commenced kicking the mule vigorously. Hallowell, meanwhile, was
pulling on one line, whipping and yelling; so together they forced the
animals back into the trail, and away they shot at the top of their
speed.
The Indian kept close to the mules, and Booth made several attempts
to scare him by pointing his revolver at him; but he would not scare,
so he threw it at him. It missed the Indian, but struck the pony just
behind the rider's leg, which started the latter off over the prairie,
thus removing the immediate peril from that source.
They were now absolutely without firearms--nothing left but their
sabers and valises; and the Indians, soon learning that there were no
more shots to be fired, came closer and closer.
In turn the two sabers were thrown at them, as they came almost within
striking distance; then followed the scabbards after the yelling
fiends, as they surrounded the wagon. Some rode immediately in front
of the mules, impeding their progress with the most infernal noises
and attempts to spear them (the Indians having evidently exhausted all
their arrows)--and the camp on the Walnut still a mile and a half away.
There was nothing left for our luckless travelers to do but whip and
kick the mules and yell, all of which they did most lustily--Hallowell
sitting as immovable as a sphinx, except his right arm, which from the
time he had started had not ceased, and Booth kicking the poor animals
and shouting in concert with their importunate foe. Looking casually
over the seat, Booth saw twelve or fifteen Indians coming up behind,
with their spears all unstrung and ready for action, and he felt that
something must be done, and that right speedily, to divert them; for
if these were added to the number already surrounding the wagon, the
chances were they would succeed in forcing the mules from the trail,
and the end of the tragedy would soon come.
Glancing around the bottom of the wagon, in his despair, for some
kind of weapon with which to resist them, Booth's eye rested upon the
valises containing the dress suits, and snatching his, threw it out,
while his pursuers were yet some four or five rods behind. The Indians
noticed these new tricks with a yell of apparent satisfaction, and as
soon as they reached the valise they all dismounted, and one of them
grabbed it by the two handles and attempted to open it; failing in
this, another drew a long knife from under his blanket, and, ripping up
one side, thrust in his hand and pulled out a sash, and began winding
it around his head (as a negro woman winds a bandana), letting the
tassels hang down his back.
While he was thus amusing himself, another had pulled out a dress coat,
a third a pair of drawers, still another a shirt--all of which they
individually proceeded to put on, meanwhile dancing around and yelling.
Booth reported to Hallowell how the sacrifice of his valise had
diverted the Indians, and said, "I'm going to throw out yours."
"All right," he replied; "let her go; all we want is time." So out it
went, and shared the same fate as the other.
As long as the Indians were busy helping themselves to the wardrobes
contained in the two valises, they were not bothering the mules, and as
Hallowell had said, "all they wanted was time."
But while the diversion was going on in the rear, the devils on each
side and front were still attempting to force the mules from the road
by rushing at them and yelling, and brandishing their spears; none
of them had as yet tried to kill them, evidently thinking they could
wound the two officers and secure them alive--a prize too valuable for
an Indian to lose. But as they were now drawing near the creek, on
the opposite bank of which the camp was situated, and the chance of
escape grew brighter, one miserable cut-throat of the band apparently
conceived the idea of killing one of the mules, for he charged down
on the wagon, rode close up to one, and discharging his arrow at him,
struck him on the fore leg, severing a small artery, from which the
blood spurted by jerks. The mules had no blinds on their bridles, and
the one hurt, seeing the blood, became so frightened that he gave a
terrific jump and started off at a break-neck gait, dragging the other
mule and the wagon after him; so all the occupants had now to do was to
pound and kick the uninjured one to make him keep up.
This fresh spurt of speed had carried them away from the Indians, but
Booth and Hallowell knew that the animals could not continue it, and
they became convinced that the Indians now meant to kill one or both of
the mules in order to stop them.
The lull caused by the mules outstripping the Indians gave our almost
despairing heroes time to talk the matter over.
Hallowell said he did not propose to be captured and taken to Medicine
Lodge creek, or some other place, and then butchered or burned at the
leisure of the Indians. He said to Booth, "If they kill a mule and we
stop, let's kick, strike, throw clods or anything, and compel them to
kill us on the spot." So they agreed, if worst came to worst, to stand
back to back and fight them off.
This may seem overdrawn to many of our readers of to-day; but if they
have ever seen the remains of men and women hacked and mutilated, as
the writer has, and realize as fully as the occupants of the little
wagon did that such a fate awaited them in the event of capture,
they too would have courted death sudden, certain, and immediate, in
preference to that other, more remote but just as sure, and far more
terrible.
During the discussion of the situation by Booth and Hallowell, the
speed of the mules had slackened but little; the arm of the latter
still plied that effective lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the
camp, where there were men enough to rescue them if they could only be
made aware of their situation; and as they caught the first glimpse
of the tents of the officers and dugouts of the men, hope sprang up
within them, and life, hanging as it were by a slender cord, seemed
more precious than ever. In the hope of arousing and attracting the
attention of some of the soldiers, they again commenced yelling at the
top of their voices; the mules were panting like hounds on the chase;
wherever the harness touched them it was white with lather, and they
could not keep on their feet much longer.
Would they hold out until the bridge was reached, provided they escaped
the spears of the Indians? The whipping and kicking had little effect
on them now; they still continued in their gallop, but it was slower
and more labored than before, and as the Indians fell back to make
fresh charges, the mules also slackened their gait, and it became
almost impossible to accelerate their motion.
Hallowell kept his whip going mechanically, and Booth continued his
attention to the little near mule with his foot; but the worn-out
animals began to evince unmistakable signs of breaking down, and
longing eyes were turned toward the camp, now so near.
Though the Indians who had torn open the satchels had not come up, and
did not seem inclined to further continue the fight, there was still a
sufficient number of the fiends pursuing to make it interesting; but
they could not succeed in spearing the mules, as at each attempt the
plucky animals would jump sideways or forward and evade the impending
blow.
One gigantic fellow followed them with a determination and valor worthy
of a better cause, the others seeming now to have almost abandoned the
idea of capturing either men or animals; but this persistent warrior
was in all probability related to the young "buck" Booth had killed,
and was thirsting for revenge. At any rate, he was loth to give up the
chase, and followed the wagon to within a few rods of the bridge, long
after the other Indians had fallen back entirely.
The little log bridge was now reached; their pursuers had all
retreated, but the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at the same
galloping gait. This bridge was constructed of half-round logs, and of
course was extremely rough. The wagon bounded up and down enough to
shake the teeth out of one's head, as the mules went flying over the
rude structure. Booth cried out to Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast
now--the Indians have all left;" but he answered:
"I ain't going to stop until I get across," and down came the whip, on
sped the mules, not breaking their gallop until they pulled up in front
of Capt. Conkey's tent. Booth could not stand the fearful bounding of
the wagon as it rolled across the bridge, so he crawled out behind and
walked up to the quarters.
The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation the
command had of its returning. The sentinel on the post had been walking
his beat on the east side of the long stockade stable to keep out of
the cold northwest wind, and had heard nothing of the yelling and
talking until they struck the bridge, when he came around the stable,
saw the wagon and two or three of the Indians behind, fired his
carbine, and thus aroused the camp.
The officers came running out of their tents, the men poured out of
their dugouts like a lot of ants, and the wagon and its occupants were
soon surrounded by their friends. Capt. Conkey ordered the bugler to
sound "boots and saddles," and in less than ten minutes ninety troopers
were mounted, and, with the Captain at their head, started after the
Indians.
Lieut. Hallowell reached the line of officers' tents before Booth,
and as the latter came up was attempting to rise so as to get out;
but each effort only resulted in his falling back. It was thought at
first his wounds were the cause, but when asked, "What's the matter?
Can't you get out?" replied, "I don't know. I seem to get up only so
far." Some one stepped around to the other side to assist him, when
it was discovered that the skirt of his overcoat had worked outside
the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge, and that three or four of the
arrows fired by the Indians had struck the side of the wagon, and
passing through the flap of his coat, had pinned him down. Booth pulled
the arrows out and helped him up. He was pretty stiff from sitting in
his cramped position so long, and his right arm dropped to his side as
if struck with paralysis.
While Hallowell walked into Capt. Conkey's tent, assisted by the
adjutant and quartermaster, some of the soldiers unhitched the poor
mules and led them to the corral. On examining the inside of the wagon,
twenty-two arrows were found lying in the bottom, innumerable holes
through the sheet made by the passage of arrows, besides two from
bullets, and the outside of the bed was scarred from one end to the
other.
Booth stood looking on while Hallowell's wounds were being dressed,
when the adjutant said, "What makes you shrug your shoulders so,
Captain?" Booth replied that he "did not know; something caused it to
smart." The adjutant looked, and said, "Well, I should think it _would_
smart!--here is an arrow-head sticking into it;" and he tried to pull
it out, but it would not come. Capt. Goldsborough then attempted it,
but was no more successful than the adjutant. The doctor told them to
let it alone and he would take care of it after he had finished with
Hallowell, which he soon did, and with his lance cut it out. The point
of the arrow had struck the thick part of the shoulder-blade and made
two complete turns, wrapping around the muscles, which had to be cut
apart before it could be withdrawn.
Both of the principals in the terrible ride were soon attended to
and made as comfortable as possible. Booth was not seriously hurt.
Hallowell, however, had received two severe wounds: the arrow that had
struck in his back penetrated almost to his kidneys, and the wound in
his thumb was very painful, caused not so much by the simple contact
of the arrow, as the tearing away of the muscles by the shaft while he
was whipping the mules; his right arm, too, was swollen fearfully, and
became stiff, from the incessant use of it during his drive, and for
nearly a month he required help in dressing and undressing. The mules,
the veritable saviors of our heroes, were of little account after their
memorable trip;--they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and
their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out the next
morning to take a look at them as they hobbled around the corral, and
from the bottom of their hearts wished them "green fields and pastures
new."
About half an hour after the little wagon had returned to Capt.
Conkey's camp, a portion of the escort which had been sent out in
advance in the morning came galloping up, and from them the following
was learned in relation to their movements:
They had started early, as ordered the night before, and moved out
on a brisk walk toward Fort Larned. There were plenty of buffalo on
the north side of the trail, and they saw no signs of Indians except
the absence of buffalo near the river. They kept looking back, and
slackened their gait somewhat after getting out four or five miles,
to enable the wagon to catch up; and after they had proceeded about
a mile beyond the point where the Indians made their first attack,
and the wagon had been turned toward the camp, one of the lieutenants
said to the other that they were getting too far ahead of the Captain,
and suggested the propriety of halting; but Van Antwerp, who was in
command, thought it better to leave a part of the company at that spot
to wait. Accordingly, a corporal and fifteen men were detailed to
remain there until the wagon should arrive, and the remainder moved on
toward the fort.
The squad that had been detailed remained beside the trail for half an
hour or so, when, becoming chilled, the corporal took them toward the
river into a ravine that sheltered both men and horses from the cold
northwest wind. There they remained some time, when the corporal,
becoming anxious, sent one of the men up the trail to see if the wagon
was coming, but he soon returned, reporting nothing in sight. Waiting a
few minutes longer, he sent out another man, who on returning reported
that the wagon was coming, and had an escort. This last man had seen
them a long way off while the Indians were chasing them, and supposed
they were an escorting party--which was correct in one sense, but not
as he thought and reported.
Remaining in the ravine until the corporal supposed the wagon had
arrived nearly opposite, he moved out his squad on the trail, but
seeing no wagon, and suspecting something had happened, started his
party toward the camp on Walnut creek. They had proceeded but a short
distance when one of his men cried out, "Here's an arrow!" Hardly were
the words out of his mouth before a second said, "Here's another!" They
knew now the reason why the wagon had not come up, and the corporal
gave the command to gallop, and away they flew toward the camp. As they
successively passed by the empty valises and the innumerable arrows on
the trail, they fully realized what kind of an escort had accompanied
the little wagon when the soldier had reported, "They are coming, and
have an escort."
Capt. Conkey's command returned about midnight. He had seen but one
Indian during the entire ride, and he was on the south side of the
river, in the sand-hills.
[Illustration]
THE TRAGEDY AT TWIN MOUNDS.
AN INCIDENT OF THE INDIAN WAR OF 1866-'67.
[Illustration: SUSIE RÉAUME.]
The highest points of the divide separating the beautiful valley of
the Saline from the Elkhorn, in central Kansas, are two relatively
elevated peaks, close together, known all over the region as the Twin
Mounds. They can be seen from anywhere within a radius of thirty miles,
cutting the deep blue of the sky on clear days as sharply as a summer
thunder-cloud. In their contour they are so exactly similar, even to
two white patches of limestone on their southwestern slopes, that
their name would immediately suggest itself to a stranger, for never
were twins born so perfect in resemblance as these dual masses of
disrupted rock.
Under their conical shadow runs the trail of the Mormon hegira to
far-off Deseret, when that sect was driven out of Illinois; and
also that of General John C. Frémont, on his memorable "Exploring
Expedition" across the continent in 1843. Until very recently, when it
was ruthlessly cut down, there stood in the valley, on the bank of the
Elkhorn, immediately below the mounds, a large oak tree, at the foot of
which the General caused that mutineer to be shot, the circumstances of
which are related in his itinerary of that wonderful march.
But that was nearly a quarter of a century before the occurrence of
the events to be related in this story; and they date back nearly the
same length of time from the present. Both trails may still be seen
in places where the land has not yet been subordinated to the plow;
almost obliterated wagon-tracks in the short buffalo-grass covering
that portion of the prairie through which the expedition passed, which
each recurring season grow dimmer, and in a few more years will have
vanished forever.
The valleys of the Elkhorn and the Saline were heavily timbered--are
to-day, relatively. They were a favorite haunt of the Indians; and
elk, buffalo, bear, and an occasional panther sought the rocky and
vine-involved recesses of the primitive forest.
But the savage and the beasts of the plain have passed away. Now the
land is full of harvests and green meads. Yet the Indian summer now
as then wraps the hills in its mellow tints; the grass grows brown
and rusty as each autumn fills its measure, and the days, as in the
long-ago, are as grand as the golden sunshine of that incomparable
season of the Great Plains ever lighted up; the mirage, as of old,
weaves its fantastic forms out of the charming landscape, and under
certain atmospheric conditions a man on top of one of the Twin Mounds
will appear, as does the specter of the Brocken, like a huge giant in
mid-air.
When Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill, about fifteen miles south of
the Twin Mounds, was established as a military post by Gen. Hancock
in the fall of 1866, the whole vast area of central Kansas was the
hunting-ground of the cruel and bloodthirsty Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and
Kiowas. Their opposition to the intrusion of the whites manifested
itself at every opportunity where it was possible to murder or carry
into captivity. The empire of the plow had just then dawned, and the
march of the homesteader but fairly begun. The satanic genius of Indian
hatred brooded over the beautiful landscape, and the harvest of the
unlabored fields was blood.
It is true a few hardy trappers had for years roamed over the prairies
and camped temporarily on the banks of the wooded streams, but there
was no attempt at permanent settlement except in the immediate vicinity
of the several forts; but they were established only from time to time
at remote distances from each other, generally on the line of the
Oregon and Santa Fé trail, under the protection of which it was alone
safe to remain in the country.
About the time the site for the new post of Fort Harker had been
determined upon, and troops--the Fifteenth Infantry and Gen. Custer's
Seventh Cavalry--were camped on the grassy bottoms of the river and
creeks in the vicinity, waiting for their permanent quarters to be
erected, a bold and persistent frontiersman named Paul Réaume, who had
been a pioneer in the wilds of Wisconsin twenty years before, emigrated
from that State to Kansas.
After looking around for some time, visiting all the inviting
localities of the new commonwealth, in decided opposition to the advice
of the military authorities at Fort Harker and the commanding general
of the department he took up a "claim" and established a ranch at a
magnificent spring a few hundred rods north of the base of the Twin
Mounds.
Réaume was a widower, but his eldest daughter, Susie--dark-haired,
rather handsome, and withal a modest, gentle girl of eighteen--kept
house and acted the rôle of mother to her four young sisters and
brothers, who loved and obeyed her with all the intensity of their warm
natures, (Réaume was French but one generation removed,) which she
reciprocated in an equal degree. They were a charming little family, of
more means and greater refinement than are usually found in the average
pioneer immigrant.
The fertile valley stretching many miles north and south afforded a
rich pasturage, and the relatively deep woods on the margin of the
Elkhorn a splendid shelter in winter for the herd of cattle that Réaume
had driven from his old home. So he built as his needs required a
comfortable log house and spacious corrals, where with an abundance
of game all around him, from the trim-feathered quail to the huge
shaggy-coated buffalo, he settled down to a life of rude contentment.
Of the many Government scouts at Fort Harker, among whom were William
F. Cody ("Buffalo Bill"), William Hickok ("Wild Bill") and others,
was Jack Hart. Hart was a young light-haired boy, not more than
twenty-three years old. He was fairly well educated, neither slangy nor
dialectic in expression of thought; courageous as a lion, and endowed
with a degree of endurance under hardships incident to his vocation
that was marvelous in its contemplation by a novice. Jack was a
remarkably fine shot with either rifle or revolver. He could toss up an
empty oyster can and put every ball out of his two Colts into it before
it fell to the ground, and either "crease" or center the heart of an
antelope at five hundred yards, as he might elect.
[Illustration: SITTING BULL, CROW EAGLE, BUFFALO BILL.]
He was as keen on the trail as any Indian, whose original astuteness
and strategy he had mastered, and was the superior of the savage, as
is any white man when once thoroughly familiar with their cunning.
Besides, in that quick perception and determination so essential to
success in the moment of danger, when dealing with the wily nomad of
the Plains, Hart was unequaled by any other scout I ever knew, and I
have intimately known all who have figured at all conspicuously during
the past thirty-five years.
Jack was a great favorite with all the officers at the military posts
in the whole Department of the Missouri; had their entire confidence,
and when any duty in his line became necessary requiring exceptional
bravery, judgment and promptness in its execution, Hart was invariably
detailed, if present, to perform it.
One day in April, 1867, as he was returning from the Platte river to
Fort Harker with a company of the Fifth Calvary he was guiding to the
post, they halted at the spring where Réaume had established his ranch,
to feed the horses, rest and water. Then for the first time in his life
Jack saw Susie Réaume, who was cheerfully preparing an excellent dinner
in her father's modest cabin for the officers of the command, who had
politely requested of her something to eat.
It was the same old story of mutual love, the moment their eyes met;
and ever after that memorable noon halt, when Hart had a day off he
would mount his own roan broncho Tatonka, ride across the country to
the Twin Mounds, and pour out his heart's thoughts to the gentle and
confiding Susie, who before a month had elapsed promised to be his wife.
"There's no chaplain at the post now," said he, one evening after
they were engaged, as they were sitting on the porch of her father's
cabin in the bright moonlight, discussing plans for the future and
building those airy castles in space as lovers are wont; "but I heard
from the adjutant yesterday that one had been ordered to Harker from
Fort Leavenworth, under an escort of a squadron of the Fifth Cavalry.
They will be up in a couple of weeks, and when he arrives we will get
married immediately. Eh! darling?" pleadingly continued Jack.
Susie blushingly assented to Hart's importunity, and then he told her
that he had saved enough to stock a ranch and build a house; that he
proposed to leave the Government employ as soon as they were married,
take up a "claim" on the Elkhorn near her father's, so that he would
not be separated from her at all, or she from her family. Then Jack,
after cautioning Réaume, who had long before given his consent to the
proposed match, to keep a sharp lookout for Indians, started about
midnight on his lonely ride back to Fort Harker, where he was obliged
to be early the next morning.