The day after they burned my mother out of her home they made another
trial for the $1,000 reward, and this time they had a better prospect of
success, for they had with them the traitor, McDowell, whom I had carried
out on my horse in the fight at New Santa Fe a few weeks before. McDowell
said he wanted to go home to see his wife and assure her he was all right,
but he did not go near her. Instead he hurried into Independence and that
evening the militia came out, eighty strong, to take us prisoners. Even
they did not trust McDowell, for he, closely guarded, was kept in front.
Forty of them had come within twenty yards of us on the south when my
horse warned me, and I called out: “Is that you Todd?”
“Don’t mind us; we’re friends,” came the answer, but I saw they were not,
and the lieutenant in command fell at the first fire. The boys swarmed
out of the dug-outs, and the fighting was hot.
Retreat to the north was cut off by the other forty and they had us
between them. We made for the west, firing as we went, and the soldiers
fell right and left. I stayed by Joe Hardin till they dropped him in his
tracks, and fought fifteen of the militia while Otho Hinton stopped to get
his heavy boots off. Tom Talley, too, had one boot off and one foot stuck
in the leg of the other. He could not run and he had no knife to cut the
leather. I yanked his boot off and we took to our heels, the militia
within 20 yards. Talley’s pistol had filled with snow and he could not
fire a shot. But we reached the timber and stood at bay. George Talley
was shot dead at this last stand, but when the militia fell back, their
dead and wounded numbered seventeen. Nathan Kerr, Geo. Wigginton, Bill
Hulse and John McCorkle did well that day.
We were all in our socks, having taken off our overcoats, gloves and heavy
boots to lighten our burdens, and the icy road promised to cut our feet to
pieces, but we made our way to a rock bridge where a hog trail would hide
our tracks, and when we left this trail, I made every one of the boys
follow in my footprints, leaving but the one trail till we got to the
cedar bluffs. For a stretch of three miles here, these bluffs were
practically impassable to horsemen, but we climbed down them and found our
way to the home of Mrs. Moore where we were safe again.
The soldiers took back to Independence a pair of gloves marked “Presented
to Lieut. Coleman Younger by Miss M. E. Sanders” and they thought Cole
Younger was dead for a time. Her brother, Charles Sanders, was one of my
company.
Making our way out to Napoleon and Wellington we got new coats and gloves
and also located some of the red sheepskin leggings worn by the Red-leg
scouts, with which we made a trip over into what was known as “Hell’s
corner” on the Missouri, near Independence. Col. Penick’s men, who had in
many cases “collected” more horses than they really had use for, had left
them with friends at various points. As we went in we spotted as many of
these as we thought we could lead out, and took them out with us on our
way back.
One of the horses I got on that trip was the meanest horse I ever rode and
I named him “Jim Lane” in honor of one of the most efficient raiders that
ever disgraced an army uniform. This horse a young woman was keeping for
her sweetheart who had left it with her father for safety, as he feared it
might be shot. As I mounted the nag, she suddenly grasped the bridle
reins. The horse always, I found afterwards, had a trick of rearing up on
his hind feet, when he was about to start off. Evidently the young woman
was also ignorant of his little habit or else she would never have taken
hold of his bridle in an effort to detain me. He was no respecter of
persons, this horse of her sweetheart, and he rose high in the air with
the young woman still clinging. He turned around and made almost a
complete circuit before he came down and again allowed her to enjoy the
security of having both feet upon the earth. She was a little frightened
after having been lifted off her feet in this way and dangled in the air,
and somewhat piqued, too, that I was about to ride away on her
sweetheart’s horse, and when I suggested that the horse was not as quiet
as he might be and she had better not catch hold of his bridle any more,
she called to me as a parting shot, “You horrid old red-leg, you are
meaner than Quantrell or Todd or Cole Younger or any of his gang!”
The night we made our escape, they burned the homes of Grandmother
Fristoe, and her neighbor, Mrs. Rucker, and gray heads suffered because
younger ones had not been noosed.