Chapter VI: Part 6

"I left it thar," replied Jack, "but I kivered it up agin; an' I stomped ther groun' down 'roun' it so ez it looked like it hed n't been tech'd. Then I went ter my cabin; then I kim hyar ter Bradford's. Ther on'y thing I brung 'way war thet button, an' fer which I'll thank yer ter gin me ag'in. I wants to keep it er while yit!"

Bartlett hesitated a moment, rolling over in his fingers the mute evidence of a crime committed; looked at Bradford interrogatively, who nodded significantly, and then he handed the curious object back to Jack.

"Thank ye, gentlemin," said he, as he put it carefully into his pocket again; "I'm et yer sarvice et any time, and so is this hyar button w'en ye wants it; an' I hopes you-ns means ter 'vestigate this hyar matter ter oncet. Ike Podgett's 'way now, an' w'en he kims back it's mebby too late."

Bartlett and Bradford consulted aside in a low tone for a few moments; then walking back to the table where Jack was still sitting, pulling at his pipe, and almost invisible because of the smoke, the old Judge said:

"Jack, this is a strange piece of business, and we are both staggered. Yet we are not unreasonable; we know that nothing is more deceptive than a man's estimate of human nature; it seems mighty hard to come to your way of thinking; but we all may have been most terribly deceived in Ike Podgett. We will examine his premises and investigate the matter to the end. Now we want you to go quietly out to your cabin from here; say nothing to anyone about what you have told us. To-night we will discuss, with some of our best citizens, what is best to be done; and to-morrow meet us at Podgett's. If we arrive there first we will wait right on the trail for you, and take no action before you come; but if you get to the place before we do, wait for our party. Don't go near the cabin and don't touch a thing, and then nobody can raise any suspicions of a job, which some of Podgett's friends might accuse you of. We will try to be there by eleven o'clock, and that will allow you ample time to reach there as soon as that hour too."

The old Judge having finished his instructions and warnings, the three men went out of the cabin and separated. Jack mounted his mule, whistled to Jupe, and rode slowly up the steep divide into the hills, where he was soon lost to sight. Bartlett and Bradford walked down to the main street, their feelings wonderfully affected, and entered the little building that did duty as the postoffice for Whooping Hollow and surrounding mining-camps, to look up the proper persons with whom to consult concerning the terrible revelations of a few moments before.

That evening just after the candles were lighted, Judge Bartlett, Tom Bradford, Doctor Chase, and Issachar Noe, the last of whom was postmaster, met in the little rectangular space behind the rude rack of letter-boxes in Noe's store, to formulate plans for their trip on the morrow to Ike Podgett's cabin, the bloody story concerning it having been imparted to Noe and the Doctor when Bartlett and Bradford came down-town that afternoon, immediately after their interview with Jack.

A little after daylight next morning the four prominent citizens of Whooping Hollow who had secretly met at the postoffice the previous evening were well on the trail to Podgett's. They had only twenty-three miles to go, but the zig-zag up to the crest of the divide was so rocky, rough and precipitous that they were compelled to "wind" their horses every few rods; consequently the trip was so fatiguing to both men and animals that they did not arrive there until nearly noon.

Podgett's cabin, one of the better class, roomy, and adorned with a veranda, was situated in the most God-forsaken looking region imaginable. There was not a tree, bush, or any vegetation, not even a cactus, in sight. It was hidden among great water-worn columns of lava, which so completely enveloped it in their ominous shadows that only late in the afternoon the sun's lingering rays, low down in the west, entered the gloomy cañon in which the isolated cabin was located.

"God in Israel!" said Issachar Noe--a favorite expression of his when excited--"how can a man content himself in such a spot as this? I wouldn't live here for a hundred dollars an hour," he continued, as he surveyed the dismal surroundings of the barren and repulsive place.

"Some men love solitude," said the Doctor, as if in response to Noe's comments. "I know many natures among my acquaintances in the East who could be perfectly happy in such a sequestered spot as this. To them, solitude is the nurse of enthusiasm, and"--

"Great Cæsar!" interrupted Tom Bradford, destroying at once the thread of the Doctor's philosophy. "See those wolves!" at the same moment pointing with his "quirt" to half a dozen or more of that large gray mountain species that were scampering over the angular lava bowlders up the cañon in the rear of the cabin. These animals had not before been observed, because the party from town had seated themselves on the trail immediately in front of the hut, upon their arrival at the place. They had not ventured any nearer, in accordance with the agreement made at the conference held in Tom Bradford's room that neither the party nor Jack was to investigate alone, but together.

In a few moments the cause of the wolves' hasty retreat made its appearance in the shape of the one-eyed tailless dog Jupe, slowly shambling around a curve in the trail, closely followed by the gaunt, angular figure of Jack, seated on his mule. As he approached, the party from Whooping Hollow, who were reclining on the rocks scattered on the trail, rose, while Jack, dismounting, hitched his animal to a bowlder, and saluting all with a "Howdy, gents," he joined them. Then without further talk at that moment, they proceeded to the rear of Ike Podgett's cabin, piloted by Jack. They soon arrived at the spot he had told Bradford and Bartlett of, but the moment he cast his eyes on the place he exclaimed:

"Great heavens! ther wolves hev been hyar!"

The earth was torn up, and lying on the edge of the shallow grave, sure enough, were a human leg and foot--the same described by Jack, which he had reinterred, but which the wolves had again dragged out of the hole.

"Well, I'm ----!" ejaculated old Sam Bartlett, as he contemplated the horrid spectacle, and he vigorously mopped his bald head--out of which the perspiration now oozed in great beads--with an enormous red bandana.

"There's no question about that leg and foot," said the Doctor, as he stooped and picked up the ghastly objects to examine them more closely. "They're human--no getting over that, but whether they belonged to Jemuel Knaggs, of course I can't say." Pulling them out of the soft dirt, he found clinging to the end of the femur a piece of cloth of some kind, which the instant Tom Bradford saw he took in his hands, held it up, and exclaimed:

"Well, this is the last straw that breaks the camel's back for me!" All could see that it was the fragment of a blue flannel shirt, its broad collar, with the buttonhole, torn apart.

"A piece of Jemuel Knagg's shirt, or I'm a liar," solemnly said Issachar Noe, as he gazed on the bit of telltale garment. "He always wore that kind," continued Noe. "I sent to St. Louis for them myself for him; that is a part of one of them."

The astounded party, upon this confirmation of Podgett's guilt, looked at each other in silence for a few seconds, when Bartlett, breaking the awful stillness, said:

"Gentlemen, I've seen enough here! Let's go and examine the cabin--which we've got a right to do now, as law-abiding citizens, after such damnable revelations outside of it!"

On entering the cabin, effected by the colossal Jack making a sort of a side-lurch against the door, which immediately flew off its hinges at his first essay, they discovered in the corner of the room used as a kitchen a spot where the dirt floor seemed to yield a little to the pressure of their feet as they walked over it, appearing as if it had been disturbed quite recently. Searching for some implement with which to examine the suspicious corner more closely, they at last found a spade hanging on a peg in the wall of another apartment, evidently the sleeping-room. Here and there were evidences of a woman's occupancy. Under the bed a No. 1 pair of shoes tantalizingly obtruded. On the bed itself a corset was lying, where it had apparently been hastily thrown off by its petite owner; and suspended from some hooks in the logs forming the side of the building were several skirts and other portions of female apparel. For a moment, but only for a moment, these things, so rare in the mining-camps of that period, nearly diverted from their mission the stern and honest men who had entered there, so sweetly suggestive were the articles of mother, sister, or perhaps wife, so far away, and bright visions crowded thick upon their brains. It was soon dispelled, however, as the realization of the actual present forced itself upon them; so, taking down the spade from its place, they returned to the kitchen, and Jack, who had volunteered, commenced to dig.

He had not excavated to a depth of more than two feet when he unearthed the mutilated fragments of another human body! Hereupon he rested from his labor for a moment; then stooped down and pulled something out of the hole, his hands trembling violently as he laid the object on the floor, and exclaiming as he rose up:

"This hyar gits me, by ----!"

Every one was now almost uncontrollably excited, and if Podgett had at that instant entered his own door he would have been annihilated by the infuriated men without a chance to explain, for just as Jack gave vent to his words he had lifted out of the hole a head, to which was still attached a long red beard. He recognized it at once, and that fact was the cause of his excitement.

"God in Israel!" said Issachar Noe vehemently, as he got down on his knees to view the ghastly object more closely. "That's Tom Jackson's head, and he's only been missing about two months!"

"That's so," solemnly replied old Sam Bartlett. "That's poor Tom's beard, sure enough!"

For more than three hours the now determined men worked inside and outside the cabin that they now knew had such a bloody record. At the end of that time, when they ceased their horrid labor from sheer exhaustion, they had discovered the remains of twelve human bodies, among which was that of a baby's, which sorely puzzled them to account for. Many of the remains, where the head was not too much decayed, they recognized as once citizens of Whooping Hollow who had ridden out from it never to return.

Charred fragments of skeletons, too, were found hidden in holes in the rocks, and it was reasonably supposed that many other victims than those whose bones they had brought to light must have been murdered by the demon Podgett, and their bodies left in the mountains just where he had killed them, to be devoured by the wolves.

Putting portions of several remains in a sack, including the ghastly head of Tom Jackson, they induced Jack--towards whom their manner had entirely changed--to pack the repulsive-looking burden on the back of his mule, and they all returned to town.

The result of their horrible experience was disclosed to several of the most reputable people of the place, who that same evening met with them in the postoffice, in "secret session," to devise plans for Podgett's arrest before he had an opportunity to revisit his cabin. It was conceded that he would come to town first with the hunting party that he had gone out with, which would return in three or four days at farthest, and it was resolved to secure him the moment he made his appearance. To this duty they appointed the now worthy Jack and one Bart Kennedy.

On the afternoon of the fourth day after the meeting, Podgett rode unsuspiciously into town with his companions, and the instant he alighted from his mule found himself locked in Jack's vise-like embrace, who with others had been anxiously watching for his coming. He was at once secured in a little log building, and carefully guarded by two plucky Irish miners who had volunteered their services, for by this time all the law-abiding element of Whooping Hollow had become acquainted with the sickening discoveries at the wretch's cabin.

Podgett thus safely under bolt and bar, a committee was sent over to Sandy Bar to interview his Mexican wife or mistress, whose people lived somewhere in the mountains near there, as it was learned that she had gone home. They found her with her father, a widower, who could speak nothing but Spanish, nor could she speak English at all. But Isaacher Noe, one of the party, understood and conversed in the language like a native; so no interpreter was necessary.

The girl was very young, very pretty, but apparently too youthful for either wife or mother. From her some startling disclosures were elicited. She had witnessed a number of murders at the cabin, but had been afraid to say a word, because Podgett swore that he would kill her if she did. But when he dashed her baby's brains out in the most cruel and atrocious manner, right before her eyes, less than two months ago, she made up her mind that she would expose his bloody life as soon as she could find a safe opportunity. She had run away from him the night he went off hunting, and came to her father's, declaring that she would die before she would go back and consort again with such a monster.

When the committee returned to Whooping Hollow, and had submitted their report, threats were freely and openly made by the exasperated miners that they would take Podgett out of the improvised jail and hang him at once. But better counsel prevailed, and it was finally agreed upon at an open-air meeting held that afternoon that he should have a fair trial, as had always been customary in dealing with criminals since the establishment of the camp. The prisoner would be allowed to select a jury of twelve men himself--but it must be composed of the most reputable citizens only; a judge should be elected by the crowd, he to appoint some one competent to prosecute, and another to defend.

As soon as the preliminaries were agreed to by the now excited mob, George Burton's general outfitting store was selected for the court-room, and the trial set for eight o'clock the same evening. In that community no such thing as the law's delay was brooked; the citizens of Whooping Hollow believing in swift, stern justice on all occasions.

Long before the hour appointed for the trial the crowd began to collect, and by half-past seven the little room selected was packed to its utmost capacity. On the outside of the building, compelled to remain in the street, was an indignant, determined mob, numbering more than three times as many as were inside, surging backward and forward, making night hideous with their yells, blasphemous remarks of impatience, and muttered threats of "getting even with him," "having his heart's blood," etc. Both outside and inside of that rough log building was gathered as motley and as hard-looking a crowd as ever got together in the mountains anywhere. It was a strange admixture of ignorance, manhood, vice, virtue, and villainy. Some of the truest men that ever lived stood there; and some were there, too, as deeply dyed in crime, if the truth were known about them, as Podgett himself. Miners, merchants, gamblers and Mexicans were mixed up promiscuously; but their determined faces and show of revolvers spoke more eloquently than language, that "there wasn't going to be any fooling in the matter."

The dingy-looking room improvised for the purpose of the court was lighted by half a dozen tallow candles, which shed a dim, sallow haziness over the piles of bacon, picks, shovels, canned fruits, and other miners' goods stored there, and upon the hard-visaged men who had assembled there to mete out that justice which they believed had been already too long delayed. The red flames of a blazing fire, made of dry pine-knots, nearly as combustible as powder, occasionally shot up the throat of the huge chimney built diagonally across one corner of the room, whenever a fresh armful was thrown on by the two boys appointed to that office for the time being. When the flames had exhausted themselves, and only the embers glowed on the black hearth, a glimmering and a confused mist seemed to diffuse itself over the brindled crowd, while the fitful rays of the unsnuffed candles threw weird shadows on the whitewashed walls like ghosts, as if the spirits of the murderer's victims had come to be phantom witnesses of his agony and despair.

Old Sam Bartlett, as usual, was chosen judge without a dissenting voice. A pile of bacon, packed in gunny-sacks and elevated four or five feet above the floor, on which Bartlett, with his legs dangling over the side, sat, constituted the official bench. The jury, composed of the best men in town, sat on the right of the judge, on boxes, nail-kegs, sacks, or anything that came handy. Ike Podgett, the miserable man for whom all this strange proceeding was instituted, crouching on the dirt-begrimed floor between his two determined guards, rivets his eyes on the resolute men before him, distracted alternately by hope and despair; for he now feels the enormity of his guilt, and knows in his cowardly heart that he deserves death right there, without the least show of mercy.

Tom Bradford was appointed to prosecute the case, and a young man--Enoch Green, who had been graduated from the law school of Yale two or three years before--was appointed to defend Podgett. In a few pithy sentences Judge Bartlett explained the object of the gathering, and reviewed the terrible crimes that had been traced to the accused's den in the lonely cañon. He pointed to the ghastly remains and charred fragments of human skeletons piled upon a rude table in front of the jury, which he told them, in wonderfully impressive language, had been dug up, in his own presence, inside of Podgett's cabin and found among the rocks in the vicinity of the accursed place. The indignant old man grew almost eloquent in his recitation of the prisoner's damnable deeds, and a deathlike stillness pervaded the crowd as the words fell hot and earnestly from his lips, only broken now and then by the convulsive click of a revolver as the excited feelings of some pugnacious individual intensified under the judge's burning remarks. But for his admonition of their promise to give the miserable wretch Podgett a trial, in all probability the proceedings would have been ended before Bartlett closed his remarks.

Tom Bradford, in his argument as the legally constituted prosecutor, merely reiterated in a measure what the judge had so forcibly expressed, but he scathed Podgett in a fearful manner, working up a more exasperated feeling, if that were possible, than existed before; and when he had finished his address he called his witnesses.

The Doctor was first to testify; but he confined his evidence to the character of the charred bones, settling beyond the question of possibility that they were human.

Willow Gulch Jack then appeared, and upon him all eyes were concentrated as he related to the jury the simple story. He described accurately, with a dead coal taken from the fireplace, on the top of a cracker-box, the location of the cabin, its surroundings, and the position in which the several bodies were found, particularly that of Jemuel Knaggs, a piece of whose blue shirt and curious collar-button he exhibited, the latter being recognized by nearly every man present. He made a graphic if not artistic sketch with his rude pencil, and its effect upon the jury and spectators was manifested by expressions addressed to Podgett more emphatic than elegant.

Issachar Noe was the next and last witness called for the prosecution. He related in an impressive and convincing manner, as chairman of the committee, the interview with the young wife or mistress of Podgett, which was received by his listeners with that faith in its accuracy comparable to the high character of the man.

Then young Green, the counsel appointed for the defense, though he had not a single particle of evidence to offer, and convinced of the deep villainy of his brutal and inhuman client, felt it incumbent to make an appeal in his behalf. This he did so eloquently, and built up hypotheses so rapidly, that some of the rougher element, afraid that his efforts might be effectual, became rather demonstrative, and crowded around him in a somewhat threatening manner. They were quieted, however, by a few positive words from old Tom. It was rather a decided but not particularly pleasant compliment to the youth's forensic ability!

When the defense had closed its wonderfully ingenious argument, the judge made another of his significant addresses in his charge to the jury, and a little after midnight he submitted the case to them.

An awful silence prevailed for a few moments while the twelve men put their heads together and consulted in a low tone without leaving their seats. Presently they all rose, and their spokesman, turning to the judge, uttered only one word: "GUILTY."

Then, at a sign from stern old Sam, who immediately came down from his pile of bacon, the two determined-faced miners, with Podgett between them almost paralyzed with fear, walked out into the night, followed by the crowd, who fired off their pistols, and made the very hills tremble with their demoniacal yells.

The early morning sun, as its rays entered the narrow valley, shone upon the lifeless body of Podgett, where, suspended by the neck from the limb of a huge oak tree on the main street of Whooping Hollow, it slowly oscillated at the sport of the warm south breeze.

THE WOOING OF AH-KEY-NES-TOU.

At a period late in the twenties, the Mandans, one of the most intelligent tribes of Indians on the continent, were almost swept out of existence by the smallpox. The story comes down to us in the form of a tradition among other savages, but it is nevertheless true, as there are a few old trappers yet living who remember all the particulars of the event.

The Mandans resided in the vicinity of the mouth of the Yellowstone, where their villages were permanent for untold centuries, and at the time of the visitation of the fell disease which nearly annihilated them they comprised about three thousand families.

Shortly after sunrise, one morning in June, 1828, a young white man was reclining idly on one of the grassy knolls overlooking the village, the great river, and the vast prairie stretching westwardly from its bank. He was intently watching certain movements in the town, where the warriors were preparing for a grand hunt. In the distance, the buffalo could be seen grazing in immense herds, whose presence was the cause of the commotion among the Indians. Soon he saw hundreds of warriors, armed with bows, their quivers filled with arrows, emerge from the shadow of their lodges, and in a long line ride out toward the unsuspecting animals so peacefully feeding. The old men and squaws alone remained in the village, and they were gathered in anxious groups, applauding the husbands, sons and lovers as they went proudly forth to battle for that subsistence which was their only dependence when the snows of winter filled the now sunny valley.

A few moments after the warriors had disappeared in the purple morning mist of the prairies, a bevy of lightly dressed dusky maidens, in all their savage beauty, wandered toward the sandy margin of the Yellowstone to indulge in their favorite amusement of swimming in its clear sparkling tide,--for that stream in summer, like a great brook, ripples and babbles over the rounded quartz pebbles which compose its bed, with as rhythmical a flow as the tiniest rivulet in the recesses of the mountains.

It was this group of Indian maidens that now attracted the gaze of the young stranger; one among them particularly, not yet seventeen, but more beautiful than the others, walked like some society queen on the beach at Newport. In a few moments she purposely separated herself from the rest and directed her steps toward the mound on which the young man was lying. He smiled when he saw her evident intention, and a flush of pride swept over his bronzed cheeks as he came down to the base of the elevation to await her approach.

The young girl thus seeking the intruder was the affianced bride of "In-ne-cose" (The Iron Horn), principal chief of the Mandans--old enough to be her grandfather. She, the handsome Indian maiden, was known as "Ah-key-nes-tou" (The Red Rose), and was the pride of the Mandan nation.

The young man, who had with impatience waited for her coming all the morning, was of course an American; an incipient doctor who had enlisted in the service of the great Fur Company a year before, whose agency was at the junction of the Missouri and Yellowstone rivers, near the Mandan village. He had imagined himself in love many times in St. Louis, where was his home, but was now satisfied that he had really never felt the tender passion until he saw Ah-key-nes-tou at the general store one day, some months before the story of their fate commences.

When he discovered that the beautiful girl was destined to be the fifth wife of the old chief In-ne-cose--a cross, ugly Indian, and moreover not a full-blooded Mandan--he took pity on her, loved her more than ever, and resolved to win her for himself. Ah-key-nes-tou had often admitted to the "White Medicine," as the band of Mandans called the youthful doctor, that she had a decided predilection for him; that she could never love the old chief; but as her father had been paid for her by the present of two horses, she felt bound to the bargain according to Indian usage.

The doctor in a dozen interviews had told Ah-key-nes-tou of his deep love; that he was willing to leave his home forever for her sake, and, marrying her, would become an adopted son of the tribe. But poor "Ah-key," as her white admirer always called her, considered herself in honor bound to become the wife of In-ne-cose; consequently both the youth and the maiden were perfectly miserable.

In a few moments the doctor and Ah-key met at the foot of the mound, where, without speaking, they seated themselves on the grass with which the ground was covered. After looking at her silently for some time, he took the maiden's hand and said:

"It is a long time since Ah-key has come to her white lover. I have been very sad; the sun shone brightly, but I could not see its brightness, for you were far away. I learn that In-ne-cose intends soon to take you for his fifth wife. I want but one; you are that one; my lodge is empty--I cannot live without you."

The Indian maiden trembled for a moment, then answered: "Ah-key-nes-tou's heart is small, but it is very red. My father has given me to the great chief. Two lovers have come to me; my heart can hold but one. I see in it the face of my young White Medicine only; but a river as wide as the Missouri parts us. In-ne-cose has given two horses for me; my father has spoken; I must be the fifth wife of the great chief. What can I do?"

The idea of Ah-key-nes-tou becoming the bride of any other than himself, made the young doctor almost wild, and he would have given vent to some very emphatic language had not the girl at that instant said to him: "There is a snake in the grass that the pale-face does not see," and she pointed with her tapering index-finger to a spot not far off, where the weeds and sunflower-stalks seemed to move by some other power than the wind. It was In-ne-cose himself, who had stealthily followed and was watching Ah-key-nes-tou. "You must go to the village and eat with my people to-day," continued the trembling maiden, as she looked imploringly toward her lover.

The doctor was now satisfied they had a dangerous spy upon their actions, and grinding his teeth, hastened to obey her injunction at once. He dared not kiss Ah-key now, but they exchanged glances,--a language that is understood by all who love, whether white, black, or red; and as she walked away he shouldered his heavy rifle and ascended the knoll again, where he stood erect for a few minutes so that the whole village might see him. Remaining where he stood until Ah-key-nes-tou had rejoined the group of her friends on the beach, where they were preparing for their bath, the doctor descended, and moved quietly toward the nearest group of lodges.

First, he made a visit to that of a subordinate chief who was friendly to both Ah-key-nes-tou and himself, looking with decided favor on his efforts to win the girl. Then he went to the lodge of Ah-key-nes-tou's father. He was received very kindly, invited to breakfast, and when that was disposed of, the pipe was passed around, an evidence of the warm feeling the Indian entertained for his white guest. After some time devoted to the fragrant fumes of the "kin-ne-ke-nick," the doctor opened up the subject always nearest his heart--his desire to marry the old savage's daughter. The father of the girl freely admitted that he should be highly honored by such an alliance, but that his word had been pledged to the "Iron Horn," and as presents had been accepted from him, the matter must be considered as settled; that the tribe would never condone any deceit on his part--he could not break his word.

The doctor agreed with his honorable host, that the difficulties were great, according to the Indian code of honor; nevertheless, he believed that the thing could be so arranged that it would be acceptable to all concerned. He then informed the old man that a steamboat (or "fire-ship," as the savages called it,) would arrive at the village that evening. On it were his trunk, tent, and all his belongings; he proposed to take up his abode with the tribe. To this, War Eagle, the father of Ah-key-nes-tou, cordially gave his approval; suggesting that the mound from which the villagers had first seen him that morning would be a suitable place to establish his lodge.

Just before sunset the guns of the steamboat were heard in the village as she rounded a sharp point near her proposed landing-place. Immediately the entire population, men, women and children, flocked to the beach to see the wonderful canoe that moved without oars. They regarded it as a monster, gazing upon it with fear and trembling every time it came up the river.

Early the next morning, with the assistance of some of his Mandan friends the doctor landed his traps and erected his tent on the spot designated by War Eagle. His equipments consisted of a neat camp bed, rich blankets, arms, ammunition, and a medicine chest, together with hundreds of little trinkets pleasing to the taste of the Indians of both sexes.

The enthusiastic young doctor had hardly gotten his things in shipshape before a messenger from In-ne-cose arrived, demanding his presence at the council lodge. He obeyed the summons from the head chief, of course, but he could not divine why he had been sent for so suddenly, just as he had fixed himself comfortably in his new home. Reaching the lodge where the chiefs and head men were assembled, he found there also many women and children of the tribe, evidently expectant of some serious matter to be discussed.

In-ne-cose sat in the center of his counselors, on a magnificently embroidered buffalo robe, smoking his great pipe trimmed with eagle-feathers, as stoical as an Egyptian mummy, excepting that around his mouth there played a smile of devilish import.

Standing near her father, who had also been summoned to the council, was Ah-key-nes-tou, dusky and beautiful in her savage grace, with a look of pride on her countenance; for was it not certain that she was to be the subject for discussion by the suddenly assembled warriors?

Wrapped around the shoulders of the stern In-ne-cose was a curiously wrought Mexican blanket, the sight of which, as the doctor's eyes fell upon it, caused his whole frame to tremble. He turned pale, and his entire aspect was that of fear and deep solicitude; but not a word did he utter.

As soon as those who were called to the council had seated themselves, In-ne-cose rose and said:

"A pale-faced medicine-man has fixed his lodge by those of the Mandans. We have plenty of ground here; there are great herds of buffalo roaming over the prairie, which the Great Spirit has sent to furnish food for his people; the rich young warrior with a white skin is welcome to his share of these. His heart is red, and he is the friend of the Mandans. But he is alone; he has no squaw to cook his meat or saddle his horse; no one to make his bed of the soft skins of the buffalo; no one to shape the moccasins for his feet; he has no wife to bring home the game that he kills. He cannot get a slave to do all these things, for we are at peace with every nation; there is no war. He must therefore take a wife from among the young women of the Mandans; there are many. He can buy two wives, for he is rich; let him choose when In-ne-cose takes Ah-key-nes-tou. I have said."

The doctor immediately arose from his place, full of indignation and disgust at the old chief's cunning. Familiar with the language of the tribe, he addressed the assembled warriors in their own tongue. All eyes were riveted on him, for the majority of those present, and many who were absent, were in perfect accord with him in his honorable efforts to win Ah-key-nes-tou from the "Iron Horn," whom they feared but did not respect.

"In-ne-cose is a dog!" boldly began the doctor. The chiefs gazed upon him with wonderment, but without betraying any emotion. "The Great Spirit is angry," continued the orator. "In-ne-cose is a vulture among eagles, and would carry off the prettiest eaglet. But the Great Spirit says that it shall not be so. Before the sun goes down seven times more, In-ne-cose will be dead! He will take with him to the happy hunting-grounds many Mandan warriors; many young women and children--perhaps Ah-key-nes-tou;" and the young man was deeply affected. He merely added the chief's own words, "I have said," then sat down.

In a few moments, when his feelings had partially regained their normal state, he rose again to explain to the now bewildered and wondering warriors and women what he meant by the awful prophecy he had just uttered. He told them that on the passage of the steamboat up the river, only two days before she had landed at their village, a Mexican merchant on board had died of a frightful disease, the smallpox! He explained how terribly contagious it was to those who were not guarded against it by a great medicine operation performed by the white man. That the merchant who had died of the disease possessed a blanket, upon which he had breathed his last. In-ne-cose had stolen that blanket off the boat, and had it now wrapped around him. He told them that every Indian who went near him, who touched that blanket, or even breathed the same air where he sat, would die unless with his medicine he could save them. The doctor continued:

"The Great Spirit is very angry. Darkness is coming over the lodges of the Mandans. In less than one moon, perhaps, not a lodge will be full. You love Ah-key-nes-tou; let her go to the lodge of the pale-faced Medicine Man, and he will go to that of the 'Iron Horn'--but I fear it is too late."

By the time the doctor had completed his remarks so fraught with portent, all those assembled within the council lodge rapidly moved themselves from the presence of In-ne-cose. He however sat stoically smoking, apparently not the least disturbed by the fearful predictions of the doctor. In a few moments the old chief rose again, and thus addressed himself to the presumptuous white man:

"The Great Spirit lives in the clouds. If he wills that all my people shall go to him, they must obey. My little ones slept on the mystery blanket last night; they awoke this morning and were well. Will the Bad Spirit touch them?"

Then drawing the "death-blanket" closer around him, In-ne-cose apparently defied the evil effects of the wrap. But shortly afterward his dusky skin showed a slight pallor and he seemed strangely agitated. He again spoke, though this time in a disturbed voice, addressing himself, as before, directly to the doctor:

"The chief of the Mandans is rich. He has four squaws already. If the young pale-face will drive away the Bad Spirit from the little ones of In-ne-cose, he may take Ah-key-nes-tou for his wife."

The doctor, delighted at these words of the head chief, grasped the old man's hand, and told him that he would do his best to save the children. Then, ordering Ah-key-nes-tou's brother to lead his sister to his lodge on the knoll, he told another Indian to go and bring his medicine chest to the lodge of In-ne-cose. He then went to the chief's lodge himself, but on examining the little ones discovered it was too late for vaccination: the blanket had done its work!

The next day the pestilence broke out in a hundred lodges. Very soon the Indians were not able to bury their dead--the latter outnumbering the living. In less than a month, out of three thousand families only eight survived. Where the Mandan village once stood, even as late as thirty years ago the traces of over eight thousand graves could be seen. It was an awful visitation, almost annihilating a whole nation!

In-ne-cose, as predicted by the doctor, was the first to die. Ah-key-nes-tou was saved by prompt vaccination. The doctor took her to St. Louis, where they were married, the ceremony being performed by that grand and good old Catholic priest, Father DeSmet, who was stationed there at the time, and whose memory is kept green by every tribe of Indians on the continent. Ah-key-nes-tou was educated at one of the convents in the Mound City, became the pet of society, and her worthy husband a State Senator.

CARSON'S "FIRST INDIAN."

I have been requested by several parties to offer something of Kit Carson's early days on the Plains. Having been intimate with that famous man during the declining years of his eventful life, and having heard from his own lips many of the adventures of his youth, while sitting around the camp-fire on several little "outings" with him and Maxwell in the mountains of New Mexico, I have chosen for my sketch Kit's first shot at an Indian.

That portion of the great central plains of Kansas which radiates from the Pawnee Fork as its center, including the bend of the Arkansas, where that river makes a sudden sweep to the southeast, and the beautiful valley of the Walnut,--in all an area of nearly a thousand square miles,--was from time immemorial a sort of debatable ground, occupied by none of the tribes, but claimed by all to hunt in, for it was a famous resort of the buffalo.

None of the various bands of savages had the temerity to attempt its permanent occupancy, for whenever they met there--which was of frequent occurrence--on their annual hunt for their winter's supply of meat, a bloody battle was sure to ensue. The region referred to has perhaps been the scene of more sanguinary conflicts than any other portion of the continent. Particularly was this the case when the Pawnees, who claimed the country, met their hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes.

Through this region, hugging the margin of the silent Arkansas, and running under the very shadow of Pawnee Rock, the old Santa Fé trail wound its course, now the actual road-bed of the Santa Fé Railway,--so closely are the past and present transcontinental highways cemented at this point: one, a mere memory; the other, one of the great railways now spanning the continent.

Who, among the bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten that most exciting and sensational (at least it was so to my boyish mind) of all the miserably executed illustrations in the geographies of their school-days fifty years ago--"Santa Fé Traders Attacked by Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock, which formed a sort of a nondescript shadow in the background of a crudely drawn representation of the dangers of the trail.

I witnessed a spirited encounter between a small band of the Cheyennes and Pawnees in the fall of 1867. It occurred on the open prairie, just north of the mouth of the Walnut, about four miles from where the city of Great Bend now stands. Both tribes were hunting the buffalo, and when each by accident discovered the presence of the other, with a demoniacal yell that fairly shook the sand-dunes of the Arkansas they rushed at once into the shock of battle.

The Pawnees were of course friendly to the whites, and had permission from their agent to leave their reservation in the valley of the Neosho, near Council Grove. At that particular time, for a wonder, the Cheyennes too were temporarily at peace with the Government. So I had nothing to do but passively witness the savage combat.

Both bands of the savages soon exhausted their ammunition, and then the chiefs of the contending factions appealed to me most earnestly to supply them with more, of which there was plenty at Fort Zarah, only half a mile away. I was necessarily forced to remain neutral, but my sympathies were with the "under dog" in the fight,--which happened to be the Cheyennes, whom the Pawnees drove off disgraced and discomfitted.

That evening, in a grove of timber on the Walnut, the victors had a grand dance in which scalps, ears and fingers of their enemy, suspended by strings to poles, were important accessories to their weird orgies around the huge camp-fires.

How true it is, as Longfellow declares: "The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." I remember that map in the geographies of fifty years ago (already referred to) on which was depicted "the Great American Desert," over which I pored in the little log school-house at the crossroads in the country, near my home in one of the Eastern States. How distinctly I remember seeing Bent's old fort marked on the western edge of the "Desert" on that quaint map. Then, in the "long, long thoughts" of my boyhood's fancy, it seemed to me to be away out on the confines of another world, for then I had never been thirty miles away from the farm on which I was reared. I have slept under the old fort's hospitable roof many times since, but long before the era of railroads, where, gathered around its huge adobe fireplaces, up whose cavernous throats the yellow flames crackled and roared, were the mighty men of the Ute nation, with Kit Carson, Lucien B. Maxwell, Bent, and other famous characters of the border, conversing in the beautiful but silent sign-language, that is so perfect in its symbolization. Of those who were present then, all but myself are long since dead, and the scenes of those days are only hidden pictures in the storehouse of my brain, to be called back in the quiet of the gloaming, with their host of accompanying pleasant memories of a shadowy past.

In my boyhood days I honestly believed that Kit Carson was at least eight feet tall; that he always dressed in the traditional buckskin, fringed at the seams, and beaded and "porcupined" all over; that he carried innumerable eleven-inch bowie-knives, his rifle of huge dimensions--so large and heavy that, like Warwick's sword, no ordinary man could even lift it. I believed his regular meal to be an entire buffalo, which he raised with both hands to his mouth, and picked its immense bones as easily as the average mortal does a chicken's wing, and that he drank out of nothing smaller than a river. Boys, probably by the thousands, had the same "long thoughts," for boy-nature is the same everywhere.

Kit Carson was really a man under the average height, rather delicate-looking in physical make-up than otherwise, but in fact, wiry and quick, though cautious, possessing nerves of steel and an imperturbability in the moment of supreme danger that was marvelous to contemplate.

He was fond of cards and horse-racing, a famous rider in his younger days, having entered the lists in many a contest with the Indians, who are generally passionately devoted to trials of speed between rival ponies. I have myself seen, in the long-ago, as many as eight hundred horses bet by contending bands, whose wealth was counted by the number of animals they possessed.

Kit once, years before he became famous, fought a duel, mounted; he escaped with a bullet-wound behind his left ear, the scar of which he carried to his grave, but he winged his equally youthful antagonist in the quarrel.

Kit's nature was composed of the noblest of attributes: he was brave, but never reckless like Custer; unselfish, a veritable exponent of Christian altruism; and as true to his friends as steel to the magnet.

He died in 1868, at Fort Lyon, on the Arkansas, while on his way to Fort Harker to make me a long-promised visit. For some time after his passing away he rested peacefully under the gnarled and knotted old cottonwoods which fringe the river--that Nile of America--in the vicinity of Lyon. Later, his remains were moved to Taos, his former New Mexico home, where an appropriate monument was erected over them; in the plaza of quaint and curious Santa Fé, too, there is a massive cenotaph which records his deeds and name.

Kit was born in Kentucky, on the 24th of December, 1809. While a mere infant his parents emigrated to what is now Howard county, Missouri, which at that early date was literally a "howling wilderness" filled with "varmints" of all kinds.

There, as soon as he was big enough to lift a rifle, the old-fashioned patch-and-ball, flint-lock affair, the embryo great frontiersman began to hunt, and by the time he was fifteen he became the most expert shot in the whole settlement. He could hit the eye of a squirrel every time he pulled the trigger, or it didn't count.

At this period, however, his father apprenticed him to a saddler, with whom he worked faithfully for two years, spending all his leisure moments in the primitive forest, hunting bear, deer, and other large game that abounded there.

In two years more, when Kit had reached the age of seventeen, the trade with Santa Fé began, with its initial point in the hamlet of Old Franklin, in Howard county, near where Kit lived (from which place it did not move to Independence until 1836).

In the late spring of 1826, Col. St. Vrain, a prominent agent of the great fur companies, (a grand old gentleman whom I knew intimately,) arrived at Franklin and made preparations to fit out a large caravan destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains, loaded with goods to be used in trading with the Indians for the skins of the valuable fur-bearing animals of that remote and but little known region.

Kit, as green as any boy of his age who had never been twenty miles from his home, was infatuated by the stories told by the old trappers of the Colonel's outfit, regarding the wonderful game in the land to which they were going, and he was easily persuaded to join the caravan in the capacity of hunter, his prowess with the rifle having reached the ears of the major-domo of the train. Kit ran away from home, I suspect, though he never told me so.

The expedition was composed of twenty-six mule-wagons, some loose stock, and forty-two men. In addition to his employment as hunter, young Kit was to help drive the extra animals, take his turn in standing guard, and make himself generally useful.

The party marched wearily along, day after day, Kit proving his right to the reputation of being a mighty hunter, without any adventure worthy of recording, until they arrived at the Walnut, where they discovered the first signs of Indians. They had halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted, and the men about to indulge in their ever-welcome black coffee, when they were suddenly surprised by half a dozen Pawnees, who, mounted on their ponies, hideously painted and uttering the most diabolical yells, rushed out of the tall grass on the Arkansas bottom, and swinging their buffalo robes attempted to stampede the animals of the caravan.

Every man in the outfit was on his feet in an instant with his rifle in hand, so that all the impudent savages got for their pains were a few harmless shots as they scampered back to the river and over into the sand-hills out of sight.

The next night the caravan camped at the foot of Pawnee Rock, and of course, after the experience of the afternoon before, every precaution was employed to prevent another surprise. The wagons were formed into a corral, so that the animals might be protected in the event of a prolonged fight with the savages. The guards were instructed to be doubly vigilant, and every man slept with his rifle on his arm, for the old Colonel assured them the savages would never rest content with their defeat on the Walnut, but true to their thieving propensities and their desire for revenge, would seize the first favorable opportunity to renew the attack.

All this was a new and strange experience to young Carson, who had never before seen any Indians except a few friendly Shawnees and Osages. Of the methods and tactics of the wild Plains tribes, he literally knew nothing.

When everything was arranged for the night, Kit was posted as a sentinel immediately in front of the south face of the Rock, nearly two hundred yards from the wagon corral. The other men who were on guard were posted on top, and on the open prairie on either side.

About half-past eleven, as near as he could guess, Kit told me, one of the guards yelled out "Indians!" and ran the mules that were grazing near, into the corral, while the entire company turned out of their blankets on the report of a rifle on the midnight air coming from the direction of the Rock.

In a few minutes young Kit came running down toward the corral, where the men had collected, and Col. St. Vrain asked him if he had seen any Indians.

"Yes," replied Kit, "I killed one of the red devils--I saw him fall."

There was no further disturbance that night; it proved to be a false alarm; so all who were not standing guard that night were soon peacefully sleeping again.

The next morning at the first streak of day, every one was up and anxious to see young Carson's dead Indian. They went out _en masse_ to the Rock, when instead of finding a painted Pawnee, they discovered Kit's riding-mule, dead--shot through the head.

The boy felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, and it was a long time before he heard the last of his midnight shot at his mule.

He explained to me the circumstances: He had not slept any the previous night, and he had watched so earnestly for a chance to kill a Pawnee that he supposed he must have fallen asleep leaning against the face of the Rock; "but I was wide enough awake to hear the cry of 'Indians!'" said he. "I had picketed my mule about twenty steps from where I stood, and I suppose it had been lying down. All I know is that the first thing I saw after the alarm was something rising up out of the grass. I thought sure it was an Indian; I took aim, and pulled the trigger. It was a center shot; I don't believe that mule kicked once after he was hit!"