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TALES OF THE TRAIL
SHORT STORIES OF WESTERN LIFE
BY
COLONEL HENRY INMAN
_Late Assistant Quartermaster, United States Army_
AUTHOR OF "THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL," "SALT LAKE TRAIL"
[Illustration]
_FIFTH EDITION_
CRANE & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
TOPEKA, KANSAS
1917
Copyright 1898, by CRANE & CO.
PREFACE.
These "Tales of the Trail" are based upon actual facts which came under
the personal observation of the author, whose reputation as a writer
of the frontier is national. His other works have met with phenomenal
success, and these sketches, which have appeared from time to time in
the current literature of the United States, are now compiled, and
will form another interesting series of stories of that era of great
adventures, when the country west of the Missouri was unknown except to
the trappers, hunters, and army officers.
Some of the characters around which are woven the thrilling incidents
of these "Tales" were men of world-wide reputation; they have long
since joined the "choir invisible," but their names as pioneers in the
genesis of great States which then formed the theater of their exploits
will live as long as the United States exists as a great nation.
However improbable to the uninitiated the thrilling experiences of the
individuals who were actors in the scenes depicted, may seem, they are
a proof that "truth is stranger than fiction."
It is fortunate that Colonel Inman during his forty years on the
extreme frontier was such a close observer, and noted from time to time
these stories of the frontier which form such an interesting part of
our Americana.
JAMES L. KING,
_State Librarian_.
TOPEKA, KANSAS, March 1, 1898.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
GENERAL FORSYTHE AT THE ARRICKAREE 1
EL SOLITARIO, THE HERMIT PRIEST OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL 24
MEDICINE BLUFF 45
A RACE FOR LIFE: An Incident of the Indian War of 1864 58
THE TRAGEDY AT TWIN MOUNDS: An Incident of the
Indian War of 1866-'67 96
WAL. HENDERSON 129
KIT CARSON'S PAWNEE ROCK STORY 151
SHERIDAN'S ROOST 170
THE PASSING OF THE BUFFALO 179
JUDGE LYNCH'S COURT AT WHOOPING HOLLOW 192
THE WOOING OF AH-KEY-NES-TOU 240
KIT CARSON'S "FIRST INDIAN" 256
DID GENERAL CUSTER COMMIT SUICIDE? 270
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE.
General Forsythe 1
The Charge 13
The Hermit Priest 24
Little Beaver 45
Kicking Bird 58
Susie Réaume 96
Sitting Bull, Crow Eagle, and Buffalo Bill 101
Sa-tan-ta 104
The Mirage 119
Wal. Henderson 130
O-ton-son-e-var 163
Pacer's Son--Chief of all the Apaches 166
General Sheridan 170
Catching Wild Turkeys in Gen. Sheridan's Camp 178
Wolves Attacking a Buffalo 191
A Lynching Scene 238
Mandan Chief 240
Mandan Canoe 246
Mandan Village 248
Kit Carson 256
Train at Pawnee Rock 266
General Custer 270
Little River 273
Sitting Bull 277
GEN. FORSYTHE AT THE ARRICKAREE.
A THRILLING STORY OF INDIAN WARFARE.
[Illustration: GENERAL FORSYTHE.]
I was sitting in my office at Fort Harker on a warm evening in the
latter part of September, 1868, musing over a pipeful of "Lone Jack,"
upon the possible extent of the impending Indian war, which had already
been planned by Gen. Sheridan, in the seclusion of my own quarters,
only the night before. It was rapidly growing dark; the somber line of
the twilight curve had almost met the western horizon, and only the
faintest tinge of purple beneath marked the intermedium between the
gloaming and the rayless sky.
Nothing disturbed my revery as I wandered in my imagination over the
bleak expanse of the Arkansas, Cimarron and Canadian rivers, so soon to
be the scene of active operations, except the monotonous clicking of
the relay in the window of the next room, where the Government night
operator was on duty, who was also meditating in the darkness.
The terrible massacres on Spillman creek, only a few weeks before,
still furnished food for vengeful thoughts that would not down, as
images of the murdered women and little ones rose in horrible visions
upon the thick night before me.
The dismal howl of a hungry wolf borne upon the still air from the
timbered recesses of the Smoky added to the weird aspect that my
surroundings were rapidly assuming, and there seemed some portentous
and indescribable thing bearing down upon the place.
Suddenly the operator--while the clicking of the instruments
became more nervous and varied from their monotone of the whole
evening--exclaimed, "My God! Major, what's this?"
"What is what?" said I, jumping from my chair and rushing to his side.
Quickly lighting his little lamp and seizing his pencil, he wrote upon
a blank as I looked over his shoulder and read--while the clicking grew
more convulsive still--these words:
"Gen. Forsythe surrounded by Indians on the Republican. Lieut.
Beecher, the doctor, and many of the scouts killed; nearly the
entire command, including the general, wounded. Stillwell, one of
the scouts, ran the gauntlet of the savages, and brings report.
Col. Carpenter, Tenth Cavalry, and his command, leave immediately
to relieve them."
This was a fragment of the whole dispatch going over the wires from
Fort Hays to Fort Leavenworth and Washington. We had taken enough of it
to know that a terrible disaster had befallen the gallant Forsythe, of
Sheridan's staff, and his plucky band of scouts, who were all civilians
and Kansans.
The headquarters of Gen. Sheridan, who was at the date of this
narrative in command of the Department of the Missouri, were
temporarily established at Fort Harker. He was consummating his
arrangements for a winter campaign against the hostile tribes, and the
idea suggested itself that a body of carefully selected men, composed
of the best material to be found on the frontier, under the leadership
of an experienced officer, could effect excellent results.
These scouts, as they were to be termed, were to go anywhere, and act
entirely independent of the regularly organized troops about to take
the field.
Generals Custer and Sully, the next in rank to Sheridan, both already
famous as Indian fighters, coincided with this view of the commanding
general; and it was determined to pick fifty equipped frontiersmen at
once, commission Forsythe as their leader, who in the incipiency of the
movement modestly solicited the responsible position.
The fifty-four men were chosen from an aggregate of more than 2,000
employed by the Government at various positions at Forts Harker and
Hays. The reader may rest assured that only those were accepted
who possessed the essential qualifications of indomitable courage,
wonderful endurance, perfect markmanship, and a thorough knowledge of
the Indian character.
Gen. Forsythe chose for his lieutenant his particular friend F. H.
Beecher, of the Third Infantry, a nephew of the celebrated Brooklyn
clergyman.
Some days were occupied at Fort Harker in fitting out the little
expedition, but no unnecessary equipage or superfluous camp
paraphernalia formed any part of the supplies.
There were no tents or wagons. Pack-mules carried the commissary
stores, which were of the simplest character, and as the object of the
party was war, its impedimenta were reduced to the minimum.
Each man was mounted on an excellent horse, his armament a
breech-loading rifle and two revolvers.
This troop of brave men left Harker for Hays in the latter part of
August, from which point their arduous duties were commenced.
On the 29th of that month, all the preliminaries for taking the field
having been completed and their surgeon joined, they marched out of the
fort on their perilous mission. After scouting over a large area for
several days without meeting any sign of the Cheyennes, they concluded
to go to Wallace to recuperate and refit.
Sometime during the second week in September the Indians made a raid on
a Government wagon train near Sheridan station, on the Kansas Pacific
Railroad, about twelve miles east of Wallace. As soon as the news
reached the fort over the wires, Forsythe and his little band of scouts
started to intercept the savages on their retreat.
Next morning the little command struck the fresh trail of the Indians,
and by forced marches came so close that they compelled them to
separate into insignificant detachments, but night coming rapidly on,
the General lost the trail. The conclusion was, after a consultation
with the best plainsmen among the party, that the Indians would
naturally go northward; so it was determined to take that direction in
pursuit.
The scouts continued their course for more than a week without the
least trifling incident to relieve the wearisome monotony of the march.
Suddenly, on the afternoon of the eighth day, as they were approaching
the bluffs of the Republican river, they discovered an immense trail
still leading to the north. The signs indicated that a large body of
warriors, with pack animals, women and children, and lodges of a big
camp, had recently camped there.
It was growing dark, and rather than take the chances of losing this
trail in the night, it was determined to bivouac in the vicinity, rest
the animals, and continue the pursuit at the first streak of dawn.
It was well that this course was decided upon, or there would have been
none left to tell the story of the fight, as the result will show. The
spot selected for the bivouac had some slight strategic value, and was
for that reason chosen by the General, after it had been pointed out by
two of his men, Tom Murphy and Jack Stillwell; though he had no idea
at the time that any benefit would result from their judgment in this
particular. It was an elongated low mound of sand (such as are seen at
intervals in the Arkansas) which the Arrickaree fork of the Republican
at this time embraced (as the Cheyenne does the Black Hills), forming
an island.
If this trail had not been struck, it was the intention to have
gone back to Wallace for provisions, as only sufficient for one day
remained; but upon prospects of a fight, it was unanimously agreed to
go, and take the chances of finding something to eat.
In the early gray of the next morning, while the stars were still
twinkling and at the hour when sleep oppresses more than at any other
time, the sentinels posted on the hills above the island yelled,
"Indians!"
In a moment the camp was awake. With rifle in hand, each scout rushed
for the lariat to which his horse was picketed, knowing of course that
the first effort on the part of the Indians would be to stampede the
animals. As it was, a small party of them dashed in with a horrid
whoop, and shaking their buffalo robes, succeeded in running off a
small portion of the pack-mules, besides one or two of the horses.
A few shots fired by the most advanced of the scouts scattered the
Indians, and quiet reigned again for a few minutes.
Almost immediately, however, before the scouts had completed saddling
their horses--which the General had ordered--one of the guides nearest
Forsythe happening to look up, could not help giving vent to the
expression, "Great heavens! General, see the Indians!"
Well might he be excited. Over the hills, from the west and north,
along the river on the opposite bank--everywhere, and in every
direction, they made their appearance. Finely mounted, in full war
paint, their long scalp-locks braided with eagles' feathers, and with
all the paraphernalia of a barbarous war party, with wild and exultant
shouts, on they came.
It was a desperate-looking preponderance of brute force and savage
subtlety, against the cool and calm judgment of the disciplined
plainsmen. But the General, without glancing at the hell in front
and all around him, with only the lines of determination in his face
a little more marked, grasping the terrible picture before him,
stoically ordered his men to take possession of the sand mound with
their horses, and then determined, almost against hope, to accept the
wager of battle.
It happened, fortunately, that on this island were growing some stunted
shrubs, to which the animals were fastened, their bodies forming a
cordon, inside of which the luckless scouts prepared for the demoniacal
charge which they knew must come with its terrible uncertainty in a few
minutes.
They had scarcely secured their animals, when like the shock of a
whirlwind on came the savages, and the awfully unequal battle commenced.
It was just the break of dawn; the Indians, taking advantage of the
uncertain light, dismounted from their ponies, and creeping within easy
range, poured in a murderous fire upon the scouts.
The Indians were splendidly armed as usual, through the munificence
of the Government, by its apathy in preventing renegade white men or
traders from supplying them.
When the full morning came, which had been anxiously waited for by the
scouts, then they first realized their desperate situation. Apparently
as numerous as the sand-grains of their little fortification, the
Indians hemmed them in on all sides. More than a thousand hideously
painted and screaming warriors surrounded them, with all their hatred
of the race depicted on their fiendish countenances, in anticipation of
the victory which seemed so certain.
Scattered among these, out of rifle-range, were the squaws and children
of the aggregated band, watching with gloating eyes the progress of the
battle, while the hills reëchoed their diabolical death-chant and the
howling of the medicine-men inspiring the young warriors to deeds of
daring.
No one can form the slightest conception of the horrid picture
spread before the scouts on the clear gray of that morning, unless
he or she has realized it in the hostile encounters with the hostile
tribes on the plains. Language is inadequate, and all the attempts at
word-painting fall so short of the reality that it were better left
wrapped in its terrible incomprehensibleness.
The General and his brave men took in their chances at a glance. They
saw little hope in the prospect, but they determined, however, never
to be taken alive--a thousand deaths by the bullet were preferable to
that; so made up their minds to fight to the bitter end, which would
only come when the ammunition was exhausted or themselves killed.
To this end they commenced to intrench as best they could, by scraping
holes in the sand with the only implement at their command--their
hands. They succeeded in making a sort of rifle-pit of their position,
but before the work was completed, two of the scouts were killed
outright, and many wounded--among the latter the General himself.
Owing to the dreadful firing of the Indians, who continually charged
down upon the island, the doctor was compelled to abandon the care of
the wounded and become a combatant; he did excellent work with his
rifle, but a bullet soon pierced his brain, and he too fell dead.
In a few seconds after the doctor's death, in the midst of a terrible
onslaught by the Indians, the General was again struck--this time near
the ankle, the ball perforating the bone as perfectly as if done with
an auger.
The firing of the scouts had not all this time been without telling
effect upon the Indians--many a painted warrior had bitten the dust
before the sun was two hours high. At each successive charge of the
redskins, the scouts, cool and careful, and deliberate, took aim,
and when their rifles were discharged each put a savage _hors de
combat_--there was no ammunition wasted!
Nor had the besieged escaped from the fearful onset of their enemies:
besides the casualties related, nearly all the horses had been
killed--in fact, before noon all but one had fallen, and it is told
that when he too was killed, one of the warriors exclaimed in English,
"There goes the last horse, anyway!"
At this juncture, with all their horses killed or wounded, the Indians
determined upon one more grand charge which would settle the unequal
contest. So they rallied all their forces and hazarded their reputation
upon the aggregated assault.
This charging column was composed of about one hundred and fifty "dog
soldiers" and nearly five hundred more of the Brulés, Cheyennes, and
Arapahoes, all under the command of the celebrated chief "Roman Nose."
Superbly mounted, almost naked, although in full war dress, and painted
in the most hideous manner, formed with a front of about sixty men,
they awaited in the greatest confidence the signal of their chief to
charge.
Their leader at first signaled to the dismounted men beyond this line
of horsemen to fire into the scouts, and thus make his contemplated
charge more effective. At the moment of the fusillade, seeing the
little garrison was stunned by the fire of the dismounted Indians, and
rightly judging that now if ever was the proper time to charge, Roman
Nose and his band of mounted warriors, with a wild ringing war-whoop,
echoed by the women and children on the hills, started forward.
[Illustration: THE CHARGE.]
On they came, presenting even to the brave men awaiting their charge, a
most superb sight.
Soon they were within the range of the rifles of their friends, and of
course the dismounted Indians had to slacken their fire for fear of
hitting their own warriors.
And this was the opportunity for the scouts. "Now!" shouted Forsythe;
and the scouts, springing to their knees, cast their eyes coolly along
the barrels of their rifles, and opened upon the advancing savages a
deadly fire.
Unchecked, undaunted, on dashed the warriors. Steadily rang the sharp
report of the rifles of the frontiersmen. Roman Nose falls dead from
his horse; "Medicine Man" is killed; and for an instant the column, now
within ten feet of the scouts, hesitates--falters.
A cheer from the scouts, who perceive the effect of their well-directed
fire, as the Indians begin to break and scatter in every direction,
unwilling to rush into a hand-to-hand struggle. A few more shots, and
the Indians are forced back beyond range.
Forsythe inquires anxiously, "Can they do better than that, Grover?"
"I have been on the plains, General, since a boy, and never saw such a
charge as that before."
"All right, then; we are good for them."
It was in this grand charge, led in person by their greatest of all
warriors, Roman Nose, that Lieut. Beecher was mortally wounded. He
suffered intensely, and lingered some hours before his manly spirit was
extinguished.
He and I were warmly attached to one another. I knew full well
the generous impulses of his warm young heart, and his perfect
unselfishness. He was brave, the very soul of honor, and a favorite in
all garrisons.
Before night closed in on the terrible tragedy of that day, the Indians
charged on the weary and beleaguered scouts again and again, but were
as often driven back by the dreadful accuracy of the rifles of the
besieged, with an increasing loss each time.
The darkness which had been earnestly looked for at last brought the
welcome respite, and it was made possible for the unfortunate men to
steal a moment's rest, that was needed, oh, how much!
Hungry, exhausted, with an empty commissariat, every animal dead, their
comrades lying stark upon the dreary sand, and a great number writhing
in all the agony of torturing wounds; a relentless enemy ever watching;
no skilled hand to alleviate the sufferings of the dying, and the only
hope of help that might never come, more than a hundred miles away.
Think of that; grasp it if you can!
Later, while the night yet thickened, preparations were made to meet
the events that were sure to come with the morning's light, and the
little fort--for it had certainly now reached the dignity of that
title--was made still stronger. For gabions, the swollen carcasses of
the dead horses were used, and huge slices were cut from their thighs
for food. Thank God, the torturings of thirst were not added to their
other sufferings, for water was easily obtained by digging a short
distance.
Thus strengthened, a midnight council of war was held in whisperings,
and it was determined to send two of their number to Fort Wallace, as
desperate as the undertaking was. A mere boy, Stillwell, and another,
Truedell, expressed their willingness to make the attempt.
The brave men crawled from the "island" to run the gauntlet of the
watchful savages, ever on the alert to take advantage of the least
unfavorable demonstration on the part of their prey, as they fully
believed them.
We will leave them making their way cautiously but hopefully in the
darkness, for it is not the purpose of the writer at this time to tell
of the noble efforts of these brave messengers in their hairbreadth
escapes on their lonesome and perilous journey; but let us turn to the
worn-out and wounded band of heroes again, to learn how they fared
during the long days before help could possibly reach them, even were
Stillwell and his companion able to reach Wallace.
The sun rose in all the splendor of a Kansas autumn morning, but the
landscape bore the same horrid features of the day before. All through
the weary hours the Indians kept up an incessant firing, though
no serious charge was attempted--they had had more than they had
anticipated, in their efforts in that direction yesterday. The scouts,
now pretty effectually intrenched, suffered but little from the wild
firing of their besiegers, but it was annoying, and kept the brave men
ever prepared for a possible charge, the result of which might not be
so fortunate as former ones.
Night again came to throw its mantle of rest upon the little band, and
shortly after dark two more scouts were sent out to reach Fort Wallace,
if possible; but they failed to get beyond the line of watchful
savages, and were compelled to abandon the idea.
This unsuccessful attempt to go for help cast a gloom over the little
command, for it could not yet be known what had been the fate of the
other two who had gone out the night previously.
The next day the state of affairs assumed a more cheerful aspect--if
that could be possible. The squaws and children had disappeared,
indicating a retreat upon the part of the Indians, although they still
kept up their firing at intervals: perhaps they, too, were getting
short of ammunition and provisions.
In the afternoon the savages hoisted a white rag upon a pole and
expressed a desire to talk, but our heroes were too wary to be caught
with such chaff as that, for with Indians a flag of truce means a
massacre, half the time.
That night two more men were sent out, and these carried that famous
dispatch of Forsythe's, which should hold its place in history with
that other memorable one of Grant's: "I intend to fight it out on this
line if it takes all summer." Forsythe's read:
"I am on a little island, and have still plenty of ammunition
left. We are living on mule and horse-meat, and are entirely out
of rations. If it were not for so many wounded I would come on and
take the chance of whipping them if attacked. They are evidently
sick of their bargain. I can hold out six days longer if absolutely
necessary; but lose no time."
The morning of the fourth day, on the now historic island, broke
somewhat more cheerful still. The Indians could be seen moving rapidly
away, only a few comparatively remaining in sight, to wait till
exhaustion and starvation should place the scouts in their power. They
little knew the metal of the men lying behind those breastworks of
rotten carcasses, or they too would have gone with the old men, women
and children of the tribe.
A few shots were fired by the scouts in response to the occasional
random fusillade of the Indians: they contented themselves with saving
their ammunition for a possible last grand act in the drama, only
shooting when an Indian came within certain range, when he was sure to
be sent to the "happy hunting-grounds."
Night again came with its relative rest, and then another weary day of
watching and waiting, without any special demonstration on the part of
the Indians.
New horrors now made their appearance in the shape of gangrened wounds,
and suffering for food. The putrid flesh of the dead horses and mules
was all that remained to support life, and however revolting, it had
to be swallowed. The nauseating effluvia of the rapidly decaying
carcasses, too, made the place almost intolerable, and so insufferable
did it become that the General told those who were disheartened to go;
but all to a man, to their honor be it recorded, refused, electing to
remain with their companions-in-arms--to be rescued, or die with them.
Two more days of torture, and then, on the ridge between them and the
golden sunlight gleamed the bright bayonets of Col. Carpenter and his
column of "the boys in blue."
Their Havelock had reached this American Lucknow, and cheer after
cheer--feeble though they were--went up from the little island, and our
story closes with the rescue of these brave men.
* * * * *
GENERAL FORSYTHE (himself wounded in both legs) gives a very graphic
description of the charge of the Indians, and the appearance of their
hero and chief, Roman Nose. He says:
"As Roman Nose dashed gallantly forward and swept into the open at
the head of his superb command, he was the very _beau-ideal_ of an
Indian chief. Mounted on a large, clean-limbed chestnut horse, he
sat well forward on his bareback charger, his knees passing under
a horsehair lariat that twice loosely encircled the animal's body,
his horse's bridle grasped in his left hand, which was also closely
wound in its flowing mane, and at the same time clutched his rifle
at the guard, the butt of which lay partially across the animal's
neck, while its barrel, crossing diagonally in front of his body,
rested slightly against the hollow of his left arm, leaving his
right free to direct the course of his men. He was a man over six
feet three inches in height, beautifully formed, and save for a
crimson silk sash knotted around his waist and his moccasins on his
feet, perfectly naked. His face was hideously painted in alternate
lines of red and black, and his head crowned with a magnificent
war-bonnet, from which, just above his temples and curving slightly
forward, stood up two short black buffalo horns, while its ample
length of eagles' feathers and herons' plumes trailed wildly on
the wind behind him; and as he came swiftly on at the head of his
charging warriors, in all his barbaric strength and grandeur, he
proudly rode that day the most perfect type of a savage warrior it
has been my lot to see. Turning his face for an instant toward the
women and children of the united tribes, who literally by thousands
were watching the fight from the crest of the low bluffs back from
the river's bank, he raised his right arm and waved his right hand
with a royal gesture, in answer to their wild cries of rage and
encouragement as he and his command swept down upon us; and again,
facing squarely towards where we lay, he drew his body to its full
height and shook his clenched fist defiantly at us; then, throwing
back his head and glancing skyward, he suddenly struck the palm
of his hand across his mouth and gave tongue to a war-cry that
I have never yet heard equaled in power and intensity. Scarcely
had its echos reached the river's bank when it was caught up by
each and every one of the charging warriors with an energy that
baffles description, and answered back with blood-curdling yells
of exultation and prospective vengeance by the women and children
on the river's bluff and by the Indians who lay in ambush around
us. On they came at a swinging gallop, rending the air with their
wild war-whoops, each individual warrior in all his bravery of war
paint and long braided scalp-lock tipped with eagles' feathers,
and all stark naked but for their cartridge belts and moccasins,
keeping their line almost perfectly, with a front of about sixty
men all riding horseback, with only a loose lariat about their
horses' bodies, and about a yard apart, and with a depth of six or
seven ranks, forming together a compact body of massive fighting
strength, and of almost resistless weight. 'Boldly they rode and
well,' with their horses' bridles in their left hands, while with
their right they grasped their rifles at the guard and held them
squarely in front of themselves, resting lightly upon their horses'
necks.
"Riding about five paces in front of the center of the line, and
twirling his heavy Springfield rifle about his head as if it were
a wisp of straw, Roman Nose recklessly led the charge with a
bravery that could only be equaled but not excelled; while their
medicine-man, an equally brave yet older chief, rode slightly in
advance of the left of the charging column.
"To say that I was surprised at this splendid exhibition of pluck
and discipline, is to put it mildly; and to say, further, that
for an instant or two I was fairly lost in admiration of the
glorious charge, is simply to state the truth--for it was far and
away beyond anything I had heard of, read about, or even imagined
regarding Indian warfare."
EL SOLITARIO, THE HERMIT PRIEST OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL.
"No stream from its source
Flows seaward, how lonely so 'er its course,
But some land is gladden'd. No star ever rose
And set without influence somewhere. Who knows
What earth needs from earth's lowliest creatures?
No life
Can be pure in its purpose, and strong in its strife,
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby."
--OWEN MEREDITH.
[Illustration: THE HERMIT PRIEST.]
The tourist _en route_ to the Pacific coast cannot fail observing on
his right a huge, relatively isolated peak, cutting the incomparably
clear mid-continent sky, almost immediately after the train emerges
from the picturesque cañon of El Moro, and commences to descend the
long gradual slope to the quaint old Mexican village of Las Vegas,
New Mexico. Its scarred and verdureless front looms up grandly in the
beautifully serrated landscape, of which it is the most conspicuous
object. More prominently defined than any other individual elevation of
the Taos Range visible from the point of observation, the shadow of its
irregular contour reaches far out over the lesser mountains beneath,
the moment the sun has crossed the meridian of its crest.
At its foot, grassy little valleys stretch eastwardly, which are
cultivated by the primitive Mexicans under a system of irrigation as
primitive as themselves--simple earth ditches, involving a very limited
knowledge of engineering.
Foaming little torrents splash and sparkle in the sunshine, as
they course through the fertile intervales. Their sources are cool
mountain springs hidden in the dark recesses of the towering range,
which were, until the restless "Gringo" invaded the solitude of the
charming region at the advent of the iron trail to erect saw-mills,
filled with that most epicurean and gamy of all the finny tribe, the
speckled brook-trout. Now, the disciple of the revered Walton vainly
essays the streams with elegant modern appliances for lazy methods of
angling, retiring disgusted, as the listless native, answering his
interrogatory of "Where have they all gone?" with a characteristic
shrug, and his ever-ready "Quien sabe?" quietly opens his little ditch
to let the tenantless water overflow his limited patch of corn, beans,
and onions.
Maybe, in the sad and weird mythology of those strange people the
Aztecs, this storm-beaten spur of the Rockies occupied an important
place. Their Olympus, or Parnassus perhaps, for not many miles remote,
on the bank of the classic Pecos, where lie the ruins of the once
fortified Cicuye, referred to so graphically in the itinerary of the
historian of Coronado's wonderful march in search of the "Seven Cities
of Cibola," is the reputed birthplace of their culture-hero, Montezuma
(not to be confounded with the dynasty of sovereigns of that name), who
was the Christ of their faith, for whose second advent the Pueblos, the
lineal descendants of the Aztecs, look for so hopefully with the rising
of every morning's sun.
Upon the summit of the Rincon de Tecolote, "The Owl's Corner," now
known as "El Cumbre del Solitario" (The Hermit's Peak), as this grand
old sentinel of the range is called by the Mexicans, an area comprising
several acres, there is a remarkable cave. Around this natural grotto
at such a great elevation, are clustered by the simple natives the
most cherished memories of the humble and beloved curious individual
who once occupied the sequestered spot. It is sacred ground with them,
upon which no sacrilege would for a moment be brooked.
Near its narrow entrance a spring of clear cold water gushes out of
the indurated rock, which, after flowing for a short distance over the
rounded pebbles in its deeply worn bed, tumbles down the precipitous
side of the mountain in a diminutive cascade, joining the streams in
the valley on their resistless way to the sea. A few scattered piñons
cast a grateful shade over a portion of the generally bald blear level
of the limited plain, and at regular distances apart, in the form of a
circle, are twelve rude crosses, typical of the number of the Apostles.
They were erected years ago by the humble Mexicans living in the
hamlets below, in memory of the deeply religious man who made his home
in this sequestered spot, and whose name is revered only a degree less
than that of the tutelary saint of the country, Our Lady of Guadalupe.
On certain feast-days, particularly in midsummer, large fires are kept
burning at night, and the devotees to the memory of the cave's once
holy occupant, long since hastened by the hand of an assassin to the
unknown beyond, assemble there under the stars, and in a most devout
spirit perform certain ceremonies, with a zeal possible only to the
earnest believers in that ancient and widely disseminated faith, the
Catholic religion.
Of the history of this remarkable man, who by his exemplary life made
such an impression upon the untutored minds of a large number of the
degraded primitive New-Mexicans, but fragmentary leaves have been
obtainable. To intelligently understand even these, the reader must let
his mind drift backward for more than a generation to the plains of
central Kansas, and learn of his advent into the State as I recall it.
It was late in the spring of 1861. Our Civil War had been inaugurated
by the firing upon Sumter, and the loyal States were preparing for the
great impending struggle, upon the result of which depended the destiny
of the Republic. Kansas at that time, so far as its agricultural
possibilities were concerned, was not materially considered in that
connection; it was a remote, relatively unknown Territory. It is true,
its eastern portion, a narrow belt contiguous to Missouri, had a bloody
political history; beyond which fact, it was merely the portal to the
vast mountain region on the west, to be reached only by crossing the
"Desert" supposed to be included within the new State's geographical
limits, through which ran the trail to far-off Santa Fé and Chihuahua.
There arrived one morning in the busy little hamlet of Council Grove,
Morris county, Kansas, during the month of May, a strange, mysterious
person. He attracted much attention, for he was to the denizens of that
remote frontier town as curious a personage as the Man in the Iron
Mask, or the awkward Kaspar Hauser, whose appearance at the gates of
Nuremburg once startled the good people of that staid and quiet town,
hoary with the conservatism of centuries.
The stranger who came so unexpectedly to Council Grove in the spring
of 1861, evidently a priest, talked but little; it was an exceedingly
difficult task to engage him in conversation, so profoundly did he
seem impressed with the idea of some impending danger. He acted like
a startled deer, ever on the alert for an expected enemy, and weeks
rolled by before two or three of the town's most reputable citizens
could gain his confidence sufficiently to learn from him something
of his varied and romantic history. In a simple sketch, as this is
intended to be only, nothing but a mere outline of his checkered life
previous to his advent in America can be presented, as it was gathered,
very reluctantly on his part, in detached fragments at odd moments in
his erratic moods of communicativeness. It certainly contains enough of
pathos, suffering and tragedy to form the web of a thrilling novel.
Matteo Boccalini, at the date of his appearance in Council Grove, was
about fifty-five years old. He possessed the eye of an artist, a head
that was beautifully symmetrical, with a classically moulded face; and
notwithstanding his age, his hair, of which he had a profusion, was
long, black, and lustrous as a raven's wing. Yet the heart-sorrows
he had experienced were indelibly impressed upon his benevolent
countenance in deeply marked lines. He was a lineal descendant of
Trajano Boccalini, the witty Italian satirist, author of the celebrated
"Ragguagli di Parnaso," who died in Venice in 1618. Matteo was born
about the beginning of the present century, in Capri, that charming and
most romantic island of Italy, situated in the Mediterranean, at the
entrance to the Bay of Naples, twenty miles south of the beautiful city
whose name the bright waters bear.
His youth was passed on the island, in the city of Capri, the seat of
a bishopric. There he received his early education, devoting himself
to the Church, and commencing those theological studies which were soon
to be the cause of his sufferings, his wanderings, and eventually his
tragic death.
The island of his birth, which has so often been sung by the muse, is
historic as well as picturesquely beautiful. It was there that the
Roman emperor Tiberius passed the closing decade of his life, and the
ruins of the twelve gorgeous palaces he erected during that period are
still visible. Capri, too, as tourists well remember, is famous for a
cavern called the "Grotto of the Nymphs," or the "Blue Grotto." Matteo
declared it was there that during his youth, in the calm recesses and
sequestered nooks of that delightful underground retreat, he first
learned to love the companionship of his own thoughts, a desire for
solitude, and that to him indescribable peace which a life apart from
the "madding crowd" assures. It was this strange characteristic,
absence of that love of gregariousness common to man, which earned
for him in Council Grove half a century later, the sobriquet of "The
Hermit Priest of the Santa Fé Trail," and a year after his departure
from that place, among his devoted adherents in the mountains of New
Mexico, the more applicable one, "El Solitario" (The Solitary Man), in
contradistinction to "El Hermito" (The Hermit), which he never was in
the strict interpretation of the term.
When but eighteen, the youthful Matteo left his native island, under
the patronage of the good bishop, who loved him, to perfect his
education in Rome, beneath the very shadow of St. Peter's, where he
took holy orders at the early age of twenty-one. Then, according
to his sad story, began that life of stormy passions and sorrowful
pilgrimages, culminating in his assassination forty years afterwards in
the far-off Occident.
He was called by the Church "Father Francesco," and although so young,
was noted for his eloquence, subtile philosophy, and the boldness of
his political utterances. But notwithstanding his pronounced views,
the Pope named him as one of his secretaries. The College of the
Propagandists, however, refused to confirm him, and placed him under
interrogation and discipline. He eloquently defended himself, and the
charges were not sustained. The severe discipline ended to which he
had been subjected, and he was assigned to duty in the purlieus of the
Eternal City.
In a short time, Matteo Boccalini's sunny nature and warm passions
caused his disgrace. He became enamored of a fair devotee, one of
his charge--a dark-haired, lustrous-eyed, bewitching creature of the
"Land of the Vine." Alas! the too susceptible young priest succumbed to
the wiles of the "radiant maiden," and he fell in a most earthly and
fleshly way. Poor Boccalini was immediately and openly charged with
the enormity of his crime, prosecuted, and denounced. He was despoiled
of his sacerdotal functions, and compelled to flee; became a wanderer
upon the face of the earth, supping with sorrow, and in despair for
companions throughout the remainder of his mundane pilgrimage.
For a short time after his unwarranted and sinful escapade he
campaigned with the heroic Garibaldi; then he turned with appealing
looks toward America, the haven for all who are oppressed; crossed the
ocean, and in a few weeks began his eventful journey on this continent.
Never again was he to behold the place of his birth, the chalky
outlines of fair, beautiful Capri, which so gloriously begems the
Mediterranean. The phosphorescent Bay of Naples, the sky, the sunshine
and vine-clad hills of dear old Italy, were never more to stir his once
impulsive nature, or quicken into life his now deadened heart.
Years rolled on; youth passed by and middle age was upon the homeless
priest, when, after having roamed wearily from place to place,
visiting one Indian tribe here and another there, in the vain hope of
discovering some clan, or people near unto nature's heart, whose souls
were attuned to his own, who would receive him in the simplicity of
his severe and pious penance, he arrived among the Kaws, or Kansas,
whose reservation was in the lovely valley of the Neosho, a few miles
below Council Grove. But that tribe, a dirty, despicable race, very
suspicious, and withal not remarkable for their reverence of any
religion, did not take kindly to the weary old man, who had entered
their midst with the purest intentions: his pious zeal, his abstinence
and self-denial made them fear to approach him. They did not understand
that--
"When holy and devout religious men
Are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence,
So sweet is zealous contemplation."
The miserable savages looked upon him, the meek and humble pilgrim, as
an intruder; said he was "bad medicine." So Father Francesco was no
more at ease with them in their rude skin lodges than he would have
been in the gilded halls of the Vatican.
He then came to Council Grove, as stated--came as the tramp has since
come, unheralded and uninvited, but not to beg bread at the doors of
its residents, as the latter now does. Nor did he come to tell off his
beads in the presence of the vulgar curious, but went upon the hillside
beyond the town, to seek the solitude and retirement of a natural cave
in the limestone rock of the region, troubling no one; an enigma to the
world, and a subject for the idle gossip.
There for five months he lived, accessible to but few, with whom,
when he felt and recognized in them the quickened glow of a soul that
believed in the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man, he would
talk in tenderest strains of everything that was good, true, and
beautiful.
The "hermit priest," as he was now called, had of earthly possessions
so little that he could have vied with the lowly Nazarine in the
splendor of his poverty. Of crucifixes, devotional mementoes, and
other religious trinkets, sweetly suggestive of better and happier
days, he had preserved a few. His greatest solace was in half a dozen
well-thumbed small volumes, between whose covers none peered but
himself. He was ever regular at his devotions; for notwithstanding he
had grievously sinned, as he declared, he was constantly striving to
outlive its horrid memory, and to repair the injury he had done his
Master's cause.
He possessed one article of property that tinges his sojourn at Council
Grove with a delightfully romantic remembrance among the very limited
number now living there, who knew of the vagaries of the remarkably
strange man; these were sometimes his confidants and friends, within
a limited degree. It was a rudely constructed mandolin, which during
all the years of his erratic pilgrimage he had tenaciously clung to,
until its exterior presented a confused mass of scratches and dents,
indicative of hard usage. Despite all that, curious as it may seem,
by some mysterious means its rich tones had been preserved in their
original purity and depth.
On the evenings of Kansas' incomparable Indian summer, during the early
part of which season he was living in his cave near Council Grove,
the "hermit priest," seated on a projecting ledge at the mouth of his
rocky and isolated retreat, would sweep the strings of his treasured
instrument with a touch as light, deft, and sorrowfully tender as a
maiden whose pure young heart had just been thrilled by its first
breath of love.
To those who were so fortunate--and they were very few--as to be
invited to spend an hour with him, his vesper hymns, rendered in his
exquisite tenor voice, were as soul-inspiring as the gentle earnestness
of a young girl's prayer. His sometime Neapolitan songs and soft airs
of his native isle were as sweet as the chant of the angels he invoked
when in a deeply religious mood, and his heart-feeling tones mingled
sadly with the soughing of the evening breeze in the dense foliage on
the margin of the placid Neosho that flowed near by. Thus, in the calm
enjoyment of his self-imposed solitude, he lived with
"The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well."
Among the various languages necessary for the communication of ideas
between the motley crowd comprising the civilization of the then remote
region, there was none that Matteo Boccalini did not understand and
speak fluently, so liberal had been his education in that particular.
Once, when a stabbed and dying Mexican, the victim of some
gambling-quarrel among the drivers of the "bull-train" to which he was
attached, asked a service for the repose of his soul, Father Francesco
hastened to the anxious man's side. There he administered the last
sacrament of the church to the expiring creature in his own language,
who died with a resigned look upon his face, as he listened to the
absolving words he could perfectly understand, which was a thing of joy
to the holy man who had performed the sacred office.
One day late in the month of October, now nearly thirty-six years
ago, the "hermit priest" saw walking through the streets of the
little village a dark-visaged person, clad in clerical garb, and whom
Boccalini believed to be the lover of the woman he had wronged in his
youth, and that the stranger, if it were he whom he suspected, could
never be persuaded to think that Matteo was not wholly to be blamed for
the life he had blasted.
He told his friends he could no longer tarry with them; he would go
away to the mountains of New Mexico, seek another cave, rear again the
blessed cross, emblem of his Master's suffering, and once more live in
solitude, from which he had here somewhat strayed.
He frequently, when in a communicative mood, had talked much to them
of the delights of absolute solitude. It was, he argued, the nurse of
enthusiasm; that enthusiasm was the parent of genius; that solitude had
always been eagerly sought for in every age; it was the inspiration
of the dominant religion of every nation; that their founders were
men who, seeking the quiet and seclusion of caverns or the desert, and
subordinating the flesh to the spirit, had visions of the "beyond."
The veil hiding the better world had been lifted for them, and their
teachings had come down to us through the æons, elevating man above the
brute.
The next morning after the sudden appearance of the stranger whose
presence had so discomposed the usually calm priest, a delicious
morning in the month of "autumn's holocaust," when the breeze was
billowing the russet-colored grass upon the virgin prairies, Father
Francesco gathered up his few precious relics, and, accepting the
escort of a caravan just ready to start for New Mexico, left Council
Grove, his cave, and the warm friends he had made there, forever.