Immediately after Kit Carson, the second wreath of pioneer laurels, for
bravery and prowess as an Indian fighter, and trapper, must be conceded
to Richens Lacy Wooton, known first as "Dick," in his younger days on
the plains, then, when age had overtaken him, as "Uncle Dick."
Born in Virginia, his father, when he was but seven years of age,
removed with his family to Kentucky, where he cultivated a tobacco
plantation. Like his predecessor and lifelong friend Carson, young
Wooton tired of the monotony of farming, and in the summer of 1836 made
a trip to the busy frontier town of Independence, Missouri, where he
found a caravan belonging to Colonel St. Vrain and the Bents, already
loaded, and ready to pull out for the fort built by the latter, and
named for them.
Wooton had a fair business education, and was superior in this respect
to his companions in the caravan to which he had attached himself. It
was by those rough, but kind-hearted, men that he was called "Dick," as
they could not readily master the more complicated name of "Richens."
When he started from Independence on his initial trip across the plains,
he was only nineteen, but, like all Kentuckians, perfectly familiar with
a rifle, and could shoot out a squirrel's eye with the certainty which
long practice and hardened nerves assures.
The caravan, in which he was employed as a teamster, was composed of
only seven wagons; but a larger one, in which were more than fifty, had
preceded it, and as that was heavily laden, and the smaller one only
lightly, it was intended to overtake the former before the dangerous
portions of the Trail were reached, which it did in a few days and was
assigned a place in the long line.
Every man had to take his turn in standing guard, and the first night
that it fell to young Wooton was at Little Cow Creek, in the Upper
Arkansas valley. Nothing had occurred thus far during the trip to
imperil the safety of the caravan, nor was any attack by the savages
looked for.
Wooton's post comprehended the whole length of one side of the corral,
and his instructions were to shoot anything he saw moving outside of
the line of mules farthest from the wagons. The young sentry was
very vigilant. He did not feel at all sleepy, but eagerly watched for
something that might possibly come within the prescribed distance,
though not really expecting such a contingency.
About two o'clock he heard a slight noise, and saw something moving
about, sixty or seventy yards from where he was lying on the ground, to
which he had dropped the moment the strange sound reached his ears.
Of course, his first thoughts were of Indians, and the more he peered
through the darkness at the slowly moving object, the more convinced he
was that it must be a blood-thirsty savage.
He rose to his feet and blazed away, the shot rousing everbody, and all
came rushing with their guns to learn what the matter was.
Wooton told the wagon-master that he had seen what he supposed was an
Indian trying to slip up to the mules, and that he had killed him. Some
of the men crept very circumspectly to the spot where the supposed
dead savage was lying, while young Wooton remained at his post eagerly
waiting for their report. Presently he heard a voice cry out: "I'll be
d---d ef he hain't killed 'Old Jack!'"
"Old Jack" was one of the lead mules of one of the wagons. He had torn
up his picket-pin and strayed outside of the lines, with the result
that the faithful brute met his death at the hands of the sentry. Wooton
declared that he was not to be blamed; for the animal had disobeyed
orders, while he had strictly observed them![53]
At Pawnee Fork, a few days later, the caravan had a genuine tussle with
the Comanches. It was a bright moonlight night, and about two hundred
of the mounted savages attacked them. It was a rare thing for Indians
to begin a raid after dark, but they swept down on the unsuspecting
teamsters, yelling like a host of demons. They were armed with bows and
arrows generally, though a few of them had fusees.[54] They received a
warm greeting, although they were not expected, the guard noticing the
savages in time to prevent a stampede of the animals, which evidently
was the sole purpose for which they came, as they did not attempt to
break through the corral to get at the wagons. It was the mules they
were after. They charged among the men, vainly endeavouring to frighten
the animals and make them break loose, discharging showers of arrows as
they rode by. The camp was too hot for them, however, defended as it was
by old teamsters who had made the dangerous passage of the plains many
times before, and were up to all the Indian tactics. They failed to get
a single mule, but paid for their temerity by leaving three of their
party dead, just where they had been tumbled off their horses, not even
having time to carry the bodies off, as they usually do.
Wooton passed some time during the early days of his career at Bent's
Fort, in 1836-37. He was a great favourite with both of the proprietors,
and with them went to the several Indian villages, where he learned the
art of trading with the savages.
The winters of the years mentioned were noted for the incursions of the
Pawnees into the region of the fort. They always pretended friendship
for the whites, when any of them were inside of its sacred precincts,
but their whole manner changed when they by some stroke of fortune
caught a trapper or hunter alone on the prairie or in the foot-hills; he
was a dead man sure, and his scalp was soon dangling at the belt of his
cowardly assassins. Hardly a day passed without witnessing some poor
fellow running for the fort with a band of the red devils after him;
frequently he escaped the keen edge of their scalping-knife, but every
once in a while a man was killed. At one time, two herders who were with
their animals within fifty yards of the fort, going out to the grazing
ground, were killed and every hoof of stock run off.
A party from the fort, comprising only eight men, among whom was young
Wooton, made up for lost time with the Indians, at the crossing of
Pawnee Fork, the same place where he had had his first fight. The men
had set out from the fort for the purpose of meeting a small caravan of
wagons from the East, loaded with supplies for the Bents' trading post.
It happened that a band of sixteen Pawnees were watching for the arrival
of the train, too.[55] Wooton's party were well mounted, while the
Pawnees were on foot, and although the savages were two to one, the
advantage was decidedly in favour of the whites.
The Indians were armed with bows and arrows only, and while it was
an easy matter for the whites to keep out of the way of the shower of
missiles which the Indians commenced to hurl at them, the latter became
an easy prey to the unerring rifles of their assailants, who killed
thirteen out of the sixteen in a very short time. The remaining three
took French leave of their comrades at the beginning of the conflict,
and abandoning their arms rushed up to the caravan, which was just
appearing over a small divide, and gave themselves up. The Indian
custom was observed in their case,[56] although it was rarely that any
prisoners were taken in these conflicts on the Trail. Another curious
custom was also followed.[57] When the party encamped they were well
fed, and the next morning supplied with rations enough to last them
until they could reach one of their villages, and sent off to tell their
head chief what had become of the rest of his warriors.
Wooton had an adventure once while he was stationed at Bent's Fort
during a trading expedition with the Utes, on the Purgatoire, or
Purgatory River,[58] about ten or twelve miles from Trinidad. He had
taken with him, with others, a Shawnee Indian. Only a short time before
their departure from the fort, an Indian of that tribe had been murdered
by a Ute, and one day this Shawnee who was with Wooton spied a Ute, when
revenge inspired him, and he forthwith killed his enemy. Knowing that as
soon as the news of the shooting reached the Ute village, which was not
a great distance off, the whole tribe would be down upon him, Wooton
abandoned any attempt to trade with them and tried to get out of their
country as quickly as he could.
As he expected, the Utes followed on his trail, and came up with his
little party on a prairie where there was not the slightest chance to
ambush or hide. They had to fight, because they could not help it,
but resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible, as the Utes
outnumbered them twenty to one; Wooton having only eight men with him,
including the Shawnee.
The pack-animals, of which they had a great many, loaded with the goods
intended for the savages, were corralled in a circle, inside of which
the men hurried themselves and awaited the first assault of the foe.
In a few moments the Utes began to circle around the trappers and open
fire. The trappers promptly responded, and they made every shot count;
for all of the men, not even excepting the Shawnee, were experts with
the rifle. They did not mind the arrows which the Utes showered upon
them, as few, if any, reached to where they stood. The savages had a few
guns, but they were of the poorest quality; besides, they did not know
how to handle them then as they learned to do later, so their bullets
were almost as harmless as their arrows.
The trappers made terrible havoc among the Utes' horses, killing so many
of them that the savages in despair abandoned the fight and gave Wooton
and his men an opportunity to get away, which they did as rapidly as
possible.
The Raton Pass, through which the Old Trail ran, was a relatively fair
mountain road, but originally it was almost impossible for anything
in the shape of a wheeled vehicle to get over the narrow rock-ribbed
barrier; saddle horses and pack-mules could, however, make the trip
without much difficulty. It was the natural highway to southeastern
Colorado and northeastern New Mexico, but the overland coaches could not
get to Trinidad by the shortest route, and as the caravans also desired
to make the same line, it occurred to Uncle Dick that he would undertake
to hew out a road through the pass, which, barring grades, should be as
good as the average turnpike. He could see money in it for him, as he
expected to charge toll, keeping the road in repair at his own expense,
and he succeeded in procuring from the legislatures of Colorado and New
Mexico charters covering the rights and privileges which he demanded for
his project.
In the spring of 1866, Uncle Dick took up his abode on the top of the
mountains, built his home, and lived there until two years ago, when he
died at a very ripe old age.
The old trapper had imposed on himself anything but an easy task in
constructing his toll-road. There were great hillsides to cut out,
immense ledges of rocks to blast, bridges to build by the dozen, and
huge trees to fell, besides long lines of difficult grading to engineer.
Eventually Uncle Dick's road was a fact, but when it was completed, how
to make it pay was a question that seriously disturbed his mind. The
method he employed to solve the problem I will quote in his own words:
"Such a thing as a toll-road was unknown in the country at that time.
People who had come from the States understood, of course, that the
object of building a turnpike was to enable the owner to collect toll
from those who travelled over it, but I had to deal with a great many
people who seemed to think that they should be as free to travel over my
well-graded and bridged roadway as they were to follow an ordinary cow
path.
"I may say that I had five classes of patrons to do business with. There
was the stage company and its employees, the freighters, the military
authorities, who marched troops and transported supplies over the road,
the Mexicans, and the Indians.
"With the stage company, the military authorities, and the American
freighters I had no trouble. With the Indians, when a band came through
now and then, I didn't care to have any controversy about so small a
matter as a few dollars toll! Whenever they came along, the toll-gate
went up, and any other little thing I could do to hurry them on was done
promptly and cheerfully. While the Indians didn't understand anything
about the system of collecting tolls, they seemed to recognize the fact
that I had a right to control the road, and they would generally ride up
to the gate and ask permission to go through. Once in a while the chief
of a band would think compensation for the privilege of going through
in order, and would make me a present of a buckskin or something of that
sort.
"My Mexican patrons were the hardest to get along with. Paying for the
privilege of travelling over any road was something they were totally
unused to, and they did not take to it kindly. They were pleased with my
road and liked to travel over it, until they came to the toll-gate. This
they seemed to look upon as an obstruction that no man had a right to
place in the way of a free-born native of the mountain region. They
appeared to regard the toll-gate as a new scheme for holding up
travellers for the purpose of robbery, and many of them evidently
thought me a kind of freebooter, who ought to be suppressed by law.
"Holding these views, when I asked them for a certain amount of money,
before raising the toll-gate, they naturally differed with me very
frequently about the propriety of complying with the request.
"In other words, there would be at such times probably an honest
difference of opinion between the man who kept the toll-gate and the man
who wanted to get through it. Anyhow, there was a difference, and such
differences had to be adjusted. Sometimes I did it through diplomacy,
and sometimes I did it with a club. It was always settled one way,
however, and that was in accordance with the toll schedule, so that I
could never have been charged with unjust discrimination of rates."
Soon after the road was opened a company composed of Californians and
Mexicans, commanded by a Captain Haley, passed Uncle Dick's toll-gate
and house, escorting a large caravan of about a hundred and fifty
wagons. While they stopped there, a non-commissioned officer of the
party was brutally murdered by three soldiers, and Uncle Dick came very
near being a witness to the atrocious deed.
The murdered man was a Mexican, and his slayers were Mexicans too. The
trouble originated at Las Vegas, where the privates had been bound
and gagged, by order of the corporal, for creating a disturbance at a
fandango the evening before.
The name of the corporal was Juan Torres, and he came down to Uncle
Dick's one evening while the command was encamped on the top of the
mountain, accompanied by the three privates, who had already plotted to
kill him, though he had not the slightest suspicion of it.
Uncle Dick, in telling the story, said: "They left at an early hour,
going in an opposite direction from their camp, and I closed my doors
soon after, for the night. They had not been gone more than half an
hour, when I heard them talking not far from my house, and a few seconds
later I heard the half-suppressed cry of a man who has received his
death-blow.
"I had gone to bed, and lay for a minute or two thinking whether I
should get up and go to the rescue or insure my own safety by remaining
where I was.
"A little reflection convinced me that the murderers were undoubtedly
watching my house, to prevent any interference with the carrying out
of their plot, and that if I ventured out I should only endanger my own
life, while there was scarcely a possibility of my being able to save
the life of the man who had been assailed.
"In the morning, when I got up, I found the dead body of the corporal
stretched across Raton Creek, not more than a hundred yards from my
house.
"As I surmised, he had been struck with a heavy club or stone, and it
was at that time that I heard his cry. After that his brains had been
beaten out, and the body left where I had found it.
"I at once notified Captain Haley of the occurrence, and identified the
men who had been in company with the corporal, and who were undoubtedly
his murderers.
"They were taken into custody, and made a confession, in which they
stated that one of their number had stood at my door on the night of the
murder to shoot me if I had ventured out to assist the corporal. Two of
the scoundrels were hung afterward at Las Vegas, and the third sent to
prison for life."
The corporal was buried near where the soldiers were encamped at
the time of the tragedy, and it is his lonely grave which frequently
attracts the attention of the passengers on the Atchison, Topeka, and
Santa Fe trains, just before the Raton tunnel is reached, as they travel
southward.
In 1866-67 the Indians broke out, infesting all the most prominent
points of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and watching an opportunity to rob and
murder, so that the government freight caravans and the stages had to
be escorted by detachments of troops. Fort Larned was the western limit
where these escorts joined the outfits going over into New Mexico.
There were other dangers attending the passage of the Trail to
travellers by the stage besides the attacks of the savages. These were
the so-called road agents--masked robbers who regarded life as of little
worth in the accomplishment of their nefarious purposes. Particularly
were they common after the mines of New Mexico began to be operated by
Americans. The object of the bandits was generally the strong box of
the express company, which contained money and other valuables. They
did not, of course, hesitate to take what ready cash and jewelry the
passengers might happen to have upon their persons, and frequently their
hauls amounted to large sums.
When the coaches began to travel over Uncle Dick's toll-road, his house
was made a station, and he had many stage stories. He said:--
"Tavern-keepers in those days couldn't choose their guests, and we
entertained them just as they came along. The knights of the road would
come by now and then, order a meal, eat it hurriedly, pay for it,
and move on to where they had arranged to hold up a stage that night.
Sometimes they did not wait for it to get dark, but halted the stage,
went through the treasure box in broad daylight, and then ordered the
driver to move on in one direction, while they went off in another.
"One of the most daring and successful stage robberies that I remember
was perpetrated by two men, when the east-bound coach was coming up on
the south side of the Raton Mountains, one day about ten o'clock in the
forenoon.
"On the morning of the same day, a little after sunrise, two rather
genteel-looking fellows, mounted on fine horses, rode up to my house and
ordered breakfast. Being informed that breakfast would be ready in a few
minutes, they dismounted, hitched their horses near the door, and came
into the house.
"I knew then, just as well as I do now, they were robbers, but I had no
warrant for their arrest, and I should have hesitated about serving it
if I had, because they looked like very unpleasant men to transact that
kind of business with.
"Each of them had four pistols sticking in his belt and a repeating
rifle strapped on to his saddle. When they dismounted, they left their
rifles with the horses, but walked into the house and sat down at the
table, without laying aside the arsenal which they carried in their
belts.
"They had little to say while eating, but were courteous in their
behaviour, and very polite to the waiters. When they had finished
breakfast, they paid their bills, and rode leisurely up the mountain.
"It did not occur to me that they would take chances on stopping the
stage in daylight, or I should have sent some one to meet the incoming
coach, which I knew would be along shortly, to warn the driver and
passengers to be on the lookout for robbers.
"It turned out, however, that a daylight robbery was just what they had
in mind, and they made a success of it.
"About halfway down the New Mexico side of the mountain, where the
canyon is very narrow, and was then heavily wooded on either side, the
robbers stopped and waited for the coach. It came lumbering along by and
by, neither the driver nor the passengers dreaming of a hold-up.
"The first intimation they had of such a thing was when they saw two men
step into the road, one on each side of the stage, each of them holding
two cocked revolvers, one of which was brought to bear on the passengers
and the other on the driver, who were politely but very positively told
that they must throw up their hands without any unnecessary delay, and
the stage came to a standstill.
"There were four passengers in the coach, all men, but their hands went
up at the same instant that the driver dropped his reins and struck an
attitude that suited the robbers.
"Then, while one of the men stood guard, the other stepped up to the
stage and ordered the treasure box thrown off. This demand was
complied with, and the box was broken and rifled of its contents, which
fortunately were not of very great value.
"The passengers were compelled to hand out their watches and other
jewelry, as well as what money they had in their pockets, and then the
driver was directed to move up the road. In a minute after this the
robbers had disappeared with their booty, and that was the last seen of
them by that particular coach-load of passengers.
"The men who planned and executed that robbery were two cool,
level-headed, and daring scoundrels, known as 'Chuckle-luck' and
'Magpie.' They were killed soon after this occurrence, by a member of
their own band, whose name was Seward. A reward of a thousand dollars
had been offered for their capture, an this tempted Seward to kill them,
one night when they were asleep in camp.
"He then secured a wagon, into which he loaded the dead robbers,
and hauled them to Cimarron City, where he turned them over to the
authorities and received his reward."
Among the Arapahoes Wooton was called "Cut Hand," from the fact that he
had lost two fingers on his left hand by an accident in his childhood.
The tribe had the utmost veneration for the old trapper, and he was
perfectly safe at any time in their villages or camps; it had been the
request of a dying chief, who was once greatly favoured by Wooton, that
his warriors should never injure him although the nation might be at war
with all the rest of the whites in the world.
Uncle Dick died a few seasons ago, at the age of nearly ninety. He was
blind for some time, but a surgical operation partly restored his sight,
which made the old man happy, because he could look again upon the
beautiful scenery surrounding his mountain home, really the grandest in
the entire Raton Range. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad
had one of its freight locomotives named "Uncle Dick," in honour of the
veteran mountaineer, past whose house it hauled the heavy-laden trains
up the steep grade crossing into the valley beyond. At the time of its
baptism, now fifteen or sixteen years ago, it was the largest freight
engine in the world.
Old Bill Williams was another character of the early days of the Trail,
and was called so when Carson, Uncle Dick Wooton, and Maxwell were
comparatively young in the mountains. He was, at the time of their
advent in the remote West, one of the best known men there, and had been
famous for years as a hunter and trapper. Williams was better acquainted
with every pass in the Rockies than any other man of his time, and
only surpassed by Jim Bridger later. He was with General Fremont on his
exploring expedition across the continent; but the statement of the old
trappers, and that of General Fremont, in relation to his services then,
differ widely. Fremont admits Williams' knowledge of the country over
which he had wandered to have been very extensive, but when put to the
test on the expedition, he came very near sacrificing the lives of all.
This was probably owing to Williams' failing intellect, for when he
joined the great explorer he was past the meridian of life. Now the
old mountaineers contend that if Fremont had profited by the old man's
advice, he would never have run into the deathtrap which cost him three
men, and in which he lost all his valuable papers, his instruments,
and the animals which he and his party were riding. The expedition had
followed the Arkansas River to its source, and the general had selected
a route which he desired to pursue in crossing the mountains. It
was winter, and Williams explained to him that it was perfectly
impracticable to get over at that season. The general, however, ignoring
the statement, listened to another of his party, a man who had no such
experience but said that he could pilot the expedition. Before they had
fairly started, they were caught in one of the most terrible snowstorms
the region had ever witnessed, in which all their horses and mules were
literally frozen to death. Then, when it was too late, they turned
back, abandoning their instruments, and able only to carry along a
very limited stock of food. The storm continued to rage, so that even
Williams failed to prevent them from getting lost, and they wandered
about aimlessly for many days before they luckily arrived at Taos,
suffering seriously from exhaustion and hunger. Three of the men were
frozen to death on the return trip, and the remaining fifteen were
little better than dead when Uncle Dick Wooton happened to run across
them and piloted them into the village. It was immediately after
this disaster that the three most noted men in the mountains--Carson,
Maxwell, and Dick Owens--became the guides of the pathfinder, with whom
he had no trouble, and to whom he owed more of his success than history
has given them credit for.
At one period of his eventful career, while he lived in Missouri,
before he wandered to the mountains, Old Bill Williams was a Methodist
preacher; of which fact he boasted frequently while he trapped and
hunted with other pioneers. Whenever he related that portion of his
early life, he declared that he "was so well known in his circuit,
that the chickens recognized him as he came riding by the scattered
farmhouses, and the old roosters would crow 'Here comes Parson Williams!
One of us must be made ready for dinner.'"
Upon leaving the States, he travelled very extensively among the various
tribes of Indians who roamed over the great plains and in the mountains.
When sojourning with a certain band, he would invariably adopt their
manners and customs. Whenever he grew tired of that nation, he would
seek another and live as they lived. He had been so long among the
savages that he looked and talked like one, and had imbibed many of
their strange notions and curious superstitions.
To the missionaries he was very useful. He possessed the faculty of
easily acquiring languages that other white men failed to learn, and
could readily translate the Bible into several Indian dialects. His own
conduct, however, was in strange contrast with the precepts of the Holy
Book with which he was so familiar.
To the native Mexicans he was a holy terror and an unsolvable riddle.
They thought him possessed of an evil spirit. He at one time took up
his residence among them and commenced to trade. Shortly after he had
established himself and gathered in a stock of goods, he became involved
in a dispute with some of his customers in relation to his prices. Upon
this he apparently took an intense dislike to the people whom he had
begun to traffic with, and in his disgust tossed his whole mass of
goods into the street, and, taking up his rifle, left at once for the
mountains.
Among the many wild ideas he had imbibed from his long association with
the Indians, was faith in their belief in the transmigration of souls.
He used so to worry his brain for hours cogitating upon this intricate
problem concerning a future state, that he actually pretended to know
exactly the animal whose place he was destined to fill in the world
after he had shaken off this mortal human coil.
Uncle Dick Wooton told how once, when he, Old Bill Williams, and many
other trappers, were lying around the camp-fire one night, the strange
fellow, in a preaching style of delivery, related to them all how he was
to be changed into a buck elk and intended to make his pasture in the
very region where they then were. He described certain peculiarities
which would distinguish him from the common run of elk, and was very
careful to caution all those present never to shoot such an animal,
should they ever run across him.
Williams was regarded as a warm-hearted, brave, and generous man. He was
at last killed by the Indians, while trading with them, but has left his
name to many mountain peaks, rivers, and passes discovered by him.
Tom Tobin, one of the last of the famous trappers, hunters, and Indian
fighters to cross the dark river, flourished in the early days, when the
Rocky Mountains were a veritable terra incognita to nearly all excepting
the hardy employees of the several fur companies and the limited number
of United States troops stationed in their remote wilds.
Tom was an Irishman, quick-tempered, and a dead shot with either rifle,
revolver, or the formidable bowie-knife. He would fight at the drop of
the hat, but no man ever went away from his cabin hungry, if he had a
crust to divide; or penniless, if there was anything remaining in his
purse.
He, like Carson, was rather under the average stature, red-faced, and
lacking much of being an Adonis, but whole-souled, and as quick in his
movements as an antelope.
Tobin played an important role in avenging the death of the Americans
killed in the Taos massacre, at the storming of the Indian pueblo, but
his greatest achievement was the ending of the noted bandit Espinosa's
life, who, at the height of his career of blood, was the terror of the
whole mountain region.
At the time of the acquisition of New Mexico by the United States,
Espinosa, who was a Mexican, owning vast herds of cattle and sheep,
resided upon his ancestral hacienda in a sort of barbaric luxury, with a
host of semi-serfs, known as Peons, to do his bidding, as did the other
"Muy Ricos," the "Dons," so called, of his class of natives. These
self-styled aristocrats of the wild country all boasted of their
Castilian blue blood, claiming descent from the nobles of Cortez'
army, but the fact is, however, with rare exceptions, that their male
ancestors, the rank and file of that army, intermarried with the Aztec
women, and they were really only a mixture of Indian and Spanish.
It so happened that Espinosa met an adventurous American, who, with
hundreds of others, had been attached to the "Army of Occupation" in the
Mexican War, or had emigrated from the States to seek their fortunes in
the newly acquired and much over-rated territory.
The Mexican Don and the American became fast friends, the latter making
his home with his newly found acquaintance at the beautiful ranch in the
mountains, where they played the role of a modern Damon and Pythias.
Now with Don Espinosa lived his sister, a dark-eyed, bewitchingly
beautiful girl about seventeen years old, with whom the susceptible
American fell deeply in love, and his affection was reciprocated by the
maiden, with a fervour of which only the women of the race from which
she sprang are capable.
The fascinating American had brought with him from his home in one of
the New England States a large amount of money, for his parents were
rich, and spared no indulgence to their only son. He very soon unwisely
made Espinosa his confidant, and told him of the wealth he possessed.
One night after the American had retired to his chamber, adjoining that
of his host, he was surprised, shortly after he had gone to bed, by
discovering a man standing over him, whose hand had already grasped the
buckskin bag under his pillow which contained a considerable portion of
his gold and silver. He sprang from his couch and fired his pistol at
random in the darkness at the would-be robber.
Espinosa, for it was he, was wounded slightly, and, being either enraged
or frightened, he stabbed with his keen-pointed stiletto, which all
Mexicans then carried, the young man whom he had invited to become
his guest, and the blade entered the American's heart, killing him
instantly.
The report of the pistol-shot awakened the other members of the
household, who came rushing into the room just as the victim was
breathing his last. Among them was the sister of the murderer, who,
throwing herself on the body of her dead lover, poured forth the most
bitter curses upon her brother.
Espinosa, realizing the terrible position in which he had placed
himself, then and there determined to become an outlaw, as he could
frame no excuse for his wicked deed. He therefore hid himself at once
in the mountains, carrying with him, of course, the sack containing the
murdered American's money.
Some time necessarily passed before he could get together a sufficient
number of cut-throats and renegades from justice to enable him wholly
to defy the authorities; but at last he succeeded in rallying a strong
force to his standard of blood, and became the terror of the whole
region, equalling in boldness and audacity the terrible Joaquin, of
California notoriety in after years.
His headquarters were in the almost impregnable fastnesses of the Sangre
de Cristo Mountains, from which he made his invariably successful raids
into the rich valleys below. There was nothing too bloody for him to
shrink from; he robbed indiscriminately the overland coaches to Santa
Fe, the freight caravans of the traders and government, the ranches of
the Mexicans, or stole from the poorer classes, without any compunction.
He ran off horses, cattle, sheep--in fact, anything that he could
utilize. If murder was necessary to the completion of his work, he never
for a moment hesitated. Kidnapping, too, was a favourite pastime; but he
rarely carried away to his rendezvous any other than the most beautiful
of the New Mexican young girls, whom he held in his mountain den until
they were ransomed, or subjected to a fate more terrible.
In 1864 the bandit, after nearly ten years of unparalleled outlawry, was
killed by Tobin. Tom had been on his trail for some time, and at last
tracked him to a temporary camp in the foot-hills, which he accidentally
discovered in a grove of cottonwoods, by the smoke of the little
camp-fire as it curled in light wreaths above the trees.
Tobin knew that at the time there was but one of Espinosa's followers
with him, as he had watched them both for some days, waiting for an
opportunity to get the drop on them. To capture the pair of outlaws
alive never entered his thoughts; he was as cautious as brave, and to
get them dead was much safer and easier; so he crept up to the grove on
his belly, Indian fashion, and lying behind the cover of a friendly log,
waited until the noted desperado stood up, when he pulled the trigger
of his never-erring rifle, and Espinosa fell dead. A second shot
quickly disposed of his companion, and the old trapper's mission was
accomplished.
To be able to claim the reward offered by the authorities, Tom had to
prove, beyond the possibility of doubt, that those whom he had killed
were the dreaded bandit and one of his gang. He thought it best to cut
off their heads, which he deliberately did, and packing them on his mule
in a gunny-sack, he brought them into old Fort Massachusetts, afterward
Fort Garland, where they were speedily recognized; but whether Tom ever
received the reward, I have my doubts, as he never claimed that he did.
Tobin died only a short time ago, gray, grizzled, and venerable, his
memory respected by all who had ever met him.
James Hobbs, among all the men of whom I have presented a hurried
sketch, had perhaps a more varied experience than any of his colleagues.
During his long life on the frontier, he was in turn a prisoner among
the savages, and held for years by them; an excellent soldier in the war
with Mexico; an efficient officer in the revolt against Maximilian, when
the attempt of Napoleon to establish an empire on this continent, with
that unfortunate prince at its head, was defeated; an Indian fighter; a
miner; a trapper; a trader, and a hunter.
Hobbs was born in the Shawnee nation, on the Big Blue, about
twenty-three miles from Independence, Missouri. His early childhood was
entrusted to one of his father's slaves. Reared on the eastern limit of
the border, he very soon became familiar with the use of the rifle and
shot-gun; in fact, he was the principal provider of all the meat which
the family consumed.
In 1835, when only sixteen, he joined a fur-trading expedition under
Charles Bent, destined for the fort on the Arkansas River built by him
and his brothers.
They arrived at the crossing of the Santa Fe Trail over Pawnee Fork
without special adventure, but there they had the usual tussle with
the savages, and Hobbs killed his first Indian. Two of the traders were
pierced with arrows, but not seriously hurt, and the Pawnees--the tribe
which had attacked the outfit--were driven away discomfited, not having
been successful in stampeding a single animal.
When the party reached the Caches, on the Upper Arkansas, a smoke rising
on the distant horizon, beyond the sand hills south of the river, made
them proceed cautiously; for to the old plainsmen, that far-off wreath
indicated either the presence of the savages, or a signal to others at a
greater distance of the approach of the trappers.
The next morning, nothing having occurred to delay the march, buffalo
began to appear, and Hobbs killed three of them. A cow, which he had
wounded, ran across the Trail in front of the train, and Hobbs dashed
after her, wounding her with his pistol, and then she started to swim
the river. Hobbs, mad at the jeers which greeted him from the men at his
missing the animal, started for the last wagon, in which was his rifle,
determined to kill the brute that had enraged him. As he was riding
along rapidly, Bent cried out to him,--
"Don't try to follow that cow; she is going straight for that smoke, and
it means Injuns, and no good in 'em either."
"But I'll get her," answered Hobbs, and he called to his closest
comrade, John Baptiste, a boy of about his own age, to go and get his
pack-mule and come along. "All right," responded John; and together the
two inexperienced youngsters crossed the river against the protests of
the veteran leader of the party.
After a chase of about three miles, the boys came up with the cow, but
she turned and showed fight. Finally Hobbs, by riding around her, got
in a good shot, which killed her. Jumping off their animals, both boys
busied themselves in cutting out the choice pieces for their supper,
packed them on the mule, and started back for the train. But it had
suddenly become very dark, and they were in doubt as to the direction of
the Trail.
Soon night came on so rapidly that neither could they see their own
tracks by which they had come, nor the thin fringe of cottonwoods that
lined the bank of the stream. Then they disagreed as to which was the
right way. John succeeded in persuading Hobbs that he was correct, and
the latter gave in, very much against his own belief on the subject.
They travelled all night, and when morning came, were bewilderingly
lost. Then Hobbs resolved to retrace the tracks by which, now that the
sun was up, he saw that they had been going south, right away from the
Arkansas. Suddenly an immense herd of buffalo, containing at least two
thousand, dashed by the boys, filling the air with the dust raised by
their clattering hoofs, and right behind them rode a hundred Indians,
shooting at the stampeded animals with their arrows.
"Get into that ravine!" shouted Hobbs to his companion. "Throw away that
meat, and run for your life!"
It was too late; just as they arrived at the brink of the hollow, they
looked back, and close behind them were a dozen Comanches.
The savages rode up, and one of the party said in very good English,
"How d' do?"
"How d' do?" Hobbs replied, thinking it would be better to be as polite
as the Indian, though the state of the latter's health just then was a
matter of small concern.
"Texas?" inquired the Indian. The Comanches had good reasons to hate the
citizens of that country, and it was a lucky thing for Hobbs that he had
heard of their prejudice from the trappers, and possessed presence
of mind to remember it. He replied promptly: "No, friendly; going to
establish a trading-post for the Comanches."
"Friendly? Better go with us, though. Got any tobacco?"
Hobbs had some of the desired article, and he was not long in handing it
over to his newly found friend.
Both of the boys were escorted to the temporary camp of the savages, but
the original number of their captors was increased to over a thousand
before they arrived there. They were supplied with some dried
buffalo-meat, and then taken to the lodge of Old Wolf, the head chief of
the tribe.
A council was called immediately to consider what disposition should be
made of them, but nothing was decided upon, and the assembly of warriors
adjourned until morning. Hobbs told me that it was because Old Wolf had
imbibed too much brandy, a bottle of which Baptiste had brought with
him from the train, and which the thirsty warrior saw suspended from
his saddle-bow as they rode up to the chief's lodge; the aged rascal got
beastly drunk.
About noon of the next day, after the dispersion of the council,
the boys were informed that if they were not Texans, would behave
themselves, and not attempt to run away, they might stay with the
Indians, who would not kill them; but a string of dried scalps was
pointed out, hanging on a lodge pole, of some Mexicans whom they had
captured and put to herding their ponies, and who had tried to get away.
They succeeded in making a few miles; the Indians chased them, after
deciding in council, that, if caught, only their scalps were to be
brought back. The moral of this was that the same fate awaited the boys
if they followed the example of the foolish Mexicans.
Hobbs had excellent sense and judgment, and he knew that it would be the
height of folly for him and Baptiste, mere boys, to try and reach either
Bent's Fort or the Missouri River, not having the slightest knowledge of
where they were situated.
Hobbs grew to be a great favourite with the Comanches; was given the
daughter of Old Wolf in marriage, became a great chief, fought many hard
battles with his savage companions, and at last, four years after, was
redeemed by Colonel Bent, who paid Old Wolf a small ransom for him
at the Fort, where the Indians had come to trade. Baptiste, whom the
Indians never took a great fancy to, because he did not develop into
a great warrior, was also ransomed by Bent, his price being only an
antiquated mule.
At Bent's Fort Hobbs went out trapping under the leadership of Kit
Carson, and they became lifelong friends. In a short time Hobbs earned
the reputation of being an excellent mountaineer, trapper, and as an
Indian fighter he was second to none, his education among the Comanches
having trained him in all the strategy of the savages.
After going through the Mexican War with an excellent record, Hobbs
wandered about the country, now engaged in mining in old Mexico, then
fighting the Apaches under the orders of the governor of Chihuahua, and
at the end of the campaign going back to the Pacific coast, where he
entered into new pursuits. Sometimes he was rich, then as poor as one
can imagine. He returned to old Mexico in time to become an active
partisan in the revolt which overthrew the short-lived dynasty of
Maximilian, and was present at the execution of that unfortunate prince.
Finally he retired to the home of his childhood in the States, where he
died a few months ago, full of years and honours.
William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," is one of the famous plainsmen, of
later days, however, than Carson, Bridger, John Smith, Maxwell, and
others whom I have mentioned. The mantle of Kit Carson, perhaps, fits
more perfectly the shoulders of Cody than those of any other of the
great frontiersman's successors, and he has had some experiences that
surpassed anything which fell to their lot.
He was born in Iowa, in 1845, and when barely seven years old his father
emigrated to Kansas, then far remote from civilization.
Thirty-six years ago, he was employed as guide and scout in an
expedition against the Kiowas and Comanches, and his line of duty took
him along the Santa Fe Trail all one summer when not out as a scout,
carrying despatches between Fort Lyon and Fort Larned, the most
important military posts on the great highway as well as to far-off Fort
Leavenworth on the Missouri River, the headquarters of the department.
Fort Larned was the general rendezvous of all the scouts on the Kansas
and Colorado plains, the chief of whom was a veteran interpreter and
guide, named Dick Curtis.
When Cody first reported there for his responsible duty, a large camp of
the Kiowas and Comanches was established within sight of the fort,
whose warriors had not as yet put on their war-paint, but were evidently
restless and discontented under the restraint of their chiefs. Soon
those leading men, Satanta, Lone Wolf, Satank, and others of lesser
note, grew rather impudent and haughty in their deportment, and they
were watched with much concern. The post was garrisoned by only two
companies of infantry and one of cavalry.
General Hazen, afterward chief of the signal service in Washington, was
at Fort Larned at the time, endeavouring to patch up a peace with the
savages, who seemed determined to break out. Cody was special scout to
the general, and one morning he was ordered to accompany him as far as
Fort Zarah, on the Arkansas, near the mouth of Walnut Creek, in what
is now Barton County, Kansas, the general intending to go on to Fort
Harker, on the Smoky Hill. In making these trips of inspection, with
incidental collateral duties, the general usually travelled in an
ambulance, but on this journey he rode in a six-mule army-wagon,
escorted by a detachment of a score of infantry. It was a warm August
day, and an early start was made, which enabled them to reach Fort
Zarah, over thirty miles distant, by noon. After dinner, the general
proposed to go on to Fort Harker, forty-one miles away, without any
escort, leaving orders for Cody to return to Fort Larned the next day,
with the soldiers. But Cody, ever impatient of delay when there was work
to do, notified the sergeant in charge of the men that he was going back
that very afternoon. I tell the story of his trip as he has often told
it to me, and as he has written it in his autobiography.
"I accordingly saddled up my mule and set out for Fort Larned. I
proceeded on uninterruptedly until I got about halfway between the
two posts, when, at Pawnee Rock, I was suddenly jumped by about forty
Indians, who came dashing up to me, extending their hands and saying,
'How! How!' They were some of the Indians who had been hanging around
Fort Larned in the morning. I saw they had on their war-paint, and were
evidently now out on the war-path.
"My first impulse was to shake hands with them, as they seemed so
desirous of it. I accordingly reached out my hand to one of them, who
grasped it with a tight grip, and jerked me violently forward;
then pulled my mule by the bridle, and in a moment I was completely
surrounded. Before I could do anything at all, they had seized my
revolvers from the holsters, and I received a blow on the head from a
tomahawk which nearly rendered me senseless. My gun, which was lying
across the saddle, was snatched from its place, and finally the Indian
who had hold of the bridle started off toward the Arkansas River,
leading the mule, which was being lashed by the other Indians, who were
following. The savages were all singing, yelling, and whooping, as only
Indians can do, when they are having their little game all their own
way. While looking toward the river, I saw on the opposite side an
immense village moving along the bank, and then I became convinced that
the Indians had left the post and were now starting out on the war-path.
My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the
shallow water they continued to lash the mule and myself. Finally they
brought me before an important-looking body of Indians, who proved to be
the chiefs and principal warriors. I soon recognized old Satanta among
them, as well as others whom I knew, and supposed it was all over with
me.
"The Indians were jabbering away so rapidly among themselves that I
could not understand what they were saying. Satanta at last asked me
where I had been. As good luck would have it, a happy thought struck me.
I told him I had been after a herd of cattle, or 'whoa-haws,' as they
called them. It so happened that the Indians had been out of meat for
several weeks, as the large herd of cattle which had been promised them
had not yet arrived, although they expected them.
"The moment I mentioned that I had been searching for 'whoa-haws,' old
Satanta began questioning me in a very eager manner. He asked me where
the cattle were, and I replied that they were back a few miles, and
that I had been sent by General Hazen to inform him that the cattle
were coming, and that they were intended for his people. This seemed
to please the old rascal, who also wanted to know if there were any
soldiers with the herd, and my reply was that there were. Thereupon the
chiefs held a consultation, and presently Satanta asked me if General
Hazen had really said that they should have the cattle. I replied in the
affirmative, and added that I had been directed to bring the cattle to
them. I followed this up with a very dignified inquiry, asking why his
young men had treated me so. The old wretch intimated that it was only a
'freak of the boys'; that the young men wanted to see if I was brave; in
fact, they had only meant to test me, and the whole thing was a joke.
"The veteran liar was now beating me at my own game of lying, but I
was very glad, as it was in my favour. I did not let him suspect that
I doubted his veracity, but I remarked that it was a rough way to treat
friends. He immediately ordered his young men to give back my arms, and
scolded them for what they had done. Of course, the sly old dog was now
playing it very fine, as he was anxious to get possession of the cattle,
with which he believed there was a 'heap' of soldiers coming. He had
concluded it was not best to fight the soldiers if he could get the
cattle peaceably.
"Another council was held by the chiefs, and in a few minutes old
Satanta came and asked me if I would go to the river and bring the
cattle down to the opposite side, so that they could get them. I
replied, 'Of course; that's my instruction from General Hazen.'
"Satanta said I must not feel angry at his young men, for they had
only been acting in fun. He then inquired if I wished any of his men to
accompany me to the cattle herd. I replied that it would be better
for me to go alone, and then the soldiers could keep right on to Fort
Larned, while I could drive the herd down on the bottom. Then wheeling
my mule around, I was soon recrossing the river, leaving old Satanta
in the firm belief that I had told him a straight story, and that I was
going for the cattle which existed only in my imagination.
"I hardly knew what to do, but thought that if I could get the river
between the Indians and myself, I would have a good three-quarters of a
mile the start of them, and could then make a run for Fort Larned, as my
mule was a good one.
"Thus far my cattle story had panned out all right; but just as I
reached the opposite bank of the river, I looked behind me and saw that
ten or fifteen Indians, who had begun to suspect something crooked, were
following me. The moment that my mule secured a good foothold on the
bank, I urged him into a gentle lope toward the place where, according
to my statement, the cattle were to be brought. Upon reaching a little
ridge and riding down the other side out of view, I turned my mule and
headed him westward for Fort Larned. I let him out for all that he was
worth, and when I came out on a little rise of ground, I looked back and
saw the Indian village in plain sight. My pursuers were now on the ridge
which I had passed over, and were looking for me in every direction.
"Presently they spied me, and seeing that I was running away, they
struck out in swift pursuit, and in a few minutes it became painfully
evident they were gaining on me. They kept up the chase as far as Ash
Creek, six miles from Fort Larned. I still led them half a mile, as
their horses had not gained much during the last half of the race. My
mule seemed to have gotten his second wind, and as I was on the old
road, I played the spurs and whip on him without much cessation; the
Indians likewise urged their steeds to the utmost.
"Finally, upon reaching the dividing ridge between Ash Creek and Pawnee
Fork, I saw Fort Larned only four miles away. It was now sundown, and I
heard the evening gun. The troops of the small garrison little dreamed
there was a man flying for his life and trying to reach the post. The
Indians were once more gaining on me, and when I crossed the Pawnee Fork
two miles from the post, two or three of them were only a quarter of a
mile behind me. Just as I gained the opposite bank of the stream, I
was overjoyed to see some soldiers in a government wagon only a short
distance off. I yelled at the top of my voice, and riding up to them,
told them that the Indians were after me.
"'Denver Jim,' a well-known scout, asked me how many there were, and
upon my informing him that there were about a dozen, he said: 'Let's
drive the wagon into the trees, and we'll lay for 'em.' The team was
hurriedly driven among the trees and low box-elder bushes, and there
secreted.
"We did not have to wait long for the Indians, who came dashing up,
lashing their ponies, which were panting and blowing. We let two of them
pass by, but we opened a lively fire on the next three or four, killing
two of them at the first crack. The others following discovered that
they had run into an ambush, and whirling off into the brush, they
turned and ran back in the direction whence they had come. The two who
had passed by heard the firing and made their escape. We scalped the two
that we had killed, and appropriated their arms and equipments; then,
catching their ponies, we made our way into the Post."