THE BANDITTI OF HAM'S FORK
Before our little outfit rolled out from Nebraska City, Captain Whitmore
gave us many suggestions concerning our route, and instructions as to
where long drives must be made along which no water would be found.
Among other words of warning he said, with some earnestness, "Now, boys,
if you take the South Pass route keep a close watch when near Ham's
Fork. I lost some stock there and am confident that it was stolen, for I
have learned that a gang of thieves and outlaws are located near that
crossing." Now it happened that early in the afternoon of the 4th of
August, while riding in advance of our train in search of a suitable
place to camp for the night, I descended to a very large and rapidly
flowing stream, thirty or forty feet in width and about two feet in
depth. I forded, and located a very satisfactory camping place near the
west bank. Having signaled our approaching drivers to cross the little
river and camp at a point indicated, I rode upstream along the banks for
further reconnoitering.
On reaching the crest of a low ridge there came into view in the
distance to the left some outline of what proved later to be a solitary
good-sized log cabin, situated in a sequestered valley. After traversing
the last few hundred miles of our course, along which we had discovered
only the few huts to which reference has already been made, this
hospitable looking cabin seemed wonderfully attractive. Led on by
curiosity I turned directly to the building and soon observed a tall,
athletic figure standing erect in the open door. It proved to be a
swarthy, black-haired man, attired in a red flannel shirt and leather
breeches, the bottoms of which were tucked into his long topped boots.
Having a revolver strapped to his waist, he was equipped to fit well the
rude setting in which he was placed. I addressed the stranger with a
"Hello," as I assumed to pass by. "Hello, where in h--l are you bound
for? Ain't you lost?" was his cheerful greeting. This rough form of
salutation, then so common among frontiersmen in the West, may read in
print as if it implied the speaker's familiarity with the nether regions
to which he referred, and that my course led to some department of the
Devil's domain. In manner the greeting was thoroughly cordial, and the
words that conveyed it had no more significance than the conventional
"How do you do?" to which no specific reply is expected. The greeting
led me to turn my horse near to the door and, having been riding for
several hours, I dismounted and threw the bridle reins over a post. An
invitation to come in and sit down was accepted, for I felt a desire to
see the interior of a cabin that was so remarkably situated, for it was
not a location that a trader or trapper would naturally select. My reply
concerning the object of my ride was reasonably frank and apparently
satisfactory. Immediately after my entrance to the cabin three men, also
wearing leather breeches, straggled in from another room, and in time
there was a larger gathering than I had hoped to meet. Some members of
the party took a half-reclining position on bunks built along the sides
of the room, others straddled rough wooden chairs, a number of which,
when I entered, surrounded a table on which lay a pack of cards. The
man who first addressed me continued the conversation during which,
while facing me, he stood with feet somewhat apart and his hands thrust
deep into his trousers' pockets. The sombre effect of his heavy black
mustache, stubby beard, and swarthy complexion was somewhat relieved by
the good-natured manner in which he conversed, and by his cordial
request that I join with him in a drink from a black bottle that he took
from a cupboard, an invitation which was interpreted as being an
evidence of his benevolent impulses. The black-haired man seemed to be
astounded when I declined to drink his good whiskey. The fact that my
newly-found friend and some of his companions carried revolvers in their
belts signified but little, because even I, a peaceful traveler, had
carried my rifle, as was our usual custom where there was any hope of
finding game.
"What kind of a gun have you got?" asked the rancher, as he stopped and
took it from my hands.
"It's a Henry." The men gathered around and one by one carefully
examined the rifle.
"Sixteen shooters, ain't they?" asked one.
"Yes, 32 calibre."
While the weapon was commanding the undivided attention of the men in
the room, an occasion was afforded me to take a more careful survey of
the furnishings, among which were a few guns, saddles, and other
trappings for horsemen.
I was what might properly be termed, in the parlance of the country, an
innocent tenderfoot, and yet an innocent on observing the interior of a
home cannot fail to form some impressions concerning the type of people
who occupy it.
"This stream off here is a branch of Green River, is it not?" I
propounded the question partly to get my bearings and partly to hasten
the examination of the rifle.
"Yes," replied one, without raising his eyes from the gun, "it's Ham's
Fork,--but does this gun throw the spent cartridge all right when the
hammer comes up?"
"Yes, it works all right. Is there much game along the stream?"
"Wa'al, there's right smart of game round here sometimes,"--which
response was a shibboleth that betrayed the speaker as having come from
Indiana. Something, for the first time since we left the Missouri River,
brought to my mind the spirit of Whitmore's admonition, "Beware of Ham's
Fork."
I had already lingered longer than I had intended to do, for I wished to
find a spot where our horses could be pastured for the night. I
accordingly told the man that my party was doubtless already encamped
near the ford, and I must return to supper. After returning the rifle,
all the men walked with me to my horse, and as I mounted expressed
wishes for my good luck, and other favorable conditions too numerous to
recall. I slowly traveled up the gentle ascent, taking a view from time
to time of the general surroundings. On reaching the camp I reported my
observations to the boys and reminded them of Captain Whitmore's
experience and advice.
Instead of seeking a remote place for pasturing our horses we picketed
them within sight of the camp and maintained an extra guard during the
night.
It is possible that no reference would have been made herein to the
unimportant episode in this interesting cabin, had it not been for the
experience that befell Whitmore and his men with our ox train, which
followed us over this road some weeks later.
As stated by the Captain and some of his men, they arrived at Ham's
Fork, crossing late in the day after a difficult drive. Their stock,
consisting chiefly of oxen, were driven off to a range some distance
from the camp, to feed for the night. In the early morning the herders
reported to the Captain that eight oxen were missing and that they had
been unable to track them in any direction. Whitmore at once suspected
the cause of the trouble. After sending out scouts for two or three
miles in various directions on horseback in search of the lost stock, he
himself made some survey of the country upstream. The men returned and
reported that the stock was not found. This was all accomplished before
eight o'clock. At about that time Whitmore called his men close around
him, gave his opinion of the situation, and asked them if, in view of
all the circumstances, they were ready for a fight. The fact was that
every man was anxious for some excitement. Of the forty odd men in the
outfit more than one half of them had seen active service in the Civil
War just ended, and there was a good rifle for nearly every man. No
better, braver, or more vigorous body of men could easily be found.
"All right," said Whitmore, "I'm going to get those oxen before I leave
Ham's Fork. I am going to take one man with me over to the ranch beyond
the hill yonder. I want all of you to get your guns and lie down out of
sight on this side of a slope which lies off north, and where two or
three of you can, at all times, see me. Now, you see this old, red silk
handkerchief. If I should pull that out, it would be a signal that I
want every one of you to come down in a rush with your guns and surround
that d--d den over there, and I'll boss the job when you get there. And
if it's a fight shoot to kill, because I know they are a hard crowd.
I've heard of 'em before now."
These brief instructions seemed to be well understood. Whitmore had
selected his companion, a strong, cool, hardy young man, who had served
in the Iron Brigade during the war, and the two, without rifles, but
with pistols at their sides, started on foot for the ranch. Before they
reached its open door the men connected with the train were lying
concealed along and near the crest of the ridge ready for service. The
two were met at the door of the ranch by two or three of the occupants
of the cabin. Whereupon, Whitmore, without any circumlocution, said to
them, "I want my oxen." The reply, as might have been expected, was
embodied in a few vigorous curses, and the question, "What the h--l have
we got to do with your oxen?" Whitmore was a man who had seen much of
western life and in emergencies had command of a vigorous vocabulary in
common use in that country. He also knew that the men whom he was now
confronting were part of a band of the banditti of the plains, who were
likely to kill on the slightest provocation. He was also conscious that
the least evidence of timidity would render his mission fruitless, if
not fatal. He accordingly and in very emphatic language informed his
auditors that they must promptly deliver to him the missing stock. This
announcement brought to the front a number of tough-looking men, who
emerged from an adjoining room attracted by the pointed conversation at
the front of the ranch, and all were apparently enraged because of
Whitmore's assertion that they were thieves. Thus far the interview had
been simply a war of words, but now the ranchers declared that they
would kill him instanter if the demand should be repeated. At that point
Whitmore had occasion to wipe the perspiration from his brow, which he
did with his big red handkerchief, which he flourished as he stood near
the door. This was the agreed signal, and forty men, armed with rifles,
suddenly came rushing down the slope, completely surrounding the ranch.
The demonstration was undoubtedly a surprise to the gang of the cabin.
Whitmore hardly moved from his tracks, but quietly said, "I have just
one more word to say to you fellows. We mean business. Two of you men
may go outside of our lines to get my oxen. You may tell me which men
you wish to have to go. If another man attempts to leave he will be
shot. If those oxen are not delivered here by six o'clock tonight, we'll
blow your d--d old ranch to ---- the infernal regions. I know you
fellows from away back. Now how does that strike you?" The declaration
was duly emphasized with appropriate epithets, such as are supposed to
add force and lucidity to such a statement, as legal terms often do in
arguments made in courts of justice.
Some explosions of bluff and braggadocio from the ranchers followed
Whitmore's announcement, until one of the gang, who had been engaged in
a private conversation with another inside the ranch, came out and said
with more calmness, "Now your oxen have probably strayed off, and if you
wouldn't make such a d--d fuss about it, mebbe we might help you find
'em. We know the ranges pretty well, but we won't stand any of your
insinuations." Whitmore cast a glance at his men, who all appeared to be
perfectly serene. Their Henry repeating rifles, recognizable by their
bright brass mountings, were in hand ready for business.
"As I said a minute ago," continued Whitmore, "all I ask of you is that
you get the oxen, and you have got to get 'em d--d quick, and the
quicker you get 'em the better for you. I'll give you just about five
minutes to settle what you will do, but mind you, only two men can pass
our lines without a fight."
Now this was one method for securing justice, practicable only under
peculiar circumstances. There were no courts, no constables, and the
practice of bluff was sometimes worked to the limit. Sometimes the bluff
would fail and often a desperate fight would follow.
"Well, pard," said one of the leaders, after a private parley with some
members of his party, "we ain't here to hunt other people's stock, and
we ain't afraid of nobody, but mebbe there is some misunderstanding
about this thing and we are willin' to see if we can't find your oxen.
Now, what do they look like?" "You bring me eight good oxen," replied
Hill, "and I reckon they'll be mine."
In a little time two men, wearing leather breeches, might have been seen
riding northward and disappearing in the distance. At the same time the
men from the train fell back to a respectful distance, many resting upon
the ground prepared for a protracted vigil. In about three hours the
riders returned, driving all the missing stock before them. The battle
was declared off, and after lunch the train promptly pulled out for
Green River.
Having seen the old _rendezvous_ of Jean Lafitte, the dreaded pirate of
the Gulf, situated far back near the swampy shore and protected in the
rear by impenetrable canebrakes, also the bolder structure said to have
been the castle of Gilles de Rais, the French Buccaneer in the Danish
Islands, in the light that history and romance have thrown round them, I
have endeavored in imagination to repeople them with the characters,
both men and women, who once inhabited those now deserted strongholds,
yet I have never pictured a band that would more perfectly suit that
service nor have I ever seen a body of men who in manner and appearance
were more perfectly adapted to such a vocation than the gang who
infested the cabin at Ham's Fork.