In the Rocky Mountains and on the great plains along the line of the Old
Trail are many rude and widely separated graves. The sequestered little
valleys, the lonely gulches, and the broad prairies through which the
highway to New Mexico wound its course, hide the bones of hundreds of
whom the world will never have any more knowledge. The number of these
solitary, and almost obliterated mounds is small when compared with the
vast multitude in the cemeteries of our towns, though if the host of
those whose bones are mouldering under the short buffalo-grass and tall
blue-stem of the prairies between the Missouri and the mountains were
tabulated, the list would be appalling. Their aggregate will never be
known; for the once remote region of the mid-continent, like the ocean,
rarely gave up its victims. Lives went out there as goes an expiring
candle, suddenly, swiftly, and silently; no record was kept of time or
place. All those who thus died are graveless and monumentless, the great
circle of the heavens is the dome of their sepulchre, and the recurring
blossoms of springtime their only epitaph.
Sometimes the traveller over the Old Trail will suddenly, in the most
unexpected places, come across a little mound, perhaps covered with
stones, under which lie the mouldering bones of some unfortunate
adventurer. Above, now on a rude board, then on a detached rock, or
maybe on the wall of a beetling canyon, he may frequently read, in crude
pencilling or rougher carving, the legend of the dead man's ending.
The line of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, which
practically runs over the Old Trail for nearly its whole length to
the mountains, is a fertile field of isolated graves. The savage and
soldier, the teamster and scout, the solitary trapper or hunter,
and many others who have gone down to their death fighting with the
relentless nomad of the plains, or have been otherwise ruthlessly cut
off, mark with their last resting-places that well-worn pathway across
the continent.
The tourist, looking from his car-window as he is whirled with the speed
of a tornado toward the snow-capped peaks of the "Great Divide," may
see as he approaches Walnut Creek, three miles east of the town of Great
Bend in Kansas, on the beautiful ranch of Hon. D. Heizer, not far from
the stream, and close to the house, a series of graves, numbering,
perhaps, a score. These have been most religiously cared for by the
patriotic proprietor of the place during all the long years since 1864,
as he believes them to be the last resting-place of soldiers who were
once a portion of the garrison of Fort Zarah, the ruins of which (now
a mere hole in the earth) are but a few hundred yards away, on the
opposite side of the railroad track, plainly visible from the train.
The Walnut debouches into the Arkansas a short distance from where the
railroad crosses the creek, and at this point, too, the trail from Fort
Leavenworth merges into the Old Santa Fe. The broad pathway is very
easily recognized here; for it runs over a hard, flinty, low divide,
that has never been disturbed by the plough, and the traveller has
only to cast his eyes in a northeasterly direction in order to see it
plainly.
The creek is fairly well timbered to-day, as it has been ever since
the first caravan crossed the clear water of the little stream. It was
always a favourite place of ambush by the Indians, and many a conflict
has occurred in the beautiful bottom bounded by a margin of trees on two
sides, between the traders, trappers, troops, and the Indians, and also
between the several tribes that were hereditary enemies, particularly
the Pawnees and the Cheyennes. It is only about sixteen miles east of
Pawnee Rock, and included in that region of debatable ground where no
band of Indians dared establish a permanent village; for it was claimed
by all the tribes, but really owned by none.
In 1864 the commerce of the great plains had reached enormous
proportions, and immense caravans rolled day after day toward the blue
hills which guard the portals of New Mexico, and the precious freight
constantly tempted the wily savages to plunder.
To protect the caravans on their monotonous route through the "Desert,"
as this portion of the plains was then termed, troops were stationed,
a mere handful relatively, at intervals on the Trail, to escort the
freighters and mail coaches over the most exposed and dangerous portions
of the way.
On the bank of the Walnut, at this time, were stationed three hundred
unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command
of Captain Conkey. This point was rightly regarded as one of the most
important on the whole overland route; for near it passed the favourite
highway of the Indians on their yearly migrations north and south, in
the wake of the strange elliptical march of the buffalo far beyond the
Platte, and back to the sunny knolls of the Canadian.
This primitive cantonment which grew rapidly in strategical importance,
was two years later made quite formidable defensively, and named Fort
Zarah, in memory of the youngest son of Major General Curtis, who
was killed by guerillas somewhere south of Fort Scott, Kansas, while
escorting General James G. Blunt, of frontier fame during the Civil War.
Captain Henry Booth, during the year above mentioned, was chief of
cavalry and inspecting officer of the military district of the Upper
Arkansas, the western geographical limits of which extended to the
foot-hills of the mountains.
One day he received an order from the head-quarters of the department to
make a special inspection of all the outposts on the Santa Fe Trail.
He was stationed at Fort Riley at the time, and the evening the order
arrived, active preparations were immediately commenced for his extended
and hazardous trip across the plains. Lieutenant Hallowell, of the Ninth
Wisconsin Battery, was to accompany him, and both officers went at once
to their quarters, took down from the walls, where they had been hanging
idly for weeks, their rifles and pistols, and carefully examined and
brushed them up for possible service in the dreary Arkansas bottom.
Camp-kettles, until late in the night, sizzled and sputtered over
crackling log-fires; for their proposed ride beyond the settlements
demanded cooked rations for many a weary day. All the preliminaries
arranged, the question of the means of transportation was determined,
and, curiously enough, it saved the lives of the two officers in the
terrible gauntlet they were destined to run.
Hallowell was a famous whip, and prided himself upon the exceptionally
fine turnout which he daily drove among the picturesque hills around the
fort.
"Booth," said he in the evening, "let's not take a great lumbering
ambulance on this trip; if you will get a good way-up team of mules
from the quartermaster, we'll use my light rig, and we'll do our own
driving."
To this proposition Booth readily assented, procured the mules, and, as
it turned out, they were a "good way-up team."
Hallowell had a set of bows fitted to his light wagon, over which was
thrown an army-wagon-sheet, drawn up behind with a cord, similar to
those of the ordinary emigrant outfit to be seen daily on the roads of
the Western prairies. A round hole was necessarily left in the rear end,
serving the purpose of a lookout.
Two grip-sacks, containing their dress uniforms, a box of crackers and
cheese, meat and sardines, together with a bottle of anti-snake bite,
made up the principal freight for the long journey, and in the clear
cold of the early morning they rolled out of the gates of the fort,
escorted by Company L, of the Eleventh Kansas, commanded by Lieutenant
Van Antwerp.
The company of one hundred mounted men acting as escort was too
formidable a number for the Indians, and not a sign of one was seen as
the dangerous flats of Plum Creek and the rolling country beyond were
successively passed, and early in the afternoon the cantonment on Walnut
Creek was reached. At this important outpost Captain Conkey's command
was living in a rude but comfortable sort of a way, in the simplest of
dugouts, constructed along the right bank of the stream; the officers, a
little more in accordance with military dignity, in tents a few rods in
rear of the line of huts.
A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity for two hundred and
fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up by the men in the fall
to carry the animals through the winter.
Captain Conkey was a brusque but kind-hearted man, and with him were
stationed other officers, one of whom was a son of Admiral Goldsborough.
The morning after the arrival of the inspecting officers a rigid
examination of all the appointments and belongings of the place
was made, and, as an immense amount of property had accumulated
for condemnation, when evening came the books and papers were still
untouched; so that branch of the inspection had to be postponed until
the next morning.
After dark, while sitting around the camp-fire, discussing the war,
telling stories, etc., Captain Conkey said to Booth: "Captain, it won't
require more than half an hour in the morning to inspect the papers and
finish up what you have to do; why don't you start your escort out very
early, so it won't be obliged to trot after the ambulance, or you to
poke along with it? You can then move out briskly and make time."
Booth, acting upon what he thought at the time an excellent suggestion,
in a few moments went over the creek to Lieutenant Van Antwerp's camp,
to tell him that he need not wait for the wagon in the morning, but to
start out early, at half-past six, in advance.
According to instructions, the escort marched out of camp at daylight
next morning, while Booth and Hallowell remained to finish their
inspection. It was soon discovered, however, that either Captain
Conkey had underrated the amount of work to be done, or misjudged the
inspecting officers' ability to complete it in a certain time; so almost
three hours elapsed after the cavalry had departed before the task
ended.
At last everything was closed up, much to Hallowell's satisfaction, who
had been chafing under the vexatious delay ever since the escort left.
When all was in readiness, the little wagon drawn up in front of the
commanding officer's quarters, and farewells said, Hallowell suggested
to Booth the propriety of taking a few of the troops stationed there
to go with them until they overtook their own escort, which must now be
several miles on the Trail to Fort Larned. Booth asked Captain Conkey
what he thought of Hallowell's suggestion. Captain Conkey replied:
"Oh! there's not the slightest danger; there hasn't been an Indian seen
around here for over ten days."
If either Booth or Hallowell had been as well acquainted with the
methods and character of the plains Indians then as they afterward
became, they would have insisted upon an escort; but both were satisfied
that Captain Conkey knew what he was talking about, so they concluded to
push on.
Jumping into their wagon, Lieutenant Hallowell took the reins and away
they went rattling over the old log bridge that used to span the Walnut
at the crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail, as light of heart as if
riding to a dance.
The morning was bright and clear with a stiff breeze blowing from the
northwest, and the Trail was frozen hard in places, which made it very
rough, as it had been cut up by the travel of the heavily laden caravans
when it was wet. Booth sat on the left side of Hallowell with the whip
in his hand, now and then striking the mules, to keep up their speed.
Hallowell started up a tune--he was a good singer--and Booth joined in
as they rolled along, as oblivious of any danger as though they were in
their quarters at Fort Riley.
After they had proceeded some distance, Hallowell remarked to Booth:
"The buffalo are grazing a long way from the road to-day; a circumstance
that I think bodes no good." He had been on the plains the summer
before, and was better acquainted with the Indians and their
peculiarities than Captain Booth; but the latter replied that he
thought it was because their escort had gone on ahead, and had probably
frightened them off.
The next mile or two was passed, and still they saw no buffalo between
the Trail and the Arkansas, though nothing more was said by either
regarding the suspicious circumstance, and they rode rapidly on.
When they had gone about five or six miles from the Walnut, Booth,
happening to glance toward the river, saw something that looked
strangely like a flock of turkeys. He watched them intently for a
moment, when the objects rose up and he discovered they were horsemen.
He grasped Hallowell by the arm, directing his attention to them, and
said, "What are they?" Hallowell gave a hasty look toward the point
indicated, and replied, "Indians! by George!" and immediately turning
the mules around on the Trail, started them back toward the cantonment
on the Walnut at a full gallop.[68]
"Hold on!" said Booth to Hallowell when he understood the latter's
movement; "maybe it's part of our escort."
"No! no!" replied Hallowell. "I know they are Indians; I've seen too
many of them to be mistaken."
"Well," rejoined Booth, "I'm going to know for certain"; so, stepping
out on the foot-board, and with one hand holding on to the front bow,
he looked back over the top of the wagon-sheet. They were Indians, sure
enough; they had fully emerged from the ravine in which they had hidden,
and while he was looking at them they were slipping off their buffalo
robes from their shoulders, taking arrows out of their quivers, drawing
up their spears, and making ready generally for a red-hot time.
While Booth was intently regarding the movements of the savages,
Hallowell inquired of him: "They're Indians, aren't they, Booth?"
"Yes," was Booth's answer, "and they're coming down on us like a
whirlwind."
"Then I shall never see poor Lizzie again!" said Hallowell. He had been
married only a few weeks before starting out on this trip, and his young
wife's name came to his lips.
"Never mind Lizzie," responded Booth; "let's get out of here!" He was
as badly frightened as Hallowell, but had no bride at Riley, and, as he
tells it, "was selfishly thinking of himself only, and escape."
In answer to Booth's remark, Hallowell, in a firm, clear voice, said:
"All right! You do the shooting, and I'll do the driving," and suiting
the action to the words, he snatched the whip out of Booth's hand,
slipped from the seat to the front of the wagon, and commenced lashing
the mules furiously.
Booth then crawled back, pulled out one of his revolvers, crept, or
rather fell, over the "lazy-back" of the seat, and reaching the hole
made by puckering the wagon-sheet, looked out of it, and counted the
Indians; thirty-four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed savages, as
vicious a set as ever scalped a white man, swooping down on them like a
hawk upon a chicken.
Hallowell, between his yells at the mules, cried out, "How far are they
off now, Booth?" for of course he could see nothing of what was going on
in his rear.
Booth replied as well as he could judge of the distance, while Hallowell
renewed his yelling at the animals and redoubled his efforts with the
lash.
Noiselessly the Indians gained on the little wagon, for they had not as
yet uttered a whoop, and the determined driver, anxious to know how far
the red devils were from him, again asked Booth. The latter told him how
near they were, guessing at the distance, from which Hallowell gathered
inspiration for fresh cries and still more vigorous blows with his whip.
Booth, all this time, was sitting on the box containing the crackers
and sardines, watching the rapid approach of the cut-throats, and seeing
with fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon the little
mules.
Once more Hallowell made his stereotyped inquiry of Booth; but before
the latter could reply, two shots were fired from the rifles of the
Indians, accompanied by a yell that was demoniacal enough to cause the
blood to curdle in one's veins. Hallowell yelled at the mules, and Booth
yelled too; for what reason he could not tell, unless to keep company
with his comrade, who plied the whip more mercilessly than ever upon
the poor animals' backs, and the wagon flew over the rough road, nearly
upsetting at every jump.
In another moment the bullets from two of the Indians' rifles passed
between Booth and Hallowell, doing no damage, and almost instantly the
savages charged upon them, at the same time dividing into two parties,
one going on one side and one on the other, both delivering a volley of
arrows into the wagon as they rode by.
Just as the savages rushed past the wagon, Hallowell cried out to Booth,
"Cap, I'm hit!" and turning around to look, Booth saw an arrow sticking
in Hallowell's head above his right ear. His arm was still plying the
whip, which was going on unceasingly as the sails of a windmill, and his
howling at the mules only stopped long enough to answer, "Not much!" in
response to Booth's inquiry of "Does it hurt?" as he grabbed the arrow
and pulled it out of his head.
The Indians had by this time passed on, and then, circling back,
prepared for another charge. Down they came, again dividing as before
into two bands, and delivering another shower of arrows. Hallowell
ceased his yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit once more, Cap!"
Looking at the plucky driver, Booth saw this time an arrow sticking over
his left ear, and hanging down his back. He snatched it out, inquiring
if it hurt, but received the same answer: "No, not much."
Both men were now yelling at the top of their voices; and the mules were
jerking the wagon along the rough trail at a fearful rate, frightened
nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the terrible
shouting and whipping of the driver.
Booth crawled to the back end of the wagon again, looked out of the hole
in the cover, and saw the Indians moving across the Trail, preparing
for another charge. One old fellow, mounted on a black pony, was
jogging along in the centre of the road behind them, but near enough and
evidently determined to send an arrow through the puckered hole of the
sheet. In a moment the savage stopped his pony and let fly. Booth
dodged sideways--the arrow sped on its course, and whizzing through
the opening, struck the black-walnut "lazy-back" of the seat, the
head sticking out on the other side, and the sudden check causing the
feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing sound. With a quick
blow Booth struck it, and broke the shaft from the head, leaving the
latter embedded in the wood.
As quickly as possible, Booth rushed to the hole and fired his revolver
at the old devil, but failed to hit him. While he was trying to get in
another shot, an arrow came flying through from the left side of the
Trail, and striking him on the inside of the elbow, or "crazy-bone," so
completely benumbed his hand that he could not hold on to the pistol,
and it dropped into the road with one load still in its chamber. Just
then the mules gave an extraordinary jump to one side, which jerked
the wagon nearly from under him, and he fell sprawling on the end-gate,
evenly balanced, with his hands on the outside, attempting to clutch at
something to save himself! Seeing his predicament, the Indians thought
they had him sure, so they gave a yell of exultation, supposing he must
tumble out, but he didn't; he fortunately succeeded in grabbing one of
the wagon-bows with his right hand and pulled himself in; but it was a
close call.
While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by the
Indians; about a dozen of them had devoted their time to him, but he
never flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and drawn his
second revolver from its holster, Hallowell yelled to him: "Right off to
your right, Cap, quick!"
Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, and, clutching at a wagon-bow
to steady himself, he saw, "off to the right," an Indian who was in the
act of letting an arrow drive at Hallowell; it struck the side of the
box, and at the same instant Booth fired, scaring the red devil badly.
Back over the seat again he rushed to guard the rear, only to find a
young buck riding close to the side of the wagon, his pony running
in the deep path made by the ox-drivers in walking alongside of their
teams. Putting his left arm around one of the wagon-bows to prevent his
being jerked out, Booth quietly stuck his revolver through the hole in
the sheet; but before he could pull the trigger, the Indian flopped over
on the off side of his pony, and nothing could be seen of him excepting
one arm around his animal's neck and from the knee to the toes of one
leg. Booth did not wait for him to ride up; he could almost hit the
pony's head with his hand, so close was he to the wagon. Booth struck at
the beast several times, but the Indian kept him right up in his place
by whipping him on the opposite of his neck. Presently the plucky
savage's arm began to move. Booth watched him intently, and saw that he
had fixed an arrow in his bow under the pony's shoulder; just as he was
on the point of letting go the bowstring, with the head of the arrow not
three feet from Booth's breast as he leaned out of the hole, the latter
struck frantically at the weapon, dodged back into the wagon, and up
came the Indian. Whenever Booth looked out, down went the Indian on the
other side of his pony, to rise again in a moment, and Booth, afraid to
risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game of hide and
seek, drew suddenly back as the Indian went down the third time, and
in a second came up; but this was once too often. Booth had not dodged
completely into the wagon, nor dropped his revolver, and as the Indian
rose he fired.
The savage was naked to the waist; the ball struck him in the left
nipple, the blood spirted out of the wound, his bow and arrows and
lariat, with himself, rolled off the pony, falling heavily on the
ground, and with one convulsive contraction of his legs and an "Ugh!" he
was as dead as a stone.
"I've killed one of 'em!" called out Booth to Hallowell, as he saw his
victim tumble from his pony.
"Bully for you, Cap!" came Hallowell's response as he continued his
shouting, and the blows of that tireless whip fell incessantly on the
backs of the poor mules.
After he had killed the warrior, Booth kept his seat on the cracker
box, watching to see what the Indians were going to do next, when he was
suddenly interrupted by Hallowell's crying out to him: "Off to the right
again, Cap, quick!" and, whirling around instantly, he saw an Indian
within three feet of the wagon, with his bow and arrow almost ready to
shoot; there was no time to get over the seat, and as he could not fire
so close to Hallowell, he cried to the latter: "Hit him with the
whip! Hit him with the whip!" The lieutenant diverted one of the blows
intended for the mules, and struck the savage fairly across the face.
The whip had a knot in the end of it to prevent its unravelling, and
this knot must have hit the Indian squarely in the eye; for he dropped
his bow, put both hands up to his face, rubbed his eyes, and digging his
heels into his pony's sides was soon out of range of a revolver; but,
nevertheless, he was given a parting shot as a sort of salute.
A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused both Booth and
Hallowell to look around, and the latter to inquire: "What's the matter
now, Booth?" "They are coming down on us like lightning," said he; and,
sure enough, those who had been prancing around their dead comrade were
tearing along the Trail toward the wagon with a more hideous noise than
when they began.
Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules more furiously
still, but the Indians gained upon them as easily as a blooded racer on
a common farm plug. Separating as before, and passing on each side of
the wagon, they delivered another volley of bullets and arrows as they
rushed on.
When this charge was made, Booth drew away from the hole in the rear and
turned toward the Indians, but forgot that as he was sitting, with his
back pressed against the sheet, his body was plainly outlined on the
canvas.
When the Indians dashed by Hallowell cried out, "I'm hit again, Cap!"
and Booth, in turning around to go to his relief, felt something pulling
at him; and glancing over his left shoulder he discovered an arrow
sticking into him and out through the wagon-sheet. With a jerk of his
body, he tore himself loose, and going to Hallowell, asked him where
he was hit. "In the back," was the reply; where Booth saw an arrow
extending under the "lazy-back" of the seat. Taking hold of it, Booth
gave a pull, but Hallowell squirmed so that he desisted. "Pull it out!"
cried the plucky driver. Booth thereupon took hold of it again, and
giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was thoroughly frightened as he
saw it leave the lieutenant's body; it seemed to have entered at least
six inches, and the wound appeared to be a dangerous one. Hallowell,
however, did not cease for a moment belabouring the mules, and his yells
rang out as clear and defiant as before.
After extracting the arrow from Hallowell's back, Booth turned again to
the opening in the rear of the wagon to see what new tricks the devils
were up to, when Hallowell again called out, "Off to the left, Cap,
quick!"
Rushing to the front as soon as possible, Booth saw one of the savages
in the very act of shooting at Hallowell from the left side of the
wagon, not ten feet away. The last revolver was empty, but something
had to be done at once; so, levelling the weapon at him, Booth shouted
"Bang! you son-of-a-gun!" Down the Indian ducked his head; rap, rap,
went his knees against his pony's sides, and away he flew over the
prairie!
Back to his old place in the rear tumbled Booth, to load his
revolver. The cartridges they used in the army in those days were the
old-fashioned kind made of paper. Biting off one end, he endeavoured
to pour the powder into the chamber of the pistol; but as the wagon was
tumbling from side to side, and jumping up and down, as it fairly flew
over the rough Trail, more fell into the bottom of the wagon than into
the revolver. Just as he was inserting a ball, Hallowell yelled, "To the
left, Cap, quick!"
Over the seat Booth piled once more, and there was another Indian with
his bow and arrow all ready to pinion the brave lieutenant. Pointing his
revolver at him, Booth yelled as he had at the other, but this savage
had evidently noticed the first failure, and concluded there were no
more loads left; so, instead of taking a hasty departure, he grinned
demoniacally and endeavoured to fix the arrow in his bow. Booth rose up
in the wagon, and grasping hold of one of its bows with his left hand,
seized the revolver by the muzzle, and with all the force he could
muster hurled it at the impudent brute. It was a Remington, its barrel
octagon-shaped, with sharp corners, and when it was thrown, it turned
in the air, and striking the Indian muzzle-first on the ribs, cut a long
gash.
"Ugh!" he grunted, as, dropping his bow and spear, he flung himself over
the side of his pony, and away he went across the prairie.
Only one revolver remaining now, and that empty, with the savages still
howling around the apparently doomed men like so many demons! Booth fell
over the seat, as was his usual fate whenever he attempted to get to the
back of the wagon, picked up the empty revolver, and tried to load it;
but before he could bite the end of a cartridge, Hallowell yelled,
"Cap, I'm hit again!"
"Where this time?" inquired Booth, anxiously. "In the hand," replied
Hallowell; and, looking around, Booth noticed that although his right
arm was still thrashing at the now lagging mules with as much energy
as ever, through the fleshy part of the thumb was an arrow, which was
flopping up and down as he raised and lowered his hand in ceaseless
efforts to keep up the speed of the almost exhausted animals.
"Let me pull it out," said Booth, as he came forward to do so.
"No, never mind," replied Hallowell; "can't stop! can't stop!" and up
and down went the arm, and flip, flap, went the arrow with it, until
finally it tore through the flesh and fell to the ground.
Along they bowled, the Indians yelling, and the occupants of the little
wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth continued to struggle
desperately with that empty pistol, in his vain efforts to load it. In
another moment Hallowell shouted, "Booth, they are trying to crowd the
mules into the sunflowers!"
Alongside of the Trail huge sunflowers had grown the previous summer,
and now their dry stalks stood as thick as a cane-brake; if the wagon
once got among them, it would be impossible for the mules to keep up
their gallop. The savages seemed to realize this; for one huge old
fellow kept riding alongside the off mule, throwing his spear at him and
then jerking it back with the thong, one end of which was fastened to
his wrist. The near mule was constantly pushed further and further from
the Trail by his mate, which was jumping frantically, scared out of his
senses by the Indian.
At this perilous juncture, Booth stepped out on the foot-board of the
wagon, and, holding on by a bow, commenced to kick the frightened mule
vigorously, while Hallowell pulled on one line, whipping and yelling at
the same time; so together they succeeded in forcing the animals back
into the Trail.
The Indians kept close to the mules in their efforts to force them into
the sunflowers, and Booth made several attempts to scare the old fellow
that was nearest by pointing his empty revolver at him, but he would not
scare; so in his desperation Booth threw it at him. He missed the old
brute, but hit his pony just behind its rider's leg, which started the
animal into a sort of a stampede; his ugly master could not control him,
and thus the immediate peril from the persistent cuss was delayed.
Now the pair were absolutely without firearms of any kind, with nothing
left except their sabres and valises, and the savages came closer and
closer. In turn the two swords were thrown at them as they came almost
within striking distance; then followed the scabbards, as the
howling fiends surrounded the wagon and attempted to spear the mules.
Fortunately their arrows were exhausted.
The cantonment on the Walnut was still a mile and a half away, and there
was nothing for our luckless travellers to do but whip and kick, both
of which they did most vigorously. Hallowell sat as immovable as the
Sphinx, excepting his right arm, which from the moment they had started
on the back trail had not once ceased its incessant motion.
Happening to cast his eyes back on the Trail, Booth saw to his dismay
twelve or fifteen of the savages coming up on the run with fresh energy,
their spears poised ready for action, and he felt that something must
be done very speedily to divert them; for if these added their number to
those already surrounding the wagon, the chances were they would succeed
in forcing the mules into the sunflowers, and his scalp and Hallowell's
would dangle at the belt of the leader.
Glancing around in the bottom of the wagon for some kind of weapon, his
eye fell on the two valises containing the dress-suits. He snatched up
his own, and threw it out while the pursuers were yet five or six rods
in the rear. The Indians noticed this new trick with a great yell of
satisfaction, and the moment they arrived at the spot where the valise
lay, all dismounted; one of them, seizing it by the two handles, pulled
with all his strength to open it, and when he failed, another drew a
long knife from under his blanket and ripped it apart. He then put his
hand in, pulling out a sash, which he began to wind around his head,
like a negress with a bandanna, letting the tassels hang down his back.
While he was thus amusing himself, one of the others had taken out a
dress-coat, a third a pair of drawers, and still another a shirt, which
they proceeded to put on, meanwhile dancing around and howling.
Booth told Hallowell of the sacrifice of the valise, and said, "I'm
going to throw out yours." "All right," replied Hallowell; "all we want
is time." So out it went on the Trail, and shared the same fate as the
other.
The lull in hostilities caused by their outstripping their pursuers gave
the almost despairing men time to talk over their situation. Hallowell
said he did not propose to be captured and then butchered or burned at
the pleasure of the Indians. He said to Booth: "If they kill one of the
mules, and so stop us, let's kick, strike, throw dirt or anything, and
compel them to kill us on the spot." So it was agreed, if the worst came
to the worst, to stand back to back and fight.
During this discussion the arm of Hallowell still plied the effective
lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the camp, and as they caught the
first glimpse of its tents and dugouts, hope sprang up within them.
The mules were panting like a hound after a deer; wherever the harness
touched them, it was white with lather, and it was evident they could
keep on their feet but a short time longer. Would they hold out until
the bridge was reached? The whipping and the kicking had but little
effect on them now. They still continued their gallop, but it was slower
and more laboured than before.
The Indians who had torn open the valises had not returned to the chase,
and although there were still a sufficient number of the fiends pursuing
to make it interesting, they did not succeed in spearing the mules, as
at every attempt the plucky animals would jump sideways or forward and
evade the impending blow.
The little log bridge was reached; the savages had all retreated, but
the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at their fastest pace. The bridge
was constructed of half-round logs, and of course was extremely rough;
the wagon bounded up and down enough to shake the teeth out of one's
head as the little animals went flying over it. Booth called out to
Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast now, the Indians have all left us";
but he replied, "I ain't going to stop until I get across"; and down
came the whip, on sped the mules, not breaking their short gallop until
they were pulled up in front of Captain Conkey's quarters.
The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation the
garrison had of its return.
The officers came running out of their tents, the enlisted men poured
out of their dugouts like a lot of ants, and Booth and Hallowell were
surrounded by their friends in a moment. Captain Conkey ordered his
bugler to sound "Boots and Saddles," and in less than ten minutes ninety
troopers were mounted, and with the captain at their head started after
the Indians.
When Hallowell tried to rise from his seat so as to get out every effort
only resulted in his falling back. Some one stepped around to the
other side to assist him, when it was discovered that the skirt of his
overcoat had worked outside of the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge,
and that three or four of the arrows fired at him by the savages had
struck the side of the wagon, and, passing through the flap of his coat,
had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows out and helped him up; he
was pretty stiff from sitting in his cramped position so long, and his
right arm dropped by his side as if paralysed.
Booth stood looking on while his comrade's wounds were being dressed,
when the adjutant asked him: "What makes you shrug your shoulder so?" He
answered, "I don't know; something makes it smart." The officer looked
at him and said, "Well, I don't wonder; I should think it would smart;
here's an arrow-head sticking into you," and he tried to pull it out,
but it would not come. Captain Goldsborough then attempted it, but was
not any more successful. The doctor then told them to let it alone,
and he would attend to Booth after he had done with Hallowell. When he
examined Booth's shoulder, he found that the arrow-head had struck the
thick portion of the shoulder-blade, and had made two complete turns,
wrapping itself around the muscles, which had to be cut apart before the
sharp point could be withdrawn.
Booth was not seriously hurt. Hallowell, however, had received two
severe wounds; the arrow that had lodged in his back had penetrated
almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was very painful, not
so much from the simple impact of the arrow as from the tearing away of
the muscle by the shaft while he was whipping his mules; his right arm,
too, was swollen terribly, and so stiff from the incessant use of it
during the drive that for more than a month he required assistance in
dressing and undressing.
The mules who had saved their lives were of small account after their
memorable trip; they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and
their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out to look at
them the next morning, as they hobbled around the corral, and from the
bottom of their hearts wished them well.
Captain Conkey's command returned to the cantonment about midnight. But
one Indian had been seen, and he was south of the Arkansas in the sand
hills.
The next morning a scouting-party of forty men, under command of a
sergeant, started out to scour the country toward Cow Creek, northeast
from the Walnut.
As I have stated, the troopers stationed at the cantonment on the Walnut
were mostly recruits. Now the cavalry recruit of the old regular army on
the frontier, thirty or forty years ago, mounted on a great big American
horse and sent out with well-trained comrades on a scout after the
hostile savages of the plains, was the most helpless individual
imaginable. Coming fresh from some large city probably, as soon as he
arrived at his station he was placed on the back of an animal of whose
habits he knew as little as he did of the differential calculus; loaded
down with a carbine, the muzzle of which he could hardly distinguish
from the breech; a sabre buckled around his waist; a couple of enormous
pistols stuck in his holsters; his blankets strapped to the cantle of
his saddle, and, to complete the hopelessness of his condition in a
possible encounter with a savage enemy who was ever on the alert, he was
often handicapped by a camp-kettle or two, a frying-pan, and ten days'
rations. No wonder this doughty representative of Uncle Sam's power was
an easy prey for "Poor Lo," who, when he caught the unfortunate soldier
away from his command and started after him, must have laughed at the
ridiculous appearance of his enemy, with both hands glued to the pommel
of his saddle, his hair on end, his sabre flying and striking his horse
at every jump as the animal tore down the trail toward camp, while the
Indian, rapidly gaining, in a few minutes had the scalp of the hapless
rider dangling at his belt, and another of the "boys in blue" had joined
the majority.
The scouting-party had proceeded about four or five miles, when one of
the corporals asked permission for himself and a recruit to go over to
the Upper Walnut to find out whether they could discover any signs of
Indians.
While they were carelessly riding along the big curve which the northern
branch of the Walnut makes at that point, there suddenly sprang from
their ambush in the timber on the margin of the stream about three
hundred Indians, whooping and yelling. The two troopers of course,
immediately whirled their horses and started down the creek toward the
camp, hotly pursued by the howling savages.
The corporal was an excellent rider; a well-trained and disciplined
soldier, having seen much service on the plains. He led in the flight,
closely followed by the unfortunate recruit, who had been enlisted but a
short time. Not more than an eighth of a mile had been covered, when the
corporal heard his companion exclaim,--
"Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"
Looking back, the corporal saw that the poor recruit was losing ground
rapidly; his horse was rearing and plunging, making very little headway,
while his rider was jerking and pulling on the bit, a curb of the
severest kind. Perceiving the strait his comrade was in, the corporal
reined up for a moment and called out,--
"Let him go! Let him go! Don't jerk on the bit so!"
The Indians were gaining ground rapidly, and in another moment the
corporal heard the recruit again cry out,--
"Oh! Don't--"
Realizing that it would be fatal to delay, and that he could be of
no assistance to his companion, already killed and scalped, he leaned
forward on his horse, and sinking his spurs deep in the animal's flanks
fairly flew down the valley, with the three hundred savages close in his
wake.
The officers at the camp were sitting in their tents when the sentinel
on post No. 1 fired his piece, upon which all rushed out to learn the
cause of the alarm; for there was no random shooting in those days
allowed around camp or in garrison. Looking up the valley of the Walnut,
they could see the lucky corporal, with his long hair streaming in the
wind, and his heels rapping his horse's sides, as he dashed over the
brown sod of the winter prairie.
The corporal now slackened his pace, rode up to the commanding officer's
tent, reported the affair, and then was allowed to go to his own
quarters for the rest he so much needed.
Captain Conkey immediately ordered a mounted squad, accompanied by an
ambulance, to go up the creek to recover the body of the unfortunate
recruit. The party were absent a little over an hour, and brought back
with them the remains of the dead soldier. He had been shot with
an arrow, the point of which was still sticking out through his
breast-bone. His scalp had been torn completely off, and the lapels of
his coat and the legs of his trousers carried away by the savages.
He was buried the next morning with military honours, in the little
graveyard on the bank of the Walnut, where his body still rests in the
dooryard of the ranch.