On the summit of one of the highest plateaus bordering the Missouri
River, surrounded by a rich expanse of foliage, lies Independence, the
beautiful residence suburb of Kansas City, only ten miles distant.
Tradition tells that early in this century there were a few pioneers
camping at long distances from each other in the seemingly interminable
woods; in summer engaged in hunting the deer, elk, and bear, and in
winter in trapping. It is a well-known fact that the Big Blue was once
a favourite resort of the beaver, and that even later their presence in
great numbers attracted many a veteran trapper to its waters.
Before that period the quaint old cities of far-off Mexico were
forbidden to foreign traders, excepting to the favoured few who were
successful in obtaining permits from the Spanish government. In 1821,
however, the rebellion of Iturbide crushed the power of the mother
country, and established the freedom of Mexico. The embargo upon foreign
trade was at once removed, and the Santa Fe Trail, for untold ages
only a simple trace across the continent, became the busy highway of a
relatively great commerce.
In 1817 the navigation of the Mississippi River was begun. On the 2d of
August of that year the steamer _General Pike_ arrived at St. Louis.
The first boat to ascend the Missouri River was the _Independence_; she
passed Franklin on the 28th of May, 1819, where a dinner was given to
her officers. In the same and the following month of that year, the
steamers _Western Engineer Expedition_ and _R. M. Johnson_ came
along, carrying Major Long's scientific exploring party, bound for the
Yellowstone.
The Santa Fe trade having been inaugurated shortly after these important
events, those engaged in it soon realized the benefits of river
navigation--for it enabled them to shorten the distance which their
wagons had to travel in going across the plains--and they began to look
out for a suitable place as a shipping and outfitting point higher up
the river than Franklin, which had been the initial starting town.
By 1827 trading-posts had been established at Blue Mills, Fort Osage,
and Independence. The first-mentioned place, which is situated about
six miles below Independence, soon became the favourite landing, and the
exchange from wagons to boats settled and defied all efforts to
remove the headquarters of the trade from there for several years.
Independence, however, being the county seat and the larger place,
succeeded in its claims to be the more suitable locality, and as early
as 1832 it was recognized as the American headquarters and the great
outfitting point for the Santa Fe commerce, which it continued to be
until 1846, when the traffic was temporarily suspended by the breaking
out of the Mexican War.
Independence was not only the principal outfitting point for the Santa
Fe traders, but also that of the great fur companies. That powerful
association used to send out larger pack-trains than any other parties
engaged in the traffic to the Rocky Mountains; they also employed wagons
drawn by mules, and loaded with goods for the Indians with whom their
agents bartered, which also on their return trip transported the skins
and pelts of animals procured from the savages. The articles intended
for the Indian trade were always purchased in St. Louis, and usually
shipped to Independence, consigned to the firm of Aull and Company, who
outfitted the traders with mules and provisions, and in fact anything
else required by them.
Several individual traders would frequently form joint caravans, and
travel in company for mutual protection from the Indians. After having
reached a fifty-mile limit from the State line, each trader had control
of his own men; each took care of a certain number of the pack-animals,
loaded and unloaded them in camp, and had general supervision of them.
Frequently there would be three hundred mules in a single caravan,
carrying three hundred pounds apiece, and very large animals more.
Thousands of wagons were also sent out from Independence annually,
each drawn by twelve mules or six yoke of oxen, and loaded with general
merchandise.
There were no packing houses in those days nearer than St. Louis, and
the bacon and beef used in the Santa Fe trade were furnished by the
farmers of the surrounding country, who killed their meat, cured it,
and transported it to the town where they sold it. Their wheat was
also ground at the local mills, and they brought the flour to market,
together with corn, dried fruit, beans, peas, and kindred provisions
used on the long route across the plains.
Independence very soon became the best market west of St. Louis
for cattle, mules, and wagons; the trade of which the place was the
acknowledged headquarters furnishing employment to several thousand men,
including the teamsters and packers on the Trail. The wages paid varied
from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and rations. The price charged
for hauling freight to Santa Fe was ten dollars a hundred pounds, each
wagon earning from five to six hundred dollars every trip, which was
made in eighty or ninety days; some fast caravans making quicker time.
The merchants and general traders of Independence in those days reaped a
grand harvest. Everything to eat was in constant demand; mules and oxen
were sold in great numbers every month at excellent prices and always
for cash; while any good stockman could readily make from ten to fifty
dollars a day.
One of the largest manufacturers and most enterprising young men in
Independence at that time was Hiram Young, a coloured man. Besides
making hundreds of wagons, he made all the ox-yokes used in the entire
traffic; fifty thousand annually during the '50's and until the breaking
out of the war. The forward yokes were sold at an average of one dollar
and a quarter, the wheel yokes a dollar higher.
The freight transported by the wagons was always very securely loaded;
each package had its contents plainly marked on the outside. The wagons
were heavily covered and tightly closed. Every man belonging to the
caravan was thoroughly armed, and ever on the alert to repulse an attack
by the Indians.
Sometimes at the crossing of the Arkansas the quicksands were so bad
that it was necessary to get the caravan over in a hurry; then forty or
fifty yoke of oxen were hitched to one wagon and it was quickly yanked
through the treacherous ford. This was not always the case, however; it
depended upon the stage of water and recent floods.
After the close of the war with Mexico, the freight business across the
plains increased to a wonderful degree. The possession of the country by
the United States gave a fresh impetus to the New Mexico trade, and
the traffic then began to be divided between Westport and Kansas City.
Independence lost control of the overland commerce and Kansas City
commenced its rapid growth. Then came the discovery of gold in
California, and this gave an increased business westward; for thousands
of men and their families crossed the plains and the Rocky Mountains,
seeking their fortunes in the new El Dorado. The Old Trail was the
highway of an enormous pilgrimage, and both Independence and Kansas City
became the initial point of a wonderful emigration.
In Independence may still be seen a few of the old landmarks when it was
the headquarters of the Santa Fe trade.
An overland mail was started from the busy town as early as 1849. In an
old copy of the Missouri _Commonwealth_, published there under the date
of July, 1850, which I found on file in the Kansas State Historical
Society, there is the following account of the first mail stage
westward:--
We briefly alluded, some days since, to the Santa Fe line
of mail stages, which left this city on its first monthly
journey on the 1st instant. The stages are got up in
elegant style, and are each arranged to convey eight
passengers. The bodies are beautifully painted, and made
water-tight, with a view of using them as boats in ferrying
streams. The team consists of six mules to each coach.
The mail is guarded by eight men, armed as follows: Each man
has at his side, fastened in the stage, one of Colt's
revolving rifles; in a holster below, one of Colt's long
revolvers, and in his belt a small Colt's revolver, besides
a hunting-knife; so that these eight men are ready, in case
of attack, to discharge one hundred and thirty-six shots
without having to reload. This is equal to a small army,
armed as in the ancient times, and from the looks of this
escort, ready as they are, either for offensive or defensive
warfare with the savages, we have no fears for the safety
of the mails.
The accommodating contractors have established a sort of
base of refitting at Council Grove, a distance of one
hundred and fifty miles from this city, and have sent out
a blacksmith, and a number of men to cut and cure hay, with
a quantity of animals, grain, and provisions; and we
understand they intend to make a sort of traveling station
there, and to commence a farm. They also, we believe,
intend to make a similar settlement at Walnut Creek next
season. Two of their stages will start from here the
first of every month.
The old stage-coach days were times of Western romance and adventure,
and the stories told of that era of the border have a singular
fascination in this age of annihilation of distance.
Very few, if any, of the famous men who handled the "ribbons" in those
dangerous days of the slow journey across the great plains are among
the living; like the clumsy and forgotten coaches they drove, they have
themselves been mouldering into dust these many years.
In many places on the line of the Trail, where the hard hills have not
been subjected to the plough, the deep ruts cut by the lumbering Concord
coaches may yet be distinctly traced. Particularly are they visible from
the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe track, as the cars thunder rapidly
toward the city of Great Bend, in Kansas, three miles east of that town.
Let the tourist as he crosses Walnut Creek look out of his window toward
the east at an angle of about thirty-five degrees, and on the flint
hills which slope gradually toward the railroad, he will observe, very
distinctly, the Old Trail, where it once drew down from the divide to
make the ford at the little stream.
The monthly stages started from each end of the route at the same time;
later the service was increased to once a week; after a while to three
times, until in the early '60's daily stages were run from both ends of
the route, and this was continued until the advent of the railroad.
Each coach carried eleven passengers, nine closely stowed inside--three
on a seat--and two on the outside on the boot with the driver. The fare
to Santa Fe was two hundred and fifty dollars, the allowance of baggage
being limited to forty pounds; all in excess of that cost half a dollar
a pound. In this now seemingly large sum was included the board of the
travellers, but they were not catered to in any extravagant manner;
hardtack, bacon, and coffee usually exhausted the menu, save that at
times there was an abundance of antelope and buffalo.
There was always something exciting in those journeys from the Missouri
to the mountains in the lumbering Concord coach. There was the constant
fear of meeting the wily red man, who persistently hankered after
the white man's hair. Then there was the playfulness of the sometimes
drunken driver, who loved to upset his tenderfoot travellers in some
arroya, long after the moon had sunk below the horizon.
It required about two weeks to make the trip from the Missouri River to
Santa Fe, unless high water or a fight with the Indians made it several
days longer. The animals were changed every twenty miles at first, but
later, every ten, when faster time was made. What sleep was taken could
only be had while sitting bolt upright, because there was no laying
over; the stage continued on night and day until Santa Fe was reached.
After a few years, the company built stations at intervals varying
from ten miles to fifty or more; and there the animals and drivers
were changed, and meals furnished to travellers, which were always
substantial, but never elegant in variety or cleanliness.
Who can ever forget those meals at the "stations," of which you were
obliged to partake or go hungry: biscuit hard enough to serve as
"round-shot," and a vile decoction called, through courtesy, coffee--but
God help the man who disputed it!
Some stations, however, were notable exceptions, particularly in the
mountains of New Mexico, where, aside from the bread--usually only
tortillas, made of the blue-flint corn of the country--and coffee
composed of the saints may know what, the meals were excellent. The
most delicious brook trout, alternating with venison of the black-tailed
deer, elk, bear, and all the other varieties of game abounding in the
region cost you one dollar, but the station-keeper a mere trifle; no
wonder the old residents and ranchmen on the line of the Old Trail
lament the good times of the overland stage!
Thirteen years ago I revisited the once well-known Kosloskie's Ranch,
a picturesque cabin at the foot of the Glorieta Mountains, about half a
mile from the ruins on the Rio Pecos. The old Pole was absent, but his
wife was there; and, although I had not seen her for fifteen years, she
remembered me well, and at once began to deplore the changed condition
of the country since the advent of the railroad, declaring it had ruined
their family with many others. I could not disagree with her view of
the matter, as I looked on the debris of a former relative greatness
all around me. I recalled the fact that once Kosloskie's Ranch was the
favourite eating station on the Trail; where you were ever sure of a
substantial meal--the main feature of which was the delicious brook
trout, which were caught out of the stream which ran near the door while
you were washing the dust out of your eyes and ears.
The trout have vacated the Pecos; the ranch is a ruin, and stands in
grim contrast with the old temple and church on the hill; and both are
monuments of civilizations that will never come again.
Weeds and sunflowers mark the once broad trail to the quaint Aztec city,
and silence reigns in the beautiful valley, save when broken by the
passage of "The Flyer" of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railway, as
it struggles up the heavy grade of the Glorieta Mountains a mile or more
distant.
Besides the driver, there was another employee--the conductor or
messenger, as he was called. He had charge of the mail and express
matter, collected the fares, and attended generally to the requirements
of those committed to his care during the tedious journey; for he was
not changed like the driver, but stayed with the coach from its starting
to its destination. Sometimes fourteen individuals were accommodated in
case of emergency; but it was terribly crowded and uncomfortable riding,
with no chance to stretch your limbs, save for a few moments at stations
where you ate and changed animals.
In starting from Independence, powerful horses were attached to the
coach--generally four in number; but at the first station they were
exchanged for mules, and these animals hauled it the remainder of the
way. Drivers were changed about eight times in making the trip to
Santa Fe; and some of them were comical fellows, but full of nerve and
endurance, for it required a man of nerve to handle eight frisky mules
through the rugged passes of the mountains, when the snow was drifted
in immense masses, or when descending the curved, icy declivities to
the base of the range. A cool head was highly necessary; but frequently
accidents occurred and sometimes were serious in their results.
A snowstorm in the mountains was a terrible thing to encounter by the
coach; all that could be done was to wait until it had abated, as there
was no going on in the face of the blinding sheets of intensely cold
vapour which the wind hurled against the sides of the mountains.
All inside of the coach had to sit still and shake with the freezing
branches of the tall trees around them. A summer hailstorm was much more
to be dreaded, however; for nowhere else on the earth do the hailstones
shoot from the clouds of greater size or with greater velocity than in
the Rocky Mountains. Such an event invariably frightened the mules and
caused them to stampede; and, to escape death from the coach rolling
down some frightful abyss, one had to jump out, only to be beaten to
a jelly by the masses of ice unless shelter could be found under some
friendly ledge of rock or the thick limbs of a tree.
Nothing is more fatiguing than travelling for the first day and night
in a stage-coach; after that, however, one gets used to it and the
remainder of the journey is relatively comfortable.
The only way to alleviate the monotony of riding hour after hour was
to walk; occasionally this was rendered absolutely necessary by some
accident, such as breaking a wheel or axle, or when an animal gave out
before a station was reached. In such cases, however, no deduction was
made from the fare, that having been collected in advance, so it cost
you just as much whether you rode or walked. You could exercise your
will in the matter, but you must not lag behind the coach; the savages
were always watching for such derelicts, and your hair was the forfeit!
In the worst years, when the Indians were most decidedly on the
war-trail, the government furnished an escort of soldiers from the
military posts; they generally rode in a six-mule army-wagon, and were
commanded by a sergeant or corporal; but in the early days, before the
army had concentrated at the various forts on the great plains,
the stage had to rely on the courage and fighting qualities of its
occupants, and the nerve and the good judgment of the driver. If the
latter understood his duty thoroughly and was familiar with the methods
of the savages, he always chose the cover of darkness in which to travel
in localities where the danger from Indians was greater than elsewhere;
for it is a rare thing in savage warfare to attack at night. The early
morning seemed to be their favourite hour, when sleep oppresses most
heavily; and then it was that the utmost vigilance was demanded.
One of the most confusing things to the novice riding over the great
plains is the idea of distance; mile after mile is travelled on the
monotonous trail, with a range of hills or a low divide in full sight,
yet hours roll by and the objects seem no nearer than when they were
first observed. The reason for this seems to be that every atom of
vapour is eliminated from the air, leaving such an absolute clearness
of atmosphere, such an indescribable transparency of space through which
distant objects are seen, that they are magnified and look nearer than
they really are. Consequently, the usual method of calculating distance
and areas by the eye is ever at fault until custom and familiarity force
a new standard of measure.
Mirages, too, were of frequent occurrence on the great plains; some
of them wonderful examples of the refracting properties of light. They
assumed all manner of fantastic, curious shapes, sometimes ludicrously
distorting the landscape; objects, like a herd of buffalo for instance,
though forty miles away, would seem to be high in air, often reversed,
and immensely magnified in their proportions.
Violent storms were also frequent incidents of the long ride. I well
remember one night, about thirty years ago, when the coach in which I
and one of my clerks were riding to Fort Dodge was suddenly brought to
a standstill by a terrible gale of wind and hail. The mules refused to
face it, and quickly turning around nearly overturned the stage, while
we, with the driver and conductor, were obliged to hold on to the wheels
with all our combined strength to prevent it from blowing down into
a stony ravine, on the brink of which we were brought to a halt.
Fortunately, these fearful blizzards did not last very long; the wind
ceased blowing so violently in a few moments, but the rain usually
continued until morning.
It usually happened that you either at once took a great liking for your
driver and conductor, or the reverse. Once, on a trip from Kansas City,
nearly a third of a century ago, when I and another man were the only
occupants of the coach, we entertained quite a friendly feeling for
our driver; he was a good-natured, jolly fellow, full of anecdote
and stories of the Trail, over which he had made more than a hundred
sometimes adventurous journeys.
When we arrived at the station at Plum Creek, the coach was a little
ahead of time, and the driver who was there to relieve ours commenced to
grumble at the idea of having to start out before the regular hour. He
found fault because we had come into the station so soon, and swore he
could drive where our man could not "drag a halter-chain," as he claimed
in his boasting. We at once took a dislike to him, and secretly wished
that he would come to grief, in order to cure him of his boasting. Sure
enough, before we had gone half a mile from the station he incontinently
tumbled the coach over into a sandy arroya, and we were delighted at the
accident. Finding ourselves free from any injury, we went to work
and assisted him to right the coach--no small task; but we took great
delight in reminding him several times of his ability to drive where our
old friend could not "drag a halter-chain." It was very dark; neither
moon or star visible, the whole heavens covered with an inky blackness
of ominous clouds; so he was not so much to be blamed after all.
The very next coach was attacked at the crossing of Cow Creek by a band
of Kiowas. The savages had followed the stage all that afternoon, but
remained out of sight until just at dark, when they rushed over the
low divide, and mounted on their ponies commenced to circle around
the coach, making the sand dunes resound with echoes of their infernal
yelling, and shaking their buffalo-robes to stampede the mules, at the
same time firing their guns at the men who were in the coach, all of
whom made a bold stand, but were rapidly getting the worst of it, when
fortunately a company of United States cavalry came over the Trail from
the west, and drove the savages off. Two of the men in the coach were
seriously wounded, and one of the soldiers killed; but the Indian loss
was never determined, as they succeeded in carrying off both their dead
and wounded.
Mr. W. H. Ryus, a friend of mine now residing in Kansas City, who was a
driver and messenger thirty-five years, and had many adventures, told me
the following incidents:
I have crossed the plains sixty-five times by wagon and
coach. In July, 1861, I was employed by Barnum, Vickery,
and Neal to drive over what was known as the Long Route,
that is, from Fort Larned to Fort Lyon, two hundred and
forty miles, with no station between. We drove one set of
mules the whole distance, camped out, and made the journey,
in good weather, in four or five days. In winter we
generally encountered a great deal of snow, and very cold
air on the bleak and wind-swept desert of the Upper Arkansas,
but we employees got used to that; only the passengers did
any kicking. We had a way of managing them, however,
when they got very obstreperous; all we had to do was to
yell Indians! and that quieted them quicker than forty-rod
whiskey does a man.
We gathered buffalo-chips, to boil our coffee and cook our
buffalo and antelope steak, smoked for a while around the
smouldering fire until the animals were through grazing,
and then started on our lonely way again.
Sometimes the coach would travel for a hundred miles through
the buffalo herds, never for a moment getting out of sight
of them; often we saw fifty thousand to a hundred thousand
on a single journey out or in. The Indians used to call
them their cattle, and claimed to own them. They did not,
like the white man, take out only the tongue, or hump, and
leave all the rest to dry upon the prairie, but ate every
last morsel, even to the intestines. They said the whites
were welcome to all they could eat or haul away, but they
did not like to see so much meat wasted as was our custom.
The Indians on the plains were not at all hostile in 1861-62;
we could drive into their villages, where there were tens
of thousands of them, and they would always treat us to
music or a war-dance, and set before us the choicest of
their venison and buffalo. In July of the last-mentioned
year, Colonel Leavenworth, Jr., was crossing the Trail in
my coach. He desired to see Satanta, the great Kiowa chief.
The colonel's father[28] was among the Indians a great deal
while on duty as an army officer, while the young colonel
was a small boy. The colonel said he didn't believe that
old Satanta would know him.
Just before the arrival of the coach in the region of the
Indian village, the Comanches and the Pawnees had been
having a battle. The Comanches had taken some scalps,
and they were camping on the bank of the Arkansas River,
where Dodge City is now located. The Pawnees had killed
five of their warriors, and the Comanches were engaged in
an exciting war-dance; I think there were from twenty to
thirty thousand Indians gathered there, men, women, and
children of the several tribes--Comanches, Kiowas, Cheyennes,
Arapahoes, and others.
When we came in sight of their camp, the colonel knew, by
the terrible noise they were making, that a war-dance was
going on; but we did not know then whether it was on account
of troubles among themselves, or because of a fight with
the whites, but we were determined to find out. If he could
get to the old chief, all would be right. So he and I
started for the place whence the noise came. We met a savage
and the colonel asked him whether Satanta was there, and
what was going on. When he told us that they had had
a fight and it was a scalp-dance, our hair lowered; for we
knew that if it was in consequence of trouble with the
whites, we stood in some danger of losing our own scalps.
The Indian took us in, and the situation, too; and conducted
us into the presence of Satanta, who stood in the middle
of the great circle, facing the dancers. It was out on an
island in the stream; the chief stood very erect, and eyed
us closely for a few seconds, then the colonel told his
own name that the Indians had known him by when he was a boy.
Satanta gave one bound--he was at least ten feet from where
we were waiting--grasped the colonel's hand and excitedly
kissed him, then stood back for another instant, gave him
a second squeeze, offered his hand to me, which I,
of course, shook heartily, then he gazed at the man he had
known as a boy so many years ago, with a countenance
beaming with delight. I never saw any one, even among
the white race, manifest so much joy as the old chief did
over the visit of the colonel to his camp.
He immediately ordered some of his young men to go out and
herd our mules through the night, which they brought back
to us at daylight. He then had the coach hauled to the
front of his lodge, where we could see all that was going on
to the best advantage. We had six travellers with us on
this journey, and it was a great sight for the tenderfeet.
It was about ten o'clock at night when we arrived at
Satanta's lodge, and we saw thousands of squaws and bucks
dancing and mourning for their dead warriors. At midnight
the old chief said we must eat something at once. So he
ordered a fire built, cooked buffalo and venison, setting
before us the very best that he had, we furnishing canned
fruit, coffee, and sugar from our coach mess. There we sat,
and talked and ate until morning; then when we were ready
to start off, Satanta and the other chiefs of the various
tribes escorted us about eight miles on the Trail, where
we halted for breakfast, they remaining and eating with us.
Colonel Leavenworth was on his way to assume command of one of the
military posts in New Mexico; the Indians begged him to come back and
take his quarters at either Fort Larned or Fort Dodge. They told him
they were afraid their agent was stealing their goods and selling them
back to them; while if the Indians took anything from the whites, a war
was started.
Colonel A. G. Boone had made a treaty with these same Indians in 1860,
and it was agreed that he should be their agent. It was done, and the
entire savage nations were restful and kindly disposed toward the whites
during his administration; any one could then cross the plains without
fear of molestation. In 1861, however, Judge Wright, of Indiana, who
was a member of Congress at the time, charged Colonel Boone with
disloyalty.[29] He succeeded in having him removed.
Majors Russel and Waddell, the great government freight contractors
across the plains, gave Colonel Boone fourteen hundred acres of land,
well improved, with some fine buildings on it, about fifteen miles east
of Pueblo, Colorado. It was christened Booneville, and the colonel moved
there. In the fall of 1862, fifty influential Indians of the various
tribes visited Colonel Boone at his new home, and begged that he would
come back to them and be their agent. He told the chiefs that the
President of the United States would not let him. Then they offered to
sell their horses to raise money for him to go to Washington to tell
the Great Father what their agent was doing; and to have him removed, or
there was going to be trouble. The Indians told Colonel Boone that
many of their warriors would be on the plains that fall, and they were
declaring they had as much right to take something to eat from the
trains as their agent had to steal goods from them.
Early in the winter of the next year, a small caravan of eight or ten
wagons travelling to the Missouri River was overhauled at Nine Mile
Ridge, about fifty miles west of Fort Dodge, by a band of Indians, who
asked for something to eat. The teamsters, thinking them to be hostile,
believed it would be a good thing to kill one of them anyhow; so they
shot an inoffensive warrior, after which the train moved on to its camp
and the trouble began. Every man in the whole outfit, with the exception
of one teamster, who luckily got to the Arkansas River and hid, was
murdered, the animals all carried away, and the wagons and contents
destroyed by fire.
This foolish act by the master of the caravan was the cause of a long
war, causing hundreds of atrocious murders and the destruction of a
great deal of property along the whole Western frontier.
That fall, 1863, Mr. Ryus was the messenger or conductor in charge of
the coach running from Kansas City to Santa Fe. He said:
It then required a month to make the round trip, about
eighteen hundred miles. On account of the Indian war
we had to have an escort of soldiers to go through the most
dangerous portions of the Trail; and the caravans all
joined forces for mutual safety, besides having an escort.
My coach was attacked several times during that season, and
we had many close calls for our scalps. Sometimes the
Indians would follow us for miles, and we had to halt and
fight them; but as for myself, I had no desire to kill one
of the miserable, outraged creatures, who had been swindled
out of their just rights.
I know of but one occasion when we were engaged in a fight
with them when our escort killed any of the attacking
savages; it was about two miles from Little Coon Creek
Station, where they surrounded the coach and commenced
hostilities. In the fight one officer and one enlisted man
were wounded. The escort chased the band for several miles,
killed nine of them, and got their horses.