GUARDING AN OVERLAND FREIGHT OUTFIT.
Driving seven yoke of oxen hauling two wagons attached by a short rig
similar to that used in coupling cars, along a desert road, is enough to
keep an able-bodied ox-train brakeman busy. But when, in addition to
keeping his wild "leaders" in the road and his "wheelers" filling their
yokes, he has to keep an eye on a distant bad land bluff or a roll in
the surface, he has his hands more than full.
This was the situation when the bull outfit, from Cheyenne to Spotted
Tail, was slowly moving along north of the Platte river in August,
1875--a time when Red Cloud and Spotted Tail agencies were nearly
deserted, and all the young bucks were chasing antelope and incidentally
collecting scalps of white men when they could find a white man alone
and unprepared to defend himself; or when they could outnumber a bull
outfit one hundred or two hundred to one and get its members in a
"pocket," which was not often.
At this particular time a young man who, a couple of years previous, had
never known anything less comfortable than a feather bed, or a job
harder than writing railroad way-bills, was one of two in the
cross-country freighter crew who had been assigned by Wagon-boss Watson
to mount a "pinto" pony and ride all day at least 1,000 yards away from
the trail and keep to the high places where he could see what was going
on, if anything, in the vicinity. He had been told to dismount and
examine any signs of life on the ground where it was bare, or in the
grass, and when found to fire one shot from his revolver to let the
bullwhackers know that they had "company" not far off; and if he saw one
Indian or a hundred to shoot not once but three times in rapid
succession and then gallop to the wagon train with details.
The movement across the desert-like country this day began at four a.
m., and continued until ten a. m. The featherbed youngster was well
equipped with an army Springfield of large calibre, forty rounds in his
belt, two Remington revolvers and a butcher knife with a five-inch blade
for the possibility of close quarters. He had a bottle of spring water
and a saddlebag full of sandwiches of bread and fried sowbelly and
plenty of chewing and smoking tobacco.
Maybe you think this youngster thought of his soft bed at home or a pot
shot from ambush that would leave his skeleton bleaching in a sandy
desert sun after it had been stripped of its flesh by wolves; or that he
wished someone else had been chosen to guard one side of the overland
train of flour, bacon, corn and sugar and its custodians, but that is
not so. It was one of the proudest days of his life and I know he will
never forget it. He was highly honored by Watson and he appreciated it,
for the reason that only two years before he had come to Wyoming a green
city boy and was then known in the parlance of the plains as a
"tenderfoot," which was a truthful description of any man or boy when he
first entered upon the life of the bullwhacker, the then popular master
of transportation between civilization and its outposts. He never
dreamed of death when he got his orders, because he was young and
foolish. Sometimes it is called bravery, but that isn't the right word.
It can't be described unless it is called blind or reckless
indifference. Perhaps that isn't it; anyway the youngster, as he mounted
and galloped away and waited on a neighboring knoll for the outfit to
string out along the sandy trail, hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. He
wanted an eventful day and he fairly prayed for it. "I hope," he
ruminated to himself half aloud, "that I cross a tepee trail, at least,
even if I don't get my eye on an Indian."
It wasn't long until he began to wonder, for it was still barely
daylight, if it wouldn't be possible for a buck of good aim to pick him
off, especially if the buck practiced the usual tactics of concealing
himself behind a sand-dune or a butte. He wasn't afraid--he didn't know
the word--but he wondered. For this reason he kept his pony moving,
reasoning that it is easier to hit a stationary target than a swiftly
whirling one. But the pony appeared to be a dead one even when a spur
was roughly rubbed upon his belly, until, as the train had gotten well
out of camp and the teams strung along for a mile, he found his pony to
be interested in something, for he insisted on frequent stops and moved
his ears back and forward and snorted lightly.
Finally it seemed next to impossible to get him to move, and Featherbed
was sure the pony had been owned by Indians at some time and was of the
trick variety, being trained to a brand of treachery that meant delivery
of his mount into the hands of the reds.
And while these things were passing through the youngster's brain his
only concern was that the train was leaving him, and that he was not
guarding it. He heard a coyote's mournful note, but that was a common
occurrence, although he wondered if it couldn't be possible that an
Indian was doing the howling. It sounded like an imitation.
The pony snorted some more, and then Featherbed, finding his blunt
pointed spurs were not getting him anywhere, unsheathed his
butcher-knife and pricked his cayuse on the back. He tried to buck, but
he wore a double cinch--one fore and one aft--and it kept him on all
fours.
Things were getting worse and the voices of the bullwhackers yelling at
their teams grew fainter and fainter as the outfit slowly but surely put
distance between Featherbed and his companion, when there was a sound
that resembled the dropping of a stick in the water preceded by a
distinct swish as if it had been thrown through the air like a
boomerang.
Then the pinto got busy. It was an arrow!
There were several more, and one of them clipped the pommel of the
saddle before Featherbed thought of his orders to fire once on sight of
disturbed grass or a moccasin track on bare ground; or, upon sighting an
Indian, to fire three times.
Then he let go with his Springfield in the supposed direction of the
enemy, and headed for the trail, which he readily found, and soon caught
up with the mess-wagon which always formed the rear guard with one
whacker, the night herder inside, and the extra herd horses tied behind.
Featherbed met Watson galloping toward the rear.
"What is it, boy?" he shouted.
"They got a piece of my Texas pommel," he replied, "but I don't know
where the arrow came from. I'll go back and see."
He wheeled his pony to go and would have been off to take up his station
a thousand yards from the trail had not Watson said, laughingly:
"You're crazy--wait a minute till I send word up ahead to corral."
"You (to the mess wagon driver) untie them hosses, saddle 'em up and
wait for Blucher Brown and Archer; they'll be back in a minute."
Featherbed, as the sun peeped over a rise in the land, waited
impatiently. So did the pony, for the miserable Indian-bred cuss had a
good nose that was keen to the smoky smell of an Indian, or to the odor
of another horse, especially of his own breed, and he was all animation
and ready to go.
When the party finally got away Watson, turning to Featherbed as they
galloped side by side along the high spots near the back trail, said:
"If yer not afraid, pull out ahead with that pony and lead the way."
Featherbed pressed the Rowell spur to the pony's side and he responded
like a real cow-pony, much to Featherbed's surprise, and before Watson
could gather his breath to call the youngster back he led them by 200
yards. Finally he did manage to yell between his laughter:
"Hold on, you danged idiot--I didn't mean--"
But he didn't finish the sentence, although he continued yelling, this
time expressing himself to the effect:
"My hoss has been creased in the neck--dismount, give me your hoss and
lead mine back to the outfit; we'll take care of these galoots."
Featherbed protested, but it was no use, and he returned and joined the
whackers who had corralled and gathered the bulls inside the wagons,
forming two half circles on a high spot near the trail. There were
several other horses in the outfit, so Featherbed quickly slipped the
boss' fine $200 rig on the back of a buckskin of the cow-puncher variety
and sped back to the scene of action.
But it was all over. The sneaking Indians had disappeared, and the only
evidence of their presence was a spot of crumpled grass behind a knoll
where several of them had lain in complete safety while they tried to
send Featherbed to the Happy Hunting Ground.
The sun was too high for the Indians, so they disappeared, skulking at
safe distance to wait for darkness and perhaps other prey.
Featherbed, after another shift of mounts and saddles and bridles, again
took his post 1,000 yards from the trail, smoked his pipe, munched his
sandwiches and drank the spring water.
At ten o'clock camp was struck for the mid-day stop close to a creek of
sweet cold water that ran through some small hills covered with stunted
pines, a few miles from a range of black mountains out of the bad lands
and sand.
Featherbed was here promoted to the position of assistant wagon boss,
presented with a big sorrel horse called "America" (because he was not
Indian-bred) and given the lead team to drive in the outfit. This meant
that, in co-operation with the "big boss," he would help select the
camps, govern the speed of the "train," look after the manifests, act
as check clerk in loading and unloading, and besides wear a red sash to
designate his official position.
Featherbed took his honors modestly, in fact he was surprised and
couldn't understand it until someone told him the "old man" was pleased
when he (Featherbed) took the wounded horse back to the train, saddled
up another and returned to help find where the arrows came from.