LARAMIE PLAINS.
“That’s the way they all do at first,” said the colonel, smiling at the
rueful look on Oscar’s face. “An Indian pony doesn’t like a white man
any better than his master does, and, like his master, he must be forced
into submission. You are not afraid of him, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, sir. Just let me get on his back, with a good bit in his mouth,
and I’ll manage him.”
While on the way back to the fort the colonel, with the major’s
assistance, arranged all the details of the hunting expeditions that
were to come off during the next two days, and named the officers of the
garrison who, being off duty, would be at liberty to take part in them.
It was decided that as soon as dress parade and supper were over the
party would leave the fort on horseback, taking with them a light wagon,
in which to carry their tents and provisions, and bring back any game
that might chance to fall to their rifles.
By midnight they would reach a small stream which ran through a country
much frequented by antelope in the early hours of the morning.
There they would camp and sleep until daylight, when they would take to
their saddles again and begin the hunt.
Having reached the gate the colonel gave the Indian some instructions
concerning Oscar’s pony, after which he and the major walked on to their
quarters, while Oscar bent his steps toward the sutler’s store, where he
purchased a saddle and bridle, a rawhide lasso and picket pin, and a
pair of elk-skin moccasins and leggings.
He hung the saddle, bridle, and lasso upon a peg behind the stall in
which the Indian had left his pony, and the other articles were carried
into his bedroom and stored away in his trunk.
After that Oscar had nothing to do but to amuse himself in any way he
saw fit. His first care was to get ready for the hunt, so that no time
would be lost when the hour for the start arrived.
He filled his belt with cartridges for his rifle and revolver, placed
these weapons where he could readily lay his hands upon them, took from
his trunk one of the thick, coarse suits of clothing he intended to wear
while in the hills, and then set out to look about the fort.
He took a good survey of the stables and barracks, peeped into all the
warehouses that were open, watched the teamsters, who were busily
engaged in hauling the winter’s supply of wood into the fort, and
finally, growing tired of passing the time in this way, he went back to
the stable to take another look at his pony.
As he walked up and down the floor behind the stall in which the animal
was hitched, he incautiously approached a little too near his heels. In
an instant the pony’s little ears were thrown back close to his head,
and his hind feet flew up into the air with tremendous force, but Oscar
was just out of reach.
Fortunately he saw the motion of the pony’s ears, and, suspecting
mischief, he jumped aside just in time to avoid the blow, which, had it
been fairly planted, would have ended his career as a taxidermist then
and there.
“That’s your game, is it!” exclaimed Oscar, picking up the hat that had
fallen from his head. “Well, if you want a fight we may as well have it
out now as any time.”
So saying, Oscar took his bridle down from its place on the peg and
walked into the stall.
The pony must have been astonished at his boldness, and perhaps he was
cured by it. At any rate he offered but little resistance as Oscar
forced the bit into his mouth and strapped the saddle on his back.
He raised no objections either when the boy, having led him out of the
stable, prepared to mount him; but he did not wait for him to be fairly
seated in the saddle.
No sooner had Oscar placed his foot in the stirrup and swung himself
clear of the ground than the pony broke into a gallop and carried him
swiftly out of the gate.
Oscar could ride almost as well as he could shoot. He was quite at home
in the saddle, and it seemed like old times to find himself moving over
the ground with a speed almost equal to that of a bird on the wing, and
to hear the wind whistling about his ears.
The pony was perfectly willing to go and the boy was perfectly willing
to let him.
Up one hill and down another he went at an astonishing speed, and when
at last his rider thought he had gone far enough he attempted to check
him by pulling gently on the reins that were buckled to the snaffle bit
and talking to him in English.
But the pony, which had all his life been accustomed to the severest
treatment,—an Indian has no more mercy on his favorite horse than he has
on the captives that fall into his hands,—was not to be controlled by
gentle measures or smooth words uttered in an unknown tongue, so Oscar
was obliged to resort to the curb.
That was something the pony could understand, for he was used to it.
After he had been thrown almost on his haunches three or four times he
slackened his pace and finally settled down into a walk.
Then Oscar straightened up, pushed his hat on the back of his head, and
looked about him. He was alone on the prairie.
Even the top of the tall flag-staff which arose from the parade ground
in the fort was hidden from view by the last swell over which the pony
had carried him.
But there was no danger of getting lost, for the trail was as clearly
defined as any country road he had ever travelled.
He followed it to the summit of the next hill, which, being higher than
the surrounding ones, brought the flag-staff and a portion of the hamlet
of Julesburg again into view, and there he stopped to take a survey of
the country.
The ridge on which he stood stretched away behind him as far as his eye
could reach, and in front terminated in a steep bluff, perhaps a hundred
feet in height, at the base of which flowed the dark waters of the
Platte.
To the north and west the long, regular swells gave place to innumerable
ravines, which crossed and recrossed one another, and twisted about in
the most bewildering fashion.
They were deep and dark, and their precipitous sides were so thickly
covered with stunted oaks and pines that the light of the sun rarely
penetrated to the bottom of them, even at mid-day.
In the years gone by these same ravines had afforded secure
hiding-places for the hostile Sioux, who had so stubbornly resisted the
onward march of the white man.
From their cavernous depths they had poured forth in overwhelming
numbers to pounce upon some wagon train, and in them they had found
refuge when worsted in conflict with the troops, their perfect knowledge
of the ground enabling them to effectually baffle pursuit.
Far beyond the ravines, long miles away, and yet rendered so distinct by
the clear atmosphere that it seemed to Oscar that but a few hours’ ride
would be required to take him to it, was a tract of level prairie, which
stretched away through four degrees of longitude to the foot-hills.
This level prairie was known as the Laramie plains, and even so far back
as the day Oscar gazed upon it it was historic ground. Little mounds of
stone, and the bleaching and crumbling bones of horses and cattle,
marked the spot where more than one desperate battle had been fought
between the hardy pioneers and their savage foes, and when Oscar, a few
days later, was brought face to face with these mementoes, he wondered
at his own temerity in so eagerly accepting a commission that took him
to a country in which such scenes had been enacted.
He knew that the Laramie plains were still debatable ground; that the
outrages that had been perpetrated there might at almost any day be
repeated.
It was true that the country was now thickly settled,—at least the old
pioneer thought so,—that comfortable ranches and dug-outs were scattered
over the prairie, from fifteen to twenty miles apart, and that numerous
droves of sheep and cattle cropped the grass which had once afforded
pasturage for countless thousands of buffalo; but these evidences of the
irresistible progress of civilization did not intimidate the Indian.
They rather served to enrage him and to excite his cupidity.
Isolated ranches could be easily plundered, and the flesh of sheep and
cattle was fully as palatable as that of the buffalo, which had been
driven away.
Of course there was no trouble to be apprehended at that season of the
year, it being too near winter for the Sioux to break out into open
hostilities.
A plains Indian does not like to move during the snowy season. Indeed it
is almost impossible for him to do so, for the reason that his main
dependence—his pony (without which, so old hunters say, the Indian is
not a foe to be feared)—is utterly unfit for service.
His food being deeply buried under the drifts, he is forced to content
himself with the branches of the cottonwood, which the squaws cut for
him to browse upon.
He becomes reduced almost to a skeleton, and even staggers, as he walks
about to find some sheltered nook into which he can retreat for
protection from the keen winds which cut through the thickest clothing
like a knife.
His master, whom he has perhaps carried safely through a score of
successful hunts and forays, pays not the slightest attention to him.
Comfortably settled in his teepee, hugging a little fire over which a
white man would freeze to death, the warrior sits with his buffalo-robe
around him, passing the time in smoking and sleeping, but arousing
himself at intervals to engage in a game of chance with some of his
companions, or to send his squaw to the agency to draw the rations a
generous government provides for all the “good” Indians.
But when spring comes, and the snow melts away, and the tender grass
begins to spring and grow luxuriantly beneath the genial influence of
the sun, a great change takes place in the Indian and his pony.
The latter quietly sheds the long, rough coat he has worn all winter,
and with it the burrs and mud with which he was covered; his ribs
disappear, his skeleton frame begins to swell out into a well-rounded
form, and all his old-time life and spirit come back to him; while his
master, having shaken off his lethargy, polishes up his weapons, lays in
a new supply of ammunition, and begins to look about for something to
do—something that will add new laurels to those already won.
If he can find the least excuse for so doing he is ready at any moment
to take the war-path. Oftentimes he has no excuse at all beyond a desire
to gratify his incontrollable propensity for stealing and shooting.
Not infrequently a company of boys, who are ambitious to prove
themselves expert thieves, and thus render themselves candidates for the
“sun-dance,” through which trying ordeal all must pass before they
become full-fledged warriors, break away from their agency and raid upon
the sheep and cattle herders before spoken of.
Sometimes whole bands and tribes break out in this way, and spend the
summer in dodging the troops and sacking defenseless ranches.
While the brave is on the war-path he is a “bad” Indian, and runs the
risk of being shot by anybody who meets him; but in spite of this he
enjoys himself to the utmost while summer lasts.
It is not until the pleasant weather draws to a close, and all the
ranches he can find have been plundered and burned, and all the sheep
and cattle in the country have been captured or dispersed, and the fall
buffalo-hunt is over, and the cold winds begin to sweep over the plains,
that the Indian becomes repentant.
Then he thinks of his warm teepee in that sheltered nook in the ravine,
where his family has lived all summer, subsisting upon government
rations, and he makes all haste to return to it before the snows of
winter come to shut him up in the mountains.