That portion of the great central plains which radiates from Pawnee
Rock, including the Big Bend of the Arkansas, thirteen miles distant,
where that river makes a sudden sweep to the southeast, and the
beautiful valley of the Walnut, in all its vast area of more than a
million square acres, was from time immemorial a sort of debatable land,
occupied by none of the Indian tribes, but claimed by all to hunt in;
for it was a famous pasturage of the buffalo.
None of the various bands had the temerity to attempt its permanent
occupancy; for whenever hostile tribes met there, which was of frequent
occurrence, in their annual hunt for their winter's supply of meat, a
bloody battle was certain to ensue. The region referred to has been the
scene of more sanguinary conflicts between the different Indians of the
plains, perhaps, than any other portion of the continent. Particularly
was it the arena of war to the death, when the Pawnees met their
hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes.
Pawnee Rock was a spot well calculated by nature to form, as it has
done, an important rendezvous and ambuscade for the prowling savages of
the prairies, and often afforded them, especially the once powerful and
murderous Pawnees whose name it perpetuates, a pleasant little retreat
or eyrie from which to watch the passing Santa Fe traders, and dash down
upon them like hawks, to carry off their plunder and their scalps.
Through this once dangerous region, close to the silent Arkansas, and
running under the very shadow of the rock, the Old Trail wound its
course. Now, at this point, it is the actual road-bed of the Atchison,
Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, so strangely are the past and present
transcontinental highways connected here.
Who, among bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten
that most sensational of all the miserably executed illustrations in
the geographies of fifty years ago, "The Santa Fe Traders attacked by
Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock,
which formed a sort of nondescript shadow in the background of a crudely
drawn representation of the dangers of the Trail.
If this once giant sentinel[61] of the plains might speak, what a story
it could tell of the events that have happened on the beautiful prairie
stretching out for miles at its feet!
In the early fall, when the rock was wrapped in the soft amber haze
which is a distinguishing characteristic of the incomparable Indian
summer on the plains; or in the spring, when the mirage weaves its
mysterious shapes, it loomed up in the landscape as if it were a huge
mountain, and to the inexperienced eye appeared as if it were the abrupt
ending of a well-defined range. But when the frost came, and the mists
were dispelled; when the thin fringe of timber on the Walnut, a few
miles distant, had doffed its emerald mantle, and the grass had grown
yellow and rusty, then in the golden sunlight of winter, the rock sank
down to its normal proportions, and cut the clear blue of the sky with
sharply marked lines.
In the days when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, the Pawnees
were the most formidable tribe on the eastern central plains, and the
freighters and trappers rarely escaped a skirmish with them either at
the crossing of the Walnut, Pawnee Rock, the Fork of the Pawnee, or at
Little and Big Coon creeks. To-day what is left of the historic hill
looks down only upon peaceful homes and fruitful fields, whereas for
hundreds of years it witnessed nothing but battle and death, and almost
every yard of brown sod at its base covered a skeleton. In place of the
horrid yell of the infuriated savage, as he wrenched off the reeking
scalp of his victim, the whistle of the locomotive and the pleasant
whirr of the reaping-machine is heard; where the death-cry of the
painted warrior rang mournfully over the silent prairie, the waving
grain is singing in beautiful rhythm as it bows to the summer breeze.
Pawnee Rock received its name in a baptism of blood, but there are
many versions as to the time and sponsors. It was there that Kit Carson
killed his first Indian, and from that fight, as he told me himself, the
broken mass of red sandstone was given its distinctive title.
It was late in the spring of 1826; Kit was then a mere boy, only
seventeen years old, and as green as any boy of his age who had never
been forty miles from the place where he was born. Colonel Ceran St.
Vrain, then a prominent agent of one of the great fur companies, was
fitting out an expedition destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains, the
members of which, all trappers, were to obtain the skins of the buffalo,
beaver, otter, mink, and other valuable fur-bearing animals that then
roamed in immense numbers on the vast plains or in the hills, and were
also to trade with the various tribes of Indians on the borders of
Mexico.
Carson joined this expedition, which was composed of twenty-six mule
wagons, some loose stock, and forty-two men. The boy was hired to help
drive the extra animals, hunt game, stand guard, and to make himself
generally useful, which, of course, included fighting Indians if any
were met with on the long route.
The expedition left Fort Osage one bright morning in May in excellent
spirits, and in a few hours turned abruptly to the west on the broad
Trail to the mountains. The great plains in those early days were
solitary and desolate beyond the power of description; the Arkansas
River sluggishly followed the tortuous windings of its treeless banks
with a placidness that was awful in its very silence; and whoso traced
the wanderings of that stream with no companion but his own thoughts,
realized in all its intensity the depth of solitude from which Robinson
Crusoe suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as the ocean, the
weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of the horizon, and
the mirage created weird pictures in the landscape, distorted distances
and objects which continually annoyed and deceived. Despite its
loneliness, however, there was then, and ever has been for many men, an
infatuation for those majestic prairies that once experienced is never
lost, and it came to the boyish heart of Kit, who left them but with
life, and full of years.
There was not much variation in the eternal sameness of things during
the first two weeks, as the little train moved day after day through
the wilderness of grass, its ever-rattling wheels only intensifying
the surrounding monotony. Occasionally, however, a herd of buffalo was
discovered in the distance, their brown, shaggy sides contrasting with
the never-ending sea of verdure around them. Then young Kit, and two or
three others of the party who were detailed to supply the teamsters and
trappers with meat, would ride out after them on the best of the extra
horses which were always kept saddled and tied together behind the
last wagon for services of this kind. Kit, who was already an excellent
horseman and a splendid shot with the rifle, would soon overtake them,
and topple one after another of their huge fat carcasses over on the
prairie until half a dozen or more were lying dead. The tender humps,
tongues, and other choice portions were then cut out and put in a wagon
which had by that time reached them from the train, and the expedition
rolled on.
So they marched for about three weeks, when they arrived at the crossing
of the Walnut, where they saw the first signs of Indians. They had
halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted,
and the men just about to indulge in their refreshing coffee, when
suddenly half a dozen Pawnees, mounted on their ponies, hideously
painted and uttering the most demoniacal yells, rushed out of the tall
grass on the river-bottom, where they had been ambushed, and swinging
their buffalo-robes, attempted to stampede the herd picketed near the
camp. The whole party were on their feet in an instant with rifles in
hand, and all the savages got for their trouble were a few well-deserved
shots as they hurriedly scampered back to the river and over into the
sand hills on the other side, soon to be out of sight.
The expedition travelled sixteen miles next day, and camped at
Pawnee Rock, where, after the experience of the evening before, every
precaution was taken to prevent a surprise by the savages. The wagons
were formed into a corral, so that the animals could be secured in the
event of a prolonged fight; the guards were drilled by the colonel, and
every man slept with his rifle for a bed-fellow, for the old trappers
knew that the Indians would never remain satisfied with their defeat on
the Walnut, but would seize the first favourable opportunity to renew
their attack.
At dark the sentinels were placed in position, and to young Kit fell
the important post immediately in front of the south face of the Rock,
nearly two hundred yards from the corral; the others being at prominent
points on top, and on the open prairie on either side. All who were not
on duty had long since been snoring heavily, rolled up in their blankets
and buffalo-robes, when at about half-past eleven, one of the guard gave
the alarm, "Indians!" and ran the mules that were nearest him into the
corral. In a moment the whole company turned out at the report of a
rifle ringing on the clear night air, coming from the direction of the
rock. The men had gathered at the opening to the corral, waiting for
developments, when Kit came running in, and as soon as he was near
enough, the colonel asked him whether he had seen any Indians. "Yes,"
Kit replied, "I killed one of the red devils; I saw him fall!"
The alarm proved to be false; there was no further disturbance that
night, so the party returned to their beds, and the sentinels to their
several posts, Kit of course to his place in front of the Rock.
Early the next morning, before breakfast even, all were so anxious to
see Kit's dead Indian, that they went out en masse to where he was still
stationed, and instead of finding a painted Pawnee, as was expected,
they found the boy's riding mule dead, shot right through the head.
Kit felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, and it was a
long time before he heard the last of his midnight adventure and his
raid on his own mule. But he always liked to tell the "balance of the
story," as he termed it, and this is his version: "I had not slept
any the night before, for I stayed awake watching to get a shot at the
Pawnees that tried to stampede our animals, expecting they would return;
and I hadn't caught a wink all day, as I was out buffalo hunting, so
I was awfully tired and sleepy when we arrived at Pawnee Rock that
evening, and when I was posted at my place at night, I must have gone
to sleep leaning against the rocks; at any rate, I was wide enough awake
when the cry of Indians was given by one of the guard. I had picketed
my mule about twenty steps from where I stood, and I presume he had been
lying down; all I remember is that the first thing I saw after the alarm
was something rising up out of the grass, which I thought was an Indian.
I pulled the trigger; it was a centre shot, and I don't believe the mule
ever kicked after he was hit!"
The next morning about daylight, a band of Pawnees attacked the train in
earnest, and kept the little command busy all that day, the next night,
and until the following midnight, nearly three whole days, the mules all
the time being shut in the corral without food or water. At midnight of
the second day the colonel ordered the men to hitch up and attempt to
drive on to the crossing of Pawnee Fork, thirteen miles distant.[62]
They succeeded in getting there, fighting their way without the loss of
any of their men or animals. The Trail crossed the creek in the shape of
a horseshoe, or rather, in consequence of the double bend of the stream
as it empties into the Arkansas, the road crossed it twice. In making
this passage, dangerous on account of its crookedness, Kit said many
of the wagons were badly mashed up; for the mules were so thirsty that
their drivers could not control them. The train was hardly strung out on
the opposite bank when the Indians poured in a volley of bullets and
a shower of arrows from both sides of the Trail; but before they could
load and fire again, a terrific charge was on them, led by Colonel St.
Vrain and Carson. It required only a few moments more to clean out the
persistent savages, and the train went on. During the whole fight the
little party lost four men killed and seven wounded, and eleven mules
killed (not counting Kit's), and twenty badly wounded.
A great many years ago, very early in the days of the trade with New
Mexico, seven Americans were surprised by a large band of Pawnees in
the vicinity of the Rock and were compelled to retreat to it for safety.
There, without water, and with but a small quantity of provisions, they
were besieged by their blood-thirsty foes for two days, when a party of
traders coming on the Trail relieved them from their perilous situation
and the presence of their enemy. There were several graves on its summit
when I first saw Pawnee Rock; but whether they contained the bones of
savages or those of white men, I do not know.
Carson related to me another terrible fight that took place at the rock,
when he first became a trapper. He was not a participant, but knew the
parties well. About twenty-nine years ago, Kit, Jack Henderson, who
was agent for the Ute Indians, Lucien B. Maxwell, General Carleton and
myself were camped halfway up the rugged sides of Old Baldy, in the
Raton Range. The night was intensely cold, although in midsummer, and
we were huddled around a little fire of pine knots, more than seven
thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit.
Kit, or "the General," as every one called him, was in a good humour for
talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out; for
usually he was the most reticent of men in relating his own exploits.
A casual remark made by Maxwell opened Carson's mouth, and he said he
remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever got into.[63] So he
made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette, and related the following; but the
names of the old trappers who were the principals in the fight I have
unfortunately forgotten.
Two men had been trapping in the Powder River country during one winter
with unusually good luck, and they got an early start with their furs,
which they were going to take to Weston, on the Missouri, one of the
principal trading points in those days. They walked the whole distance,
driving their pack-mules before them, and experienced no trouble
until they struck the Arkansas valley at Pawnee Rock. There they were
intercepted by a war-party of about sixty Pawnees. Both of the trappers
were notoriously brave and both dead shots. Before they arrived at the
rock, to which they were finally driven, they killed two of the Indians,
and had not themselves received a scratch. They had plenty of powder, a
pouch full of balls each, and two good rifles. They also had a couple of
jack-rabbits for food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls
of the front of the rock made them a natural fortification, an almost
impregnable one against Indians.
They succeeded in securely picketing their animals at the side of the
rock, where they could protect them by their unerring rifles from being
stampeded. After the Pawnees had "treed" the two trappers on the rock,
they picked up their dead, and packed them off to their camp at the
mouth of a little ravine a short distance away. In a few moments back
they all came, mounted on fast ponies, with their war-paint and other
fixings on, ready to renew the fight. They commenced to circle around
the place, coming closer, Indian fashion, every time, until they got
within easy rifle-range, when they slung themselves on the opposite
sides of their horses, and in that position opened fire. Their arrows
fell like a hailstorm, but as good luck would have it, none of them
struck, and the balls from their rifles were wild, as the Indians in
those days were not very good shots; the rifle was a new weapon to them.
The trappers at first were afraid the savages would surely try to kill
the mules, but soon reflected that the Indians believed they had the
"dead-wood" on them, and the mules would come handy after they had been
scalped; so they felt satisfied their animals were safe for a while
anyhow. The men were taking in all the chances, however; both kept their
eyes skinned, and whenever one of them saw a stray leg or head, he drew
a bead on it and when he pulled the trigger, its owner tumbled over with
a yell of rage from his companions.
Whenever the savages attempted to carry off their dead,[64] the two
trappers took advantage of the opportunity, and poured in their shots
every time with telling effect.
By this time night had fallen, and the Indians did not seem anxious to
renew the fight after dark; but they kept their mounted patrols on
every side of the rock, at a respectable distance from such dead shots,
watching to prevent the escape of the besieged. As they were hungry,
one of the men went down under cover of the darkness to get a few
buffalo-chips with which to cook their rabbit, and to change the animals
to where they could get fresh grass. He returned safely to the summit of
the rock, where a little fire was made and their supper prepared. They
had to go without water all the time, and so did the mules; the men
did not mind the want of it themselves, but they could not help pitying
their poor animals that had had none since they left camp early that
morning. It was no use to worry, though; the nearest water was at the
river, and it would have been certain death to have attempted to go
there unless the savages cleared out, and from all appearances they had
no idea of doing that.
What gave the trappers more cause for alarm than anything else, was
the fear that the Indians would fire the prairie in the morning, and
endeavour to smoke them out or burn them up. The grass was in just the
condition to make a lively blaze, and they might escape the flames, and
then they might not. It can well be imagined how eagerly they watched
for the dawn of another day, perhaps the last for them.
The first gray streaks of light had hardly peeped above the horizon,
when, with an infernal yell, the Indians broke for the rock, and the
trappers were certain that some new project had entered their heads. The
wind was springing up pretty freshly, and nature seemed to conspire with
the red devils, if they really meant to burn the trappers out; and from
the movements of the savages, that was what they expected. The Indians
kept at a respectful distance from the range of the trappers' rifles,
who chafed because they could not stop some of the infernal yelling with
a few well-directed bullets, but they had to choke their rage, and
watch events closely. During a temporary lull in hostilities, one of the
trappers took occasion to crawl down to where the mules were, and shift
them to the west side of the rock, where the wall was the highest; so
that the flame and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much
danger as where they were picketed before. He had just succeeded in
doing this, and, tearing up the long grass for several yards around the
animals, was in the act of going back, when his partner yelled out to
him: "Look out! D---n 'em, they've fired the prairie!" He was back on
the top of the rock in another moment, and took in at a glance what was
coming.
The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand; the sun was
shining with all the power of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke as
they rolled down from the north, tinting them a glorious crimson.
The two trappers had barely time to get under the shelter of a large
projecting point of the rocky wall, when the wind and smoke swept down
to the ground, and instantly they were enveloped in the darkness of
midnight. They could not discern a single object; neither Indians,
horses, the prairie, nor the sun; and what a terrible wind!
The trappers stood breathless, clinging to the projections of rock, and
did not realize the fire was so near them until they were struck in the
face by pieces of burning buffalo-chips that were carried toward them
with the rapidity of the awful wind. They were now badly scared, for
it seemed as if they were to be suffocated. They were saved, however,
almost miraculously; the sheet of flame passed them twenty yards away,
as the wind fortunately shifted at the moment the fire reached the foot
of the rock. The darkness was so intense that they did not discover the
flame; they only knew that they were saved as the clear sky greeted them
from behind the dense smoke-cloud.
Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap, and
perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side of the
rock, so as to steal around to the other side where the mules were, and
either cut them loose or crawl up on the trappers while bewildered in
the smoke and kill them, if they were not already dead. But they had
proceeded only a few rods on their little expedition, when the terrible
darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them and soon the flames, from
which there was no possible escape.
All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too.
Only a few buffalo were visible in that region before the fire, but
even they were killed. The path of the flames, as was discovered by the
caravans that passed over the Trail a few days afterward, was marked
with the crisp and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys,
grouse, and every variety of small birds indigenous to the region.
Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it had met escaped its fury.
The fire assumed such gigantic proportions, and moved with such rapidity
before the wind, that even the Arkansas River did not check its path for
a moment; it was carried as readily across as if the stream had not been
in its way.
The first thought of the trappers on the rock was for their poor mules.
One crawled to where they were, and found them badly singed, but not
seriously injured. The men began to brighten up again when they knew
that their means of transportation were relatively all right, and
themselves also, and they took fresh courage, beginning to believe they
should get out of their bad scrape after all.
In the meantime the Indians, with the exception of three or four left
to guard the rock, so as to prevent the trappers from getting away, had
gone back to their camp in the ravine, and were evidently concocting
some new scheme for the discomfort of the besieged trappers. The latter
waited patiently two or three hours for the development of events,
snatching a little sleep by turns, which they needed much; for both
were worn out by their constant watching. At last when the sun was about
three hours high, the Indians commenced their infernal howling again,
and then the trappers knew they had decided upon something; so they were
on the alert in a moment to discover what it was, and euchre them if
possible.
The devils this time had tied all their ponies together, covered them
with branches of trees that they had gone up on the Walnut for, packed
some lodge-skins on these, and then, driving the living breastworks
before them, moved toward the rock. They proceeded cautiously but
surely, and matters began to look very serious for the trappers. As the
strange cavalcade approached, a trapper raised his rifle, and a masked
pony tumbled over on the scorched sod dead. As one of the Indians ran
to cut him loose, the other trapper took him off his feet by a
well-directed shot; he never uttered a groan. The besieged now saw their
only salvation was to kill the ponies and so demoralize the Indians that
they would have to abandon such tactics, and quicker than I can tell it,
they had stretched four more out on the prairie, and made it so hot for
the savages that they ran out of range and began to hold a council of
war.
Finding that their plan would not work--for as the last pony was shot,
the rest stampeded and were running wild over the prairie--the Indians
soon went back to their camp again, and the trappers now had a few spare
moments in which to take an account of stock. They discovered, much to
their chagrin, that they had used up all their ammunition except three
or four loads, and despair hovered over them once more.
The Indians did not reappear that evening, and the cause was apparent;
for in the distance could be seen a long line of wagons, one of the
large American caravans en route to Santa Fe. The savages had seen
it before the trappers, and had cleared out. When the train arrived
opposite the rock, the relieved men came down from their little
fortress, joined the caravan, and camped with the Americans that night
on the Walnut. While they were resting around their camp-fire, smoking
and telling of their terrible experience on the top of the rock, the
Indians could be heard chanting the death-song while they were burying
their warriors under the blackened sod of the prairie.
I witnessed a spirited encounter between a small band of Cheyennes and
Pawnees in the fall of 1867. It occurred on the open prairie north of
the mouth of the Walnut, and not a great distance from Pawnee Rock. Both
tribes were hunting buffalo, and when they, by accident, discovered the
presence of each other, with a yell that fairly shook the sand dunes on
the Arkansas, they rushed at once into the shock of battle.
That night, in a timbered bend of the Walnut, the victors had a grand
dance, in which scalps, ears, and fingers of their enemies, suspended by
strings to long poles, were important accessories to their weird orgies
around their huge camp-fires.[65]
One of the most horrible massacres in the history of the Trail occurred
at Little Cow Creek in the summer of 1864. In July of that year a
government caravan, loaded with military stores for Fort Union in New
Mexico, left Fort Leavenworth for the long and dangerous journey of more
than seven hundred miles over the great plains, which that season were
infested by Indians to a degree almost without precedent in the annals
of freight traffic.
The train was owned by a Mr. H. C. Barret, a contractor with the
quartermaster's department; but he declined to take the chances of the
trip unless the government would lease the outfit in its entirety, or
give him an indemnifying bond as assurance against any loss. The chief
quartermaster executed the bond as demanded, and Barret hired his
teamsters for the hazardous journey; but he found it a difficult matter
to induce men to go out that season.
Among those whom he persuaded to enter his employ was a mere boy, named
McGee, who came wandering into Leavenworth a few weeks before the train
was ready to leave, seeking work of any description. His parents had
died on their way to Kansas, and on his arrival at Westport Landing, the
emigrant outfit that had extended to him shelter and protection in his
utter loneliness was disbanded; so the youthful orphan was thrown on his
own resources. At that time the Indians of the great plains, especially
along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, were very hostile, and continually
harassing the freight caravans and stage-coaches of the overland route.
Companies of men were enlisting and being mustered into the United
States service to go out after the savages, and young Robert McGee
volunteered with hundreds of others for the dangerous duty. The
government needed men badly, but McGee's youth militated against
him, and he was below the required stature; so he was rejected by the
mustering officer.
Mr. Barret, in hunting for teamsters to drive his caravan, came across
McGee, who, supposing that he was hiring as a government employee,
accepted Mr. Barret's offer.
By the last day of June the caravan was all ready, and on the morning of
the next day, July 1, the wagons rolled out of the fort, escorted by a
company of United States troops, from the volunteers referred to.
The caravan wound its weary way over the lonesome Trail with nothing
to relieve the monotony save a few skirmishes with the Indians; but no
casualties occurred in these insignificant battles, the savages being
afraid to venture too near on account of the presence of the military
escort.
On the 18th of July, the caravan arrived in the vicinity of Fort Larned.
There it was supposed that the proximity of that military post would be
a sufficient guarantee from any attack of the savages; so the men of
the train became careless, and as the day was excessively hot, they went
into camp early in the afternoon, the escort remaining in bivouac about
a mile in the rear of the train.
About five o'clock, a hundred and fifty painted savages, under the
command of Little Turtle of the Brule Sioux, swooped down on the
unsuspecting caravan while the men were enjoying their evening meal. Not
a moment was given them to rally to the defence of their lives, and of
all belonging to the outfit, with the exception of one boy, not a soul
came out alive.
The teamsters were every one of them shot dead and their bodies horribly
mutilated. After their successful raid, the savages destroyed everything
they found in the wagons, tearing the covers into shreds, throwing
the flour on the trail, and winding up by burning everything that was
combustible.
On the same day the commanding officer of Fort Larned had learned from
some of his scouts that the Brule Sioux were on the war-path, and
the chief of the scouts with a handful of soldiers was sent out to
reconnoitre. They soon struck the trail of Little Turtle and followed it
to the scene of the massacre on Cow Creek, arriving there only two hours
after the savages had finished their devilish work. Dead men were lying
about in the short buffalo-grass which had been stained and matted by
their flowing blood, and the agonized posture of their bodies told far
more forcibly than any language the tortures which had come before a
welcome death. All had been scalped; all had been mutilated in that
nameless manner which seems to delight the brutal instincts of the North
American savage.
Moving slowly from one to the other of the lifeless forms which still
showed the agony of their death-throes, the chief of the scouts came
across the bodies of two boys, both of whom had been scalped and
shockingly wounded, besides being mutilated, yet, strange to say, both
of them were alive. As tenderly as the men could lift them, they were
conveyed at once back to Fort Larned and given in charge of the post
surgeon. One of the boys died in a few hours after his arrival in the
hospital, but the other, Robert McGee, slowly regained his strength, and
came out of the ordeal in fairly good health.
The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was
able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not lost
consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected by the
savages.
He was compelled to witness the tortures inflicted on his wounded and
captive companions, after which he was dragged into the presence of the
chief, Little Turtle, who determined that he would kill the boy with his
own hands. He shot him in the back with his own revolver, having first
knocked him down with a lance handle. He then drove two arrows through
the unfortunate boy's body, fastening him to the ground, and stooping
over his prostrate form ran his knife around his head, lifting
sixty-four square inches of his scalp, trimming it off just behind his
ears.
Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim; but
the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not resist
their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives into him,
and bored great holes in his body with their lances.
After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could
contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the
reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundreds of mules
they had captured.
When the tragedy was ended, the soldiers, who had from their
vantage-ground witnessed the whole diabolical transaction, came up
to the bloody camp by order of their commander, to learn whether the
teamsters had driven away their assailants, and saw too late what their
cowardice had allowed to take place. The officer in command of the
escort was dismissed the service, as he could not give any satisfactory
reason for not going to the rescue of the caravan he had been ordered to
guard.