Bill prepared himself I wished ourselves back on the Rock, with only as
many good bullets as the number of red devils who stood before us, the
very impersonation of all the hatred of the detestable red man.
"How well I remember the coolness and confidence of Bill! He could not
have been more calm if he had been stripping for a foot-race for fun.
He had perfect faith in the result, and when O-ton-son-e-var motioned
to commence the fearful trial, Bill spoke to me, but I could not
answer--my grief was too great.
"He stripped to his drawers, and standing there awaiting the signal,
naked from the belt up, he was the picture of the noblest manhood I
ever saw. He tightened his belt, and stood for a few seconds looking,
with compressed lips, down the double row of savages, as they stood,
face to face, gloating on their victim. It seemed like an age to me,
and when the signal came I was forced by an irresistible power to look
upon the scene.
"At the instant Bill darted like a flash of lightning from the foot of
the tree; on rushed the devils with their gleaming blades, yelling, and
crowding one another, and cutting at poor Bill with all the rage of
their revengeful nature. But he evaded all their horrible efforts--now
tossing a savage here and another there, now almost creeping like a
snake at their feet, then like a wildcat he would jump through the
line, dashing the knives out of their hands, till at last, with a
single spring, he passed almost twenty feet beyond the mark where the
chief stood.
"We were saved, and when the disappointed savages were crowding around
him I rushed in and threw myself in his arms. The chief motioned the
impatient warriors away, and with sullen footsteps followed them.
"In a few moments we slowly retraced our way to the Rock, where,
taking our mules, we pushed on in the direction of the Missouri. We
camped on the bank of the Arkansas that night, only a few miles from
the terrible Rock; and while we were resting around our little fire of
buffalo-chips, and our animals were quietly nibbling the dried grass
at our feet, we could still hear the Kiowas chanting the death-song
as they buried their lost warriors under the blackened sod of the
prairie."
SHERIDAN'S ROOST.
[Illustration: GENERAL P. H. SHERIDAN.]
Less than a third of a century ago the western half of southern Kansas
and the whole region beyond, including the historical Washita, where
General Custer defeated the famous chief of the Cheyennes, Black
Kettle, was the habitat of our noblest indigenous bird, the wild
turkey. The dense woods bordering all the streams were full of them,
for the wild turkey makes his haunts in the timber.
Having visited that once favorite winter rendezvous of the Cheyennes
and Kiowas during the early spring, and stood again on the ground
where Sheridan and Custer in their celebrated campaign of 1868-9 so
effectually subdued the Indians that the Western frontier has ever
since been exempt from their bloody raids, the recollection of many
exciting wild-turkey hunts by the two incomparable soldiers came
vividly to my mind. I remember distinctly, as if it were but a week
since, how during that winter campaign of nearly thirty years ago the
troops sent into the field against the allied hostile tribes subsisted
for days on wild turkey--luckily for them, too, as they were almost
without a ration, and would have suffered in a greater degree than they
did but for the presence of great flocks of the delicious birds.
In addition to the stern necessity of securing them, shooting them
under the brilliant mid-continent full moon that nowhere else shines
more intensely, afforded an immense amount of sport to both officers
and enlisted men, divesting their weary march through that then
desolate region of its terrible monotony. General Sheridan was a
crack shot, recognized as an expert in pheasant-hunting when a young
lieutenant in the wilds of Oregon, long before the Civil War, and where
large game roamed in immense numbers through the vast forests. Then the
height of the embryo great General's ambition was that he might attain
the rank of Major before he died!
There is a large body of timber on the North Fork of the Canadian river
in the Indian Territory, about sixty miles directly south of the Kansas
line, known as "Sheridan's Roost"--so marked on the maps. It was there
that General Sheridan with Custer bagged an almost incredible number of
wild turkeys while camping on the now historic spot.
It was on the afternoon of one of the last days in the month of
December, 1868, when the tired command found itself encamped very
near an immense turkey roost. Both Sheridan and Custer, as soon as
they had dismounted from their horses, made the fortuitous discovery
and grasped the important situation: an abundance of food for the
half-starved troopers and a relief to the ennui and tiresome routine of
the monotonous march through the seemingly interminable sand-dunes so
frequent in that region.
In order that the necessities of the command and the anticipated sport
might not be thwarted by a general firing of the rank and file under
the excitement natural to the average soldier, Sheridan immediately
issued an order that no one--officer, enlisted man, or civilian--should
leave camp without his permission. He was well aware of the fact that
if any prowling around was allowed, the now absent birds would not
return to their accustomed resting-place when night came on.
The whole command was restless, anxious and impatient for hours,
waiting for the seemingly tardy sun to set. At last, after two hours of
suspense, the fading rays began to gild the summits of the low range
of hills west of the camp. Then, just as the twilight curve reached
the horizon, the General, with Custer and several other officers whom
he had chosen as companions, left their camp-fire of blazing logs and
sauntered slowly into the thick woods where it had been discovered
early in the afternoon that the coveted birds were in the habit of
congregating to roost.
Arriving at the very center of the vast sleeping-place, at the
suggestion of General Custer each gentleman took a position on the
ground, separated from each other some distance, to watch from their
individual vantage-point until the moment should come for the birds to
seek their accustomed resting-place.
They did not have to wait long. Before it had grown fairly dark,
two or three flocks containing at least two hundred of the bronzed
beauties came walking stealthily down the sheltered ravines leading
out into the broad bottom where the great trees stood in aggregated
clumps, under whose shadows General Sheridan had first observed the
unmistakable signs of a vast roost. At the head of each flock, as it
unsuspiciously advanced, strutted a magnificent male bird in all the
arrogance of his leadership, and on whose bronzed plumage the soft
full moon which had just risen, glinted like a calcium light as its
golden rays sifted through the interstices of the bare limbs of the
winter-garbed forest.
When the leader had arrived at the spot where his charge had been
accustomed to roost, he suddenly halted, glanced all around him for a
few seconds, then seemingly satisfied that everything was right, he
gave the signal--a sharp, quick, shrill whistle. At that instant every
bird with one accord and a tremendous fluttering of wings, raised
itself and alighted in the loftiest branches of the tallest trees.
In a few moments more, many more flocks arrived and went through
exactly the same evolutions as the first two, when, having settled
themselves for an undisturbed slumber, General Sheridan gave the word
for the slaughter to begin. Each officer then began to shoot on his own
account, and the turkeys fell like the leaves in October. The stupid
birds not killed at the first fusillade did not seem to have sense
enough to get out of harm's way: they flew from tree to tree at every
shot, persistently remaining in the immediate vicinity of their roost
with all the characteristic idiocy of a sage-hen, which, according to
my observation, has less sense than any other bird that flies.
It was soon time that all honest men whether "in camp or court" were in
bed, but the two famous generals and their companions, so exciting was
the rare sport, did not leave until the moon was far down the western
horizon.
They then returned to the friendly fires near their tents and counted
the number of birds which had fallen under the accurate aim of those
engaged. It was discovered they had bagged nearly a hundred of the
magnificent bronzed creatures, of which Sheridan had killed the lion's
share.
From that midnight incident in the beginning of that eventful winter
on the Great Plains, "Sheridan's Roost" received its name; the spot
became classic, and will go down to the generations yet unborn with its
suggestive title.
Although the majority of the birds stuck to the vicinity of their
roost, yet continually slaughtered by the unerring rifles of the
officers, appearing to be too senseless to avert their doom by
flying off, some, however, did go recklessly into the very camp of
the troopers. The picket-line had long since been stretched, and
preparations for the men's evening meal, scanty as it was to be, were
fairly under way. But the cooks, expecting that some of the birds
would, frightened as they evidently were by the deadly shots of the
officers, fly into camp in their bewilderment, were a little slow and
perfunctory, anticipating that the bill of fare, that night at least,
would vary materially from the customary horse-meat and hardtack.
Sure enough, several large flocks "rounded up" in full view of the
command just as the firing commenced. It was a curious as well as a
remarkable scene to watch the evident surprise and discomfiture of the
birds to discover the whole ground usurped by the soldiers; they were
bewildered beyond the power of description. They stood still for a few
moments seemingly paralyzed, but as other flocks began to enter the
camp, all in the quickest imaginable time flew into the tallest trees.
At this juncture every soldier was seized with a desire to shoot, and a
fusillade began right there, resulting in tumbling off the huge limbs
fifty or more of the crazed birds. Of course, the remainder were driven
away from their roost, until the very air was black with the alarmed
and bewildered turkeys.
As the dark night came on, not knowing where to go, and failing to seek
another quiet roosting-place, back they all came, but in increased
numbers, evidently determined to roost there or nowhere. The air was
filled and the ground covered with wild turkeys. They were dazed at the
turn affairs had taken, and great flocks ran, bewildered, right among
the soldiers and wagons of the supply train. Then was a scene enacted
such as perhaps was never before witnessed, nor has it since, in all
probability. All the dogs in the command--and there was every breed and
every size in the camp, for the average American soldier loves a dog
and keeps as many as he can--joined in the pandemonium that ensued in
the chase after the frightened birds, accompanied by a fusillade which
in point of rapidity and volume of noise would have done credit to a
corps in a general engagement.
Some casualties occurred, of course, but no lives were lost save that
of a horse, under the following circumstances: One of the troopers
of the Nineteenth Kansas Cavalry, who was in the act of leading his
animal to the picket-line at the height of the chase, was somewhat
astonished to find that his faithful beast failed to respond to the
tugging at his halter-strap as he endeavored to bring him to the
stretched rope, and looking around to discover the cause, the excited
trooper saw the unfortunate animal on the ground, dead, having been
instantly killed by an erratic ball!
There was great feasting in the command that night. Never did turkey
taste so delicious as did the magnificent birds served in every
conceivable style at that late meal in camp on the classic Washita,
to the half-famished soldiers of the famous Seventh Cavalry and the
gallant boys of the Kansas regiment.
[Illustration]
THE PASSING OF THE BUFFALO.
[Illustration]
To the old trapper and hunter of the palmy days of '68 and '70, I
dedicate this chapter. That time is now faded into the past, and so far
faded, indeed, that the present generation knows not its sympathy nor
its sentiment.
The buffalo--as my thoughts turn to the past, the memory of their "age"
(if I may so call it) crowds upon me. I remember when the eye could
not measure their numbers. I saw a herd delay a railroad train from
9 o'clock in the morning until 5 o'clock in the afternoon. Countless
millions, divided by its leaders and captains like an immense army! How
many millions there were, none could guess. On each side of us, and
as far as we could see--our vision was limited only by the extended
horizon of the flat prairie--the whole vast area was black with the
surging mass of affrighted animals, as they rushed onward to the south
in a mad stampede.
At another time Gens. Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and myself rode through
another and larger one, for three consecutive days. This was in the
fall of 1868. It seems almost impossible to those who have seen
them, as numerous apparently as the sands of the seashore, feeding
on the illimitable natural pasturage of the Great Plains, that the
buffalo should have become practically extinct. When I look back only
twenty-five years and recall the fact that they swarmed in countless
numbers even then as far east as Fort Harker, only 200 miles west from
the Missouri river, I ask myself, "Have they all disappeared?" And yet,
such is the fact. Two causes can be assigned for this great hecatomb:
First, the demand for their hides, which brought about a great invasion
of hunters into this region; and second, the crowds of thoughtless
tourists who crossed the continent for the mere novelty and pleasure
of the trip. This latter class heartlessly killed for the excitement
of the new experience as they rode along in the cars at a low rate of
speed, often never touching a particle of the flesh of their victims,
or possessing themselves of a single robe.
The former, numbering hundreds of old frontiersmen, all expert shots,
with thousands of novices, the pioneer settlers on the public domain,
day after day for years made it a lucrative business to kill for the
robes alone, a market for which had suddenly sprung up all over the
country.
The beginning of the end was marked by the completion of the Kansas
Pacific across the Plains to the foot-hills of the Rockies in 1868,
this being the western limit of the buffalo range.
In 1872 a writer in "The Buffalo Land" said:
"Probably the most cruel of all bison-shooting pastime is that
of firing from the cars. During certain periods in the spring
and fall, when the large herds are crossing the Kansas Pacific
Railroad, the trains run for a hundred miles or more among
countless thousands of the shaggy monarchs of the Plains. The bison
has a strange and entirely unaccountable instinct or habit which
leads it to attempt crossing in front of any moving object near
it. It frequently happened, in the time of the old stages, that
the driver had to rein up his horses until the herd which he had
started had crossed the road ahead of him. To accomplish this
feat, if the object of their fright was moving rapidly, the animals
would often run for miles.
"When the iron horse comes rushing into their solitudes, and
snorting out his fierce alarms, the herds, though perhaps half
a mile from his path, will lift their heads and gaze intently
for a few minutes toward the object thus approaching them with a
roar which causes the earth to tremble, and enveloped in a white
cloud that streams further and higher than the dust of the old
stage-coach ever did; and then, having determined its course,
instead of fleeing back to the distant valleys, away they go,
charging over the ridge across which the iron rails lie, apparently
determined to cross in front of the locomotive at all hazards. The
rate per mile of the passenger trains is slow upon the Plains,
and hence it often happens that the cars and buffaloes will be
side by side for a mile or two, the brutes abandoning the effort
to cross only when their foe has emerged entirely ahead. During
these races the car windows are opened, and numerous breech-loaders
fling hundreds of bullets among the densely crowded and fast-flying
masses. Many of the poor animals fall, and more go off to die in
the ravines. The train speeds on, and the act is repeated every
few miles until Buffalo Land is passed."
Almost with prophetic eye he continued:
"Let this slaughter continue for ten years, and the bison of the
American continent will become extinct. The number of valuable
robes and pounds of meat which would thus be lost to us and
posterity, will run too far into the millions to be easily
calculated. All over the Plains, lying in disgusting masses of
putrefaction along valley and hill, are strewn immense carcasses of
wantonly slain buffalo. They line the Kansas Pacific road for two
hundred miles."
A great herd of buffaloes on the Plains in the early days, when one
could approach near enough without disturbing it to quietly watch its
organization, and the apparent discipline which its leaders seemed to
exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features of the
spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the immense mass
of shaggy animals moved; there was constancy of action indicating a
degree of intelligence to be found only in the most intelligent of the
brute creation. Frequently the larger herd was broken up into many
smaller ones, that traveled relatively close together, each led by an
independent master. Perhaps only a few rods marked the dividing-line
between them, but it was always unmistakably plain, and each moved
synchronously in the direction in which all were going.
The leadership of the herd was attained only by hard struggles for the
place; once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized,
and kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he
became superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his
inevitable fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves.
In the event of a stampede, every animal of the separate yet
consolidated herds rushed off together, as if all had gone mad at
once; for the buffalo, like the Texas steer, mule, or domestic horse,
stampedes on the slightest provocation--frequently without any
assignable cause. Sometimes the simplest affair will start the whole
herd: a prairie-dog barking at the entrance of his burrow, a shadow of
one of themselves or that of a passing cloud, is sufficient to make
them run for miles as if a real and dangerous enemy were at their heels.
Stampedes were a great source of profit to the Indians of the Plains.
The Comanches were particularly expert and daring in this kind of
robbery. They even trained their horses to run from one point to
another, in expectation of the coming of the wagon trains on the trail.
When a camp was made that was nearly in range, they turned their
trained animals loose, which at once flew across the prairie, passing
through the herd and penetrating the very corrals of their victims. All
of the picketed horses and mules would endeavor to follow these decoys,
and were invariably led right into the haunts of the Indians, who
easily secured them. Young horses and mules were easily frightened; and
in the confusion which generally ensued, great injury was frequently
done to the runaways themselves.
At times when the herd was very large, the horses scattered over the
prairie and were irrevocably lost; and such as did not become wild
fell a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the lot of
stampeded horses bred in the States, they not having been trained by a
prairie life to care for themselves. Instead of stopping and bravely
fighting off the bloodthirsty beasts, they would run. Then the whole
pack were sure to leave the bolder animals and make for the runaways,
which they seldom failed to overtake and dispatch.
Like an army, a herd of buffaloes put out vedettes to give the
alarm in case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels
were always to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six, at some
distance from the main body. When they saw something approaching that
the herd should beware of or get away from, they started on the run
directly for the center of the great mass of their peacefully grazing
congeners. Meanwhile, the young bulls were on duty as sentinels on the
edge of the main herd, watching the vedettes; the moment the latter
made for the center, the former raised their heads, and in the peculiar
manner of their species gazed all around and sniffed the air as if
they could smell both the danger and its direction. Should there be
something which their instinct told them to guard against, the leader
took his position in front, the cows and calves crowded in the center,
while the rest of the males gathered on the flanks and in the rear,
indicating a gallantry that might be imitated at times by the _genus
homo_.
Generally, buffalo went to their drinking-place but once a day, and
that late in the afternoon. Then they ambled along, following each
other in single file, which accounts for the many trails on the Plains,
always ending at some stream or lake. They frequently traveled twenty
or thirty miles for water; so the trails leading to it were often worn
to the depth of a foot or more.
That curious depression so frequently seen on the Great Plains, called
a "buffalo wallow," is caused in this wise: The huge animals paw and
lick the salty, alkaline earth, and when once the sod is broken the
loose soil drifts away under the constant action of the wind. Then,
year after year, through more pawing, licking, rolling and wallowing by
the animals, the wind wafts more of the soil away, and soon there is a
considerable hole in the prairie.
Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following a
buffalo trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo wallows
usually retain a great quantity of water, and they have often saved the
lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses.
There was, however, a stranger and more wonderful spectacle to be seen
every recurring spring during the reign of the buffalo, soon after
the grass had started. There were circles trodden bare on the Plains,
thousands--yes, millions--of them, which the early travelers, who did
not divine their cause, called "fairy rings." From the first of April
until the middle of May was the wet season; you could depend upon
its recurrence almost as certainly as on the sun and moon rising at
the proper time. This was also the calving period of the buffalo, as
they, unlike our domestic animals, only rutted during a single month;
consequently the cows all calved during a certain time; this was the
wet month, and as there were a great many gray wolves that roamed
singly or in immense packs over the whole prairie region, the bulls,
in their regular beats, kept guard over the cows while in the act of
parturition, and drove the wolves away, walking in a ring around the
females at a short distance, and thus forming the curious circles.
In every herd at each recurring season there were always ambitious
young bulls that came to their majority, so to speak, and these were
ever ready to test their claims for the leadership; so that it may
be safely stated that a month rarely passed without a bloody battle
between them for the supremacy--though, strangely enough, the struggle
seldom resulted in the death of either combatant.
Perhaps there is no animal in which maternal love is more strongly
developed than in the buffalo cow; she is as dangerous with a calf by
her side as a she-grizzly with cubs.