Many of the men of the border were blunt in manners, rude in speech,
driven to the absolute liberty of the far West with better natures
shattered and hopes blasted, to seek in the exciting life of the
plainsman and mountaineer oblivion of some incidents of their youthful
days, which were better forgotten. Yet these aliens from society, these
strangers to the refinements of civilization, who would tear off a
bloody scalp even with grim smiles of satisfaction, were fine fellows,
full of the milk of human kindness, and would share their last slapjack
with a hungry stranger.
Uncle John Smith, as he was known to every trapper, trader, and hunter
from the Yellowstone to the Gila, was one of the most famous and
eccentric men of the early days. In 1826, as a boy, he ran away from St.
Louis with a party of Santa Fe traders, and so fascinated was he with
the desultory and exciting life, that he chose to sit cross-legged,
smoking the long Indian pipe, in the comfortable buffalo-skin teepee,
rather than cross legs on the broad table of his master, a tailor to
whom he had been apprenticed when he took French leave from St. Louis.
He spent his first winter with the Blackfeet Indians, but came very
near losing his scalp in their continual quarrels, and therefore allied
himself with the more peaceable Sioux. Once while on the trail of a
horse-stealing band of Arapahoes near the head waters of the Arkansas,
the susceptible young hunter fell in love with a very pretty Cheyenne
squaw, married her, and remained true to the object of his early
affection during all his long and eventful life, extending over a period
of forty years. For many decades he lived with his dusky wife as the
Indians did, having been adopted by the tribe. He owned a large number
of horses, which constituted the wealth of the plains Indians, upon the
sale of which he depended almost entirely for his subsistence. He became
very powerful in the Cheyenne nation; was regarded as a chief, taking
an active part in the councils, and exercising much authority. His
excellent judgment as a trader with the various bands of Indians while
he was employed by the great fur companies made his services invaluable
in the strange business complications of the remote border. Besides
understanding the Cheyenne language as well as his native tongue, he
also spoke three other Indian dialects, French, and Spanish, but
with many Western expressions that sometimes grated harshly upon the
grammatical ear.
He became a sort of autocrat on the plains and in the mountains; and
for an Indian or Mexican to attempt to effect a trade without Uncle John
Smith having something to say about it, and its conditions, was hardly
possible. The New Mexicans often came in small parties to his Indian
village, their burros packed with dry pumpkin, corn, etc., to trade
for buffalo-robes, bearskins, meat, and ponies; and Smith, who knew his
power, exacted tribute, which was always paid. At one time, however,
when for some reason a party of strange Mexicans refused, Uncle John
harangued the people of the village, and called the young warriors
together, who emptied every sack of goods belonging to the cowering
Mexicans on the ground, Smith ordering the women and children to help
themselves, an order which was obeyed with alacrity. The frightened
Mexicans left hurriedly for El Valle de Taos, whence they had come,
crossing themselves and uttering thanks to Heaven for having retained
their scalps. This and other similar cases so intimidated the poor
Greasers, and impressed them so deeply with a sense of Smith's power,
that, ever after, his permission to trade was craved by a special
deputation of the parties, accompanied by peace-offerings of corn,
pumpkin, and pinole. At one time, when Smith was journeying by himself a
day's ride from the Cheyenne village, he was met by a party of forty
or more corn traders, who, instead of putting such a bane to their
prospects speedily out of the way, gravely asked him if they could
proceed, and offered him every third robe they had to accompany them,
which he did. Indeed, he became so regardless of justice, in his
condescension to the natives of New Mexico, that the governor of that
province offered a reward of five hundred dollars for him alive or dead,
but fear of the Cheyennes was so prevalent that his capture was never
even attempted.
During Sheridan's memorable winter campaign against the allied tribes
in 1868-69, the old man, for he was then about sixty, was my guide and
interpreter. He shared my tent and mess, a most welcome addition to the
few who sat at my table, and beguiled many a weary hour at night, after
our tedious marches through the apparently interminable sand dunes and
barren stretches of our monotonous route, with his tales of that period,
more than half a century ago, when our mid-continent region was as
little known as the topography of the planet Mars.
At the close of December, 1868, a few weeks after the battle of the
Washita, I was camping with my command on the bank of that historic
stream in the Indian Territory, waiting with an immense wagon-train of
supplies for the arrival of General Custer's command, the famous Seventh
Cavalry, and also the Nineteenth Kansas, which were supposed to be lost,
or wandering aimlessly somewhere in the region south of us.
I had been ordered to that point by General Sheridan, with instructions
to keep fires constantly burning on three or four of the highest peaks
in the vicinity of our camp, until the lost troops should be guided to
the spot by our signals. These signals were veritable pillars of fire
by night and pillars of cloud by day; for there was an abundance of wood
and hundreds of men ready to feed the hungry flames.
It was more than two weeks before General Custer and his famished
troopers began to straggle in. During that period of anxious waiting
we lived almost exclusively on wild turkey, and longed for nature's
meat--the buffalo; but there were none of the shaggy beasts at that time
in the vicinity, so we had to content ourselves with the birds, of which
we became heartily tired.
For several days after our arrival on the creek, the men had been urging
Uncle John to tell them another story of his early adventures; but the
old trapper was in one of his silent moods--he frequently had them--and
could not be persuaded to emerge from his shell of reticence despite
their most earnest entreaties. I knew it would be of no use for me
to press him. I could, of course, order him to any duty, and he would
promptly obey; but his tongue, like the hand of Douglas, was his own. I
knew, also, that when he got ready, which would be when some incident of
camp-life inspired him, he would be as garrulous as ever.
One evening just before supper, a party of enlisted men who had been up
the creek to catch fish, but had failed to take anything owing to the
frozen condition of the stream, returned with the skeleton of a
Cheyenne Indian which they had picked up on the battle-ground of a month
previously--one of Custer's victims in his engagement with Black Kettle.
This was the incentive Uncle John required. As he gazed on the bleached
bones of the warrior, he said: "Boys, I'm going to tell you a good long
story to-night. Them Ingin's bones has put me in mind of it. After we've
eat, if you fellows wants to hear it, come down to headquarters tent,
and I'll give it to you."
Of course word was rapidly passed from one to another, as the whole camp
was eager to hear the old trapper again. In a short time, every man not
on guard or detailed to keep up the signals on the hills gathered around
the dying embers of the cook's fire in front of my tent; the enlisted
men and teamsters in groups by themselves, the officers a little closer
in a circle, in the centre of which Uncle John sat.
The night was cold, the sky covered with great fleecy patches, through
which the full moon, just fairly risen, appeared to be racing, under the
effect of that optical illusion caused by the rapidly moving clouds. The
coyotes had commenced their nocturnal concert in the timbered recesses
of the creek not far away, and on the battle-field a short distance
beyond, as they battened and fought over the dead warriors and the
carcasses of twelve hundred ponies killed in that terrible slaughter by
the intrepid Custer and his troopers. The signals on the hills leaped
into the crisp air like the tongues of dragons in the myths of the
ancients; in fact, the whole aspect of the place, as we sat around the
blazing logs of our camp-fire, was weird and uncanny.
Every one was eager for the veteran guide to begin his tale; but as I
knew he could not proceed without smoking, I passed him my pouch of Lone
Jack--the brand par excellence in the army at that time.
Uncle John loaded his corn-cob, picked up a live coal, and, pressing
it down on the tobacco with his thumb, commenced to puff vigorously. As
soon as his withered old face was half hidden in a cloud of smoke, he
opened his story in his stereotyped way. I relate it just as he told it,
but divested of much of its dialect, so difficult to write:--
"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago, in June, 1845, if I don't
disremember. I was about forty-three, and had been in the mountains and
on the plains more than nineteen seasons. You see, I went out there in
1826. There warn't no roads, nuthin' but the Santa Fe Trail, in them
days, and Ingins and varmints.
"There was four of us. Me, Bill Comstock, Dick Curtis, and Al Thorpe.
Dick was took in by the Utes two years afterwards at the foot of the
Spanish Peaks, and Al was killed by the Apaches at Pawnee Rock, in 1847.
"We'd been trapping up on Medicine Bow for more than three years
together, and had a pile of beaver, otter, mink, and other varmint's
skins cached in the hills, which we know'd was worth a heap of money; so
we concluded to take them to the river that summer. We started from our
trapping camp in April, and 'long 'bout the middle of June reached the
Arkansas, near what is know'd as Point o' Rocks. You all know where them
is on the Trail west of Fort Dodge, and how them rocks rises up out of
the prairie sudden-like. We was a travelling 'long mighty easy, for
we was all afoot, and had hoofed it the whole distance, more than six
hundred miles, driving five good mules ahead of us. Our furs was packed
on four of them, and the other carried our blankets, extry ammunition,
frying-pan, coffee-pot, and what little grub we had, for we was obliged
to depend upon buffalo, antelope, and jack-rabbits; but, boys, I tell
you there was millions of 'em in them days.
"We had just got into camp at Point o' Rocks. It was 'bout four o'clock
in the afternoon; none of us carried watches, we always reckoned time
by the sun, and could generally guess mighty close, too. It was powerful
hot, I remember. We'd hobbled our mules close to the ledge, where the
grass was good, so they couldn't be stampeded, as we know'd we was in
the Pawnee country, and they was the most ornery Ingins on the plains.
We know'd nothing that was white ever came by that part of the Trail
without having a scrimmage with the red devils.
"Well, we hadn't more than took our dinner, when them mules give a
terrible snort, and tried to break and run, getting awful oneasy all to
once. Them critters can tell when Ingins is around. They's better than a
dozen dogs. I don't know how they can tell, but they just naturally do.
"In less than five minutes after them mules began to worry, stopped
eating, and had their ears pricked up a trying to look over the ledge
towards the river, we heard a sharp firing down on the Trail, which
didn't appear to be more than a hundred yards off. You ought to seen us
grab our rifles sudden, and run out from behind them rocks, where we was
a camping, so comfortable-like, and just going to light our pipes for a
good smoke. It didn't take us no time to get down on to the Trail, where
we seen a Mexican bull train, that we know'd must have come from Santa
Fe, and which had stopped and was trying to corral. More than sixty
painted Pawnees was a circling around the outfit, howling as only them
can howl, and pouring a shower of arrows into the oxen. Some was shaking
their buffalo-robes, trying to stampede the critters, so they could kill
the men easier.
"We lit out mighty lively, soon as we seen what was going on, and
reached the head of the train just as the last wagon, that was
furtherest down the Trail, nigh a quarter of a mile off, was cut out
by part of the band. Then we seen a man, a woman, and a little boy jump
out, and run to get shet of the Ingins what had cut out the wagon from
the rest of the train. One of the red devils killed the man and scalped
him, while the other pulled the woman up in front of him, and rid off
into the sand hills, and out of sight in a minute. Then the one what had
killed her husband started for the boy, who was a running for the train
as fast as his little legs could go. But we was nigh enough then;
and just as the Ingin was reaching down from his pony for the kid, Al
Thorpe--he was a powerful fine shot--draw'd up his gun and took the
red cuss off his critter without the paint-bedaubed devil know'n' what
struck him.
"The boy, seeing us, broke and run for where we was, and I reckon the
rest of the Ingins seen us then for the first time, too. We was up with
the train now, which was kind o' halfway corralled, and Dick Curtis
picked up the child--he warn't more than seven years old--and throw'd
him gently into one of the wagons, where he'd be out of the way; for we
know'd there was going to be considerable more fighting before night.
We know'd, too, we Americans would have to do the heft of it, as them
Mexican bull-whackers warn't much account, nohow, except to cavort
around and swear in Spanish, which they hadn't done nothing else since
we'd come up to the train; besides, their miserable guns warn't much
better than so many bows and arrows.
"We Americans talked together for a few moments as to what was best to
be did, while the Ingins all this time was keeping up a lively fire for
them. We made as strong a corral of the wagons as we could, driving out
what oxen the Mexicans had put in the one they had made, but you can't
do much with only nine wagons, nohow. Fortunately, while we was fixing
things, the red cusses suddenly retreated out of the range of our
rifles, and we first thought they had cleared out for good. We soon
discovered, however, they were only holding a pow-wow; for in a few
minutes back they come, mounted on their ponies, with all their fixin's
and fresh war-paint on.
"Then they commenced to circle around us again, coming a little
nearer--Ingin fashion--every time they rid off and back. It wasn't
long before they got in easy range, when they slung themselves on the
off-side of their ponies and let fly their arrows and balls from under
their critters' necks. Their guns warn't much 'count, being only old
English muskets what had come from the Hudson Bay Fur Company, so
they didn't do no harm that round, except to scare the Mexicans, which
commenced to cross themselves and pray and swear.
"We four Americans warn't idle when them Ingins come a charging up; we
kept our eye skinned, and whenever we could draw a bead, one of
them tumbled off his pony, you bet! When they'd come back for their
dead--we'd already killed three of them--we had a big advantage, wasted
no shots, and dropped four of them; one apiece, and you never heard
Ingins howl so. It was getting kind o' dark by this time, and the
varmints didn't seem anxious to fight any more, but went down to the
river and scooted off into the sand hills on the other side. We waited
more than half an hour for them, but as they didn't come back, concluded
we'd better light out too. We told the Mexicans to yoke up, and as good
luck would have it they found all the cattle close by, excepting them
what pulled the wagon what the Ingins had cut out, and as it was way
down the Trail, we had to abandon it; for it was too dark to hunt it up,
as we had no time to fool away.
"We put all our outfit into the train; it wasn't loaded, but going empty
to the Missouri, to fetch back a sawmill for New Mexico. Then we made a
soft bed in the middle wagon out of blankets for the kid, and rolled
out 'bout ten o'clock, meaning to put as many miles between us and them
Ingins as the oxen could stand. We four hoofed it along for a while,
then rid a piece, catching a nap now and then as best we could, for
we was monstrous tired. By daylight we'd made fourteen miles, and was
obliged to stop to let the cattle graze. We boiled our coffee, fried
some meat, and by that time the little boy waked. He'd slept like a top
all night and hadn't no supper either; so when I went to the wagon where
he was to fetch him out, he just put them baby arms of his'n around my
neck, and says, 'Where's mamma?'
"I tell you, boys, that nigh played me out. He had no idee, 'cause he
was too young to realize what had happened; we know'd his pa was killed,
but where his ma was, God only know'd!"
Here the old man stopped short in his narrative, made two or three
efforts as if to swallow something that would not go down, while his
eyes had a far-away look. Presently he picked up a fresh coal from the
fire, placed it on his pipe, which had gone out, then puffing vigorously
for a few seconds, until his head was again enveloped in smoke, he
continued:--
"After I'd washed the little fellow's face and hands, I gave him a
tin cup of coffee and some meat. You'd ought to seen him eat; he
was hungrier than a coyote. Then while the others was a watering and
picketing the mules, I sot down on the grass and took the kid into
my lap to have a good look at him; for until now none of us had had a
chance.
"He was the purtiest child I'd ever seen; great black eyes, and
eyelashes that laid right on to his cheeks; his hair, too, was black,
and as curly as a young big-horn. I asked him what his name was, and he
says, 'Paul.' 'Hain't you got no other name?' says I to him again, and
he answered, 'Yes, sir,' for he was awful polite; I noticed that. 'Paul
Dale,' says he prompt-like, and them big eyes of his'n looked up into
mine, as he says 'What be yourn?' I told him he must call me 'Uncle
John,' and then he says again, as he put his arms around my neck, his
little lips all a quivering, and looking so sorrowful, 'Uncle John,
where's mamma; why don't she come?'
"Boys, I don't really know what I did say. A kind o' mist came before
my eyes, and for a minute or two I didn't know nothing. I come to in a
little while, and seeing Thorpe bringing up the mules from the river,
where he'd been watering them, I says to Paul, to get his mind on to
something else besides his mother, 'Don't you want to ride one of them
mules when we pull out again?' The little fellow jumped off my lap,
clapped his hands, forgetting his trouble all at once, child-like, and
replied, 'I do, Uncle John, can I?'
"After we'd camped there 'bout three hours, the cattle full of grass and
all laying down chewing their cud, we concluded to move on and make a
few miles before it grow'd too hot, and to get further from the Ingins,
which we expected would tackle us again, as soon as they could get back
from their camp, where we felt sure they had gone for reinforcements.
"While the Mexicans was yoking up, me and Thorpe rigged an easy saddle
on one of the mules, out of blankets, for the kid to ride on, and when
we was all ready to pull out, I histed him on, and you never see a
youngster so tickled.
"We had to travel mighty slow; couldn't make more than eighteen miles a
day with oxen, and that was in two drives, one early in the morning, and
one in the evening when it was cool, a laying by and grazing when it
was hot. We Americans walked along the Trail, and mighty slow walking
it was; 'bout two and a half miles an hour. I kept close to Paul, for I
began to set a good deal of store by him; he seemed to cotton to me more
than he did to the rest, wanting to stick near me most of the time as he
rid on the mule. I wanted to find out something 'bout his folks, where
they'd come from; so that when we got to Independence, perhaps I could
turn him over to them as ought to have him; though in my own mind I was
ornery enough to wish I might never find them, and he'd be obliged to
stay with me. The boy was too young to tell what I wanted to find out;
all I could get out of him was they'd been living in Santa Fe since
he was a baby, and that his papa was a preacher. I 'spect one of them
missionaries 'mong the heathenish Greasers. He said they was going back
to his grandma's in the States, but he could not tell where. I couldn't
get nothing out of them Mexican bull-whackers neither--what they know'd
wasn't half as much as the kid--and I had to give it up.
"Well, we kept moving along without having any more trouble for a week;
them Ingins never following us as we 'lowed they would. I really enjoyed
the trip such as I never had before. Paul he was so 'fectionate and
smart, that he 'peared to fill a spot in my heart what had always been
hollow until then. When he'd got tired of riding the mule or in one
of the wagons, he'd come and walk along the Trail with me, a picking
flowers, chasing the prairie-owls and such, until his little legs 'bout
played out, when I'd hist him on his mule again. When we'd go into camp,
Paul, he'd run and pick up buffalo-chips for the fire, and wanted to
help all he could. Then when it came time to go to sleep, the boy would
always get under my blankets and cuddle up close to me. He'd be sure to
say his prayers first, though; but it seemed so strange to me who hadn't
heard a prayer for thirty years. I never tried to stop him, you may be
certain of that. He'd ask God to bless his pa and ma, and wind up
with 'Bless Uncle John too.' Then I couldn't help hugging him right up
tighter; for it carried me back to Old Missouri, to the log-cabin in the
woods where I was born, and used to say 'Now I lay me,' and 'Our Father'
at my ma's knee, when I was a kid like him. I tell you, boys, there
ain't nothing that will take the conceit out of a man here on the
plains, like the company of a kid what has been brought up right.
"I reckon we'd been travelling about ten days since we left Point o'
Rocks, and was on the other side of the Big Bend of the Arkansas, near
the mouth of the Walnut, where Fort Zarah is now. We had went into camp
at sundown, close to a big spring that's there yet. We drawed up the
wagons into a corral on the edge of the river where there wasn't
no grass for quite a long stretch; we done this to kind o' fortify
ourselves, for we expected to have trouble with the Ingins there, if
anywhere, as we warn't but seventeen miles from Pawnee Rock, the worst
place on the whole Trail for them; so we picked out that bare spot where
they couldn't set fire to the prairie. It was long after dark when we
eat our supper; then we smoked our pipes, waiting for the oxen to fill
themselves, which had been driven about a mile off where there was good
grass. The Mexicans was herding them, and when they'd eat all they could
hold, and was commencing to lay down, they was driven into the corral.
Then all of us, except Comstock and Curtis, turned in; they was to stand
guard until 'bout one o'clock, when me and Thorpe was to change places
with them and stay up until morning; for, you see, we was afraid to
trust them Mexicans.
"It seemed like we hadn't been asleep more than an hour when me and
Thorpe was called to take our turn on guard. We got out of our blankets,
I putting Paul into one of the wagons, then me and Thorpe lighted our
pipes and walked around, keeping our eyes and ears open, watching the
heavy fringe of timber on the creek mighty close, I tell you. Just as
daylight was coming, we noticed that our mules, what was tied to a wagon
in the corral, was getting uneasy, a pawing and snorting, with their
long ears cocked up and looking toward the Walnut. Before I could finish
saying to Thorpe, 'Them mules smells Ingins,' half a dozen or more of
the darned cusses dashed out of the timber, yelling and shaking their
robes, which, of course, waked up the whole camp. Me and Thorpe sent a
couple of shots after them, that scattered the devils for a minute; but
we hadn't hit nary one, because it was too dark yet to draw a bead on
them. We was certain there was a good many more of them behind the first
that had charged us; so we got all the men on the side of the corral
next to the Trail. The Ingins we know'd couldn't get behind us, on
account of the river, and we was bound to make them fight where we
wanted them to, if they meant to fight at all.
"In less than a minute, quicker than I can tell you, sure enough, out
they came again, only there was 'bout eighty of them this time. They
made a dash at once, and their arrows fell like a shower of hail on
the ground and against the wagon-sheets as the cusses swept by on their
ponies. There wasn't anybody hurt, and our turn soon came. Just as they
circled back, we poured it into them, killing six and wounding two. You
see them Mexican guns had did some work that we didn't expect, and then
we Americans felt better. Well, boys, them varmints made four charges
like that on to us before we could get shet of them; but we killed as
many as sixteen or eighteen, and they got mighty sick of it and quit;
they had only knocked over one Mexican, and put an arrow into Thorpe's
arm.
"I was amused at little Paul all the time the scrimmage was going on.
He stood up in the wagon where I'd put him, a looking out of the hole
behind where the sheet was drawed together, and every time an Ingin
was tumbled off his pony, he would clap his hands and yell, 'There goes
another one, Uncle John!'
"After their last charge, they rode off out of range, where they stood
in little bunches talking to each other, holding some sort of a pow-wow.
It riled us to see the darned cusses keep so far away from our rifles,
because we wanted to lay a few more of them out, but was obliged to keep
still and watch out for some new deviltry. We waited there until it
was plumb night, not daring to move out yet; but we managed to boil our
coffee and fry slap-jacks and meat.
"The oxen kept up a bellowing and pawing around the corral, for they was
desperate hungry and thirsty, hadn't had nothing since the night before;
yet we couldn't help them any, as we didn't know whether we was shet of
the Ingins or not. We staid, patient-like, for two or three hours more
after dark to see what the Ingins was going to do, as while we sot round
our little fire of buffalo-chips, smoking our pipes, we could still hear
the red devils a howling and chanting, while they picked up their dead
laying along the river-bottom.
"As soon as morning broke--we'd ketched a nap now and then during the
night--we got ready for another charge of the Ingins, their favourite
time being just 'bout daylight; but there warn't hide or hair of an
Ingin in sight. They'd sneaked off in the darkness long before the
first streak of dawn; had enough of fighting, I expect. As soon as we
discovered they'd all cleared out, we told the drivers to hitch up, and
while they was yoking and watering, me 'n' Curtis and Comstock buried
the dead Mexican on the bank of the river, as we didn't want to leave
his bones to be picked by the coyotes, which was already setting on the
sand hills watching and waiting for us to break camp. By the time we'd
finished our job, and piled some rocks on his grave, so as the varmints
couldn't dig him up, the train was strung out on the Trail, and then we
rolled out mighty lively for oxen; for the critters was hungry, and we
had to travel three or four miles the other side of the Walnut, where
the grass was green, before they could feed. The oxen seen it on the
hills and they lit out almost at a trot. It was 'bout sun-up when we got
there, when we turned the animals loose, corralled, and had breakfast.
"After we'd had our smoke, all we had to do was to put in the time until
five o'clock; for we couldn't move before then, as it would be too hot
by the time the oxen got filled. Paul and me went down to the creek
fishing; there was tremendous cat in the Walnut them days, and by noon
we'd ketched five big beauties, which we took to camp and cooked for
dinner. After I'd had my smoke, Paul and me went back to the creek,
where we stretched ourselves under a good-sized box-elder tree--there
wasn't no shade nowhere else--and took a sleep, while Comstock and
Curtis went jack-rabbit hunting across the river, as we was getting
scarce of meat.
"Thorpe, who was hit in the arm with an arrow, couldn't do much but
nuss his wound; so him and the Mexicans stood guard, a looking out for
Ingins, as we didn't know but what the cusses might come back and make
another raid on us, though we really didn't expect they would have the
gall to bother us any more--least not the same outfit what had fought us
the day before. That evening, 'bout six o'clock, we rolled out again and
went into camp late, having made twelve miles, and didn't see a sign of
Ingins.
"In ten days more we got to Independence without having no more trouble
of no kind, and was surprised at our luck. At Independence we Americans
left the train, sold our furs, got a big price, too--each of us had a
shot-bag full of gold and silver, more money than we know'd what to do
with. Me, Curtis, and Thorpe concluded we'd buy a new outfit, consisting
of another six-mule wagon, and harness, so we'd have a full team,
meaning to go back to the mountains with the first big caravan what
left.
"All the folks in the settlement what seen Paul took a great fancy to
him. Some wanted to adopt him, and some said I'd ought to take him to
St. Louis and place him in an orphan asylum; but I 'lowed if there was
going to be any adopting done, I'd do it myself, 'cause the kid seemed
now just as if he was my own; besides the little fellow I know'd loved
me and didn't want me to leave him. I had kin-folks in Independence, an
old aunt, and me and Paul staid there. She had a young gal with her, and
she learned Paul out of books; so he picked up considerable, as we had
to wait more than two months before Colonel St. Vrain's caravan was
ready to start for New Mexico.
"I bought Paul a coal-black pony, and had a suit of fine buckskin made
for him out of the pelt of a black-tail deer I'd shot the winter before
on Powder River. The seams of his trousers was heavily fringed, and with
his white sombrero, a riding around town on his pony, he looked like one
of them Spanish Dons what the papers nowadays has pictures of; only he
was smarter-looking than any Don I ever see in my life.
"It was 'bout the last of August when we pulled out from Independence.
Comstock staid with us until we got ready to go, and then lit out
for St. Louis, and I hain't never seen him since. The caravan had
seventy-five six-mule teams in it, without counting ours, loaded with
dry-goods and groceries for Mora, New Mexico, where Colonel St. Vrain,
the owner, lived and had a big store. We had no trouble with the Ingins
going back across the plains; we seen lots, to be sure, hanging on our
trail, but they never attacked us; we was too strong for them.
"'Bout the last of September we reached Bent's Old Fort, on the
Arkansas, where the Santa Fe Trail crosses the river into New Mexico,
and we camped there the night we got to it.
"I know'd they had cows up to the fort; so just before we was ready for
supper, I took Paul and started to see if we couldn't get some milk for
our coffee. It wasn't far, and we was camped a few hundred yards from
the gate, just outside the wall. Well, we went into the kitchen, Paul
right alongside of me, and there I seen a white woman leaning over the
adobe hearth a cooking--they had always only been squaws before. She
naturally looked up to find out who was coming in, and when she seen the
kid, all at once she give a scream, dropped the dish-cloth she had
in her hand, made a break for Paul, throw'd her arms around him,
nigh upsetting me, and says, while she was a sobbing and taking on
dreadful,--
"'My boy! My boy! Then I hain't prayed and begged the good Lord all
these days and nights for nothing!' Then she kind o' choked again, while
Paul, he says, as he hung on to her,--
"'O mamma! O mamma! I know'd you'd come back! I know'd you'd come back!'
"Well, there, boys, I just walked out of that kitchen a heap faster
than I'd come into it, and shut the door. When I got outside, for a few
minutes I couldn't see nothing, I was worked up so. As soon as I come
to, I went through the gate down to camp as quick as my legs would carry
me, to tell Thorpe and Curtis that Paul had found his ma. They wanted to
know all about it, but I couldn't tell them nothing, I was so dumfounded
at the way things had turned out. We talked among ourselves a moment,
then reckoned it was the best to go up to the fort together, and ask the
woman how on earth she'd got shet of the Ingins what had took her off,
and how it come she was cooking there. We started out and when we got
into the kitchen, there was Paul and Mrs. Dale, and you never see no
people so happy. They was just as wild as a stampeded steer; she seemed
to have growed ten years younger than when I first went up there, and as
for Paul, he was in heaven for certain.
"First we had to tell her how we'd got the kid, and how we'd learned to
love him. All the time we was telling of it, and our scrimmages with
the Ingins, she was a crying and hugging Paul as if her heart was broke.
After we'd told all we know'd, we asked her to tell us her story, which
she did, and it showed she was a woman of grit and education.
"She said the Ingins what had captured her took her up to their camp on
the Saw Log, a little creek north of Fort Dodge--you all know where
it is--and there she staid that night. Early in the morning they all
started for the north. She watched their ponies mighty close as they
rid along that day, so as to find out which was the fastest; for she had
made up her mind to make her escape the first chance she got. She looked
at the sun once in a while, to learn what course they was taking; so
that she could go back when she got ready, strike the Sante Fe Trail,
and get to some ranch, as she had seen several while passing through the
foot-hills of the Raton Range when she was with the Mexican train.
"It was on the night of the fourth day after they had left Saw Log,
and had rid a long distance--was more than a hundred miles on their
journey--when she determined to try and light out. The whole camp was
fast asleep, for the Ingins was monstrous tired. She crawled out of the
lodge where she'd been put with some old squaws, and going to where the
ponies had been picketed, she took a little iron-gray she'd had her eye
on, jumped on his back, with only the lariat for a bridle and without
any saddle, not even a blanket, took her bearings from the north star,
and cautiously moved out. She started on a walk, until she'd got 'bout
four miles from camp, and then struck a lope, keeping it up all night.
By next morning she'd made some forty miles, and then for the first time
since she'd left her lodge, pulled up and looked back, to see if any of
the Ingins was following her. When she seen there wasn't a living thing
in sight, she got off her pony, watered him out of a small branch, took
a drink herself, but not daring to rest yet, mounted her animal again
and rid on as fast as she could without wearing him out too quickly.
"Hour after hour she rid on, the pony appearing to have miraculous
endurance, until sundown. By that time she'd crossed the Saline, the
Smoky Hill, and got to the top of the divide between that river and the
Arkansas, or not more than forty miles from the Santa Fe Trail. Then her
wonderful animal seemed to weaken; she couldn't even make him trot, and
she was so nearly played out herself, she could hardly set steady. What
to do, she didn't know. The pony was barely able to move at a slow walk.
She was afraid he would drop dead under her, and she was compelled
to dismount, and in almost a minute, as soon as she laid down on the
prairie, was fast asleep.
"She had no idee how long she had slept when she woke up. The sun was
only 'bout two hours high. Then she know'd she had been unconscious
since sundown of the day before, or nigh twenty-four hours. Rubbing her
eyes, for she was kind o' bewildered, and looking around, there she saw
her pony as fresh, seemingly, as when she'd started. He'd had plenty to
eat, for the grass was good, but she'd had nothing. She pulled a little
piece of dried buffalo-meat out of her bosom, which she'd brought along,
all she could find at the lodge, and now nibbled at that, for she was
mighty hungry. She was terribly sore and stiff too, but she mounted at
once and pushed on, loping and walking him by spells. Just at daylight
she could make out the Arkansas right in front of her in the dim gray
of the early morning, not very far off. On the west, the Raton Mountains
loomed up like a great pile of blue clouds, the sight of which cheered
her; for she know'd she would soon reach the Trail.
"It wasn't quite noon when she struck the Santa Fe Trail. When she got
there, looking to the east, she saw in the distance, not more than three
miles away, a large caravan coming, and then, almost wild with delight,
she dismounted, sot down on the grass, and waited for it to arrive. In
less than an hour, the train come up to where she was, and as good luck
would have it, it happened to be an American outfit, going to Taos with
merchandise. As soon as the master of the caravan seen her setting on
the prairie, he rid up ahead of the wagons, and she told him her story.
He was a kind-hearted man; had the train stop right there on the bank of
the river, though he wasn't half through his day's drive, so as to make
her comfortable as possible, and give her something to eat; for she was
'bout played out. He bought the Ingin pony, giving her thirty dollars
for it, and after she had rested for some time, the caravan moved out.
She rid in one of the wagons, on a bed of blankets, and the next evening
arrived at Bent's Old Fort. There she found women-folks, who cared for
her and nussed her; for she was dreadfully sore and tired after her long
ride. Then she was hired to cook, meaning to work until she'd earned
enough to take her back to Pennsylvany, to her mother's, where she had
started for when the Ingins attackted the train.
"That night, after listening to her mirac'lous escape, we made up a
'pot' for her, collecting 'bout eight hundred dollars. The master of
Colonel St. Vrain's caravan, what had come out with us, told her he was
going back again to the river in a couple of weeks, and he'd take her
and Paul in without costing her a cent; besides, she'd be safer than
with any other outfit, as his train was a big one, and he had all
American teamsters.
"Next morning the caravan went on to Mora, and after we'd bid good-by to
Mrs. Dale and Paul, before which I give the boy two hundred dollars
for himself, me, Thorpe, and Curtis pulled out with our team north for
Frenchman's Creek, and I never felt so miserable before nor since as I
did parting with the kid that morning. I hain't never seen him since;
but he must be nigh forty now. Mebby he went into the war and was
killed; mebby he got to be a general, but I hain't forgot him."
Uncle John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and without saying another
word went into the tent. In a few moments the camp was as quiet as a
country village on Sunday, excepting the occasional howling of a hungry
wolf down in the timbered recesses of the Washita, or the crackling and
sputtering of the signal fires on the hilltops.
In a few days afterward, we were camping on Hackberry Creek, in the
Indian Territory. We had been living on wild turkey, as before for some
time, and still longed for a change. At last one of my hunters succeeded
in bagging a dozen or more quails. Late that evening, when my cook
brought the delicious little birds, beautifully spitted and broiled on
peeled willow twigs, into my tent, I passed one to Uncle John. Much to
the surprise of every one, he refused. He said, "Boys, I don't eat no
quail!"
We looked at him in astonishment; for he was somewhat of a gourmand, and
prided himself upon the "faculty," as he termed it, of being able to
eat anything, from a piece of jerked buffalo-hide to the juiciest young
antelope steak.
I remonstrated with the venerable guide; said to him, "You are making a
terrible mistake, Uncle John. Tomorrow I expect to leave here, and as we
are going directly away from the buffalo country, we don't know when
we shall strike fresh meat again. You'd better try one," and I again
proffered one of the birds.
"Boys," said he again, "I don't tech quail; I hain't eat one for more
than twenty years. One of the little cusses saved my life once, and I
swore right thar and then that I would starve first; and I have kept my
oath, though I've seen the time mighty often sence I could a killed 'em
with my quirt, when all I had to chaw on for four days was the soles of
a greasy pair of old moccasins.
"Well, boys, it's a good many years ago--in June, if I don't
disremember, 1847. We was a coming in from way up in Cache le Poudre and
from Yellowstone Lake, whar we'd been a trapping for two seasons. We was
a working our way slowly back to Independence, Missouri, where we was
a going to get a new outfit. Let's see, there was me, and a man by the
name of Boyd, and Lew Thorp--Lew was a working for Colonel Boone at
the time--and two more men, whose names I disremember now, and a nigger
wench we had for a cook. We had mighty good luck, and had a big pile
of skins; and the Indians never troubled us till we got down on Pawnee
Bottom, this side of Pawnee Rock. We all of us had mighty good ponies,
but Thorp had a team and wagon, which he was driving for Colonel Boone.
"We had went into camp on Pawnee Bottom airly in the afternoon, and I
told the boys to look out for Ingins--for I knowed ef we was to have any
trouble with them it would be somewhere in that vicinity. But we didn't
see a darned redskin that night, nor the sign of one.
"The wolves howled considerable, and come pretty close to the fire for
the bacon rinds we'd throwed away after supper.
"You see the buffalo was scurse right thar then--it was the wrong time
o' year. They generally don't get down on to the Arkansas till about
September, and when they're scurse the wolves and coyotes are mighty
sassy, and will steal a piece of bacon rind right out of the pan, if
you don't watch 'em. So we picketed our ponies a little closer before we
turned in, and we all went to sleep except one, who sort o' kept watch
on the stock.
"I was out o' my blankets mighty airly next morning, for I was kind o'
suspicious. I could always tell when Ingins was prowling around, and I
had a sort of present'ment something was going to happen--I didn't like
the way the coyotes kept yelling--so I rested kind o' oneasy like, and
was out among the ponies by the first streak o' daylight.
"About the time I could see things, I discovered three or four buffalo
grazing off on the creek bottom, about a half-mile away, and I started
for my rifle, thinking I would examine her.
"Pretty soon I seed Thorp and Boyd crawl out o' their blankets, too,
and I called their attention to the buffalo, which was still feeding
undisturbed.
"We'd been kind o' scurse of fresh meat for a couple of weeks--ever
since we left the Platte--except a jack-rabbit or cottontail, and I
knowed the boys would be wanting to get a quarter or two of a good fat
cow, if we could find one in the herd, so that was the reason I pointed
'em out to 'em.
"The dew, you see, was mighty heavy, and the grass in the bottom was as
wet as if it had been raining for a month, and I didn't care to go down
whar the buffalo was just then--I knowed we had plenty of time, and as
soon as the sun was up it would dry right off. So I got on to one of
the ponies and led the others down to the spring near camp to water them
while the wench was a getting breakfast, and some o' the rest o' the
outfit was a fixing the saddles and greasing the wagon.
"Just as I was coming back--it had growed quite light then--I seed
Boyd and Thorp start out from camp with their rifles and make for the
buffalo; so I picketed the ponies, gets my rifle, and starts off too.
"By the time I'd reached the edge of the bottom, Thorp and Boyd was a
crawling up on to a young bull way off to the right, and I lit out for a
fat cow I seen bunched up with the rest of the herd on the left.
"The grass was mighty tall on some parts of the Arkansas bottom in them
days, and I got within easy shooting range without the herd seeing me.
"The buffalo was now between me and Thorp and Boyd, and they was
furtherest from camp. I could see them over the top of the grass kind
o' edging up to the bull, and I kept a crawling on my hands and knees
toward the cow, and when I got about a hundred and fifty yards of her, I
pulled up my rifle and drawed a bead.
"Just as I was running my eyes along the bar'l, a darned little quail
flew right out from under my feet and lit exactly on my front sight and
of course cut off my aim--we didn't shoot reckless in those days; every
shot had to tell, or a man was the laughing-stock for a month if he
missed his game.
"I shook the little critter off and brought up my rifle again when, durn
my skin, if the bird didn't light right on to the same place; at the
same time my eyes grow'd kind o' hazy-like and in a minute I didn't know
nothing.
"When I come to, the quail was gone, I heerd a couple of rifle shots,
and right in front of where the bull had stood and close to Thorp and
Boyd, half a dozen Ingins jumped up out o' the tall grass and, firing
into the two men, killed Thorp instantly and wounded Boyd.
"He and me got to camp--keeping off the Ingins, who knowed I was
loaded--when we, with the rest of the outfit, drove the red devils away.
"They was Apaches, and the fellow that shot Thorp was a half-breed
nigger and Apache. He scalped Thorp and carred off the whole upper part
of his skull with it. He got Thorp's rifle and bullet-pouch too, and his
knife.
"We buried Thorp in the bottom there, and some of the party cut their
names on the stones that they covered his body up with, to keep the
coyotes from eating up his bones.
"Boyd got on to the river with us all right, and I never heerd of him
after we separated at Booneville. We pulled out soon after the Indians
left, but we didn't get no buffalo-meat.
"You see, boys, if I'd a fired into that cow, the devils would a had me
before I could a got a patch on my ball--didn't have no breech-loaders
in them days, and it took as much judgment to know how to load a rifle
properly as it did to shoot it.
"Them Ingins knowed all that--they knowed I hadn't fired, so they kept
a respectable distance. I would a fired, but the quail saved my life by
interfering with my sight--and that's the reason I don't eat no quail. I
hain't superstitious, but I don't believe they was meant to be eat."
Uncle John stuck to his text, I believe, until he died, and you could
never disabuse his mind of the idea that the quail lighting on his rifle
was not a special interposition of Providence.
Only four years after he told his story, in 1872, one of the newly
established settlers, living a few miles west of Larned on Pawnee
Bottom, having observed in one of his fields a singular depression,
resembling an old grave, determined to dig down and see if there was any
special cause for the strange indentation on his land.
A couple of feet below the surface he discovered several flat pieces
of stone, on one of which the words "Washington" and "J. Hildreth"
were rudely cut, also a line separating them, and underneath: "December
tenth" and "J. M., 1850." On another was carved the name "J. H. Shell,"
with other characters that could not be deciphered. On a third stone
were the initials "H. R., 1847"; underneath which was plainly cut "J.
R. Boyd," and still beneath "J. R. Pring." At the very bottom of the
excavation were found the lower portion of the skull, one or two ribs,
and one of the bones of the leg of a human being. The piece of skull was
found near the centre of the grave, for such it certainly was.
At the time of the discovery I was in Larned, and I immediately
consulted my book of notes and memoranda taken hurriedly at intervals on
the plains and in the mountains, during more than half my lifetime, to
see if I could find anything that would solve the mystery attached to
the quiet prairie-grave and its contents, and I then recalled Uncle
John Smith's story of the quail as related to me at my camp. I also
met Colonel A. G. Boone that winter in Washington; he remembered the
circumstances well. Thorp was working for him, as Smith had said, and
was killed by an Apache, who, in scalping him, tore the half of his head
away, and it was thus found mutilated, so many years afterward.
Uncle John was in one of his garrulous moods that night, and as we were
not by any means tired of hearing the veteran trapper talk, without much
urging he told us the following tale:--
"Well, boys, thirty years ago, beaver, mink, and otter was found in
abundacious quantities on all the streams in the Rocky Mountains. The
trade in them furs was a paying business, for the little army of us
fellows called trappers. They ain't any of 'em left now, no mor'n the
animals we used to hunt. We had to move about from place to place, just
as if we was so many Ingins. Sometimes we'd construct little cabins in
the timber, or a dugout where the game was plenty, where we'd stay maybe
for a month or two, and once in a while--though not often--a whole year.
"The Ingins was our mortal enemies; they'd get a scalp from our fellows
occasionally, but for every one they had of ours we had a dozen of
theirs.
"In the summer of 1846, there was a little half dugout, half cabin,
opposite the mouth of Frenchman's Creek, put up by Bill Thorpe, Al Boyd,
and Rube Stevens. Bill and Al was men grown, and know'd more 'bout the
prairies and timber than the Ingins themselves. They'd hired out to the
Northwest Fur Company when they was mere kids, and kept on trapping
ever since. Rube--'Little Rube' as all the old men called him--was
'bout nineteen, and plumb dumb; he could hear well enough though, for
he wasn't born that way. When he was seventeen his father moved from his
farm in Pennsylvany, to take up a claim in Oregon, and the whole family
was compelled to cross the plains to get there; for there wasn't no
other way. While they was camped in the Bitter-Root valley one evening,
just 'bout sundown, a party of Blackfeet surprised the outfit, and
massacred all of them but Rube. They carried him off, kept him as a
slave, and, to make sure of him, cut out his tongue at the roots. But
some of the women who wasn't quite so devilish as their husbands, and
who took pity on him, went to work and cured him of his awful wound. He
was used mighty mean by the bucks of the tribe, and made up his mind to
get away from them or kill himself; for he could not live under their
harsh treatment. After he'd been with them for mor'n a year, the tribe
had a terrible battle with the Sioux, and in the scrimmage Rube stole
a pony and lit out. He rode on night and day until he came across the
cabin of the two trappers I have told you 'bout, and they, of course,
took the poor boy in and cared for him.
"Rube was a splendid shot with the rifle, and he swore to himself that
he would never leave the prairies and do nothing for the rest of
his life but kill Ingins, who had made him a homeless orphan, and so
mutilated him.
"After Rube had been with Boyd and Thorpe a year, they was all one day
in the winter examining their traps which was scattered 'long the stream
for miles. After re-baiting them, they concluded to hunt for meat, which
was getting scarce at the cabin; they let Rube go down to the creek
where it widened out lake-like, to fish through a hole in the ice, and
Al and Bill took their rifles and hunted in the timber for deer. They
all got separated of course, Rube being furtherest away, while Al and
Bill did not wander so far from each other that they could not be heard
if one wanted his companion.
"Al shot a fat black-tail deer, and just as he was going to stoop down
to cut its throat, Bill yelled out to him:--
"'Drop everything Al, for God's sake, and let's make for the dugout;
they're coming, a whole band of Sioux!'
"'If we can get to the cabin,' replied Al, 'we can keep off the whole
nation. I wonder where Rube is? I hope he'll get here and save his
scalp.'
"At this instant, poor Rube dashed up to them, an Ingin close upon his
tracks; he had unfortunately forgotten to take his rifle with him when
he went to the creek, and now he was at the mercy of the savage; at
least both he and his pursuer so thought. But before the Ingin had
fairly uttered his yell of exultation, Al who with Bill had held his
rifle in readiness for an emergency, lifted the red devil off his feet,
and he fell dead without ever knowing what had struck him.
"Rube, thus delivered from a sudden death, ran at the top of his speed
with his two friends for the cabin, for, if they could reach it, they
did not fear a hundred paint-bedaubed savages.
"Luckily they arrived in time. Where they lived was part dugout and part
cabin. It was about ten feet high, and right back of it was a big ledge
of rock, which made it impossible for any one to get into it from that
side. The place had no door; they did not dare to put one there when
it was built, for they were likely to be surprised at any moment by
a prowling band, so the only entrance was a square hole in the roof,
through which one at a time had to crawl to enter.
"The boys got inside all right just as the Ingins came a yelling up.
Bill looked out of a hole in the wall and counted thirty of the devils,
and said at once: 'Off with your coats; don't let them have anything
to catch hold of but our naked bodies if they get in, and we can handle
ourselves better.'
"'Thirty to three,' said Al. 'Whew! this ain't going to be any boy's
play; we've got to fight for all there is in it, and the chances are
mightily agin us.'
"Rube he took an axe, and stood right under the hole in the roof, so
that if any of the devils got in he could brain them. In a minute five
rifles cracked; for the Ingins was pretty well armed for them times, and
their bullets rattled agin the logs like hail agin a tent. Some of 'em
was on top the roof by this time, and soon the leader of the party, a
big painted devil, thrust his ugly face into the hole; but he had hardly
got a good look before Bill dropped him by a well-directed shot and he
tumbled in on the floor.
"'You darned fool,' said Bill, as he saw the effect of his shot; 'did
you think we was asleep?'
"There was one opening that served for air, and a savage, seeing the
boys had forgotten to barricade it, tried to push himself through, an'
not succeeding, tried to back out, but at that instant Bill caught him
by the wrist--Bill was a powerful man--and picking up a beaver-trap that
laid on the floor, actually beat his brains out with it.
"While this circus was going on inside, three more of the Ingins got on
the roof and wrenched off a couple of the logs that covered it; but in a
minute they came tumbling down and lay dead on the floor.
"'That leaves only twenty-five, don't it?' inquired Al, as he mopped his
face with his shirt-sleeve.
"'Howl, you red devils,' said Bill, as the Ingins commenced their awful
yelling when they saw their comrades fall into the room. 'Don't you
know, you blame fools, you've fell in with experienced hands at the
shooting business?'
"Spat! Something hit Al, and he was the first wounded, but it was only a
scratch, and he kept right on attending to business.
"'By gosh! look at Rube, will you?' said Al. The dumb boy had in his
grasp the very chief of the band, who had just then discovered the hole
in the roof made by the three Ingins who had passed in their checks for
their impudence, and was trying his best to push himself down. Rube had
made a strike at him with an axe, but the edge was turned aside, and the
savage was getting the better of the boy; he had grappled Rube by the
hair and one arm, and they was flying 'round like a wild cat and a
hound. Bill tried three times to sink his knife into the old chief, but
there was such a cavortin' in the wrastle between him and the boy, he
was afraid to try any more, for fear it might hit Rube instead. Suddenly
the Ingin fell to the floor as dead as a trapped beaver what's been
drowned; Rube had struck his buckhorn-handled hunting-knife right into
the heart of the brute.
"'Set him agin the hole in the side of the building,' said Bill; 'he
ain't fit for nothing else than to stop a gap'; so Rube set him agin the
hole, and pinned him there with half a dozen knives what was lying round
loose.
"Just as they had fastened the dead body of the old chief to the side
of the cabin, a perfect shower of bullets came rattling round like a
hailstorm. 'All right, let's have your waste lead,' said Bill.
"'A few more of these dead Ingins and we can make a regular fort of this
old cabin; we want two for that chunk,' said Al, as he pointed with his
rifle to a large gap on the west side of the wall; but before he had
fairly got the words out of his mouth, two of the attacking party jumped
down into the room. Al, being a regular giant, as soon as they landed,
surprised them by seizing one with each hand by the throat, and he
actually held them at arm's-length till he had squeezed the very life
out of them, and they both fell corpses.
"While Al was performing his two-Ingin act, a great light burst into the
cabin, and by the time he had choked his enemies to death, he saw, while
the Ingins outside gave a terrible yell of exultation, that they had
fired the place.
"'Damn 'em,' shouted Bill, as he pitched the corpse of the chief from
the gap where Rube had set him. 'Fellows, we've got to get out of here
right quick; follow me, boys!'
"Holding their rifles in hand, and clutching a hunting-knife also, they
stepped out into the brush surrounding the place, and started on a run
for the heavy timber on the bank of the creek.
"They had reckoned onluckily; a wild war-whoop greeted the flying men as
they reached the edge of the forest, and without being able to use their
arms, they were taken prisoners. Bill and Al, fastened with their backs
against each other, and Little Rube by himself, were bound to separate
trees, but not so far apart that they could not speak to each other,
and some of the Ingins began to gather sticks and pile them around the
trees.
"'What are they going to do with us?' anxiously inquired Bill of Al.
"'Roast us, you bet,' replied the other. 'They'll find me tough enough,
anyhow.'
"'It must be a painful death,' soliloquized Bill.
"'Well, it isn't the most pleasant one, you can gamble on that,' said
Al, turning his looks toward Bill; 'but see what the devils are doing to
poor Rube.'
"Bill cast his eyes in the direction of the dumb boy, who was fastened
to a small pine, about a hundred feet distant. Standing directly in
front of it was a gigantic Ingin, flourishing his scalping-knife within
an inch of Rube's head, trying to make the boy flinch. But the young
fellow merely scowled at him in a rage, his muscles never quivering for
an instant.
"While the men were trying to console each other, two of the savages,
who had gone away for a short time, returned, bearing the carcass of the
deer that Al had killed in the morning, and commenced to cut it up. They
had made several small fires, and roasting the meat before them, began
to gorge themselves, Indian fashion, with the savoury morsels. The men
were awfully hungry, too, but not a mouthful did they get of their own
game.
"The Ingins were more'n an hour feasting, while their prisoners kept a
looking for some help to get 'em out of the scrape they was in.
"'Bout a mile down the creek, me and six other trappers had a camp, and
that morning, being scarce of meat, we all went a hunting. We had killed
two or three elk and was 'bout going back to camp with our game, when we
heard firing, and supposed it was a party of hunters, like ourselves,
so we did not pay any attention to it at first; but when it kept up so
long, and there was such a constant volley, I told our boys it might be
a scrimmage with a party of red devils, and we concluded to go and see.
"We left our elk where they were, and started in the direction of the
shooting, taking mighty good care not to be surprised ourselves. We
crept carefully on, and a little before sundown seen a camp-fire burning
in the timber quite a smart piece ahead of us. We stopped then, and Ike
Pettet and myself crept on cautiously on our hands and knees through the
brush to learn what the fire meant. In a little while we seen it was an
Ingin camp, and we counted twenty-two warriors seated 'round their fires
a eating as unconcernedly as if we warn't nowhere near 'em. We didn't
feel like tackling so many, so just as we was 'bout to crawl away and
leave 'em in ondisturbed possession of their camp, we heard some parties
talking in English. Then we pricked up our ears and listened mighty
interested I tell you. Looking 'round, we seen the men tied to the trees
and the wood piled against 'em, and then we knowed what was up. We had
to be mighty wary, for if we snapped a twig even, it was all day with us
and the prisoners too; so we dragged ourselves back, and after getting
out of sound of the Ingins, we just got up and lit out mighty lively for
the place we'd left our companions. We met them coming slowly on 'bout
two miles from the Ingin camp, and telling 'em what was up we started to
help the trappers what the devils was agoing to burn. We wasn't half so
long in getting at the camp as Ike and me was in going, and we soon come
within good range for our rifles.
"The Ingins was still unsuspicious, and we spread ourselves in a sort
of half circle so as to kind o' surround them, and at a signal I give,
seven rifles cracked at once, and as many of the Injins was dropped
right in their tracks; a second volley, for the red devils had not got
their senses yet, tumbled seven more corpses upon the pile, and then we
white men jumped in with our knives and clubbed rifles, and there was
a lively scrimmage for a few minutes. The few Ingins what wasn't killed
fought like devils, but as we was getting the best of 'em every second
they turned tail and ran.
"We'd heard the firing of the fight at the cabin just in time; and as
we cut the rawhide strings that bound the fellows to the trees, Ike, who
was a right fine shot and had killed three at one time, said: 'I always
like to get two or three of the red devils in a line before I pull the
trigger; it saves lead.'
"Then we all went back to our camp and made a night of it, feasting on
the elk we had killed, and talking over the wonderful escape of the boys
and Little Rube."