; it cracked and I saw a little red spot in the
bare back of one of the bound captives. His fettered arms raised
slightly; his head went back, and he dropped from the horse, dead. The
pistol cracked again: Another little red spot showed up between the
shoulders of the other Indian. I felt the hot blood rush to my face,
and impulsively raised my rifle--mechanically, as the natural helper of
the oppressed--when a Pawnee, who was riding at my side, reached out,
grasped my gun, and said, ‘No shoot ’im.’
“The third captive, who was riding behind with the Indian scouts,
attempted to escape, seeing how his companions were being murdered, but
was killed by the guard.
“The Captain dismounted and scalped the two victims with a dull
pocket-knife, and afterward told how they rolled up their eyes and
looked at him like a dying calf.
“I could tell you more; but when I think of that murder, it makes me
sick at heart, and I can see that awful scene enacted again.”