westward was owned by a Mexican don, a brother-in-law to Kit Carson.
He still resides near the spot where the ill-fated Italian, a year or
two after his wearisome journey across the Great Plains, was hurried to
eternity.
This venerable Mexican and old-time voyageur of the almost obliterated
Santa Fé trail, when I last visited him at his hospitable home in the
mountains, fourteen years ago, entertained me by relating some of the
more prominent characteristics of his strange _compagnon du voyage_
during that memorable trip with the "hermit priest" from Council Grove
more than twenty years previously. He said that the strange man would
never ride, either on horseback or in one of the wagons, despite the
earnest invitation extended to him each recurring morning by the master
of the caravan; preferring to trudge along uncomplainingly day after
day during the sunny hours beside the plodding oxen through the alkali
dust of the desert, and faltered not.
Neither would he at night partake of the shelter of a tent, constantly
offered but as constantly and persistently refused, preferring to
roll himself up in a single coarse wrap, seeking some quiet spot
removed from the corral of wagons, where for an hour or two under the
scintillating stars he would tell off his beads, or, accompanied by
his mandolin, chant some sad refrain to the Virgin, until long after
the camp had gone to sleep. For his subsistence he himself caught and
cooked the prairie dog, ground squirrel, and gopher. Only occasionally,
when hard pressed, would he accept a meal, which was constantly
proffered by the Mexican teamsters, begging the "hermit priest" to
share with them; for in their love for the Catholic Church, to which
they were so devoted, he seemed to their untutored minds a most zealous
but humble exponent of their religious tenets and visible form of their
sacred faith.
Thus reticent, thoughtful and devout, he marched with the caravan
for many weeks, until at last the city of Holy Faith, the quaint old
Spanish town of Santa Fé, was reached. There he parted company with
his escort, and for nearly a year afterward wandered all over that
portion of the Territory of New Mexico, and into Arizona, still seeking
the Alnaschar of his dreams, a suitable abiding-place in the recesses
of the hills, and a people whose souls might be made to attune with
his. But he miserably failed in all that he desired during his sad
pilgrimage throughout the Southwest. Then, turning northward again,
he slowly and almost despairingly retraced his steps until he arrived
in the sequestered valley of the Sapillo, where he at last found a
humble class and his coveted cave on the summit of the mighty mountain
described at the opening of this chapter.
There, content after so many years of unsatisfied wandering, he
commenced that life of religious ministrations, and exercised those
unselfish acts of kindness and love, whose remembrance is imprinted so
indelibly on the hearts of his devoted followers; for,
"Through suffering he soothed, and through sickness he nursed."
There again, under the constellations, which nowhere else shine more
brilliantly, were the strains of his mandolin, and the rich notes of
that magnificent voice, heard by the enchanted people who listened each
evening at the doors of their rude adobe huts in the valley below the
huge hill that cast its great shadow over them.
Notwithstanding the "hermit priest" had found a class congenial to his
soul's demands, his eccentricities still clung to him. His persistency
in living apart from his chosen people enforced them to always speak of
him as "El Solitario" (The Solitary Man).
He would visit among them to solace and nurse the sick, and give
absolution to the dying, which his and their religion so beautifully
promises, but he would never break bread within their hospitable doors;
preferring, and insisting, always, upon a crust and a cup of cold water
outside.
Nor would he sleep upon the soft woolen _colchons_ which even the
poorest of New-Mexican homes afford, but, absorbed by devout thoughts,
wrapped himself in his single coarse blanket and laid himself on the
bare ground; or, if it was stormy, in some outhouse with the sheep and
goats. This, of course, was part of his self-imposed penance, from
which he never deviated, rigorous as it was.
One day, after his familiar and beloved face had been missed for more
than a week by his devotees, a sorrowful party went out to seek him.
They found him dead on the rugged trail to his lonely home; his beads
enfolded in his delicately shaped fingers, and his countenance wearing
a saint-like expression. A poisoned dagger in his heart, by the hand of
an assassin, had accomplished the foul deed which for a whole lifetime,
during every moment of the unhappy man's active and dreaming hours, was
a continually disturbing fear.
Thus passed away, as he had predicted in his youth, the eccentric but
holy Matteo Boccalini, "Hermit Priest" of the old "Santa Fé Trail," and
the "El Solitario" of the New Mexico mountains. A man of sorrow and
grief, yet with as much repentance, and as many penances as sins; one
of those ethereal beings who might become physically unclean, but never
spiritually impure.
For years after his departure from Council Grove, the "hermit
priest's" cave was an object of much interest. Until within a very
short period, when the quarrymen tore down its last vestige, upon its
time-worn walls could be traced, rudely carved, his name, "Matteo
Boccalini," a cross, "Jesu Maria," and "Capri"--all so dear to the
lonely and sad man's heart.
[Illustration]
MEDICINE BLUFF.
[Illustration: LITTLE BEAVER.]
Unknown, perhaps, to the reader, in the very heart of the Wichita
range, in the Indian Territory, there is an immense hill, which, by
triangulation effected during the winter campaign of 1868-69 by the
engineer officer attached to General Sheridan's headquarters, is three
hundred and ten feet high. At its base there is a clear, running river,
or properly a creek--for it is only about seventy feet wide. The shape
which the stream assumes at the immediate foot of the mountain is that
of a crescent, forming quite a large pool or basin.
Under the shadow which the great mass of disrupted rock throws over the
water at certain hours, the pool looks as black as ink. The moment the
water emerges into the sunlight again, it sparkles and scintillates
until it is painful for the eyes to rest upon its rapidly flowing
ripple. That the great elevation of this detached portion of the range
was caused by some extraordinary convulsion, which moved it from its
normal position, is apparent, and curiosity is excited to assign a
reason for the limited area of the upheaval.
The stream which flows so picturesquely at the base of the isolated
mountain is called by the Indians Medicine Bluff Creek; the hill above
it, Medicine Bluff. From the time when the memory of the various tribes
"runneth not to the contrary," Medicine Bluff has been a prominent
and sacred spot in the traditions and legitimate history of the many
nations of savages, but especially in that of the Comanches and
Wichitas. It was a sort of "Our Lady of Lourdes" place, where the sick
were cured in the most miraculous manner after they had been given up
by the celebrated doctors of the tribe. If the party afflicted had
never seriously grieved the Great Spirit, the cure was as sudden as
marvelous; if the sick, who were carried to the top of the bluff by
their friends, had at any time offended the Great Spirit, they died at
once, the wolves devoured their flesh, and their bones were transported
to the "Land of Terrors." Sometimes, when the individual taken up to
invoke the aid of the Indian god had lived an exemplary life, instead
of being cured of his fleshly ills he or she was translated, like
Elisha of old, to the happy hunting-grounds.
The Comanches declared that at night the Great Spirit frequently rested
on the top of the mountain, and when that occurred the whole region to
the verge of the horizon was lighted up with a strange glow, resembling
that emanating from an immense prairie fire reflected upon the clouds.
The Indians also claimed that no dew or rain ever fell upon the extreme
summit of the bluff, where the sick were to lie and wait for the
manifestation of the Manitou; nor did the wind blow there--so that it
was a calm spot, comprising all the essentials to a speedy recovery.
One among the many traditions connected with the charming but weird
place was told by an aged warrior of the Comanches one evening, around
the camp-fire, in 1868, after white-winged Peace had spread her wings
once more over the prairies, and we were pulling vigorously at our
"brier-woods" filled with fragrant "Lone Jack." The old fellow,
wrinkled and black with the smoke of the tepee in which he had lived
for nearly eighty years, and now wrapped in that of his stone pipe,
which he sucked as industriously as an infant, told this story:
There was once, ages before the white man had invaded the country of
the Indian, a very old warrior, who, sick and despondent, went to
the top of Medicine Bluff to be cured. He for many years had ceased
to hunt the buffalo, lived with the women of the tribe, and settled
himself down to a peaceful calm, awaiting the time when he should be
called to join his fathers. One day he struggled to the top of the
bluff in the hope that he might die and be carried bodily to the happy
hunting-grounds, as he knew from the traditions of his tribe others had
been before him.
He had been absent from his lodge and the village for three nights.
During all that time the frightened people down below, who had been
diligently watching, observed a great blaze on the top of the mountain,
as if it were a signal-fire to warn them of some impending danger to
the tribe.
On the third morning a young warrior was seen descending the trail from
the heights of the bluff, drawing near to the village. When he entered
its streets he looked about him in evident surprise. He approached the
chief's lodge and sat down by the fire.
The warriors of the tribe gazed at him with awe and that curiosity
which a stranger ever evokes. No one seemed to recognize him. All
remained silent, waiting for him to speak. Lighting his pipe with
a coal, he took a pull at it himself, Indian fashion, then passed
it around the circle. The warriors noticed that his pipe-stem was
decorated with the feathers of the gray eagle, denoting him to be a
great warrior, one who had captured a large number of scalps, so they
regarded him with still greater wonder. After every one in the circle
around the chief's fire had taken a whiff, the stranger commenced his
story:
"After I arrived at the top of the Medicine Bluff, I looked off at the
vast expanse which surrounded me. I saw the village of my people; I
could hear the dogs bark and the children laugh; I could hear my own
family mourning, as if some one had been taken from them; I saw the
buffalo covering the prairie, and the cunning wolf lying in wait to
pounce upon his prey. When I again looked all around me, and beheld the
young warriors in their pride and strength, I asked myself: 'Why do I
live any longer? My fires have gone out. I must follow my fathers. The
world is beautiful to the young, but to the old it has no pleasure. I
will go there!'
"With this upon my mind, I continued: 'Far away toward the setting sun
are the hunting-grounds of my people.' Then I gathered all my strength
and leaped from the giddy height before me. I knew no more of the woes
of this life. I was caught up in mid-air and suddenly transported to a
country where game was countless; where there was no wind, no rain, no
sickness; where all the great chiefs of the Comanches who had ever died
were assembled; where they were all young again, and chased the buffalo
and feasted as when on earth. There was no darkness. The people were
continually happy. Beautiful birds sang on the trees. The war-whoop was
never more heard."
The old chief had been rejuvenated, and now came back to his people
with all his youthful vigor, to live again with his own tribe. The
story of the strange warrior captivated the Indians.
He at once became an oracle and great medicine-man in his tribe; his
power to cure the sick was wonderful, and his counsel was implicitly
obeyed ever afterward.
Medicine Bluff has of course lost much of its prestige among the
Indians, for the reason that since the extinction of the buffalo and
other large game the tribes have been scattered, being generally pretty
closely confined to the reservations, with the children taught in
schools, and the superstitions, or at least many of them, having passed
gradually out of the remembrance of the new generation, known only to
the few old warriors left.
The savage, like the white man, in his disappointments and miseries
sometimes resorts to suicide as a cure-all for and end-all of life's
burdens. Among the powerful Comanches Medicine Bluff was, for an
unknown period, one of their famous places, like the Vendome Column
in Paris, from which to terminate an unsatisfactory and miserable
existence. The bluff was also a rendezvous for the young warriors, who
were to go for the first time in battle with the tried soldiers of the
tribe, to propitiate the Great Spirit.
The sun in that nation, as in the old tribe of Natchez, symbolized
their god. For three consecutive mornings the youthful aspirant for
military honors was obliged to go to the highest point of the great
hill, where, armed with his buffalo hide, and alone, he was with
the utmost reverence to present the front of his shield to the early
morning sun as its rays gilded the rocky crags of the mountain,
assuming the attitude of a warrior in the heat of battle, on guard
against his enemy's spear and shower of arrows. This ceremony on
the part of the novitiate, if reverently performed, gave his shield
invulnerable power.
A story told to many of us during the campaign referred to, by
one of the oldest of the Comanches, the oldest Indian I have ever
seen--"Little Beaver," of the Osages--is very interesting, showing
to what an art the despised savage of thirty years ago reduced
story-telling. The dried-up old warrior prefaced his tale by stating
that he was so aged "that he was brother of the highest peak of the
Wichita Mountains," at the foot of which we were camped on a cold
December night in 1868. Here is the story:
So many years ago that it seemed like a dream even to the narrator,
the Comanches were the greatest tribe on earth. Their warriors were as
numerous as a herd of buffalo on the Arkansas in the fall. They were
more cunning than the coyote. Their herd of ponies contained so many
animals--all fine and fat--that no man could count them in a year. All
the other Indians of the plains and mountains feared and trembled at
the name of Comanche.
In the tribe, as is ever the case, there were two warriors who
excelled all the others in their prowess. One was young, and the other
middle-aged. They were very jealous of each other, each constantly
attempting some deed of daring at which, it was hoped, the rival would
balk. One fall, when the Indian summer made the air redolent with the
sweet perfume of thousands of flowers and the mountains were bathed in
the amber mist of that delicious season, all the great warriors were
returning from one of their most famous victories.
They camped under the shadow of Medicine Bluff late one afternoon,
where the young brave, who was quietly smoking his pipe as he hovered
over the little camp-fire on which he was broiling a piece of antelope
steak, happened to fix his gaze on the highest point of the bluff,
and in that position continued for several minutes wrapped in a most
profound study, while all the rest of the band stopped whatever they
were doing and gazed at him as intently.
Suddenly he rose to his full height and cast a defiant look upon the
warriors scattered around on the grass, who, excited at his strange
manner, sprang up to learn what he meant. Presently he turned his face
toward the sun, which was about two hours high, and broke out with this
boast:
"No warrior equals me! I am the greatest of all the Comanches! I
resemble that mountain!" pointing with his spear to the highest peak of
Medicine Bluff. "My actions are as far above yours as that mountain is
above the stream at its foot! Is there a warrior here who dare follow
me?"
Then he shook his spear and brandished his shield in defiance of any
and all. His rival was all the time swelling with rage and pride. He
knew the boast was intended for him alone, although he was the elder
of the two. He approached the braggart with all the dignity of the
savage that he was, and, striking himself on the bosom several times,
exclaimed:
"So! You are the greatest warrior of the Comanches? You are the
buffalo that leads the herd? I am the old bull to be driven away by
the cowardly coyote and die, leaving my bones to whiten? You ask me to
follow you? Never! I never follow! I will go with you!"
The remainder of the band gathered around the two celebrated warriors.
They wondered what new deed of daring they were going to attempt, as
the rivals arrayed themselves in their best buckskin dress and mounted
their favorite ponies. With shields held in a defying position, their
faces painted, and their bonnets of war-eagle feathers flowing in the
breeze, they rode away without another word.
They forded the stream. The younger now started up the difficult trail
which led to the sacred summit of the Medicine Bluff, where, stopping
his affrighted steed, he pointed to the fearful precipice a few rods
off, and exclaimed:
"You have followed me here; follow me farther."
[Illustration]
Then shouting the war-whoop, which made the echoes of the mountain
awaken, and thumping the flanks of his animal vigorously, he darted
toward the awful brink. His rival instantly raised his pony on his hind
legs, and with a whoop more piercing followed the young man, who, when
he had reached the edge of the precipice, failed in courage and pulled
his pony violently back on his haunches. The elder saw his chance. With
an awful yell of defiance and triumph, he forced his horse to make the
terrible leap in mid-air.
All the warriors on the grassy bottom below watched with eager interest
what was going on above them. They heard the whoop of the aged warrior
as he jumped into the awful abyss. They saw him sit as calmly as if in
his "lodge" as he descended, seated as upright on his pony as if his
animal were walking the prairie, and, above all, they heard his clear
voice as it rung out in the clouds: "Greatest of all the Comanches!"
Sadly they wended their way to the foot of the bluff, where both horse
and brave rider lay a mangled mass on the rocks, the old warrior with a
smile on his wrinkled face of unmistakable triumph.
The boasting rival became a wanderer among the tribes. His name was
accursed of all Indians. The very dogs of the camps snapped at him
as he passed. At last, overcome with remorse at his cowardice and
treachery, he killed himself. One day he was found dead on the grave of
his rival at the foot of the bluff. His body was eaten by the coyotes;
his shield and spear, by which he had been identified, were lying on
the ground at his feet.
A RACE FOR LIFE.
AN INCIDENT OF THE INDIAN WAR OF 1864.
[Illustration: KICKING BIRD.]
In 1864 the magnificent valley of the "Smoky Hill," with its rich
share of wooded streams and fertile uplands, and the still more
Elysian expanse watered by the great Arkansas--that embryo granary of
two continents--were simply known as the region through which passed
twin inter-oceanic trails, the Oregon and the Santa Fé, both now mere
memories.
The commerce of the Great Plains over that broad path through the
wilderness, the Santa Fé Trail, was at its height, and immense trains
rolled day after day toward the blue hills which guard the portals of
New Mexico. Oxen, mules, and sometimes horses, tugged wearily week
after week through the monotony of their long journey, their precious
freight ever tempting the wily nomads to plunder, dissimulation,
and murder. Pawnee Rock, Walnut, Coon, Ash and Cow creeks were mute
witnesses of a score or more battles that reddened the blossoming
prairie in springtime, and the slopes of the Pawnee, Heath's Branch and
Buckner's were resonant with the yell of the Kiowa and Cheyenne, who
under the pale moonlight held their hideous saturnalia of butchery.
To protect the trains on their weary route through the "desert"--as
the whole of this region was then termed, and confidently believed by
the world to be--troops were stationed, a mere handful, relatively, at
intervals on the "great trail," to escort the freighters and the United
States mail over the most exposed and dangerous portions of the route.
The incident which is the subject of this sketch is as thrilling,
perhaps, in its details, and as marvelous in its results, as any that
have come down to us in the history of those memorable times. It
deals with plain facts, and men who are now living--one of whom, the
principal actor in the scenes to be related, is known favorably all
over the State. [Capt. Henry Booth, just passed away--1898.]
Fort Riley, in the year referred to, was one of the extreme permanent
military posts. Here, in November, 1864, Capt. Henry Booth was
stationed. He was chief of cavalry and inspecting officer for the
district of the Upper Arkansas, the western geographical limit of which
extended to the foot of the Rocky Mountains.
Early in the month, in company with Lieut. Hallowell, of the Ninth
Wisconsin Battery, he received orders to make a tour of inspection of
the several outposts, which extended as far as Fort Lyon, in Colorado.
Salina was occupied by one company of the Seventh Iowa Cavalry, under
command of Capt. Hammer. Where the old Leavenworth stage route crossed
the Smoky Hill, in a beautifully timbered bend of that stream, was a
little log stockade, commanded by Lieut. Ellsworth, also of the Seventh
Cavalry.
To this comparatively insignificant post--insignificant only in its
appointments, not in importance--the commanding officer gave his own
name, which the county of Ellsworth will perpetuate in history.
At the crossing of the Walnut, on the broad trail to the mountains,
were stationed three hundred unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin
Cavalry, under the command of Capt. Conkey. This was one of the most
important points of observation on the "Great Overland Route," for
near it passed the favorite highway of the Indians on their yearly
migrations north and south.
This primitive cantonment grew rapidly in its strategic aspect, was
later made quite formidable, defensively, and was named Fort Zarah in
memory of the youngest son of Maj. Gen. Curtis, killed by guerrillas
somewhere south of Fort Scott, while escorting Gen. James G. Blunt, of
Kansas fame.
At Fort Larned, always a prominent point in the military history of
the Plains, one company of the Twelfth Kansas and a section of the
Ninth Wisconsin Battery commanded by Lieut. Potter were stationed.
From these troops--the isolated disposition of which I have hurriedly
related--squads, consisting usually of from a dozen to twenty men or
more, as the case might be, under the charge of a corporal or sergeant,
were detailed to escort the mail coach, freighters, Government trains,
etc.
On the morning the order (to make the special inspection of the
outposts referred to) was received at Fort Riley, Captain Booth and
Lieut. Hallowell immediately commenced active preparations for their
extended and hazardous drive across the prairies.
All preliminaries arranged, the question as to the means of
transportation of the two officers was determined in this wise, and
as the sequel will show, curiously enough saved the lives of the two
heroes in the terrible gauntlet they were destined to run.
Lieut. Hallowell was a famous "whip," and prided himself upon his
exceptionally fine turn-out which he daily drove around the picturesque
hills of Fort Riley.