partake of the cold bread and beef in your saddle-bags. But, boys, by
no means raise any smoke, or the redskins will surely see it, and will
know that the Rangers are upon their trail.”
“You’re right, Captain!” cried many. “We are half famished.”
Captain Hays always had a few Mexicans with him, as they were good
guides and trailers, but, upon this occasion, they lighted their
cigarettes after eating and dropped the hot ashes into a pile of
leaves. Smoke was soon curling above the tree-tops.
“Curse it, boys!” cried Captain Hays. “Did I not tell you not to set
fire to anything. Put that out, immediately!”
Some of the Rangers began to stamp upon the glowing fire. Hays was so
angry that he struck the Mexicans with his quirt.
“Mount! Mount!” cried he. “We must go quickly after the redskins, as I
fear that they have seen the tell-tale fire and have decamped.”
A furious run was now made for the tepees of the hostiles, which were a
mile away. It was as the knowing Captain had anticipated. The Indians
saw the smoke and knew that the Rangers were on their trail. They had
fled, leaving many things in their camp, which were seized by the
troopers. The Comanches had gotten safely away.
In 1844 Captain Hays and his men had a hard fight,—one of his hardest,
in fact. It was near the Pedernales River. Upon this occasion he had
gone out with fourteen men, about eighty miles northwest from San
Antonio, for the purpose of finding out the position of the redskins
and the probable location of their camp.
As the river came in view, about fifteen Indians were discovered. They
soon saw the Rangers. Riding towards them, they shook their clenched
fists and seemed to be desirous of having a fight. As the Rangers rode
forward they retreated and endeavored to lead them towards a ridge
which was covered with thick underbrush.
“Oh, no,” said Captain Hays, “I am too well acquainted with your wiles
to move on. I know that you have an ambush laid for me and my men.”
It was hard to keep the Rangers from advancing to the attack.
“Go around the redskins to the second ridge,” cried the knowing
Captain. “We can thus get the Indians in the rear.”
The Rangers were posted upon a long hillock, separated from the Indian
position by a deep ravine. They were not here long before the redskins
discovered who was before them, and, as they knew Captain Jack full
well, decided to give up trying to catch him by stratagem. They now
showed themselves to the number of seventy-five and cried out, in
pigeon English:
“Come on, white men! Ugh! Come on! We get your scalps soon!”
“I’ll meet you right away!” answered Captain Hays.
He started down the hill immediately, followed by his entire command.
He moved slowly, and, when the bottom of the ravine had been reached,
turned—raced ahead at full speed—and came up in the rear of the
Indians. While they had their eyes glued to the front, eagerly awaiting
the advance from that direction, they were charged in the rear by the
Rangers. The first fire threw them into instant confusion.
Yells, war-whoops, and shrill screams rent the air. The redskins
scattered like quail, but, seeing the superiority of their own force,
soon rallied.
“Draw your five-shooters, men,” cried the Captain of the Rangers. “We
must meet the charge of the Comanches as we have always met them.”
The redskins were surrounding the Texans, so the Rangers were formed in
a circle, fronting outwards. They were still mounted on their horses,
and, for several minutes maintained that position without firing a
shot. The Indians came on, yelping, and were soon near enough to throw
their lances at the Texan frontiersmen.
_Crash!_
A spitting volley came from the five-shooters of the scouts and many
a red man fell to the sod. Again a volley rang out and the Comanches
ceased to advance, for the fire of the Rangers was fearfully accurate.
The redskins fell back, but they were not defeated, and—in a few
moments—again came on to the attack. The fight continued for an hour.
Twice the Rangers charged and retreated to their first position.
Their loads were now exhausted. The Comanche chief was rallying his
henchmen for one more assault. Twenty-five of his painted warriors were
prostrate upon the prairie.
The situation was critical for the Rangers, as many were badly wounded.
Several had been killed.
Captain Hays, who was in the centre of the circle, now saw that their
only chance was to kill the Indian chief.
“Have any of you men a loaded rifle?” he asked.
“I have,” answered a scout called Gillespie.
“Then dismount, my boy,” said the Ranger Captain, “and make sure work
of that chief.”
Gillespie was a brave man. He had been badly wounded by an Indian spear
which had gone clean through his body. He was hardly able to sit his
horse, but, slipping to the ground, took careful aim and fired. As his
rifle cracked, the chief fell head-long from his horse.
It is a strange thing, but Indians always lose heart when their leader
is slain. Wailing loudly, the Comanches now left the field, pursued by
a portion of the Texans. They carried their chieftain safely away, in
spite of the fact that they were pressed very closely by the Rangers.
Thirty Indians lay dead upon the battle-ground, while only two of the
Texan frontiersmen had been killed. Five, however, were badly wounded;
chief among whom was Gillespie, who had really ended the fight.
Captain Hays and his men went back to San Antonio well satisfied with
the day’s work. A month later he had another desperate encounter with
the Comanches.
With twenty of his men the gallant Ranger was on a scout near the
“Enchanted Rock.” This was a depression in a hill, which was conical in
shape, and was doubtless the crater of an extinct volcano. A dozen or
more men could hide in this place and put up a stout defense against a
great number of enemies, as the ascent was steep and rugged. Not far
from the bottom of this curious hillock the Rangers were attacked by a
large force of Comanches.
When the first shot was fired, Captain Hays was some distance from his
men, looking about in order to see whether or not he could discover the
whereabouts of the Indians. As he turned to run towards the “Enchanted
Rock,” he was cut off and was closely pursued by a number of red
warriors.
The nervy Captain Jack dashed madly up the side of the hill and
entrenched himself in the extinct crater. He was determined to make the
best fight that he could, and to “sell out” as dearly as possible. The
redskins arrived upon the summit shortly after he had entrenched, and,
after surrounding the famous Captain of Rangers, set up a most hideous
howling.
“There, Captain Jack,” said one. “Ugh! We get Big Smoky Stick this
time. Ugh! We get scalp this time! Ugh! Ugh!”
But Captain Jack was game. Each time that the muzzle of his rifle would
appear over the rim of the crater the warriors would dodge backwards,
knowing that to face his unerring aim was sure death.
The Indians grew bolder and made a charge. Hays fired his rifle,
killing a redskin at the discharge,—then shot his five-shooter at the
yelping braves. Each bullet found a victim, so the redskins withdrew,
which gave the gallant Captain a chance to reload. Again they came on,
but again they were met with the same cool bravery. Howling dismally,
they again drew away and made ready for another attack.
Suddenly wild cheering sounded from below the Ranger Captain. Shots
came thick and fast. Wild yells arose. His comrades were coming to his
rescue.
The Rangers had heard the rifle-fire upon the top of the hill and knew
that their Captain was surrounded. So they were fighting their way up
to him, in spite of the odds. Soon they came cheering and yelling to
the edge of the crater, itself, to be greeted by the cool remark:
“Boys, I’m sure glad to see you! I was nearly all in!”
When the Comanches saw that the Big Chief had been rescued they
retreated down the steep sides of the “Enchanted Rock.” They met their
comrades, who had been badly cut up, and, deciding that the Rangers
were too good for them, withdrew. Wild cheers welled from the crater of
“Enchanted Rock,” and loud were the hurrahs for Texas Jack, the gallant
and intrepid Ranger.
The war with Mexico found Captain Jack Hays ready and willing to
march against the hated “Greasers.” He and his famous Rangers fought
in nearly all of the desperate battles of the campaign. Many of his
faithful friends and companions fell before the leaden missiles of the
foe. But Captain Jack had a charmed life: he came through unscathed,
returned to his beloved Texas, and then moved to California, where he
was elected Sheriff of San Francisco County. He was very efficient as
an officer and left an excellent record behind him.
In 1860 he had his last Indian fight. The Piute Indians in the state
of Nevada declared war upon the whites, in that year, and committed
many depredations. They massacred Major Ormsby and his men and spread
terror broadcast. At this time there were rich mines in Virginia City,
and among the many men who were employed there was an old Texan Ranger,
Captain Edward Storey, a man of great personal courage. He was also
very popular among the people.
“This Indian fighting has to stop, immediately,” said the old fellow,
his fighting blood again boiling.
At once a company was raised, called the Virginia Rifles. Colonel Jack
Hays heard of it, and immediately came over from California in order
to enlist. With him were several other bold spirits who were eager for
the excitement of a brush with the redskins. They marched to Pyramid
Lake, not far from the present town of Reno, and there met the exultant
braves,—about one thousand strong. They were flushed with their recent
victory over Major Ormsby and his men, and thought that they could
easily defeat the whites.
In this they were mistaken. The red men were in the hills and had
the advantage of position, but the scouts attacked with vigor and a
fierce battle ensued. Colonel Jack Hays was in the thick of the fight
and conducted himself in a manner quite worthy of his name and fame.
A complete victory was won by the Virginia Rangers, but at a fearful
loss. Among those slain was brave Captain Storey, whose body was
rolled up in a blanket and conveyed to Virginia City on the back of a
pack-horse. Colonel Hays rode with the remains of his old friend of the
wild days on the Texan plains, then returned to California.
Here the famous Indian fighter died in 1883. In his later years
he became very wealthy and owned a beautiful home near Piedmont,
California. He never lived in Texas again, but occasionally went there,
in order to visit old friends and relatives. He was buried with a
simple ceremony, and thus ended the career of one of the most deadly
shots and courageous men who ever rode a mustang upon the plains of the
West. His spirit still lives in the hearts of the Texans.
[Illustration:
From “My Sixty Years on the Plains”—Courtesy of the Forest and Stream
Publishing Co.
“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON.]
BILL HAMILTON:
FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTER
THE mountaineers were pushing, adventurous and fearless men who
thought nothing of laying down their lives in the service of a friend.
They usually carried very little with them. A few ponies transported
their meagre supplies, and, with only enough provisions to last them
a few days, they often set out to journey through a vast wilderness.
Naturally they were very self-reliant. With only a gun or two they
took desperate risks in a country filled with their red enemies. They
overcame every difficulty with a dash and courage that is amazing.
“Uncle Bill” Hamilton was a typical example of one of these men.
From the time that he was twenty years of age this famous old fellow
spent his life on the plains. He became a sign-talker and was able to
converse with all the Indian tribes which were met with. Sign-talking
will soon be a lost art, but in the old days all of the red men used
the same signs, although they spoke different languages. He was also a
trapper, trader, and pathfinder. He blazed many a trail which was to
lead the frontiersmen to rich agricultural regions. He set an example
of courage and perseverance that will leave a bright memory in the
hearts of all.
In the spring of 1842, when twenty years of age, young Bill was living
in St. Louis, Missouri; but chills and fever were gradually undermining
his constitution, so his doctor ordered a change of climate.
Consequently his father made arrangements with a party of hunters
and trappers, who were in St. Louis for a few days, to let his son
accompany them on their next trip, which would last a year. The party
consisted of eight “free” traders, with “Bill” Williams and a man named
Perkins, as leaders. These two scouts had had fifteen years’ experience
on the plains among Indians, and had a wide reputation for fearless
courage and daring exploits.
The trappers soon reached Independence, Missouri,—where they sold
their wagons and rigged up a complete pack outfit, as the expedition
would go through a country in which wagons could not travel. Young Bill
Hamilton still had on city clothes, and when the old fur traders saw
this, they began to laugh and poke fun at him.
“What be you going to do with that city cuss in th’ mountains?” said
one. “Why, he’ll lose himself in a hour’s time and walk down the throat
of some grizzly bear.”
Young Bill did not like this remark at all, and hurrying to a frontier
store he traded his “store clothes” for two suits of the finest
buckskin. When he appeared in camp with these fine togs on one of the
mountaineers said:
“Williams, that boy o’ yourn will make a fine old pioneer and
mountaineer, if he catches on at this rate.”
The youthful plainsman heard it and smiled, for he had felt very badly
before.
The party pushed onward and reached Salt Creek. Camp had just been made
when a small herd of buffalo appeared in the distance and made directly
for the little band. Williams gave orders to corral all the stock, for
he feared that this was the game of some plains Indians, and he was
not far from being correct. The stock had barely been secured when the
buffalo thundered by, followed by thirty painted Kiowa warriors. They
were wild and savage.
The trappers had placed their packs in a triangle, and crouched
behind them. This made an excellent breastwork. Each man was armed
with a rifle, two pistols, a tomahawk, and a large knife, called a
“tooth-picker.” Two of the men had bows and arrows with which they were
experts.
The redskins rode up insolently; examined the outfit, and demanded pay
for passing through their country.
“You can neither touch our traps nor will we give you pay for riding
through your country,” said Williams. “This is Pawnee country and you
are Kiowas.”
The Indians seemed to be ill pleased and looked vindictively at the
sturdy men of the plains. The leader was given some tobacco. He was not
a chief, but a young brave with two feathers stuck in his scalp-lock.
After receiving this gift the savages withdrew, saying: “Ugh! Ugh! We
come again!”
The trapper kept close watch during the night, expecting that the
Indians would attempt to steal some of the stock and attack the camp.
But nothing occurred. Many outfits have come to grief by putting
confidence in the red man, who always covets the belongings of the
paleface. Old and experienced mountain men like these left nothing to
chance.
Pretty soon the trappers reached the camp of some Cheyennes and there
unpacked their goods in order to trade. Young Bill accompanied the
chief’s son, Swift Runner, through the village, who introduced him to
all the leading men.
“There will be a large hunting party starting out to-morrow after
buffalo,” said he, “and if you wish to go along I will furnish you with
a good hunting horse.”
“I shall be delighted to go,” cried young Bill, so next morning found
him riding across the prairie with about fifty Indians and twenty
squaws.
After travelling for nearly ten miles the scouts discovered a herd and
reported its location to the hunting chief. This leader was thoroughly
acquainted with the topography of the country and led the redskins upon
a long détour, so as to get on the leeward side of the herd. As soon
as a favorable position had been reached the Indians stripped to their
breech-clouts and advanced, leading their running horses as they did
so.
[Illustration: AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT.]
The chief now divided the hunters into two divisions, in order to get
the buffalo into a small area. They rode to within a quarter of a mile
of the herd and then the word was given to “Sail in!”
In an instant the wild array of naked Indians started for the herd,
sending forth yell after yell, and riding like demons in their
eagerness to bring down the first buffalo. For this is quite a feat and
is commented upon by the whole village.
Swift Runner, himself, had the fastest horse in the party and brought
down the first buffalo, much to the chagrin of many a young brave—who
coveted the honor—for it would bring him smiles from his lady love.
Young Bill’s pony loped along with willingness, and Swift Runner
pointed out a fat cow for him to dispose of. In a few jumps he was
alongside of the great lumbering brute, and fired into her side. As
luck would have it, he broke her back and she dropped to the sod. Swift
Runner yelled hilariously at this success, but it was a very careless
shot, and, had he missed, the cow might have made things ugly for him.
There was a great yelling and shooting upon every hand and several
riderless ponies were mixed in with the buffalo. Many prairie-dog
holes were the cause of this, for when the ponies stepped into them
their riders were, of course, thrown over their heads. Ponies are
usually sure-footed beasts, but when in a chase like this, where over a
thousand buffalo are tearing over the prairie and kicking up a big lot
of dust, it makes it impossible for the animals to see the holes.
Young Bill brought down four of the huge brown bison and received great
praise from the Indians for his skill. They used arrows in their
killing and shot behind the shoulder, bringing the buffalo to his
knees. Another arrow would be sent deep enough to penetrate the lungs
of the beast and it would then be soon over with him.
For three-quarters of a mile the prairie was dotted with the dead
buffalo. They were soon butchered; the ponies were packed with three
hundred pounds of the choicest meat, and the caravan started for home.
Several Indians who had been thrown limped quite badly, but no one was
seriously injured. At sundown the village was reached, a feast was
prepared, and all joined in the affair with the greatest good will and
friendship. Young Bill was warmly congratulated upon his success, and
this was well, for if a white man fails to acquit himself creditably
with the redskins it casts a reflection upon all the whites.
The Indians made pemmican and “dupuyer” from the buffalo. The first
is manufactured in the following manner: the choicest portions of the
buffalo meat are selected, sliced, and cut into flakes. They are then
dried. All of the marrow, from the centre of the bones, is put into
one pile with the sweetest of the tallow. These ingredients are mixed
together and stirred around in a pot which is hung over a slow fire.
The combination is then cooled. Some red men put berries into the
mixture, which harden and give a sweetish taste. The mountaineers and
trappers—when sugar was scarce—always made their pemmican in this
manner. The Indian squaws pulverized the meat by beating it upon a flat
rock, and then placed it in skinbags for future use. It is estimated
that one pound of pemmican is equal to about five pounds of beef.
A fat substance which lies along the buffalo’s backbone, next to the
hide, is known as “dupuyer.” It is about as thick as the hand of a
trapper and runs from the shoulder-blade to the last rib. In breadth it
measures between seven to eleven inches. The Indians and mountaineers
would strip away this substance—dip it in hot grease for thirty
seconds—and then hang it to the inside poles of a lodge. A fire would
be lighted beneath it and it would be allowed to dry and smoke for
ten or twelve hours. “Dupuyer” was considered to be a great delicacy,
for it was very nourishing. Besides this it was tender and sweet. The
trappers loved this food and would pay a dollar a pound for it, while
the Indians always took dried meat and “dupuyer” along with them upon
their expeditions.
When Williams and his party moved on, Swift Runner presented young Bill
with a pony which he had ridden in the hunt, and the squaws gave him a
half a dozen pairs of beautifully embroidered moccasins.
A few days later the party reached the South Platte River and there
found a Sioux village. Big Thunder was the chief, and he requested the
trappers to camp there, as his people wanted to trade with them. The
Sioux were then a friendly tribe and treated the white men in a cordial
manner.
Just before dawn—upon the day following—a wild yelping awoke
the entire village. The warriors ran out only to find that the
Pawnees—the mortal enemies of the Sioux—had run off about one
hundred head of ponies which had been turned out to graze only a short
distance from camp. Among this number were two mules and three ponies
belonging to the white men.
As soon as this news was received there was a great yelling and
shouting, while fifty young warriors hastened to saddle their best
ponies. Young Bill Hamilton was with them, and, under the leadership
of Young Thunder, they started after the redskins. The trail of the
fugitives was soon struck and followed at a brisk gallop, and, after
going about eight miles, it was evident that the Pawnees were but a
short distance in advance. Passing over a divide, a cloud of dust could
be plainly seen about two miles in advance.
The Pawnees rode hard, but they were soon in view. There were twelve
in the party. As Young Thunder gave a war-whoop, the ponies bounded
forward and carried their owners towards the fugitives as if shot out
of the mouth of a cannon. The Pawnees heard the chief’s yell, and,
leaving the herd of stolen stock, made for a neighboring cottonwood
grove. While Bill Hamilton rode onward, a bullet whistled by his ear.
The savages fired several more shots but their lead all went wide of
its mark.
“Don’t you intend to charge the grove and endeavor to capture the
Pawnee warriors?” said Bill to the Sioux chief.
Young Thunder smiled and shook his head.
“No, no,” he answered. “’Nough to get back our ponies.”
The young scout thought that the Indians were not such terrible
fighters as some writers would have them appear, and this impression
never changed, although he occasionally met a few that knew no fear.
Two of the Pawnee braves had been killed in this little skirmish, and
the warriors rode back to their village carrying the fresh scalps
tied on the end of long sticks. The whole village turned out to greet
them, yelling like furies. Pandemonium reigned all night, but when old
trapper Williams heard that young Bill had ridden in so close to the
timber, he said:
“I shall have to keep you at home next time, if I expect to return you
to your parents. You are a young fool to approach close to timber where
hostile Indians are concealed.”
“Three of our ponies were in the bunch of captured horses,” answered
the young scout. “I did not wish to return without them. As for the
Sioux, I consider them a lot of cowards.”
The Pawnees had not acted with good judgment in trying to drive off
fully one hundred head of horses, so near daylight. For they should
have known that the Sioux warriors would be after them, mounted upon
their best war-ponies.
The trappers soon bade good-by to their kind hosts and continued on
towards the Little Wind River, crossing a rugged and romantic country,
where lofty, sky-piercing peaks ascended into the banks of drifting
clouds. To the northwest were the Wind River Mountains; to the eastward
was the Big Horn Range,—the home of the buffalo, elk, antelope, deer,
and grizzly bear. It was a hunter’s paradise, where many different
tribes of Indians met on their annual hunt, and often battled for the
right to the soil. Hostile war-parties were even now quite numerous
in the mountains. At Little Wind River, Evans and Russell picked up a
moccasin, showing that the redskins were quite near.