HUNTON AND CLAY, BULL-TRAIN MAGNATES.
Among the bull-train magnates of the early 70's were Charley Clay, said
to be a relative of the famous statesman, and Jack Hunton. They were
pioneers of Wyoming who have no doubt been quite forgotten, though in
their day none in the then sparsely settled frontier territory was
better known. They were not only pioneer freighters, but among the very
first of the daring frontiersmen to go beyond the limits of
civilization, and into the stamping grounds of the warlike tribes of
Indians to establish homes. Both built ranches in the Chugwater country
along the trail leading from Cheyenne to Fort Laramie. Clay's log house
was directly under one of the famous landmarks of the territory--chimney
rock--a chalky butte formed, geologists say, by erosion. Hunton built
his ranch on the northwest end of the Chugwater at a point near Goshen's
Hole, a great basin, where the Laramie trail wheeled directly north to
Eagle's Nest, another butte. At Hunton's a trail less used branched off
to the northwest, across what was then considered a desert and reaching
Fort Fetterman, perhaps 125 miles away on the North Platte river at
Lapariel creek. This part of Wyoming is now, I understand, a vast
wheatfield. To a bullwhacker of the early 70's this is almost a miracle.
Both Hunton and Clay used their ranches to range their work cattle in
off seasons, although both had beef herds and lots of horses. These
ranch houses were protected from Indians by less than a dozen men at any
time; but these men were fighters and were known to be such by the
chiefs of the tribes that frequently roamed the territory south of the
Platte, although in a treaty with the Federal government they had
promised to stay north of the famous stream, the consideration being, on
the part of Uncle Sam, a contribution of hundreds of tons of flour,
bacon, tobacco and other things. Strictly speaking, this food was in
payment for land south of the Platte.
Both Hunton and Clay had a knack of dealing with these roaming bands,
however, that prevented any serious raids, although at one time, when
Clay had closed a contract with the government and found himself in
Cheyenne with his big bull outfit, consisting of a couple of hundred
head of oxen and thirty or forty men, word was brought to him that on
his return trip to his Chugwater quarters, a band of Sioux would attack
him. So he left Cheyenne one night, and taking a course almost due east
avoided the Laramie trail, and by a circuitous route reached the
Chugwater without having traveled a mile on a trail.
Hunton's and Clay's ranch houses were loaded with firearms, looked like
armories, and at the height of the shoulder in the log walls were fort
holes through which guns could be fired. These were used several times,
but none of the skirmishes approached in any degree the present-day
pictures one sees in the movies, and I doubt if they ever did, in the
West. In the first place, while the Sioux, Cheyenne and other redskins
were considered especially bloodthirsty, none of them was fond of
exposing his worthless carcass to a shower of bullets, even though
outnumbering the whites 100 to 1. The Indian of that day--of the day
that history was making on the frontier--was a most miserable coward
when dealing with frontiersmen of the Hunton or Clay calibre.
Of course, there were open battles with United States troops, but even
then only when, as in the case of Custer and his Seventh Cavalry, the
troops were outnumbered and trapped. Even Sitting Bull's band, which has
wrongly been represented by some historians as brave, were entitled to
no credit of that kind. Custer was trapped in a big bowl and his 300-odd
fighters surrounded on all sides by several thousand well mounted and
well-armed young bucks. The Custer and the earlier so-called Indian
battles both at old Fort Phil Kearney and earlier in Minnesota, were not
battles at all--simply massacres. There is no record of an even fight
between redskins and whites in the settlement of the country between the
Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains. The Modocs fought for months in
the lava beds, but seldom did a soldier see a Modoc. So it was with old
Geronomo and his Apache followers. They fought from cover, never in the
open unless overtaken and surrounded.
Nevertheless, the raiding bands of Ogalala Sioux that slipped over the
Platte in the season of good grass were a problem for these pioneer
ranchmen and transportation outfits, and it was not an uncommon thing
for a bullet or an arrow to reach a vital spot in a bullwhacker from
some hiding place just in range of the road. When this happened it was
the common practice for members of the outfit to mount their saddle
horses, with which every bull-train was well supplied, and give chase
unless the lead of the Indians was too great, and usually it was.
Once in a while, however, the Indian made a miscalculation, and the
bullwhacker would return to the temporarily corralled outfit with a
scrubby Indian pony, a few rawhide thongs, and an Indian's ear freshly
amputated for use as evidence at the first camp of bullwhackers or army
post that one more "Good Indian" had been put on the list.
This cutting off of ears was reprisal, for the Indians scalped their
white victims and mutilated their bodies when they had a chance. Hunton
and Clay hauled with their big outfits, at one time, about everything
that was sent to the northern line of forts by Uncle Sam. Clay's
contracts were largely confined to Port Laramie, although Hunton hauled
a good deal of the provisions to that post. Hunton and others supplied
Fort Fetterman, the principal route being from Medicine Bow station on
the Union Pacific across the mountain range of the same name.
It took several days to load the prairie schooners from the freight cars
on a sidetrack that was laid upon the sod; and while this work was going
on there was sometimes a good deal of drinking and many gun fights.
It was while a bull outfit was loading for one of the fall trips to
Fetterman that the first billiard table came to Medicine Bow. I think it
was the only one in the territory outside of Cheyenne and Laramie City,
both division points on the Union Pacific. There were no women in
Medicine Bow, good or bad, at the time and not more than 100 regular
residents, yet the town had a saloon because the bull outfits, Hunton's
and others, in their occasional trips, and a few adventurers who were
prospecting south and west of the "Bow," furnished ample patronage to
make the enterprise profitable. It was this saloonkeeper who conceived
the idea of importing a billiard table, and also a back bar and mirror.
The bullwhackers watched the installation of the new furniture, and that
night informed the saloonkeeper that as there were no women in the camp
it had been decided to have a stag dance in the saloon. He protested,
but it did no good. A few drinks in a dozen leaders was followed by a
deliberately aimed shot which shattered the mirror, after which the
operation of removing the billiard table began. It was a rough job, and
would have given a Brunswick-Balke man a chill. The table went out onto
the prairie in sections, and the sections were not always separated at
the regulation point. The green cover was ruined.
Then the dance began. The German saloonkeeper smiled his protests, but
when he became too much concerned about what was going on, someone would
snuff a light or plug a barrel of whisky with a bullet. So the night's
debauch continued, and it did not end until daybreak. The place was a
wreck, and the saloonkeeper was in despair when the wagon boss came
along with a roll of money as big around as a ship's cable, saying:
"What's the damage, Fritz?"
"Ach," he replied, "the table cost me $500; a barrel of whisky and
cigars, beer, my fine mirror--everything is gone?"
"Yes, I see, the whole bizness," said the boss.
"Well," said Fritz, "the boys spent $600 mit me, so I make it $600 more;
maybe I can repair the table."
So the bill was paid, the wagons were loaded, and the outfit sallied
forth across the plains, the bridgeless rivers, and the mountain passes
to Fetterman where there was a pay-day. Deductions pro-rata were made
from every man's wage to even up the score with Fritz, and every
bullwhacker paid his share willingly, saying it was cheap sport for the
price. There was no feeling against Fritz because Fritz had not shown
fight. If he had--well, most of the men in the outfit were wild and
woolly, and rough, but not killers. Still one or two could not be
trusted.
Hunton put up a log house, a forge and a charcoal kiln just outside the
south limit of the Fort Fetterman government reserve, a section five
miles square south of the Platte. Just before this plant was erected a
series of Indian depredations began; several men engaged in cord wood
chopping for a government contractor were murdered by small bands of
Sioux, and many saddle horses stolen. There were also several raids in
the Lapariel bottoms; and one day a small band of Sioux, well mounted,
forded the Platte almost in sight of the fort, stampeded a herd of mules
and drove them far into the Indian country before a company of soldiers
took up the chase.
A military telegraph line ran from Fort Fetterman to Fort D. A. Russell
at Cheyenne, and the northwestern end of the line was down most of the
time, the Indians taking the wire away to use in ear and nose rings and
for other purposes, although the line was destroyed many times, no
doubt, for pure cussedness. One time I traveled for fifty miles on
horseback along this telegraph line, and in places the wires were
connected with insulators which were mounted on buffalo horns. In many
places the wire was on the ground.
It was said at the time of the running off of the mules that the Fort
Fetterman commandant was unable to follow the Indians without orders
from Washington via Fort Russell. However, this was not confirmed.
Anyway, on this and many other occasions the army moved slowly and was
past understanding on the part of the few citizens in the country.
Nevertheless, the soldiers of those days, whenever in conflict with the
redskins, usually gave a good account of themselves.
Things got so warm one spring in the vicinity of Fort Fetterman that the
thirty or forty citizens camping outside the military reservation
organized a secret society known as the Buckskin Militia, and determined
to avenge the deaths of several men, Jesse Hammond, a woodchopper, and
others, if opportunity should present itself. The only qualification for
membership in the Buckskins was a willingness to take the oath, which
was as follows:
I, John Smith, do solemnly swear that I will shoot on sight any
male Indian, no matter whether he is attacking me or other white
men, stealing or attempting to steal my property or the property of
others, or whether he is approaching or moving from me.
Furthermore, I will answer any call from another member of this
band or any other good white citizen, for assistance in the
destruction of any male Indian found on the south side of the North
Platte river; and will join in any raid upon an Indian camp when
called upon by the Chief Buckskin. So help me God.
This oath was taken while standing on the stump of a cottonwood tree in
the Lapariel bottoms, the candidate being loaded down with as many log
chains as he could hold, and the ceremony, usually taken on a moonlight
night, was as weird a sight as one can imagine.
The raids from the north continued nearly all summer. Several more white
men were killed, one a lone prospector who thought there was mineral in
the hills southwest of Fort Fetterman and near old Fort Caspar.
[Illustration: "Whistled to Give His Quarry the Chance He Would Give a
Mad Dog, and No More."]
One of the Buckskins hunting antelope one day in the vicinity of La
Bonte Creek crossed the trail of a single tepee or family, and three
ponies. This he knew from the lodge pole tracks made by a horse dragging
the poles over the ground. The Buckskin took the trail, keeping well out
of sight, but finally cut off a lone Indian who had dismounted to drink
from a spring, allowing his young buck sons to go on. Buckskin whistled
to give his quarry the chance he would give a mad dog--and no more. Then
he put a bullet in his head. He remained on the spot from which he
fired, waiting to hear from the rest of the tepee, which he did in a few
minutes, although the young bucks kept out of sight. They fired a few
shots before Buckskin decided to make a dash, and when he did it was a
race of ten miles to a ford in the Platte. The young bucks escaped.
Buckskin returned to his "Good Indian," removed a lock of his hair, took
his gun and ammunition and a greasy card from the folds of his blanket
upon which some white man had written:
This is Cut Nose, a "Good"
Sioux Indian; but he is a
Murderer and Thief.
There was a big session of the Buckskin Militia a few nights later, and
great rejoicing. Cut Nose was a whole tribe of Indians in himself, and
many dark crimes had been laid at his door by the white men who were
engaged in freighting food to the Indian agencies and army posts.
It must be understood that there were no settlers or settlements or
families in this section of Wyoming at this time, therefore there were
never any of those horrible affairs common farther East a hundred years
or more ago. There were no women and children for these red devils to
kill, and year in and year out the fight was between bullwhackers, a few
ranchmen, not more than half a dozen, government woodchoppers, and a few
prospectors.
The professional hunters usually "stood in" with the red man, being
possessed of some kind of magic that was never fully explained. In those
days beaver, bear, buffalo, deer, antelope and other game abounded. The
hunter usually had a hut or "dug-out" near a beaver dam, and it usually
was well supplied with food and sometimes a squaw was the hunter's
companion. Her relatives were sure of good treatment, and I presume for
that reason the relatives were able to give the "squaw man" hunter
protection. Still hunters were murdered, but not often.
Finally, along in July, after the grass had lost its sap and turned
brown, one of the Buckskins saddled up his pinto horse one day, strapped
a blanket, a pone of bread and a piece of bacon to his saddle, and
giving free play to his Rowell spur, waved his hat and yelled as he
dashed away:
"Good-bye, boys; see you again in a few days. I'm goin' to put an end to
these raids."
His brother Buckskins thought he was crazy--some of them did. But one or
two winked and looked wise; and about sixty hours later, when some of
the "militia" had almost forgotten him, Buckskin rode up, unsaddled his
pinto, pitched him in the ribs and said: "There now, old boy, go up the
creek and enjoy yourself. Eat yourself to death, and I'll know where to
find you when I want you. No Indian will get you."
When the boys crowded around him he vouchsafed this much information:
"From a point twenty miles east of this spot to a spot twenty miles west
of Fort Laramie--on the north side of the Platte--as far as the eye can
reach in a northerly direction, and you know that's considerable
distance, there is just one charred mass--every blade of grass has been
burned."
There was no more trouble that season. No feed for the Indian ponies
within a hundred miles of the fort to the north of the river.