Chapter IV: Part 4

As the news of Wal.'s latest exploit spread around the hills, the Irish miners flocked in from all directions, bent on revenge. The people of the town expected a general outbreak between the Irish and American elements, if any resistance was offered to the infuriated friends of the murdered man in their attempt to take Wal. from the improvised jail, which they openly proclaimed they would do as soon as night came on.

The building used for the incarceration of Wal. was an abandoned log store, about sixteen feet square; the interstices of the logs were "chinked" with mud, and the whole surmounted by a brush-and-dirt roof. In the corner of the room, after the Mexican fashion, a huge but rude fireplace had been constructed of stone and earth, from which a large chimney composed of the same material communicated with the open air through the roof above.

No sooner had the heavy door closed on Wal. than he began an accurate survey of his quarters, with a view of escaping as soon as the mob he confidently expected should make their appearance.

One glance at the immense fireplace, which yawned like the opening to a cave, and a look at the clear sky above through the chimney, satisfied him that he would be out of his prison and up some mountain gulch before his intended captors could think twice.

Shortly after dark a motley crowd of rough miners, half-crazed with the villainous liquors they had been drinking all the afternoon, assembled at the jail. They at once ordered the guard away, fired their pistols in the air, and made the very hills ring with their curses and imprecations upon the prisoner within the little hut.

Wal. meanwhile had determined to escape; in fact, at the very time the crowd had reached the door he was on the roof, quietly waiting for the mob to make a rush inside, at which moment he proposed to leap to the ground from the rear of the building.

He waited for the signal, which soon came in the shape of a volley of pistol- and carbine-shots, and a wild yell from the would-be avengers, who with a desperate rush made for the door. Under the pressure it flew from its fastenings, and swung open with a loud report, throwing half a dozen of the mob upon the dirt floor.

For a moment or two no one could enter, as those nearest the door became wedged together, while the pressure from the crowd in the rear held them more securely imprisoned than Wal., who at this juncture jumped from the roof, and, to use his own expression, "lit out ---- lively."

When the crowd became aware that Wal. had escaped they threatened to lynch the guard, and but for the intercession of some of the cooler-headed and less drunken members of the party, no doubt their threats would have been carried into execution.

They divided into little bands and scoured the camp, visiting every suspected house or hole where their game might possibly be secreted, and it was not until early morning that the search was abandoned.

The following day the events of the preceding night were fully discussed, and as many conjectures were suggested in relation to Wal.'s escape and whereabouts as there were groups of men: each had his own theory, each knew exactly how and when he got away.

Old Sam Bartlett, a short, thick-set, grizzly veteran miner, expressed it as his opinion that "Wal. went up that thar chimbly, and by this yer time is well heeled somewhar near camp, surrounded by a battery of small-arms, ready to fight the whole outfit."

Sam's surmises proved true. No sooner had Wal. made his escape than he went to his own den for a moment, to secure arms and ammunition; then to an abandoned tunnel about a mile up the nearest gulch, where he immediately commenced to fortify his position, prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible if the mob pursued him. As he afterward said, "Did not intend to pass in his checks until he had made a sieve of a few of 'em."

The Mexican woman with whom he lived proved a faithful ally. Under the shadow of the night she secretly conveyed food and blankets, never revealing to a soul where her "Americano" was; always earnestly denying any knowledge of the fugitive.

For nearly a week Wal. lived in the abandoned mining tunnel. At the expiration of that time, when the excitement had somewhat subsided, and it was generally supposed he had fled the country, he quietly walked into camp at midnight, broke open a stable, took out a horse, saddled him, and galloped off to Taos, which place he reached next morning. In justice to Wal., let it be said he was not a professional horse-thief--he had not gotten so low as that; but having perfect faith in the old saw that "self-preservation is the first law of nature," he seized upon the only reliable means to escape strangling by a mob. On his arrival at Taos, where he felt secure, he returned the animal to his owner with thanks, complimenting him on his architectural skill in constructing a stable that could be entered so easily, and upon the endurance of his horse that had carried him so well.

A little more than a month later, the camp was somewhat startled one afternoon at seeing Wal. riding down the main street mounted on a Mexican pony, with four revolvers buckled around his waist and a carbine slung across his back. Halting in front of a saloon, he alighted, and with a devil-may-care sort of a nod to the loafers hanging around, invited them all in to take a drink. To the crowd at the bar he related his adventures since he had been among them; said he was tired of Taos, and had come back to look after his mining interests up Humbug Gulch, which he thought he had neglected too long. He added "if any gentlemen (?)" were sympathizers with the would-be stranglers, he would be pleased to step out on the street and give them an exhibition of his peculiar manner of managing the portable battery he had provided himself with. No one seeming particularly anxious to witness the proffered entertainment, war was not declared, and after a round or two of "Taos lightning," as whisky was called in those days, Wal. quietly mounted his horse and made his way toward his little "dug-out," where he was met by his faithful Señora and provided with a bountiful repast of tortillas and frijoles (corn cake and beans).

The excitement in camp gradually exhausted itself, and it was mutually agreed that Wal. should not be molested if he kept away from Humbug Gulch.

Wal. apparently accepted the situation; turned his attention to the laudable ambition of supplying the camp with cord-wood, and almost any day thereafter could be seen coming into town with his load.

One day about two months after he had settled himself down to legitimate pursuits, while sitting in a saloon, fatigued by a somewhat arduous morning's work, a party of Irish miners entered, all of whom were more or less under the influence of liquor. After bandying words with Wal. in reference to his claim and the murder of their companion, one, rather more bold then discreet, approached Wal. holding a large stone, and said, "Be jabers, Wal., you would look better dead than alive;" when Wal., as quick as thought, drew his pistol, and drawing a bead on the Irishman, said, "Drop that rock!"

The stone dropped. Wal. quietly resumed his seat without another word, replaced his pistol in its holster, coolly lighted his pipe, and commenced to smoke. The gang were evidently bent on mischief; but Wal. could not be intimidated, and made no move to leave his seat, but kept his keen eye on every act of the drunken mob.

He listened coolly and indifferently for a while to their coarse jests and braggadocio threats cast at him. But there comes a moment when "patience ceases to be a virtue," and comes soonest to men of such caliber as Wal. When another of the belligerents approached too near with an outrageous remark, Wal. jumped to his feet and said, "By ----! I think I'll kill one of you just for luck, and put a stop to this ---- nonsense." Drawing out his pistol he fired, the ball, as always, taking effect in the bridge of his victim's nose, passing through the right eye and coming out in front of the ear.

At the report of the pistol a crowd rushed in, but no one attempted to interfere with Wal., who took a position against the side of the room, where he invited any one who wanted him, to "step up; but if any one did he would make a sieve of him."

No one desirous of being converted into that useful article just then, not a soul stepped forward.

The alcalde[1] and sheriff were sent for, and soon arrived. Wal. gave himself up, and was remanded to his old quarters, the little log jail from which he had so successfully made his escape by way of the huge chimney, on a former occasion.

[1] The Spanish title of a magistrate corresponding to justice
of the peace.

The drunken companions of the murdered miner immediately upon the arrest of Wal. started off to muster up a crowd of their countrymen, determined this time to mete out summary vengeance upon the assassin of their comrade.

To preclude the possibility of an escape on the part of the prisoner, an additional guard was employed to watch the outside of the jail, and two men were posted on the roof--"no goin' up that thar chimbley this time."

Shortly after dark another mob, composed of the friends of Wal.'s last victim, poured into camp from the gulches and hills and proceeded directly to the jail, determined that this time their game should not slip through their fingers.

In a few moments the infuriated and howling would-be lynchers forced the door of the building open in the same manner as they had done before, but their bird had flown--Wal. was not there!

Knowing the desperate character of the men who had come to take his life, Wal. had resolved to make a determined effort to get away from them if possible, when he first heard them surging and howling in the distance, and putting all his quick wits at work, soon decided what might be done.

Standing at the side of the door as it was crushed from its fastenings, he allowed the crowd to tumble and rush pell-mell into the dark room, while he quickly slipped past them out into the street, walked slowly to the first corner, then shot into the night--and was free!

The rage and disappointment of the exasperated miners on the discovery that their man had again eluded them, can better be imagined than described.

Wal. proceeded to his little home, took one of his horses from the stable, rode rapidly out of camp over a mountain trail, and in a few hours was miles away, where he found a safe retreat.

The disappointed crowd on discovering that for the present at least Wal. was beyond their power, slowly retired to their homes, swearing they would kill Wal. on sight if he ever made his appearance in camp again.

But a few days elapsed before Wal. again dropped into town; though strange as it may seem, no attempt was made to arrest him.

For weeks everything about camp moved along quietly, and it was hoped that further disturbance was at an end. One afternoon, however, while Wal. was standing in front of one of the little stores scattered at intervals through the long main street of the town, engaged in conversation with a lot of miners who had congregated there, a horseman came galloping up the principal thoroughfare, halting directly in front of the door where Wal. and his companions were talking.

Taking a single glance at Wal., he exclaimed, "You are the man I am looking for!" and drawing his revolver, commenced shooting. He fired three shots in rapid succession, neither of which, however, took effect; but before he could cock his pistol again, which he was in the act of doing, Wal. had "drawn a bead" on him and fired.

The ball struck him in the trigger thumb and thereby turned, or it would have found its proper center between the eyes. Finding himself disabled, the rider put spurs to his horse and fled to the friendly shelter of the nearest ravine, but soon returned dismounted, as he discovered that he had not been followed by the terrible Wal.

A crowd gathered around to "shoot the wretch who had so deliberately jeopardized the lives of innocent citizens"; but he called out that he was wounded--"for God's sake not to kill him!" He would give himself up quietly if he could be permitted to see a doctor.

The doctor happened to be sitting in front of his office near by, and took him in and amputated his thumb.

He was then turned over to the sheriff, who placed him in an unoccupied log building, and appointed a guard to watch him.

During the night, however, following in the footsteps of the illustrious Wal., he eluded the vigilance of the guard, made good his escape and ran to the mountains, where he was received by friends, who were determined to protect him from rearrest.

The following day word was sent the doctor to come out and dress his wounds. Obeying the summons, the doctor found him within a hundred yards of his cabin, at the side of a mining-ditch, surrounded by an array of pistols, carbines, and knives, determined to resist any attempt to rearrest him, the point selected commanding every avenue of approach up the mountain-slope.

Here he remained several days. He sent word to the alcalde, through some of his friends, that he would die before giving himself up to the "stranglers," but would submit if soldiers were to come for him.

Upon this message of defiance no further effort was made to capture him, and the town lapsed once more into its wonted quietude. Even Henderson became remarkably docile, no further disturbances occurring between him and the miners--the trouble ending, apparently, by mutual consent.

* * * * *

Some months subsequent to the incidents related in the foregoing, the little camp was again thrown into a state of excitement, in consequence of a report of the robbery of the mail in the cañon between Elizabethtown and Ute creek.

It was bruited about, and proved true, that when the coach (which made tri-weekly trips between the camp and the Cimarron, to connect with the great Southern Overland Line) reached a lonely point in the cañon where the road was narrow and wound around a side-hill covered with a dense growth of scrubby pines, three disguised men would slip out and order the driver to halt; then, without moving from their place on either side of the confined pass, with their rifles pointed toward him, demand that the express box be thrown from the boot.

This modest request was always complied with, after which they ordered the driver to move on, much to the relief of the thoroughly frightened conductor, and the two or three passengers inside.

Five or six depredations of this character were committed in the course of a month. The people in camp began to have their suspicions aroused, and many were the conjectures as to who the guilty parties could be.

A company was formed to scour the cañon, but not even a clue of the highwaymen could be found, nor a place that exhibited any signs of a rendezvous.

This fact confirmed the suspicions of the law-abiding portion of the community, that there existed in their midst and neighboring settlements on Ute creek an organized band of "road agents," who started out only on favorable opportunities for carrying on their nefarious purposes.

It was believed by many that persons residing in Elizabethtown kept watch, advised their partners in this crime at Ute creek at what time a large shipment of gold would probably be made, and the number of passengers, with their names, the coach would carry.

Wal. absented himself from the camp a day or two at a time, and it began to be murmured that he could tell, if he would, a great deal concerning these systematic robberies. It was even hinted that he not only directly aided and abetted the attacks on the coach, but took an active part himself.

He was very reticent on the subject, and it was a fact commented upon by nearly every one in camp, that after an absence of two or three days he would invariably turn up the very morning after a robbery with a load of wood for sale, and as demurely ride through town on his little wagon as if such a thing as an attack on the coach the day before had never taken place.

Of course no positive proof of his complicity could be obtained, yet it was generally believed that he belonged to the gang.

The man who kept the principal saloon was well known throughout the Territory, not only on account of his size and weight but also in consequence of his insatiable thirst for "bug-juice" and his dexterous manipulation of the cards; and he was withal a law-abiding citizen. He would tolerate nothing that was not strictly "regular" in the eye of the law. He wouldn't steal a horse, or carry off a red-hot stove, but woe to the unfortunate and confiding individual who sat down to his game with the expectation of leaving with a cent in his clothes.

His thorough knowledge of monte, faro, poker, and other "genteel" games, made him as much a terror behind the green-covered table as a pack of highway robbers. While he would not hesitate to fleece some unsuspecting victim in a "gentlemanly" game, he had no sympathy with any law-breaker or "road agent" who would halt a man for his money without the farcical proceeding of having a little bout of cards to win it honorably.

One afternoon while the robberies of the mail coach were at their height, three or four broken-down gamblers sauntered into his saloon and commenced to discuss the last depredation, and the _modus operandi_ of the efficient "agents."

Prominent among the group was Wal.; each had his theory to advance, and each expressed it freely.

The barkeeper said: "Don't yer understand,"--a favorite expression when excited--"don't yer understand, the ---- rascals don't live a great ways from this camp, and I wouldn't wonder if a few of them--don't yer understand--are right in sight of this shebang now, don't yer understand. I hain't got no sympathy for any such work--don't yer understand--and would help hang every mother's son of 'em, don't yer understand!"

Old Sam Bartlett expressed it as "his opinion that Reub. Jones, of Ute creek, knowed all about it, and was at the head of the gang."

Wal. put in his oar occasionally, but from his remarks it was apparent that his sympathy was rather in favor of that style of robbing than "stealing it through a ---- old faro-box."

Words waxed high, and it was evident there "was going to be a difficult," as Kit Carson used to say.

The proprietor saw that trouble would ensue if the conversation was not dropped; so, desirous of putting an end to it, he turned to Wal. and said: "Wal., we've had enough of this--so come on and have a drink and go home."

Wal. accepted the invitation, and with a closing remark that "he considered the robbers were a ---- sight better than some of the genteel thieves who lived right in camp," he walked up to the bar, while the owner from behind said, "Wal., what will you have?"

"I'll take whisky in mine," answered Wal.

Glass and bottle were set out, and while the proprietor was mixing a toddy beneath the bar for himself, Wal. seized the bottle, poured his glass full to the brim, then deliberately emptied it on the counter with the remark, "If you don't like that, why, then take your change anyway you want it," at the same instant putting his hand on his hip as if in the act of drawing his pistol.

As quick as thought, the proprietor, knowing the desperate character of the man he had to deal with, seized a pistol from behind the bar, leveled it, fired, and Wal. fell dead; then, immediately stepping from where he was to the front, pistol in hand, he emptied the remaining chambers of his revolver into the prostrate body.

He gave himself up at once; an examination was shortly held before the alcalde, where all the facts were elicited, and the verdict of the jury was, "Justifiable homicide."

Thus ended the career of Wal. Henderson, whose bones are reposing on the little hill above the now abandoned camp, where a score or more of others lie who went the same way.

KIT CARSON'S PAWNEE ROCK STORY.

Pawnee Rock has probably been the scene of a hundred fights, and a volume could be written in relation to it. Kit Carson, one night some years ago, when camped half-way up the rugged sides of "Old Baldy" in the Raton Range, told in his peculiarly expressive way, among other border reminiscences, the following little story, the incidents of which occurred long years ago.

The night was cold, although midsummer, and we were huddled around a little fire of pine-knots, more than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit. We had left Maxwell's early in the morning to trace a quartz lead that cropped out near the mouth of the copper mine worked by him, and night overtook us many miles from the ranch; so we concluded to remain on the mountain until daylight. We had no blankets, and of course had to sit up through the long hours; and as it was terribly cold, we made a fire, filled our pipes, and spun yarns to keep awake. Our lunch that we had brought was all eaten about noon,--so we were supperless as well; but a swift cold mountain stream ran close to our little camp, and we took a swallow of that occasionally, which served the place of a meal.

Kit (the General, as every one called him) was in a good humor for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out,--for usually he was the most reticent of men in relation to his own exploits. The night was pretty dark, there was no moon, and our fire of dry knots blazed up beautifully every time the two Indians, whom we had appointed to this special duty, threw a fresh armful on. The flames cast their weird and fanciful shadows on the side of the mountain, and contrasted curiously with the inky blackness all around below us, while far above could be seen the dim outline of "Old Baldy's" scarred and weather-beaten crest--crag piled upon crag, until they seemed to touch the starlit sky.

For an hour or two the conversation was confined to the probabilities of gold being found in paying quantities in the mountains and gulches of the range; and when the interest on that subject flagged, Maxwell having made a casual remark in relation to some peak near by, just discernible in the darkness, and connecting the locality with some trouble he had had ten or a dozen years before with the Indians, his reminiscences opened Kit Carson's mouth, and he said he remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever got into; so he made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette and told us the following about Pawnee Rock, which he said had been written up years ago, and that he had a paper containing it (which he afterward gave me), and which, with what Kit related orally that night, is here presented:

"It was old Jim Gibson--poor fellow, he went under in a fight with the Utes over twenty years ago, and his bones are bleaching somewhere in the dark cañons of the range, or on the slopes of the Spanish Peaks. He used to tell of a scrimmage he and another fellow had on the Arkansas with the Kiowas, in 1836.

"Jim and his partner, Bill something-or-other,--I disremember his name now,--had been trapping up in the Powder river country during the winter, with unusual good luck. The beaver was mighty thick in the whole Yellowstone region in them days, and Jim and Bill got an early start on their journey for the River[2] that spring. You see they expected to sell their truck in Weston, Mo., which was the principal trading-point on the River then. They walked the whole distance--over fifteen hundred miles--driving three good mules before them, on which their plunder was packed, and they got along well enough until they struck the Arkansas river at Pawnee Rock. Here they met a war party of about sixty Kiowas, who treed them on the Rock. Jim and Bill were notoriously brave, and both dead shots.

[2] In the old days, among the plainsmen and mountaineers,
whenever "the River" was alluded to it was understood to mean
the Missouri.

"Before they reached the Rock, to which they were driven, they killed ten of the Kiowas, and had not received a scratch. They had plenty of powder and a pouchful of bullets each. They also had a couple of jack-rabbits for food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls of the Rock made them a natural fortification--an almost impregnable one.

"They succeeded in securely picketing their animals on the west side of the Rock, where they could protect them by their unerring rifles----but the story of the fight must be told in Jim's own way; he was a pretty well educated fellow, and had been to college, I believe, in his younger days,--lost the gal he was going to marry, or had some bad luck or other, and took to the prairies when he was about twenty. I will try to tell it as near as he did as possible:

"After the durned red cusses had treed us, they picked up their dead and packed them to their camp at the mouth of the creek a little piece off. In a few moments back they all came, mounted, with all their fixings and war-paint on. Then they commenced to circle around us, coming closer, Indian fashion, every time, till they got within easy rifle range, when they slung themselves on the fore sides of their ponies, and in that position opened on us. Their arrows fell like a hail-storm around us for a few minutes, but as good luck would have it, none of them struck. I was afraid that first of all, they would attempt to kill our mules; but I suppose they thought they had the dead wood on us, and the mules would come mighty handy for their own use after our scalps were dangling at their belts. But we were taking in all the chances. Bill kept his eyes skinned, and whenever he saw a stray leg or head he drew a bead on it, and _thug!_ over tumbled its owner every time, with a yell of rage.

"Whenever they attempted to carry off their dead, that was the moment we took the advantage, and we poured it into them as soon as they rallied for that purpose, with telling effect. We wasted no shots; we had now only about forty bullets between us, and the miserable cusses seemed thick as ever.

"The sun was nearly down by this time, and at dark they did not seem anxious to renew the fight that night, but I could see their mounted patrols at a respectable distance on every side, watching to prevent our escape. I took advantage of the darkness to go down and get a few buffalo-chips to cook our supper, for we were mighty hungry, and to change the animals to where they could get a little more grass,--though for that matter it was nearly up to a man's head all over the bottom.

"I got back to our camp on top without any trouble, when we made a little fire and cooked a rabbit. We had to go without water, and so did the animals; though we did not mind the want of it so much ourselves, we pitied the mules, which had had none since we broke camp in the morning. It was of no use to worry about it, though; the nearest water was in the spring at the Indian camp, and it would be certain death to attempt to get there.

"I was afraid the red devils would fire the prairie in the morning and endeavor to smoke or burn us out. The grass was just in a condition to make a lively blaze, and we might escape the flames,--and we might not.

"We watched with eager eyes for the first gray streaks of dawn that would usher in another day--perhaps the last for us.

"The next morning's sun had scarcely peeped above the horizon, when, with an infernal yell, the Indians broke for the Rock, and we knew some new project had entered their heads.

"The wind was springing up pretty fresh, and nature seemed to conspire with the red devils if they really meant to burn us out,--and I had no doubt now from their movements that that was what they intended. The darned cusses kept at such a respectful distance from our rifles that it chafed us to know that we could not stop the infernal throats of some of them with our bullets; but we had to choke our rage and watch events closely.

"I took occasion during the lull in hostilities to crawl down to where the mules were and shift them to the east side of the Rock, where the wall was the highest, so that the flames and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much danger as on the exposed other side.

"I succeeded in doing this, and also in tearing away the grass for several yards around the animals, and was just starting back when Bill called out, '---- 'em, they've fired the prairie!'

"I reached the top of the Rock in a moment, and took in at a glance what was coming. The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand. The sun was shining with all the powers of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke as they rolled down from the north, tinting them with a glorious crimson. I had barely time to get under shelter of a projecting point of the Rock when the wind and smoke swept down to the ground, and instantly we were enveloped in the darkness of midnight. We could not discern a single object, neither Indians, horses, the prairie, nor sun--and what a terrible wind! I have never experienced its equal in violence since. We stood breathless, and clinging to the projection of our little mass of rock did not realize that the fire was so near until we were struck in the face by the burning buffalo-chips that were carried toward us with the rapidity of the wind. I was really scared; it seemed as if we must suffocate. But we were saved miraculously. The sheet of flame passed us twenty yards away, as the wind fortunately shifted the moment the fire reached the Rock. Yet the darkness was so perfect we did not see the flame; we only knew that we were safe, as the clear sky greeted us "behind the dense cloud of smoke.

"Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap, and perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side of the Rock where the mules were, either to cut them loose or crawl up on us while bewildered in the smoke, if we escaped death. But they had proceeded only a few rods on their little expedition when the terrible darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them.

"All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too. Only a few buffaloes were visible in that region before the fire, but even they were killed. The path of this horrible passage of flames, as we learned afterward, was marked all along with the crisped and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys, grouse, and every variety of small birds. Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it met had escaped its fury.

"The fire assumed such gigantic proportions and moved with such rapidity before the terrible wind, that even the Arkansas river did not check its path for a moment, and we watched it carried across as readily as if the river had not been in the way. This fearful prairie-fire traveled at the rate of eight miles in fifteen minutes, and was probably the most violent in its features that ever visited that country. It was the most sublime picture I ever looked upon, and for a moment it made us forget our perilous position.

"My first thought, after the danger had passed, was of the poor mules. I crawled down to where they were, and found them badly singed but not seriously hurt. I thought, 'So far so good;' our mules and traps were all right, so we took courage and began to think we should get out of the nasty scrape in some way or other.

"In the meantime the Indians, with the exception of four or five left to guard the Rock so we could not escape, had gone back to their camp on the creek, and were evidently concocting some new scheme to capture or kill us.

"We waited patiently two or three hours for the development of events, snatching a little sleep by turns, until the sun was about four hours high, when the Indians commenced their infernal howling again, and we knew they had hit upon something; so we were on the alert in a moment to discover it, and euchre them if possible.

"The devils this time had tied all their horses together, covered them with branches of trees that they had cut on the creek, packed all the lodgeskins on these, and then, driving the living breastworks before them toward us, themselves followed close behind on foot. They kept moving slowly but surely in the direction of the Rock, and matters began to look serious for us once more.

"Bill put his hand in mine now, and said, 'Jim, now by ---- we got to fight; we hain't done nothin' yit; this means business.'

"I said, 'You're right, Bill, old fellow; but they can't get us alive. Our plan is to kill their ponies and make the cusses halt.'

"As I spoke, Bill--who was one of the best shots on the Plains--kind o' threw his eye carelessly along the bar'l of his rifle, and one of the ponies tumbled over on the blackened sod. One of the Indians ran out to cut him loose, as I expected, and I took him clean off his feet without a groan. Quicker than it takes me to tell it, we had stretched out twelve of them on the prairie, and we made it so hot for them that they got out of range, and were apparently holding a council of war.

"We kept watching the devils' movements, for we knew they would soon be up to some confounded trick. The others did not make their appearance immediately from behind their living breastworks, so we fired two shots apiece into the horses, killing three of them and throwing the whole outfit into confusion.

"We soon stopped their little plan, and they had now only the dead bodies of the ponies we had killed, to protect them, for the others had broken loose and stampeded off to camp. It was getting pretty hot for Mr. Indian now, who was on foot and in easy range of our rifles. We cleaned out one or two more while they were gradually pulling themselves out of range, when of course we had to stop firing. The Indians started off to their camp again, and during the lull in hostilities we took an account of stock. We found we had used up all our ammunition except three or four loads, and despair seemed to hover over us once more.

"In a few moments we were surprised to see one of the warriors come out alone from camp, and tearing off a piece of his white blanket, he boldly walked toward the Rock. Coming up within hearing, he asked if we would have a talk with him. We told him yes, but did not look for any good results from it. We could not expect anything less than torture if we allowed ourselves to be taken alive, so we determined not to be caught in any trap. We knew we had done them too much damage to expect any mercy, so we prepared to die in the fight, if we must die.

"We beckoned the young buck nearer and listened to what he had to say. He said they were part of White Buffalo's band of Kiowas; that the war chief who was here with them was O-ton-son-e-var ('a herd of buffaloes'), and that he wanted us to come to the camp; that we were 'heap brave'; we should be kindly treated, and that the tribe would adopt us. They were on their way to the Sioux country north of the Platte; that they were going there to steal horses from the Sioux. They expected a fight, and wanted us to help them.

"Bill and myself knew the darned Indians too well to swallow their chaff, so we told them that we could not think of accepting their terms; that we were on our way to the Missouri, and meant to get there or die in the attempt; that we did not fear them,--the white man's God would take care of us; and that if that was all they had to talk about, he could go back and tell his party they could begin the fight again as soon as they pleased.

"He started back, and before he had reached the creek they came out and met him, had a confab, and then began the attack on us at once. We made each of our four loads tell, and then stood at bay, almost helpless and defenseless: we were at the mercy of the savages, and they understood our situation as quickly as ourselves.

"We were now thrown upon our last resource--the boy's-play of throwing stones. As long as we could find detached pieces of rock they did not dare to make an assault, and while we were still wondering what next, the white flag appeared again and demanded another talk. We knew that now we had to come to terms, and make up our minds to accept anything that savored of reason and our lives, trusting to the future to escape if they kept us as prisoners.

"'The Kiowas are not prisoners, and they know brave men,' said the Indian; 'we will not kill you, though the prairie-grass is red with the blood of our warriors that have died by your hands. We will give you a chance for your lives, and let you prove that the Great Spirit of the white man is powerful, and can save you. Behold,' said the Indian, pointing with an arrow to a solitary cottonwood on the banks of the Arkansas, a mile or more away, 'you must go there, and one of you shall run the knife-gauntlet from that tree two hundred steps of the chief out toward the prairie. If the one who runs escapes, both are free, for the Great Spirit has willed it. O-ton-son-e-var has said it, and the words of the Kiowa are true.'

"'When must the trial take place?' said I.

"'When the sun begins to shine upon the western edge of the Rock,' replied the Indian.

"'Say to your chief we accept the challenge and will be ready,' said Bill, motioning the young warrior away. 'I am sure I can win,' said he, 'and can save both our lives. O-ton-son-e-var will keep his word--I know him.'

"'Bill,' said I, 'I shall run that race, not you;' and taking him by the hand I told him that if he saw I was going to fail, to watch his chance, and in the excitement of the moment mount one of their horses and fly toward Bent's Fort; he could escape--he was young; it made no difference with me--my life was not worth much, but he had all before him.

"'No,' replied Bill, 'my heart is set on this; I traveled the same race once before when the Apaches got me, and their knives never struck me once. I ask this favor as my life, for I have a presentiment that it is only I can win. I know how to get every advantage of them. So say no more.'

"The sun had scarcely gilded that portion of the dark line of the Rock that juts out boldly toward the western horizon, before all the warriors, with O-ton-son-e-var at their head, marched silently toward the tree and beckoned us to come.

"Quickly we were on the prairie beside them, when they opened a space, and we walked in their center without exchanging a word. There were only thirty left of that band of sixty proud warriors who had commenced the attack on us the day before, and I could see by the scowls with which they regarded us, and by the convulsive clutching at their knives by the younger ones, that it was only the presence and power of O-ton-son-e-var which prevented them from taking summary vengeance upon us.

"As soon as we reached the tree, O-ton-son-e-var paced the two hundred steps, and arranged his warriors on either side, who in a moment stripped themselves to the waist, and each seizing his long scalping-knife, and bracing himself, held it high over his head, so as to strike a blow that would carry it to the hilt at once.

"The question of who should be their victim was settled immediately, for as I stepped forward to face that narrow passage of probable death, the chief signaled me back with an impulsive gesture not to be misunderstood, and pointing to Bill, told him to prepare himself for the bloody trial.

"I attempted to protest, and was urging my most earnest words, when O-ton-son-e-var said he had decided, and 'the young man must run,' adding that 'even a drop of blood from any one of the knives meant death to both.'

"Each savage stood firm, with his glittering blade reflecting the rays of the evening sun, and on each hard cold face a determination to have the heart's blood of their victim.

"The case seemed almost hopeless--it was truly a race for life; and as 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.

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.